The Sweeney 02 Page 11

  Cassidy walked out.

  Seebohm returned to his phone and talked guardedly into it while Ciales and Regan exchanged noncommittal looks. After a minute the Captain put the phone down. “Federal Bank Guarantee Corporation. They keep a monitor on all banks.” He was addressing Regan, whom he instinctively felt posed the least threat to his authority. “Lexington Bank and Trust Company. It turns out they’ve been interested for some time in what they call its ‘questionability.’ But they haven’t one specific fact of evidence against it—”

  “I have to go, Captain...” Ciales got up and didn’t wait for a yes or no. He walked out.

  Seebohm looked at Regan. Regan suddenly got the uncomfortable feeling that maybe Seebohm had annoyed Cassidy and Ciales so they would storm out because he had things to say to the English cop in confidence.

  Seebohm’s cold eyes were studying Regan’s expression minutely. “I think you’re an experienced and thinking officer. So am I, Inspector Regan. The thing about two experienced thinking police officers is they don’t fool each other. Now, from the facts at hand we know that you, Cassidy, and Ciales are on the periphery of a big case, which may take months or years to solve. I am totally convinced in my own mind that you will not achieve your object— which is to get back the papers you were conned out of. It’s the easiest thing in the world, Inspector, to act stubborn. It’s a harder thing to admit the problems, get on a plane, and piss off back to Britain.”

  There was a silence for a moment, while Regan speculated on possible other reasons, other than the obvious, for Seebohm wanting him to leave town.

  “Inspector Regan, I don’t know how much Cassidy and Ciales have told you about a black businessman in a serious condition in hospital. If his condition became terminal, these two officers would be officially suspended and this investigation reconstituted, after maybe lengthy delays, under a new team who might not agree to your being involved. You understand that?”

  Regan studied the man coldly. “Lieutenant Cassidy has pointed out to me that there appears to be some unidentifiable pressure bearing down from above on this case. Is the pessimism you feel the result of your experience and considered judgment, or because you’ve identified the source that wants to kill this investigation?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.”

  Regan stood up. “The only way I’ll leave hold on this case is if your Immigration people handcuff me and put me on a plane out of the country.”

  Seebohm was going to say something, then hesitated and didn’t waste breath, because Regan was already walking out of the office.

  In the cab he contemplated his dwindling financial resources: $72 and a confirmation cable from Mr. Friendly that the National Westminster Bank, Hammersmith London, had cabled 200 sterling to a Chemical Bank branch on Broadway. How long would $572 last in this town? A month maybe, if he could make the dangerous assumption that he would be living rent-free in Cassidy’s warehouse room. He assumed there was a modicum of mutual respect and common interest going between himself and the American cop, but Cassidy hadn’t given Regan a clear invitation to stay.

  He, Cassidy, and Ciales had spent the morning setting up the camera equipment and studying the bank, not really watching it.

  The first thing they noticed about the Lexington Bank was that it was not exactly a beehive of activity. Seebohm had relayed a promise by the Federal Bank Guarantee Corporation that it would come through by late afternoon with some kind of report on the bank’s business. It was known to be a small bank incorporated with a capital of around $5 million, specializing in the realty equity and trust business. The FBGC were going to trace the names of some of its leading lights, managers, and shareholders, and process these names through its and the SEC’s files. Meanwhile, from their vantage behind Venetian blinds on the second floor, the three cops could look down and across the street to the double-fronted premises. It was laid out from left to right, a medium-sized office with large safe, then a large reception area, four desks, and then a smaller office on the right, with a desk and a dark-suited guy. In the three hours they observed the bank they saw two presumed customers entering and leaving.

  At noon a truck had arrived downstairs and two porters from the City Works Department had arrived in the surveillance den with three comfortable chairs and a fold-out camp bed with sheets, and Ciales had laughed at the speed with which Seebohm had responded to Cassidy’s demand. But Cassidy didn’t find the delivery unusual. And Regan saw that here, in the camp bed, was a definite possible alternative if Cassidy withdrew his hospitality.

  Then at twelve-thirty Cassidy had phoned the Fifty-ninth Precinct to check for messages, and there was a message for Regan to phone Miss Beecham. And Cassidy laughed and said that it must have been good enough that she’d risk two doses of clap. Then Regan decided that this might be the most attractive solution to his accommodation problem.

  “She lives with a girl friend in a classy apartment. The girl friend is away at the moment,” Cassidy had said. “You go find your niche there, Jack.”

  Regan had phoned Christa. She sounded pleased to hear from him and invited him to lunch. Regan asked Cassidy. Cassidy told him to go, saying that he and Ciales with a bottle of Scotch would be able to cope for the next few hours —and if they felt like leaving, they would without a second thought.

  Regan converted three dollars into a cold downtown cab ride which led him to a small building squeezed into a site between two brownstones, just east of Fifth on Eleventh Street. There were only three apartments in the building. She had told him apartment A. The door to the apartment was just inside the hall. When he walked into the hall the door was already open, and she was standing there.

