Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  “Franklin or Fletcher, don’t know which since we only have the first letter of the last name (‘F’), caught American Flight 3570 from Pittsburgh to JFK, then British Airways flight 0112 (‘A3570-B0112’) to Heathrow on September 7 (‘Virgo23+7+8’). The flight to JFK left at 11:30 a.m. and the one to Heathrow was an overnight flight leaving at 7:30 p.m. (‘1130-1930’).

  “Derringer (‘D’) took Delta Flight 4883 from Columbia, South Carolina to Atlanta, and then Delta Flight 1916 to Denver (‘D4883-1916’) on September 11 (‘Virgo23+7+8+4’). The flight to Atlanta left at 7:00 a.m. and the one to Denver left at 11:06 a.m. (‘700-1106’).

  “Cook (‘C’) took American Flight 194 (‘A194’) from Miami to Baltimore on September 17 (‘Virgo23+7+8+4+6’) at 1:45 (‘145’).

  “Franklin or Fletcher (‘F’), whoever’s left, ended up in Toronto from JFK on American Airlines Flight 3657 (‘A3657’), which left at 9:05 a.m. (‘905’) on September 20 (‘Virgo23+7+8+4+6+3’).”

  St. James imagined Smythe looking quite pleased with himself.

  “But what does ‘co-na-csprite1’ in the second section mean?” St. James said. “And what does ‘g’ before and ‘j’ after the SWIFT code translate into?”

  “I am not exactly sure, but the probability software suggests ‘co-na’ to be short for ‘code name’ and ‘csprite1’ to be the code name for the transaction itself. But I’m not sure. Still have no idea about the ‘g’ and ‘j’.”

  “Makes sense. Excellent work, Louis!”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” Smythe said in formal tone.

  Anna decided to challenge him. “Both you guys have always said the money was transferred on August 30. Now you’re saying August 23.”

  “August 30 is when the money was discovered missing, not when it was transferred. That was August 23,” St. James clarified.

  “Louis, I understand the money transfer part, but what do the flights and times represent?” asked Anna.

  “I believe the departure cities are where they were when money was transferred to Cayman; they were in those cities for trumped-up business reasons the week before August 30. Arrival cities were where they went after money was transferred to look like they were taking care of personal business separately.”

  St. James’s face clouded.

  “But Louis, electronic transfers can be made from any place on the planet! They could have just as easily been made from Fargo, or London, or Toronto.”

  “Quite true, Hamilton, but if they’re apart, in meetings with other people, in different locations from the transfer, it adds a layer of smoke over the trail, proving they weren’t with each other at the time money was stolen.”

  “Okay. For the moment I’ll buy that,” St. James conceded. “But we don’t know if money actually was transferred to Cayman, or from where, or by whom, or for whose benefit. The theory has more holes than a colander.”

  Smythe went silent.

  Anna showed frustration. “Why was the stupid code even on Stevens’s computer in the first place?”

  “That we’ll have to get from Stevens when the police find him,” Smythe said.

  Anna and St. James glanced at one another. St. James hadn’t told Smythe about Stevens’s murder.

  “Louis, they found Stevens dead in a Fargo hotel room. Shot in the back of the head.”

  The speakerphone went silent.

  “How terribly inconvenient,” Smythe said finally, as if he had just missed an appointment. “How do we put the pieces together without him?”

  “We’ll find a way,” St. James said confidently. “We’ve come too far to fail.”

  “What about section seven of the code, ‘(A21+11)’?” Anna asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Smythe. “Like the other sections, it’s enclosed by parentheses. No comma between it and section six though. All the other sections are separated by commas. Sits out there all alone, by itself. And it’s only one set of letters and numbers, not five. Breaks the rhythm of the code.”

  “How do you know Stevens wasn’t sloppy, left out a comma?” Anna suggested.

  “Don’t think so. His files are immaculate. A very precise man, not the type to leave anything out. Louis, did you describe the code to Jason exactly as you did for us just now?” St. James asked.

