With Doreen in the front seat beside him, Sully guided the big luxury car around a drive that circled the grounds back to the garage building.
"What's all this about you going somewhere with Vera?” Doreen asked, a little crossly.
"Beats me,” Sully said. “I was hoping you might know. We're going to the Caymans."
"For how long?"
"Not long for me. I'm coming back the next day. Vera's staying on."
"Something very weird is going on. Sol has been in and out of the house for two days now. And Daddy didn't hold his usual Tuesday morning meeting with Mr. Quinn and Mr. Foley and the others."
"I noticed that too. Very unusual."
Doreen slapped his knee. “I'm not wild about you flying off to some romantic island with Vera."
"Come on, Dorry. She's your stepmother."
"So? She's not that much older than you. And more than easy to look at, as I'm sure you've noticed."
"You're talking crazy. This is all business of some kind."
"It'd better be,” she warned, not a little sternly.
Sully reached over and ran a hand up her skirt.
"Relax, baby. I'm all yours."
* * * *
The flight from O'Hare to Grand Cayman was nonstop, six hours, in a luxurious chartered Gulfstream V-SP jet. Sully personally handled all the luggage, including a new Hartmann leather bag Doyle had bought for Sully's own clothes. In flight, Vera and Sully were served drinks and a three-course gourmet meal pre-ordered by Vera. A limousine met them at Owen Roberts International Airport in Grand Cayman and drove them to the ultra-deluxe Casuarina Resort and Spa, where a two-bedroom beachfront suite had been reserved for Vera. As soon as they had checked in, Vera went into her bedroom and called her husband on one of a dozen disposable, untraceable cell phones she carried.
"We're here, Gus,” she reported. “No problems. I asked at the desk and was told that the bank is open for another three hours. We're going there now."
"Good girl. How's Sully doing?"
"Like a fish out of water, but he's okay. I have to admit, it was a good idea sending him. I feel safer with him along. But it'll be a relief to get this stuff into a bank drawer."
"To me as well. Let me know when it's done."
After the call, Vera gave the cell phone to Sully and watched as he put it under his heel on the patio and crushed it to pieces. Gus, Vera knew, had done the same with the disposable phone on which he had taken her call.
The Cayman Island branch of the Private Bank of Switzerland was on Sheddon Road in George Town. “It's very easy to find,” Sol Silverstein had told Vera when preparing her for the trip. “Just down from the American Express offices. You'll ask for a Mr. Unterman. He'll be expecting you. There'll be a safe-deposit drawer already rented and waiting for you in one of the private cubicles in their vault. Have Sully take the suitcase in and then wait outside for you. Just put the packets of bearer bonds into the drawer, close it up, and ring for Mr. Unterman. He will lock the closed drawer back into its niche and give you one of the two keys to the niche door; the bank retains the other key—the two keys are different, you see, and it takes both of them to open the door. You send the key he gives you back with Sully the next day. It's all very simple, really.” Sol had given her a brief hug around the shoulders. “Don't be nervous, dear. We'll have this grand-jury mess cleared up for Gus in a couple of weeks at the most. In the meantime, just relax and enjoy yourself."
"I'll try,” Vera said.
* * * *
The federal grand-jury testimony of Edward Quinn, Thomas Foley, Michael Dwyer, and Daniel Connor took place one week later, and consumed only two court days. None of the four gave any testimony that could in any way incriminate Angus Doyle.
But on the third day, a surprise witness did.
"State your name, please,” said the federal prosecutor after the witness had been sworn.
"Vera Kenny."
"Were you previously Vera Doyle?"
"I was."
"You were married to Angus Doyle, the subject of this inquiry?"
"I was."
"Are you now divorced from Angus Doyle?"
"I am."
"When were you divorced?"
"Five days ago."
"And where were you divorced?"
"In the Dominican Republic."
"Your Honor,” the prosecutor said to the presiding federal judge, “at this time we offer the grand jury a certified copy of the Dominican Republic divorce decree of the witness, along with a ruling from the U.S. Department of State confirming that one-party Dominican Republic divorces are recognized as legal in the United States.” He then turned back to the witness. “Miss Kenny, were you recently in the Cayman Islands?"
