Operations

10 a.m.

I think there is nothing more beautiful and satisfying than a perfect operation. Call me Jeff. I don't go by that name, but I need to anonymize things just a bit in order to tell this story, and I do want to tell it to you. I love games, mysteries, and operations. You say you're not into operations? Well you are missing out on a wonderful part of life. Maybe I can draw you into that world.

Have you experienced anxiety or do you know someone who has? It's quite limiting sometimes. First you're anxious about a thing, then pretty soon you're anxious about being anxious, am I right? Just try to accomplish the thing then! If you've been anxious--and I don't mean just nervous--I mean the kind of feeling that can freeze you in your tracks--then you know what I mean. Now imagine for a minute that the thing you were anxious about was so perfectly operationalized that nothing could go wrong, that the right outcome was guaranteed, one hundred percent. Make a little effort here, please, imagine. It feels different, doesn't it? That is the reward of meticulously planned, set out, and executed operations.

Operations. Just think about it. You could have all of the right ingredients for a thing, but without precise operations, your succotash will suck, so to speak. These days a lot of folks want to cook unusual dishes, but they're in a hurry and they don't have time to learn how, so someone drops off a box with quality ingredients and a detailed recipe. Follow that recipe and you'll make a fine dinner. But what if it didn't come with the recipe? You results would be hit and miss. That's mostly the way things are these days: business, actually most things altogether--ingredients requiring operational precision. How will you use the ingredients that are delivered to your door, and delivered without exact instructions?

What's that? Yes, you're right. My last job was Chief Operating Officer. And someone's saying it doesn't sound very sexy? Well, we've just met. I think you should wait a bit before raising a subject like that;). Modestly and humbly, let me say that if operations don't turn you on, you're missing part of the picture. Modesty and humility? Well maybe I don't have them on the surface, but they come out in my operations. You're an argumentative, impatient lot, aren't you? I suppose I should get right to it, then. But how do you think you're going to master operations without patience? Didn't think about that, did you?

Few have the patience and attention to see a thing through end to end, which is what's required to have a good grasp of operations. Most do some things well, a few things mostly right, and one or two things sloppily. That makes for gaps in operations. There was no room for sloppiness in my work, and I allow no sloppiness now.

For example, take the last of the Great Train robbers. The robbery itself--operationally well planned and executed. The escape to South America--well carried out. Getting found, first by the reporter from the Times, then by the police, woefully sloppy.

What would you do if you had to disappear? Abbie Hoffman did pretty well. He changed his appearance and moved to the Thousand Islands, blended right in with the locals. Then, if you'll allow a bit of sidewalk psychology, his attention-seeking nature got the better of him and he decided to run for office. Like that he was caught. Sloppy, Hoffman, clever to a point, then mighty sloppy...

I'm not going to tell you where I relocated to. I will say it has wine and water. That doesn't narrow it down much. These days you can grow grapes anywhere from the Great Lakes to the Northwest, down to Baja California. With my vineyard I look just like so many other financial guys who've retired young. Water? Well it's a sort of contingency plan. You need those operations. If by chance or design, someone should find me, I want some quick exits. A bridge and a boat--not a sailboat, a motorboat with lots of speed. A go-bag with passports, ID, and the sign-in information for my crypto wallet. That's my last-minute getaway plan, if I happen to need it. Prepare for the unexpected. Operations!

But this morning's event has me on edge. The cleaners found an earring in my private study, actually right by the mini-fridge. I hear what you're thinking, and I do have my eye on two women, but I haven't gotten nearly that far yet. The brunette next door looks yummy, and my wine maker is a very attractive redhead, meticulous in her operations. Classy lady, and unless I am mistaken, there may be the beginnings of some feelings on the other side. The redhead might have had a reason to enter my study, but she would have asked first, and the earring is the wrong shade for her. I'm going to ask her now, and I'll take the bottle out of the fridge with me. Be optimistic for the long term, be wary of the short term. Business School 101. This could be nothing or it could be a threat. Time to find out.

