A Cadgers Curse

by Diane Gilbert Madsen

  "So now these countries are using that technology to dump American currency all over the world to solve their own hard currency problems," I commented.

  "Right. Using intelligence systems as distribution systems, this bogus currency will flood the international market. On top of the current economic downturn, the banking system would be destroyed and we'd have a world-wide depression."

  One salient fact Harry didn't mention was that someone else at HI-Data had to be in on the plot. The someone who had killed Ken and Marcie and had tried to kill Jeffrey Fere. The same someone who had slashed my brake line and tried to kill me, too. Could John Olson/Dan Karton be involved in the counterfeiting scheme as well as industrial espionage? Norman naturally sprang to mind. As Security Chief, he would have had to know what was going on.

  While Harry was telling me as much as "they" wanted me to know, other agents came in and out of the room, sharing notes, quick conversations, and cell phone calls with Harry. A female agent I'd heard Harry call Miss Gottardo came in a third time and handed Harry a paper. It was stamped "Urgent and Confidential." I leaned toward Harry to read more, but he initialed it and gave it back to Miss Gottardo so fast I wasn't able to see anything else.

  When my cell phone rang, Harry's eyebrows did that up and down thing again, and he peered at me while I pulled the phone out of my purse and checked the number.

  "Who is it?" he asked.

  I didn't recognize the number. I shrugged my shoulders in the universal don't know sign. He grabbed the phone, jotted down the number and gave the paper to Miss Gottardo, who flew out of the room to do whatever it is they do to have it checked.

  Harry handed it back to me. "Answer it."

  "Hello. This is DD McGil."

  "Good afternoon, Miss McGil. George Murray here."

  "George, how'd you get this number?"

  "Oh, lass, your Auntie told me. I am here standing at the O'Hare Airport International Terminal having arrived only a few moments ago."

  Harry Marley grabbed my arm. "George who?"

  I covered the mouthpiece. "It's George Murray from Scotland. He's my Auntie's um ... putative fiance"

  Harry Marley's shoulders dropped. He slumped back in his chair, visibly relaxed. "Go ahead." He waved his right hand at me then went back to his paperwork.

  "Wow. That was fast. Do you want me to pick you up?"

  "Aye, that would be excellent, lass. I'm of a mind we should work as two together to get your Auntie's things back."

  "I'm in a meeting, but I'll be there as soon as I can."

  I hung up after he'd given me his airline details and agreed to stay put until I arrived.

  After asking me a few more questions, Harry said I could leave. He handed me my coat, pursed his lips and frowned. "Miss McGil, this is important. Do not return to HI-Data under any circumstances. It's for your own protection. Remember your brake line. They've tried once already, and we don't know yet what direction this is taking."

  By the time I left, it was already getting dark and the street musician was long gone. People were rushing to avoid exposure to the falling temperatures.

  I struggled to comprehend what Harry Marley had told me. I didn't doubt there was a counterfeit ring at HI-Data, but I still didn't know who was behind it. Possibly Harry's cautions were more about his internal agency damage control than about my safety. I hoped so. I was determined to deliver my completed reports on the trainees by Friday. If I didn't, I wouldn't get paid. I needed that fee, so I made up my mind to finish the reports, send them over by courier, and collect it.

  FORTY-FIVE

  ON THE TRIP TO O'Hare Airport to pick up George Murray, I sunk deeper into a black mood, thinking of Auntie's stolen treasures. She was so proud of them, and she would blame me for losing them. The world was closing in on me. I felt powerless. And like all Scots, that's the one thing I really hate. I could feel that headache coming back with a vengeance. I hoped George Murray would be able to help, otherwise he might as well forget about getting Auntie to canoodle. And I might as well forget about life itself. La Dragon would kill me.

  This was, technically, my second trip to O'Hare today, and I couldn't help remembering Scotty's lingering goodbye kiss. That only sunk me deeper into the black dog blues.

  I had no trouble spotting George Murray. Auntie's description of him had been accurate-six-foot-three, slim build, distinguished grey hair, no glasses, and an irresistible smile. Auntie must have told him to watch for my little Miata, because he was waving furiously to attract my attention.

