Hooligans Part 64

He paused for a minute and said, "Right."

"Who proposed the banking arrangements?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"This is what I know, Mr. Seaborn. I know that Tagliani did his banking with you. I know that Lou Cohen was the bagman for the operation and made all the cash deposits directly to you. I also know that a lot of that cash came from pimping, gambling, and narcotics, and that cla.s.sifies it as ill-gotten gains, which is dirty money, and that means we can confiscate it, and any other money made through the use of it, by anybody connected to them. "

"I don't know where his money came from," Seaborn said.

"Cohen made enormous cash deposits to you almost every day. You didn't find that odd?"

"It's not my business to question my customers," he said.

"It's your business to report all deposits over ten thousand dollars to the IRS, isn't it?"

That stumped him. He looked out the window again. I followed his gaze. I could see Stick down on the pier, talking to Whippet.

"I a.s.sure you," he said, after a long pause, "that there was nothing illegal in his banking transactions. It would be a violation of confidence to discuss it any further."

"At least three of the accounts are Panamanian mirror accounts," I said.

"Still none of my business and perfectly legal," he said, too quickly.

He was feeling stronger and putting up a pretty good fight. I had only two cards left to play.

"What about the Rio Company?" I said.

"What about it?" he said. "It's one of their corporations. They have dozens. I really don't know for what purpose. I was not Cohen's confidant, I was simply his banker."

He seemed sincere enough. So I played my last ace.

"How about the pyramid accounts?" I asked.

This time he jumped as if a flea had bitten his a.s.s.

"I told you, I don't know anything about their business," he said, almost in a whisper.

I reached into my pocket and took out the tape recorder, punched the play b.u.t.ton, and sat it on the edge of the desk. The heart monitor was beeping a monotonous background to Harry Raines' strained breathing. He was muttering, then a pause, then he cried out, "Doe!"

Seaborn's eyes bulged. His Adam's apple was doing a little dance.

I turned the player off.

"He said a lot before he died," I lied.

Seaborn's tough sh.e.l.l began to peel away. He stared at the recorder as if it were a black widow spider crawling across the desk toward him.

"We were talking about what I know," I said. "I know you called Sam Donleavy at Babs Thomas' party a little after seven. I know you were in the bank because your lights were seen by two witnesses. I know that when Harry Raines was shot, he was either walking from his office in the warehouse toward here, or from here toward his office. It's illogical to think he was meeting somebody in the park, it was too foggy. Whoever shot him was either waiting for him or caught up with him."

His fingers started playing on the desk again.

I said, "He came here and braced you about Tagliani. You broke down, and before it was over, you'd told him the whole story. He threatened to expose you, and when he left, you went out the back door of the bank, followed him, and shot him."

His face turned purple. "You're insane!" he screamed. "I don't even own a gun. And I didn't have time to run after him. I was still sitting right here when-"

He stopped babbling and fell back in his chair.

"When you heard the shot," I said.

He sat dead still for a full minute; then his face went to pieces and he nodded.

"I swear to G.o.d I don't know who shot Harry," he said, almost whimpering. "I've done nothing illegal. There was nothing illegal in the way Cohen's money was handled."

"It's a subterfuge," I said.

"You're guessing," he said. "Besides, that's not what Harry was so angry about."

"He was angry because you'd gotten into bed with the wrong people, right?" I said.

"That's as good a way of putting it as any," he said.

"What did you tell Sam Donleavy on the phone?"

"I told him . . . I told him Harry knew everything. I couldn't help it. Harry came here and he was insane with anger. Abusive. He could always intimidate me with that cold stare of his, anyway. I don't know why he suddenly got so upset. He went crazy. I told him everything. I tried to make him understand how it happened, that we didn't know who Turner really was until it was too late. He was screaming about trust and loyalty."

"What did Donleavy say?" I asked.

"He talked to Harry."

"Raines was here when you called the Thomas woman's apartment?" I said with surprise.

"Yes."

"And . . . ?"

"Sam had to go out to his place and wait for a phone call. He said he'd call us when he got there. About forty minutes later he called back."

"Did you talk to him?"

Seaborn nodded. "Yes. He told me he had to talk to Dutch Morehead at eight o'clock and that he would ask Harry to come out to his place and they'd have it out. He said he felt Harry would be reasonable, that we'd done nothing really wrong, nothing illegal. Then he talked to Harry."

