Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  Anna was in the shower for a good twenty minutes, and each time St. James checked, she was okay. Thirty minutes passed before she emerged fully dressed and looking very pale.

  “While you were showering, I called a taxi. Should be down there now.”

  He helped with her coat, grabbed his own, locked the condo, and pushed the elevator button for ground. Helping Anna into the taxi, St. James recited the address to the driver, and they pulled into the clinic parking lot ten minutes later.

  At first St. James asked the driver to wait, but then changed his mind. It could be a while, especially if the waiting room was crowded. So he gave him a twenty for coffee and donuts and asked him to be back in half an hour. The driver nodded with a smile when the twenty caught his eye.

  Turns out there were only two people in the waiting room, and the counter card said two doctors were on duty, both facts that greatly improved Anna’s chances of being seen quickly.

  Peggy remembered St. James’s call and talked as if they were celebrities. Main news of the day. She handed him a form to fill in Anna’s medical history and medications. Anna struggled to focus. St. James completed the form and returned it to Peggy.

  Five minutes later Anna was called in to see Dr. Singh and she shuffled into the examining room, where she remained for twenty minutes. When she emerged, a fresh bandage had replaced the one paramedics had applied the night before. Dr. Singh followed close behind.

  “Are you the gentleman who brought Miss Strauss?” she asked in a soft pleasant Indian accent.

  “I am.”

  “She told me what happened. Are you all right?”

  “I have a couple of sore ribs. That’s about it.”

  Dr. Singh stepped closer and lifted St. James’s golf shirt to gently touch the side he favoured. He flinched with pain. “Let me give you an X-ray requisition. There’re a few places you can go. Addresses are on the bottom of the form. You should go as soon as possible. If ribs are broken, you may need to be strapped.”

  St. James nodded but said nothing.

  “Here is a prescription for Miss Strauss,” she said. “Two pills at bedtime. She needs a week’s bed rest and shouldn’t be left alone. She may experience flashbacks. Someone should be close by to keep an eye on her.”

  She handed St. James the X-ray requisition and Anna’s prescription. They thanked Dr. Singh and said goodbye to Peggy as they left the clinic.

  The taxi was faithfully waiting for them. On the way home they stopped at Shoppers Drug Mart long enough for Anna’s prescription to be filled and to purchase a supply of replacement bandages; then it was straight back to the condo.

  This time Anna didn’t need a wheelchair.

  When they entered the condo she said in a weak voice, “I’m going to bed, Hamilton.”

  “Okay, dear. Do you want something to eat first? You’ve had nothing since dinner last night.”

  “No thanks. Not hungry.”

  St. James remembered he had promised to sign a formal statement for Spencer today. He called the police station and learned Spencer was off. The duty sergeant said it would be okay to leave it for a day or two. He would leave a message for Spencer that St. James had called.

  Now St. James needed to think about Monday, Anderson, and the CISI director interviews. Anna couldn’t be left alone. He couldn’t ask his sister, Betty, to stay with her, they’d never met. Both would be uncomfortable under the circumstances, and Betty was scary at the best of times.

  Once again St. James was conflicted: begin the CISI assignment in Toronto Monday or cancel the trip altogether to look after Anna? If he went, his mind would be on Anna, not the interviews. He wouldn’t concentrate, ask the right questions, interpret the answers, nuances and body language of interviewees. If he stayed home, he could do the interviews by Skype while keeping an eye on Anna.

  He decided cancelling the trip was the right thing to do. So, he emailed Juanita Mendoza to ask for phone numbers and Skype addresses for each director he was to interview. He would stick to the Monday schedule, but by Skype rather than in person. Some body language would be lost, but the job would proceed without risk to Anna. That’s the way it was going to be, whether Anderson liked it or not.

  Chapter 25

  The condo phone rang, and St. James answered.

  Smythe said, “Did you get Anna to a doctor?”

  “Just back. She’s gone to bed.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  St. James winced. “Sitting here holding my ribs, what do you think?”

