by Don Sawyer
“You told them?”
Molly nodded. “As soon as they got home from school. It was funny. At first they didn’t cry. They were just quiet. Then I saw Barton’s eyes fill up with tears. I put my arm around him. Then he started sobbing. I put my other arm around Sarah. At first she was stiff. Then she just put her head on my shoulder and cried.”
Stitch took a deep breath. “Must have been hard.”
“I told them there would be police. Reporters. Lots of questions. I asked them if they wanted to go their grandparents for a while.” Molly looked over Stitch’s shoulder. “They’re Bob’s parents. They love the kids. They’re so different from him.” A small smile returned. “How does that work?”
Stitch shook his head. “I don’t know, Molly. I really don’t.” He hesitated. “Look, I know it’s late. If you’re too tired, I can come back tomorrow.”
Molly stood out of the doorway. “No, no. Please. Come in.”
Stitch walked into the hallway and followed Molly into the living room. He sat down in the old green couch. Molly smiled as he sank down in the cushions.
“When you come next, I’ll have a new couch. Promise.” Her eyes sparkled again. “In the meantime, can I get you a scotch?”
“I’d really like a beer,” Stitch said tentatively. “But not if you’ve only got Bud Light.”
Molly laughed her tinkly laugh. “I can do better than that. Bob never did know beer. But I like some of the darker ales. Would you like a porter?”
Stitch beamed at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
Molly glared at him dangerously.
“Uh, yes please,” Stitch said hastily.
While Molly got the beers, Stitch spread out some papers on the coffee table. He took the glass Molly offered. She sat down in the rocker. She turned it so she faced him directly.
“This has been a hard day,” Stitch began. “I don’t want to make it harder.”
Molly leaned forward. The top of her robe gaped slightly revealing the tops of two small, lovely breasts. “Don’t try to be so considerate, Mr. Robinson,” she said playfully. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Stitch chuckled. “OK, then, Mrs. Maxwell. Let’s get started.” He paused. “As you know, I followed your husband at your request. You are my client.”
Molly nodded.
“We started with a missing person. Now we have a murder. And probably a lot more.”
“More? Like what?”
“Your husband admitted that he had been blackmailed and bribed. That was why he changed his vote on the shopping centre.”
Molly continued looking at him steadily. “I thought as much.”
“I think there’s even more than that. Mob involvement at least. Maybe money laundering. I’m not sure. But your husband stumbled into a real hornet’s nest.”
“Poor, naïve Bob,” she said sadly. “He so much wanted to be someone.”
Stitch nodded. “I need two things. First, I would like your permission to go further with the investigation. You could decide to end it here. But this isn’t just another murder. It affects more than you and your children. It affects all of us. There’s a lot of money behind it. Money, I suspect, that has ruined lots of other lives. Other towns.” Stitch stopped and looked into Molly’s soft brown eyes. “I want to find out where it’s coming from.”
Molly sat quietly in her chair. She gazed emptily out the window. “I haven’t loved Bob for a very long time,” she said at last. “But he was my husband. In his own way, he tried to be a good father.” She looked back at Stitch. “We were happy once. Really.”
Stitch said nothing.
“He was a good man,” Molly continued. “I wish I could have made him happier.”
“And you wish he could have made you happier. But he couldn’t. He didn’t,” Stitch said softly.
One corner of Molly’s pretty mouth lifted in a tiny smile. “True. But he was a good man. He deserved better than this. I want to know what happened, too.” She gave a slight nod of approval. “I want to know who killed Bob.”
“Good,” Stitch said. “Then you will continue to be my client. What I find goes to you.”
Molly nodded again. “You said you needed two things.”
Stitch hesitated. “Molly, when I met with Bob two days ago, I recorded my interview with him.”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Go on.”
“What he admitted could put a hold on the development at Farley’s Bog. But I collected this information as your employee. I will not release it unless you give me permission.”
Molly sat up. “What will it mean? When it’s released.”
“I’m not entirely sure. But it will be used by a lawyer. It will be in the papers. Your husband’s life will be laid wide open.”
“Do you think it won’t be otherwise?” Molly smiled ruefully. “I’ve already been called by the Parson’s police. Oh, and the Mapleton cops as well. They were following up on the report they received from Parsons.”
Stitch nodded. “I had to tell the police what I knew. I said nothing about the blackmail. Just that your husband had gone missing.”
“And how long do you think it will be before the press gets this?” Molly asked. “Before people begin to put two and two together?”
“Not long. But, unless you give me permission to have the recording used in court, it will be too long to save Farley’s Bog.”
Molly stared at the papers on the coffee table for a moment. “What do I need to do?”
“I need you to sign a letter of consent.”
“I see. Well, I’m happy to give my consent.” She smiled. “I guess you could say I am a consenting adult,” she added impishly. She got up from the chair.
As she stood up, her white robe fell open. She wore nothing underneath. Stitch looked at her and something turned inside him. She was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
Molly walked toward him. Her robe drifted from her shoulders. She took Stitch’s hand. “Let’s go get a pen I can sign with.”
