Timothy's Game (18 page)

“Yeah,” Sam says, reaching for him. “Here’s mine.”

J
OHN J. DEMPSTER, CHAIRMAN
and Chief Executive Officer of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., comes charging out of his office bathroom, a dynamo in overdrive. Gray brush-cut hair is wet from a shower; he scrubs his scalp furiously with a towel. He’s wearing only boxer shorts imprinted with monetary insignia: dollar, pound, deutsche mark, yen.

Mrs. Esther Giesecke, his executive secretary, follows him to the dressing room, picking up his damp towel. She stands in the doorway as he dresses swiftly.

“All right,” he says, “what have we got?”

“Tommy called from LaGuardia. The Lear is fueled and ready to go. He wants to know when you’ll be leaving.”

“The idiot!” Dempster snaps. “We’ll be leaving when I get there. What else?”

“Hiram Haldering called to confirm your appointment on Monday afternoon at three.”

Another woman appears at the secretary’s side. She is Eve Bookerman, Chief Operating Officer of Dempster-Torrey.

“You sure you want to go to Haldering’s office, J.J.?” she asks. “Why not have him come over here?”

“No,” he says brusquely. “I want to get a look at his operation. Twiggs at Pistol and Burns says it’s a raggedy-assed outfit, but apparently they get results. Eve, I’ll want you to come with me. And Ted Brodsky, too. Tell him about it. Anything else?”

“Your case is packed,” his secretary tells him. “The takeover papers are in there, with a photocopy of your letter of intent. And a preliminary draft of your speech to the Chicago analysts.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” she tells him.

“Eve, you got anything?”

“Time
magazine wants to do a profile. They’ll assign someone to follow you around for a day. Twenty-four hours in the life of a magnate—that kind of thing.”

“A cover?” he asks sharply.

“They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

“Tell them no cover, no story. Did you send flowers to Ed Schanke’s funeral?”

“I took care of it, J.J.”

“Good. That union should be easier to deal with now. He was a sonofabitch. Well, I guess that’s it. If I think of anything else, I’ll call from the car or plane. You know where to phone me in Chicago and St. Louis. I’ll be back in town Sunday night, so you can reach me at home then if anything comes up.”

He inspects himself in a full-length mirror. He’s wearing a black suit of raw silk, white shirt, regimental striped tie. His black kilties are polished to a high gloss. His only jewelry is a gold wedding band.

“Okay, Esther,” he commands, “check me out.”

“Wallet?” she says. “Keys? Handkerchief? Sunglasses? Reading glasses? Credit cards? Pen? Cigarettes? Lighter? Pillbox?”

As she enumerates all these items, he taps trouser and jacket pockets. “Got everything,” he reports. “Esther, take my case out to Tim. I’ll be along in a minute.”

They move into his outer office, a baronial chamber paneled with bleached pine. It is dominated by an enormous desk-table: a solid slab of polished teak supported on chrome sawhorses.

Mrs. Giesecke carries his attaché case into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Dempster puts his back against it and beckons. Eve Bookerman comes into his arms: a long, fervid embrace, lips mashed, tongues seeking.

She pulls away, gasping. “You’ll call me tonight, Jack?” she asks.

“Don’t I always? That ear of yours still giving you trouble?”

“It’s better. The drops are helping.”

“Good. I better get moving.”

“Jack, you be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” he says. “See you on Monday.”

Tim, his bodyguard, is waiting at the executive elevator. The two men ride down forty-two floors to Wall Street.

“Nice day, Mr. Dempster,” Tim says cheerily. “Good flying weather.”

“Too bloody hot. But we’ll be going from one air-conditioned cocoon to another.”

A gray Lincoln limousine is at the curb. Bernie is behind the wheel. He hops out to open the back door, and Dempster slides in. Tim walks around to the traffic side to get in next to his boss.

A black Kawasaki motorcycle is idling about twenty feet to the rear of the limo. It starts up, moves forward so slowly that the man in the saddle drags his steel-toed boot on the pavement. Both driver and the man on the pillion are wearing blue nylon jackets, jeans, massive crash helmets with tinted visors that extend to their chins.

