The Crisp Poleward Sky

by Jeff Siebold

“I know, dear, I can’t wait to see you again, too,” said Dr. Richardson, seductively. “I have something special for you.”

  Zeke rolled his eyes. He was sitting on the edge of Clive’s hotel room desk, watching and listening to the live feed from Richardson’s computer. The Vice President of Finance at Raleigh University was at his desk, chatting up a female voice on his cell phone, all of which was being captured by the camera and microphone located in his desktop computer.

  “Well, yes, we can meet tomorrow if you’d like. I’ll have to clear a couple things from my schedule… You know that Thursdays are better for me,” he said with a small touch of annoyance in his voice. He looked at his day planner for a moment, then picked up a pencil and made a notation.

  Zeke heard a tapping sound, knuckles on wood.

  “Just a moment,” he said. Then, “Yes, Cheryl?”

  “Dr. Richardson,” the voice echoed from across the room, “Dean Worthington called me. He’s been trying to reach you on your cell phone.”

  He nodded toward the door and said to the woman on the phone, “OK, tomorrow for lunch. Wednesday.” Zeke heard a cell phone beep, signaling the end of a call. On the monitor, they watched Richardson as he dialed his phone. In a much more professional voice he said, “Hello, this is Dr. Richardson.”

  He nodded and waited and nodded again, as if the person he was speaking with could see his physical affirmations.

  Then he said, “When will this happen?”

  A pause. “Friday,” he repeated. “OK.”

  He listened and said, “Are you sure they’ll be able to take care of the problem this time?”

  Zeke smiled and pointed to his chest. “I’m the problem, I’d wager,” he said to Clive.

  Clive smiled and said, “You usually are.”

  “Alright, then. Thank you,” said Richardson in his professional voice.

  * * *

  “It looks as though we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest,” said Clive.

  “Indeed,” said Zeke. They sat together at a small table in the Elephant and Castle, the restaurant’s Boston location, Clive lunching on Steak and Mushroom Pie. Zeke had a large cup of coffee.

  “I expect that you’ll queer their pitch,” Clive continued.

  “Just like last time,” said Zeke, nodding.

  “The bug in Richardson’s office came in handy.” Clive tasted some pie and nodded to himself. “Good to be tipped off about these things.”

  “We knew they’d try again, though,” said Zeke. “Particularly with me hanging about at the school like an unwelcome relative.”

  “And while you’re there…” said Clive, wryly.

  “I guess I need to talk with Jobare Worthington, also.”

  Clive nodded, his mouth full of steak and gravy. He swallowed and said, “So your next move is…?”

  “I think I’ll advance their time line,” Zeke said.

  Clive raised an eyebrow.

  “Today is Tuesday. I don’t see any reason to wait until Friday to find out what they’re planning. Do you?”

  Clive shook his head. “No, I’m not one for waiting around either.”

  “I’ll return to Cambridge this afternoon and chat with Dr. Richardson at lunch tomorrow,” Zeke said.

  Clive looked quizzical. “But he has a lunch date tomorrow.”

  “Exactly,” said Zeke.

  Chapter 14

  “Darling, you look stunning.”

  Sheila Carson was wearing a dark blue dress with white piping accents and black heels. As always, she looked both elegant and distant, and the effect wasn’t lost on Dr. Paul Richardson. He stood as she approached the table.

  Tuscano’s was a discrete restaurant, located on Brattle Street, out of the way and high-end, which assured that he wouldn’t run into any of his students there. He always requested a table in the back, away from the windows. He felt that it gave him more control. If Sheila had noticed, she’d never mentioned it.

  He gave Sheila a quick hug, putting his hand proprietarily on her derriere for a moment, pulled her chair out to seat her, and sat back down at the table next to her. The maitre d’ had followed Sheila across the restaurant, but eased away when he saw their embrace. A waiter appeared discreetly and poured Sheila a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from the bottle chilling on the table.

  “Did I keep you waiting long?” she asked.

