Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  “This is your first case. When all the facts are gathered, I go through a fermentation phase, when pieces in my head coagulate into a total picture. It’s a one-person job. Soon all will be made clear.”

  Anna gave him a look that more or less said “bullshit.”

  Chapter 52

  Arthur Spance, Jeremy Stern, Clifford Dunning, and a tall, thin man crowded into a booth in Earle’s Bar & Grill in downtown Boston. Spance’s huge frame wouldn’t fit in the booth. Wheezing and looking pale, he was forced to sit on a chair at the end of the cracked Arborite table.

  Stern, a man of average build, bearded, blond, mid-forties, commented, “How are we going to do this?”

  “If we do Slate and St. James together, it will draw police attention. Not smart,” said Dunning, in his strong British accent.

  The tall man looked at Dunning. “If we do them separately, we’re still suspects, stupid.”

  Dunning’s fists clenched. “I told you before never to call me that.”

  The tall man finished his beer. “Relax, Dunning. I don’t mean anything by it.”

  His teeth gritted, Dunning said, “Don’t care. I don’t like it.”

  “What does your man in Ottawa say?” Spance said, turning to the tall man.

  “St. James has been travelling back and forth between Washington and England. A few days ago he was shot, but unfortunately it wasn’t fatal. Still going strong, my associate tells me.” The tall man signalled the server for another beer.

  Stern stared off into the distance. “Pity he wasn’t finished off. Wasn’t a day gone by in prison I didn’t think about him and Slate. Every rotten meal. Every lousy sleep with one eye open in case my cellmate got sexually weird. Every fight for cigarettes. Every fight over the TV remote. All a constant reminder of how much I hate those bastards.”

  The others nodded, each staring blankly into their beers.

  “It would’ve been nice if he was done in by someone else,” said Dunning thoughtfully.

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got what we’ve got,” the tall man said sharply, gulping the beer the waiter had just plunked in front of him. “Can’t be traceable to us.”

  “That goes without saying, doofus,” Dunning said in a condescending tone.

  Stern and Spance nodded. Spance scratched his three-day-old stubble and said, “What about a hit and run with a truck, not a big one, maybe just a half-ton.”

  Dunning gave Spance an impatient look. “Too risky. Someone might see you. Besides, damage to the truck is hard to cover up. Body shops are snitches for police. And what if the targets don’t die? Too many things can go wrong.”

  “What, then?” Stern barked.

  “Car accident,” said Dunning.

  “Together, in one car?” Spance said, his unhealthy lungs causing him to wheeze.

  “Too difficult. They aren’t together very often. Could wait a long time for that, and that means it would have to be spontaneous, with no time to plan. Wouldn’t work,” the tall man concluded.

  “I agree. Has to be separate. Have to study them individually. Movements, daily habits, that sort of thing,” said Dunning, wiping froth from an unshaven face.

  “Do we all agree?” said the tall man, looking at everyone around the table one by one.

  Everyone nodded.

  “Good,” said the tall man.

  “Next thing is to agree on how we do it,” Spance suggested.

  “To make it look unrelated, there must be two different … shall we say … accidents,” said the tall man with a wink. “Here’s what I propose…”

  Chapter 53

  When Dozer arrived in Fargo one night earlier, he checked into the Radisson Hotel on Fifth Street. Up at seven the next morning, he shaved, showered, and ate a huge breakfast before making his way to the police station.

  When Dozer entered the grey two-story building at 222 Fourth Street, the duty officer was expecting him. He was quickly escorted down a pale-green hall to a room where he met Detective Hanlon standing in front of a one-way mirror, looking into the room where Gyberson was being questioned.

  Hanlon was of medium height, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, determined green eyes and wearing a dark-grey Brooks Brothers pinstripe suit.

  He briefed Dozer as two detectives pressed Gyberson for answers on the other side of the glass.

  Gyberson was seated on a chair, handcuffed to a metal table in a windowless, green cinder block room about three times the size of a prison cell. His head was drooping with exhaustion from hours of intense questioning. His grey denim shirt was drenched with sweat, his jeans faded and well-worn. Dozer could tell he’d been worked over for some time.

