Mysteries Unlimited Ltd.

By Donald Ladew

Mysteries Unlimited Ltd is the name of a small company that answers questions of any kind, no matter how strange or even dangerous. Occasionally they take projects that cause even the redoubtable owner and Willie Nelson, look alike Sydney Constant Lee to take pause.

Mysteries Unlimited is staffed by a zany bunch of misfits, all of whom have one thing in common; they are very smart. However they don't always operate in close proximity with reality. The May Day Massacre, as the theft of 90 million dollars from a San Francisco bank was called, is just one such mystery.

Miss Jean Heely, an officer of the bank is accused of the theft and incarcerated for the crime. She solicits the help of Mysteries Unlimited and we get to follow Sydney and his strange band as they solve the mystery and get her out of prison.

Before this happens they will confront crooked FBI agents, a senior member of the bank's management, a demented bank employee and a Japanese Yakusa mobster who takes a personal dislike to Sydney Lee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456603182

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Pebble Beach Golf Club, known to cognoscenti all over the world as, The Pebble, lies south of San Francisco on the best part of the Monterey Peninsula. Like other difficult courses, it has been called more colorful names over the years.

Golfers come to play for a variety of reasons, the chief one being that they can then say, with un-warranted assurance, things like: when I played ‘Pebble’ the weather was foul, the implication being they have played the course in all kinds of weather, which is, of course, so much chicken dirt. Most people play the course once, after which they go back to their country clubs where the fairways are as wide as an airport, the greens flat, and the sand bunkers as tame as Santa Monica Beach.

Others, less interested in golf snobbery, might say: Well, what the hell, it’s a nice course, but four hundred and fifty bucks a pop is grand theft sport.

Such comments are usually accompanied by uncomplimentary ethnic slurs against the Japanese owners—Americans now, I’ve been told. About damned time. Most people wouldn’t care, or want to know that the Japanese own most of our hotels and golf courses.

But, when our Asian business partners start screwing with such hallowed institutions as the Pebble Beach Country Club, they go way beyond freedom and decency and deserve every low comment over-charged aficionados can imagine.

On this particular day, five men in rainbow-hued golf shirts with emblems of insects and exotic animals on the pockets sat on the terrace of the Pebble Beach Golf Hotel enjoying the view across the eighteenth green to the Pacific Ocean beyond. It is a spectacular view worth seeing whether one plays golf or not.

They finished their round an hour earlier, and though humbled in body and spirit, had sufficient energy to enjoy what golfers call the nineteenth hole⎯booze and snacks.

One of the men, sunburned face peeling, and whose stomach protruded beyond his belt like a misplaced boulder, was still bitching about the cost. The fact that he could have played twice a day for the rest of his natural life, didn’t matter.

It’s crap, Harrison! Four hundred and fifty dollars; goddamned highway robbery. Damn Nips have gone too far.

His hard Texas twang crackled through the evening air causing the après golf crowd to turn and stare nervously. The fact was, he only said what others were thinking but hadn’t the cojones or bad manners to say aloud.

Sheeit, for this much money we shoulda had fourteen-year old blonde virgins for caddies, or maybe the golf carts shoulda been Rolls Royce’s.

Harrison Culhane stared at the Texan with disgust. Culhane was a lean man with advanced male-pattern baldness, who looked a lot like ex-President Bush with a mustache,

You’re just pissed because you lost a hundred and twenty bucks and put three balls in the ocean on the eighteenth, George, Harrison snickered meanly.

George’s reply was short and to the point, each word separately articulated.

Screw you, Harrison. The way you were chunking balls in there I figured you owned the retrieval concession.

George drank an inch of his Wild Turkey and went off into one of his oblique stories.

"I met one of those guys who go around collecting balls from ponds a while back. He uses a powerful lamp and one of those snorkel things. Man traveled to golf courses all over California, said he made a pretty good living selling them back to the courses. Guy told me he found two dead Hispanics in a lake down in Palm Springs one morning, stiffer’n a mackerel.

Poor bastard, scared him half to death; said he had to give it up. Whoever zapped them couldn’t have been a golfer or he’d have known they’d be found.

Arthur Patterson, a tough, watchful man in his late forties, ran his hands through brush cut graying hair and ordered another drink from a passing waiter.

How the hell do you putt, George? I know damn well you can’t see the ball past that dead whale in your gut.

The fourth man didn’t join the bickering. He was tall, excessively neat, wore expensive gold-rimmed glasses, and was given to pursing his thin lips. When he spoke the other three shut up.

That’s enough, Elleston said, Keep it down. This isn’t golf, this is business.

When does the Nip arrive, George asked, his voice a little lower.