  “No, no, I just arrived,” said Richardson, his eyes sparkling. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “Paul, you’ll make me blush,” Sheila said, adding in a whisper, “I know you’re just here for the sex.”

  “Oh, no, I assure you there’s much more,” said Dr. Richardson, the charm turned up to full volume. “I so look forward to these lunches.”

  “And what follows,” she added.

  “Of course, of course, but you mean so much to me…”

  At that moment, the chair opposite Sheila Carter was pulled out and suddenly occupied. Dr. Richardson, surprised, turned his head away from the woman and toward their visitor.

  “You,” he said. “The auditor. What are you doing here?” He seemed puzzled at first, and then he became nervous.

  “Well, I’ve completed the audit,” said Zeke. He turned to the woman sitting across from him. “Hello. I’m Zeke Traynor.”

  Sheila Carter looked away and said nothing.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt this tryst,” Zeke continued. “You both look like you need it. But I believe Dr. Richardson has some information I need.”

  “Can’t this wait?” asked Richardson.

  “Until Friday?” asked Zeke. “When they plan to kill me? I don’t think so.”

  Sheila was taken aback. Seeing the stakes rise quickly, she stood suddenly, tipping her chair. She caught it before it fell, then quickly walked to the front door and out onto the street.

  “What?” asked Dr. Richardson. Clearly upset, his mouth opened and closed twice. “What?”

  “I know the ‘what’,” Zeke said. “So, what’s important now is the who, the where and the when.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Dr. Richardson, louder, looking around the room for help.

  “Hmm,” said Zeke. He lifted the wine bottle from the tabletop wine cooler and in a quick move, jammed the mouth of the bottle hard into Richardson’s diaphragm. Then Zeke replaced the bottle carefully.

  Richardson, surprised, coughed and wheezed and clutched his chest. He made breathless noises through his nose and mouth. Zeke waited patiently, a concerned look on his face. A waiter noticed Richardson and came to the table.

  “Is he alright?” the waiter asked Zeke.

  “I don’t know. I hope it’s not a heart attack,” said Zeke.

  Richardson, recovering somewhat, looked at the waiter and started shaking his head and coughing.

  “Perhaps he has something in his throat?” asked Zeke.

  Richardson flailed and then shook his head again, starting to gain control of his breathing. His face was red and blotchy. Zeke reached over and loosened Richardson’s tie.

  “I guess he’ll be OK,” Zeke said.

  The waiter said, “Should I call an ambulance?”

  Again, Richardson, coughing, shook his head no.

  The waiter drifted away, still watching Dr. Richardson from a distance. Richardson was gathering himself.

  “You’ll need to tell me who, where and when,” Zeke repeated quietly.

  “They’ll kill me,” said Richardson, his voice a croak. “You have no idea,” he paused and took a short breath, “who you’re dealing with.”

  “Enlighten me,” said Zeke.

  “I can’t,” said Richardson. “All I know is Friday.”

  “All you know?”

  “They didn’t say. Just that it will be taken care of. Friday.”

  “Tell me from the beginning,” Zeke said. “You’re already in a lot of trouble. The Feds will be looking for you soon, I’m sure.” Because I’ve arranged it, thought Zeke.

  “No, no, it’s
them, they caused it. They gave me no choice, you see,” he said. “They used blackmail.”

  “You and Sheila Carson?”

  “You know her name? Apparently there aren’t any secrets anymore,” said Richardson bitterly.

  Zeke looked at him.

  “They did it. They made me write the checks and they took the money. It was for student tuition, but they made the students quit and they took the refunds.”

  Zeke thought for a moment. He noticed that Dr. Richardson, typically very self-involved, was beginning to distance himself. Fewer “I’s” and “me’s” in his conversation, thought Zeke, and more “they” and “them’s.” Richardson was lying. Or at least steeply shading the truth.

  “You don’t go around killing people,” Richardson continued, his voice still raspy.

  Minimal self-referencing, thought Zeke. He’s lying about his involvement, now. He knows a lot more.

  Zeke nodded expectantly.

  “I don’t know what else to tell you,” said Richardson.

  “How much money?”

