Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  But Smythe’s progress was not the only impediment to solving the case. St. James could no longer avoid meeting with another potential source of information. He had to interview Beth Stevens a second time.

  When Beth answered the phone she was decidedly cool.

  Complicated woman.

  Instinctively St. James knew she had little feeling left for Stevens. But he was still her husband, and he had disappeared. Surely she’d have some anxiety, want to know what happened, volunteer whatever she could to help find him.

  He’d have to tread softly if he was to get anywhere. Her personality shifted so many times in the first interview that he couldn’t get a good read.

  “Beth, I’m in Washington reviewing police progress with your husband’s case and would appreciate an opportunity to ask additional questions,” St. James said in a low, monotone voice.

  “Thought you asked everything you needed to weeks ago,” Beth replied coolly.

  “New information has come to light. I would like the opportunity to share it with you.”

  “What new information?” she said anxiously.

  “I’d prefer to speak in person.”

  “Too busy. Appointments all day,” she said abruptly.

  “How about coffee tomorrow morning?”

  Momentary silence. “Very well. My place. 9:00.”

  Beth disconnected without another word.

  St. James shook his head.

  Chapter 10

  When St. James finished talking with Beth Stevens he caught the latest news on television, and then headed back to First District.

  So focused on documents all morning, he had given little thought to lunch. Now reminded by a growling stomach, he popped into a small crowded deli on Half Street that reminded him of a ’50s diner. Grabbing the only vacant stool, he ordered roast beef on whole-wheat and a bottled water.

  It was 2:45 by the time he entered his tiny temporary office. And for the next hour and a half he waded through the second box, which contained mostly police progress reports that after a dozen or so all sounded the same. There were many more investment directives from Jensen. The third box contained less important documentation.

  At 4:15 St. James called Slate to see about dinner arrangements. Slate would pick him up in front of the hotel at 5:30.

  Perfect.

  He packed the few notes he had made, files, and laptop and headed back to the hotel. There he stood under a hot shower for fifteen minutes before toweling down and dressing for dinner.

  At 5:25 he exited the white concrete and glass building just as an ad-plastered airport shuttle rolled in front. When the shuttle doors flew open, passengers piled out seemingly all at once, forcing St. James to quickly step back.

  He eyed a park bench and positioned himself there to wait for Slate. At 5:40 Slate pulled up driving a new four-door white Lexus sedan. St. James jumped in and they exchanged pleasantries.

  “I seem to remember you needling me for not buying American cars,” St. James said with a grin. “We should be loyal to our jobs instead of letting them disappear offshore, you said.”

  “I was waiting for that,” Slate said with a smile, “but I was hoping to get another block or two before hearing it. I was loyal up until my government used my tax dollars to bail out American manufacturers making cars nobody wanted to buy.”

  St. James laughed.

  Slate was fifty-something with thinning red hair and an expanded girth from an abundance of fast food and little exercise. Twenty years with the Bureau had molded him into a tough agent, which sometimes got him into trouble. St. James thought superiors gave him considerable leeway because he solved the most difficult cases.

  Slate and St. James met a few years back during the Texas Airport Authority case, Slate chasing a conspiracy theory, St. James investigating financial losses. After a few shots were fired they successfully brought the crooks to justice.

  “Where are we going for dinner?” St. James said.

  “Picked a restaurant near Dupont Circle called Luigi’s. Best Italian in D.C.”

  Slate maneuvered the Lexus through a number of side streets to avoid traffic, arriving at Luigi’s on P Street minutes later, after circling the block twice to find a parking spot.

  “It’s a townhouse?” St. James said when they were standing in front.

  Slate smiled. “Yes. Quite small. That’s why I made reservations for six, when it opens. Never get in after seven. Hope you’re hungry. The usual is five courses.”

  A short dark-haired maître d’ greeted them at the door and immediately seated them at a table in a far corner of the dimly lit dining room. A wiry little waiter with bulging eyes wearing a thin mustache and a cheap toupée hurried over to ask about drinks.

  “I’ll have Forty Creek on the rocks,” St. James said jovially.

  “Sam Adams for me,” said Bill.

  While the waiter fetched drinks, they studied the menu, made selections, and rhymed off their choices when bulging-eyes returned.

  The dining room was every bit Italian, a perfect replica of an old country restaurant. They could be anywhere in Italy. The walls were faux yellow and brown, plaster cracks painted here and there to create the centuries-old look. Wall sconces evenly spaced cast soft light over period paintings of Florence, Rome, and Venice occupying spaces in between. Wine bottles plugged with lit candles acted as centrepieces for the tables. Checkered tablecloths completed the authentic look.

  St. James said, “How are Joan and the grandkids?”

  Helen, Slate’s wife, had passed away three years before from an aggressive form of breast cancer discovered too late to be treated. They had only one child, a daughter, Joan, who married a surgeon; they had two boys, Bobby and Josh.

  “They’re great. They’ve been my life since Helen died. I take Bobby and Josh to ball games and movies. Joan and Fred have me over for dinner regularly. If I didn’t have them, I’d go out of my mind.”

