“And Constable Whatever is not able to handle the situation,” the Commissioner said.
“I don’t think that is the case. I just think he lacks the manpower and some of the current techniques we currently have available. He seems like a pretty sharp cookie to me,” I said.
“But he needs help.”
“He doesn’t need someone coming into his strawberry patch and stomping around. No one likes that. Certainly without being invited,” I said.
I knew what he was hinting at and I certainly wasn’t going to go and piss off another professional. On top of that, they are part of the Commonwealth. The British might not think too kindly of an American dropping in on them uninvited. They are rather big on protocol. If he needed help he could always call Scotland Yard couldn’t he?”
“But if he did ask, you wouldn’t mind going?”
“He’s British. We’re Americans. We have no jurisdiction.” Hello, anybody home?
“The point being, you could just unofficially help, if he asked.”
“He won’t. Can we just drop it?” I said.
“Sure. For now.”
It was the last two words that bothered me. I knew the Commissioner well enough to know that this wasn’t over. It meant that we had better come up with something or he would engineer a way for me to get invited to go to the Cayman Islands one way or the other.
While I like the sunshine and warm weather as well or better than the next person, this was not the way I want to go. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will piss a cop off more than having someone shoved down their throats to ‘help’ them out. It is a professional slap in the face. I’ve had it done to me and believe me, it never goes down well.
“Jean,” I said, trying to get off the current subject.
“Yes?”
“This last note. Do you have any thoughts about what it might mean?”
“I think it means he is not through killing yet. He feels the world has dealt him a great injustice and he wants to set it straight. Something happened while he was growing up and now he has a chance to do something about it. This is his revenge, if you want to call it that. He has no remorse and he will not stop killing until you catch him,” she said.
I just nodded. I don’t want to be a wet blanket but just how does that help us? Not a one of us doubted that he was madder than a hatter. We all were pretty sure he wasn’t done killing and just who the hell cares about his childhood? That wasn’t going to help us one bit. It wouldn’t help his victims either.
“Thanks,” I said, keeping a straight face and giving her my most sincere look.
Everyone who knew me was waiting for the other shoe to drop but I just moved on.
“We need to go back to the start. We have to dig even deeper on all four of our original victims. We know Baron was the link but what ties them all together. What is the common scam or whatever that brought them all to him? Another thing. Did they all have accounts in the Cayman Islands and did Baron go there to clean them all out? You know, we could be talking about millions and millions of dollars. We need to look into the financial matters of these people. We have work to do and lots of it,” I told them.
“I’m all for that. At least we have something to work toward,” Dan replied.
“Eric, we will get all the information to you. Then you can build a spreadsheet to keep track of the amounts we find. Maybe we can figure out how much these people had tucked away.”
“Good. That will be good,” Eric said, happy to have something to actually do for a change.
* * *
“I have been expecting your call.”
“I am very sorry. It took a little longer than I had anticipated but I am happy to report that everything went as you specified.”
“And all witnesses have been eliminated?”
“All but Carlos himself.”
“And you are satisfied with our arrangements I assume?”
“Absolutely. Your portion of the money will reach Sugarloaf Key in three days’ time. The cargo will be taken to the small airport and loaded onto a Gulfstream 550 with the registration number HM 101. It will fly to Indianapolis and go directly to the One Flight terminal on the north side. You will need to make the final arrangements. I do not want to have any knowledge of the final destination of the package once it arrives at the airport,” Tornado said.
“Yes. I will make the final arrangements. Has anyone come to inquire about the money yet?”
“Heavens no. Why do you ask? You said it was untraceable,” the bank president said, suddenly alarmed.
“Of course it is. I probably phrased that wrong. I was merely pointing out that no one had come around because no one knows about what Baron, posing as Farley, was doing in the Cayman Islands. They do know that he was murdered there, it’s been in the papers so they may figure he was there on business and visit all the banks, sort of fishing. You should make sure you wipe out all of his records just to be on the safe side.”
“Yes. I have already taken care of that.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. I believe once I receive my package that will conclude our business arrangement.”
“It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“You did an excellent job in making the arrangements I asked for in such short notice.”
“I have access to one of the best in the business. I have used him for other work in the past. The mention of his name usually gets the desired results,” Tornado replied.
“I am pleased. Enjoy your new found wealth.”
“Likewise. Goodbye,” the bank president said and hung up. He chuckled. The man had no idea how rich he had made him. He had managed to skim off over ten million before the money was crated up. Along with his take of four million in cash from his own bank he was now a very wealthy man. Now all he had to do was decide on his future. Would he take his family and disappear or just go off on his own and start a new life? He certainly loved his family but with fourteen million dollars, he was sure he could find a way to overcome his loss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Detective Bartoni,” Jean Dixon yelled as I was headed out the door of the precinct. I stopped and she came running up.
