Double Shot of Scotch by Cleveland Peter

Author:Cleveland, Peter [Last, First name]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Iguana Books
Published: 2020-10-07T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 40

Bulldozer and St. James were in agreement: if they couldn’t identify Sterling they may as well make him paranoid.

“Reverse intimidation,” St. James called it when Dozer showed him the email he had sent to Sterling. “That’ll have him looking over his shoulder for a time.”

Dozer nodded and smiled.

No point holding the men, even less turning them over to police. They were engaged by email, probably a public email address like a library’s, no face-to-face with Sterling. A dead end.

Dozer pocketed the cell thinking Spencer might make something of it. He probably had contacts in the Quebec Sûreté who could help track this Sterling fellow down.

They made their way back across the street to Boutique Jamboree where the women had found a number of treasures, each grabbing two bags from the counter when the guys walked in.

“What happened to you two?” Anna asked suspiciously.

“Ran into a couple of old friends,” Dozer lied.

Anna gave St. James a look but decided to let it go.

“Anyone hungry?” he asked, to force Anna off the scent.

“Starving,” Dozer said enthusiastically.

Cathy chimed in. “I could use a bite too.”

“Great,” St. James said. “Let’s go up to the Mill.”

The Wakefield Mill was situated in a park-like setting next to a waterfall with enough strength to turn a grist mill wheel in the 1800s. The restaurant had wonderful food choices and a well-stocked wine cellar. Fireplaces, exposed stone walls, and rough-cut wooden beams made for a warm atmosphere.

The restaurant overlooked the falls: delightful eye candy for diners.

The maître d’ escorted them to a table by the window with a full view of the river. St. James ordered pasta, everyone else the roast beef.

An hour later everyone had finished lunch and was anxious to get back to Ottawa.

The drive back was uneventful. No sign of a tail. And no attempt to run them off the road, for which St. James was grateful.

When they arrived on Wellington, Dozer tooted the horn and waved goodbye as the rental veered left into the Market, to Cathy’s condo, Anna assumed. St. James pointed the Cadillac down 700’s parking ramp to his usual space.

Sunday morning turned out to be foggy. Many flights in and out of Ottawa were cancelled, others delayed for hours.

Anna busied herself getting ready for England, laying out clothes and checking lists to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. By 11:00 what she owned was spread over the chesterfield and everything else.

“Jesus, Anna, there’s no place for me to sit,” St. James complained.

“Nothing wrong with the kitchen island,” she said lightheartedly.

Feeling violated in his own space St. James grabbed a coffee and headed for the study where he emailed Williamson to ask about progress with the ambassadors and the Cayman authorities. He hoped political heat would persuade the bank to freeze the accounts and release information that might be relevant to the case.

St. James copied Nathan and Slate on the email to Williamson to keep them in the loop. Then he prepared an email update for Mary DeSilva, outlining in detail the political strategy he and Williamson had in play.

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