  Smythe ignored the sarcasm. “I have a few things on Stevens I’d like to go over with you. Are you up for that or do you want me to wait a couple days?”

  St. James thought for a long moment. He wasn’t feeling up to preparing for CISI. He’d done all he could for Anna; sleep was now her most important ally. And Dr. Singh said she shouldn’t be left alone, so he wasn’t about to leave for X-rays. It was down to Smythe or the television, and he decided Smythe would be the more entertaining of the two.

  “Come over, Louis, and we’ll chat for a bit. I’ll just take more Tylenol.”

  “Okay man. Be there as soon as I can.”

  St. James cradled the phone and decided to lie on the couch until Smythe arrived.

  It was twenty minutes before the buzzer sounded, and Smythe barged in with a laptop under one arm and a mountain of files under the other. He parked himself at the dining table and spread everything out so it could all be viewed at once. There was the code he had written on pink paper, several sheets of notes, website references, and photocopies of sites themselves. And, for the next thirty minutes, Smythe spieled off everything he had done, the logic he had used, and dead ends he had encountered as he tried to decipher each section of the code. The whole enchilada. Then he focused on the code itself.

  (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)

  “As I explained before, the centre part, ‘cnbtkyk1’, of the first section, ‘g,cnbtkyk1,j’, is the SWIFT code for the Cayman National Bank. Antoinette said it’s the main branch. I don’t know what the ‘g’ before or the ‘j’ after mean.

  “Whoever used the confidential transaction ID ‘ABA#021000089’, which is the beginning of the second section, used it at the main branch. I don’t know for sure but the middle number, ‘36148883’, I think is some sort of temporary receiving account that accepts all transfers before they’re allocated to designated client accounts. So, we have location, confidential ID, and a set of digits, ‘012-67141’, confirmed by the bank to be an account number. We just don’t know whose account it is. We have no clue what the last part of section two is, ‘co-na-csprite1’. It has to tie into the transaction ID and account number somehow: it’s within the same parentheses.”

  “I see your logic but I’m not so sure.”

  Smythe paused to gather his thoughts.

  “Go on,” St. James said anxiously.

  “The part you don’t believe is the next section, the third section. You don’t like the idea of Virgo referring to the astrological sign.”

  Wincing once again, St. James said, “Convince me.”

  “Virgo begins on August 23. Because the whole section is bracketed I believe it’s meant to be read as one unit, the same as section two.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Just as I said when we talked by phone, I am now certain they are dates.”

  “Dates?”

  “Yes, dates. The August 23 plus 7 is August 30, the day the crime was discovered. August 30 plus 8 is September 7. September 7 plus 4 is September 11, 9/11 as we now know it. But I’m certain this has nothing to do with 9/11. It’s just a date, a coincidence. September 11 plus the next digit, which is 6, brings us to September 17. And finally, September 17 plus 3 is September 20. Incremental dates for events, or
commands to be enacted. Five dates.”

  Smythe pointed to the pink paper.

  “Now look at the next section, section four. ‘(G, F, D, C, F)’, five letters separated by commas.

  “Now look at the fifth section, ‘(1104-419, 1130-1930, 700-1106, 145, 905).’ Five sets of numbers also separated by commas.

  “Look at section six, ‘(U3743-5847, A3570-B0112, D4883-1916, A194, A3657).’ Five sets of letters and numbers again separated by commas. Whatever’s taking place is taking place in fives. Each successive section most likely builds on the previous, in some way or another. If we solve one, the rest should come, maybe not easy, but easier.”

  “Maybe,” St. James said. “What about the last section, section seven? ‘(A21+11).’ It breaks the rhythm of fives.”

  “That’s tough,” Smythe said, scratching his head. “Haven’t gotten that far yet.”

  “Okay. Let’s stay with your theory of fives for the moment. What would make sense? Five commands?”

  “Or five actions?” Smythe offered.

  “Or five actions for five people?” St. James countered. “One of which would be a transfer of money to that account number with the confidential ID ‘ABA#021000089’.”

