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

“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 Ferragamo 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

Author of an award-winning children’s novel, South Carolina’s Mignon Ballard has also been delighting adult readers with a series featuring guardian 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 Disappears, 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?”