by Don Sawyer
The plane began to swoop over Maho Beach on its way into Princess Juliana International Airport. Stitch had flown in once before, years ago. He smiled as he saw a crowd on the sand below him. The runway was so short planes had to come in low over the beach to land. Hundreds of people often crowded along the flight way to watch the giant planes just a few feet above them. Stitch had read that sometimes the jet blast had actually blown people into the water.
St. Martins was a funny place. The island was actually split in two. The Dutch controlled the south, and the French the northern half. While that sounded interesting, both had managed to more or less screw up their half. Cheap hotels lined the white beaches. Casinos and tacky bars filled the towns. While the beaches remained beautiful, they were often crowded. Canadians and Americans on cheap package vacations lay in the sand like a huge pod of beached white whales. Stitch sighed.
So much to see. So much to learn. But most would hardly leave their hotels. Maybe they’d walk to a neighbouring bar or restaurant. But few would take the time to learn the history of the place. The last thing most of them wanted to do was visit the forts or historical parks that told so much about the wars and struggles that shaped these islands. Stitch was glad he had only a couple of hours layover.
Soon enough he’d be on his half-hour Liat flight to Nevis. He was going on business, but Stitch was still looking forward to it. Nevis was said to be one of the most beautiful islands in the Caribbean.
The plane jolted as it landed in St. Martins. Then it slowly taxied toward the new terminal. Stitch went over his plans. Thanks to Daffy, he knew that Venam’s account had suddenly shown a $4.5m deposit a few months ago. Then it was Stitch’s turn to do a little digging. He discovered that the company that had made the investment was called United Investment Group, UIG. A few enquiries proved what Stitch had suspected: UIG was located in Nevis. The bank transfer to Venam had come through the Nexus International Bank.
The pieces were beginning to pile up. But it was up to him to put them together. Somehow he had to tie UIG not only to Venam, but to Maxwell’s death. The money laundering was illegal but almost impossible to prove. But if he could show the link between UIG, Venam and Maxwell, then he had something: a conspiracy to not only launder money but to buy — and eventually kill — a city councillor.
The plane pulled into the gate and people began to unload. Most wore bright shirts and shorts. They weren’t there for a long time. They were there for a good time. Stitch pulled his green leather case and his black carry-on from the overhead bin. He followed the partiers off the plane. As he exited, he drank in the moist tropical air. It was scented with the sea and bougainvillea blossoms. God, he loved the Caribbean.
The flight to Nevis was short but beautiful. The Caribbean Sea glowed a deep, sparkling blue. The cone of sister island St. Kitts rose green into the empty sky. As the plane skimmed around St. Kitts, Stitch saw Nevis ahead. It deserved its reputation. The central peak soared into a mass of white clouds. Stitch knew that is how the island got its name. Nevis was a corruption of the Spanish word for snow, nieves. The clouds had reminded early Spanish of snow-covered mountains in this most unlikely place.
Stitch studied the green slopes as they spread out from the peak. Looks kind of like a giant sombrero, he thought. Around the edges he could see white sand beaches and waves breaking on the shore.
Nevis airport was laid out right along the shore of the island on the south side. After the small plane came to a stop, Stitch and a handful of other passengers climbed down a short set of stairs onto the tarmac. They made their way into the small terminal building. Stitch lined up behind the immigration booth. He was waved forward and presented his passport.
The border guard looked briefly at Stitch’s passport. She smiled broadly. “Welcome, Mr. Robinson,” she said in lightly accented English. “I see you have travelled all over the Caribbean. It is a privilege to have you on Nevis. Is this your first time?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stitch replied.
She snapped his passport shut. “We wish you a very pleasant stay.”
Stitch smiled and took his passport. He picked up his green case and his carry-on. One thing he’d learned long ago was to travel light. He’d be out of the airport before the luggage was even unloaded.
Stitch walked through a glass door next to a sign that said Taxis. The bright sun almost blinded him. In front of the small airport were parked three or four yellow and green taxis. Stitch shouldered his bag and walked toward the first. A tall man unfolded from the front seat.
“Welcome to Nevis, sir. May I help you with your bags?”
Stitch handed the man his bags and got into the back seat. The car was a small Nissan SUV. The driver put Stitch’s bags in the back and shut the rear hatch door. He got in and turned to Stitch. H extended his hand over the back of the seat. “My name is Paul Newman,” he said.
Stitch took the man’s hand. “Stitch,” he said. “Stitch Robinson.”
The driver turned back to the wheel. “And where shall we go, Mr. Robinson?”
Stitch laughed. “I’m not really sure, Mr. Newman.” He smiled. “By the way, is your name really Paul Newman?”
The driver smiled. “No. It is Paul Spence. But I go by Paul Newman.”
Stitch looked puzzled. “And why is that? You’re a big Newman fan?”
The man shook his head. “No. It is because people say we were much alike.”
Now Stitch sat back, shaking his head. “But Paul Newman had bright blue eyes. He was six inches shorter than you. And, well, he was white.”
The driver looked at Stitch in the rear view mirror. “What makes one alike is not looks. It’s what is inside. Paul Newman had a big heart. I too have a big heart.”
