Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (22 page)

Forty-five minutes later, he left the café, got in the car and drove eighteen miles north in the direction of Buttonville Airport, a small airfield used by charter companies, flight schools, and aircraft rental companies. Before actually entering the airport he found a clothing store in which he purchased a Toronto Blue Jay's baseball cap with a long visor, a sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, sneakers, a tie, and two sets of underwear. Although he'd washed up at the motel before leaving, he felt grubby and in need of fresh clothing and a shower. The gray slacks and blue blazer he'd worn at the party the night before were wrinkled but would have to do a while longer. He put on the tie, checked his hair in the mirror, and pulled into a space reserved for charter passengers at the small airport terminal.

‘I was wondering if I could arrange for a flight to Quebec City?' he told the young fellow manning the desk.

‘Sure,' was the reply, ‘now that the power's back. When do you want to go?'

‘The sooner the better,' Smythe said. ‘I have a last-minute business deal in Quebec City that I need to close today. It just came up and I can't lose the opportunity.'

‘We have a few pilots available.'

‘That's wonderful. How long a flight is it?'

‘About an hour. Depends on the type of aircraft.'

‘The faster the better,' Smythe said.

A half hour later, and after having paid cash – he figured the Rent-a-Wreck owner would eventually find the Chevy and had five hundred dollars for his trouble – he was strapped into the right-hand seat of a sleek twin-engine plane. To his left was the pilot, a solidly-built man with a scraggly red-and-gray beard and a face deeply creased from having peered for too many hours into the sun. They chatted amiably during the hour-long flight.

‘Thanks,' Smythe said as he climbed down from the plane at Quebec City's airport and pulled his suitcase and carry-on from where they had been stowed behind his seat.

‘No problem,' the pilot said. ‘Hope you close that big deal of yours.'

Smythe entered the terminal, plugged in his laptop and read what he'd downloaded onto it while at Starbucks. Satisfied, he retraced his steps outside and got into a taxi.

‘
Où allons nous?
' the driver asked.

‘English?'

‘Of course.'

‘Good. Dalhousie Street please. The port, where the big ships are.'

Quebec City's port is one of the biggest and best in North America. Ships of every size – container ships, tankers, grain haulers, cruise ships – arrive and depart with great frequency. Smythe had accessed information about schedules while at Starbucks and was pleased to see that a tramp steamer, The Bárbara, was scheduled to leave for Brazil the following day.

He'd considered chartering a private jet to Buenos Aires but was afraid that security at the Argentinean airport would be stringent even for a private plane. Besides, it would be too expensive.

He'd finally decided that his best chance to reach South America would be by ship, but not on some fancy cruise. He'd always been fascinated by people who traveled as passengers on cargo ships, and had read a book in which the writer chronicled his adventures sailing the world as one of only a few passengers on a variety of such ocean-going vessels.

As he walked the sprawling port of Quebec City in search of The Bárbara, it soon became evident that lugging the suitcase full of money was too laborious. But what to do with it? He was about to turn around and seek a hotel or motel in which to stash it when he spotted the ship in its berth alongside other, larger vessels. When he got closer he noticed a small, low building with a sign:
Passenger Information
. He went in and approached a table on which a tent card read
The Bárbara
. A pretty, buxom, middle-aged woman with a mane of copper hair and whose black blouse displayed a generous freckled cleavage, sat behind the table reading a magazine.

‘Excuse me,' Smythe said. ‘Are you selling cabins for passengers on this ship?'

She looked up and gave him a friendly smile. ‘That's right,' she said. ‘Are you interested in booking passage?'

‘As a matter of fact I am,' he replied.

‘Has a travel agent arranged it?'

‘Travel agent? No, I haven't seen a travel agent. I just …'

She looked at him quizzically, and he knew that she found it strange that a nicely-dressed middle-aged man, sweating profusely and hauling a suitcase with him, would simply show up the day before the scheduled sailing and want to book a cabin.

‘I realize that this is last-minute,' Smythe said, ‘but I've decided on the spur of the moment to get away.'

‘From something?' she asked with a playful smile.

