“Oh! What are we doing?” she asked with a surprised look.
“First, we’ll go to your place to gather things for England. Then I thought we’d do something fun.”
Anna’s face lit up.
“Fun? What kind of fun?”
“I thought we’d drive to Wakefield, look in some shops, and maybe have lunch at the Mill.”
“What a great idea, Hamilton,” she said enthusiastically. “I heard it’s a lovely little village, but I’ve never been. How far?”
“About a half-hour.”
“I’ll hurry. We’ll need something to eat before we go.”
St. James mimicked a well-known western movie actor. “I’ll go out to the chuck wagon, ma’am, to see what I can rustle up while you’re fixin’ to get pretty for me.”
“Okay, cowboy.” Anna jumped from the bed and headed toward the shower, coffee in hand.
St. James turned on Newsworld while he scrambled eggs and made fruit cocktail and dry whole-wheat toast.
About fifteen minutes later Anna emerged, ready to go. They wolfed down breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen. Then it was St. James’s turn to shower. When he resurfaced he found Anna sitting at the table reading the newspaper.
“Dozer called while you were in the shower. He’s sitting in a rental car on Mackenzie Avenue waiting for us.”
“Excellent. Have everything you need?”
“Everything but the apartment keys, which Dozer has.”
Anna folded the newspaper and placed it on the kitchen counter.
They grabbed jackets from the hall closet, locked the condo, and hit the parking-level button.
Dozer had rented a lime-green Chrysler, which he thought would be easier to spot if they got separated in traffic. St. James pulled the red Cadillac up from the underground onto Sussex and waited for Dozer to turn the corner before heading to Anna’s apartment.
When they turned into Anna’s laneway, Dozer pulled in behind. Another man St. James assumed to be Denzel was sitting in the passenger seat.
Denzel was a bit taller than Dozer, a lot thinner, and, unlike his brother, had a full head of curly black hair. Dozer introduced them, but Denzel said nothing. He just swayed back and forth with a faint smile. St. James and Anna studied Dozer’s interaction with his brother, mostly to learn how they should communicate respectfully. It was easy. Dozer just talked to him like anyone else. Anna liked that.
“You wait here,” Dozer said. “I’ll go up first to check the apartment.”
The three waited by the cars until Dozer reported everything was okay. Then they all went up. Dozer pointed to the trap under the window in the sitting room.
“Don’t go close to this one. It’s the most sensitive, triggered by the slightest motion.”
Anna looked disgusted. St. James thanked God Dozer had cleaned up Long’s blood before they got there.
St. James sat in the big orange rocker while Anna pulled a suitcase from her closet’s top shelf and began filling it with things she thought she’d need in England. Meanwhile Dozer took Denzel through every step he’d listed earlier that morning, methodically covering each room three times. In addition to the sitting room trap was one under the narrow kitchen window, and another under Anna’s bedroom window. Dozer carefully explained how each worked, how to release someone from their clutches, and the people and numbers to call if it actually happened. Then Dozer snapped one of the traps so Denzel could practice resetting it. Dozer wanted to be sure he could handle it on his own. To be certain Denzel mastered everything, he had him repeat every step three times. Denzel gained a little more confidence each time.
Denzel stopped swaying whenever Dozer spoke and began again when his brother went quiet. St. James was impressed he asked for steps to be repeated. It showed he was either getting it or trying to. It wasn’t only Denzel who had to gain confidence: Anna and St. James had to be sure they were leaving her apartment in capable hands.
Anna emerged from the bedroom fifteen minutes later, dragging a Pullman suitcase. St. James looked at the size of it, and then at her, then at the case once again.
“We’re only going for a week. You realize that, right?”
Anna smiled. “A girl’s got to be ready for any occasion, you know.”
He pointed to the case. “Hope I don’t get a hernia lugging that thing downstairs.”
“Don’t be so silly,” she said as she entered the kitchen.
