The next day was Saturday. I was sleeping soundly, dreaming the kinds of images that give you uneasy feelings all through the next day without ever being able to actually recall them.
When I finally woke up it was still only eight, and I remembered what it was I disliked about my life. Mornings.
Doc and I had stayed up late playing chess, drinking iced Beefeater's straight from the freezer Russian style, and discussing the philosophies of life in general. Every time I visit Doc, he wins at least two games of chess. We usually play three. By the time, we're on the second game, we're on the fifth iced Beefeaters' and I don't have a prayer. I'm beginning to think it's part of his strategy. He says it's good for me because of my high-tension level. I think he just likes to drink too much.
An hour of aerobic self-discipline on the mat in the living room made me feel more positive about things. My shoulder seemed to be felling much more normal than I had any right to expect. After showering I checked the answering machine, to find multiple messages from Miss K. I called her house and she was in.
"Good morning Miss Kuwabara, I hope you aren't being disturbed, but I want some information from you. I need a modem dial-up number for the main computer at the bank, and I need a user ID along with the appropriate passwords. This account should be able to access anything and everything that relates to the Crassberg files. Any problem with that?"
"No of course it's fine, but …, well, I thought you were going to be meeting with me in person, to ask your questions and get a bearing on the events involved. Actually, I was expecting to hear from you last night. I received your message but I was unable to reach you. Is everything alright? Have you changed your mind? Is it not necessary now?"
"As a matter of fact, I had planned on a meeting at four o'clock this afternoon at the Nag's Head pub on Richmond Street. Will that be ok with you?" Actually, I hadn’t planned it at all, but it was necessary and I might as well sound like I was organized, meeting the standards of expectation and all.
There was a short silence at the other end of the line, and I tried to imagine what she might be wearing at nine am on a Saturday. The options were endless.
"I'll be there. Is there any information you would like me to bring?"
"The information I require will come from what you already know about the situation. I'll need those numbers and passwords now though. I want to do a little research before our meeting. I'll be at my home number for the next fifteen minutes. Can you get them for me?"
"Of course, I'll call you right back."
She did. The numbers and passwords she gave me put me in the big time for real. Now I was going to have to produce some results. After all, I had access to John Dawson’s own computer account.
I wrote the info on a post-it notepad, added a few basic short-form questions like: Crassberg: corp.; person; type of bus; financial track record; country of origin; if corp., names of chief operators; etc., slipped it in my pocket and went out for brunch.
The rain had almost stopped, but not quite. It was so fine it had turned into a mist, with the clouds hovering so close you could reach up and touch them. Grey was the colour of the month.
Traffic was still light, and my new minivan pulled me through the wet city with microprocessor controlled-efficiency. The six-way speaker system was pouring out the blues John Lee Hooker style, courtesy of a local radio station. It was like sitting five feet from the stage at a live show. I had only taken delivery two months earlier and I was I still getting a kick out of it. I loved new cars.
The massive sound of John Lee's voice faded out and the DJ came on, instantly inspiring me to switch stations. I flipped the scan button and stopped it when it landed on something classical. I turned left at the end of the Allen Expressway, onto Lakeshore boulevard. The water looked cold in spite of the temperature hovering in the high seventies. Small whitecaps covered the surface as far out as I could see, and the colour was a dismal shade of deep grey. If it wasn't for the never-ending rain it would have been an uplifting part of the day.
I was driving past the recreational section of the lakeshore, where the city pools, parks, little beaches, and cycling trails lived. It was normally teeming with people of all ages, and women dressed in every hot weather fashion imaginable. Mid July, and not a sign of sunshine. Maybe I should move to Bermuda.
I hit Beech St. about ten thirty, and found a parking spot right in front of the house. Things were looking up. Sarah opened the door and stepped out onto the landing at the top of the stone stairs, waiting for me. She was wearing a man’s dress white shirt, tucked into a pair of Levi’s jeans, with just the right amount of fade to them and custom-fit English riding boots of deep burgundy. Her long dark hair was done in a Swedish braid. If anything was out of place, I couldn't see it. At times like this I realized just how beautiful my baby sister had become.
