Mystery on the Seine: A Jake Vincent Mystery

by Terry McGhee

  MYSTERY ON THE SEINE

  A Jake Vincent Mystery Novel

  PREFACE

  Mystery on the Seine is a work of fiction, and a sequel to Mystery at Deadfall Lake. The story follows retired security investigator Jake Vincent and his intrepid wife Barbara to Paris as they accept the river wine-cruise gift from a grateful FBI. In Mystery at Deadfall Lake Jake offered his pro-bono professional services to assist with a re-opened cold case in his small resort town in the mountains of Northern California. The FBI was called in when evidence of past multiple murders was uncovered. Jake was instrumental in tracking down the murderers.

  Jake and Barbara agree to cooperate with an FBI request to keep watch on two Ponzi criminals who have fled the USA, and will have new and altered identities. Death is a stalker on their luxury Seine River cruise ship The Grand Queen.

  When the Vincent’s return home they learn that they may not have escaped a life-threatening danger lurking in the remote wilderness of their resort town in the dense, tall tree forests.

  In this new adventure all characters are fictional. Any resemblance to persons known by the reader is purely coincidental.

  Each reader who enjoys this novel is invited to post a review at their purchase source. Book reviews are a great benefit to the author, and we sincerely appreciate them.

  Thank you. Now find a quiet corner to follow this new adventure for Jake and his wife in the city of lights, and the strange occurrences on the luxury Seine river long ship cruise line.

  Chapter 1

  NYC

  The NYC HYDE HOTEL was like any other two-star hotel in the city…pretty much nondescript. Not quite located in the ‘bright lights’ part of the Big Apple, but a short taxi ride away, if one wanted bright lights, crowds and noise that is. The old six story building was sandwiched between soot-blackened high rise apartments on either side. The brick frontage was unmarked. No neon sign or other obvious marking told the passer-by what establishment did business behind the double glass doors. Those pedestrians who did walk past could be broadly categorized as the more shabbily attired city dwellers, and had no interest in the seedy structure that looked just like hundreds of others in the bustling metropolis. If one did look closely, the hotel name was painted rather creatively in small gold letters on the single large window that faced the street.

  A small, but nice, reception counter was set off to the side. The entry-way ‘Welcome’ carpet had seen better days. The elevators (two) were at the back of the lobby facing the front entry. Opposite the reception counter were two well-worn upholstered chairs against the wall. A small glass table between them held a stack of National Geographic magazines with dog-eared corners. A dim table lamp would let the visitor peruse the outdated volumes.

  Clyde Couletti and his wife Ella had checked in about 5 p.m. At present they sat in the two worn leatherette-covered arm chairs that crowded the queen-sized bed and the faux wooden desk/credenza against the wall. Faded floral prints with white plastic frames were screwed to the walls. It was difficult to imagine who would want to steal them. Certainly it would be a thief with zero decorating skills, and less than zero appreciation of art. The room had an internet connection, but you had to pay for it. A hand-written note propped up against the Ethernet Port said “OUT OF ORDER.” Clyde was not going to be providing his e-mail signature to the ether-hacker world during this stay. They were in hiding.

  Ella held up her wine glass as if to make a toast. “Well big shot, we’re here finally. Ya think we threw any tracker off our trail by taking that damn noisy train from Dallas to Kansas City, then the mad dash transfer to the coach car ending up here in the apple? Nice hotel ya picked. I especially like the plastic glasses, the mini-size soap, and the bath towels you can see through. By the way, don’t touch the bedspread…we don’t know who or what has sat on it. Shove it under the bed. Wha-ta-dump.”

  “Clyde said, “Lousy imitation of Bette Davis El. It’s the BIG Apple, by the way, and quit bitchin. Doing the train thing was necessary. We need to stay ‘low key.’ You know they’ve started watching us. We had to get out of Dodge. Paying cash for the tickets was a smart move. Come on El, neither of us saw anyone that might have been checking us out. I’m pretty sure no one knows where we are. We need to get on that plane to Italy before any formal legal action catches up to us. My cousin Saul tells me everything is set up. He owns several apartment buildings in Palermo, and it’s the perfect place for us to do our disappearing act and I.D. fix until we’re off the FBI’s radar.

