WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT
Double Shot of Scotch
Hamilton St. James may not be able to ‘leap tall buildings in a single bound’ or be ‘faster than a speeding bullet’, but he knows at good drink when he tastes one and a bunch of BS when he hears it. Peter Cleveland, with his background in forensic accounting, brings to print an attention-getting murder mystery that couples together all the things that will want you to read page after page. From board rooms to dingy bars, St. James looks at all the angles. He takes a bullet for his trouble but breaks a mind-bending cyber code, which begins to unravel many unanswered questions. This novel brings a whole new meaning to the expression “pulling an all-nighter.”
Brian Brooks, retired commercial banker
At the end of a high-stress week, my best escape is delving into a good mystery. Michael Connolly’s Harry Bosch has been my go-to. Now I’m pleased to add Peter Cleveland’s Hamilton St. James to the list! Like Bosch, St. James untangles an intriguing web of deadly mischief. For someone like me, who loves numbers, Cleveland’s vast knowledge of the business world provides the perfect landscape in which his hero St. James operates. I wholeheartedly recommend Double Shot of Scotch.
Bill Knight, corporate director
Who knew a Chartered Professional Accountant could live such an exciting life! Hamilton St. James and his team of unique sidekicks solve crimes that I didn't even know existed. I have consumed many thrillers in my day and the car chase through Ottawa was as wild as any I have read. The author even made taking inventory interesting. Looking forward to more of the same.
Jennie Enman, Retired Public Servant
As someone who has been reading mysteries and thrillers since childhood, I thought I had discovered all the genres I could enjoy. But, after reading Peter Cleveland's Double Shot of Scotch, I've added business mysteries to the books and authors I would follow. Especially if they featured a central character as fascinating as Hamilton St. James and are as well researched and written as this thoroughly enjoyable book. I'm already looking forward to the next in the series.
Stephen McGill, President, McGill Buckley
As a retired banker I found Peter Cleveland’s book Double Shot Of Scotch well thought out, kept me wanting to know more, and kept me focused. The characters were as unique as the roles they played in their respective companies. The book is very engaging and we all know people who have some of same characteristics. The book keeps you engaged ’til the last page.
Steve Cannon, retired Senior Vice-President Commercial Banking
I have always been a fan of murder mysteries, with well-developed characters and plots, and a love story for good measure. Double Shot of Scotch stands out in every category. Hamilton St. James, a financial sleuth, is a delightful character who holds you in suspense throughout the book. The plot is well developed, and keeps you focused as it unfolds. I look forward to the next in the series – Hamilton and his crew have much more to do, chasing the bad guys.
Stephen Gallagher, retired Chartered Professional Accountant
Copyright @ 2019 Peter Cleveland
Iguana Books
720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303
Toronto, ON M5S 2R4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
Publisher: Meghan Behse
Editors: Heather Bury and Toby Keymer
Front cover design: Meghan Behse
Author photo by Lindsey Gibeau
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77180-441-7 (paperback). 978-1-77180-443-4 (epub).978-1-77180-443-1 (Kindle).
This is the original electronic edition of Double Shot of Scotch.
To my wife, Judy, who has given me the undying support that has allowed me the many hours to create this work. And to my family — sons Matthew and Adam, and daughter-in-law Chelsea — all of whom I adore.
Chapter 1
Everyone was still, the vast lecture theatre quiet except for the hum of an air conditioner and the voice of the man down front.
Fifty-two students were scattered around the room, all eyes glued to the tall man giving the lecture. Twenty or so from Beijing, Moscow, and Mumbai, the remainder from across Europe and America. Vastly different backgrounds, vastly different cultures; some wealthy enough to be there without a worry, others struggling under the weight of student loans.
The university year was young, barely two weeks old. Yet the man below had already captivated the students with the principles of business ethics, and the rights and wrongs of organizational behaviour.
He spoke of fraud schemes created by fast-talking confidence men, polished, dressed as if straight from Wall Street. He described how schemes worked and why people fell for them. He talked of shares in non-existent companies sold with the promise of above-average returns — returns that never come.
The man down front said, “If it seems too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true.”
Hamilton St. James’s lanky frame dominated the stained-oak lectern he stood behind. Wearing a light-brown herringbone jacket and grey slacks, the six-foot-three private investigator projected unquestionable authority over the subject he taught.
As he was about to finish the lecture, a hand rose in the first row.
“Professor St. James,” the student said.
St. James didn’t mind students asking questions. It meant they were paying attention, at least enough to ask something, intelligent or not. But when he was about to make a critical point, he found such interruptions quite annoying.
“Yes, Miss Stone,” he said without a trace of irritation.
Wearing a white Escada pantsuit, the short, attractive Christina Stone said, “Business wrongdoing is steadily on the rise. While certainly not accepted, it seems expected by a cynical public. The trend is troublesome for those of us striving to become next-generation leaders. How can we truly understand the mindset of a commercial criminal?”
