The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be honest, Grandad, I expected as much. Did he say where he is living?’

  ‘I asked him last Christmas. He said he was in the States and wouldnae be more specific.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t remember, but when are your birthdays?’

  ‘They’re past for this year, son. Next call will be Christmas.’

  Christmas is three months away. Three months is a long time when you’re dying from blood cancer. John can’t wait three months for someone who may only be a possible donor.

  ‘What dates are your birthdays, Grandad?’ He tells me and I write them down. The more information I can give Alfonse, the better he’ll know where to start looking. ‘Can I speak to Granny?’

  ‘Of course you can, son. Jist dinnae say oot aboot your brother. There’s nae point worrying her aboot things she cannae dae onything aboot.’

  I spend a pleasant few minutes letting Granny tell me all about what’s happening in her neighbours’ lives, and promise to call her more often.

  We both know the promise is made with the best of intentions and the worst of odds.

  It’s not that I don’t enjoy speaking to them, it’s that every time I plan to call them something gets in the way, and by the time I clear the obstruction another week or month has passed.

  10

  I stretch my legs as much as the seat in front allows and focus on the sheet of paper in my hand for what seems like the thousandth time.

  No matter which way I look at it, I can’t make sense of Ms Rosenberg’s clues. The names and numbers do not speak to me in any way.

  Alfonse has managed to book me on the same flight as Taylor, but we aren’t sitting together, and all the seats around us are occupied by families so we are unable to swap.

  It’s not too much of a bad thing. I need to solve Ms Rosenberg’s puzzle and Taylor has the ability to distract me with nothing more than a flick of her hair.

  I’ve thought long and hard about Ms Rosenberg’s chosen pseudonym and the way she hid behind it. I now know she was scared that she might be tracked down by whoever forced her out of New York, but another thought about her pseudonym has stayed with me.

  It’s the surname Noone. When someone tries to hide, they become faceless and blend in. They choose a place where nobody knows them, and they do their best not to draw attention to themselves. They don’t fulfil their potential, nor do they strive to become famous. Rather, they try to be no one. Or, in Ms Rosenberg’s case, Noone.

  While Ms Rosenberg was well known in Casperton, nobody living fifty or more miles away would be aware of her. Rather than pursue any dreams of journalistic stardom and Pulitzer prizes, she’d hidden herself away in a backwater town and settled for being a mid-sized fish in a small pond.

  I’m sure the choice of pseudonym has something to do with a professional writer’s love of words. Maybe it was her extending a middle finger to those who’d driven her out of New York. She was still successful, she’d just been unable to publicly accept the acclaim that came her way.

  The other thing that’s distracting me is the conversation I’d had with Mother. She’d pursed her lips, scowled, and proceeded to insult my intelligence when I’d told her that I was going to find Father. When she’d finally stopped railing on me, I’d asked her if she thought I was doing it for any reason beyond a desperate attempt to save John’s life.

  She hadn’t known how to answer, and had sat staring at me, making no effort to hide the tears in her eyes.

  I’d tried to reassure her that, once Father had agreed to help John, I would leave them to it and have no further contact with him. She’d shaken her head with a vehemence I had never seen before, and told me that if my father wanted to reconnect with me, he’d find a way of persuading me to do it.

  In the end, it had been Neill who’d settled Mother, and got her to see what I was doing was for John’s benefit, rather than my own.

  Mother had insulted me a little more before telling me she couldn’t add to what I already knew.

  I had relayed her answers to Alfonse who, with his typical grace, had told me to worry about tracking down Halvard Weil and to leave finding Father to him.

  Now I’m sitting on a plane with time to think, I wonder about the searches he’ll run. Alfonse is a master hacker who can penetrate anything he wants. He’s got my father’s full name and date of birth. From those he’ll be able to look in all the government databases, such as social security, immigration, and police files. If Father has been picked up for anything he’s done in the USA, Alfonse will be able to find out.

  The sheet of paper in my hand mocks me with its silent tease. Each word or number is mute against my thought processes.

  Alfonse has tried using the numbers as map references, but there should be six numbers for each reference. Having ten, meant the references were five by five. Regardless of the numbers, without knowing which map to use, the numbers were useless.

  I turn over my sheet of paper and try something else.

  Watson – 1

  Marshall – 7

  Evans – 7

  Devereaux – 3

  Clapperton – 6

  Devereaux – 7

  Boulder – 6

  Devereaux – 2

  Boulder – 2

  Clapperton – 4

  Assigning each name with a number from the sequence, I take the corresponding letters and write down what they spell – the first letter of Watson, the seventh letter of Marshall, and so on, until I get to Evans – not enough letters in the name Evans – W L ? V E A E E O P.

  I spend a while trying to rearrange the letters into a word, but I can’t form one that makes sense to me.

  My heart isn’t really in it as I’m not sure I’m on the right track – Evans contains five letters and its corresponding number is seven.

  I try reversing the order of the numbers against the names: C R A U E R E V A S are the letters offered up to me, and as there are ten of them, I’m more confident they will tell me the location of the safety deposit box.