George, you’re supposed to be a politician. Haven’t you learned, ethnic slurs are counter productive? You let one slip out at the wrong time and your political career is history, then you won’t be of any use to this group, and I wouldn’t like that at all.

He paused; making sure George understood his meaning clearly.

We are meeting with a Japanese business man in a half hour. He’s bringing us ninety million dollars. We are the dry cleaner. And like all dry cleaners we will take his dirty laundry and loose it. Then we will make restitution in nice clean dollars. We, very sensibly will keep his dirty laundry which will magically become minty fresh.

He smiled at his little witticism. The others did not laugh but they were keenly interested.

He gets ninety million and we get ninety million. Pay attention gentlemen. That’s ninety million the IRS doesn’t know about, your wives don’t know about; what the government calls discretionary funds. Do you understand?

Their responses covered the full range of avarice and greed.

The bank, your bank, he looked at each man in turn, is going to have a health problem. It will become ill, then, with the help of the depositors and certain insurance companies, it will get well. For this to occur a great many things must happen at exactly the right time and in exactly the right place.

The man with the gold-rimmed glasses poured what was left of a bottle of designer water into his glass. He drank from the glass carefully, neatly. He was a banker and an orderly man.

What about the General? George asked.

Ahhhh, yes. Well, that’s not a problem, I will deal with him. In point of fact he’s not a bad CEO, but he has a weak spot and that weak spot will make us all very rich men. He’s an old fashioned man and try as he might, he hasn’t really figured out how electronic banking works. He is very good at bringing us new customers, one of the best I’ve ever seen.

George, who wasn’t quite the stupid Texan he let on, paid close attention to everything said.

We’re going to need a goat, Elleston. After the...action there’ll be a period of one or two months when we’ll be vulnerable.

Elleston smiled a thin, joyless smile.

"The candidate has been chosen. I selected her for several reasons. One, she is the computer security officer at the bank and very good at it; she also has access to all accounts and services from her computer; another is that she’s much too close to the General.

The silly bitch has visions of becoming a director of the bank. She is a vile, pushy tart, and I’m going to enjoy putting her in her place, which is behind bars. She will be implicated. The physical evidence will be overwhelming, but it must be done quickly before anyone looks too closely. That is why we have you Harrison and of course, Judge Forster. With the FBI loop closed, he nodded toward Patterson, and my people at the bank we have an unbeatable team.

George smiled with satisfaction. Good, she’ll never know what hit her. Getting the money out of the system is the tricky part.

The man with the gold-rimmed glasses removed several folders from a briefcase beside his chair.

George, you have the European connection. Be sure everything is ready. Go there and handle it personally if you have to.

He passed a folder to Arthur and one to each of the others.

The fifth man, Major Pauley, said nothing. He was uncomfortable with these men. His education had stopped with a GED high school diploma acquired in the army, and he didn’t play golf.

The only reason Pauley was present was because his boss ordered it. He understood obedience and orders. He would have preferred staying home working on his stamp collection. His base of power was limited to guarding the physical security of the bank and running errands for Elleston Howard, in the course of which he’d been instrumental in creating the inside people at the bank.

Be certain you know exactly what you’re supposed to do. When the action is complete, destroy the records. And, gentlemen, Elleston’s voice held menace, "don’t keep any insurance. I have everybody by the short hairs and I won’t hesitate to use that option if needed.

Ahhh, here comes Mr. Kinsai now.

Kinsai didn’t look like a man with ninety million dollars in cash. You might have found him in any good hotel in any major city in the US. He was tall for a Japanese, dressed in a dark suit and tie; the uniform of the ubiquitous Japanese businessman. They truly are everywhere: Japan’s financial soldiers going forth to fight the sacred battle of dominion.

Elleston stood to greet him. The others did not. George was still smarting about their ownership of the Pebble Beach Golf Course.

Welcome to the U.S., Mr. Kinsai. Please, have a seat. May I have the waiter bring you something?

Whiskey and soda, please. His accent was clear, American. He had no problem with his R’s and L’s.

When his drink arrived he got right to business. He had none of the Oriental’s love of misdirection and ceremony.

Is the operation ready to go?

His voice was harsh and demanding. Besides being direct he wasn’t long on good manners.

Elleston introduced the other members of the group. Kinsai was impatient and made it plain he didn’t care about them. His contact was Elleston. Subordinates should be just that. It was interesting that he came alone. Usually Japanese businessmen travel in packs like wolves chasing a wounded elk: Deadly in groups, less capable as individuals.

To answer your question, Mr. Kinsai, yes. Has the money arrived?

It is being loaded into two vans right now from one of our ships. I need only to know when and where you want it sent.

Good, good. Where are you staying?

The Hilton, room 415.

Fine. I will call you tomorrow afternoon with the particulars.

My principals want to know the details of the operation, Kinsai demanded, exactly how it will be carried out and by whom.