"I was."
"What was the purpose of your trip there?"
"To deposit a quantity of bearer bonds into a safe-deposit drawer."
"What was the value of those bearer bonds?"
"Ten million dollars."
"Did you deposit them into the safe-deposit drawer?"
"No."
"What did you do with them?"
"I brought them back to Chicago after my divorce in the Dominican Republic and turned them over to the Department of Justice."
Again the prosecutor addressed the judge. “Your Honor, we would now offer the grand jury a receipt from the Department of Justice for ten million dollars in bearer bonds received from Miss Kenny.” Facing his witness again, he asked, “From whom did you get the bearer bonds in question?"
"From my former husband, Angus Doyle."
"The same Angus Doyle who is the subject of this grand-jury inquiry?"
"Yes."
"Now then, Miss Kenny, in return for turning over the bearer bonds to the government, and for your testimony before this grand jury, have you been promised anything in return?"
"Yes. The Department of Justice has guaranteed me full immunity from any federal prosecution, and the Department of State has promised me a permanent residence visa in a foreign country. I am also being given protective custody until I am safely out of the U.S."
"That concludes the testimony of this witness,” the federal prosecutor said.
Two hours later, the grand jury voted a true bill against Angus Doyle and indicted him for twenty-one counts of federal income-tax evasion, each count being a separate criminal felony.
* * * *
Later that day, a federal strike force surrounded and closed off the estate and grounds of Angus Doyle, and Doyle himself was arrested, handcuffed, and taken away.
Doreen Doyle, in a daze bordering on shock, watched as federal agents began swarming into the house. She was standing out front when Sully and several agents walked up from the garage. Hanging around Sully's neck was a Department of Justice photo-ID credential identifying him as Federal Agent Harry Sullivan O'Keefe.
"You son of a bitch,” Doreen said.
"Give me a minute with her,” Sully instructed the other agents, gesturing them into the house.
"You dirty, lowlife, lying bastard.” No longer in a daze, Doreen was glaring coldly at him.
"What is it that you're angriest about?” Sully asked. “The arrest of your father? Or the fact that we had sex?"
"Forget about the sex,” she snapped. “I enjoyed it as much as you did. But without my father, I have nothing. I'll be all alone—no family, no money—"
"Not true,” Sully told her. “Check with Sol Silverstein. You'll find that you have a five-million-dollar trust that your father set up for you shortly after your mother passed away. The government can't touch it. You are very well off, Dorry. You can make a good life for yourself."
"What about Vera? Do you know where she is?"
"She's on her way to a foreign country where she will be under the protection of the U.S. Embassy. You'll never see her again."
"What will happen to my father?"
"He'll probably receive a fifteen-year sentence on the tax-evasion charges, and new racketeer
ing violations will be brought against him while he's in prison. Your father is a major crime figure; he'll probably never be a free man again. Get used to that, Dorry."
"Stop calling me ‘Dorry.’”
"All right. Miss Doyle, then. I'll give you an hour to pack your things, then you'll have to leave the premises."
She smiled wryly. “I don't suppose you'll be driving me away, will you, Sully?"
"I'll have another agent give you a lift to a downtown hotel."
She started into the house. At the doorway, she stopped and turned back. “About the sex. I suppose that was just part of your job."
"No. That was real."
"Thanks for that much,” Doreen said. She continued inside.
* * * *
The senior Department of Justice agent in charge of Operation Gus, as it was called, smiled broadly across his desk at Agent Harry Sullivan O'Keefe.
"One hell of a job, Sully. With all the other bits and pieces of intelligence you provided during your undercover assignment, we'll be able to get Quinn, Foley, Dwyer, and Connor, too. We may even be able to nail Solomon Silverstein on something. I think we can at least get him disbarred."
"You'll leave Doreen Doyle's trust alone, right?” said Sully.