  “I’m betting that FBI agent Sam Jenkins has already started running every kind of check he can on our crude oil futures investment operation. We covered our tracks well, but a few investors started to smell a rat when they couldn’t get back a bigger chunk of their investment during the market pull back. Anyway we’re small potatoes on the Fed’s list of targets. It will be months before they can have enough evidence to even start to bring charges; if they ever do. All we have to do is disappear.

  “Thanks to my deceased, wealthy old man cutting me out of his fortune, we were forced to get creative. You could say my stingy father pushed us into a life of crime. I’m not complaining mind you.”

  “Oh poor deprived baby. You suffered so much having to live with that silver spoon in your mouth. Well it was your dear old goody-two-shoes Daddy’s golden reputation that convinced all those investors to pony up the big bucks to our enterprise. His five-star reputation in the state of Texas paid off for us big time. By the way, your welcome very much for thanking yours truly for keeping the payoffs moving through the system and convincing our ‘investment partners’ that our oil futures trading was making them the big profits. Thank you very much Mr. Ponzi, may he rest in peace, and Bernie Madoff of course! When our clients wanted their money, I used the money in bank accounts belonging to other clients to pay back the requested funds. None of them had a clue we were ‘taking from Peter to pay Paul.’ Those twenty percent of investors that actually showed net gains were eager to brag about their successes to potential new investors. It was the perfect scheme until the big spill in the Gulf turned public opinion against an entire industry. Investment in oil futures and The Couletti Fund was put on hold, and our greedy ‘partners’ wanted full distributions of their shares, including the ‘profits’ their phony statements reported. Ya know Clyde we closed up shop at just the right time thanks to my brilliant sense of timing.”

  Ella was consulting a small notebook she pulled from her huge purse. Quite the feat with those two inch long, wildly painted nails, observed Clyde. “It was the low purchase margin requirement of thirty percent that had our greedy investors jumping to buy those futures contracts with money they didn’t have. We made out like bandits. By my accounting we have sixty-eight point seven million dollars deposited in those several foreign accounts. I think we can hide out and live very well on our ill-gotten gains. P. T. Barnum was right; ‘There’s a sucker born every minute. Besides I was getting tired of that whole Texas bunch ’Mine-is-bigger-than-yours’ bozos.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius…now zip it. The less we talk about our past business, the less chance someone fingers us to the Feds.” Clyde leaned over and gave his wife a peck on the cheek. He secretly wished she was ‘out-of-the-picture.’ Her big mouth was bound to get them caught. He figured he would have to deal with this problem sooner rather than later.

  “I’m searching these glamour magazines for that new look.” Ella pulled out a fist full of pages. “Check out these different eye, nose and chin looks.” Clyde leaned in and gave a snort.

  “Why dontcha plan on spending a few bucks from our plastic surgery stash and fix your mouth.”
>
  “What’s wrong with my mouth”?

  “It’s too damned big!” Ella grabbed a bed pillow and swung it at Clyde, knocking his wine glass to the floor. “Look El, your famous temper could be a bad habit that gives us up. We both have to watch what we say; even when we believe we are alone…because we may not be. Is that clear? It’s so easy to bug a room with the tiny, high tech devices they use today. We gotta always be convinced someone’s listening in. We stick with the new names on the passports we leave the U.S.A. with. There’s no going back. We’re in deep cover El. Our past life has to be buried, and all connections to it. I mean we don’t know anyone in Texas OK? Keep your big yap shut; learn to control your hot temper, and for once engage your brain before talking.

  “We need to shed any obvious and noticeable habits or physiognomies that would clearly identify us to anyone looking.”

  “Physio…what?”

  “Outwardly noticeable appearances or features…never mind Ella. You also need to lose the big platinum blonde hair. Dye it brown and get a short cut. And another thing…you should get a boob reduction job. The hair and the boobs can be spotted a mile away.” Ella jumped up and nailed Clyde with another pillow.

