Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  Mary interrupted. “We skipped over the rest of the code. What does it all mean?”

  “The ‘g’ in front of section one stands for Gyberson, ‘j’ at the end for Jensen: money from Gyberson to Jensen. The middle part is Cayman National Bank’s SWIFT code, from Gyberson’s Cayman account to Jensen’s.”

  St. James looked at Smythe. “Louis, would you mind taking everyone through the rest of the code?”

  Smythe explained the remaining sections. Flights, times, initials for the five shareholders, and the cities they landed in.

  Nathan had no interest in the rest of the code. “Let’s not forget Tom’s murder,” he said. “He may have done irreparable harm to the firm, but he was still a human being pushed to the limit. Over the years he contributed a lot to this firm and to the community.”

  St. James nodded.

  “Why do you think he was killed?” Smythe asked.

  “My guess is that with time, Stevens’s mind began to clear. He probably realized what he had given up, what he’d thrown away. The respect of the firm, its clients, and the many charities he’d raised so much money for. He probably started thinking he’d sold out too cheap, that what he’d given up was worth far more than the escape money he’d been promised. He probably asked for more, turning himself into a liability to Gyberson, which cost him his life. Jason and the Fargo police will determine that during criminal proceedings, I’m sure.”

  Jensen broke his silence. “You can’t prove any of this, St. James,” he said angrily.

  St. James became rigid and glared straight into Jensen’s eyes. “When I interviewed you, you said you didn’t have a Cayman bank account. And that you didn’t have tax problems. Both lies. I don’t have to prove anything to you, Jensen. Jason and Bill will work that out. Although I pledge my help whenever they need it. You can be sure of that. In the meantime, I have enough to have your phony lawsuit and claim against my client thrown out. That was my job. It’s done, Malachi. And so are you.”

  Chapter 72

  When the room quieted down Jason went to the door and beckoned the two uniformed policemen into the room, then returned to where Jensen was seated.

  “Mr. Jensen, I am placing you under arrest for tax evasion, attempted fraud, and accessory to murder. Please stand.”

  Jensen looked shocked as Jason read him his rights while one policeman pulled Jensen’s hands behind his back and slapped the handcuffs on.

  “You said I wasn’t under arrest,” Jensen cried.

  “That was a half-hour ago,” Jason said, smiling.

  “Sonofabitch! I’ll sue your ass off for this.”

  “Must be your favourite line, Malachi.”

  Jason barked at the two uniforms, “Get him the hell out of here!”

  The officers dragged Jensen off, and Jason turned to St. James. “Nice work, Hamilton.”

  “It was a team effort. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Great job, Hamilton,” Slate said, shaking his hand. “Looks like Jason and I have some paperwork to do. I hate that part.”

  “What about the rest of Gyberson’s gang?” St. James asked.

  “Small potatoes,” Slate said. “They can wait. We’ve got the murderer and the fraudster. Good enough for now.”

  St. James thanked Jason and Slate for their support as they left the room.

  Mary gave St. James a big hug. “Thank you, Hamilton. As always, you didn’t disappoint. Don’t know what we’d do without you. Your cheque, as they say, is in the mail. I’ll be in touch,” she said as she walked from Stevens, Gables & Strong’s boardroom.

  Nathan, about to leave for the meetings he had postponed, shook St. James’s hand and thanked him.

  As Nathan walked toward the boardroom door St. James said, “Would you like some help with the communication?”

  “That would be wonderful, Hamilton. I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he muttered in a glum voice.

  “I’ll draft something and email it to you in the morning.”

  Nathan just nodded and slowly walked away.

  It was just Smythe, Anna, and Dozer remaining.

  “Excellent work, boss. Well done,” Smythe said, enthusiastically slapping St. James on the back.

  Anna stared at Hamilton. “I guess I owe you an apology for being so curt on Grand Cayman. Your methods are very impressive indeed. And they do serve you well. I see now why you had to do things the way you did. It was far more complicated than I could ever have imagined.”

  St. James said nothing. He just kissed her and then turned to Dozer.

  “You asked some very good questions, my friend, but otherwise you were uncharacteristically quiet. No smart remarks.”

  Dozer’s grin widened. “I learned a long time ago not to interrupt the master when he’s unfolding the truth. Too dangerous.”

  They all laughed.

  St. James looked at all three. “Let’s go home, team.”

  The late afternoon flight to Ottawa was almost full. Just four seats left for them to grab. Anna and St. James landed in the condo at eight, dumped the week’s laundry in the wash, and cracked open a bottle of Cannonau di Sardegna, which St. James found lingering in the very back of the liquor cabinet.

  They sat quietly in the living room for a time, sipping wine, thinking about the day’s events and about how the final evidence would shake out.

  “What will you do now, Hamilton?” Anna finally asked.

  “I have a lot of papers to sort through, bills to pay, and an invoice to prepare for Mary. She usually sends a cheque before she even gets the bill, God love her.”

  “Not hard to do the math for what they owe you, 10% of $23 million,” she mused. “An incredible sum.”