St. James looked up at the large black wall clock and said, “A huge question, Miss Stone. One that I’m afraid demands more time than we have left today.”
St. James scanned the room. “How many share Miss Stone’s concerns? Hands?”
Fifteen or so hands shot up.
“Very well. Lectures for the next two Fridays are already prepared; the one three weeks from now will be on what molds the criminal mind. That’s it for today. Don’t forget Monday’s quiz, and just to remind you, it’s worth ten per cent of your total semester mark. And remember, next Friday’s lecture is at 8:30, not 3:30. Have a great weekend.”
The room suddenly erupted into noisy chatter: groans over Monday’s quiz, sounds of textbooks slamming shut, and chirps from computers shutting down, followed by the usual boisterous exodus up the stairs to the theatre exit.
As St. James packed papers and his laptop into a black leather case, he decided on the Dirty Duck for a pint of Bass. He slipped on the lightweight black leather jacket he had draped over a chair before class, rode the elevator from the fourth floor, and stepped out onto Laurier Avenue to be greeted by a warm September breeze and the smell of fresh-cut flowers from a nearby vendor cart.
It was the beginning of fall. The air was fresh and crisp, but an overcast sky loomed in the distance. Boats of all shapes and sizes crept along the Rideau Canal while restaurant patios continued to thrive at near capacity.
> A string of passing cyclists weaved in and out to avoid potholes and opening car doors on Laurier. Students crowded around a nearby transit stop while a cycle cop busied herself ticketing windshields on time-expired vehicles.
St. James’s usual route took him down Waller to Rideau, across Dalhousie, and on to Clarence, and the Dirty Duck.
Turning onto Rideau he felt a drop in temperature and dark clouds began to roll in over the city.
Storm comin’.
For a moment his thoughts turned to his current investigation.
Did Thomas Stevens steal the $23 million or was he kidnapped by the thief? Conflicting theories. Conflicting evidence. Needs more work. Have to step up my game if I’m to get anywhere with this.
Just as St. James entered the pub a sharp crack of lightning shot across the sky, and rain began to pelt down.
Twenty or so patrons were sprinkled among dark wooden tables. Servers shuttled pitchers of beer to each and empties back to the kitchen.
Anna Strauss stopped long enough to kiss St. James on the cheek, her smile huge as they hugged.
St. James settled at his usual table in a window alcove and signalled Sidney Gunther, a gruff, portly bartender, for a pint of Bass, which Sid put down in front of him without a word minutes later. An out-of-shape loner, Gunther preferred his own company to that of others. A full head of salt and pepper hair, square jaw, and thick bushy eyebrows made him a dead ringer for Leonid Brezhnev.
Anna smiled at St. James as she darted among tables.
Customers continued to wander in, the Friday afternoon din increasing proportionately. Smells of fast food permeated the room as servers placed plates down on tables.
St. James’s thoughts drifted to the lecture on the workings of a criminal mind he had promised the class. He’d written a number of articles on the topic so was quite comfortable with it; preparation was not an issue.
“Sid, another Bass please,” he shouted.
“Anna, bring St. James a Bass,” Sid barked.
Anna was a soft-spoken, slender lady in her late thirties, attractive with long blond hair, smooth radiant skin, and high cheekbones. Her brilliant brown eyes and warm personality captivated everyone in her wake.
St. James and Anna had met at a bluesfest several months before, introduced by a mutual friend. St. James thought nothing of it at the time. Then, one afternoon after solving a long and difficult case, he strolled into the Duck and Anna was serving. Warmth between them grew, and St. James found himself drawn to the Duck more often at the thought of seeing her. It wasn’t long before they began dating.
Anna pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, applied a black hair elastic, and glided behind the bar to oblige St. James with a second pint. She gently pulled the Bass lever and delivered St. James’s drink minutes later.
“There you go, Hamilton,” she whispered, kissing him lightly on the cheek once again.
Sid forced a clearing of the throat.
Loud laughter erupted from the next table.
“Thanks Anna,” St. James said.
She smiled.
“Have you eaten since lunch?”
“No.”
“Hungry?”
St. James returned the smile. “Funny you should ask. Two beers do wonders for a man’s appetite.”
“Probably something in my refrigerator if you’re interested. Won’t be anything fancy, haven’t had time for groceries yet this week.”
St. James sipped his beer and grinned. “Whatever’s there will be great, I’m sure.”
“My shift is over in half an hour. I can be ready right after,” she assured him.
St. James nodded. “Great.”
Anna rushed off toward the kitchen.
Sid placed both palms on the bar and mumbled something St. James couldn’t hear.
St. James drank the second beer more slowly than the first to soak up the last half hour of Anna’s shift.
A scruffy-looking unshaven stranger wearing dirty construction clothes and work boots covered in mud staggered up to St. James.
“You that detective fella?” he managed to blurt out, weaving back and forth, hands moving uncontrollably like Jack Sparrow’s, beer spilling with each weave.
“I am,” St. James replied, waiting for an introduction.
