He wanted to bring her on full-time, work side by side, solve cases together. But it wasn’t like bringing on Smythe, Dozer, or Denzel. The personal side complicated everything. Whether she moved in with him or not, a relationship breakdown meant losing both his girlfriend and the best researcher he’d ever had at the same time. He’d have to take it one day at a time. There was no risk-free decision. And at the moment he didn’t know where Anna’s head was.
The phone rang. St. James answered to Nathan Strong’s voice.
“Just wanted to let you know the partners voted yesterday to set up the mental health research fund in Tom’s name for one million dollars over five years. You wouldn’t believe the number of emails pouring in. Clients, non-clients, politicians, mental health organizations, and many others,” Nathan said with more excitement than St. James had ever heard from the man.
“By the sound of your voice I would say they must all be positive,” St. James said, a smile in his voice.
“Over-the-top positive,” he said jubilantly.
“I am so pleased for you and your partners, Nathan. I’m glad they bought into the approach.”
“It’s improved morale 1000%, St. James. You were right. Everyone’s talking about the firm’s generosity. No mention of a crime-committing partner. You’re a genius, Hamilton.”
“Hardly true, but thank you for saying so,” St. James said lightly.
They agreed to stay in touch.
St. James’s computer pinged. Smythe had written to say that he had arrived back from the convention the previous night and had learned many new code-breaking techniques. He could hardly wait to try them on St. James’s cases.
For a moment St. James looked at the team photographs Cathy had taken on the night of the celebration dinner at the Beach Club. He laughed. Smythe, short and maybe a hundred and forty pounds, dressed in multiple plaids with the world’s worst combover; Dozer, a bald, six-foot-five, 275-pound black man; next to Anna, a tall, slim, beautiful woman; next to him; next to Denzel.
Quarter of an inch this side of the Addams Family, he thought, smiling to himself. But looks were deceiving. They were the best of the best. Wouldn’t trade them for anything.
The phone rang again. This time it was Anderson.
“Thought you might like an update,” he said.
“Absolutely. Glad to hear from you. I was wondering how the chips fell after I left.”
“You were right about the press release. It helped enormously. I issued it after you left. I haven’t received one call or email from the media, or a shareholder, or an analyst, so far that is. I don’t know what the stock price will do when markets open Monday, but I suspect you’re right. Institutional investors will punish us for a while.”
“If memory serves me right, your quarterly results will be released next week, will they not?” St. James said.
“That’s right.”
“And it’s all good news. All the important key success factors are up dramatically. The institution guys won’t stay away long. Not if there’s money to be made with CISI shares. You can’t keep a good company down, Cameron.”
“You’re probably right, Hamilton,” Anderson said.
“What about Nelson and Karen?”
“The police were worried Nelson might skip town. I don’t know why, but they were. Maybe concerned he’d make a dash for England before they could grab him. They picked them both up from their homes last night. Brought them into custody, pending charges next week. You might be busy on the stand in another couple of months, Hamilton,” Anderson said with a chuckle.
“Fully expected that,” St. James said with a sigh.
Anderson thanked him once again and disconnected.
Next, St. James prepared his bill for CISI, a hefty one. Satisfied that he had included all his time and every little claimable expense he could think of, including a healthy bonus for Janice McPherson, he emailed it to Anderson.
“Best to send a bill like this while his memory is fresh and he’s happy,” St. James muttered.
He went into the living room and opened the French doors. It was snowing, cold, and damp. Only a couple of weeks before Christmas. And he hadn’t done any shopping yet. He would buy a Christmas tree that afternoon. Something to do.
The snow was driven horizontally by a strong wind. Cars moved slowly on a slippery Sussex Drive, new snow making it more so. Ottawa winters weren’t easy.
Suddenly an empty feeling crept over him, one he recognized all too well. It was a feeling that happened every time he finished a case, without another to begin. Perhaps it was insecurity, or worry about what to do next, or maybe a bit of both. The sudden change from an intense investigation to nothing created an incredible feeling of withdrawal, almost like a panic attack. An emotional drop from a high one minute to a low the next. Hamilton called it Post-Case Stress Disorder, PCSD. Not a recognized term, but he felt an overwhelming need to call it something.
A faint ping sound resonated from the study. He strolled down the hall and clicked on Outlook. It was a message from Mary DeSilva.
It simply said, “I need you, Hamilton. NOW!”
St. James smiled. No more PCSD.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my wife, Judy, and my good friends Paul Kavanagh, Bill Knight, Brian Brooks, Stephen McGill, Steve Gallagher, Steve Cannon, and Steve and Jennie Enman for taking the time to read Double Shot of Scotch and offer comments. Your advice was invaluable and definitely made the book stronger.
About the Author
Peter Cleveland is an author of three previous books and a number of articles and works as a business strategist. He spent most of his career with EY, where he gathered experience that greatly influenced the writing of Double Shot of Scotch. Awarded the Governor General’s Caring Canadian Award in 2012, he is a Fellow of the Certified Professional Accountants, a Certified Fraud Examiner, and former trustee in bankruptcy. He lives in Ottawa.
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