Accidental Encounters

by George Friesen

  Two weeks after Demir Ozmen returned to Istanbul, his body was found floating in the Bosporus, a gunshot wound to the head. Yavuz had seen to that. In its press release, the Ottoman Trading Company called his death a revenge killing and urged the police to redouble their efforts to capture the most likely suspect, Husayin Yilmaz. It was a sensational theme quickly picked up by the press, as Tilki had anticipated.

  A Fishing Expedition

  Chapter Sixty

  Bob was sitting at a table in Tommy’s Pub—a restaurant and bar catering primarily to locals in the small town of Agassiz, about an hour’s drive east of Vancouver—when the past intruded. It was not the most remote town in the world that he could have chosen, but it was three thousand miles from either New York or Mexico City and probably twice that distance from Istanbul. Located in the majestic Fraser River Valley, the town was a magnet for fishing enthusiasts from around the world, attracted by the abundant salmon, sturgeon, and trout in nearby lakes, streams, and rivers.

  He had not expected to meet Buzz Malone here. After working up an appetite fly-fishing that morning, he was ravenous and tucking into his fish and chips when four men walked into the pub and pushed up to the bar. The four men were laughing back and forth about their encounter with a monstrous sturgeon that had managed to get away. Bob would not have heeded them except for the loud voice of a big, burly man who had an unmistakable Boston Irish accent. The shock of seeing Murat’s former bodyguard brought back a painful memory—the death of his friend, Tony Santelli, who, according to John Shafer, had last been seen in the company of Buzz Malone. Shortly thereafter, Malone had left for a fishing vacation in Canada, or so Murat had said, never to return.

  Surveying the four men from a distance, Bob guessed who they were. The man with the weather-beaten face and faded jacket and pants was a local fishing guide. The two men standing between him and Buzz Malone were probably corporate executives on a fishing trip. Their faces were too pale and their gear too new for them to be regulars. Bob overheard references to Las Vegas several times. Possibly magnates escaping the air-conditioned chill of their gambling casinos in the Nevada desert for the boreal green and mountainous splendor of British Columbia?

  By habit, Buzz Malone pulled away from his clients and surveyed the other customers in the pub. It was what any bodyguard would have done. His gaze swept over the customers in the pub twice before settling on Bob, who did not duck to avoid being seen. He had never had an open feud with Malone at Ottoman Trading Company. For the most part, they had ignored each other. Muttering a few words to the other men, Malone swaggered over to Bob’s table. He moved with surprising lightness for a man of his bulk. This was a man who prided himself on his physical fitness.

  “You’re a long way from New York, aren’t you?” His pale blue eyes peered at Bob from a bright red face—a pugilist’s face with a short, flattened nose.

  “I’m as surprised to see you as you are to see me!” replied Bob calmly. “You suddenly disappeared last summer, and a Russian took over your job. What happened?”

  He was not about to provoke a confrontation. He had only John Shafer’s word about the most likely suspect in the murder of Tony Santelli. That was not proof, and he knew from past experience that Shafer did not always tell the truth.

  “Mind if I sit down?” asked Malone. He did not wait for Bob’s answer and eased himself into a chair. “I got tired of New York and went on a fishing vacation in Quebec, just north of Montreal. I liked the fishing life so much that I called Murat and told him I wasn’t coming back.” His words came with practiced smoothness. “After that, I bummed around and moved west, doing a few odd jobs and finally ending up here.”

  “You haven’t been in touch with Murat after you left?”

  “A few times. Murat owed me some back wages. Not recently.”

  “Well, the New York office of Ottoman Trading Company shut down last October.” Bob did not say it had been shut down by federal order. He did not want to get into a discussion of the illegal drug business of Ottoman Trading Company, about which Malone would have known, or that Murat had fled the United States to avoid arrest as a suspect in the murder of Tony Santelli.

  “Why did that happen? Not enough business?” asked Malone innocently.

  “Something like that.”

  “So you’re working up here now?”

  “No, I came up here on an extended vacation so that I could be close to my girlfriend, who lives in Vancouver. I don’t have a work visa yet. What about you?”

  “I’ve never bothered. No one has asked. I get paid in cash.”

  Malone looked at Bob skeptically and then grinned. “So that’s your story, huh? You’re up here on vacation and have a girlfriend. You sure you’re not here on the lam?”

  Bob was taken aback. “Why do you say that?”

  “Wasn’t your buddy trying to get away from the New York police after they seized drugs in his apartment?”

  “You mean Tony Santelli?”

  “That’s right. I had trouble remembering his name.”

  “So the police were his problem. What has that got to do with me?”

  Malone smiled knowingly. “C’mon. Don’t try to play cute with me. The two of you were going fifty-fifty on the stash of drugs in his apartment.”

  Bob snorted. “Wherever did you hear a cock-and-bull story like that?”

  “I got it straight from him.”

  “No kidding. You mean you guys knew each other?”

  “Not really. I took a call from him for Murat. He was hard up for money and offered to sell me his Rolex watch. I said sure and agreed to meet him at a Starbucks in Chelsea. We got to talking. To make a long story short, I got his watch and he got my cash. I paid him a good price. I never heard from him again. He disappeared. Who knows, he might be up here in Canada and will come walking through the door at any moment.” Malone chortled to himself.

