Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  Anna tucked her legs under herself in search of a more comfortable position.

  “What do you think?”

  St. James shook his head. “Lot of conflicting circumstances muddying the water.”

  “For instance?”

  “Wasn’t a single fingerprint in Stevens’s office, other than his own, that is. Place was clean … too clean. Clients in and out all day, not to mention his executive assistant. Should have been a ton of prints.”

  Anna pulled the elastic from her ponytail, letting her hair fall naturally and curling out-of-place strands behind each ear.

  “Wouldn’t police think the same thing?”

  St. James shrugged.

  “Maintenance people completed a major clean that day. Apparently, these sanitation cleans, as they’re called by the firm, are conducted quarterly. They are more commonly known as deep cleans. Everything’s wiped down. Police think that’s why there were no prints. Junior staff saw Stevens wandering about his office after the cleaners left, which pretty much accounts for his prints being there.”

  Anna studied St. James for a long moment. “Doesn’t seem like you believe the cleaning works.”

  St. James frowned. “Do you think cleaning staff are that thorough … that there wouldn’t be at least one print, even a smudged one?”

  “You have a point there,” Anna conceded. “But why does it matter? Money wouldn’t be kept there anyway, would it?”

  He nodded. “No. Money moves electronically. But fingerprints could match those of a suspect that police identify later.”

  Anna shot him a look. “Your face tells me there’s more to it than that.”

  St. James ignored the poke.

  “Well, there are other things bothering me.”

  “Like what?”

  “For starters the guy’s character. Well-respected leader. Tireless fundraiser for public causes. Great career. Well off. No IRS or financial trouble, that anyone’s aware of anyway. No logical reason to steal. Not the profile of a thief.”

  Anna smiled. “Maybe he’s so brilliant he’s bored. Wanted a little excitement. Maybe he snapped. Decided to live on the edge a little. Steal a little money. Take off to the tropics … another woman, perhaps. Doesn’t seem much of a mystery to me. Money’s gone. He’s gone.”

  St. James countered. “Not quite that simple. His laptop was left in his office.”

  Anna looked baffled, “And that’s odd?”

  “Quite. He and his computer were inseparable. Never apart.”

  “Then the police must question that too?”

  “Believe it or not, no. They found nothing when the laptop was scanned. They concluded it wasn’t relevant. Can you imagine a high-profile professional with a blank computer?”

  Anna placed her empty mug on the table. “Could’ve been covering his tracks.”

  St. James shrugged but said nothing.

  “Would you like more coffee?” she asked.

  He smiled faintly. “Half cup would be grand.”

  Anna took the two mugs into the kitchen, poured a small amount in each, and returned to the sitting room.

  “You’re Nobody till Somebody Loves You” quietly in the background.

  The stove buzzed just as Anna sat down, signalling the steak and kidney pie was ready to serve. They moved to the tiny kitchen, where St. James struggled to find room for his long legs under the small wooden table while Anna apportioned most of the pie to him, a smaller amount to herself.

  “What’s the next step?” she said as she placed a plate in front of him.

  St. James gathered a forkful of pie. “Well, Louis’s trying to make some sense of the code he found on Stevens’s computer. So far, he hasn’t found much. But codes can take time depending on length, number of characters, complexity, that sort of thing. Right now, that’s the primary focus.”

  Anna nodded. “Will you have to go back to Washington?”

  “Probably, but not until I think something good could come of it.”

  St. James ate pie.

  Anna was quiet for a moment then changed the subject. “You never told me how you hooked up with the university.”

  “After I solved a number of large cases the university asked me to teach a course on commercial crime investigation. Guess they thought I’d attract more students, bring something other universities didn’t offer, maybe even donations.” St. James smiled. “Sounds arrogant but that’s what they said, in so many words.”

  Anna smiled at his modesty.

  “At first I declined. Cases are very unpredictable. No way to know when they arise or how long they’ll take to solve, if they can be solved at all.”