“Good,” the stranger gasped as he straightened. St. James watched with amusement as the man dropped to the floor, the thud shocking the room into sudden quiet. For a moment everyone stared at the body, only to lose interest seconds later when laughter filled the room once again.
It didn’t seem like a half hour had passed when Anna emerged from a backroom wearing a long black leather coat and carrying a matching purse and umbrella.
“What happened?” she asked staring down at the stranger.
“Can’t hold his beer, poor fellow,” St. James said with a grin.
Sid looked on, shaking his head in disgust. “Hey!” he yelled, pointing to others at the stranger’s table. “Get him out of here.”
Three men shuffled to their feet, picked the man from the floor, and dragged him toward the door like a heavy sack.
Sid yelled again, “Hey! You didn’t pay.”
The tallest of the three dropped his end of the body, staggered up to the bar, handed several bills to an angry Sid, and gave him a mock salute.
Sid scowled as they left. “Assholes.”
Anna shrugged as if to say, what-a-ya-gonna-do?
“See you tomorrow Sid,” she said cheerfully.
Sid said nothing.
It was early evening when Anna and St. James strolled leisurely along Clarence toward Anna’s apartment.
The thunder and lightning had passed but not before leaving puddles to dodge. The air felt fresh and clean, but a stubborn light mist continued to plague those without umbrellas. St. James was grateful Anna kept one at the pub.
Anna threaded her arm through his.
“So happy you came to see me.”
He squeezed her arm and smiled. “Couldn’t stay away. Thirsty, you know. Needed a pint,” he said with a wink.
Anna looked at him lightheartedly. “Don’t want to guess which was more important, me or the beer.”
St. James just laughed, wise enough to say nothing.
Anna’s apartment was on the second floor of a small two-story grey clapboard building on Guigues Street, just off King Edward. The exterior was recently painted, iron bars bolted over ground floor windows new.
Climbing the inside stairs St. James banged his head on the low ceiling. “Ouch!”
“Mind your head. Ceiling’s low,” Anna said with a giggle.
“No kidding,” St. James said.
“You did the same thing last time. Guess it didn’t knock any sense into you.” Anna giggled a second time.
Anna’s apartment was modest but tastefully decorated. While she put coffee on and kept busy in the kitchen, St. James made himself comfortable in an orange rocker in the sitting room.
“Feel like steak and kidney pie?” she asked, moving items around in the refrigerator.
“Perfect.”
“Great.”
Turning on the oven to pre-heat Anna tore the pie’s tinfoil, checking for freezer burn. Satisfied, she placed it on a metal cookie sheet, slid it into the oven, then poured two coffees and moved to the sitting room.
“There you go,” she said, handing St. James a cup and then kissing him.
“Thanks.”
Anna turned the stereo to a soft music station and settled down on the chesterfield, letting her coffee cool before attempting to drink it.
Dean Martin singing “Remember Me.”
St. James stood and peered into the street. Like Anna he found the coffee too hot and placed it on a nearby table to cool.
“So how’s the Stevens case coming?” she said, picking up her mug. “Must be difficult. You seem quite distracted lately.”
“Difficult for sure!”
***
Thomas Stevens,
a senior partner in the Washington accounting firm Stevens, Gables & Strong, had disappeared a few days before his client Malachi Jensen’s $23 million was discovered missing. Jensen’s holding company invested in construction and land development. Stevens personally managed the man’s business affairs.
When Jensen discovered that the money was missing, he accused Stevens of theft and demanded Stevens, Gables & Strong reimburse him for his loss. When the reimbursement wasn’t paid within thirty days after Jensen Holdings demanded it, Jensen Holdings filed a $23-million lawsuit against the accounting firm, in turn forcing the firm to file an insurance claim with Global Insurance.
When Global analyzed the claim, they found it ambiguous and inconsistent. Was Stevens accused of stealing or malpractice, two entirely different issues? Theft was theft: intentional harm. Malpractice was merely negligence or incompetence: unintentional harm. The ambiguity raised a red flag in Global’s New York office, prompting Vice-President Mary DeSilva to call Hamilton St. James to investigate.
***
Anna’s serious look suggested interest in St. James’s investigation.
“Twenty-three million, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought that’s what you said. Lot of money by anyone’s standard,” she mused. “I forget the name of the insurance company.”
St. James turned from the window.
“Global, out of New York.”
Anna drank coffee. “Stevens a typical case?”
St. James smiled. “No such thing as a typical case. Every one has its own wrinkles, twists, and turns.
Anna nodded. “Police found him yet?”
“No. He’s still in the wind.”
St. James returned to the orange rocking chair to drink his coffee.
Anna looked surprised. “Not having the primary person of interest would make everything much more difficult.”
Dean Martin’s low voice crooning “Detour.”
St. James winced. “Damned near impossible. Without someone to question, all I have is theories with no way to prove or disprove any one of them. No idea what happened to him or the money. FBI thinks Stevens was kidnapped. Local police believe he stole the money.”
Double Shot of Scotch Page 1