Dozer and Denzel reappeared in the sitting room.
“We’re finished, Hamilton. All set to go,” Dozer said with a smile, giving his brother a loving pat on the shoulder. “Right, Denzel?”
“Right, Erasmus,” Denzel said.
Dozer turned to St. James.
“Denzel doesn’t like the nickname Bulldozer.”
St. James nodded and turned to Denzel.
“Welcome to the case, Denzel. Glad to have you on board.”
“Thank you, sir,” Denzel said slowly. “I like to be with my brother.”
“I’m going to drive Denzel home, Hamilton. You and Anna stay here. I won’t be long; he lives just four blocks away.”
When he returned ten minutes later Dozer said reassuringly, “Denzel will be fine. He’s excited to be working.”
“Does he live alone?” St. James asked cautiously.
“In a group home. He has a room with twin beds so there’s a spot for me when I visit. The people managing the place are wonderful. They love Denzel, probably because he’s always pleasant and no bother.”
“He’s lucky to have you, Dozer,” Anna said smiling.
“Are we ready for Wakefield?” St. James said with an enthusiastic clap of his hands.
“I am,” Anna replied cheerfully.
“Have one quick stop to make first,” said Dozer. “It will just take a minute.”
St. James nodded.
“We’ll follow you.”
And they did, to a condo building on York Street. St. James pulled in behind Dozer’s green rental and left the motor running while Dozer entered the main door, emerging minutes later with a lady on his arm.
“Is that who I think it is?” Anna said in an astonished voice.
“If you’re thinking Cathy, you’d be right,” St. James said with a chuckle.
Anna giggled. “He works fast, I’ll give him that.”
“It appears we are four for lunch,” St. James quipped.
St. James pulled the Cadillac onto Sussex and rolled toward the Macdonald-Cartier Bridge, maintaining a distance of one car length ahead of Dozer and Cathy.
When he thought about taking Anna to Wakefield, flashbacks hadn’t entered his mind. Anna hadn’t been on this part of Sussex since they were almost killed just days ago. A feeling of thoughtlessness crept over him. He pulled the Cadillac to the curb, bringing it to a halt in front of the Global Affairs building.
Dozer pulled in behind, shrugged, his hands raised as if to say, What’s wrong man? St. James waved everything okay.
“What’s wrong, Hamilton?” Anna said, looking surprised.
“I’m sorry, Anna. I’ve been thoughtless and inconsiderate.”
She turned to him, looking amused.
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“We’re on the same route as the night the two thugs tried to kill us. Your flashbacks … I never thought what today might do to you.”
Anna broke into a gentle smile as she leaned into him.
“Considerate of you, Hamilton, but I can’t avoid fun the rest of my life because of one unpleasant experience. What kind of life would I have? Especially hanging around you. Why, in a few months I wouldn’t be able to leave home at all.” Her smile grew wider.
St. James laughed. “Suppose that’s true.” He shifted the Cadillac into drive and continued on toward Wakefield.
Halfway to Wakefield Anna said, “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
He looked over at her, wondering what was coming next.
“Go ahead.”
“How do you pay for your lifestyle? You don’t have a steady paycheque, other than the university, and that wouldn’t even begin to cover what you spend. Cost of travel and restaurants means nothing to you. You live in a beautiful building, drive an expensive car, and gamble as if you don’t have a care in the world.”
St. James smiled.
“It’s more difficult to explain than it is to show, which I will gladly do. Do you mind giving me a couple of weeks to do that?”
Anna felt awkward. “Yeah … Sure. Of course. None of my business anyway. Just wondering, that’s all. Only now got up the courage to ask.”
St. James reached over and took her hand in his.
“All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”
St. James felt Anna’s eyes on him for most of the remaining drive.
It was 11:20 when they arrived on Main Street in Wakefield, Dozer and Cathy close behind. A shop called Boutique Jamboree caught Anna’s eye.