He felt lightheaded and asked if he could take the folding chair next to her.

‘Oh, sure,' she said. ‘Are you ill?'

‘No, no, just tired. You see … well, I've been going through a very difficult divorce and … well, I desperately need a change of scene, somewhere relaxing. I've been to South America before on business and loved it there, so I thought by combining a leisurely trip on a cargo ship with some time in a different setting it would help me clear my head and—'

‘I understand,' she said. ‘Here, have some water.' She handed him an unopened bottle, from which he eagerly drank.

After consulting papers she said, ‘We do have an available cabin. It's one of the smaller ones but it's quite comfortable, I assure you. We have a good chef on board, and the other passengers seem like a friendly bunch. Would you be interested in that cabin?'

‘Oh yes, I would, very much.'

‘Do you have a credit card and identification? And I'll need a passport.'

Smythe said that he would pay in cash.

‘That will be fine,' she said, ‘but you'll have to include a retainer for miscellaneous charges on board ship, you know, for drinks and other items not included in the fare. By the way, the fare is two hundred dollars a day. That includes three meals of course and, as I said, our chef is terrific.'

‘Will five hundred dollars be sufficient for the retainer?' he asked.

She smiled. ‘Yes, I think that will be fine.'

He handed her his license and passport and held his breath. While she went to a photocopy machine to make copies, he counted out five hundred dollars, plus enough to cover the fare for fifteen days, which he hoped would suffice.

‘Thank you,' he said when she handed him back his passport and license. ‘How long will the trip take?'

‘It depends upon the weather and sea conditions. No more than fifteen days, probably fewer.'

‘That sounds fine.'

He relaxed considerably. ‘Is your name Barbara?' he asked.

‘No. Why do you ask?'

‘The name of the ship. I thought maybe it was named after you.'

Her laugh was earthy. ‘No,
bárbara
in Spanish means “great, wonderful”.'

‘Oh. I didn't know that. Will you be on the ship?'

She nodded as she put together a folder of information for him. ‘Everything you need to know is in here,' she said. ‘We leave tomorrow afternoon at four. Where will you be staying overnight?'

‘I haven't made plans,' he said.

She handed him a card with the name of a motel. ‘It's just two blocks from here,' she said. ‘Give them this card when you check in. They'll take good care of you.'

He was touched by her generosity of spirit.

‘Be back here by one tomorrow. We like to have our passengers on board early.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘but if your name isn't Barbara, what is it?'

‘Kerry.' She stood and shook his hand. ‘See you on board, Mr Smythe. Have a pleasant journey.'

T
he people gathered in Smythe's living room the following afternoon were not there for a party.

Bill Whitlock, the DEA special investigator, his Canadian counterpart Antoine Arnaud, two Royal Canadian Mounted Police detectives, one from the Criminal Intelligence Program, the other from RCMP's Foreign Drug Cooperation Agency, were joined by detectives from the Toronto Police Service's Organized Crime Enforcement Unit and its Intelligence Services. Private investigator Clarence Miller III had also been invited to attend.

Cynthia Smythe was in a corner of the room on a love-seat, her stockinged feet drawn up beneath her, eyes red from crying, cheeks smeared with mascara that had run. Her mother, Gladys Wiggins, sat staunchly in an antique rocking chair, hands folded primly on her lap, head held high, taking it all in over half-glasses.

‘OK, Mrs Smythe, let's go over it again,' the Intelligence Services officer said. ‘You had a party here when the blackout occurred. That's when your husband disappeared.'

‘That's right.'

‘He didn't tell you he was going, didn't say where?'

‘No, he just left. He took my car.'

‘The blue Jaguar.'

‘Yes,' she answered, blowing her nose.

‘When did you discover that it was missing?'

‘Last night. When I couldn't find him, I went outside. That's when I saw that my car was gone, and then I went into the pool house.'

‘And found the box with Mr Saison's name on it and the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.'

Cynthia gasped, setting off hiccups. ‘I was shocked. Where would Carlton have gotten so much money?'

‘That's what we're trying to figure out, Mrs Smythe.'