  “Oh, not that much,” said Richardson, looking around again. “You have to understand, they’ve been doing this for years…”

  “Who’s your contact?” asked Zeke.

  “No, I can’t say. They’ll kill me, too. They’re the mob.”

  Zeke nodded, as if this was an acceptable response.

  “You don’t care if your wife finds out about Sheila Carter?” asked Zeke.

  Richardson looked at him. “No, you wouldn’t do that…”

  “Every Thursday since last April 6th, with a couple days off when you were out of town. Would you like to see the hotel receipts?”

  “OK, OK. It was Jobare Worthington. He’s my contact,” said Richardson. “I don’t know who else is involved.”

  “Right,” said Zeke, empathetically. “Where would I find him?”

  “He’s the Dean of the Liberal Arts College at Raleigh University. He’s the one with the mob contacts. Look, I’ve told you what I know. Can you let me go, now?”

  Zeke stood and said, “Stand up, Dr. Richardson. You’re under arrest.” Two FBI agents, dressed as servers, made their way to the table and stood Richardson to his feet. One cuffed him and read him his rights as the second frisked him for weapons.

  The patrons at Tuscano’s were watching now, most uncomfortable and feeling awkward. The FBI agents walked Richardson out. As Paul Richardson exited the front door, he saw Sheila Carson standing with a female officer just outside the restaurant; she, too, was handcuffed and obviously ashamed.

  * * *

  “You know about Luis and how it went down?” Susan asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Benito Diaz. “He was set up by the police.”

  Susan shook her head slowly. “And now you want me to clean up the mess?”

  “I do,” said Diaz. “Both messes.” He smiled an insincere smile, which she saw on her side of the Skype connection. “But you and Luis have let me down.”

  “Luis is in jail,” Susan commented. “But he won’t give you up.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Diaz. “I would much rather talk with you face to face,” he continued.

  “I remember,” said Susan. “But I’m in Boston, and you’re, where, Scottsdale?”

  “It’s a matter of the timing,” Diaz continued. He ignored her interruption because he needed her, now.

  “You sent me with Luis as backup,” she continued. “And now, I’m the primary.”

  “Yes,” said Diaz. “It has to happen tomorrow,” he continued. “While he’s still in Cambridge.”

  “He hasn’t moved on?” she asked.

  “He had one of our academic people arrested today, and he’s harassing another. He’s getting too close.”

  “Too close to what?” she asked.

  “That’s our business. But he’s getting too close, and we need to shut him down,” said Raul Diaz from off screen.

  Pig, thought Susan.

  Then she said, “I understand. Give me the details. I’ll clean up the mess.”

  * * *

  When Benito Diaz had completed his briefing, Susan asked, “How can I get access to the office building he’s working in?”

  “We’ll arrange it,” said Benito Diaz. “We’ll set it up for this afternoon. What else do you need?”

  “I think that’s it,” said Susan. She knew the money would be deposited in her account, less than $10,000 at a time until it was all there. Diaz was good about taking care of that.

  “We’ll want to see you when you get back here,” said Benito. “To talk.”

  “Of course,” she said. Diaz’ obsession with face to face meetings was well known, and was not lost on Susan.

  “How are you returning?” continued Diaz.

  “I’ll drive to Rhode Island and fly out of Providence,” she said. “It’s only an hour or so from here. The airlines connect in Chicago, and then it’s a quick trip home.” She didn’t mention where ‘home’ was, and Diaz didn’t ask. “I can get over to see you next week,” she said, politely.

  “Good, yes, let us know when it’s done,” said Benito Diaz. The screen went blank.

  * * *

  “Appreciate you joining me on short notice,” said Zeke.

  “No worries. Clive told me that this might happen,” said Kimmy, sitting across from Zeke at the small table. They were at a popular coffee shop in Cambridge, located near Harvard Square.

  “It appears to be moving quickly,” Zeke said. “Before Richardson was taken away, he mentioned his contact, a Dean at Raleigh University.”

