Free Skin Trade by Reggie Nadelson Page B

sat and drank the coffee and I kept my mouth shut.
    He said, “I hate French coffee.”
    â€œYou’re Scottish?”
    He nodded.
    â€œThey make good coffee there?”
    â€œWorse than this.”
    â€œWhat town?”
    â€œGlasgow.”
    â€œNice?”
    â€œThat depends.”
    â€œWhat on?”
    â€œLook, Mr Cohen, I know you don’t want my advice on your next holiday destination.” He pulled open a desk drawer, removed a brown envelope, slit it open, pulled out a video cassette, held it up.
    â€œSurveillance tape?”
    He nodded. “This bloody coffee’s cold.” He picked up his phone and asked for a fresh pot.
    â€œCan I have the tape?”
    â€œI doubt it.”
    â€œWhat would it take?”
    â€œI imagine it might be possible to make you a copy at some point.”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    Larkin’s secretary brought the coffee. He lifted the lid and smelled it. “It would take your telling me what you really know about Levesque.”
    I climbed out of the armchair and went to the window. It was snowing. When I turned around, Larkin was perched on the edge of his desk, leaning forward. He was going to confide.
    â€œTo tell the truth, we’re fairly stumped here,” he said.
    â€œYou haven’t had your people on this long, have you?”
    He didn’t answer.
    I said, “We, by we I mean Keyes, we’ve done the paper trail. His contacts, business associates, friends. There weren’t many. He was some kind of freelance investment guy, lived out on the California coast most of the time, a loner.” I paused. “But you knew all that because we shared it with you, and you didn’t share anything back at all.” I kept on bluffing. I didn’t know what Larkin knew.
    â€œI admire your ingenuity, Mr Cohen, writing out a check to M. Levesque. That way, rather than some low-level bank clerk, you knew the relevant executive would see you. You knew you’d get my attention.”
    â€œI tried the phone.”
    â€œI’ve been driven more than a wee bit mad by all this to tell you the truth. We can’t have people coming in and trying to rip off twenty thousand dollars from one of our customers even if he is dead. I know Keyes are excellent. I’d be grateful for anything you have.”
    I yawned. I was drowning here in doublespeak and unless I put out, he wasn’t going to give an inch. I wanted the video tape.
    He looked up. “Am I boring you, then?”
    â€œYeah. You are. You’re boring me with this cat and mouse stuff, and frankly, I came here to share some information, but you don’t want to share, so I’ll just say so long.”
    Slowly, I crushed out my smoke in the saucer of my coffee cup. Larkin took a call about a mortgage.
    I excused myself, went to the bathroom, tried to call the hospital where there was no news, and Gourad, whowasn’t at his station house. There was a message from Carol Browne to call her hotel before six. I called the hotel and left her a message, I was making progress, I’d be with her. I knew I was going to have to give Larkin something.
    I went back to his office. I smiled. He smiled. I put on my jacket.
    He stood up. “You said you had information.”
    I nodded.
    â€œSit down, please.” From his bottom drawer he took a bottle of single malt. “It’s Friday, the end of the week, can I offer you a small drink?”
    I sat down. “Make it a big one.”
    â€œWith pleasure.” Larkin sat down, found a couple of glasses, poured us both a hefty shot. I could see from the way he knocked it back that he was a drinker. Maybe even a drunk.
    I said, “Why would anyone try to withdraw money on a dead man’s account and think he was going to get away with it?”
    â€œBecause he wasn’t aware the man was dead?” Larkin said.
    â€œThat’s what I thought at first.” The whisky was