She said, pointing, “I’d love to explore that shop, Hamilton.”
“Absolutely. It’s a fun day, let’s do it.”
St. James pulled into the parking area next to the building, and Dozer brought the green Chrysler to a halt next to the Cadillac. When they all climbed out Anna latched onto Cathy, and the two went inside while Dozer and St. James sat on a bench on the front porch.
“Hey man, why’d you stop on Sussex?” Dozer said quizzically.
St. James explained the flashback thing with Anna. Dozer just nodded.
“Did you see anything unusual on the way up?” St. James asked, eyes surveying the street.
Dozer pointed to a maroon late-model Accord parked in front of a grey building across the street. “You see that Honda Accord?”
“Yep.”
“Two guys are sitting in the front. They kept tight behind us all the way up. I’d speed up, they’d speed up. I’d slow down, they’d slow down. They’re running surveillance for someone.”
Dozer paused, rubbing his head and trying to decide how to handle the situation.
“You sit here,” he said finally. “I’ll go into Boutique Jamboree and out the back, work my way around a couple of buildings, then cross the street and have a little chat with the boys. See what I can find out.”
St. James nodded. “Be careful. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”
Dozer nodded and went into the store, passing Anna and Cathy without a word, and out the back. The women paused long enough to watch him pass through, looked at one another, shrugged, and went back to inspecting what the store had to offer.
St. James watched Dozer work his way down Boutique Jamboree’s side of the street and cross over toward a bank building two doors to the right of the Accord. The Accord guys never took their eyes off St. James. St. James figured that’s why Dozer told him to stay put. He was the decoy so Dozer could sneak up unnoticed.
Dozer worked his way behind the building and along the southern wall. When he got to the front corner of the building, he noticed that the Accord’s driver-side window was all the way down. He crouched behind the vehicle, then quietly duck-walked toward the open window, low enough to not alert the driver. He quickly rose and drew back his huge fist and punched the driver’s nose so hard the man cried out like a child, partly in pain, partly out of surprise. Blood spewed over the Accord’s dash as the driver doubled over the steering wheel, rapidly rocking back and forth as if motion would ease the pain.
The passenger leapt from the vehicle and bolted around a red-brick church toward the bank. St. James catapulted from the porch and ran to head off the passenger before he escaped completely.
St. James stood a good six inches taller than the passenger, with enough stride to overtake the man as he rounded the church. Tackling him from behind, St. James shoved his face into gravel and wrenched both arms behind as if to cuff him. The passenger yelled in pain.
“Okay, buddy, on your feet.”
“Ease up,” the passenger yelled. “You’re hurting my arm.”
“It’ll hurt more than that if you don’t cooperate,” St. James growled through gritted teeth. “Come on.”
He pulled the man to his feet and pushed him to the side of the building where the Accord was parked. Dozer was already there holding the bloodied driver. They shoved both men behind the building so as not to draw any more attention than they already had. Simultaneously, they slammed the two up against the back wall.
“Who hired you?” Dozer demanded.
“Nobody hired us,” the driver yelled. “Just out for a drive. You’ll be charged for this.”
“I doubt it,” Dozer barked.
He slammed the driver against the wall a second time.
“Who hired you?” he repeated.
“No one,” yelled the passenger.
“Then we’ll hold you until the police arrive. Maybe you’ll tell them,” St. James said angrily.
The driver’s nose, obviously broken, continued to spew blood. He appeared to be rethinking his position.
“Look, we weren’t sent to hurt you,” he said finally.
Dozer released his grip slightly, enough for the man to wipe blood from his face.
“Why were you following us?” Dozer said forcefully, an inch from the driver’s face. With all his force he slammed the man a third time.
The driver winced with pain but said nothing.
“Why did you follow us?” Dozer yelled again, pinning the man against the building, his huge, meaty hands tight around the driver’s throat.
“To see where you were going,” the man said, wincing again.