She pulled Stitch gently up from the couch. “It’s in the bedroom,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 12
Clues from the Dead
“What the hell could it be, Stitch?” Daffy asked in frustration. For an hour they had been studying the numbers and letters Maxwell had left. They were no closer to figuring them out than they had been at the start.
Stitch stared at a small movie screen in front of them. On it a projector shone the message as Maxwell had written it: KN6631475. He nodded at his open laptop. “So far, the only thing that has come up is a Greenland licence plate.”
Daffy snorted.
“Probably not a phone number,” Stitch mused. “No one has used letters for telephone numbers since the ‘60s”.
Daffy threw up his hands. “Man, this could be just a wild goose chase. Maybe the paper just happened to be in his shoe!”
“Right, Daf. Probably the shoe size,” Stitch said sarcastically.
“OK,” Daffy conceded. “He put it there for a reason.” Daffy stood up from his chair and paced fretfully. “But what was it? And so we sit here trying to make sense of a bunch of numbers. And what is Venam doing?” Daffy didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll tell you what. Their team of sell-out lawyers is trying to get our injunction quashed.”
Stitch was still studying the numbers and letters. “Sit down, Daffy. You’re making me nervous.”
Daffy stopped pacing and sat back down heavily. “What’s the plan, Stitch? I can’t sit around here all day.”
“Sure you can. Now just shut up and help me with this.”
Daffy glowered at the screen. “With what?” he asked, pouting.
“Look. This was the final message Maxwell left. He knew he was going to be killed. He didn’t l
eave a note to his wife or kids. He didn’t even try to escape. This was important. So important he took the last seconds of his life to write it out. He wanted us to know something. Something that will break this case.” He looked up at Daffy. “And maybe something that will stop the development of Farley’s Bog forever.”
Daffy sighed. Then he nodded. “OK. Let’s try again.”
“Good.” Stitch looked back at the screen. “All right. We’ve got two letters and seven numbers. Not a phone number. Even converting the letters to numbers doesn’t work. We’ve tried every exchange in the world.”
Daffy said nothing.
“The only licence plates with those letters are from Greenland. So that’s out.”
“Unless the hit men were Eskimos,” Daffy grumbled.
Stitch was quiet. “Maybe we’re going at this the wrong way. We’re trying to figure out what the letters and numbers mean.”
“Oh, gosh,” Daffy scowled. “How unreasonable.”
“Shut up, Daf,” Stitch said distractedly. “What if we broke them down: Letters. Numbers.”
“Yeah? What good does that do?”
“We’ve got two letters: KN. What could they be?”
Daffy leaned over the table toward the screen. “Initials? Of the killer? Or the blackmailer?”
“Possible. But then why didn’t he write out the name?”
“Not enough time.”
Stitch shook his head. “Don’t think so. He found the time to write out seven numbers.”
“A code? Maybe secret letter-number system?”
“Not much good if it’s that secret,” Stitch said thoughtfully. He hesitated for a moment. “A code.”
“That’s just what I said!” Daffy said impatiently.
“But not that kind of code.” Stitch rubbed his upper lip in thought. “A country code.”
“We tried that,” Daffy said. “Remember? Licence plates? The only country with KN on the plates was Greenland.”
“Not a licence plate code.” Stitch got up and walked toward the screen. “But we were close. Have you heard of an ISO?”
“Yeah,” Daffy replied. “International standardization code. Each country is assigned two letters. Sometimes three for licence plates.”
Stitch stood beside the screen. “Right. So let’s look at the letters again”. He pointed at the KN on the screen.
“I don’t get it,” Daffy said edgily. “KN is Greenland.”
“Not necessarily.” Stitch looked at Daffy. “They can be different for different applications. One place they’re used is in banking.”
Daffy sat up. “I’m listening.”
“In banking they’re called an International Bank Account Number. An IBAN. Every country is given a two-letter code.” Stitch nodded toward the laptop. “Google IBAN for me, will you?”
Daffy moved quickly for such a large man. His fingers flew over the keyboard. “Got it.”
“OK. Is there a list of international codes?”
Daffy paused for a moment. “Yeah. They’re listed by country. Man, there’s over 200 of them. What do you want me to do?”
“There should be a reverse function. Where you can put in the letters.”
“Yeah, here it is.” Daffy tapped at the keyboard. “Damn,” he said excitedly. “St. Kitts and Nevis!”
Stitch smiled. “Bingo. I’ll tell you what I think we’ve got here, Daffy. I think we’ve got an offshore bank account number.”
Daffy looked up from the computer screen. “Offshore as in money laundering,” he said.
Stitch nodded. “St. Kitts and Nevis are two small islands in the Caribbean. Smallest country in the Americas. They have two main sources of income: tourists and offshore banking.”
Daffy nodded. “Like the Caymans, Bermuda, the Bahamas.”
“Right. My guess is that Maxwell left us the one thing he knew could screw these guys. The bank account they were bribing him out of.”
Daffy whistled softly. “OK, so let’s assume they were paying him out of an offshore account. That still doesn’t tell us much, does it?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Where did the blackmail money come from? The same bank? From what account? Who has that account? A shell company laundering drug money? Maybe by investing in Canadian shopping centre developments?”
