Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  “How far did you go in school?”

  Denzel’s eyes squinted, continuing to look past St. James, searching hard for an answer. He grabbed his thick black curly hair tightly with both hands as frustration grew.

  “Wasn’t there very long,” he said finally. His face clouded over with old memories.

  “Life must have been difficult,” St. James said sympathetically.

  “They’re really good to me at the home.” Denzel’s face brightened. “And Erasmus is very good to me too. He says I can learn to do things. He’d send me to a special school, but he doesn’t have much money right now.”

  “Do you find checking Anna’s house difficult?”

  “No. Erasmus is a good teacher. He knows how to get things into my head.”

  St. James gave a sympathetic smile.

  “Do you get bored doing the same thing every day?”

  “No. Makes me feel good. Watching television and playing video games makes me feel bad about myself.”

  St. James’s heart sank. He paused a beat then said, “If you could go to a special school, would you want to?”

  “Erasmus says we can’t.”

  “But, what if you could?”

  “I like to learn. I like to feel good about myself. I don’t like it when I feel bad. I don’t like it when people make fun of me.”

  “I am very proud to have you on my team, Denzel.”

  Chapter 77

  Two days later, St. James received a cheque from Mary DeSilva for $2.3 million. That made him feel good about himself, like Denzel wanted to feel. He deposited the cheque in the bank across the street and then paid the balance of Higgins Johnson’s bill, as well as Dozer’s and Smythe’s. Finally, he wrote bonus cheques for each member of the team.

  His computer pinged with two emails from CISI human resources, a number of documents from Karen’s personnel file attached. He read each one carefully, making notes of relevant points as he went.

  Time for celebration.

  Once again he made reservations at the Beach Club and invited the team for 5:30. Cathy was on duty, sporting a huge smile for Dozer, who had no trouble whatsoever reciprocating. By 5:45 they all had a drink in hand, Denzel a Coke, the rest their usual poison.

  St. James had everyone line up in front of the ship-at-sea painting while Cathy took several photos with his cell.

  “What’s this, a graduation picture?” Cathy asked with a grin.

  “GQ,” Dozer said sarcastically.

  Cathy rolled her eyes.

  She took four or five shots from different angles before handing the phone back to St. James.

  When they sat at the table St. James proposed a toast for a job well done and thanked everyone for their part in a successful end to the Stevens affair.

  “But I didn’t do anything,” Denzel said sheepishly.

  “You’re part of the team, Denzel,” St. James said. “You’re providing a valuable service on the remaining case.”

  When they finished the main course, St. James handed envelopes around the table. Everyone stared at him, not knowing whether to open them then and there or stuff them in a pocket.

  Dozer was the first to speak. “What’s this, Hamilton?”

  “Why don’t you open it and find out?”

  Anna and Smythe looked at each other. Denzel just swayed.

  When envelopes were opened and contents revealed, expressions of shock washed over everyone’s faces.

  “It takes me four months to earn this much money,” Anna said, staring at the cheque in disbelief. “I didn’t do enough to justify this, Hamilton.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” St. James said smiling.

  Smythe chimed in. “Very generous, Hamilton, thank you. Now I can buy some new plaids.”

  “No hurry, Louis. We were just getting use to the old ones,” St. James assured, laughing.

  “This isn’t necessary, man,” Dozer blurted. “You pay me for what I do. That’s all you have to do.”

  St. James ignored Dozer.

  “I want to explain something,” St. James said, raising a hand to garner attention. “Denzel and I met and talked about learning. He’s very grateful for your help, Dozer. And he’d like to learn more. I think Denzel could be even more valuable as a team member if his skills were enhanced.”

  He paused for a moment to gather the appropriate words.

  “Denzel’s cheque is a little lighter than the rest. Not because I value him less. I did some research. There is a school in Texas called Warbridge. It does excellent work with folks who have learning challenges. Teaches life skills and job training in a very effective way. I spoke with the director yesterday at some length and explained what a great person Denzel was, how he learns, and the success his brother is now having with a certain learning approach. She felt Denzel could make very good progress if he was willing to spend six months at the school.

  “What do you think about that, Denzel?”

  “I like to learn. Erasmus teaches me.”

  “You’d learn a lot at this school, Denzel,” St. James said. “I checked a number of references. They’re stellar. Would you like to try it?”

  “Okay,” he said, as if St. James was offering a second dessert.

  “But Hamilton, the cost would be out of sight,” Dozer objected. “I can’t afford it right now.”

  “Denzel’s cheque is smaller because, subject to Denzel’s willingness to go and your approval, Dozer, I have committed to send him as an investment in the team.”

  Dozer’s mouth opened wide and stayed there. “Man, I’m speechless,” he said in disbelief. “That’s too much, man. Over the top. We can’t accept a gift like that.”

  Dozer didn’t know what else to say, nor how much to object. He looked as if he might tear up, which got Anna going, which got Smythe staring at the large painting in discomfort.

  Cathy arrived with dessert menus, looked at everyone, and frowned.

  “Another team-building dinner, folks?” she asked cautiously.

  Tears of happiness gave way to loud laughter.

