A Place of Hiding

In an accent worthy of The Godfather, the man—Danny Vallera he said he was called—informed Lynley that Vallera & Son was an enterprise that cashed paycheques, offered loans, and wired money “all around the world if you want. Why? You looking to send some bucks over here? We c’n do that for you. We c’n change stuff to dollars. What you got over there in Scotland, anyway? You guys use francs? Crowns? You on the euro? We c’n do it all. ’Course, it’s gonna cost you.”


Affable to the end and clearly without a grain of sense—much less suspicion—he’d explained that he and his dad wired money in increments of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars—“And you can add the ninety-nine cents if you want to”—with a chuckle—“but that seems like stretching things, don’t it?”—for discriminating individuals who didn’t want the Feds to come knocking upon their doors, which they probably would do if over time Vallera & Son reported wire transfers of ten thousand dollars or more as required by “Uncle Samuel and the Washington jerk-offs.” So if someone from Scotland wanted to send someone in the U.S. of A. anything less than ten thousand buckos, Vallera & Son would be happy to play the middleman in the operation, for a fee of course. In the U.S. of A., centre of politicians on the take, lobbyists on the give, elections fixed, and capitalism gone mad, there was always a fee. And if the amount to be wired was more than nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, what happened then?

Lynley had inquired.

Oh, then Vallera & Son had to report the amount to the Feds. And what did the Feds do?

Got interested when they got around to getting interested. If your name was Gotti they got interested pronto. If you were Joe Schmo Recently in the Dough, it might take them longer.

“It was all quite illuminating,” Lynley had said to St. James at the conclusion of his report. “Mr. Vallera might have gone on indefinitely because he seemed to be delighted to have a call from Scotland.”

St. James chuckled. “But he didn’t go on?”

“Apparently Mr. Vallera Senior came on the scene. There was some background noise suggesting someone’s displeasure and the line went dead shortly thereafter.”

“You’re owed, Tommy,” St. James said.

“Not by Mr. Vallera Senior, I hope.”

Now in his hotel room, St. James contemplated his next move. Without getting one agency or another of the United States government involved, he reached the ineluctable conclusion that he was on his own, that he would have to ferret out more facts in one way or another and use those facts to smoke out Guy Brouard’s killer. He considered several ways of going at the problem, made his decision, and descended to the lobby. There he inquired about using the hotel’s computer. The receptionist, to whom he had not endeared himself earlier by having her track him round the island, didn’t meet his request with unbridled enthusiasm. She drew her lower lip in under her protruding upper teeth and informed him she would have to check with Mr. Alyar, the hotel’s manager. “We don’t usually give residents access...People generally bring their own. You don’t have a laptop?” She didn’t add “or a mobile?” but the implication was there. Get with it her expression told him just before she went in search of Mr. Alyar.

St. James cooled his heels in the lobby for nearly ten minutes before a barrel-shaped man in a double-breasted suit approached him from beyond a door that led into the inner reaches of the hotel. He introduced himself as Mr. Alyar—Felix Alyar, he said—and asked if he could be of help. St. James explained his request more fully. He handed over his business card as he spoke, and he offered DCI Le Gallez’s name in an effort to seem as legitimate a part of the ongoing investigation as possible. With far more good grace than the receptionist had possessed, Mr. Alyar agreed to allow St. James access to the hotel’s computer system. He welcomed him behind the reception counter and into a business office behind it. There, two additional employees of the establishment sat at work at terminals and a third fed documents into a fax machine. Felix Alyar directed St. James to a third terminal and said to the faxer,

“Penelope, this gentleman will be using your station,” before he left “with the hotel’s compliments” and a smile that bordered on the flagrantly insincere. St. James thanked him and made short work of accessing the Internet.