Daffy whistled again. “Wow.”
“Do me another favour, Daf. Google Bank Codes. What do you come up with?”
Daffy nodded. “Yeah, there’s a whole section here. What do you want?”
“In international banking the first two letters identify the country, right?”
“Go on.”
“Well, the next four numbers identify the bank.”
Daffy’s face lit up. He quickly typed in 6631. Then he sat back. A big grin lit up his face. “Stitch, my man, you’re a genius.”
Stitch smiled. “Never thought I’d hear you say that, Daf. Whatcha got?”
“Nexus International Bank, NIB. And the headquarters are in...?”
“Let me guess: Charlestown, Nevis.”
“Give that man a prize,” Daffy laughed. “So where do we go from here?”
Daffy turned back to the red letters and numbers on the screen.
“There’s a problem,” Stitch said. “The letters and numbers tell us the country and the bank. The rest of the numbers tell us the account.”
“So what’s the problem?” Daffy asked. He pointed at the remaining numbers. “There it is.”
“An account number would be a minimum of six digits. Usually eight or even more. We’ve only got three.” Stitch pointed at the line trailing off after the final 5. “See this? I think Maxwell was trying to complete the account number just as they were charging in.”
Daffy’s smile faded. “So where does that leave us?”
Stitch shrugged. “A lot farther than we were. We know where the bribery money was coming from. We know the first three digits of Maxwell’s account. We can figure that whoever was behind the killing also has an account with NIB.” Stitch paused. “In fact, I think we’ve stumbled on a major money laundering scheme.”
“What’s this ‘we,’ Sherlock? You’re the detective,” Daffy chuckled. “But I am impressed. You know all that stuff I said about you being a moron?”
Stitch smiled and nodded.
“I take it all back.” Daffy thought a moment and then gave a little shrug. “Well, most of it anyway. But what’s the deal with money laundering? How does that fit into all of this? The shopping centre and all.”
Stitch walked back to the desk and sat down. “Money laundering is big business, my lawyerly friend. Billions each year. Look, you’re a big cocaine dealer in Colombia. Your buyers don’t buy your dope with a Visa card. You wind up with millions of dollars in cash. What do you do with it?”
Daffy shrugged. “You buy stuff. Cars, diamonds, AK47s.”
“We’re talking tens of millions here, Daf. How much stuff can you buy? Besides, you don’t make money that way. You have to get it into investments. Get a return on your dope money. And then it’s legit. It’s clean. You can do anything you want with it. Deposit it in a bank. Buy stocks. Hell, buy whole companies.”
Daffy nodded. “Right. You want to clean it. Launder it. So how’s it done?”
Stitch shook his head sadly. “Man, there are so many schemes it’s ridiculous. But here’s one. It’s called layering. First you work with a bank that doesn’t ask too many questions. And doesn’t disclose it’s dealings to other countries.”
“The Nexus International Bank,” Daffy offered.
“Right. So you stick several million in a numbered account. No one except the bank knows who owns the account. And they’re not talking. Now you find a company in Canada that is in desperate need of invest
ment. Maybe a land developer hit hard by the recession. One that can’t borrow the money they need from Canadian banks.”
“Venam!” Daffy said excitedly.
“You approach them. You represent XYZ Ventures. You saw the developer was having a tough time. Your investors are willing to invest two million bucks in the company. And once they get the money, all they have to do is send one million to an account in Switzerland.”
Daffy looked puzzled. “So the developers get the two million in their account. They send one to the crooks’ Swiss account. They keep one. OK. So then what?”
“XYZ provides a nice little receipt indicating the whole loan has been paid off in case Revenue Canada gets interested. All two million. But it’s only on paper. Actually, not a dollar is paid back. Everyone’s happy. The launderers now have a million clear they can play with in a legitimate account in Switzerland. The developer has an extra million bucks to build things.”
“And destroy wetlands,” Daffy added grimly.
“That too.”
The two men were quiet for several moments. Finally Daffy broke the silence. “What’s next?’
“I’m catching the first flight to Nevis,” Stitch answered.
Daffy nodded. “I’m coming with you.”
“You are not, you idiot.”
“I’m coming with you, Stitch,” Daffy insisted. “You’re going to need someone to watch your back. These guys are killers.”
Stitch smiled. “Thanks, Daf. I mean it. But I’ll be OK. The Caribbean is my old stomping grounds. Plus, I don’t want to stick out too much. What would people think if I showed up with this big, excitable bear at my side?”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Stitch said. “Besides, we need you here. Your fight is in the courts.” Stitch punched Daffy lightly on his huge bicep. “Give ‘em hell, Daf.”
Daffy smiled. “You too, partner.”
CHAPTER 13
Nevis
Stitch gazed out the window at the palm studded island of St. Martin below him. It always amazed Stitch. You get on a plane in gloomy, rainy Toronto and seven hours later you’re in another world. Another culture, another history, another people. He’d heard that from Toronto you could be in any major city of the world in 24 hours. And yet so many people just sat home and watched travel shows on TV. Too bad.