“By whom?”
The driver tried to catch his breath. “Some guy named Sterling,” he squeaked, voice rattly from a blood-filled throat.
“First name?”
“Never gave it. Just Sterling,” the passenger cried.
Not to be outdone by Dozer, St. James slammed the passenger up against the wall again too.
“How much did he pay you?” Dozer said in a harsh tone.
“$500 up front, $1,500 when we delivered information.”
“How were you to deliver information?” St. James asked.
“Email.”
“Give me your phone,” Dozer demanded, tightening his grip around the man’s throat.
The driver pulled a cell from his pocket and Dozer snatched it from his hands. He scrolled through a conversation back and forth with a man located in the Montreal area code.
“Montreal,” Dozer mumbled as he turned to St. James. “A running commentary on tailing us.”
Dozer grunted as he read the total exchange, then hit reply.
We have your stool pigeons and they are singing. We’re coming to get you!
Regards, Hamilton St. James and Dozer White.
“I thought the regards thing was a nice touch,” St. James said, smiling.
With that, they let the pigeons fly.
Chapter 40
Bulldozer and St. James were in agreement: if they couldn’t identify Sterling they may as well make him paranoid.
“Reverse intimidation,” St. James called it when Dozer showed him the email he had sent to Sterling. “That’ll have him looking over his shoulder for a time.”
Dozer nodded and smiled.
No point holding the men, even less turning them over to police. They were engaged by email, probably a public email address like a library’s, no face-to-face with Sterling. A dead end.
Dozer pocketed the cell thinking Spencer might make something of it. He probably had contacts in the Quebec Sûreté who could help track this Sterling fellow down.
They made their way back across the street to Boutique Jamboree where the women had found a number of treasures, each grabbing two bags from the counter when the guys walked in.
“What happened to you two?” Anna asked suspiciously.
“Ran into a couple of old friends,” Dozer lied.
Anna gave St. James a look but decided to let it go.
“Anyone hungry?” he asked, to force Anna off the scent.
“Starving,” Dozer said enthusiastically.
Cathy chimed in. “I could use a bite too.”
“Great,” St. James said. “Let’s go up to the Mill.”
The Wakefield Mill was situated in a park-like setting next to a waterfall with enough strength to turn a grist mill wheel in the 1800s. The restaurant had wonderful food choices and a well-stocked wine cellar. Fireplaces, exposed stone walls, and rough-cut wooden beams made for a warm atmosphere.
The restaurant overlooked the falls: delightful eye candy for diners.
The maître d’ escorted them to a table by the window with a full view of the river. St. James ordered pasta, everyone else the roast beef.
An hour later everyone had finished lunch and was anxious to get back to Ottawa.
The drive back was uneventful. No sign of a tail. And no attempt to run them off the road, for which St. James was grateful.
When they arrived on Wellington, Dozer tooted the horn and waved goodbye as the rental veered left into the Market, to Cathy’s condo, Anna assumed. St. James pointed the Cadillac down 700’s parking ramp to his usual space.
Sunday morning turned out to be foggy. Many flights in and out of Ottawa were cancelled, others delayed for hours.
Anna busied herself getting ready for England, laying out clothes and checking lists to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. By 11:00 what she owned was spread over the chesterfield and everything else.
“Jesus, Anna, there’s no place for me to sit,” St. James complained.
“Nothing wrong with the kitchen island,” she said lightheartedly.
Feeling violated in his own space St. James grabbed a coffee and headed for the study where he emailed Williamson to ask about progress with the ambassadors and the Cayman authorities. He hoped political heat would persuade the bank to freeze the accounts and release information that might be relevant to the case.
St. James copied Nathan and Slate on the email to Williamson to keep them in the loop. Then he prepared an email update for Mary DeSilva, outlining in detail the political strategy he and Williamson had in play. She would have it first thing Monday morning when she got into the office.
Double Shot of Scotch Page 22