  Bob’s heart was pounding, but he kept his voice calm. “Do you still have the watch?” He remembered Tony’s watch, a very expensive and unique Rolex, which he had given to himself as a birthday present.

  “Nope. I didn’t need another watch, so I traded it in for cash at a pawnshop in Montreal when I came up here.”

  “So how was he when you talked to him? I haven’t heard from him either since he took off.”

  Malone did not blink, looking steadily at Bob. “Very nervous. Scared as hell.” Then he smiled. “But he pulled himself together again after he got my cash.”

  “That may explain why he told you those wild stories. Nervous, huh? Poor guy. But thanks for helping him out.”

  Bob felt that he had gone as far as he could go without asking Malone bluntly whether he had killed Tony. That question could trigger an attack, which he would not win. He decided to change tack.

  “So who are those guys at the bar?” Bob looked in their direction and saw that they were staring back.

  “Some dudes from Las Vegas who are up here for a little R & R while they investigate some opportunities in the hotel and casino business. I joined up with them a month ago as their bodyguard.”

  One of the men at the bar called out across the room, “Hey, Buzz, time to go!”

  Malone pulled up the sleeve of his jacket to look at his watch. “One twenty p.m. Duty calls!” He shoved back his chair and swiftly moved back to the bar. In a minute, the four men had disappeared through the door.

  Bob was stunned. Malone’s story did not jibe with Murat’s. Murat had said that Tony had never showed up at the Starbucks in Chelsea. But apparently he had met with Malone. The proof that they had met was that Malone knew about Bob’s agreement with Santelli to split the stash of drugs in his apartment fifty-fifty. Bob had never told that to anyone except Andrea Williams, and then only on the evening of the day that Tony was murdered. She would not have had a chance to pass that information to either Murat or Malone, even if
she had been so inclined, which he doubted.

  It was also doubtful that Tony had volunteered that information during his meeting with Malone. It was more likely that it had been extracted from him through torture before he was killed. But what was the motive for the killing? To prevent Tony from surrendering to the police and telling them that the source of the stash of drugs was Murat and the Ottoman Trading Company? There was no longer any doubt in Bob’s mind about who had committed the murder. But what should he do?

  A curious young waiter came over to his table to give Bob his bill. “You know those people, eh?” he asked.

  Bob shook his head. “Only the guy who sat down at my table. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing really. They’ve been coming in here almost every day for the last week. They’re from out of town—the States, I think.”

  “Any idea where they might be staying?”

  “Yeah, they’re over at the Paradise Valley Lodge a few miles from here. My girlfriend works in the restaurant there. She says they’ve just about taken over the top floor. Big spenders, eh? I saw them over there earlier this week.”

  That did not surprise Bob. The Paradise Valley Lodge was the only luxury resort in the area; it was several cuts above the motel that he had checked out of this morning.

  He had expected to drive back to Vancouver for the weekend because Becky Moran would have the next few days at home before flying off again on Tuesday. Now he was beginning to have second thoughts as he walked out of the pub to the parking lot. He needed to stay in Agassiz until Buzz Malone was arrested and in police custody.

  After all, Tony had been his friend. If he had succeeded in turning himself in to the police, who knows what would have happened? He might have squealed on Bob and implicated him as a joint owner of the drugs that the police had seized in his apartment. But that was not certain. In any case, Tony deserved justice.

  Walking out to the parking lot, Bob was greeted by the reproachful barking of Jack, who had tired of being confined to the car while his master had lunch. However, his protests quickly changed to barks of delight when Bob produced the takeout cheeseburger he had brought with him and placed it on the pavement next to the car. Jack was a great fan of burgers.

  While Jack devoured his lunch, Bob sat in his car, his forehead furrowed as the memories he had tried to forget flooded back. Healing can take a long time, he thought. Maybe it never happens. The scar tissue that forms over old wounds may make us believe, falsely, that it has occurred. Memories fade. Our former life begins to feel like the life of another person experienced vicariously. Then the past comes back to haunt us. Old wounds are reopened. Our wounds bleed again.

  He shook off the feeling of depression that descended like a mist from the mountains. He had to do something, quickly. Buzz Malone was a dangerous man, powerfully built, and probably armed with a gun. If Bob tried to tackle him physically and beat a confession out of him, he would be the one bludgeoned to death or shot. He did not want to be a dead hero, especially since Becky had given him a reason to live. If he went to the local police and asked that they arrest Malone, they would want to check his story, which could take days. By the time they were prepared to act, Malone might have slipped through their fingers, departing with his new employers to an unknown destination.

  Bob knew what he had to do even if the thought sickened him. There was a man in New York to whom he had resolved never to speak again. But that man had the authority to make events move quickly. With shaky fingers, he dialed a number which he had memorized and which was still embedded in the recesses of his brain. It was 2:00 p.m. in Agassiz and 5:00 p.m. in New York. Maybe he could still catch him, although it was a Friday afternoon in May, and he might have left the office early.