I walked up the ten steps and she latched onto my arm, pulling me down for a kiss on the cheek and breaking into animated conversation at the same time.
"Jeffry, what happened? Did you sleep in? I've been holding off the hungry hordes for an hour already. We've decided to give ourselves a break today. Get it? We're going to McDonald’s for brunch. Go on upstairs and tell George you're here while I get Catherine into her raincoat. She's all excited and ready to roll." She hurried off in the direction of the kitchen.
Catherine was eight months old, and she was always excited, but I refrained from pointing out the obvious and did what I was told. I went to find George.
As usual he was in the computer room doing some research on a couple of new companies he was considering investing in. He had a unique philosophy for playing the market. He only dealt with three types of stocks. Pharmaceuticals, waste management, and high technology, in that order. He didn't have a degree in any of the three, so he spent a lot of time downloading information from the major databases around the country. He also used a scanner to build special interest files from the articles he clipped from the daily newspapers on an ongoing basis. It made me tired just thinking about it, but it seemed to work because his stocks kept going up.
I leaned in the door and said "George I'm here."
"Be right with you, Jeff, just finishing up."
He didn't even glance in my direction. That meant a good half hour until he was done.
I wandered downstairs, where Sarah and Catherine were all dressed up with no place to go. I filled her in.
"That vile machine! I swear Jeffry, I'm going to toss it out the window one day and have an end to it all. It's not enough he does it all day at work, and he does it all night when he comes home, he's just not going to do it on a Saturday! Here, hold the baby please, I'll be right back, and so will George. Don't let her cry." She stormed off up the stairs.
Catherine was wearing an outrageously funny yellow slicker and rain hat. I had to smile. She said something to me in a foreign language and smacked me one right on the chin. "Yes, I love you too baby doll, and the Golden Arches are almost in sight." Since she was dressed for it, we went out to play in the rain.
The mist began to bead all over Katy’s' foul-weather gear. I could picture her standing at the helm of an eighteenth-century frigate rounding Cape Horn, wind full in the sails, headed for China, to take on a cargo of lollipops.
We discussed the pros and cons of classic versus modern music as we made our way to the van, and I bundled shorty onto the integrated child seat in the back, and clambered up front to put on some lecture material. I slipped a tape of The Beatles’ White Album into the deck, and Katy beamed as the intro to Rocky Raccoon flooded the air. I'd been her music advisor at every opportunity since she was born, and I think it was beginning to catch.
I pulled the post-it pad from my pocket and peeled off the first page, carefully sticking it to the front of the tape deck, where George couldn't miss it. I figured Sarah would have him out here in a couple of minutes, so shorty and I just kicked back and grooved on the classics while we waited.
True to form, Sarah was
coming down the stairs only moments later, George in tow. I fired up the brunch mobile, as they got in.
Sarah was talking, as usual. "She's never like that when the girls get together, I think she's just shy in the company of men, so she compensates by talking business. It's an attractive trait to some people you know. Not being just a fluff head, I mean. I think Jeffry liked her. Don't let your belt get caught in the door." She settled in next to shorty, and George dutifully tucked his trench coat belt out of harm’s way as he closed the door, commenting to no-one in particular, "Business is one thing, physics is another thing entirely."
"Jeffry, I met Cynthia the other day at the library, and she was asking about you. You remember Cynthia, don't you? She's so busy these days getting her Doctorate degree and all. We had her over at that thanksgiving do, and you two seemed to hit it off so well. George doesn't have the right attitude towards her, I think she's quite nice, don't you? Oh, let’s have some air in here Jeffry, it's very stuffy, really. Have you been smoking again? Well gang, let's get underway."