  “Hey, these boobs attracted a lot of investors pal. I figure they earned us a few mil. Remember that guy Parker? He had a real thing for me, and dropped a few hundred thou into the mix.

  “Speaking of obvious give-away characteristics, you should chuck out all those fancy, smelly cigars. They are a dead giveaway. And another thing, how about losing sixty plus pounds Mr. ‘Fats Couletti.’ Talk about my hair and body…sheesh!”

  “Lighten up…I’m working on it. Our survival depends on us going totally dark; being out-of-sight, and changing our appearance. I’m deadly serious El. Our freedom depends on it.”

  “Ok Clyde I get it.” She pulled a business card from her purse and studied it. “You’re now Fred Johnson and I am Mrs. Patsy Johnson. How very creative. I hate the name Patsy. Call me Pat. I won’t respond to Patsy.”

  “Look dufus, the more simple the name, the easier for us to use it naturally. Ya gotta remember to never call me Clyde again. I mean even when we’re alone…got it? If I go down, you go down with me.”

  “I got it…OKAY? When will Saul’s guy show up with the passports and tickets? And what did they cost us?”

  “We each will have two different aliases…well worth the twenty five grand each. Saul is also supplying new international driver’s licenses for an additional forty thou. He says we need to cut up the old licenses and passports and distribute the pieces in a half dozen trash bins throughout the city. The license photos have been doctored. After the facial surgery modifications in Milan, Saul says we won’t recognize ourselves.

  “Anyway we could be here for a few days. Saul said to stay patient. It just depends on how fast his guy can work and finish up the passports. We will go by Fred and Patsy for as long as we can.”

  Ella stood up, hands on hips and said, “Ok Mr. smart guy; just how are we to get on the plane with phony I.D.s?”

  “Saul is providing the whole package. He purchased our plane tickets with the new altered I.D. info in advance. We will go through the security check as Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. You need to cut your hair, change the color, and tuck it under a hat. Cinch up your bra to the tightest setting. Saul says no one, that is not an expert, will recognize any difference in our looks and the passport IDs. Besides, we’re leavin the USA, not entering, and our departing flight has purposely been scheduled at absolutely the busiest time. We won’t get even a glance. Anyway, it’s way too early for the Feds to be trying to nab us. All they have now are suspicions. We’ll be long-gone with the new I.D.s and sixty eight million bucks!

  “I’ve hired a house and yard maintenance company to take care of the place. I told them we might be gone for several months, and wanted our home kept in tip top shape. I paid them for six months. The mail has been stopped, and all delivery companies have been advised that we will be gone and cannot accept any packages. If anything slips through, the maintenance guys will store them at their warehouse. They’re makin three times their normal rate, so I expect some loyalty. They don’t know nuthin about nuthin.”

  ****

  The quiet knock on their door was exactly as pre-arranged. Two quick taps, pause, four quick taps, pause, one tap. Clyde loved it when a plan came together. He was getting more confident that their big ‘escape’ scheme would work. He squinted through the door peep hole. Another eye was staring back at him. Clyde opened the door a crack.

  “You Clyde Couletti?” The sleazy looking character standing in the hall-way wearing sun glasses, a black hoody and Yankee’s baseball cap. He held up a photograph; glanced at the photo, and then the fat guy standing in the doorway wearing the undershirt holding the wine glass. He repeated this double check two more times. “You check out OK, now let me see the hundred and forty large in cash!

  “You’ll be hearing from Saul. Follow instructions on trashing your I.D.s then sit tight. Oh…here’s some advice from a professional: shed some weight, and get your wife to shrink the boobs and get a ‘plane-jane’ hair do. And ditch the smelly cigars. You two would stand out in any crowd. You want to project a low-profile image. Be creative with the plastic surgery work. You want folks that knew you in your past life, if seeing you on the street, to look right through you without a trace of recognition. Good luck.” The messenger shoved a canvas satchel into Clyde’s substantial gut.

  “What a creep. What was he sayin?”

  “He said you needed to shrink your boobs if we are to keep a low profile.”

  “I was hidin in the bathroom…how does he know?”