Elleston sat back and smiled his gray, cheerless smile.

Harrison couldn’t restrain himself. You can tell your principals, he sneered, to pound sand. That was never part of the agreement. We’re taking all the risk. The only thing you need to know is that we can wash your money clean as a new bed sheet and return one hundred percent of that money to you. How we do it ain’t any of your goddamned bidness.

Kinsai grunted and snarled right back in the Texan’s face.

It is our money. If we want to know something you will tell us you stupid little man.

George started across the table only to be grabbed by Harrison and pulled back to his seat.

That’s enough, Elleston ordered. The meeting is over. Mr. Kinsai, call your principals and tell them the operation is off. Put your money back on the ship. Elleston started to get up.

Kinsai held up his hands nervously. Wait, this is not necessary, we don’t have to do that.

The ice in Elleston Howard was there for all to hear.

"Unless you change your attitude, Mr. Kinsai, believe me this meeting is adjourned. I will not be dictated to by you or anyone else. My agreement was made with your leader, your Oyabun. If he wishes to know anything about the operation he may call me direct, otherwise it goes as planned, which doesn’t include me telling anybody the particulars. Are we quite clear about that, Mr. Kinsai?

Hai! Kinsai bowed fractionally. Elleston ignored the bow.

The only way this will work is by sticking to the plan. I am the only one who knows all of it. These gentlemen each have a part; they do not know what the others must do. You, Mister Kinsai, are a buyer. We are the seller. We provide the product, the service if you will. That is the full extent of our relationship. If you want a guarantee, buy a Toyota.

Elleston drank the last of his fancy water and picked up his brief case.

That is all, gentlemen. We know what has to be done. Let us each concentrate on getting our part of the operation right. There won’t be time to practice. We only get to do this once. The alternative can cost us a lot more than ninety million dollars.

Chapter 2

The Japanese came silently in the night in an unmarked van. They didn’t come stealthily out of the rising sun, screaming Tora! Tora! Tora! As has happened in the past, they had an invitation.

They came to the underground entrance of Intercoastal Bank headquarters in San Francisco, where they were let through steel doors that could have stopped a medium tank. Why bother to attack if the enemy will open the gates? Another tragedy in a Comic Opera world.

The man who let them in wore a military style uniform and was coldly polite.

The Japanese unloaded ten large cartons. Each weighed nearly a hundred pounds. These were carefully opened by two employees while a third oversaw the operation.

As this was taking place, a second van arrived, was passed in and unloaded another ten cartons. Altogether they contained more than a ton of US currency. Most of the bills were in denominations of one hundred dollars each. The total was over ninety million dollars. The uninformed criminal often thinks robbing a bank is pretty simple: walk in, grab forty or fifty million dollars and leave. They seldom think about the problems of moving anything that weighs a ton rapidly.

As soon as all the cases were unwrapped the bank employees began the tedious process of counting the money, twice.

When they were done the third man went inside the building and sent a wire to Japan confirming the deposit, in the correct amount. Subsequently a ninety million dollar adjustment was made to the sender’s account.

By the time the employees who unloaded, unpacked and counted the currency went home it was almost five o’clock in the morning. On the surface of things it seemed an ordinary transaction. Banks, after all, are in the business of handling cash.

However, two other people were in the bank, using a computer which should only have been accessed by another person who was not there. The account, so recently flush with credit, began to show extraordinary activity via the mechanism known as the wire transfer of funds. The route these funds took was tortured to say the least.

But the first step, getting it out of Intercoastal Bank, was relatively simple. It went to a location in New York called the Clearing House Interbank System—CHIPS—in eighteen increments of five million dollars each to eighteen different overseas accounts. That these eighteen accounts were located in exotic places like the Netherlands Antilles and the Seychelle Islands meant nothing to the CHIPS system. What do computers know? Or care?

From these locations the money, still in the form of electronic wire transfers, moved to other accounts in equally protected locations and eventually were converted into certificates of deposit, which were then flown back to the States, placed in the account of a shell company via a small bank in upstate New York.

The chances of it being traced were nil, and would take the cooperation of no less than ten different countries and their investigative apparatus. None of the countries had cooperative agreements with US investigative agencies.

Add to this the fact that the FBI detests and considers itself superior to all other investigative agencies, such as the DEA, the Secret Service, the IRS, the Customs Service, and you have the clever criminal’s happiest dream.

Of the ninety million, two million went to a Bank in Belgium. This transaction wasn’t nearly as well hidden.

Chapter 3

Within the Intercoastal Bank building, the better offices were situated around the perimeter of each floor. As a dues paying subscriber to the tribal hierarchy of big business, Intercoastal Bank was a prime example of the Territorial Imperative in action.