"Absolutely. You kind of liked her, didn't you? No, we don't need it for our case. But we'll attach everything else. And about a year from now, after we get everybody else, they can all have a big reunion at the federal Supermax prison in Colorado. And you, my friend,” he pointed a finger at Sully, “will get a nice commendation from the department."
"That's nice,” said Sully, “but I'm more interested in my thirty-two months’ accumulated salary—and the six months paid leave I was promised when I went under."
"That money has already been credited to your personal bank account, as your monthly salary will be while you're on leave,” said the senior agent. “And that paid leave officially begins right now. Incidentally, I meant to ask you: When you returned from the Caymans, did Angus Doyle or Sol Silverstein ever seem suspicious about the safe-deposit key you brought back?"
"Not a bit. There was no way they could tell that it came from a Chicago bank. It was just a key with a number on it, like any other safe-deposit key."
"That was a clever plan you worked out with Vera Doyle, switching keys so that they thought the ten million in bearer bonds that she took down there were still in the Caymans bank, instead of being turned over to us.” The senior agent whistled. “Ten million, Sully. A lot of money."
"Yes, a lot of money."
And even more, he thought, was the other fifteen million.
The two men shook hands and Sully left the office.
* * * *
A week later, in the Air Emirates travel office in Manhattan, a lovely Arab woman, dressed in the airline's stylish ground employee's uniform, smiled at Sully and said, “Your visa to the United Arab Emirates is valid for six months, Mr. O'Keefe, but is renewable every six months thereafter. You'll find that the U.A.R.'s visa restrictions are very flexible; our small federation is actively encouraging Western tourism and retirement."
"That's good to know,” Sully said.
"Now then, for your flight over, Air Emirates offers a variety of fares. The most comfortable accommodations, of course, are our new private suites which can be closed off from the rest of the cabin, and which are equipped with individual storage space, a coat closet, vanity desk, and personal minibar. Their extra-large seats recline to become a fully flat bed, and the front wall is a wide-screen LCD monitor featuring six hundred channels of entertainment in all languages. Gourmet food service is available at any time. The flight time is twelve hours, forty-five minutes, and you will be met in Dubai by a chauffeured Bentley sedan. The ticket price is twelve thousand, three hundred and twenty-two U.S. dollars. Shall I book a suite for you?"
"Please do,” Sully said, handing her an American Express Platinum card. Vera had wire-transferred fifty thousand dollars to him and he was standing there in a Canali suit, Hathaway shirt, Gianfranco Ferré necktie, and Ferra-gamo shoes. Might as well get used to going first class all the way, he thought.
As he waited for his ticket to be processed, Sully took from his pocket and reread the letter Vera had sent to him:
You'll love Dubai, darling. I've already leased an absolutely gorgeous apartment for us at the Jumeirah Beach Residence Hotel, with a terrace overlooking the Arabian Gulf where we can sit and have cocktails while the sun goes down. This city is fantastic: restaurants, clubs, entertainment, shopping like I've never imagined. We'll have a wonderful life here, Sully. Hurry over to me. I'm hungry for you....
Ticket in hand, Sully left the Air Emirates travel office and walked down 59th Street in the direction of his hotel to pack for the midnight departure of his flight.
Vera was right, he thought. They could have a wonderful life together in Dubai. Fifteen million U.S. dollars would buy a lot of good living.
As long as Vera never found out about Doreen.
Copyright © 2009 Clark Howard
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: MURDER IN BLACK AND WHITE by Mignon F. Ballard
Author of an award-winning child-ren's novel, South Carolina's Mignon Ballard has also been delighting adult readers with a series featuring guar-dian angel Augusta Goodnight. The seventh book in that series, Hark! The Herald Angel Screamed, was published by St. Martin's Press in November of 2008. The first in a new Ballard series, Miss Dimple Dis-appears, is due in the fall of 2010, and Bella Rosa Books recently reprinted two of Ms. Ballard's earlier novels, Final Curtain and Cry At Dusk.
She didn't remember when she first began to feel afraid. They were such little things: the open window she was almost sure she'd closed; the Boston fern moved a few inches from its usual place on the porch; the fragile lilac she'd pampered all year snapped off at the ground. But when Marty Vaughn saw the broken whiskey bottle in her driveway, she knew it had to be him, and the old terror came rushing back like acid in her veins.