  A flight attendant brings the trolley up the aisle. There’s no grace to her movements and she’s using the trolley as a battering ram against the elbows and feet, which overhang the narrow seats, protruding into the aisle.

  I raise a hand to halt her stampede, and buy a few pieces of over-priced fruit rather than subject myself to the airline’s sorry attempt at a meal.

  While I usually enjoy puzzles, to keep my brain active, I can feel my frustration growing at my failure to assemble the random letters into words or names I recognise.

  The crying toddler two rows in front doesn’t help my mood; neither does the gangly teen surfer-type behind me who keeps bumping the back of my seat.

  There’s nothing I can do about the crying toddler, so I rise from my seat, turn to the teen behind me and lean in close to his ear. When I speak, my Scots accent is thickened to a growl. ‘The next time you bump my seat I may well give in to my growing desire to shorten your nose. Do you understand me?’

  He nods.

  I pat his ridiculous hairstyle and tell him he’s a clever boy.

  By the time I reach the toilets I’m starting to feel the first prickles of guilt for acting like a bully. They disappear when I consider the fact that the teen is old enough to know better than to be an inconsiderate nuisance to other travellers.

  My mood lifts further when I see Taylor walking towards me with a salacious twinkle in her eye.

  11

  A solitary phone call is all it takes for Cameron to break down the barrier between a possible opportunity and a life changing decision.

  The call is made from a public booth at the other side of town. It could have been made from his home phone or his cell, but that would have left a trail. When you’re running off with seven figures of someone else’s money, not leaving a trail is a good idea.

  With a new identity being prepared for him, he is one step closer to having his escape route in place.

  Next on h
is to-do list is opening a new bank account. The money he plans to appropriate – he doesn’t think of himself as a thief, therefore he won’t be stealing the money – needs a new home. A home that can’t be traced.

  Swiss bank accounts, and those in offshore banks, are very good at refusing the authorities information on their customers. Where they have problems, is in the protection of their employees and their employees’ families. The people he’s appropriating the money from won’t hesitate to threaten a bank manager’s family to get the information they need.

  This means he needs to be clever with where the money will end up. There’s no point exchanging it for cash or gold. There would be too much to move around without a van.

  Cameron has an idea though. It’s a good one that he knows just how to execute. His employer has shown him a different world and he intends to utilise his knowledge of it to enact his plan.

  The best part is, he’s known to the people who’ll facilitate his deception. He has traded with them on his employer’s behalf in the past and all the correct protocols have already been established. All he needs to do is lie convincingly and all will go well for him.

  It won’t be easy, but earning millions of dollars in a day was never likely to be. His plan to make the money untraceable is a simple one that needs no real brilliance.

  All it needs is a fair amount of organisation, the establishing of some credentials, and a few forged documents.

  These will all be established before he goes to the bar on the corner, for his usual steak dinner washed down with beers and a few whisky chasers.

  Once that part is in place, there will be no way that either he or the money can be traced. He’s even prepared to write off a few hundred thousand as expenses if necessary.

  12

  The pawnbroker’s shop is nothing like my expectations. In my head I had a vision of an over-filled room, crammed floor to ceiling with random objects in a style that was haphazard and precarious. I’d imagined the sign above the door to be faded and that the proprietor would be a bespectacled man with grey hair and a shabby cardigan.

  What I encounter instead is a slick, modern building with glass cabinets, ample lighting and a collection of styled youths behind the counter. There’s music playing through a hidden speaker and, while I don’t recognise the tune, I know it’s not a song that’s likely to achieve classic status before another decade has passed.

  It’s only when I look at the store’s merchandise and its clientele that I realise why my expectations were wrong. My thinking was of hard-up homeowners, pawning beloved items until they’d saved enough money to pay off the loan from the pawnbroker.

  I’m decades out with my assumptions. Today’s pawn shops are more like a trading post. Teens with pasty complexions are buying video games by the handful, couples are examining the cabinet filled with jewellery, and there is a group, of what I can only assume are traders, scouring the cabinets containing cell phones, iPads and other digital equipment.

  As I look for a member of staff who may be classed as a manager, or has at least started shaving, a pre-teen boy leads his father in and heads straight to the exchange counter. I watch idly as the father empties various video game boxes out of the backpack he carried in.

  I pay attention to the boy and his father. The official buyers in a place like this must have a certain amount of seniority. I take Taylor’s hand and lead her across the room until we’re standing in line behind the boy and his father.

  The words I whisper in Taylor’s ear get me a stern look, but she does as I ask and removes her necklace and places it into my hand.

  My plan is a simple one. While there will be some known information about a video game’s value, jewellery is a different matter altogether. That requires someone with a certain amount of proper training and years of experience.

  Taylor’s necklace is a good one. She told me it was a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday. Having been invited to her parents’ home to meet them over dinner, I know for a fact they’re not worrying about where their next buck will come from. Everything about them spoke of quality, without crossing the line into ostentation. I could tell from the one meeting that they dote on their only daughter, and I’d be happy to bet that Taylor’s necklace, while not overly fancy, will have a recognised hallmark and a price tag that’d equate to several months of my salary.