  When I pulled to the curb, he opened the passenger door and tossed a piece of Gucci luggage into the small space behind the seat. "Greetings, lassie," he said cheerily as he got in with an economy of movement that rivaled an athlete. The only trouble was, he sat right on my purse. I pulled it hastily out from under him and tossed it into the back seat, hoping it would stay closed and not spill all over.

  He smiled mischievously as we formally shook hands. "You're as bonny indeed as your dear Auntie advertised. An' your little bitty of an automobile, too."

  I couldn't read him yet, so I wasn't sure whether his assessment had accorded me a good grade or a bad one. He didn't look like he'd just gotten off an overseas flight-his clothing was crisp and neat and his true blue eyes twinkled madly.

  "I came here straightaway. Not a one in my office knows my whereabouts. I thought t'was best to keep it secret so as to come upon Jock unexpectedly."

  George Murray flashed a Cheshire Cat grin. What else could I do but like the guy? Maybe he did have that certain je ne sais quoi it would take to tame La Dragon.

  George said he hadn't spent much time in the United States recently, and he wanted to make up for that. But, he said, that would have to wait because he was anxious to take care of "the Jack McSweeney matter" immediately. I was happy to oblige. The sooner we tackled this, the sooner I'd be either free or dead. So I told him everything that had happened with the Burns fiasco, explaining in more detail the Santa Claus caper, Tom Joyce's involvement to authenticate the objects, the attack on me at the bookstore, and the piece of cashmere coat Wolfie had obtained as evidence.

  George cocked his head to the right and listened intently. He said he was glad no one had gotten badly injured and questioned why I needed to check the authenticity of the artifacts. "Since I told your dear Auntie it was the real thing, then such it was. No doubt aboot it," he pronounced.

  I guessed that in his world, his word was indeed his bond. He then asked me to call Tom on my cell phone.

  I reached into the back to get it from my battered purse. The Miata unexpectedly changed a lane while I was struggling, and I was grateful for George's quick hand on the wheel. We both ignored the horn of the car behind.

  Tom answered on the first ring. I told him about George and explained the connection between the bit of cashmere coat Wolfie had bitten off and George's associate, Jack McSweeney. Then I gave the phone to George who asked Tom if he and Wolfie would meet us as soon as possible at his firm's Chicago apartment in Harbor Point. He gave Tom instructions on how to get Wolfie into the building.

  "I hope together we can get Jack McSweeney to settle this Burns affair today for once and all," George explained, "but I need you and Wolfie there t'a make sure it happens."

  On the northern edge of Grant Park, we pulled into the underground parking for Harbor Point Condominiums. This fifty-fourfloor high-rise bordered North Lake Shore Drive and East Randolph Street. I knew the building well. The firm of one of my attorney friends also kept a condo here. Almost a year ago I'd been corralled into attending a fancy cocktail party where I got a firsthand look at all the building's amenities including the hospitality rooms and hot tub. To be frank, some of us had had a bit too much to drink and proceeded to take off our clothes and get rowdy in the big hot tub. Their crackerjack security team finally tracked us down moon bathing on the outdoor sun deck and summarily evicted us. I thought that statistics were against the same security team being on duty today. A
nyway, I had all my clothes on, so even if they were on duty, they probably wouldn't recognize me. I took a deep breath, played dumb about the building's layout, and was careful not to share any of these details with George.

  In the elevator riding up to the 42nd floor, I fiddled awkwardly with the broken purse strap, trying to keep everything from falling out. I made a mental note to have it repaired.

  As George took out his keys, he explained that their firm's unit was one edge of the building's triangle with a spectacular view of Lake Michigan that amazed him each time he visited. "'Tis verra different from Edinburgh," he said with a suddenly strong brogue. "She's a grand city an' the capital of Scotland since 1437. Most of her structures are Medieval, some Georgian, an' we're opposed to skyscrapers."

  He turned the key in the lock, and we burst into the apartment without knocking or otherwise announcing our presence. For a moment, I imagined I could hear the faint sound of the bagpipes at Bannockburn.

  FORTY-SIX

  JACK MCSWEENEY TURNED AS we entered, spilling some liquid from the cocktail glass he was holding. For only an instant his narrow eyes got narrower, and I knew in my heart he'd been my attacker. And he knew I knew.