  He followed her into the mirrored hall of the apartment.

  “Quite a place,” he said as soon as he saw the main room.

  “The girl I share with is one of the best decorators in the city.”

  Regan was studying the layout. It had the simplicity and elegance of dark woods, chrome, and polished leather that only came from the expenditure of a great deal of money. The ground floor of the apartment was one open cool space, as wide as the full frontage of the building but going back about thirty-five feet. The lighting in the room was as subdued as a brownout, and at first glance it was difficult to fathom where it came from. Along the glass-and-steel tables and polished wood surfaces were two gold-framed pictures of a good-looking girl, not Christa. The first photograph showed the girl in her late teens, the second placed her about thirty. There was also one gilt-framed photo of Christa looking a little sad. Regan turned and saw almost the identical expression on the real thing.

  She took both his hands gently in her soft fingers. “Lunch,” she said quietly. “Hungry?”

  He thought about it. “What’s for lunch?”

  “Steaks.”

  “Put the steaks in a sandwich. Does this place have a bedroom?”

  “Take the steps. You’ll find at the top a room with a big bed, and a room with a little bed.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “No.”

  Five minutes later she climbed the narrow stairs and headed into the main bedroom. He was sitting on the end of the bed.

  She put the tray, the two steak sandwiches, salad, and a bottle of red wine down on a low table.

  “What did you do today?” he asked.

  “Nothing much. Talked to my ex-husband. Never a very edifying experience.” She moved the low table around so that Regan could reach the tray. She joined him, sitting on the bed.

  “I thought you said your husband was nice enough.”

  “Not when he talks about his problems. He doesn’t understand—people don’t have a right to mental equilibrium. You have to earn it. Dear George thinks if you’re not happy, you buy a shrink. Actually, it makes me depressed to talk about him.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Let’s talk about us.” Her expression became more serious. “When I went up to Croton yesterda
y, as I told you, I had no intention of ending up in bed with you. That’s the truth. But you ruined that resolution, much too easily. Now I want to spend time with you. However, there’s a problem. Obviously I’m a single girl in New York, and it happens I’ve got another relationship going.”

  “Okay,” Regan said quietly.

  “But let me sort that out. For however long you’re in this country, I’d like to see you.”

  “Fine.”

  “All I’m saying is, whatever you hear from Don Cassidy about my relationships, ignore it. In fact, don’t talk to Cassidy about us. Trust me. I don’t want anything to mess us up before we really get the chance to know each other.”

  Regan smiled. “A nice speech, but it has nothing to do with what I’m here for...”

  He left the apartment an hour later, buttoned his coat to the collar, and bent his steps against the icy wind. It was the end of the lunch hour. It was apparent after walking a couple of blocks that he wasn’t going to be able to find a cab and that the other lonely souls of businessmen and secretaries fast-pacing the pavements to keep circulation from failing and freezing had also given up.

  It took him half an hour to walk back to Forty-ninth Street. Cassidy wasn’t there. Ciales lay back in a chair by the window reading Penthouse.

  “Where’s Don?”

  Ciales looked up from the magazine and down on the bottle of Scotch on the floor, which had been full two hours ago but was now empty, as if he thought that locating the Scotch bottle would pinpoint Cassidy. “He went,” Ciales said when he saw that Cassidy wasn’t on the end of the bottle.

  “Know where?”

  “Don’t know,” Ciales replied. “He got some phone calls.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing’s happening.” Ciales thumbed out of the window toward the bank, and then at the camera. “I ran off maybe a dozen shots of two guys who came up in a custom Cadillac. They stayed half an hour. There’s a file that Seebohm brought.”

  “Seebohm came here?”

  “Right. He took Cassidy off.”

  “When’s Cassidy coming back?”

  “Maybe early evening. Will you take control of this operation now? I have things to do.”

  “Sure,” Regan said.

  “If anything happens after the bank closes, like if anybody arrives there, goes into the offices, phone Fifty-ninth Precinct immediately.”

  “What’s this file?”

  “It’s a rundown of some of the bank’s activities from various sources.” Ciales picked up his green parka and the magazine, then hesitated. “You planning to spend much time with the Christa Beecham girl?”

  “Yes. You know her?” He wanted to make some genuine man-to-man inquiries.

  “A little.” It didn’t sound like Ciales was going to warm to a lengthy discussion.

  “She’s a nice bird, right?”

  “Read that file.” Ciales winked and made for the door. Then he stopped. “Hey, Regan,” he said, “take a little advice. Don’t get too involved with that broad. Or for certain reasons she may screw you up. I don’t say more than that. Right?” Ciales didn’t wait for Regan’s agreement. He left.