  The boy’s father tries to haggle a better price than he’s offered, but the server is resolute and doesn’t budge. The father huffs and puffs a little but, after a minute of trying to wangle a more favourable deal, he gives up and takes the handful of dead presidents the server has laid on the counter.

  I smile at the server and lay the necklace on the counter. ‘I’m told this is valuable. How much are you willing to offer me?’

  The server runs a hand through the mop of un-styled blonde hair on his head, lifts Taylor’s necklace and squints at it.

  ‘I’ll give you a hundred bucks.’

  ‘Try again. I’ve heard it’s worth a lot more than that.’ I fix him with a stare. ‘You’ve just looked at it. Closely. You’ll have seen the hallmark. If a hundred bucks is all you’re offering, I’ll take it elsewhere.’

  ‘I … I’ll need to speak to my boss. He may be able to offer you more.’

  Now we’re getting somewhere. The server was chancing his arm. I half expected as much. He’s played safe after seeing the hallmark. Perhaps he thought he’d get a promotion if he managed to buy cheap and sell dear. On the other hand, there may be a Miss Blonde Server he wants to impress; a necklace like Taylor’s would go a long way towards impressing whichever girl he had his eye on.

  He goes into a back room and I hear him call out to a Mr Weil. I share a look of excitement with Taylor. This has been too easy. If it’s Halvard who comes through the door, we’re home and dry. If it’s not, I’ll lay a cent to a dollar they’ll be a close relative of his.

  The man who appears isn’t Halvard. Not unless he’s been drinking an elixir of youth. Our man is in his late twenties, or early thirties.

  He smiles at us and glances at the necklace. He takes another look at Taylor and me. It’s a scenario that’s familiar to me. With her elevated cheekbones and flawless complexion, Taylor has a timeless beauty; whereas I’m average. Average height, average looks, average build.

  I’m punching above my weight with her and I know it. Fortunately, I’m good at punching. In fact, I almost consider it to be a hobby.

  Weil pulls a jeweller’s loupe from his pocket and examines the necklace. When he lays it on the counter it’s with a delicate, almost reverent, care. The loupe is returned to his pocket.

  When he speaks his tone is respectful. ‘I am prepared to pay you five thousand dollars for this exquisite necklace.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not actually for sale.’ I keep my voice low to remove any offence from my words.

  Weil sighs, takes another look at the necklace, and another look at Taylor. ‘Six thousand and that is my final offer.’

  I pull a sheet of paper from my pocket, unfold it and lay it on the counter so it’s the right way up for him to read.

  ‘The necklace isn’t for sale. I’m sorry to have jerked you around, but I needed a way to get to the person in charge.’

  Weil’s eyes are fixed on the paper; I’m guessing he’s fighting back surprise. The paper holds the image of Halvard Weil, which Ms Rosenberg had so treasured. Alfonse has cropped her from the picture to maintain her anonymity.

  I figure Weil is experiencing a gamut of emotions as he looks at an old picture of a younger version of himself. There is no doubt in my mind that he’s a close relative of Halvard. The hook of their noses is the same, as are the shape of their eyes and their chins. My guess is that he’s Halvard’s son or, at the very least, his nephew.

  He looks up from the picture and into my eyes. His pupils are full of questions but his face is otherwise implacable.

  I realise he’s not saying anything for a reason. He
’s waiting for me to speak. Like all experienced negotiators, and that’s a lot of what pawnbrokers do, he knows when to ask questions and when to wait for someone else to speak.

  ‘I’m not going to insult you by asking if you know who’s in that picture. I’m going to tell you that I’ve been hired to find Halvard Weil by an attorney. The attorney is the executor of a will that Mr Weil is the main beneficiary of.’

  ‘I see.’

  His words may not be a lie, but there are still questions in his eyes. He doesn’t see, not really. If I’m right about him being Halvard’s son, he’ll be busy trying to work out who’s died and why he hasn’t heard about it.

  Maybe he’s too polite to ask, or he’s keeping his cards close to his chest like all good negotiators, but again he waits for me to speak.

  I’m happy to oblige. The sooner we get this sorted, the sooner I can spend a little time exploring New York with Taylor. I’ve heard plenty about the Big Apple, but this is my first visit and I want to see as much as I can while I’m here.

  ‘Would I be right in saying your father is the man in this picture? That you’re Halvard Weil’s son?’

  He nods.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive my bluntness, but I take it your father is still with us?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Would you be prepared to give me his address?’

  A baleful look is followed by a shake of his head.

  I begin to wonder if Halvard is fit and well. He may be in poor health and living in a care home somewhere; either waiting to die or being tormented by the imaginings of his mind.

  It’s my turn to wait Halvard’s son out.

  He’s stubborn and resolute.

  So am I.

  He cracks first.

  ‘I cannot give you his address as I do not know who you are, who you represent, or if my father will welcome a stranger coming to his door talking of an inheritance when nobody likely to leave him money has died.’