Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  Chapter 61

  Slate pulled himself out of the large black leather rocking chair around 2 a.m., stiff from sleeping slumped over. He turned off the television and climbed the stairs to bed.

  The next morning he rose at the usual time, showered, shaved, and made his way to the kitchen where he brewed coffee, pausing long enough to drink a cup before making scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. While bacon sizzled in the frying pan, he prepared the same lunch he had every day, and placed the turkey sandwich, fruit cup, and bottled water in the blue canvas lunch bag his wife had given him a year before she died. He hated the damn bag, but it carried so many fond memories of her he couldn’t bring himself to part with it.

  When he finished, he placed the dirty dishes in the sink and wiped the table clean. The wall clock registered a few minutes before eight.

  On time.

  Slate grabbed the keys to his new white Lexus and headed out the door, stopping in the driveway for long enough to assess the day’s weather. Taking a deep breath of crisp air, he looked up at a clear blue sky.

  Can tell it’s fall.

  Slate lived in a middle-class subdivision about ten miles from downtown Washington. The drive to work usually took forty-five minutes, placing him at his desk by nine.

  He backed the Lexus out of the red brick drive onto a cul-de-sac and slowly rolled out of the neighbourhood toward the freeway that would take him to central Washington.

  Morning traffic was unusually heavy, chewing up an extra five minutes just to reach the freeway. As he approached the ramp, he had the feeling he’d forgotten something. He scanned the car, eyes coming to rest on the empty passenger seat. No lunch.

  “Damn. Stupid.”

  Making a quick illegal U-turn, he headed back toward home.

  Another ten minutes wasted, he thought as he wheeled into the drive.

  He climbed out of the car, rushed into the house, grabbed the lunch bag from the counter and was almost back out the door when the phone rang. He stopped to answer.

  “An RCMP officer in Ottawa wishes to speak with you urgently,” a lady said.

  Seconds later the security chief came on the line. “Inspector Slate?”

  “Yes, this is Slate.”

  “I just met with Inspector DuPont concerning intelligence we picked up. He asked me to call you straight away.”

  “Well, what is it?” Slate said sharply, impatient from losing valuable time.

  “There are a few ex-cons who are planning to kill you and St. James.”

  “Who?” Slate demanded gruffly.

  “Arthur Spance, Jeremy Stern, Clifford Dunning, and another fellow named Calvin Vinner,” the officer said.

  “Vinner?”

  “Hit man.”

  “Yeah. I have a faint recollection of him,” Slate said, not completely sure. “Where’s Roger Nells in all this?”

  “That’s what Inspector DuPont asked.”

  Suddenly, Slate was shaken by a loud explosion that rocked the house, shattering a kitchen window not five feet from where he stood. Glass flew in every direction. The largest piece landed on Slate’s right foot, and many smaller pieces were spread around the floor .

  Slate immediately dropped the phone and ran to the front door and down the driveway where he found very little left of his new Lexus. Flames spewed several feet into the air. Bits of metal peppered the lawn, and one rear tire had landed in the middle of the street.

  “Jesus Christ,” Slate mumbled slowly. A wave of fear washed over him, and a lump rose in his throat.

  Neighbours rushed from their homes. Someone yelled, “Call 911!”

  Slate stared at the wreckage, unable to move. His new Lexus, less than three months old, totally destroyed.

  Would’ve been me if I hadn’t forgotten lunch.

  Suddenly he remembered the RCMP officer. He rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the dangling receiver, still swaying from the sudden drop minutes ago.

  “Are you all right?” the officer asked, voice panicked. “I heard an explosion.”

  “Yeah, someone just blew up my car. I’m all right, thanks to you. Please express my gratitude to Inspector DuPont and to your intelligence people. 911 will have police and firemen on the way by now. I’ll have a shitload of explaining to do.”

  When Slate disconnected, the doorbell rang. It was the police, wanting to question him. Firemen were already hosing down the burning wreckage and a smoldering lawn. One fireman wheeled the rogue tire in from the street.