“Glad I caught you. I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”
“Uh-huh. What kind of question?”
“You really don’t like me do you detective?”
“Ah..is that the question?”
“No but it would be nice to hear what you have to say on the subject.”
“Is this necessary?”
“I would just like to know.”
“Fine. I think you’re a swell person. You must be smart or you wouldn’t have made it into the FBI. Sure, what’s not to like?”
She just looked at me for several seconds. I’m thinking either what I said was okay or she is going to shoot me. I figured it was 50-50.
“Maybe I didn’t phrase the question right,” she finally said.
Awe crap, she is going to shoot me for sure. I needed to say something brilliant.
“Uh okay.” Hey, I’m under a lot of pressure here. Give me a break.
“Here’s the thing. I know you liked working with Marsha and the team Pendergrass headed. I’m new and you are still waiting to see if I can perform. I respect that but I am not about to crank out some half-assed profile just to make you like me better.”
“You’ve got it wrong. I do like Marsha but you have to understand she and I have worked together on several cases and we work well as a team. I’m slow to adjust to this kind of change so you don’t need to take it as a personal affront,” I told her
Please let me pull this little lie off and I swear I will never lie again. Well, not big ones. Alright, not really big, big ones.
She stood there looking at me. I couldn’t take it anymore.
I blurted out, “What?”
“Thank you for clarifying that for me. I was beginning to think it was a personal thing.”
“Re
lax. It isn’t.”
I stumbled out the door and was met by an arctic blast that instantly took my breath away. Now I know what those poor suckers felt like in the movie The Day After Tomorrow. At least someone had shoveled the snow off the steps and tossed some salt down so I wouldn’t bust my butt.
Getting the Healy out of a snowdrift took considerable effort and a lot of naughty words but finally I had the little booger chugging up the street towards home. I was going to need a nap if I was going to have to pull extra duty because of the predicted snow storm coming.
* * *
“I would like to charter a plane, a jet to Rio de Janeiro.”
“South America?”
“Is there another?”
“I guess not. When do you want to depart?”
“Tomorrow. Any time after 9:00 a.m. would be fine.”
“We can have a Lear 60 that can be ready for you.”
“Can that make it to Rio without stopping?”
“Of course. It has a range of 2400 nautical miles.”
“Excellent. I will be at the airport at nine o’clock then.”
“What is the name please?”
“Mr. James Tornado.”
“Alright Mr. Tornado. Please make sure to have your passport with you.”
“I will indeed.”
“Luggage?”
“Yes. Two large suitcases and one overnight bag.”
“Excellent. See you tomorrow morning.”
James Tornado, former manager of the First Cayman Bank, and now a very rich man. He was sure he would feel a little guilty about leaving his wife and kids but with fourteen million in US dollar bills, well what was he to do? He thought about leaving some money behind for his wife but she would probably just blow it. At least he had paid off the mortgage or made it look like he had. Of course his bank held the mortgage so taking care of it was just a matter of signing off on the loan.
He locked the bank doors for the last time. He had left a note, his resignation effective immediately, on his desk. He put the three suitcases in the trunk and climbed into his five year old Accord. He was sitting in the car trying to decide if he was going to go home or just spend the night at a hotel. Going home would be safer. If his wife started to worry she might call the constable and report him missing. That would never do. Home, he decided.
Driving east on Lawrence he took the roundabout and headed south on Minerva Drive. A few hundred yards down the road a man holding a stop sign stepped out and started waving for him to slow. He pulled up to the construction worker.
“What’s the problem?”
“We have sinkhole just a few hundred yards up the road. You will need to turn around and go back.”
“But I live this way,” he said pointing.
“I could let you through if you have...say...ten million dollars that doesn’t belong to you,” the man said.
“Ten million dollars? Are you crazy? Who has that kind of money?”
“I believe you do and it belongs to me,” the man said as he reached up and shoved a dagger through the driver’s eye. He didn’t stop until it hit the back of the man’s skull. He calmly pulled the bloody dagger out, wiped it on the man’s shirt, went around and opened the trunk. He removed the two large suitcases and loaded them into his Jeep and drove off, leaving the dead man sitting in the car. Stealing was a sin and could not be tolerated.
He drove back to The Lark, loaded the suitcases on board along with the two crates and got ready to head out to sea. It was time to leave this beautiful paradise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Detective Bartoni, this is constable Pettigrew.”
“I hope you’re not calling to complain about the weather. It’s minus 6 degrees here today.”
“Bloody awful. No, it’s about Mr. Baron. We are shipping the body back to the states. We aren’t really sure that is who it is but no one is missing from the island. Well, that’s not quite true. The President of the First Cayman Bank was stabbed through the eye yesterday.”
“Another murder?”