"It's only a bottle,” her neighbor said, mopping her damp face. Cora Lundy paused in her pruning to shove a strand of graying hair from her eyes and darted a look over her shoulder. “You'd be surprised at the broken glass I've picked up out here. Riffraff! What do they care? Now, your husband ... what's his name?"
"Paul. Paul Rydell, and he's not my husband anymore."
"Well, let me tell you, honey, he's not the only one who drinks.” Cora glanced briefly at the large house across the street where bikes and skateboards littered the overgrown yard, and dropped her voice. “Wouldn't surprise me one bit if it wasn't that oldest Crutchfield boy—the one with the crazy haircut. Can't say I like the looks of some of his friends. That bottle likely came from Ed Crutchfield's liquor cabinet."
"Not this brand. It's the cheapest kind of sour mash, but Paul got to where he actually preferred it.” Marty was dismayed to see her hands were shaking.
Her neighbor noticed it, too. “Come on, now,” she said, and with a firm hand led Marty to a bench in the shade. “Don't let this get you down. You gonna be okay?"
Marty took a deep breath and nodded. “It's just that I felt so safe here. I didn't think he'd find us."
Cora shook her head. “How long has he been out?"
"A little over two months.” Marty knew exactly how long: two months, two weeks, and four days. “But I left no forwarding address, and I'm using my mother's maiden name. Cora, how does he know?"
Her neighbor's round, flushed face was solemn. “Maybe he doesn't. You can't be sure, you know, and I wouldn't let on to Lynn. You don't want to frighten the child.” Her voice took on a hearty tone. “Guess she's all excited about going camping?"
Marty smiled. “Can't wait! Sleeping bag's all rolled up and packed—and that blessed camera, too. She should finish her badge requirements this weekend—and won't we all be glad?"
Cora laughed and pretended surprise. “You mean I won't have to put on lipstick when I go out to empty the tr
ash? I can hardly wait!” Her expression became serious again. “Marty, what does Lynn really know about her father?"
Marty stared at the grass at her feet. It needed mowing. “She thinks he died. What else could I tell her? She doesn't remember, and I'm glad. Her father is a crazed alcoholic who struck me once too often. He would've hurt Lynn, too, if I hadn't come between them ... and she was only three.” The vile words seemed to swell in her throat. “Sometimes, Cora, I honestly wanted to kill him."
Marty leaned against the staunch oak and looked at the quiet street of older homes. Revived with new paint and hard work, they housed a pleasant assortment of families and provided what she had hoped was a peaceful environment to raise her child. Just looking at her own house, a cheerful yellow with dark green trim and narrow porch, made her want to smile. It was hers—hers and Lynn's, finally, after moving from one apartment to another, bouncing from town to town every time Paul Rydell had served his puny term in jail, every time the phone rang. The last time he'd been put away for five years for assaulting someone in a bar. It was time enough for Marty to save the down payment while working as an executive secretary, and to be on her way to becoming established as a freelance artist. Her amusing cartoon sketches were especially popular with the greeting-card market, and she was at last able to work out of her own home.
Her home. And she had earned it. This time neither Paul Rydell nor anyone else was going to ruin her life!
"Hey! Why the big frown? I didn't bring any bills today.” Brad Myrick, their jovial postman, paused to delve into his bag and bowed as he presented his findings to the two women. “Looks like invitations to the big library fund-raising gala...” He dealt the mail like a poker hand. “Catalog for you, Ms. Lundy ... and, oh my! Looks like payday for the Vaughns!” He gave Marty her check with a flourish. “Now you can buy a good-looking outfit for that gala—like that little black job in Addisons’ window."
Marty smiled and shook her head. “Not this time, Mr. Myrick. I'm afraid that's not in my budget."
"You should see what Arlene Harrison ordered,” he said. “Kelly green with a handbag to match. Came in yesterday from California. Now that cost a pretty penny!"
EQMM, September-October 2009 Page 31