  Slate was explaining everything to the authorities for over an hour before a flatbed truck removed the remains of the Lexus. Police took down details of the four ex-cons as well as the RCMP contacts in Ottawa.

  When he had finished with the police, and both the car and the neighbours had disappeared, Slate went into the garage and found cardboard and a roll of masking tape to cover the shattered kitchen window. Then he made two phone calls: the first to the Bureau saying he wouldn’t be in today, the second to give the bad news to his insurance company. Afterward, he cleaned up the broken glass and drank five beers.

  Chapter 62

  After dinner with Dozer, St. James retired to his room at the Royal York.

  He flew home first thing the next morning, and when his taxi arrived at the condo he spotted four police cars with their emergency lights flashing, all parked on sidewalks around the building. Traffic cones blocked the street. St. James paid the driver and grabbed his duffle as the driver pulled it from the trunk. He eyed Spencer talking to a uniform at the entrance to the underground. When St. James approached, Spencer turned to him.

  “You are now officially my best customer,” he said with a wide grin.

  “What do you mean?”

  Spencer explained the RCMP intelligence report and Inspector DuPont’s involvement, Slate’s near-death experience, and his team in the underground checking his car.

  “Is Slate all right?” St. James asked anxiously.

  “A little shaken perhaps, but all right, thanks to his lunch.”

  “His lunch?” St. James said quizzically.

  Spencer explained. St. James shook his head in disbelief just as two members of the bomb squad, dressed in protective gear, walked up the ramp.

  They all walked down the ramp together to find two more squad guys lying on their backs partway under St. James’s BMW.

  Spencer bent over and said, “Find anything?”

  “Nothing by way of explosive material,” one man said, his voice somewhat muffled from being under the car. “But the brake line’s been cut, quite cleverly I might add. Hard to see. It’s a professional job for sure. The brake fluid would drip slowly. Mr. St. James might have made it to the 417 before being in trouble, but certainly no further.”

  “Hmm,” Spencer said, stroking his chin.

  St. James said to Spencer, “Let me know when you’re through, and I’ll call the dealer and make arrangements for the car.”

  Spencer didn’t respond immediately.

  St. James sensed Spencer’s distance. “What’s troubling you?”

  “Just thinking about the intelligence chatter and how we should get these guys off the street, fast, before they get lucky.”

  “Amen to that,” St. James said, nodding his head. “Why don’t we talk to Pierre?”

  “Good idea,” Spencer said.

  St. James pointed up toward the fifth floor as he turned to Spencer. “We’ll call from my condo.”

  “Yeah, okay. I can leave now. They can finish up on their own,” Spencer said, pointing to the two under the car.

  They entered the condo, and St. James called the BMW dealer first to arrange repairs.

  “You’re getting to be a regular, Mr. St. James,” said the collision manager.

  St. James frowned. “Funny, that’s what everyone’s saying.”

  He disconnected, then placed the phone on speaker and punched in Pierre’s number.

  “I’m here with Detective Mark Spencer of the Ottawa Police department,
we have you on speaker,” St. James said to DuPont when he answered. “Thank you for acting on the intelligence so quickly.”

  “That’s what friends are for, mon ami. Just glad you and Slate are all right. I wouldn’t want to lose you. Maybe we’re up to three golf games now,” DuPont said with his usual chuckle.

  For the next five minutes or so, Spencer and St. James filled DuPont in on the crime scene.

  “Did your people get the intelligence from cell phones?” St. James asked.

  “Let’s see. Have the report in front me now. Just a second. Says cell calls and text messages. Five-way conversations. Details on how they planned to kill you. Times. Methods. Which one would do what. That sort of thing.”

  “Don’t they realize the world is listening?” Spencer said, shaking his head.

  “These fellows are not very smart, Detective Spencer,” DuPont said. “We caught them the first time because they did something stupid. Not likely they’ve gotten any smarter.”