  The detectives were grilling him very hard. One was in his late forties, portly and bald, face heavily scarred like it had gotten in the way of a few fists. The second detective was younger, maybe in his late thirties, with sandy hair and better clothes, and was in much better physical shape.

  Could be a potential recruit for White Investigations, Dozer thought.

  The detectives took turns machine-gunning questions in different ways, rotating every five minutes. The portly one was clearly the bad cop. His face was stuck in Gyberson’s the whole time, yelling questions instead of asking them, an intimidation tactic familiar to Dozer’s. The younger cop was appealing to Gyberson to end the interrogation quickly, to answer truthfully, to get it over with so he could sleep, recover, and have a hot meal. The good cop.

  They were determined to break him, hoping his increasing exhaustion would make him crack. A mistake by Gyberson could help push him to confess.

  Gyberson was a small, thin man, looking more like an aged bicycle courier than a murderer. Long, stringy brown hair, a patchy beard, and large ears made him cartoon-like, causing Dozer to smile.

  The older officer emerged from the interrogation room to take a break. Hanlon introduced him to Dozer as Gerry.

  “Getting anywhere in there, Gerry?” Hanlon asked anxiously.

  “Tough one to crack,” Gerry said, wearily rubbing an aching neck. “You can tell he’s been through this many times before. He knows when to give useless answers and when to clam up. We’re throwing everything at him. He looks weak, but he has more stamina than the two of us put together.” He shook his head.

  Hanlon gave a long sigh. “Well, keep at it. We’ll see if something breaks before the day is out.”

  Gerry nodded as he headed off to a washroom.

  Detective Hanlon excused himself to return to his office.

  Dozer continued staring through the one-way glass for a long while, turning up the audio to better hear the exchange inside. He studied Gyberson’s way of answering, his tone, and body language, paying particular attention to his breathing and facial expressions.

  Gyberson’s breathing was rhythmic. Long, slow intake when being asked a question, and long, slow exhale when answering. Dozer thought he might actually be meditating to tune out the detectives, managing interrogation stress through a mild hypnotic state.

  His breathing was also tied to lowering his eyelids and relaxing his face muscles, giving him a tired look. He wasn’t using meditation just to survive: he was using it to project exhaustion, a begging-for-sleep look. An act. The two detectives were being had. Dozer thought the technique brilliant.

  Despite Gyberson’s technique, the detectives were doing their job well, using modern interrogation techniques. Right questions, right timing. They were certainly skilled at their jobs. They were so focused on breaking the man that they didn’t see that Gyberson was clearly controlling the show. On some level, Dozer admired his skill.

  Hanlon came back down the hall and invited Dozer to his office, where Dozer explained the commercial case: the $23 million, the code, Jensen, the Cayman bank accounts. Hanlon was intrigued and wanted as much detail as Dozer could provide. Leads were often identified by merging murder and commercial cases together. Information from one could reinforce a theory in the other.

  “I take it you
have officially charged him and he’s lawyered up?” Dozer said, eyebrows raised.

  “Arrested him yesterday morning and read him his rights, and of course he invoked the right to an attorney,” Hanlon replied with a wave of a hand. “An attorney named Jackson showed up a half-hour later, talked to his client alone first and then came out to make all the litigation threats. Usual theatrical nonsense.”

  Dozer nodded. “Do you feel confident the charge will stick?”

  Hanlon stroked his chin like he was weighing the evidence against Gyberson for the first time. “Well, we did find a handgun hidden in the trunk of Gyberson’s rental, under the spare tire. Ballistics matched it with the bullet taken from Stevens’s body. And Gyberson’s prints were on the weapon.”

  “Pretty good start,” Dozer said with a grin.

  Hanlon looked concerned. “Problem is, Gyberson’s prints could not be found anywhere at the scene. Nothing on the door or anywhere else in the room. And no one saw him come or go. We interviewed hotel maids, guests on the same floor, and personnel who could possibly have seen something. Nothing came of it. That makes it less than an open-and-shut case. Someone could have set him up, planted the gun.”