  "George," he said and nodded to us. "What a nice surprise. 11

  Yeah, I thought. A nice surprise for us but not so nice for you, Mr. fake Santa Claus.

  "Aye, I'm sure 'tis," George said enigmatically as he doffed his coat in the tastefully furnished foyer. He didn't introduce me as I followed him into the enormous living room. The far wall had a curving ceiling-to-floor window bay with a magnificent view of Navy Pier.

  "I did not know you were here in America," McSweeney said. A deep furrow appeared between his brows. "Why didn't you tell me? An' who's this, pray tell?"

  As if you don't know, I thought but didn't say as I felt the burning in my sore shoulder. This was George's game, and I was going to play it his way, at least for now.

  "You well know who the lass is, Jock. And you know why I'm here as well. 'Tis enough trouble you've devised already. Dinna make it worse. I'm here to collect those Burns treasures you stole from her."

  "I stole nothing. Are you mad? Why believe what this lassie may say. I'm your partner, an' don't forget it."

  "Stop your terradiddle and go fetch the treasures. Let's have done with it."

  The two Scots faced off inches apart in the elegant apartment. George was the taller, but Jack the cockier. His chin jutted out in defiance as he walked over to the wall of windows and peered out.

  In the ensuing silence, George paced the floor while I checked out the antique furnishings throughout the rooms. From watching Antiques Roadshow, I was able to identify a few American furniture gems thanks to the Keno brothers. In the foyer there was what looked like a Sheraton Federal mahogany card table I'm sure they would have loved to appraise. I also spotted what might be a Chippendale cherry chest-on-chest, and I'd have enjoyed their evaluation of the two pieces and whether they belonged together or were faked.

  Everything was in very good taste. In another room were two roundabout chairs with pleasing yellow cushions along with an imposing Philadelphia secretaire with maple, mahogany, and white pine veneers. I was definitely impressed. A collection of portrait miniatures was arranged on one wall. Opposite was a stunning portrait of a woman by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The woman looked a bit like my Aunt Elizabeth, but I knew that couldn't be. The painter, after all, had died somewhere in the 1790s.

  George Murray was opening and closing each of the drawers on a pretty walnut lowboy in the foyer. Then he pulled the piece away from the wall and walked around it. He got very red in the face and glared at Jock.

  "Do ye take me for a fool, man? This is not the same William & Mary lowboy that was once here. You've done a switch, an' you know that's so on your mother's grave."

  Jack McSweeney said nothing.

  "This piece doesn'a have its original engraved cotter pin brasses."

  McSweeney still said nothing.

  "Come out with the truth, Jack. Yer taken for it."

  "You're saying he switched pieces?" I walked over to examine the lowboy, not that I would know, but I was curious. "You're saying he substituted a copy for the real William and Mary?"

  "Aye, my girl. And he's aboot to reveal the whereabouts of the original."

  I eyed McSweeney, who kept silent.

  "What other pieces have you looted then?" George asked, as he carefully checked various pieces of furniture.

  "Here, this is no the Hepplewhite table." George lifted its leaves. "Those legs look auld, but see, there's no tapered beaded edge, like the table that I myself put here."

  The table was beautiful. It sure had fooled me. Apparently Jack McSweeney was guilty of more than stealing the Burns artifacts. He was suddenly no longer the trusted business partner but rather the counterfeit friend who was now the foe.

  Meanwhile McSweeney said nothing. He pulled open a drawer of the Philadelphia secretaire and drew out a gun.

  "George," I yelled.

  McSweeney raised his arm and pointed the gun directly at me.

  "Jock," George said softly, "put down that infernal weapon."

  "That I cannot do," McSweeney said. "Sadly this has gone too far, an' there's no putting the genie back in the bottle."

  "You're a damned fool, a coward, an ass, and a madman," George shouted and backed away toward the front door. "Don't do anything foolish."

  McSweeney waved the gun at me and called to George, "Stop where you are or you force me to hurt this lass."

  George had backed up against the door and could go no further.

  "Why are ye doing this to me Jack McSweeney?" George asked. "I an' my family have been good to you an' yours through the years.

