Chapter 4 #2
“Not yet. I’ll need a weapon or two for that. See if you can arrange it.”
“Consider it done. That all?”
“I’ll meet him at the airport tomorrow, but I won’t be myself. Tell him to look for Mr. Johnson, an older gent with eyeglasses and a moustache.”
“If you say so. Need anything else?”
“Glad you asked. Have Joe bring me some ID for Mr. Johnson. With some credit and cash. He’ll need to rent a car. I’m without wheels.”
“You need a new wardrobe?”
“Nah. I’ll buy what I need.”
Dane signed off the call and managed to hail a taxi to the Georges’ family home on Glasgow Avenue in Bondi Beach.
Closing his eyes, he cleared his mind, assisted by the Zen-like background noises of traffic, horns and the rattling of the cab’s frame over the streets as if it were a traveling animal cage.
He owed his Zen master, Agnes, a phone call of thanks and a testimony for her superb training.
When the taxi stopped, he hoped the driver didn’t mind that all he had were US dollars as he handed over a few twenties, leaving himself with a few hundred to last him until Joe arrived in the morning.
It was reasonable to assume he’d make it without a problem, but he was in a far from reasonable situation.
As he got out of the cab with his shopping bag, he surveyed the neighborhood without making it obvious and easily spotted the late-model light-gray car holding two males.
They sat low in their seats, but couldn’t have possibly had any expectations that they’d go unnoticed.
Especially since being noticed was their purpose.
They wanted to create an intimidating presence.
As he walked up the short path to the front door of the modest one-story bungalow made of whitewashed brick, Dane wondered if any of the neighbors had called the cops on the watchers.
And what the cops’ response had been. Ringing the doorbell, he noticed there was little outdoor space in front and not much out back.
At least that would save him from a long, drawn-out reconnaissance of the perimeter. He waited a couple of beats for Tillie George to answer the door.
When she opened it a crack she didn’t recognize him and was about to shut the door in his face when he spoke up.
“It’s me, Mrs. George, Dane Blaise.” He didn’t add future son-in-law though the words floated through his mind, almost disorienting him. She popped the door open all the way and gave him a curious once-over. “I’m in my Mr. Johnson disguise.”
“Why, of course you are.”
“Where are the boys?” he asked.
“They don’t live here anymore and I didn’t tell them about this. Nothing to tell. These men are watching and waiting—for Shana I’m afraid.” Tillie George whispered her answer and then laughed loudly and said, “Come right in, Mr. Johnson.”
Tillie played along, keeping her cool. Shana was a chip off her mother’s block.
Sweeping the room with his eyes as he stepped inside, Dane saw that the home’s interior looked like Danish modern rather than what he’d expected from the charming bungalow’s exterior.
The walls were all white, the furniture teak with beige upholstery with lively floral accents, and the floor looked like marble, though he was no expert.
In reality, the place reminded him more of the California ranch that he’d grown up on, albeit much smaller, because of the bright, open floor plan.
He wished he had his bug-detecting device, but when he’d packed for this trip, business had been the furthest thing from his mind.
This was a prenuptial family visit. He was making an effort to familiarize himself with Shana’s people, her roots, to connect with where she came from, before they took the final plunge into matrimony, so there’d seemed no need to pack for a mission.
Now he’d have to make do with the few implements he’d thought to toss into his bag of tricks before they left the States.
But truth be told, he wasn’t shocked that they’d run into trouble.
His entire life was punctuated by some trouble or other every so often.
It was rare to go a couple of months with smooth sailing.
Then again, that was probably a good thing.
Otherwise he might get bored and go looking for trouble.
He thought of his future, married to Shana, and wondered if things would change.
The thing was, he couldn’t get a clear picture in his head of what their post-wedding life would look like.
After a brief awkward hug, Tillie led him inside and they stood in the open living room in front of the white brick fireplace.
He held a finger to his lips and she nodded, then moved around the room, checking all surfaces under and above, in every corner of the living and dining areas and then the kitchen.
Once he finished examining the kitchen light fixture, he faced Tillie.
“All set.” On the inside, but he didn’t mention that the likely source of any listening devices was probably in the car parked down the street.
Too bad for them he had the latest device developed by his tech genius buddy, Acer, that threw out an impenetrable mass of interference from 995 of 1,000 listening devices out there.
Unless Chancy Peterson had access to the tenth-generation listening technology developed by a joint team from NASA and the CIA, then they were safe to talk.
He put the square box on the kitchen table.
If they’d missed anything during their sweep, Acer’s gadget would take care of them.
Tillie was either not the curious type or she knew better than to ask—or she already knew the answer—because she didn’t ask what the box was. Instead, she busied herself with a teakettle and cups.
“I confess, I don’t understand all this trouble. Why is Chancy Peterson threatening Shana? Why now?”
Dane considered the question and considered Tillie. What the hell did he tell her?
“What exactly did Chancy say? And how did he deliver his message?”
She turned to face him, eyes bright and angry.
“The no-goods on the street knocked on my door. They told me. They said a lot of things. Said I better not call the cops and to tell the neighbors not to call, that they were staying and keeping a watch on me so that if Shana stepped a foot near the house, they would get her.”