  “Alibi?”

  “Hooker.”

  Dozer winced. “Great. Not always the most reliable witnesses.”

  “They are if you pay them enough,” Hanlon said solemnly. “Unfortunately, buying alibis is all too common here.”

  Dozer nodded. “When do you think I can have a crack at him?”

  “This afternoon. My boys need a break, so you’re a welcome diversion,” Hanlon said, offering a faint smile.

  “Excellent,” Dozer said, rising to shake Hanlon’s hand. “Appreciate the cooperation.”

  Dozer left to grab a sandwich from a small café down the street, taking time to consider Gyberson’s breathing technique and how he would handle him that afternoon.

  At 2:15 Dozer entered the small interrogation room where Gyberson was sitting.

  He slammed his massive foot down on the top rung of Gyberson’s chair. “So, you’re close friends with Jensen, that right?”

  Gyberson stared at the floor. No response.

  Dozer waited a few minutes. “We know you sold shares in Macadamia to Jensen Holdings for $23 million so it could fund Carstairs to complete a construction project in Chicago.”

  “Yeah, he invested some money,” Gyberson mumbled, feigning exhaustion.

  “What’d you do with it?”

  “Just like you said, finished the home.”

  “But the home isn’t finished,” Dozer insisted.

  “Well, I paid to have it finished,” Gyberson lied.

  “Who did you pay?”

  “Contractors. Macadamia.”

  “Macadamia is not the contractor. It’s your holding company. Carstairs is the contractor. Don’t play games with me, Stan. I know the facts and all the players. Besides, one-word answers aren’t going to help you. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Gyberson said nothing.

  Dozer continued. “We know you flew out here sitting next to Thomas Stevens, the man you murdered.”

  No response.

  “Have you no interest in helping yourself?” Dozer said aggressively.

  Gyberson looked up at Dozer. “Who the hell are you, anyway?” he sneered.

  “I’m a man who doesn’t give up,” Dozer barked, inches away from Gyberson’s face.

  Gyberson suddenly lunged forward, which could have resulted in a serious head-butt if not for the handcuffs restraining Gyberson. “You’re also a man with bad breath. Get out of my face!” he yelled.

  This is gonna be tough, Dozer thought.

  “I work for a man who’s investigating the theft of Jensen’s $23 million for Global Insurance, the insurers for Stevens, Gables & Strong. But, then again, you know all that. Stevens was your buddy … up until you killed him, that is. He told you everything. He helped you steal $23 million from Jensen. You were down and out.”

  “Tell me how you stole the money.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gyberson said disingenuously.

  Dozer didn’t want a police record of what he was about to say, so he leaned down close to Gyberson’s ear and whispered, “I know the game you’re playing. The breathing. The fake exhaustion. The meditation. Actually, I admire it. But here’s the thing: I’m not a cop. I’m a private citizen, not bound by the rules around this place. Haven’t taken the oath, nor a pledge to follow humane interrogation techniques. I’m free to do what I want, when I want.”

  Anyone watching through the one-way mirror would assume Dozer was pleading with Gyberson to tell the truth. So Dozer held his own hands in papal position and whispered, “So if you get out of here because you won’t talk, I’ll find you. And I guarantee your mother won’t recognize you when I’m done.”

  Gyberson’s eyes showed greater concern as they rolled toward Dozer.

  Dozer eyed Gyberson’s change in body language. “If I leave here with nothing, one of two things will happen. Either you will be convicted of murder and never see the light of day again, or you’ll go free and be fed through a tube the rest of your life. Some things are worse than dying, Stanny-boy.”

  Gyberson’s eyes opened wider.

  Dozer waited.

  Gyberson’s look of feigned exhaustion suddenly turned to fear. His forehead furrowed and his lips went dry, moving without forming words.

  Then he said, “Not as they appear.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not as they appear’?” Dozer barked.

  “Just what I said.”

  Dozer pressed. “Tell me more.”

  “Can’t.”