The Organized Crime Enforcement agent entered the conversation. ‘You said that Dominick Martone and your husband were in some sort of a business together?'

‘Yes.'

‘What sort of business?'

‘I don't know. Mr Martone – he's a generous man, donates large sums of money to the COC – he and some of his associates came to the house not long after the blackout occurred.'

‘Looking for your husband?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did he say why?'

‘No. He was very polite. When I told him that Carlton was gone, he and his associates left.'

‘We'll be interviewing Mr Martone later today.'

One of the Toronto officers' cell phone rang and he walked from the room. When he returned he said, ‘Your car has been found, Mrs Smythe.'

‘That's wonderful. Where?'

‘Behind a diner. The officers who located it are driving it here now.'

‘Was it … was it damaged?'

‘Evidently not. Your husband left a note for you in it.'

Cynthia got to her feet. ‘A note? What did it say?'

‘You'll have to wait until the officers arrive.'

Whitlock turned to Mrs Wiggins. ‘You say that your son-in-law has a lady friend in Buenos Aires?'

She referred the question to Miller, who'd remained silent during the questioning. ‘Perhaps you should tell him about Carlton's floozy in Argentina,' she said. ‘I find it too distasteful to even discuss.'

Miller explained how Cynthia and her mother had retained him to see whether Mr Smythe was having an affair. ‘My man in Buenos Aires confirmed that he was.' He handed photos taken by Popi Domingo to Whitlock, who shared them with the others. ‘Her name is Gina Ellanado. Mr Smythe spends intimate time with her whenever he travels to Argentina.'

‘He is a liar as well as an adulterer,' Mrs Wiggins said, ‘claiming that all his trips to Argentina were for business. The man is a despicable monster.'

Cynthia, who'd resumed her place on the love-seat, said, ‘He's gone to Argentina to be with his mistress. I know it, I just know it.'

‘He has an airline reservation to Argentina for tomorrow,' Whitlock said, ‘but I doubt whether he'll use it. We've contacted all the airlines. If he tries to book passage on any of them we'll know about it. The Toronto PD officers will remain here for the rest of the day and evening in the event he tries to contact you. In the meantime rest assured that we're doing everything possible to locate him. Thank you for your time and cooperation.'

Whitlock and Arnaud had driven together to the house. They pulled from the driveway and went to a fast food restaurant where they ordered coffee and sat in a booth.

‘What do you think?' Whitlock asked.

‘Hard to make sense of it,' Arnaud said. ‘According to this clown Saison, it was Smythe who concocted the scheme to cause the blackout, and that note my future sister-in-law mentioned – the one we took from Saison – nails down when the blackout was supposed to take place. It would have if Saison's watch hadn't stopped. He's admitted that.'

Whitlock sipped and smiled. ‘Smythe's wife and mother-in-law seem concerned more about him having a mistress than being behind the blackout. But if Saison is telling the truth – and I have trouble putting much credence in anything he says – Smythe has perpetrated one hell of a scheme.'

‘One that generated lots of money for him. You figure Martone is involved?'

‘That's my guess, but there's nothing to link him directly. We do know that Smythe flew with Martone to that mob sit-down, and has been spending time with him here in Toronto. We've heard from informants that the mob in New York, Philadelphia, and God knows where else were planning something at the time of the blackout.
And
there was that thwarted attempt on Senator Quinlin's life in New York the night the lights went out. Too much to digest in one sitting. We'll know more when Martone is interviewed.'

‘Our people in Buenos Aires are following up on what's in those packages Smythe sent to his lady friend, Ms Ellanado, by way of Guzman. We have the info from all the shipping firms Smythe used. Anything on his use of his credit cards?'

‘Not yet, but I expect something any minute.'

As he said it, his cell phone rang.

‘Arnaud here.'

He listened to what the caller had to say. ‘Thanks,' he said and ended the call. ‘Smythe rented a car from a Rent-a-Wreck outfit,' he told Whitlock, ‘and showed his driver's license. The guy at the rental agency recognized the name from news he heard on TV. Let's go.'