  “The email went out late this afternoon.”

  St. James repeated the question. “But did you describe it exactly the way you did just now?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Excellent. That’s probably all we can do tonight. Thanks, Louis. Great work,” St. James said again.

  They clicked off.

  St. James smiled at Anna. “I’m hungry. Murder and mayhem always works up my appetite.”

  Anna laughed. “You’re sick.”

  “One has to be sick to do what I do.”

  “Then you’re overqualified!”

  Chapter 35

  St. James turned on the television. “What would you like to do, go out or order something in?”

  “Hmm. It’s late. Let’s just order a pizza.”

  “What would you like on it?”

  “Pepperoni, bacon, peppers, hamburger, and extra cheese.”

  St. James grinned, “Oh, the heart-attack special.”

  “Go big or go home.”

  St. James dialed the number for Pizza Pizza and placed the order, then refilled their wine glasses and returned to the chesterfield.

  Anna, still thinking about the break-in, said, “So, what do we do now?”

  “Well, tomorrow’s Friday. Janice is already committed to doing the class because I’m supposed to be in Toronto. She can carry on. I’ll see if Spencer found anything on the intruder. Might visit the poor fellow in hospital, see how he’s coping, pray for his recovery so Dozer can put him back in.”

  Anna cringed. “That’s a horrible thing to say, even jokingly.”

  He laughed.

  “I’ll also check if Jason has anything more on our five suspects in the Stevens case. Then there’s work to do on CISI.”

  “Full day,” Anna concluded. “Do you expect we’ll be going somewhere soon?”

  “How do you feel about England?”

  “England!” she blurted. “Where did that come from?”

  “CISI’s two largest plants are there.”

  “What happened to Washington and Grand Cayman?”

  “Could still happen. Everything’s quite fluid at the moment.”

  “Meaning?”

  St. James went into detail about the things he’d learned at CISI. When the pizza arrived they moved to the kitchen island, took a sliver each and continued the discussion.

  “Do you suspect the brothers inflated inventory?” she asked, taking a second piece of pizza for herself.

  “Too early to suspect anyone of anything. However, their plants together account for more than fifty per cent of the inventory write-up.”

  “Hard to ignore that,” she mumbled, mouth full of pizza.

  “That’s why we’re going to England.”

  First thing Friday morning St. James phoned Spencer. Spencer had fingerprinted the intruder the night before and the guy turned up in police records as Frank Long, a small-time Toronto hoodlum.

  Long wasn’t cooperating, even though Spencer reminded him of his eight prior convictions. Breaking into Anna’s would make nine. That would be good for three years minimum, maybe as much as five.

  Open-and-shut case: Dozer caught him in the act and took pictures on his cell. Then there was the blood match. No question about it in St. James’s mind: Long qualified for three to five.

  “Can you meet me at the Ottawa Hospital, Mark?” St. James asked.

  “I have a meeting with the chief in a few minutes but 9:30 would work”

  St. James’s watch said 8:45.

  “Okay,” he said, “what room?”

  “352.”

  “See you there.”

  St. James went into the study, fired up the computer and discovered an emai
l from Nathan Strong. He and his partners were saddened by the loss of their partner, especially by such a horrible demise, and naturally Beth Stevens was beyond distraught.

  Nathan had passed the shareholder list around the office and discovered that two partners had completed accounting assignments for Adam Derringer and Amanda Fletcher some ten years prior but had terminated the relationship when the couple cheated on their tax returns. No one had heard of Gyberson, Cook, or Franklin.

  St. James’s cell vibrated; it was the BMW dealer saying they’d received all the necessary parts from the manufacturer to repair the 750. The shop manager estimated five days for restoration.

  So far St. James hadn’t driven the Enterprise rental. Long now afforded him that opportunity. He told Anna where he was going, kissed her goodbye, grabbed the rental keys from the fridge-top, then made his way to the underground parking.