  “Yet, you’re there, teaching. How did you make the leap?”

  St. James wiped bits of crust from a shirt sleeve.

  “The university was determined to have me on faculty, no matter what. So, when I said no the third time, the Dean offered a strong PhD student to cover for me when I’m away on cases. I reluctantly agreed.”

  Anna smiled. “Nice to be popular.”

  St. James shook his head. “Not always a good thing, I assure you.”

  Anna smiled and changed the subject once again. “You haven’t introduced me to your sister yet.”

  “Well, it’s like I said before, when her husband died suddenly it left her bitter. She has a grudge against the world. I’ve avoided introducing you mostly because she has a way of bringing everyone around her down. Didn’t want to expose you to that.”

  “I understand.” Anna said slowly, touching his hand as a gesture of sympathy. St. James turned slowly, pulled Anna closer, and they kissed for a long moment.

  Walking home St. James noticed a white 1987 Cadillac pull away from the curb just as he turned onto York. His instincts were activated immediately. Past cases taught him threats can come fast and furious any time from any direction; caution was now second nature.

  He walked another block, entered a pub, and sat at a window table facing the street. He ordered a beer and watched the old Cadillac park across the street. Streetlights made limited vision possible. The Cadillac didn’t move. St. James finished his beer, walked another block, then entered a coffee shop and grabbed a coffee, again sitting by a window to observe. The Cadillac advanced and parked across the street, confirming he was under surveillance by someone, for some reason. The coffee shop manager allowed him to exit through the back door, and St. James gave the Cadillac the slip.

  Chapter 2

  St. James spent most of Saturday morning sorting through files and preparing next week’s business. By mid-afternoon he’d caught up and called Anna about dinner at The Fish Market Restaurant on William, his favourite Market restaurant.

  “Seven okay?” she said.

  “Perfect.”

  It was 2:30 p.m.

  St. James hadn’t walked in four days. He was afraid if he put it off much longer he’d drift out of the habit altogether, and that would be very bad. It was the only really good habit he had.

  He slipped on a pair of Nikes and headed for the exit stairs. Taking two steps at a time he popped out 700 Sussex’s fire door minutes later.

  The sky was slightly overcast, and strong cool winds rustled trees along the Rideau Canal. Sussex traffic was heavy for a Saturday.

  St. James’s walking route stretched down Colonel By to Bronson, across the bridge, and back home by way of Queen Elizabeth Drive, a beautiful eleven-kilometre walk, about three hours at his regular pace.

  Under the Bank Street Bridge two men fished, the taller reeling in a bass just as St. James passed, a good size, about two pounds.

  Four brightly coloured shells dominated the middle of the canal, eight scullers to a shell, coxswains yelling pace through traditional cox boxes, each team determined to outpace the other.

  Cyclists wearing bright red spandex whizzed past, yelling “on your left” as they approached St. James from behind.

  St. James smiled at a thin, odd-looking fellow power walking, looking rigid an
d rickety at the same time, reminding him of the Star Wars character Jar Jar Binks.

  As St. James climbed onto the Bronson Bridge he felt the humidity rise.

  Rain coming.

  Feeling the first few drops before Queen Elizabeth Drive.

  His cell vibrated as he stepped onto Queen Elizabeth.

  “Hamilton, it’s Louis.”

  “Louis, how are you? Good to hear from you, my man,” St. James said enthusiastically.

  A short, balding, off-the-wall eccentric computer genius in his late thirties, Louis Smythe was a younger Don Knotts who worked with St. James on cases that hinged on technology. He was completely unaware his bad comb-over drew more attention than the baldness it attempted to conceal.

  Smythe’s eccentricity manifested itself in clashing plaid clothes. Friends nicknamed him Two-Plaid-Louis, mockery he lightheartedly brushed off.

  “Fine,” Smythe answered. “But I’ve made no progress with Stevens’s code. Still breaking down permutations and combinations.”

  “It’ll come. I have faith in you,” St. James said, more to encourage Louis than to express his own confidence.