  “Sweet heart, he probably has a dozen long lens photos of us from the train station, and maybe even of us getting into and out of the taxi. These guys are pros, and Saul doesn’t miss anything.

  “Look, he has it all set up in Milan. We each have appointments with a top notch plastic surgeon. Once the changes are made, we will spend two secretive recovery weeks at an out-of-the way private resort.”

  Ella jumped up and embraced her husband. “And then we can take that Paris vacation and River cruise you booked months ago…a sorta second honeymoon.” Ella did an exaggerated hip wiggle and winked at Clyde. “And you can visit those famous churches you admire so much. I know you won’t mind if I take a pass on the church visits. Ya seen one church, ya seen em all.”

  “Hey El, they’re magnificent cathedrals. You gotta learn to appreciate the finer things in life. Some families have spent their entire lives working on these structures. They are works of art, and like a famous painting, should be appreciated and cherished. You need to start reading some best sellers, and watch world news once in a while. And another thing, chuck those movie magazines. It will help you carry on a normal conversation about current events instead of those tabloid stories about what certain Hollywood moron is dating another Hollywood moron.”

  “Yeah, yeah, if you say so.”

  Clyde wished he’d never promised Ella this get-away cruise, but he had to let it stand. El would create a major scene if he cancelled now. ‘Sheesh’ he thought. ‘What am I getting myself into?’ She acted like a kid getting to visit Disneyworld for the first time. He often wondered how someone that was such a whiz with numbers and finance could be so shallow. His mind was running through various possible plans to shed this problem…permanently. Maybe Saul would have some ideas.

  Chapter 2

  A SMALL RESORT MOUNTAIN TOWN IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA

  Jake and Barbara Vincent sat on their large Redwood rear deck enjoying the warm sun of a bright spring day. Squirrels were performing their game of chase around the large pine and fir trees. The scratchy sounds of their claws on the thick tree bark was the only sound that could be heard in the dense, quiet forest. Occasionally a Stellars Jay would swoop down from the tall pines, and give a couple of loud squawks looking for the peanuts that were their favorite. When the treats weren’t offered qui
ckly enough, the scolding from these noisy feathered creatures was non-stop. Throwing out a few peanuts in the shell silenced the feathery naggers. Most would take the peanut and fly to a remote spot on the forest floor; hop around, and finally bury the peanut down below the surface layer of loose pine needles. Sometimes the squirrels would stealthily observe this scene, and when the Jay flew away, dig up the special prize. Overall the Jays ranked a little higher up in the brains category. They could spot a peanut from high in the trees, but the squirrels had to stumble on one to discover it. So much for the term ‘bird brain.’

  Murphee lay next to my deck lounge chair, his chin snuggled on his front paws. ‘Old Yellar,’ as Barb called our big Yellow Lab, gave a few tail wags when I reached down and gave the big guy an ear scratch. Murph had given up chasing the squirrels years ago. Sometimes the gray, furry creatures would chatter at him persistently. Murph would give a growl and a step in their direction. This move would send the pests scampering up the nearest tree in a flash.

  I had met my wife to be, Barbara Jensen, in high school. Now my wife of forty five years was kicked back in an old beat up, gray-weathered Adirondack chair buried in another mystery romance novel. I folded our local newspaper, and dropped it on the deck. Our weekly rag…The Mountain Herald…never really had much news. In our small town, any story of interest was usually picked up from the gossip chain before the paper‘s editor could get it to print. I studied my wife. We both had picked up a nice tan since I hung up my briefcase and gave up being a frequent-flyer, to being a no-flyer. Barb’s hair was turning gray like my own – what little I had left that is. We also had lost some excess weight from the long walks along the forest and mountain trails. Small town life now seemed more to our liking.

  I retired a few years back from a thirty five year business career as a security investigator. We built our retirement dream house in the tall conifer forest, high in the mountains of Northern California. The quiet solitude of our small resort town suited us fine after my job had me traveling around the world under contract with large businesses and government agencies. Snooping out potential security weaknesses, and investigating the after-the-fact breeches in some of the best laid private protection plans kept me busy and well-paid.