  The rental was a red Cadillac, still with the new-car smell, with only 150 kilometres on it. St. James fired up the engine and rolled the Caddy up the ramp onto Sussex, turned right onto Wellington and drifted past the Parliament buildings en route to meet Spencer at the hospital.

  St. James stumbled on the only available parking spot in front of the Ottawa Hospital’s Civic Campus, locked the rental, found the elevator, and pushed the third-floor button. Spencer must have described him to the uniform guarding Long’s room, because he stood aside without a word when St. James approached.

  Spencer was seated in a visitor chair by the window.

  Long was lying in bed in the fetal position, his mangled foot heavily bandaged up to the knee. He was awake, facing away from Spencer.

  The room was typical for a hospital. Pale-green walls. Bare, except for a single bed, a plain white three-drawer dresser, and an adjustable mobile table for food trays. Smells of industrial cleaner and medical supplies were a sharp reminder of the room’s purpose.

  Spencer greeted St. James with a smile but said nothing as he nodded in Long’s direction, a signal for St. James to take charge.

  Long’s eyes held no expression as they rolled toward St. James. He knew who St. James was, that was for sure. He’d have to know his mark.

  Long was a small man with close-cropped black hair, plain-featured except for a flat nose and a missing index finger, on his right hand. St. James thought him quite forgettable to look at.

  There wasn’t a second visitor chair in the room, so Spencer pulled open the door and mumbled something to the policeman standing guard. A moment later the uniform placed a chair close to Long’s bed. St. James unbuttoned his coat, and without a word sat for a few moments just staring at Long.

  “So, Mr. Long, you know who I am?” he said finally, voice strong and stern.

  Long said nothing. No movement. No expression.

  “This will go a lot easier if you cooperate. Tell us who hired you to kill me and why.”

  Long stared straight at St. James, his expression coma-like. That told St. James that Long planned to wait him out.

  For a moment St. James considered running a line on Long. Risky. He wouldn’t know what answers he might get, if any. Could be something he didn’t want to hear. Although, at the moment, he couldn’t think what that could be. The worst outcome, Long would remain silent. The best, Long could say something or display body language St. James could draw something from.

  When St. James had weighed everything, he decided to go for it.

  “I talked to Nells today,” he said, shaking his head. “Told him you botched the job.”

  Spencer flinched as if to say, What the hell are you doing?

  St. James ignored him.

  Long didn’t move an inch or say a word.

  “Nells threw you under the bus, Long. Said you acted alone. He’s telling the syndicate you can’t be trusted. You’re washed up, Frank. Smart money says you cut a deal. Give us the evidence we need against Nells. Maybe Detective Spencer here can help. United States authorities might join in too: they’ve been watching Nells for years.

  “Do you really want to do three to five for a lousy $5K job? For a guy like Nells? That’s somewhere between $700 and $1,000 a year. Lousy pay, Frank.

  “No! Wait a minute. I’m wrong. You probably just got $2,500 upfront. That’s the way it’s done nowadays, isn’t it? Half down before, the other half when the job’s finished. Now you’ll never even see the other half. You’re going to prison for a lousy $2,500? Think about it, Frank. It’s not worth it.”

  St. James waited for some kind of response.

  Long shifted in his bed. His eyes were stressed, face strained, like he was trying to make up his mind which way to go. He opened his mouth, about to say something, then changed his mind.

  “C’mon, Frank. No one is going to trust you anymore. You have nothing to lose.”

  Long’s face said he was reconsidering. Then he looked straight at St. James.

  “Who the hell is Nells?”

  Chapter 36

  St. James was determined not to give up. He looked at Spencer, shrugged, and turned back to Long, “Maybe Nells got to you through one of his gang members, maybe Stan Gyberson?”

  Long shook his head.

  Shake, better than nothing.

  “Who hired you then?” St. James persisted.

  Long remained still and silent.

  “Jeremy Stern?”

  Still and silent.

  “Arthur Spance?”

  Still and silent.

  “Clifford Dunning?”