  “They sound wonderful.”

  Bulging-eyes arrived with small plates of antipasto.

  “Say,” Slate said as he draped a linen napkin across his lap, “did you hear Nells was out?”

  “Pierre told me. Guess we’ll have to watch our backs now.”

  “Mostly me,” Slate said, fiddling with his silverware. “I’m the one he hates.”

  “We all helped put him away, Bill. I think he’ll look for all of us sooner or later.”

  They discussed the Syrian crisis and how the United States was so divided on just about every major political issue.

  Slate said, “Everyone’s angry over one thing or another. Sluggish economy, immigration policies, but most of all the inability of politicians to fix any of it. Don’t know how we got into such a mess.”

  St. James shook his head. “Seems like we sled downhill an inch at a time, Bill. More out of benign neglect than anything else.”

  The odd-looking waiter reappeared to deliver bowls of Italian wedding soup and whisk away empty plates.

  He returned to ask about wine.

  “Sure,” St. James said without hesitation.

  “You choose,” said Bill. “What I know about wines you could put on the head of a pin.”

  “Okay. Special occasion, special wine.”

  Running a finger down the list, St. James settled on a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino.

  “Sounds expensive,” Slate said.

  “My treat.”

  “Thank God. Probably couldn’t afford it anyway on a government salary.”

  “Have anyone watching Nells?” St. James asked.

  “Nope. Short staffed. Politicians are insisting on huge manpower reductions. Unfortunately, criminals don’t have the same budget constraints. They’re still out in full force.”

  “Do we at least know what he’s doing?” St. James said, finishing the last of his soup.

  “Nothing confirmed, but we think he’s working for a legitimate company.”

  St. James skepticism was obvious. “Uh huh
. Don’t happen to have a name?”

  Slate pushed his empty soup bowl aside. “Not off hand. I can check tomorrow if you like. Will you still be in Jason’s office?”

  “I will.”

  “Let me see what I can find out.”

  The waiter placed Caesar salads in front and took away the soup bowls.

  “Anything new at the Bureau?” St. James asked.

  “Everyone my vintage seems to be retiring naturally or taking one of the new packages.”

  They began eating salad.

  “New packages?” St. James said, forking lettuce.

  “Yeah. Part of the war on budgets is early retirement packages. Reduce headcount by shifting costs from an anorexic operating budget to an obese pension fund.”

  “Interest you?”

  Slate looked solemn. “Might have, if Helen were still alive. Now the job’s the only thing that gets me out of the house. Not sure what would happen if I just played golf and moped around.”

  St. James felt Bill’s pain and changed the subject.

  “Any interesting cases on the go?”

  “Been assigned to a series of drive-by shootings we believe are related somehow, but can’t find the connection, not so far, anyway. No business connections. No drugs, no mafia, no gang wars we’re aware of. They seem to be random, without purpose.”

  “They’re the hardest ones to catch a break on,” St. James said, shaking his head.

  “Like unraveling a rope with no ends,” Slate said, waving a fork jammed with salad.

  “If they’re just shootings, why is the Bureau involved? Wouldn’t that be local police or state trooper jurisdiction?”

  “Normally yes. But they cross four state lines.”

  “I see,” St. James said and ate more salad.

  They spent time talking about holidays. Next spring Slate was taking Bobby and Josh fishing on his favourite lake up in Vermont.

  “They’ve never fished before, so grandpa is going to teach them how to catch trout,” Slate said beaming, as excited as St. James imagined the boys to be.

  St. James told Slate about Anna.

  “If she is a great lady, which she would have to be for you to be interested, don’t lose her. Life goes by fast. It’s no fun being alone,” Slate said, pointing an empty fork in St. James’s direction. “Trust me.”

  Halfway through the bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, bulging-eyes delivered two generous portions of chicken Alfredo, which St. James and Slate quickly waded through. Later he tempted them with dessert, but both declined.

  St. James paid the bill, and Slate dropped him in front of the hotel exactly where he had gathered him just hours before.

  “Thanks, Hamilton. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have a friend like you. Someone with the patience to listen to me vent,” Slate said sadly. He raised the driver window and slowly rolled the Lexus onto 1st Street. St. James stared at the Lexus taillights until the car was out of sight, feeling a huge heaviness for his friend.

  “Live every day to its fullest” is not just a cliché.

  Riding the elevator, St. James felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. Nothing useful had come from the trip so far.

  He mumbled to himself, “Should have been some indication of the man’s intentions, where he was going, a fear or threat of some sort, something out of the ordinary.”

  But there wasn’t. Everything now seemed to depend on the code. It would have to lead somewhere, if Smythe could ever solve the rest of it.

  As soon as he entered the room he checked emails and made a number of online bank transactions. His Visa bill was past due by four days, and the power and cell bills had arrived two days before. One by one he cleared each to zero.

  He expected a progress report from Smythe, but he found nothing in Outlook.