“Rather discouraging I’m afraid. Unfortunately they may be related to the disturbing visit of Mr. Baron. I have to admit, it is a trifle overwhelming at this point,” the constable said.
“Yeah, well five murders would give me fits too. I hope you have some good help.”
“Yes, well that’s another matter but we shall keep plugging away. Sorry I can’t be of more assistance to you. Whoever killed Mr. Tornado is somehow linked to your Mr. Baron. The three men we found a day ago had been hired by Mr. Tornado to deliver some crates to a boat called the ‘Twin Screws’. It is registered to a Mr. Melvin Farley.”
“We figure Baron was posing as Farley and cleaning out the accounts. Looks like someone wanted Baron out of the way too. Your bank president must have been in on it somehow. It looks like the killer was tying up loose ends.”
“I see. Well it has been a very unusual week. I hope we never have one like it again.”
“Thank you for all your help. I really appreciate it,” I told him.
“I only wish I could have done more. Nice talking to you Detective Bartoni. Hope to meet you someday.”
“Yes, but I’ll come to you, you don’t want to be here,” I said.
* * *
“Okay, so the killer waited until Baron aka Farley took the money out of the banks. Then he killed Baron and the three delivery guys. Next he kills the bank president. So where did he go then?” the captain asked.
“No clue. Depending on how much money he took off with, it could be anyplace.”
“You don’t think the crates had money in them do you?”
“Hey, a lot of money is both heavy and takes up a lot of space. It could very well be,” I said.
“This guy is something else,” he replied.
It’s a revelation. His bulb is starting to come on.
“Yes he is,” was all I said.
“So what is your plan now?”
“Honestly, I don’t have one. The guy could be anyplace. If I had that kind of money I would get out of the country and never come back.”
“Who would?” Jean said, walking into the office.
“The killer. We think he has two crates full of money that he took from the Cayman Islands,” I told her.
“Crates of money?”
“That’s the thinking.”
“Wow. Even so, I doubt this kind of killer will just take off. He isn’t finished with killing yet,” she said.
“Why not? He has a ton of cash, so to speak. I sure the hell would.”
“But he won’t. He will be back here. He feels people have wronged him and he is going to keep on until you catch him.”
“Well that’s just frickin dandy,” McGregor said, throwing his pen on the desk.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Ninety percent sure.”
“So we just wait for him to show up and start running people through with his damn sword?”
“Unless you have some information I don’t know about. That’s about all you can do,” Jean said.
* * *
Indianapolis Star - THE SHAKESPEARE KILLER STRIKES
The IPD now believes that the killing of Melvin Farley, Linda Evens, and Andrew Kramer are all linked to a person known only as the Shakespeare Killer. Notes found at the scene of each crime have contained quotes from William Shakespeare’s plays. It is believed that money is the primary motivation for the murders. According to one source, a great deal of money is missing...
Someone was going to die. I know because I was going to kill them. How in the world did the press get hold of this information? This was unbelievable. As many times as I said, this isn’t for the press, someone goes and shoots their mouth off.
I was unbelievably p-od. I threw on some clothes, jumped in the Healy and promptly got stuck trying to back out of the driveway. Seems the snow plows had come in the night and shoved a twenty foot mound of show in my drive. OK, maybe not twenty foot
but enough that I had to go get a shovel and dig my way out. This was certainly not going to help my disposition.
When I got to the station McGregor had everyone in the conference room and I could hear him through the closed door. Maybe I should just go back home. Instead I opened the door and stuck my head in. Mistake. He almost bit it off.
“Where the hell have you been Bartoni?”
“Stuck in my driveway. It took a while to dig out. It’s been snowing you know?”
“See boys and girls. There is a real detective for you. She figured out it has been snowing.”
This was not the time to crack wise. I just took a seat and kept my mouth shut.
“I want to know who in the hell leaked this information,” he said glaring at everyone.
No one said a word.
“And the Shakespeare Killer, just where in the hell did that label come from?”
Silence.
“People, someone is going to tell me. I’ll keep you all in here until you die of starvation, wet your pants or die of old age.”
I didn’t think it was a good time to mention that it was against the law to do that. He probably knew anyway.
Finally Boy Wonder, good ole Eric, spoke up, “Captain they were badgering me. I had to give them something. The Shakespeare thing just kind of came out. I mean..”
“Detective Taylor,” the Captain interrupted, “I do not give a rat’s ass about what they made you do. I want to see you in my office in one hour.”
“Captain..”
The captain held up his hand, “Stop. One hour. My office.”
He glared at the rest of us and then turned and left. We all just sat there for a few seconds. Few had ever seen him this angry before. I had upon occasion but that was usually because of something I had done.
I almost felt sorry for Taylor. Almost. Nah, not really. That was a very, very dumb thing for him to do. Even by his standards.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE SHAKESPEARE MURDERS Page 12
