Dale Andrews - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 134 & 135, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 817 & 818, September/October 2009

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 racketeering 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?”