  He called Anna. She had had a down day and was looking to St. James to cheer her up. Sid was being more rude than usual. Most of the time she could brush it off, but now she was feeling the buildup of several weeks of his uncivil behaviour. St. James did what he could to lift her spirits, but with little success.

  “Have you found anything to help the case?” she asked in a low voice.

  “No. But I am meeting Jason in the morning. We’ll see what that brings.”

  They talked a few more minutes, exchanged loving thoughts, then said goodnight.

  St. James moved to the room’s small desk to scribble additional thoughts. What could be the Cayman connection? Is that where Stevens went after he disappeared? But there was no evidence to support that. Nothing on his credit card, his passport still in the home safe. He could have travelled under an assumed name, but that would require false papers, a different passport. Difficult to acquire, but not impossible if you know the right people. Or maybe he was taken to Cayman under duress? That would require a private plane or boat.

  The only thing he was sure of at this point was that Stevens didn’t steal the $23 million. The interview with Jensen as much as told him that. The fact money passed from the investee company at the hand of others after Stevens initiated the investment supported that conclusion. Yet Jensen’s lawsuit claimed Stevens stole the money and was negligent at the same time, which just couldn’t be. If Stevens was guilty, it could only be for one thing, theft or negligence, not both. That’s what had given rise to Global’s suspicion in the first place, why Mary DeSilva had called him.

  Nothing seemed to bring him closer to a breakthrough.

  Chapter 11

  Beth Stevens lived in Washington’s trendy Georgetown area on a street off Prospect, in a two-story Georgian house not far from the Francis Scott Key Bridge.

  Before leaving for Beth’s, St. James checked out of his room and placed his duffle in storage with the concierge. The concierge had arranged an Enterprise rental to be delivered to the hotel at 7:30 that morning, a new dark-blue Lincoln.

  The meeting with Beth wasn’t until nine, but St. James left the hotel at twenty past eight to allow time for the unexpected, like getting lost. But he encountered no problems and eased the Lincoln to a slow stop in front of Beth’s house at 8:45. And there he sat, checking and responding to emails for the remaining fifteen minutes.

  For a long moment he eyed Beth’s well-constructed red brick house with its high white gabled windows and traditional arched oak door. The lawn was perfectly manicured, and mower tracks were ramrod straight.

  At 9:00 sharp he pressed a buzzer that looked like it had been painted over several times. Seconds later the door swung open, and he was warmly greeted by a smiling Beth Stevens.

  “Come in, Hamilton. I have coffee made for us.”

  Wow! The nice Beth.

  Regardless of her emotional state Beth Stevens was an attractive woman, with black shoulder-length hair and fiery dark-blue eyes that looked as if they could burn holes through just about anything.

  “Thank you for making time for me, Beth. I know this is very stressful for you and the girls, and my presence is a huge reminder of what you’ve been going through.”

  Beth’s long, slow sigh suggested she had resigned herself to the situation.

  “Well … you have a job to do, don’t you.”

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  She showed St. James into a living room filled with expensive antiques and period paintings.

  Beth motioned him to a maroon antique chair that St. James thought hailed from circa 1920.

  “Cream and sugar?” Beth asked.

  “Just black, thanks.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen, returning minutes later with a large glass tray supporting two mugs of coffee and a plate of homemade peanut butter cookies, which she placed on a perfectly preserved mahogany table in front of St. James.

  “How did you know peanut butter was my favourite?” St. James said with a smile, hoping to break the ice with a light comment.

  A stone-faced Beth drank coffee. “Lucky guess. Now, what is this new information that’s ‘come to light,’ as you
put it?”

  St. James bit into a cookie, drank coffee, then placed the mug on the tray.

  “Did Tom ever mention a bank account in the Cayman Islands?”

  Beth momentarily stared into her mug. “I can’t recall him ever mentioning Cayman at all, bank account or no bank account,” she said slowly.

  “Would he ever have reason to go there? Client business or personal?”

  “Not that I am aware of, but then again communication between us hasn’t been the best lately. The only way I’d know he left the country would be if his passport was missing from the basement safe, and if suitcases and some clothes were gone.”

  “Do you check the safe?”

  “Frequently.” Beth placed her coffee on an end table and tucked hair behind each ear, which reminded St. James of Anna. “But only when he doesn’t come home for days at a time. If the passport’s there, he’s probably somewhere in the country. But, if the passport’s not there, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s out of the country. He could require formal identification to sign legal documents at an attorney’s office.”

  “I see,” St. James said thoughtfully. “Were there times during the past year you discovered the passport missing?”

  “No.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “I would remember. It rarely happens. So rare that I make note of it. Don’t know why I do that, but I do.”

  That surprised St. James. “You keep a log?”

  “I do.”

  Beth stood and went into an adjacent room, returning minutes later with a black leather booklet. Flipping through a dozen pages or so, she came to one headed Safe check and handed it to St. James. He noted three columns. The left one listed dates she checked the safe. Middle said yes if the passport was there, no if it was missing. The third was blank.

  He quickly ran a finger down the page, noting the passport missing only on two occasions in the past twenty-four months, both over a year ago, long before the crime he was investigating occurred.