"Did Raines say anything?"

"He just listened for a minute and then said, 'All right, I'll see you there.' Then he hung up and left. He didn't say anything else to me, just turned around and stalked out of here. That's the way Harry Raines was. He couldn't forgive anything. Mister Perfect. All he ever cared about was his career, his G.o.dd.a.m.n career. He wouldn't have been anything if he hadn't married Findley's money."

"And you were sitting here all by yourself when he was shot," I said.

He nodded.

"That's your alibi, is it? Mister, if I were the jury, you'd have one foot strapped in the chair already. You have a motive, you had the opportunity, and you haven't got an alibi."

His shoulders sagged. He looked out the window again and then dry-washed his hands, like a funeral director pitching for the solid copper casket. Sweat twinkled on his upper lip and across his forehead.

"I didn't kill Harry Raines," he repeated. "Neither did Sam. He was miles away when it happened. We don't know who killed him or why. I a.s.sumed it had something to do with these other killings."

"I'm sure it does, in some way or another," I said.

The phone rang, startling both of us. He stared at it for several rings, then picked it up as if he were afraid it would burn him.

"h.e.l.lo? Yes . . . " He looked over at me wild-eyed and mouthed the word "Sam."

I held out my hand and he gave me the phone.

"Sam, this is Jake Kilmer."

Silence. Ten or twenty seconds of silence. When he finally answered he was quite pleasant.

"Sorry about our lunch date, old man," he said.

"It's been a pretty grim day all the way around," I said. I looked up at the warehouse. The lights in the corner office were on. "Where are you now?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm in my office. You can see it from Charlie's window. The river corner."

"Do you have a minute or two now?" I asked.

Another silence.

"I was planning to go over to the funeral home," he said. "But I can take a few minutes."

"I'll be right over," I said. I gave the phone back to Seaborn.

"He hung up," Seaborn said, with surprise.

"I'm sure he found out what he wanted to know."

"What do you mean?"

"He wanted to know who you were talking to."

Seaborn looked over at the warehouse. His face caved in.

"What do we do now?" he said, almost to himself.

"Go home, Mr. Seaborn," I said. "You can't do anything here, so go on home."

He stared at the big, bare desktop for a second and then said, "Yes, I suppose so."

We left the bank together. Seaborn went to his car; I returned to the pier.

Baker was sitting on the edge of the concrete dock sipping coffee from a Thermos.

"No luck, eh?" I said.

He shook his head. "I'll make one more attempt before dark," Baker said.

"I appreciate your effort, Mr. Baker," I said, then to Stick, "Did you find out what I wanted to know?"

"Nothing to it. A silver-plated S&W . 38, two-inch barrel, black handles."

"I'm going upstairs," I said. "You got the number?"

"Yep."

"Give me fifteen minutes."

"You got it."

As I turned to leave, he said, "Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"Love your style," he said with a grin.

69.

THANK YOU, MA BELL.

Number Three Warehouse was a three-story brick building dating back to the late 1700s with nothing between it and the river but the narrow cobblestone walkway behind it leading from the park. A small sign over the wreath told me the company was closed because of Harry Raines' death. The door was unlocked.

I remembered coming there with Teddy and marveling at how clean and polished everything was. Nothing had changed. The bra.s.s hand railings and doork.n.o.bs were dazzling and the wood looked oiled and elegant. There was about the place, as there is with most old buildings, that kind of musky odor that comes with age and care.

Donleavy's office occupied most of one corner of the third floor, overlooking both park and river. He was wearing his dark blue mourning suit but had taken off the jacket and was in his shirtsleeves. The air conditioning was off and he had the office windows open; although the rain had stopped and the sun had peeked out before dropping to the horizon, it was still warm and muggy in the office. His smile was sad but sincere and his handshake was so vigorous it was almost painful.

"That was quick" was his greeting. "Sorry it's so hot in here. The air conditioning's been off all day."

I told him I could live with it and peeled my jacket off too.

"I'll just put on the answering machine so we won't be disturbed," he said.

"Would you mind leaving the line open?" I said. "I don't have my beeper with me. I had to leave this number."

"No problem," he said amiably.