  “Are these cell phones traceable?” St. James asked.

  “Yes. We’ve already traced most of the cells. They’re coming from the Boston area,” DuPont added conclusively.

  Spencer looked surprised. “Boston? I thought they were here, in Ottawa.”

  “Can you trace the exact location, Pierre?” St. James asked.

  “I am emailing intelligence as we speak, asking them to provide the information.”

  “Thank you,” St. James said.

  “Purely selfish. I had a hand in those thugs going to jail too. I could be next.”

  Disconnected.

  Spencer said, “Speaking of cell phones, the one Dozer took from the thug in Wakefield traced through to a guy named Rodney Sterling, an underground character, well known to Montreal police. They brought him in for questioning yesterday.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “Just that Sterling was engaged by email from a man who wanted ‘unique work’ done, as he put it. He doesn’t have a name. Names are never given, so they can’t snitch on each other.”

  “First time I’ve ever heard it called ‘unique work,’” St. James said, smiling. “Did he give a description?”

  “Don’t think so. But you should talk to the interviewing officer yourself.” Spencer gave St. James a number for the Montreal detective.

  Chapter 63

  It was 4:15 on a very wet Wednesday afternoon when Boston police stormed Earle’s Bar & Grill and arrested Stern, Spance, and Dunning for the attempted murder of Slate and St. James. Police anticipated they might run for it through a side door, so an officer was posted just outside before the pub was swarmed.

  When Stern spotted the police, he jumped from a booth and bolted for the side door, only to be grabbed immediately by the waiting officer. He struggled to break free, but the officer managed to cuff him when Stern’s energy expired.

  Spance went into full cardiac arrest and fell to the floor, gasping for air. Police yelled for the bartender to call 911. Fifteen minutes later, medics were administering oxygen and taking Spance’s blood pressure. When he stabilized, they carted him off to Boston General with a policeman riding in the ambulance to guard him.

  Dunning remained in the booth, calmly drinking beer as if nothing was happening. But when an officer approached him, Dunning’s calmness quickly disappeared, and he swung hard at the policeman. Two other uniforms rushed to pull Dunning from the booth, throwing him to the floor face down and holding him there until a third policeman slapped on cuffs.

  The entire operation took less than seven minutes.

  Chapter 64

  St. James was seated at his desk in the study working on the CISI case when Spencer called.

  “Just talked to Boston police. They arrested three of our guys in a Boston bar yesterday afternoon.”

  “Which three?” St. James asked calmly.

  “Spance, Stern, and Dunning.”

  “When Pierre’s people traced the phones, three were traced to this bar, where they apparently used to spend almost every afternoon.”

  “I see,” St. James said thoughtfully. “One of the other phones belongs to this Vinner fellow, whom I remember, but not as a member of this particular gang. Who’s the fifth?” St. James asked.

  “They say they don’t know. The guy is Vinner’s contact only. Never shared a name with them. All they knew was Vinner had a guy in Ottawa watching you.”

  “Watching me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  St. James was silent for a long moment, then said, “Can’t we trace the phone for the fifth guy somehow?”

  “Yes. We’re working on it right now.”

  “Great,” St. James said, and clicked off.

  St. James went back to his CISI research, but it wasn’t ten minutes before he was interrupted by the phone again. It was Detective Luc St. Jacques of the Montreal Police returning St. James’s call from the previous day.

  “Officer St. Jacques,” he announced in a strong French accent.

  “Thank you for returning my call, Officer. I understand you questioned Sterling.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he cooperative?”

  “As cooperative as an underworld thug would be with police, yes.”

  St. Jacques spent the next fifteen minutes reading excerpts from his interview with Sterling and answering St. James’s questions. After considerable pressure, Sterling had admitted to hiring Martin Clayton and Clint Wagner to run St. James off the road, and then Long to break into Anna’s apartment to kidnap her and lure St. James into a trap, and after further probing, the two clowns who had followed St. James and Dozer to Wakefield.