  Chapter 78

  Between trips to England and Cayman and conducting research for St. James, life had been too busy for Anna to reach out to Betty as she had promised while in Plymouth. True to her word, she finally got around to phoning Betty to invite her shopping. Betty was reluctant at first but eventually said yes, and today was the day they agreed to go.

  “You take the BMW, Anna. I won’t need it,” St. James offered.

  Anna checked the refrigerator and cupboards, deciding on provisions for the coming week, and made a list of four or five items. She planned to drop in to the grocery store after she and Betty shopped awhile.

  “What have you planned for the day?”

  “Plugging holes in CISI.”

  “Are you sure you won’t need the car?”

  “No, I’m good. Good luck taming the shrew,” he said with a grin.

  Anna gave him an admonishing look.

  After she left, St. James phoned his old friend Gabe Fieldstone, who worked for one of the large brokerage houses in the market. Gabe said it was a slow day and St. James was welcome to drop by for a coffee.

  Good chance for a walk.

  At 10:30 he hoofed it down to the brokerage office on Dalhousie and asked for Gabe at reception. Out in short order, Gabe escorted St. James into one of the many small rooms used for client consultations.

  At university, Gabe had been a chick magnet: a tall, handsome, body-builder type who on a clear day would have no trouble passing for Clark Kent. About forty-two, Gabe was a golfer, a sports fanatic, and, most of all, wealthy. With all that going for him, he still couldn’t seem to find the right woman.

  They spent time catching up on personal news and then got down to business.

  “So what can I do for you, Hamilton?”

  “I have this case that sort of hinges on your profession. Trying to find out whether certain people have margin accounts and if they’re in
good standing.”

  Gabe’s face clouded over. “You know I can’t give out client information,” he said sternly.

  “Yes, I know that. I’m thinking you don’t have to divulge personal information for me to know what I need to know.”

  Gabe rolled his eyes. “Just how do I go about doing that?” he said incredulously.

  “I have a list of names here.”

  St. James pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to Gabe. Gabe scanned the names without comment or expression.

  “Here’s what I suggest,” St. James began. “You feed the names into your system. If you get hits, all I want to know is: do they have margin accounts, are they interest-only, and are they in good standing?”

  “If all names ring up yes to each question, it’s easy,” Gabe said sardonically. “I can just say that. Borderline unethical but perhaps there’s a way. There’s a problem if it’s only one or two names. I can’t tell you which ones. That would be a clear violation.”

  “I know. Here’s my suggestion. I know the debt amounts each person has with your organization in Toronto. I just don’t know if they’re margined, interest-only, and in good standing. If you just have one or two names, I’ll rattle off loan amounts, and you nod yes or no depending on positive or negative answers. No information given out of trust.”

  Gabe considered this for a moment.

  “It’s borderline, Hamilton,” he said, stroking his chin in thought.

  “You’re not giving amounts or personal information,” St. James argued. “I’m giving it, not the other way around.”

  “I am, indirectly. I am confirming names you give me. Same thing, only different,” he said lightly.

  Gabe thought for a long moment.

  Finally, he said, “Here’s what I can do. If it’s less than all the names, you call out the debt numbers one by one. If one of the numbers is close to the amount of a margin account, interest-only, and in good standing, I’ll cough.”

  St. James laughed.

  Gabe was not amused. “Why are you laughing?”

  “What’s the difference between a cough and a nod? Both acknowledge something I’m not supposed to know.”

  “In court I can say I had a cough when we met. It’s a condition, not acknowledgement of information. A nod isn’t a condition,” he said, grinning.

  “Gabe, you’re hilarious,” St. James said, laughing. “We’ll go with the cough. But there are three questions for each person: margin account, interest-only, and good standing. Does that mean three coughs?”

  Gabe thought for another second.

  Then he said, “You say the individual amount, then ask the three questions slowly after each amount. I’ll cough as many times as answers are positive.”

  St. James laughed again. “Why does this feel like a game at summer camp?”

  Gabe ignored the jab.

  “Why do you want to know if an account is interest-only?”

  “Interest-only means the principal is not being paid down. Loan’s most likely the original amount unless shares were sold to pay it down. The higher the loan, the greater the chance it will be out of margin if the stock price tumbles.”

  “Gotcha. Okay, you disappear for half an hour,” he said, “and by the time you return I might have developed a cough.”

  St. James left for a coffee shop down the street, ordered a double latte, grabbed a newspaper from a rack, and parked himself at a window table.

  He covered the paper in ten minutes, nothing of interest.

  Don’t know why they call them newspapers. Never anything new.

  He stared out the window, wondering about timing to wrap up CISI. He still had to put it all together to see if additional evidence was needed. Ten to fifteen days would likely be enough.

  St. James looked at his watch. By the time he walked back to Gabe’s the half-hour would be up. Five minutes later, Gabe and St. James were seated in the same meeting room they had occupied just a short time ago.

  St. James said, “Did all the names qualify for my questions?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  St. James pulled a second piece of paper from a pocket and slowly rimed off loan amounts for each person on the list he had given Gabe. When he got to the second last number Gabe coughed, and then coughed right after St. James asked each of the three questions.