  St. James looked into her sparkling brown eyes. “Do you remember our drive to Wakefield? When you asked how I live, how I can spend without worry. And I asked you to give me a couple of weeks to show you, and you would see.”

  “I remember,” she said with a smile. “I guess you just did.”

  Chapter 73

  St. James knew Nathan would be paralyzed by the whole experience. So early Tuesday morning he went into the study and drafted a communication for Nathan to send internally and a second piece for public consumption. He stressed the good that Stevens had done for the firm, its clients, and the community. That Stevens suffered from depression. And that the partners and staff will honor him by establishing a fund in his name for mental health research through the National Institute of Mental Health. Then he emailed everything to Nathan.

  Not five minutes went by before Nathan called.

  “Hamilton, this is brilliant,” he said, voice much stronger than the previous day. “But is it right that we portray him as a victim rather than as part of a conspiracy?”

  “He was a victim, Nathan. A victim of enormous stress, a horrible marriage, and a feeling of hopelessness. If Gyberson and Jensen hadn’t come along, he may have ended the suffering himself. Even if Gyberson hadn’t killed him, the fact that there was no legitimate insurance claim meant he wouldn’t have money to live anyway. And he couldn’t return to the firm, not after what he had done. A sad man with no future, and no way to support himself. It’s difficult to imagine how he could have gone on living under such circumstances.

  “Beth is a victim also: bad marriage, murdered husband, and mental health issues of her own. The firm honouring Stevens with a fund in his name may bring her some peace.”

  “I still have angry partners. What about the damage to the firm?”

  “The firm suffered only collateral damage. Stevens suffered direct damage first with emotional pain, then with his life. It’s better for you to show compassion to your staff and the public, not anger or self-pity. Ask your partners if they would like this catastrophe to go away quickly and in a positive way. Then ask if they think it would go away faster by portraying the firm as the victim of attempted fraud, or the deceased as the victim of mental illness? If you portray Stevens as a fraudster, that’s all th
e public will ever remember. A senior partner labelled dishonest, permanently. What would your clients think? You would almost certainly lose some to competitors. Clients too embarrassed to deal with a firm whose former partner was a co-conspirator. Wouldn’t your partners rather the public think of the firm as caring?

  “This is a good thing for the community. You’re supporting research for mental illness. That lasts much longer than the victim image, especially if you add to the fund every year, a continuous reminder of the good the firm stands for. It will strengthen your brand.

  “Although I can’t tell you the number of people suffering from depression, I do know it’s the greatest untreated disease in the United States. Mostly because everyone’s ashamed to talk about it. Make the firm a champion of it being okay to talk about mental illness. And I guarantee you will rise above this catastrophe in a positive way and come out the other end stronger and more profitable than you would ever imagine.”

  “Very compelling, Hamilton,” Nathan said slowly.

  “It’s not just compelling, Nathan, it’s the right thing to do.”

  “You will bill me of course?” he asked.

  “On the house,” St. James said lightly. “Call me if you get into trouble.”

  “I will. And thank you again… For everything you’ve done.”

  They disconnected.

  St. James didn’t know how long it was, but for some time he stared at his study wall, pondering the end of another journey.

  Chapter 74

  When St. James’s focus crawled back to the present, he remembered Friday’s class. He had to prepare. And CISI was crying out for attention.

  First things first. He telephoned Janice McPherson to let her know he was still among the living. She was relieved and happy she could now put her own life back in order. Filling in for St. James had taken up most of her spare time for several weeks, and she had overdue papers for her classes.

  For twenty minutes or so she recounted everything that had gone on in the class during his absence, how far they had progressed with the course outline, and where he had to pick up the pieces. St. James was pleased. She was right where the course should be for the time of year.

  “Excellent work, Janice.”

  He would see her properly rewarded.

  His thoughts turned to CISI.

  Before leaving for Cayman, St. James had had the presence of mind to email Anderson that he’d be off the grid for a week’s holiday. Anderson didn’t need to know he was working another case.

  The rest of the day was spent reviewing where he’d left off. He considered notes from phone conversations with Detective St. Jacques. The detective’s interview with Sterling. Very relevant.

  The phone rang.

  Spencer.

  “I thought you’d want to know, Hamilton. We arranged with Bell to trace the phone belonging to the fifth guy, Vinner’s contact. This one’s going to surprise you.”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore, Mark,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, who is it?”

  “Sidney Gunther.”

  “What!” St. James blurted in a raised voice. “The grumpy bartender from the Dirty Duck?”

  “That’s right. He was fired a couple of weeks ago for treating customers poorly.”

  “I knew he’d been fired. He’s the last guy I would have suspected capable of murder. Mean-spirited, yes. Willing to organize hits, no.”

  St. James remembered Anna saying Gunther was acting weird. Secret phone calls. Asking about him. Now it made sense. He was talking to Vinner all along, reporting St. James’s every move.

  “I told you you’d be surprised,” Spencer said with a chuckle. “But when you think about it, his personality fits a thug’s far better than a bartender’s.”

  “You’re right about that. What’s your plan?”

  “We’ll bring him in for questioning when we track him down. He could lead us to Vinner.”

  “Thanks, Mark. Let me know if anything comes of it.”