The bike pulls up alongside the Lincoln and stops. The rear rider unzips his jacket. He pulls out an Uzi submachine gun, stock folded down. Firing the weapon with one hand, he sprays the three men in the limousine, shooting through the opened door and the closed windows.

The chauffeur and bodyguard die first, their bodies riddled, jerking as the 9mm slugs cut them open. The muzzle is turned to Dempster. He throws up both hands in angry protest, but the bullets slice through. He is slammed back on the seat, then toppled onto the floor.

The assassin coolly empties the thirty-two-round magazine, then slips the gun back into his jacket. The Kawasaki accelerates, roars away, weaving through traffic. In a moment it is gone.

And so is John J. Dempster.

News
headline:
MASSACRE ON WALL STREET!

Post
headline:
WALL STREET BLOODBATH!

Times
two-column head: Executive and Two Aides Slain by Motorcyclists in Financial District.

Photographs were gory, but facts were few. Knowledgeable witnesses identified the bike as a black Kawasaki Ltd. 650, and the weapon as a 9mm Uzi submachine gun with folding stock. Descriptions of the killers were meager: two young male Caucasians, medium height, medium build, wearing blue jackets, jeans, visored helmets, boots.

Shortly after the murders, three New York newspapers received phone calls from an organization calling itself “Liberty Tomorrow,” and claiming responsibility for the killings. More attacks against “corporate America” were promised, and the callers warned that assassinations of business executives would continue until the “people sit in the seats of the mighty.”

The New York Police Department, the FBI, CIA, Interpol, and antiterrorist organizations of foreign governments reported they had no information on a revolutionary group called Liberty Tomorrow, but all cautioned that such anarchic cells formed frequently, were usually short-lived, and sometimes consisted of no more than a half-dozen members.

The police investigation concentrated on finding the Kawasaki and checking all the threatening letters that John J. Dempster, like many business executives, received over the years. Detectives also sought to determine who was aware of Dempster’s schedule, knew of his projected flight to Chicago, and was able to direct the killers to the right place at the right time, enabling them to commit their crime quickly and escape with ease.

John J. Dempster was buried on Friday, but even before his funeral (attended by a Deputy Under-Secretary of Commerce), the Board of Directors of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., met in emergency session and appointed a subcommittee to search for and recommend a possible successor to Dempster. Meanwhile the responsibility for keeping the conglomerate functioning was assigned to Chief Operating Officer Eve Bookerman.

On the day of the murders, the common stock of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., was listed on the New York Stock Exchange at $155,250 per share. By the following Monday, it was trading at $119,625.

And on Monday afternoon, at precisely three o’clock, Eve Bookerman is ushered into the private office of Hiram Haldering on John Street.

“My dear lady,” he says, taking both her hands in his and twisting his meaty face into a suitable expression of grief, “may I express my extreme sorrow at your loss and my horror at this tragedy.”

“Yes,” she says, looking at their scabrous surroundings with some astonishment, “thank you. May I sit down?”

“Of course, of course,” H.H. says hastily. He drops her hands and pulls an armchair closer to the side of his desk. “After what you’ve been through in the past few days, I would have been happy to postpone this meeting or at least come to your office.”

“No,” she says decisively. “Mr. Dempster wanted to come here, and I’m carrying out his wishes as best I can. Our Chief of Security, Theodore Brodsky, was supposed to come along, but he’s tied up with the New York police and the FBI.”

“I understand completely. And tell me, has there been any progress at all?”

“They don’t tell me anything,” she says fretfully. “Only that the investigation is continuing. Infuriating!”

Haldering nods his fat head benignly. “I can understand that, having worked for the FBI for many years. They’re making progress; I’m sure they are. But nothing will be released until all the facts are nailed down, and either the perpetrators have been taken into custody or suspects identified. I hope, dear lady, that you and other Dempster-Torrey executives are taking extra precautions for your personal safety.”

“The police insisted on it,” she says, not happily. “My bodyguard is sitting in your outer office right now. Ridiculous! I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure Mr. Dempster thought the same thing,” he says. And then, fearing that comment didn’t show the proper respect for the departed, he clasps his pudgy hands and leans across the desk. “Well!” he says with a treacly smile. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss the murder of Mr. Dempster. Now what can I do for you, ma’am?”