  Anna crept down the hall and stood behind Smythe and St. James.

  “I was wondering who you were talking to out here,” she said to Hamilton in a weak voice.

  Smythe and St. James both jumped at the same time.

  “Anna!” Smythe said, lunging to hug her. “You’ve had a rough time.”

  “A bit,” she said. “I’m feeling better now. Now that I’ve slept some.”

  Smiling faintly at Smythe as she touched his three-day-old stubble. “I appreciate your concern.”

  Anna turned to St. James.

  “I’m feeling a little hungry now. I think I could eat something. Maybe a sandwich.”

  “There’s sliced chicken and roast beef in the refrigerator. I’ll make you one.”

  “No, I’m okay to do it. I need something to do. You guys are in the middle of something anyway. I’ll make it.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  Smythe and St. James went back to discussing Stevens but kept a close eye on Anna.

  When Anna had made a roast beef sandwich and poured a glass of water, she sat at the table opposite Smythe. She had removed the bandage to clean the wound. It wasn’t as bad as St. James thought it would be. More of a bruise, large and purple with a long half-moon cut in the centre.

  Anna ate slowly, chewing every bite several times as though her mouth was sore and the sandwich was rubber. St. James looked for signs of instability.

  Anna spotted Smythe’s pink paper.

  “Is this the famous code you keep talking about, Hamilton?”

  “It is,” he said.

  She slid the paper closer to her plate and studied it while she ate. Smythe and St. James went over a number of possibilities.

  Suddenly Anna said, “I know what this is.”

  “What?” Smythe and St. James blurted at the same time.

  She held the paper up so they could see and pointed to what Smythe and St. James were calling section six.

  “What do you mean you know what it is?” Smythe asked incredulously.

  St. James sensed Smythe’s fear a waitress might decipher a code in minutes that he couldn’t in weeks. Her being a professional researcher didn’t necessarily extend to breaking codes.

  “These are airline flights. Look.” She pointed to ‘U3743-5847.’ “Those are United Airlines Flights 3743 and 5847. Two numbers separated by a dash with a letter in front of the first number only and not the second means a connecting flight with the same airline. If that had been U3743-A5847, a passenger would leave on United Airlines Flight 3743 and connect with American Airlines Flight 5847.”

  “What makes you so sure?” St. James asked cautiously.

  “Remember I told you I worked for a company in Germany doing research and arranging executive travel? This is how we recorded flight information for senior executives.”

  Smythe’s mouth was now wide open, eyes big as saucers, head rapidly whipping back and forth between Anna and St. James, like Don Knotts’s character Barney Fife whenever he’d been duped.

  St. James started to laugh.

  “Louis,” he gasped. “Stop that. Laughing hurts … my ribs.”

  Smythe stopped, but only after three more whips.

  Anna ignored them both and continued to explain.

  “‘A3570-B0112’ is American Airlines Flight 3570 connecting with British Airways Flight 0112. ‘D4883-1916’ is two connecting Delta flights. ‘A194’ and ‘A3657’ are two separate American flights, separate bookings, maybe a day apart. They’re separated by a comma not a dash.”

  St. James thought Smythe’s eyes would pop out of his head.

  St. James said, “Honey, can you show us? I believe you but there’s a lot at stake here. We have to be absolutely certain.”

  “No problem. Louis, can I borrow your laptop?” she mumbled.

  A stunned Smythe turned the computer around so the screen faced Anna. She punched in each airline’s website and then the flights listed in the code, carefully noting details as she went. When she had worked her way through all the flights, she showed Smythe and St. James.

  The first flight, U3743, was United’s from Atlanta to Chicago, connecting to Fargo on U5847. The second flight was American Flight 3570 from Pittsburgh to JFK, connecting to Heathrow on British Airways Flight 0112. D4883, a Delta flight from Columbia, South Carolina, to Atlanta, connecting with Delta 1916 to Denver. A194, an American flight from Miami to Baltimore. A3657, American from Baltimore to Toronto.