  They disconnected.

  St. James shook his head and went back to work.

  “Sidney Gunther,” he mumbled. “Who would’ve guessed?”

  Next, he examined Dozer’s surveillance notes on Graves, Blakie, and Van Hoyt. Van Hoyt was shopping at plumbing and fixture stores to renovate the new home. Nothing of interest there. Graves was continuously in meetings, but taking time to have lunch with Blakie, a man he didn’t like. Interesting.

  For a moment St. James thought about having Dozer run surveillance on Anderson. But, then dismissed it. It would be waste of time. Anderson was a straight shooter, focused only on company performance. Not a man for games.

  Instead St. James decided to phone him. “Sorry to bother you, Cameron.”

  “How was your vacation?” Anderson asked.

  “Very relaxing. Thank you. I know you and Blakie are close, so I wanted to check something with you.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I had the impression Graves and Blakie weren’t exactly drinking buddies.”

  St. James heard Anderson force a laugh.

  “I would say that’s a valid assessment, maybe even an understatement.”

  “They’ve been having lunches together, and that’s odd for two people who don’t like each other.”

  “Oh, that. Nelson had been having a hard time implementing his board agenda. David’s been at odds with it, blocking initiatives, that sort of thing. Nelson asked my advice. It was me who suggested he invite David to lunch a couple of times, just the two of them, to see if they could reach some sort of common ground.”

  “Makes sense,” St. James said thoughtfully.

  They chatted for another fifteen minutes or so. Company financial results were strong, ahead of budget and last year’s actual results. Product poundage up one per cent overall, yields up half a per cent, and staff turnover down one per cent. All in all impressive results. He congratulated Anderson for CISI’s success.

  Chapter 75

  St. James had gone to Harvard with a guy named Chip Wilson. They were good friends and had made an effort to stay in touch over the years. Chip landed a job with IBM when he graduated and had since worked his way up to vice-president. He was someone St. James trusted. So he picked Chip’s number from the database and tapped it on his cell.

  “Hey, Chip. How goes it?”

  “You called on a good day, Hamilton. I was just handed my profit-sharing cheque, up nicely over last year I might add. So there’s nothing you can say that will piss me off,” he said, chuckling.

  “Not my style to piss people off, you know that, Chip,” St. James said disingenuously.

  “Right,” Chip laughed. “The streets are littered with people pissed off at you.”

  “Too kind, Chip. Too kind.”

  They became serious.

  “What can I do for you, Hamilton?”

  “I’m looking for information on a couple of people who once worked at IBM. A lady by the name of Karen Van Hoyt and a man called Nelson Graves.”

  “Nelson ran the Canadian operations for a time,” Chip said slowly. “Competent, successfully grew the business, bit of a pain in the ass.”

  St. James interrupted. “In what way?”

  “Upper crust English mannerism. Employees felt he looked down on them.”

  St. James laughed.

  “Based on what I’ve seen so far he probably did. What about Karen?”

  “Didn’t know her well. She came up through the accounting side. Nelson was her mentor, I think.”

  “Anything between them?”

  Chip paused for a moment.

  “Not that I am aware of. Rumours of course. Usual when you have a man mentoring a woman. But I doubt it.”

  They talked about university days and sports for a while and then disconnected. St. James made notes.

  For a long moment he stared out onto Sussex. Three police cars, lights flashing,
were parked on a sidewalk on the opposite side of Sussex, next to the bank. Five or six policemen were standing outside.

  Maybe a robbery.

  No one moved an inch during the entire few minutes that St. James watched.

  His mind drifted back to CISI.

  Van Hoyt had worked with Nelson at IBM. St. James wondered if he provided a reference for her when she applied for CISI’s CFO position. He called Anderson a second time.

  “Don’t know, Hamilton. Before my time. I’ll have HR pull Karen’s file and email the contents to you.”

  Chapter 76

  Something was bothering St. James, and it had been for some time. He had spent time with every team member except Dozer’s brother, Denzel. St. James didn’t think that was right, and something made him decide to do something about it that very moment.

  He grabbed a jacket from the hall closet and stepped out to a damp, chilly November day. The kind of day he always associated with England.

  He pulled his jacket collar up tightly around his neck as he crossed Sussex and headed toward Guigues Street. Fifteen minutes later he was in front of Anna’s apartment, just in time to meet Denzel leaving a routine check.

  “Hi, Mr. St. James,” Denzel said when he saw St. James.

  “You can call me Hamilton,” he said for the third or fourth time.

  “Okay, Mr. St. James,” Denzel said.

  “Do you drink coffee, Denzel?”

  “Doctor says I can’t. Medication.”

  St. James nodded. “What can you drink?”

  “Coke or water,” he said, swaying and staring past St. James.

  “Come with me, I’ll buy you a Coke,” St. James said with a smile.

  “Okay, Mr. St. James.”

  They walked toward the centre of the Market and found a quiet coffee shop on York where St. James ordered a Coke for Denzel and black coffee for himself. They settled at a small table close to the entrance.

  “How old are you, Denzel?” St. James asked.

  “Erasmus says I’m 22.”