The name Cynthia rang a muted bell, but Sarah was always thinking I'd be happier if I was married, and she never let an opportunity go by to introduce me to someone new. Occasionally I went along with it because you never know, do you? Besides, I had my lonely days too, just like the rest of the world.
"Alright sugar, we're off. George, feel free to change the tape, or try a radio station if you prefer." George looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face. I normally stop the vehicle and forcibly eject anyone who dares to even adjust the equalization of my stereo system. This had obviously occurred to him, and he was on guard. He glanced down at the tape deck and his attention caught on the post-it note, He picked it from the deck as he switched it to an easy listening station. Scanning the paper, he caught on right away and slipped into 'deep thought mode', which was what I had intended. The cryptic notes were enough to start him thinking of ways to cross-check for the facts we needed, which at this point were any that we could come up with.
Sarah was playing some obscure game with shorty, and the rain was still coming down like a mist on the moors. Light but steady. McDonalds was about five minutes away as we pulled onto Kingston Road, passing the obligatory car dealerships, discount carpet showrooms, and various factory outlets.
I was trying hard to recall that thanksgiving dinner where I had supposedly met this Cynthia, and what she looked like. It was apparent that Sarah had an idea to arrange an encounter for me, and I had to have some legitimate ammunition to stave it off, or I'd be overruled. The grey sky cracked open and spit out a solitary burst of lightning. The flash came down somewhere close by, because the thunder followed immediately, rolling over us like a racing monster, moving off to the east as quickly as it came.
In the afterimage of the lightning, I remembered. Cynthia Louwellyn, welsh and brilliant. She was so brilliant she was astounding. When I had struck up a conversation with her over dinner, she had swiftly maneuvered me into a discussion of the current state of particle physics research in the U.S.S.R., or something close to that. As I thought about it, the vision of Cynthia returned to me. Vision was the right word. If it hadn't been for the fact that I thought she had perceived me as a dolt, I would've asked her out on the spot. As it was, I had been so mesmerized by her beauty that I had come across as somewhat lacking in the intellectual essentials, and after considering the agony of rejection in front of my baby sister, to whom I have always been the Ultimate Dude, I had refrained. Now this had been two years ago, at least, and she was still thinking about me? Well, well.
At that moment, we pulled into the parking lot of the brunch site. It went as could be expected. The service was excellent, and the food was processed. I can't say as it would have been my choice for a meal, but shorty seemed to like it. The clown running around the restaurant with free balloons for the little guys might have had something to do with it.
The conversation was familial, and the meal got done. I suppose there were worse places to be on a Saturday morning. On the way back George was quieter than usual, and shorty slept. Sarah hummed along with the White Album, which was back in the deck, and watched the city go by in the rain.
When we got back to the house, Sarah went off to put the baby down for a nap, and George and I had a chance to talk. We went upstairs to the computer room, and settled in.
Most of the room was given over to bookshelves full of reference works, software manuals, and files. Flush against the back wall was an old couch that had been banished from the living room years ago, well used and comfortable, made of canvas and pine. I sat there.
George sat down at the computer desk and pulled out the post-it note. "Alright what have we got here? This is a dial-up with codes and all, but what are we looking for, and where are we looking for it? What's behind this Crassberg thing?"