The winners in the game of territorial acquisition had private offices with windows, and excellent views of the city, a prize worth having in San Francisco. And of these offices, the ones at the four corners of the building were even more highly prized. They were reserved for vice presidents and above. One such office on the eighteenth floor belonged to J.K.Heely, Vice President in charge of Computer Security.

Her staff didn’t call her J.K. or Heely or any other male oriented alias. She was Jean, if you knew her well enough, otherwise, Miss Heely. She did not approve of Miz and put a stop to it whenever it cropped up. She suffered neither inferiority, nor an obsessive need to draw attention to herself or her view points through the assumption of supposedly significant social nomenclature. Jean Heely was a bank vice president and a woman, and in no way unhappy about either.

Because she was single and uniquely visible, there were numerous rumors about her private life. If she had lunch with another vice president more than once in any week, it was instantly assumed that she was sleeping with that person; male or female. This, after all, was San Francisco.

Jean took little note of such rumors and lived her life as she pleased. The bank was doing well and so was she. Another rumor had it that she would be the next Executive Vice President of Computer Operations. This wild guess was correct.

She arrived at her office at seven thirty filled with energy and good cheer, and brought with her the brilliance of a perfect spring day. The sun lingered as highlights on her ash blonde hair and the breezes from the bay were caught in the folds of her stylish cotton frock.

Where other women at the bank wore severe, pin-striped suits, bras a size too small to disguise the fact that God is his perversity had given them breasts, hair so plain they could have been admitted directly into the nearest celibate religious order, Jean wore her hair long, full and curly, and dressed in a way that accentuated her abundant femininity.

She was not beautiful in the classical sense, having an over generous mouth and unstraightened teeth. But her eyes were large; light brown; bright with humor and intelligence. What she thought and felt was immediately there for all to see.

According to the scale in her bathroom, she was ten pounds over weight; the only sour note in an otherwise perfect day. She fought the good fight with catholic determination, which is to say righteous denial during the week and Lucullan excess on weekends. Three mornings a week she suffered the tortures of the damned at Gold’s Gym, and these efforts kept the goal of one hundred and fifteen pounds, like chocolate, tantalizingly out of reach.

She had turned thirty two one month earlier and was the youngest vice president of a major bank in the United States.

She smiled at her secretary, Rose McClennan, who stood and took her coat.

Good morning, Rose. It’s a beautiful day. If I didn’t have that two o’clock with Georgesciu and Elleston, I’d take a sick day and go for a sail. How’s the baby?

Cheerful, full of smiles and an appetite like a stevedore. Thanks for the comp-day last week. Arthur and I haven’t been away from young George since he arrived. My mother baby sat while George and I lived shamelessly at the Mark. They were so nice; the manager said anything for Miss Heely. Whatever did you do for them?

Oh, I brought them Dutch Bankers, Viennese Bankers, and German Bundesbank people last year, and they’re all coming again next month. They have more money than the Japanese.

She went into her office, looked around the room with satisfaction and tossed her briefcase on the couch. As she sat down at her desk, Rose brought a fresh pot of coffee and her mail. The day had begun exactly as it should.

There was something weird going on in the ‘wire-transfer’ department that needed investigation and she was having lunch with the General.

She was just opening her mail when what should have been a perfect day went to hell in a hurry. Rose entered without knocking. She had a look like someone had punched her hard in the head.

Jean, there are two people out here who insist on seeing you. I’m sorry; I couldn’t put them on the calendar.

All right, no problem. Who are these people who can’t wait?

They say they’re from the FBI.

Jean wasn’t alarmed. Hmmmph, that’s odd, we don’t have anything going with those people. No matter, send them in.

Chapter 4

The late afternoon sun turned the sky over Santa Monica crimson. Occasionally there is beauty in Babylon. The air, washed by two days of rain, was soft and clear, unstained by the refuse of an urban transportation system gone mad. But beauty doesn’t last. The sky over LA, like the soul of the city, was tainted, tarnished, and toxic.

Sydney Constant Lee raised his bottle in salute, and then looked around the garden. He took a long drink of ice-cold Moosehead Ale; head tilted back, eyes closed with pleasure.

Sydney watched the dome of the Griffith Park Observatory change from gold, to orange, to red. He got up, walked over to a control box and adjusted a couple knobs. Water gurgled, sprayed and dripped over the three acres of gardens and trees.

Back in his lawn chair, Sydney picked up the bottle, drained it in two swallows, and looked around at all the water.

This is very Zen. I think I’m acquiring vast quantities of karma.

He hummed a cheerful tune. Zippedy doo dah...hmmm hmmm...Zippedy ay.

There were five empties in the six pack. Sydney reached out, took the sixth and uncapped it.

My oh my what a helluva a day...hmmm...hmmm.

Water