  The telephone at the other end rang four, five, six times. He had probably missed him, Bob thought, and was about to leave a voice-mail message when someone picked up the receiver.

  “John Shafer.”

  Bob took a deep breath. “This is Bob Bigelow.”

  “Who?” When Bob repeated himself, Shafer exclaimed, “I’ll be damned. I hadn’t expected to hear from you after all this time. How long has it been? Nearly seven months?”

  “Are you still working on the Tony Santelli case?”

  “Yeah, although for the time being, we are not making any progress. No new leads.”

  “I have a tip for you. Remember Buzz Malone, Murat’s bodyguard, who you said was the last man seen with Tony Santelli before he was killed? I met him today, quite by accident, in a pub in Agassiz, British Columbia—a small town about sixty miles east of Vancouver.”

  “How do you spell the town’s name?”

  Bob spelled it for him.

  “Do you know where we can reach him?”

  “He is staying at the Paradise Valley Lodge just outside Agassiz. He is currently employed as a bodyguard by some gambling casino executives who are up here on vacation.”

  “We will start working on this immediately. I remember you telling us that Murat had told you Malone had gone to Canada on a fishing trip. We notified the Mounties, who had an eye out for him, but no luck. Canada is a big country. One small minnow is easy to miss in an ocean.”

  Bob was about to end the call when Shafer came back with one more question. “Is there a telephone number or email address where we can reach you if necessary?”

  Uneasily, Bob provided the information. He had wanted to escape Shafer and did not want to be trapped by him again.

  Sensing his hesitation, Shafer assured him, “Don’t worry. The Mounties may need to contact you to confirm the identity of Buzz Malone. Otherwise, we will not call on you again unless we can extradite Recep Murat from Turkey and bring him to trial.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Bob Bigelow waited a few minutes after the call with Shafer ended before ringing the Paradise Valley Lodge. “Do you have a double room available for tonight and tomorrow night?” he asked the receptionist.

  “I am sorry, sir. We are almost sold out for tonight. But the honeymoon suite is still available. It is lovely and very private. Would you be interested?”

  “I’ll take it.” What the hell, it would cost only a few hundred dollars more, and his future was on the line.

  Then he called Becky. He had guessed correctly that she would already be home. “I have had a change in plans. I will not be driving back to the city tonight. How would you like to spend a weekend in Agassiz at the Paradise Valley Resort? We can go fishing, or we can just take it easy, admiring the scenery. What do you say?”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea!” Her enthusiasm lifted his spirits. “So how have you spent the last couple of days? Productively, I hope.”

  He laughed. “I caught a few salmon, which I have packed away in ice, and I am laying to rest a few ghosts from the past.”

  “Ghosts from the past? That sounds mysterious. You will have to tell me about them.”

  “I will tonight. When do you think you can get here?”

  “Around eight o’clock. I need to clean up and wash some laundry before I can drive out.”

  Bob had not told Becky much about his past life, except for a brief recounting of his ordeal as the prisoner of kidnappers in Mexico City. The Mexican capital was where they had first met when he boarded the flight back to New York City, and he had needed to explain his reason for being there. On one occasion, she had asked why he had decided to leave home for his extended stay in Vancouver. Was he running away from something? He had given a brief explanation—a divorce, his employer going out of business. His parents had died. Home no longer held any attraction for him. There was nothing to go back to. Thereafter, she had not probed.

  They had dinner that night in the honeymoon suite. Bob did not want to risk an encounter with Buzz Malone in the lobby or the bar. But he also wanted to talk privately with Becky, to make a clean slate. Marriage could not be b
ased on evasions. Jack did not try to impose himself on them and kept a discreet distance. She listened quietly to Bob and then assured him that she still loved him, despite what had happened in the past. He proposed and she accepted.

  The next morning, while Becky still slept, he put on his gym clothes and went down to the fitness center one level below the lobby. As he had expected, Buzz Malone was already there, lifting weights and running on the treadmill, sweat glistening on his brow and soaking the shirt that clung to his lean, muscular torso. He was surprised to see Bob.

  “I didn’t know you were staying here.”

  “I had a change of plans. I was going to go back to Vancouver, but my fiancée and I decided to spend the weekend here instead.”

  “Your fiancée? You mean she’s for real?” Malone’s voice was envious.

  “Yeah, I am happy to say she is for real,” replied Bob. He was about to start the treadmill when Malone made a statement which froze him in mid-motion.

  “I called Murat last night after I met you.”

  Bob turned toward him, trying to sound casually interested. “I thought you said yesterday that you weren’t keeping in touch.”

  “Not recently. But after I met you yesterday, I was curious. His New York number is no longer working, but I had his mobile number in Istanbul. We did a lot of catching up. He told me interesting stories about the closing of the New York office and about you.”

  “About me? Such as?” Bob hoped that the nervous tension he felt did not show.

  “I guess Demir Ozmen and you did not become pals during your captivity in Mexico. Demir told Murat that he thought you are a police spy and recommended that you be shot.” Malone had a lopsided grin on his face, but the smile did not extend to his eyes. “You really have a knack for getting into trouble, don’t you?”