“They never mentioned Chancy’s name?”
“Sure they did. They said they worked for Chancy Peterson and he wanted a word with Shana about the money.”
Dane’s blood ran cold and thick while he digested the meaning of Mrs. George’s conversation with Chancy’s men.
The order not to call the police was to keep them off this street so they could take Shana.
It appeared that Chancy thought Shana had the missing money from the pension fraud job and that he meant to get it from her.
It meant they wanted her alive, not for revenge.
It also meant that someone had led Chancy to believe that Shana knew something about the money. But who?
He said, “Sounds like a setup.” They were the most neutral words he could come up with. Tillie bobbed her head and went back to her tea.
“Did you ever find your dog?”
“Oh yes, Scruffy’s back.” She poured boiling water into the two cups with tea bags and brought them over to the old wood table where he sat on an uncomfortable wood chair.
Unlike the rest of the house he’d seen so far, the kitchen looked like it hadn’t been touched since the house was built in the sixties.
“It makes no sense—” Dane began.
“It makes perfect sense if there’s a high-level police official involved,” Tillie said.
Dane hid his surprise as best he could, out of habit.
He said, “Remind me never to play chess with you, Mrs. George.”
“Where do you think Shana, the darling, got her brains? She got her looks from her dad to be sure—he was a real handsome man, had eyes the color of the ocean, tall and muscled . . . well, I needn’t get us distracted.
Just remembering. Making my point.” Flustered, she waved her hands and looked more like the woman he remembered from her visit to Martha’s Vineyard.
But he had a new deeper respect and admiration for her.
Brains in a woman was his Achilles’ heel.
“I agree. Shana’s at Sydney Police Headquarters now.”
“Why? I thought she would be somewhere safe.” Tillie glared at him, accusation clear on her face.
“She ran into Kevin Ivory. You know him?”
“Oh yes, Kevin was her mentor.”
“He took her to Liverpool Street. She—we thought it would be a good idea to shake things up. She won’t be in danger while she’s there officially.”
Mrs. George put her hand over her heart. “I suppose you’re right, but I can’t help being afraid for her. What will Chancy Peterson think?”
“I don’t know. If his two men outside are an example of the kind of guys working for Peterson, I’m not worried.” He thought carefully about how to word his next question.
“Who do you think it might be on the New South Wales police force working with Chancy? Who might have been in on the pension fraud case?”
“I don’t know. I lost touch with those I knew back in the day. Most would be gone now anyway. Shana was working with a whole new crop of people there. All I know is the whole thing smells. The pension fraudster had to have an insider helping Chancy. How else could he do it?”
Dane didn’t bother letting her in on the myriad ways crimes could be committed, because in this case, from what he could tell, the evidence hinted at an insider.
Nothing as blatant as figurative fingerprints, but enough knowledge by the perpetrators so that there were traces of embezzlement mixed in with the fraud.
There were layers between the pension investment decisions and the fake fund set up by Peterson, but there were also some irregularities about how the investment decisions were made and by whom.
The board voted, and although every cop and administrator on the board was checked out thoroughly, Dane felt like the investigation had been superficial when it came to the board.
And there was no way of knowing what the particulars of the discussions were and who might have been influential on the vote.
The transcripts of the interviews with board members were less than enlightening.
In short, the case had been treated as if there was no way the pension board could have been involved, that it had strictly been a case of fraud.
That somehow Chancy set it all up on his own, presumably to undermine the police or get his revenge on them.
Also, because the New South Wales Police Pension Fund had a whopping amount of money to spend at the time.
They had just liquidated investments in several mutual funds and were looking to reinvest. It was the timing of it that pinched at Dane’s suspicion most. Only an insider would have known about the availability for investment that came up at that moment in time naturally and unforced.
To the investigators, this natural flow of events exonerated the board from suspicion since the changeover of the funds to the fraudulent investment hadn’t been forced.
But to Dane, it cast extreme doubt. Chancy Peterson had to know about the opportunity somehow, had to know ahead of time to set it all up.
Since he wasn’t in the investment business, there was no way he’d have known without someone tipping him off, maybe even assisting with the setup.
Hell, Dane figured the insider on the fraud case was likely the mastermind, in control of the whole thing. And currently in control of most of the missing money.
“Would you like something to eat?” She spoke formally, stiffly. He wasn’t sure why.
“No. I’m going to call Shana.”
He was jumping the gun. Shana was supposed to call him soon, but he wanted to hear her voice. The fear for her was escalating and there was no way he would ignore his internal alert system. His instincts had saved his ass too many times over the years.
Slipping the throwaway phone from his pocket, he pressed the number one to call her. Tillie stood at the stove, motionlessly watching him and waiting while the phone rang, twice, three times. After the fifth ring, when she didn’t answer, Dane shut it down and returned the phone to his pocket.
“We agreed earlier she’d call me to check in in about a half hour.” He spoke in a neutral, unconcerned voice. “Do you mind if I take a quick nap until then?”
She jumped from her chair. “Of course, I bet you’re terribly tired from all that travel. Follow me. You can stay in Shana’s old room. I suppose it’s my guest room now.”