Stitch smiled from the back seat. “Good to meet you, Mr. Newman.”
The driver started the car. “You can just call me Paul.”
“And you can call me Stitch. Mr. Robinson was my father.”
Stitch glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Paul smile.
“Now, Mr. Stitch,” Paul said. “Where is it we are going?”
Stitch sat back in the rear seat. “Well, that depends. Why don’t you show me around the island a bit. Maybe we can decide along the way.”
Paul shrugged. “For 50 bucks an hour, I’m your man.”
Paul pulled out onto the narrow two-lane road. He drove through small hamlets and broad beaches. Each cove had a story, and Paul knew it. Each village had its characters, and Paul knew them. Soon they passed a sprawling resort. “Club Carib,” he said.
“Looks massive.”
Paul nodded. “Employs one out of every 10 people on the island. Of course, one night costs more than a worker makes in a month.” He shrugged.
“Besides tourism, how do you make money in Nevis?”
Paul glanced at Stitch in the mirror. “Drive a taxi.”
Stitch smiled. “Besides that. What about offshore banking.”
Paul studied Stitch in the mirror. “Are you one of those? Maybe I had you wrong.”
Stitch shook his head. “I’m not one of those. But I am interested in one of those.”
Paul nodded and said nothing.
“Are these banks good for Nevis?” Stitch continued.
Paul shrugged once more. “For more than 350 years, this island lived and died for sugar. The last cane was grown five years ago.” He shrugged once more. “People have to work. The government has to have taxes.”
“But you don’t much like the people it attracts?”
“International criminals? Tax evaders? Drug dealers? Arms traders? No, Stitch, I do not.”
Paul pulled off the main road and drove down toward the shore. Soon stone houses and buildings lined the road. “This is Charlestown,” Paul told Stitch. “Capital and largest city.” He paused. “This is
where the banks are located.”
Stitch studied the town as they drove. It was charming. Right out of the set for a pirate movie. Old stone stores crowded the narrow street. A small square was flanked by beautiful colonial buildings.
“What bank are you looking for?” Paul asked.
“Nexus International Bank.”
Paul grunted and turned down a side street. More stone warehouses and buildings crept up a low hill. Paul stopped in front of a two-storey building made of dark stone. A large window covered the front. “Nexus International Bank” was spelled out in black letters on the glass.
“Thank you, Paul. Now maybe it’s time to find a hotel. Where do people who, uh, do business at these banks usually stay. The Club Carib?”
Paul had turned the car around and headed back the way they had come. He shook his head. “No. That is only for tourists. There are several small, intimate hotels where these people stay. They do not wish to have too many people around. They like their privacy. And their luxury.”
“Like where?”
“Most are in old sugar plantations. Up in the mountains. They were built there because of the breeze. Kept mosquitoes away. And malaria. These were built 150, 200 years ago. They don’t squeeze sugar cane anymore. Now they squeeze tourists and businessmen.”
Stitch chuckled. “You know your island very well.”
Paul nodded his head solemnly. “Indeed. There is one hotel where many of those using our banks like to stay. It is not in the hills. It is on a cove. Very small. They can have their gin and tonics on the beach while meeting with bank officials. It is the Douglas Plantation Inn.”
“Sounds good, Paul. Lead the way.”
The cab soon passed the airport. A quarter mile further, Paul pulled into a long driveway. A wood sign at the side of the drive read Douglas Plantation Inn.
Stitch looked at the sign in amusement. “Paul, I could have walked here!”
“That’s true. But you would not have met me.”
Stitch laughed. He handed Paul a US $50. “You were worth every penny.”
The taxi pulled up in front of the old stone plantation house. Window shutters were propped open to let in air. Small cottages studded the long green yard that led to the sea. A row of palms framed a sandy walkway to the beach. Paul got out of the driver’s door. He opened the back hatch and pulled out Stitch’s two bags. “You travel light,” he commented.
“You can run faster that way,” Stitch said.
Paul’s eyes twinkled. He pulled out a card from his shirt pocket and gave it to Stitch. “If you need me, here is my cell number.” He closed the hatch. “Do you know why I drive a Nissan?”
Stitch shook his head. “No idea.”
“That was Paul Newman’s car. He raced them. Very fast. Very reliable.”
Stitch smiled. He extended his hand. As he shook Paul’s hand, he looked into his cool, deep brown eyes. “Good to meet you, Mr. Newman,” Stitch said. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again.
CHAPTER 14
Mrs. Anderson
“Now, Mr. Robinson, how can we help you?”
Stitch was sitting in an office with an official of the Nexus International Bank. Stitch had taxied in that morning and set up a meeting. He told the receptionist he was interested in setting up an offshore account. He had been assigned Mr. Simons. Simons was surprisingly young. He seemed vaguely uncomfortable in the blue suit and striped tie. His dark brown face glistened with sweat even though the air conditioner was going full bore.
“I represent a group of investors. We are interested in setting up a corporate entity here. As well as an account, of course.” Stitch didn’t know what he’d get out of the meeting. But he had to start somewhere. “You were recommended by colleagues. The United Investment Group?”