  McSweeney turned from me and pointed the gun at George.

  "If I'd not been looking after myself, I'd be nowhere today," he snarled. "Them that comes first is served first. You live in the past, George Murray. An' if I hadn't done this to you, someone else soon would have. Coin is the key, and there's money in antiques today."

  "I'll let all that go, Jack. Mayhap you've been in America too long, and it's addled your brain for greed. Now tell me, where are those Burns artifacts? You'll be having to give them up."

  "Not if I do away with the both of ye. I'm guessing no one knows you're here."

  Ohmygod, he was right. At this moment, I could have used a wee dram of Auntie's Highland nectar. I almost said so, too. We weren't doing too well with George taking the lead. Maybe it was time for me to try my hand.

  I swung my purse at McSweeney with all my strength and my Scots will. Unfortunately, the purse barely landed a glancing blow before it fell at his feet. All it did was alert him to the fact that I was on the move. He rushed me and got me in a chokehold with his left arm round my throat. What was worse, he hit my head with the gun. It hurt and caught a strand of my hair on its icy barrel. I was woozy from the blow.

  "Stand still," McSweeney ordered as he shook me with great force. I lost my balance and scrambled to keep my feet under me. "Come here George. Right now, or I pull the trigger."

  He pressed the gun hard against my temple and increased the pressure on the chokehold. I could barely breathe. I shut my eyes. Everything started to swirl. I saw only the colors red and black. No pictures of my life passing by, no people I had known and loved, just a big smear of red and black, like a bad Jackson Pollock abstract painting. I knew what that meant. Yes, I was scared, and I was probably about to faint. But I was also mad-Scots madand, like Auntie Dragon, that spells trouble. I wasn't about to go down easy, so I kicked McSweeney in the shin. He jumped back and slightly loosened his chokehold.

  Just then the doorbell rang. I could feel McSweeney's body tense. I opened my eyes, gasped for air and saw George, in a lightning-quick move, yank open the apartment door. Wolfie and Tom Joyce stood in the hall. Wolfie took one look at Jack McSweeney and charged, head down, tail down, and teeth bared.

  Good Wolfie, I thought. Good
boy. Eat him alive.

  Wolfie circled McSweeney, showing his big teeth and emitting a horrible deep growl.

  "Get this cursed dog out of here or I'll shoot it," McSweeney ordered as Wolfie ducked his head farther, moving it from side to side like a cobra. Saliva dripped from his muzzle and his eyes were riveted on Jack McSweeney. I think Wolfie could already taste him.

  "He's not a dog," Tom shouted from the doorway. "He's a wolf. And he's been waiting to meet you again. You remember my bookstore?" As Tom closed the door, Wolfie growled again menacingly, like he understood what Tom was saying.

  I was ecstatic to see Tom and Wolfie, but worried that McSweeney was going to shoot us all. I could feel the clammy sweat on his arms as he pulled me closer.

  "Call him off now or he's a dead wolf."

  I shook myself violently, trying to get McSweeney to loosen his chokehold, but it didn't work. His grip tightened, and he yanked my hair so hard I nearly fainted. Then I realized he wasn't pulling my hair on purpose. He was trying to point the gun at Wolfie, but it had caught in my hair, and he couldn't get it free. The more he pulled, the more I screamed in pain, and the more that agitated Wolfie.

  Suddenly McSweeney yowled. He jerked and lifted a leg, shifting his weight. Wolfie must have bitten him. I seized the moment and stomped McSweeney's other foot with my high heel. He yelled again and doubled over. I felt that satisfied feeling when you've hit your target, but it quickly disappeared when McSweeney ripped out a big clump of my hair as he jerked the gun free.

  Wolfie sprang up and knocked the gun from McSweeney's hand. It flew across the room, and Tom Joyce picked it up.

  Wolfie attacked again. His big jaws closed on McSweeney's right arm just above the hand. Blood appeared on the carpet. I watched silently as McSweeney turned a pasty white and sweat dripped from his forehead. His knees gave way, and he sunk to the floor. He was groaning and yelling for Wolfie to let go, but Wolfie held tight. It must have been very painful. I wouldn't have wanted to be Jack McSweeney right now for anything in this world.