  Smythe said nothing.

  St. James said, “By the way, where are you?”

  “Just leaving the Canal Ritz. Dropped in for a quick sandwich.”

  “Great timing. I’m walking up Queen Elizabeth close to Bronson, soaked. Can you pick me up?”

  “On my way.”

  ***

  Not long after commencing the investigation into the missing $23 million, St. James had brought Smythe in because Stevens’s computer had been wiped clean and the police were getting nowhere. Smythe spent days with Stevens, Gables & Strong’s IT officer, and finally, with the help of advanced software, discovered a code partitioned deep in Stevens’s hard drive.

  (g,cnbtkyk1,j), (ABA#021000089-36148883-012-67141-co-na-csprite1), (Virgo23+7+8+4+6+3), (G, F, D, C, F), (1104-419, 1130-1930, 700-1106, 145, 905), (U3743-5847, A3570-B0112, D4883-1916, A194, A3657) (A21+11)

  The code meant nothing to anyone: not the accountants in Stevens’s firm, not his family, nor anyone else St. James or the police interviewed.

  While Smythe worked on the code, St. James interviewed the firm’s chairman, Nathan Strong, and a number of partners, as well as the plaintiff, Malachi Jensen, and Stevens’s wife, Beth.

  He asked detailed questions concerning Stevens’s character, behaviour, spending habits, and financial status. No one saw any changes in the man before both he and the $23 million disappeared.

  St. James usually began investigations with a suspect’s lifestyle. Excess living often drove people to theft when their lifestyle cost exceeded their ability to pay with honest money. When one had it all, one wanted to keep it all, affordable or not, theft always an option when honest means were exhausted. A way to maintain the wealth charade, avoid the embarrassment of falling to a lower station in life.

  St. James waded through Stevens’s bank records and telephone bills looking for transaction patterns or names, a lead of some sort. Boring but necessary. Nothing even resembled a lead. That would have to come from the code itself, whatever it meant, when Smythe deciphered it, if he could. The combination of letters, numbers, and characters would have to tell a story of some kind.

  Jensen was red-faced and grossly overweight with military styled reddish-brown hair and an unprepossessing face covered in pock-marks that resembled tiny craters. Rings the size of miniature rodents rounded out a mob boss look.

  Jensen wore a blue pinstriped suit to every meeting with St. James. St. James wondered if it was the same suit or if he had several identical ones. Either way, the large man was attempting to make some sort of fashion statement, as much as a man his size could.

  St. James’s first interview with Jensen was long and tedious. Difficult to get straight answers from a crude man with all the characteristics of a bully. But St. James persisted. He owed it to both Global Insurance and Jensen to conduct a fair and complete investigation, to understand the claim as best he could, how it arose and why Jensen felt the Stevens firm was responsible.

  As Jensen described it, he had instructed Stevens to purchase shares in companies he wanted Jensen Holdings to own. As far as St. James could tell, Stevens more or less followed those instructions. Money went to investees’ lawyers and share ownership transferred back to Jensen Holdings in exchange for that money. Simple enough. Cash for shares. Like buying a car, except it was a piece of a company. St. James got the impression that Stevens did the job well.

  What happened to the money after that was, at best, murky. Jensen said it flowed from investee companies to construction companies for the purpose of building retirement homes around the country, money to fund progress payments as construction phases were completed. But Jensen Holdings’s $23 million never made it to the construction company as intended. It disappeared before it could reach its intended destination, according to Jensen anyway.

  St. James said to him, “If Stevens transferred money to companies you directed him to, and funds were moved after that by different people, how can you possibly have a legitimate claim against Stevens’s accounting firm?”

  A flushed Jensen replied, “Before I purchased shares, Stevens had to assure me he had investigated the company and the people involved, that they were legitimate and my investment would be safe. I relied on Stevens’s word that companies were bona fide, well managed, and honorable when it came to meeting their obligations.”