  “By name?” asked Kimmy. She was sipping on a cup of organic Assam tea, and balancing her smartphone on her knee while they talked. She looked up at Zeke, then down at the phone again.

  Zeke nodded. “Jobare Worthington,” he said.

  “Jobare?” asked Kimmy. “What kind of name is that?”

  “No idea,” said Zeke.

  “Sounds kind of French…” she continued. Then, “So what’s the plan?”

  “We should chat with the Dean, I think, before the FBI goes looking for him. Richardson will inevitably give him up again, once they get to the interrogations and all. So we have a small window of time.”

  Kimmy nodded. “How do you want to do it?”

  “He’s used to authority, I’d think. Being in charge,” said Zeke.

  Kimmy nodded.

  “So let’s take that away from him. I’d bet he’s pretty fragile without his academic facade.

  “OK,” said Kimmy, smiling a little bit.

  “Let’s visit the Dean. At home, where he’s more vulnerable. Sally gave us his address. And she said that he usually works from home on Thursdays and Fridays.”

  * * *

  The doorbell on the brownstone rang deep within the brick walls. Zeke could hear it echo for a moment before it stopped. A minute later, a tall, thin man opened the door and said, “Yes?”

  “Jobare Worthington?” asked Zeke.

  The man bristled. He’d worked through several possible responses and settled on angry.

  “What the hell do you want?” he said. “Why are you bothering me?”

  That’s quite a reaction, thought Zeke.

  The man wore small, round glasses without frames and his longish hair was pulled back into a ponytail, held in place with a green rubber band. His jeans were distressed, and his white dress shirt, worn outside the jeans, was crisp and unwrinkled.

  “Jobare, we’re investigating some student loan fraud. We thought you might want to talk with us about that,” said Zeke, staring directly at the academic.

  Jobare Worthington stuttered. “Uh, uh, what?” His face reddened. “Who are you?” He was still trying to work up an attack.

  “What we’d like to know is this. Who’re the brains behind the scam?” said Zeke. “‘Cuz it certainly isn’t you.”

  Standing in the doorway, the door propped open, Jobare Worthington turned suddenly and tried to shut th
e door.

  Zeke blocked the door with his shoulder and pushed the Dean back into his living room. He stepped in, and Kimmy followed, closing the door.

  “Hey, you can’t do that,” said Jobare. “You can’t come in here like that!”

  “But we did,” said Kimmy with a smile. “You should sit, before we make you sit,” she said pleasantly. Then she walked around the small residence, confirming there was no one else in the home.

  Jobare Worthington looked at Kimmy, and then he looked at Zeke. And then he sat down on the small couch and took out his cell phone.

  “I’ll take that,” said Zeke, holding out his hand.

  “I’m not scared of you,” said Worthington. He snatched the phone back against his body.

  Zeke reached in and grabbed Worthington’s nose between his index finger and thumb. He twisted it, and the academic cried out in sudden pain. Tears ran from his eyes as he dropped the phone and reached for his face and Zeke’s hand.

  Zeke let go of Jobare’s large nose and deftly picked up the cell phone from the couch cushion where it had fallen.

  “Let’s see who you were going to call,” said Zeke.

  Jobare Worthington visibly pouted as he rubbed his nose. “You can’t do this!” he said, sounding more outraged than angry.

  The number on the face of the phone was a local number that Zeke didn’t recognize, but he knew the associated name. He mentally noted the number and hit ‘cancel’ on the screen. The phone reverted to its home screen.

  “Who’s Roy Calhoun?” asked Zeke, feigning ignorance.

  Jobare looked away.

  “Why would you call him?”

  “You’ll see,” said Jobare, suddenly more antagonistic. He was still rubbing his nose.

  “He’s your boss,” said Zeke.

  Jobare snorted. “No, he’s not.” Then he shut up. Zeke saw his jaws tighten, a rebellious reaction, as Jobare Worthington became determined to remain silent.

  “So, who’s behind the student loan scam, Jobare? Who organized it?”

  The academic shook his head and pressed his lips tightly together. He looked like an eight-year-old refusing to answer his mother’s questions.