Saving Farley's Bog (8 page)

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 leave 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 investment. 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.

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.