  Still and silent.

  St. James had hoped one of the names would trigger body language of some sort. But it didn’t. Long was either a very good actor or he really didn’t know Nells’s gang.

  Spencer cleared his throat to get St. James’s attention and motioned him outside, where he said, “You’re not going to get anything out of this guy, Hamilton. He’s too scared, far more of whoever hired him than us.”

  St. James shrugged and said, “Let me try one more thing.”

  Spencer looked skeptical but nodded in agreement.

  Back in Long’s room St. James sat in the same chair and paused for a long moment, just staring at Long once again. Long stared back.

  St. James sounded sincere.

  “Okay, Frank. We know you’re scared of this guy, whoever he is, and he’ll kill you if you rat him out. So we’ll make a deal with you. You tell us the city he lives in and we won’t rat you out. I’m not asking for a name or an address, Frank. Just the city where he lives. You won’t be squealing if all you give us is the city. What harm can that be?”

  Long’s eyebrows rose, his expression slowly changing from depressed to hopeful.

  Behind Long, Spencer looked at St. James and mouthed the words “‘What good is that going to do?”

  St. James ignored the detective and waited.

  Long opened his mouth.

  “Toronto,” he mumbled in a weak voice.

  “Thank you, Frank.”

  With that, St. James motioned Spencer out of the room.

  Outside, Spencer turned to St. James. “What the hell is the name of a city going to give you? There must be five million people or more in Greater Toronto. Narrowing that down a bit would have been helpful, don’t you think?”

  “Mark, I know the cities where my enemies live. None of them live in Toronto.”

  Spencer showed his frustration. “You know that doesn’t mean a damn thing, Hamilton. Anyone can fly into Toronto, hire a thug, and then fly out. They don’t have to live there, enemy or not.”

  “Only one suspect has flown into Toronto within the last couple of months.”

  “And who might that be?” Spencer asked.

  “Either Amanda Fletcher or Samuel Franklin, suspects in the Stevens case. And since ninety-nine per cent of hits are ordered by males, Franklin is the best bet for your fly in–fly out theory. How do you feel about asking Toronto police to bring him in for questioning?”

  Spencer struggled to bring his frustration under control. “I can do t
hat, I suppose. What do you know about him?”

  “Not much. Sketchy background. Disbarred US attorney who practiced in Chicago. I have reason to believe he flew to Toronto from JFK on September 20, on American Airlines flight 3657, at 9:05 a.m.”

  “Do you know where he’s staying?”

  “No.”

  “Not much to go on,” Spencer said, scratching his head.

  St. James smiled. “It’s more than we had an hour ago.”

  Spencer headed to police headquarters to prepare criminal charges against Long, and St. James headed home to tackle other matters.

  When he entered the condo, he found a note from Anna saying Dozer had arrived to escort her to the apartment and then to the Dirty Duck for an 11 a.m. shift.

  10:45.

  He went into the study and discovered an email from Jason Williamson asking him to please call.

  So he did.

  “What’s cooking, Jason?”

  “Good news: I got the manifests for the first flights Louis sent to us. Those from Atlanta to Chicago and on to Fargo for August 30 show Gyberson and Stevens as passengers, seated next to one another. I requested permission from airline officials to speak to flight attendants for those flights.”

  “Fabulous. Why do you want to talk to the flight attendants?”

  “I sent pictures of Stevens and Gyberson to see if they remembered them, if anything odd happened during the flights.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like whether Stevens was seen to be somehow under Gyberson’s control. Remember, we still haven’t proven Stevens was or was not part of the crime.”

  “Good point.”

  Jason continued. “I was allowed to speak with pursers but not junior flight attendants. Too young and inexperienced. It would create unnecessary fear, airline officials said. The purser on the flight from Atlanta to Chicago didn’t remember the two men at all. The purser on the flight from Chicago to Fargo remembered Gyberson very well. He flirted with her the entire flight, and she was just about to ask the captain to speak to him when the plane began its descent.”