Simons simply smiled.
“By the president, actually,” Stitch went on.
“And who would that be, Mr. Robinson?”
Stitch was getting nowhere fast. “Ah, Mr. Simons. We like to keep names out of our business, don’t we?”
Simons sat back in his red leather office chair. He studied Stitch carefully. “Perhaps. So, as I was saying, Mr. Robinson. How can we help you?”
Suddenly a woman’s voice exploded from the next office. “$50! There’s supposed to be $100,000 in that account! Are you scamming me?”
Stitch glanced at Simons. “Another happy customer?”
The official in the next office tried to calm the woman down. “Now, Mrs. Anderson. All but $50 was withdrawn from that account a week ago.I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding, eh? I’ll say it’s a misunderstanding.”
Stitch was still looking at Simons. “Canadian, eh?”
Simons tried to get back to business. “Given your interests, Mr. Robinson, I think we can be of help. Let me acquaint you with some of our products. We have full corporate services that include…”
Stitch was hardly listening. Anderson. Anderson. Wasn’t that Didi’s last name?
Stitch heard the woman in the next office slam her chair against the wall. “Listen,” she yelled. “I will get to the bottom of this. And I’ll be back tomorrow. Make sure you have my money!”
Stitch looked at his watch. “Gosh. I’m so sorry, Mr. Simons. I completely forgot I had another appointment.” Stitch stood up from his chair and headed for the door. He glanced at Simons’ puzzled face. “But I’ll get back as soon as I can. Hold those thoughts, eh?”
Stitch pushed the door open. A tall blond woman burst out of the adjoining office. Stitch fell in behind her. She was a young woman. And very attractive. Her thin tight blouse did little to conceal her magnificent figure. A tiny pair of black shorts that looked as if they’d been painted on topped two long, tapered legs.
She pushed her way out of the bank. A few steps down the street she stopped and leaned against the stone wall. Stitch could see that her eyes were closed. “Damn it!” she swore under her breath. She shook her head slightly and continued down the cobbled street.
The woman walked to the waterfront. Near the St. Kitts ferry terminal she turned right. Stitch continued to trail her, but he wasn’t sure why. He had never seen Didi Anderson. Not even a picture. Was he wasting his time?
After a few blocks the woman pushed her way through a gate into a shaded courtyard. Stitch glanced at the sign above the gate: Abigail’s Coffee and Tea House. Stitch watched as the woman stopped and looked around the grounds. Small wooden tables were scattered under palm trees. The woman hesitated then made her way to a table in the farthest corner. She pulled up a chair and sat down quickly. She was almost entirely hidden behind a palm and a huge bush of fizzy purple bougainvillea.
Stitch pushed through the gate. He found a table on the other side of the courtyard about 60 feet away. He sat down in a bright yellow chair and leaned his elbows on the table.
Stitch pulled his Blackberry out of his holster. He selected his phone book, scrolled to “Office,” and pushed the green phone symbol.
“Robinson Investigations,” Erin answered.
“Erin, it’s me,” Stitch said quietly. “I need something. Pronto.”
Erin heard the urgency in his voice. “You got it, boss.”
“Can you get me a photograph of Didi Anderson?”
“The stripper that took off with Maxwell?”
“That’s the one.”
“I think there’s a photograph with the file that Carl sent. I’ll scan it and attach it. You should have it in a few minutes.”
Stitch remained hunched over the table. “Thanks, Erin. You’re a doll.”
Stitch sat back and took out the ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket. He snapped the button on the top to stop recording. It was a neat little gadget. It could record three hours of conve
rsation without anyone knowing. But you had to have something worth recording. Unfortunately, Simons had nothing to say.
A pretty black woman approached Stitch’s table. “What can I get you, sir?” She asked with a bright smile.
Stitch smiled back. “What time is it?”
The waitress looked at her watch. “It’s almost 11:30.”
“Close enough,” Stitch said. “Bring me a Carib Lager. Really cold, OK?”
The woman nodded. “Frozen suds. You’ve got it.” She turned toward the restaurant at the back of the courtyard.
Stitch studied the woman he had been tailing. She had lit a cigarette. The woman smoked automatically, gazing out over the harbour in front of them.
Stitch’s BlackBerry vibrated in its case clipped onto his belt. He pulled the phone out of its holster and quickly scrolled to messages. An e-mail had just arrived from Erin. The paper clip meant there was an attachment. He opened the message and then the attachment. A picture of the woman he had been trailing stared back at him. She was a bit younger in the picture. But it was definitely her.
The woman at the table was Didi Anderson.
As Stitch watched, she threw her cigarette on the ground. She opened her leather purse and dug out a cell phone. Stitch quickly opened his green case. He grabbed what looked like a basic phone. But it was a lot more than that. The Diasonic DDR 5 was really quite a little machine. It could scan cell phone conversations going on within a hundred yards. Once the number was selected, Stitch could listen to the conversation without detection. And record every word.
Stitch quickly toggled through the phone numbers. There it was: 416-832-5097. It was the only phone in the area making a call using Toronto’s 416 area code. He pushed Lock to Device on his menu. The connection was established. Then he pushed Listen.