  St. James drilled further. “Then why didn’t your claim against the firm specifically state that rather than accuse Stevens of stealing?”

  Jensen had difficulty answering but eventually waved his meaty hands to emphasize a point. “Wasn’t easy to tell at first whether it was bad advice or theft. I had to make sure the claim covered all the bases.”

  St. James had trouble with this. “If Stevens took money, it couldn’t have been passed to investee and construction companies,” he said forcefully, “unless Stevens had signing authority in the investee company itself. And that would be a conflict of interest. He couldn’t have honestly represented you and companies you invested in at the same time.”

  Jensen just shrugged.

  The point was pivotal to St. James’s investigation, and he was determined to push Jensen for logical, if not believable, answers. He framed questions carefully and fired them rapidly, keeping up the pressure on Jensen so as to minimize the time he had to manufacture answers.

  “Did Stevens have signing authority in any company you invested in?” St. James barked.

  Jensen’s voice raised angrily. “No! Absolutely not.”

  “Did you have any direct ownership in the construction companies themselves?”

  “No idea,” Jensen responded gruffly. “And furthermore, I don’t care. I relied on Stevens’s investigation to make investment decisions. If Stevens said the investment was good and my money would be safe, I invested. Otherwise I didn’t. And that was that.”

  Determined to get a clearer answer, St. James pushed even harder. “Just to make sure I have it right: In your opinion, did Stevens actually steal the money or was he professionally negligent?”

  “I really don’t give a damn. Whichever way you look at it, the loss was caused by Stevens.”

  That was three weeks ago. Smythe continued to work the code while St. James golfed in the Carolinas, downtime he thought would clear his head. A chance for case-reset. It didn’t happen. He just played bad golf.

  ***

  It was now raining harder and St. James was drenched. But it wasn’t long before Smythe’s red Miata convertible came flying down Queen Elizabeth. Smythe pulled over and St. James jumped in.

  “Glad I got here before you drowned,” Smythe said, grinning.

  St. James wiped his face and neck dry with tissues from the Miata’s supply.

  “You got here none too soon, Louis. Head for my condo, I need to shower and change.”

  “Condo it shall be,” Smythe said, lig
htly tapping his pointed nose.

  For a long moment St. James eyed Smythe’s purple shirt, yellow and red sport coat, and green pants.

  “Glad I don’t have a hangover, Louis.”

  Smythe didn’t catch the insincerity in St. James’s voice. “What do you mean?”

  “Even in the rain I’d need sunglasses to look at you. Head would hurt too much.”

  Smythe glanced scornfully at St. James and flipped him the finger.

  By the time Smythe wheeled the Miata into the underground at 700 Sussex, the rain had eased. He parked the tiny sports car in a corner space designed for smaller vehicles, and they crawled out and rode the elevator to St. James’s fifth-floor condo.

  St. James’s condominium had a well-appointed entrance area and a bar-style kitchen. The dining area led to a cozy living room populated with black leather furniture and mahogany tables. A five-foot high black projection screen dominated one wall, brightly coloured paintings of Italy’s Tuscany, France’s Bordeaux, and Corfu another.

  The smaller bedroom served as St. James’s study. A mahogany desk and large green leather captain chair dominated the space.

  Standing in front of an entrance mirror, Smythe repositioned long strands of sparse hair, then went into the kitchen, pulled a beer from the fridge, and settled on an island stool while St. James showered and changed. When St. James emerged from the bathroom pulling a fresh golf shirt over his head, he found Smythe surfing the internet.

  “What are you doing?” St. James said.

  Smythe was in the advanced stages of frustration and threw his hands in the air.

  “This thing is driving me crazy! Trying to match different parts of the code with various databases is time-consuming as hell. Deep searches of criminal databases, professional registries, and various other sources have yielded nothing! Not even a sniff.”

  St. James leaned over the island to view the computer screen more clearly.

  “Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place for the wrong thing,” St. James suggested cautiously. “Maybe it’s a set of steps leading to something.”