  Dozer verbally worked Gyberson over for another two hours, only to quit after the man fell asleep at a quarter past five.

  Chapter 54

  Saturday night, Dozer called St. James to report on the interrogation of Gyberson and on his meeting with Detective Hanlon. He told St. James about Gyberson’s breathing, the timing and pace.

  “That’s brilliant!” St. James exclaimed. “If you’re consistent, with enough stamina you could wait out anything but physical torture with that method. Wonder how many times he was interrogated before catching on to the technique.”

  “Don’t know, man,” Dozer said.

  “Dozer, could you do that if the roles were reversed?”

  “Wouldn’t get caught,” Dozer replied smugly.

  St. James rolled his eyes at the phone. Dozer gave St. James all the details leading to Gyberson’s only intriguing response.

  “Not as they appear,” St. James repeated slowly, trying to make something of Gyberson’s words. “What could it mean? That it looks like he murdered Stevens but didn’t? Hard to believe with a positive ballistics report and fingerprints on a gun.”

  “I agree, St. James. But I was questioning him on the theft, not the murder, so I assumed it had something to do with that.”

  “Would make more sense,” St. James mumbled. “But what?”

  “I pumped him for most of this morning too before I left. Nothing more,” Dozer said, obviously frustrated by his lack of success.

  “Maybe he means it only looks like he took money. That something else happened,” St. James mused.

  “Maybe some other person was involved,” Dozer countered.

  “But Stevens transferred money into Macadamia from Jensen Holdings and took back shares in return, just as Jensen directed. Sure looks like Gyberson was the only one in a position to snatch the money as it left Macadamia’s bank account, before it could be deposited into Carstairs’s. He had signing authority in both companies. In a position to siphon cash from either one, depending on where it sat. All he had to do was endorse Macadamia’s cheques over to himself or another company he controlled. But then again, his signature would be on the back of cheques. An evidence trail,” St. James reasoned.

  “Didn’t you look at paid cheques for Macadamia and Carstairs when you examin
ed Jensen’s records?” Dozer queried. “Those stamped and returned by the bank, I mean. See if Gyberson’s signature was on the back.”

  “Cheques weren’t there. Only the bank statements were in the files.”

  “We can get copies directly from the bank,” Dozer pressed.

  “We’ll do that if there’s a civil trial. Then we’ll have to lay out an uninterrupted evidence trail. No need to do it right now. Remember, all we have to do is prove that the Stevens firm wasn’t responsible for a $23 million loss, and Global’s not liable. Everything else is up to police. Jensen says Gyberson stole the money. We’ll go with that for the moment.”

  “That’s what it appears to be,” Dozer said. “That has to be what Gyberson meant. Looks like he’s the only one who could have taken money, but things aren’t as they appear. Crazy part about all this is that Stevens was sued by Jensen for taking money he couldn’t possibly have taken; money that had already left Jensen Holdings and gone to Macadamia, a company under Gyberson’s control. There’s no credible evidence against Stevens, that we know of, anyway.”

  St. James cleared his throat. “Jensen may be a blowhard maniac but he’s not stupid. He lost $23 million and someone has to pay. His very words. He argues that Stevens was to vet investments and credibility of people who ran them before he invested. But even if Stevens knew Gyberson was a crook, he still recommended that Jensen invest in Macadamia.”

  Dozer was quiet for a long moment, then said, “What if it was the other way around?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if Stevens advised against the investment in Macadamia and Jensen overruled him? Did it anyway?”

  St. James considered this for a moment. “It’s a thought. But why would he do that?”

  “There’d have to be an angle, something in it for Jensen. An upside of some sort,” Dozer offered.

  “But both Macadamia and Carstairs were insolvent. That’s why they needed Jensen’s investment in the first place,” St. James reasoned. “Macadamia can’t even afford to pay Jensen a return on his investment. No cash to pay dividends. So, if we consider that Stevens advised Jensen not to invest but he did anyway, I can’t see how he’d have an upside. Doesn’t make sense. Unless something else is at play. Something we don’t know about.”