  “Well,” St. James said, shaking his head. “That’s wonderful, Anna. You’re wonderful. Isn’t she wonderful, Louis?” he said with a huge grin.

  “She’s wonderful,” Smythe said slowly, sounding robotic. “But what does it tell us?”

  St. James felt the damage to Smythe’s pride. It would heal in time, he hoped.

  “Now we have to figure what sections four and five are,” St. James said, trying to refocus Smythe.

  Smythe regained his composure, at least enough to come around the table and look over Anna’s shoulder at section five.

  “If your theory of dashes and commas holds true for every section, what does that tell us about section five?” he asked Anna.

  “Not sure.”

  Smythe’s eyes moved back and forth between the pink paper and Anna’s scribbled flight notes a number of times.

  Showing renewed excitement, Smythe blurted, “Section five shows the flight times for section six.

  “Look: if you add colons and remove the dashes, each number matches the fight times you noted. 1104-419 becomes 11:04 and 4:19, flight times for U3743 and U5847; Atlanta to Chicago and Chicago to Fargo!”

  Chapter 26

  Arthur Spance’s 275-pound frame more than covered the bar stool in Earle’s Bar & Grill, a fixture of one of Boston’s seediest districts. His dirty grey overalls, long, matted red hair, and scruffy beard made him look more like a beggar than a man just released from prison. Short of breath and wheezing, he was drinking a pint of Coors.

  A thin, six-foot man with close-cropped grey hair and missing two front teeth sat on the stool next to Spance. Eyes sunken, wild and dark. Face badly scarred, probably from defending himself in prison. The few teeth he did have were brown from years of smoking and lack of care.

  Spance wheezed, “When did you get out?”

  “Four months ago,” the thin man said, scratching week-old stubble with one hand, holding a pint of Guinness with the other.

  “Heard you had it rough in the joint. Ganged up on pretty bad,” Spance said, sounding in need of oxygen.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” the thin man replied gruffly.

  Located in the slums of Boston, Earle’s Bar & Grill’s rundown building had an unsavoury history dating back to the 1940s, probably the last ti
me it was painted. Bar stools, badly worn and wobbly, were completely devoid of varnish. Booths were covered in initials of disrespectful patrons. The floors were filthy. Smells of stale beer and urine hit anyone who dared darken the door. The place catered to ex-cons, thugs, and gangs. Only the tough ventured inside, that is, if they weren’t beaten and robbed before they got there.

  “Where’s Nells?” Spance said, straining to control his wheezing.

  The thin man drank Guinness. “Ain’t comin’.”

  “Ain’t comin’! What do you mean ain’t comin’?”

  The thin man turned and looked wild-eyed at Spance.

  “Just what I said. Ain’t comin’!” he barked, wiping beer froth on a dirty sleeve.

  “Why? He hates Slate just as much as the rest of us.”

  “I know. He’s got something else going. Another job, I think.”

  “Why aren’t we in on it, then?” Spance asked in a dejected tone.

  “Think he wants to break away from us, Arthur. Try something new.”

  “Shit. I thought we were a good team.”

  “Getting caught doesn’t make a good team, Arthur,” the thin man mused with a forced grin. He downed more Guinness. “Up to this point we’ve been caught every single time.”

  After a few minutes Spance asked, “Do you know where he’s living?”

  The thin man cleared his throat and drank more beer. “Someone said Chicago, working construction, but I haven’t talked to him since I got out.”

  Spance nodded. “Where are Cliff and Jeremy?”

  “They’ll be along shortly, I suspect.”

  “Good. We’ve got planning to do. I want to get on with it.”

  “Just cool your jets. We’re going to take our time with this one,” the thin man barked sharply.

  “What about St. James?” Spance wheezed.

  “I have a man watching him.”

  Chapter 27

  Smythe left shortly after the section five and six breakthrough and headed to a party at a friend’s house. St. James figured that was a good thing. Being shown up by a waitress would set off a certain amount of brooding in a guy as proud as Smythe. A couple of cold ones and a few laughs would be just the ticket for his busted ego.