  St. James stood and shook Gabe’s hand.

  “Thanks for your help, Gabe,” he said as he was leaving. “Take care of yourself. That cough could turn into bronchitis.”

  Gabe laughed. “That would be just my luck.”

  Walking down York Street, St. James felt his cell vibrate.

  Anna.

  “You have to get here quick,” she said in a panic.

  “Calm down. Get where?”

  “Police station,” she managed to blurt out. “Betty and I were attacked in the Rideau Centre parking garage.”

  St. James felt his heart pound.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, no. We’re okay. Just come.”

  He hailed a passing cab, and ten minutes later walked into police headquarters. The duty officer said, “Yes, Mr. St. James, they’re waiting for you in the third room to the right. Officer’s name is Brownlow.”

  He thanked her and made his way to the case room where he opened the door to complete pandemonium. Officer Brownlow was trying hard to restrain Betty and calm her down. Anna was seated at a table with her head buried in her hands.

  “Let me at the son of a bitch. I’ll finish him off,” Betty snapped.

  “Please calm down, Mrs. Sparks,” Officer Brownlow pleaded. “You’ll have a stroke.”

  “What the hell is going on?” St. James said in a loud voice.

  Betty went quiet.

  Anna rushed toward St. James and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Hamilton, thank God you’re here.”

  Officer Brownlow introduced himself.

  “Everybody please be calm,” St. James said authoritatively as he turned to face Brownlow. “Officer, what happened?”

  “At about 11:15 we received a call from a shopper in the Rideau Centre parking garage reporting a hysterical lady beating and kicking a man lying on the floor, swearing she was going to kill him. When I got there the man begged me to pull her away from him.”

  “Where is he now?” St. James asked.

  “He’s next door with Detective Spencer.”

  St. James looked first at Betty, and then at Anna. “What triggered this?”

  They both started talking at once, Anna in a distressed voice, Betty with hell, fire, and brimstone.

  “One at a time,” St. James commanded, raising a hand.

  “This goddamned son of a bitch tried to kidnap us,” Betty blurted, red faced, nostrils flaring. “I wasn’t having any of that. I told the little bastard if he didn’t get out of my face, I’d beat him into next week. He just stood there and laughed, as if I couldn’t do it. I showed him. He isn’t laughing now.”

  Officer Brownlow was biting his lip, trying hard not to laugh.

  “You all right?” St. James asked Anna.

  “Just rattled.”

  “I’m going next door to check on this fellow with Mark,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  St. James left the room, managing to close the door behind him before breaking into quiet laugher. The mental picture of a sixty-five-year-old woman beating the crap out of a thug was too much.

  Next door, Spencer was questioning the victim of Betty’s rage.

  “This is Robert Clarkstone,” Spencer said as St. James entered the room.

  St. James nodded.

  A muscular man of medium build, Clarkstone’s forehead scar looked as if it had been there for some time. Not Betty’s handiwork. He wore a mangy goatee.

  “What’s this about?” St. James asked evenly.

  Looking at Spencer and pointing to St. James, “Who’s this clown?” Clarkstone spoke with a stutter.

  “This �
�clown,’ as you put it, is your employer’s mark,” Spencer replied with a disgusted look. “You should know that.”

  Clarkstone went quiet.

  “I take it you were hired by Rodney Sterling?” St. James said, eyes studying Clarkstone for signs of acknowledgement.

  Clarkstone’s eyebrows rose.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” St. James said.

  “What were you told to do with the women?”

  Clarkstone didn’t answer.

  “Answer the man,” Spencer said aggressively.

  Clarkstone stared first at Spencer and then at St. James, trying to decide his next move. After a minute or two he decided it was best to cooperate.

  “I was to take them to Montreal,” he said, trying hard not to stutter.

  “Then what?” St. James asked impatiently.

  “Sterling was to take it from there. Don’t know what he was going to do with them.”

  St. James turned to Spencer.

  “That’s all I needed to know. I’ll leave you to do what you do. I have to calm two hysterical women.”

  Spencer chuckled. “Good luck with that.”

  “That old broad should be locked up,” Clarkstone stuttered. “She’s a raving lunatic.”

  “Maybe so,” St. James said with a grin, “but that raving lunatic is a sixty-five-year-old woman who just whupped your ass. You’ll be the laughingstock of the Montreal mafia.”

  Clarkstone hung his head.

  With that, St. James went back to the room where Brownlow had Betty and Anna, thanked the officer, and then took the women to lunch on Elgin.

  When the three had ordered food, St. James looked over at Betty.

  “Well, Betty, finally some good has come from your anger.”

  Chapter 79

  Two glasses of wine and a healthy serving of pasta helped calm Betty. Despite being quiet during the drive home, she managed to thank them when they arrived in front of her house on Sunnyside. There were no suspicious vehicles on the street. St. James checked the house before Betty entered, then he and Anna made their way back to 700 Sussex.

  Anna let out a long sigh. “What a morning.”

  St. James laughed.

  Anna became annoyed. “Not funny, Hamilton. This was just as hard on me as the night those two jerks tried to run us off the road.”