"Well, I'm not sure about anything yet. I have some major questions about what we've gotten into with this one. I've signed a contract to find some missing files, that were being worked on by the man who got himself killed. That would indicate an involvement with the murder motive, unless you believe in coincidence, which neither of us do. I think that this time the case is going to be serious, and we'll have to treat it as such. We need to know as much about the deal he was working on as possible, before I meet with Marsh’s Personal Assistant, Miss Kuwabara, at four o'clock this afternoon. I don't know who's involved or what the object of the conspiracy is, but I have a definite feeling that there is a conspiracy in progress here. We could get hurt if we don't figure out the players quickly. I need you to hook into the bank system and find out anything and everything on the Crassberg deal. Apparently, it's a deal that Marsh has made into the crowning achievement of his career. If he can still get it off the ground, of course. The heart of the matter is the missing files. They're crucial to the signing of the deal, and cannot be reproduced in the short span of time left before the final meeting of the signatories. I don't think it has anything to do with time, I think it has to do with our Mr. John Dawson, now deceased. He was able to access information which was vital to achieving an upper hand in the Crassberg deal, when he was killed, that access was killed with him and Marsh is trying anything he can to recover lost ground. The key question here, which in being answered would solve the case as far as my involvement is concerned, is what were our Mr. Dawson’s special channels, that he was able to get hold of information that the bank deemed crucial, yet wasn't able to access themselves legitimately? I may not be the only avenue he is currently persuading to achieve his goal. That's the basics on what I have so far. How about you?"
George had been mulling this information over as I had fed it to him. He pondered for a moment, then rose from his swivel chair and walked over to the file section of the bookcase.
"Here's what we have so far in the homicide investigation. The forensics lab was prompt and efficient, as usual. We've spent enough money on their department in the last few years that they can't do enough for us when we ask.”
He pulled out a slim file folder and laid it open on top of the cabinet. He leafed slowly through the pages in the file as he spoke.
“Dawson’s time of death is posted as approximately 11:30 PM, give or take fifteen minutes, the night before last. He was at his desk, in his office at the bank tower on the twenty sixth floor at the time. There was no-one else on the floor, according to the security people. They keep video tape going on all the elevators after 6:00 PM. The stairwell doors only open from the inside, and after six they all have an alert signal which is triggered at the main security desk when they open. The basement exits to the underground parking and the whole lobby are also under video surveillance, which is recorded. Naturally, nobody appeared on camera, and no sensors were triggered from the doors at either level.”
“Why naturally?” I asked.
George came back at me with a bit of sarcasm showing. “That would’ve given us a lead, wouldn’t it’ve? And it’s no fun unless you get to do it the hard way
.” He raised his eyebrows at me, and I nodded sagely, waiting for him to continue.
“There were twenty-three people working late in the tower that night, including Dawson. They were all registered at the security desk, as per routine procedure, with the exception of Dawson. That’s been highlighted as something out of character. According to Marsh and vehemently confirmed by Dawson’s secretary, Miss Silvia Torrence, he was a stickler for following the rules. Miss Torrence, I might add, was in quite a state about the demise of our lad Dawson. It seems that he was well liked by the people who worked for him. The remaining twenty-two were questioned and accounted for. Dawson turned out to be the only one of the bunch that was working alone, including the cleaners. It seems the cleaners work in teams of two. All the rest were with their co-workers the whole time. The people who were available to be questioned were as helpful as could be, and told us nothing in the end. Except of course, that they didn't do it."
He paused then, rubbing his eyes, something he does when he’s thinking, or when he’s tired.
“So, he was in the office all day. That’s been confirmed by several staff who were onsite throughout the day. His floor is the Special Projects Department. This is relatively new in fact. They were given their mandate by the Board just last year, and it seems that they had a pretty good budget to work with. The entire south wing of the twenty sixth floor is their territory. Eighteen people work in the department, fourteen of them finish work at 4:30 PM, along with half of the rest of the tower. The remaining four, which group includes the deceased, knock off at 5:00 PM. The remaining half of the people who work in the tower finish up sometime between 5:00 PM and 6:00 PM, making their way out through the lobby and the underground parking, singly and in small groups. It’s a big tower, and that turns out to be a steady stream of people. Then, at 6:00 PM, as I mentioned earlier, the security firm of.” He flipped a page in the file folder, “Ah, yes. Loomis. At 6:00 PM Loomis does the lockdown. They have seven staff on the inside from 6:00 PM until 7:30 AM. Four men and three women. Two staff in the lobby, and five rovers.”
The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel Page 6