  Regan settled at the window. The afternoon was getting grayer, and lights were beginning to come on in offices and the bank across the street. He read the file and it was difficult to understand. It consisted of notes from the Federal Bank Guarantee Corporation, from the SEC, and from an aborted part-investigation by the FBI which was a sideline of a major West Coast Mafia investigation of two years previous. The various agencies agreed that the bank didn’t have enough throughput to justify expensive offices in Atlanta, Georgia, and New York. The assumption, then, was that it was handling illegitimate funds, but doing it well enough that there were no holes in its books. There followed pages of figures, meaningless to Regan—mathematics being largely incomprehensible to him—but he could see at least the drift of the figures: the bank was overcapitalized for the size of deals and the loans and investments that it made. Regan lobbed the file onto the floor, sat back in the chair, studied the personnel busying themselves in the reception area across the street, and thought about Christa.

  With a slight feeling of concern he realized that the girl of two days’ acquaintance was starting to mean something to him, not only for what had happened between them, but based on his experience of the way a thing like this develops. Here was a lovely girl in a tough city, and well able to cope with that, and for that he admired her; was the admiration going to spill over into something else? Well, why shouldn’t he get involved and see where it led? Love is the enjoyable progression of two people just learning about each other— so enjoy it. There would be a curtain call when he’d have to get on a plane and fly out of this place—but he was getting to a phase in life where the romantic image of long summers of pleasure was gone, to be replaced by the fact of life and love snatched from a stranger in unfamiliar rooms. Seize the time. A few pixillated moments shared with Christa to lift the sterility and emotional squalor of his recent life. He would risk it. Despite Ciales’s mysterioso—what the hell was that, don’t get too involved with her? Why? Well, forget Ciales and tackle Cassidy on any questions like that.

  Cassidy turned up at five o’clock. Regan could see that he was drunk—he had obviously consumed more since the half bottle shared with Ciales this morning. And he now walked in with half a bottle of Scotch. And because he was drunk Regan decided it was not the appropriate time to start a discussion about Christa.

  “Two paper cups. I want to talk with you.”

  Regan fetched the paper cups. There was aggression in Cassidy’s expression.

  “Okay, Jack. I’ve just been with Seebohm. He offered me a job. Five weeks in the best hotel in Miami, sunlight, coffee, and games, bodyguarding a grand jury witness. I get placement expenses, NYPD expenses, plus FBI allowance. Amounts to several thousand bucks for nothing. Sweetest plum in the department offered to me—and I’m on suspension. Now we have to answer this question.” Cassidy looked at him sadly as if he already knew that Regan didn’t have an answer. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do.” Cassidy poured the Scotch into the two paper cups. “Seebohm has received the word to get me off the case. Someone official, powerful. Someone has phoned Seebohm and said ‘get this bum’s ass off the Galliano investigation but fast.’”

  “Who?”

  Cassidy pondered. “FBI. Don’t know. Someone or something that Seebohm would respond to without question. Maybe not an agency. Maybe political pressure. A politician.”

  “Like who?”

  “A politician with pull. They exist.”

  Regan looked in his paper cup of whisky. He didn’t really understand the drift of Cassidy’s conversation. “Now look,” he said finally and levelly. “It’s very simple—if there’s a problem and you’re not taking me into your confidence, I’ll get the next plane out. Because if I can’t count on you I’m wasting my time.”

  Cassidy was studying him, saying nothing.

  “I need to trust you and have your active help. Otherwise it’s wasted time and you’re part of the wasting of it. D’you understand?” Regan’s voice cool and measured. “Now it’s obvious to any asshole, even your Captain Seebohm, that there’s a major investigation here, the extent of which we can only guess at. The logical course is to proceed until we identify exactly what is involved, and then make decisions whether to cop out and run away to Miami...”

  Cassidy’s face clouded. He got up slowly. Regan wondered if the guy was going to hit him. “Stop there,” Cassidy said coldly. “Nothing you’ve said needed to be said. Of course I turned Seebohm down flat. Now I’ll tell you something. I was behind you before Seebohm’s offer. I’m even more behind you since Seebohm tried to buy me off. That’s the point, isn’t it? It’s because Seebohm tried to buy me out that we’re going to break this case. Understand?”

  Regan nodded, but he was disappointed, because this seemed like a
good moment to challenge Cassidy more about his motives, because he wasn’t satisfied with any part of the American cop’s involvement or attitudes. But although Cassidy was apparently inviting straight talk and honest answers, Regan knew the reverse was the truth—that if he asked a string of straight questions, the answers would be avoided or deliberately obscured in drunken aggression. Cassidy lumbered over to the window and sat down at the tripod-mounted binoculars. “Any visitors to the bank this afternoon?”

  “No one. Couple of clerks went out for some takeout coffee around three p.m. Otherwise no visitors at all this afternoon. I can’t imagine how it can call itself a bank.”

  “It’s a bank all right,” Cassidy said, panning the binoculars carefully from the bank front across the street and down to examine the portico above a restaurant four premises from the offices they were in. “Don’t have any doubt that it’s a bank with a line of business interesting to one and all. Jack Regan, look in these binoculars—at the floral arrangement on top of the porch of the restaurant down there.”