  Chapter 65

  St. James had most of what he needed to wrap up the Stevens case, but the Cayman bank end of things was gnawing at him. Smythe had done a great job working with Antoinette, but St. James had to have more solid ground for his conclusions to be credible. He had to see for himself. He had to go to Cayman.

  He telephoned Anna at the pub.

  “Would you like a little holiday in the sun?”

  She laughed. “Is that a trick question?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Where?”

  “Cayman.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” she said enthusiastically. “When do we go?”

  “Sometime within the next day, if I can get meetings lined up and travel arrangements made. It’s only three days, so you won’t need a trunk.”

  “Very funny. I won’t get too excited until you tell me for sure.”

  They clicked off.

  St. James tapped Smythe’s number on his cell. “What are you doing, Louis?”

  “Ironing my favourite plaid kilt. Why?”

  St. James let it go. “Do you think Antoinette could get me a meeting with an officer of the bank?”

  “So you decided to go after all,” Smythe said, ignoring St. James’s question. “Want me to come with you?”

  “Nah, I can handle it myself.”

  “How come I always get left out?” he said in a pouty voice.

  St. James had little sympathy. “Bad luck I guess.”

  Smythe made a snorting sound. “Well, the least you can do is bring me a picture of Antoinette. I checked the bank website: there isn’t one of her there. I was disappointed because she sounds wonderful on the phone. Love her accent. Wish I could see what she looks like.”

  “What if she wants a picture of you?” St. James said, biting his lip.

  “I’ll email you one right now.”

  “Great. She’ll be delighted to see what a snappy dresser you are.”

  “Up yours.” Smythe hung up without another word.

  While waiting for Smythe to confirm a bank meeting, St. James called Higgins Johnson to see if they could meet early the following week. They were available Tuesday morning at nine, which St. James thought would work provided it didn’t conflict with a potential bank meeting.

  An hour passed before Smythe called back. “Antoinette says Vice-President
Alvin Bodden can see you at two on Tuesday.”

  “Fantastic, Louis. Thank you. By the way, does Antoinette have a last name?”

  “Ebanks. Antoinette Ebanks. Say hi to her for me.”

  “I will.”

  Now satisfied that a Cayman trip could be productive, he confirmed with Anna and went online to book flights and accommodations.

  A wrinkle: cheapest return flight to Grand Cayman was Saturday to Saturday. A week, not three days.

  “A sacrifice I have to make for Global,” he mumbled, smiling to himself.

  He broke down and booked a week in the Ritz-Carlton on West Bay Road. But, a week in the Ritz-Carlton cost more than the Saturday-to-Saturday flight. A lot more. He rationalized it as part business, part vacation.

  If her yelp was any indication, Anna took the news that they’d be staying a full week quite well.

  “Maybe I’ll need a trunk after all, smartass,” she said. “I’ll be home to pack in a half-hour.”

  Reservations went off without a hitch, except that some turbulence between Toronto and Cayman upset Anna’s stomach. They landed at Owen Roberts Airport forty-five minutes late due to bad weather, cleared customs in record time, and walked into the hotel at two fifteen.

  The Ritz-Carlton was a wonderful resort, equipped with recreation for every enthusiast. The building itself was roughly the shape of a lobster. Two wings of residential suites extended outward toward the beach like lobster claws; regular rooms were bunched in the middle like the body.

  The beachfront was peppered with two long rows of neatly aligned lounge chairs, matching wooden cabanas perched directly behind.

  Their suite was a little less than 1,200 square feet of luxury, facing Seven Mile Beach.

  “My God, Hamilton! I can’t imagine what this costs.”

  He smiled. “You don’t want to know.”

  When she recovered from eye-candy shock, Anna lay down, hoping to settle her stomach.

  While Anna rested, St. James strolled Seven Mile Beach. It was eighty-two degrees and not a cloud in the sky. The Caribbean waters were a pristine blue-green, not a piece of litter to be seen in any direction. The cleanliness itself was a tourist attraction.