“You’re familiar with Dempster-Torrey?”

“Of course. Who isn’t? One of the largest conglomerates in the country, I believe.”

“Eighth largest,” she says, lifting her chin. “Two years ago we ranked number twelve. If J.J. had lived, we would have been the largest within five years. Fantastic! Dempster-Torrey owns twenty-seven subsidiaries with a total of eighty-three divisions. We’re into everything from peanut butter to sheet metal. We produce golf carts, paper napkins, scuba diving gear, ventilation ducts, potato chips, ponchos for the U.S. Government, pasta, hair dryers, forklift trucks, and more. That chair you’re sitting on was made by a Dempster-Torrey subsidiary. One of our industrial divisions made the tile on this floor. You name it and the chances are good that it is produced by Dempster-Torrey.”

H.H. shakes his head in wonderment, although he knows the chair he’s sitting on was purchased secondhand, and the floor tile was part of a job lot—and cruddy stuff it is, too.

“For the past six months or so,” Eve Bookerman goes on, “our factories, warehouses, and distribution centers all over the country have been hit by a series of attacks. Deliberate! Fires, vandalism, unexpected strikes, and consumer lawsuits. There have been eighteen separate incidents. Mr. Dempster did not think that was coincidence, nor do I. He was convinced there is a plot by some person or some group directed against Dempster-Torrey. He had no idea what the reason for such hostility might be, nor do I, nor does anyone else in our organization. Mystery!”

“Surely Mr. Dempster must have made enemies during his career.”

“Of course he did. How could a man do what he did without making enemies? But I can’t believe any of them would take revenge by setting a fire in a little flag and banner factory we own, a fire that killed two innocent workers. Despicable!”

“You said that Mr. Dempster considered the possibility of a plot by some group. Liberty Tomorrow, for instance—the terrorists who called the newspapers after the murders?”

“It was the first time I ever heard the name. That’s one of the most frustrating things about the attacks against Dempster-Torrey. There were no telephone calls, no threatening letters. No one claimed responsibility.”

“And I presume each of these incidents was investigated?”

“Of course. By local police and by our own security people. No arrests, not even a theory on who is responsible. Maddening!”

“Tell me, dear lady, have you told all this to the officers investigating Mr. Dempster’s death?”

“I told them,” she says grimly. “I don’t believe they think there is any connection between the attacks on our factories and J.J.’s murder.”

“But you think there is?”

“I don’t know what to think. Nightmare!”

Hiram Haldering, nodding, begins swinging slowly back and forth in his swivel chair. He’s getting to look more like a dumpling every day. The double chin is going for a triple. The waistcoat is ready to pop its pearl buttons. And what he fancies is an executive stride comes perilously close to a waddle. He is not totally bald, not quite, but his pate glistens, the color of a peeled apple.

He stops swinging to lean on his desk once again, suety palms clasped.

“I should tell you at once, ma’am,” he says, “that Haldering and Company cannot investigate the murder of Mr. Dempster. We have neither the resources nor the personnel. We consider ourselves specialists in corporate intelligence. Buyouts, takeovers, mergers—things of that sort. We provide confidential information on individuals and companies, for a fee. But we are not equipped to conduct homicide investigations.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Eve Bookerman says sharply. “J.J. made an appointment with you on the recommendation of Mr. G. Fergus Twiggs of Pistol and Burns, our investment bankers. The express purpose was to get to the bottom of this series of assaults against our property and our people. We’ve gotten nowhere in trying to solve them or stop them. Mr. Twiggs suggested you might be able to help.”

“Very kind of Twiggs,” Haldering says, preening. “It is true that in several cases we have had remarkable success where others have failed.”

“Then you’ll be willing to take on the job? You can write your own ticket.”

“With the understanding that our investigation will deal only with the industrial sabotage and not the assassination of Mr. Dempster.”

“I’ll accept that,” she says crisply. “When will you be able to start?”

“Immediately!” he cries, picking up on her monosyllabicity.

“Excellent! In the hope that we might come to an agreement, I’ve brought along copies of a file that will give you an idea of what we’ve been up against. Along with a list of personnel involved, addresses and phone numbers—all of which may be of help.”