Cactus Island, A Stan Turner Mystery Vol 8

by William Manchee

CHAPTER 39

  THE SETUP

  The sunlight streamed into my room without mercy. It seemed like I'd just gone to bed. I rolled over and tried to cover my head with my pillow but it was no use. It was too light to sleep. The clock said 8:38 a.m., time to get up and get ready for my meeting with Walter Johansen. At least I hoped there was a meeting. Jodie was supposed to have set it up for me. There weren't any messages for me when I checked in, so I assumed she hadn't had a problem.

  My head was aching. I figured it was a mild hangover. How many Mai Tai's had I drank? As I was taking my shower, I began to think about the warnings from my drinking buddies about Walter Johansen and the company he kept. My only solace was the fact that VP bank was an old reputable bank and presumably wouldn't tolerate any aberrant behavior by its bank officers.

  The bell captain called me a cab and within fifteen minutes I was walking into the lobby of VP Bank. It had an impressive but conservative decor and the receptionist who greeted me was very polite and businesslike. She said Mr. Johansen would be five or ten minutes and offered me coffee.

  I sat on the sofa to wait. The bank appeared extremely normal and I scolded myself for being so paranoid. A tall man with thinning brown hair walked up to me. He said, "Ms. Waters?"

  I stood up and extended my hand. "Yes, Mr. Johansen?"

  "That's right," he replied, shaking my hand politely. "Please come this way."

  He led me down a long corridor and into his office. It was very nicely decorated with an assortment of sculptures and abstract art. He took his seat behind his desk and pointed to a side chair. His desk was busy but everything was neatly stacked in piles. He looked me over and said, "So, what brings you to Tortola?"

  "Well, I'm an attorney from Dallas and apparently we have a mutual client, Cheryl Windsor."

  Johansen didn't show any recognition of the name and seemed a bit preoccupied. "Her husband is Martin Windsor," I continued. "Apparently he set up an account here for Mrs. Windsor. We understand the account is in her name."

  "Do you have an account number? We deal with thousands of accounts."

  "Well, actually we don't. You see, Mr. Windsor is missing. That's another reason we need to locate this account and take charge of it until we find him."

  "Missing? Where is he?"

  "We don't know. That's the problem, but in Texas a husband and wife's money is community property and either party can manage it for the other. If you will locate the account I think you'll see that Mrs. Windsor has the right to control and access. I have her power of attorney if you need it."

  "We don't like to deal with powers of attorney. They can be revoked and we have no way of checking to see if they are still effective. Why didn't Mrs. Windsor make the trip with you?"

  "Ah, well . . . she's not able to leave the country right now. I assure you this is a Texas durable power of attorney and is totally legal. The bank has no duty to check its validity under Texas law."

  "This is the British Virgin Islands, Madam, not Dallas, Texas."

  "I know. I know. If you can't accept the power of attorney, we can FedEx the paperwork to Dallas and she can sign it and overnight it back."

  Johansen stood up."Let me get the file, maybe we can work something out. I'll be right back."

  While I was waiting, I sipped my coffee and wondered if there was any chance in hell Cheryl would ever see that money. If the bank found out that Cheryl was being charged with Martin's murder they'd freeze the account and nobody would get the money for years.

  A few minutes later Johansen returned with the file and a computer printout. He sat down and started going through the file and checking it with the printout. He looked up. "You said Martin Windsor set up this account?"

  "Well, that's what we thought," I replied. "She's been kind of left in the dark about her husband's finances. We're just trying to piece it together."

  "Well, according to our records your client came in two weeks ago, set up an IBC, and opened an account to receive funds. Since then there have been nine wire transfers into the account totaling $3.7 million."

  "That's impossible. My client never left Dallas."

  "We obtained two forms of identification, I assure you."

  "Can I see them?"

  Johansen shrugged. "Of course."

  He opened the file and pulled out copies of a Texas Driver's license and a U.S. Passport. I examined them closely. They appeared to be genuine and the picture was definitely Cheryl Windsor.

  "Who met with Mrs. Windsor when she set up these accounts?" I asked.

  "I did."

  "You did?"

  "Yes, now that I've looked at the file, I remember the transaction quite well."

  I shook my head and pointed to the picture. "You're telling me this woman came in here and set up this account."

  "Yes," he replied emphatically.

  Either somebody was lying or Cheryl Windsor had an identical twin sister. I knew for a fact that Cheryl Windsor had turned in her passport and couldn't have possibly come to Tortola. If Martin Windsor was setting Cheryl up to take the fall for his death he was doing a good job. Now what should I do. If I tried to take possession of the account on Cheryl's behalf, it would look like Cheryl had set up the account all along and used it to stash her money after she killed her husband. Before I did anything, I had to talk to Cheryl and Stan. The situation was getting complicated and one false move could be disastrous.

  "Okay. I guess I need to confer with my client. Apparently there has been a misunderstanding. I'll have to get back with you."

  "Certainly."

  "I would like to get a copy of the corporate papers and an account statement to take back to my client. Do you have her correct address?"

  Johansen showed me the address and it was correct. He made me copies of the Articles of Incorporation of the Beef Island Trading Company as well as the minutes of the organizational meeting. They were all signed by Johansen as the bank's representative. I felt sick when I left the bank. This was the worst possible scenario, but I did need to know what I was up against. At least I wouldn't be blind-sided by this at trial. I'd have time to try to come up with a strategy to deal with it.

  It was noon and I hadn't eaten any breakfast, so I decided to walk around town a bit and find a good place to eat. It was an interesting town and as long as I had come all this way, I decided I ought to explore it this afternoon since my flight home wasn't until the next morning. Luckily it was a small town on a small island, so I could explore a good portion of it before dark.

  I found a little café with a good view and ordered soup and a salad. As I ate, I noticed a man looking at me. When I made eye contact, he turned away. A strange feeling came over me. I had seen that face somewhere before. When I tried to sneak another glance at him, he was gone. I looked around expecting to see him walking off, but he had vanished. Suddenly I remembered who he was—it was the man I'd first met in the elevator at Martin Windsor's office, the man I'd seen on the video tape, and one of the men who had abducted Cheryl's kids. The man who had vanished into thin air before my very eyes in Dallas had done it again 2500 miles away. A coincidence? I thought not.

  After lunch I hurried back to the hotel to call Stan. Seeing the disappearing man again had me rattled. As I walked into the lobby, I ran into Ted. "What are you doing here? Do you live in the hotel?"

  "Yes, just temporarily. My place was severely damaged by a recent hurricane and is being fixed up."

  I nodded. "Oh. Well, it's nice to see you again."

  "How did your meeting go with Johansen?" he asked.

  "Not so well, I'm afraid."

  "Sorry to hear that. Perhaps I can buy you a drink tonight and try to cheer you up."

  I didn't feel like being alone with the disappearing man lurking about, so I said, "Yes, that would be nice." On the way up the stairs to my room an ominous feeling came over me. I hesitated, looked around, but seeing nothing continued on figuring it was just my rattled nerves.

  As I approac
hed the door to my suite, I dug into my purse and found my keycard. I slipped it in the slot and pulled it out. The green light came on and I pushed the door opened. Suddenly a hand grabbed my arm and yanked me inside. I screamed in protest, but was rudely pushed to the floor. A knee pinned me down and I felt the sharp sting of a needle penetrating my arm. Someone said something in a language I'd never heard before. There was a flash of blue light, then the room began to fade away.