She's at the wine store. It's three miles down the winding county road. I go over the possibilities. The cleaners come twice a week, but I use the study every day, and every day I put something in the mini-fridge: a bottle of wine, water, a Rattler... every day. Could I have missed the earring? Some might have, but me? I doubt it. This means that, very probably, someone was in the study yesterday afternoon or evening. That is disturbing. That has me alarmed. And when I'm alarmed, the only thing to do is act, move.

It's just before opening time at the store. I motion to the winemaker to join me in my private office. I show here the piece. "Melissa, the cleaners found this on the floor of my study in the house. I have to figure out how it got there. I don't think it's your shade. Have you ever seen it before?"

"No Jeff," she shook her head slowly and deliberately. "And I would never go into the house without asking you."

"I know that," I said. "But does it look familiar to you?" She gave it a good look, but shook her had again. "This is the bottle that I had in the fridge."

Melissa looked sharply. "The lead seal isn't right," she pointed out. "That's sloppy. And there's a wrinkle on the label."

I unlocked my desk and took out an opener. I handed her the cork. She cupped it in both hands and sniffed. "Ew that is off!" she exclaimed. "There's something--something completely wrong. I'll taste it."

"No!" I exclaimed. "Give me the cork. I'll have it tested later." I locked it in a deep drawer of the desk and pocketed the key. "Wash your hands and I'll do the same." My stridency was making her jittery.

"Jeff..." she began.

"It's too soon to know," I said. "Go about your business and leave this to me."

And now comes the hard part of any operation when something has gone seriously and mysteriously off the rails: waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it does. It came by drone, and that is suspect in itself. I don't use drones for deliveries, and it wouldn't be a promotional freebie--drones are too expensive for that. The cardboard box landed softly on the front stoop and I retrieved it immediately. For a brief moment I entertained the thought that someone mistook 2920B County Road 49 for number 2920A (of course I've anonymized the addresses). The house number is right but my name isn't on it. Again an irregularity and cause for suspicion.

Should I put the package in water? No need. If it was going to blow up it would have done so when the drone dropped it off. Next step, open it...

Have I been found out? My heart skips a beat or two and I look up involuntarily. No one seems to be watching. What's inside? A walkie talkie with a voice scrambler. Hmmmn. Somebody else wants to remain anonymous. Also a long string of letters and numbers: no doubt a blockchain address I will be expected to transfer funds to. A page torn from some old history book--the header has the date four thousand B.C. Actually that's a bit clever, and a decent clue. It was in all the news outlets that I stole four thousand BitCoins from the company when they passed me over and made that idiot marketing officer the CEO, as if he understood the business! Incompetent, cocksure clown. It was so easy to lift the crypto right from under his nose, and it was the biggest score recorded, a hundred times what the Great Train Robbery netted. Oh his hands weren't clean. "Fleecers Fleeced" that was one of the headlines. But I digress. Actually I took closer to ten thousand B.C.'s, so my would-be black mailer is an outsider, not from the company.

Okay. So some sharpie has found me out, maybe by accident, and I have to figure out who and what to do next. Of course escape is always an option. BitCoins are completely portable and virtually untraceable. But I won't resort to that just yet. Ah, and the blackmailer knows I won't just escape, is counting on my staying put. So it's a contest. "The game's afoot!" Oh, you're wondering if I'll be snared by my attachment to the waterfront house and the redhead. You're so predictable! First let's see what the bids are and how the hand will be played. Ah, there's one more interesting item: a photocopy of the famous "Dogs at Cards" painting. Now that it is something. I'm hosting bridge for three male friends this evening. Dogs at cards? That is certainly the reference.

A mystery, and since my own survival, or at least liberty, is in jeopardy, I am motivated. I do love mysteries. English closed-circle mysteries are the best, Agatha Christie unbeatable for me. And a tight timetable? I think so, I think that walkie talkie will ring soon enough, and the call will be from someone local. I need to figure out who is in cahoots with whom.

Cahoots, that's it! Last month I hosted a Cahoots software trivia night. All three guests were there along with others. When the software scored their answers and their times, it made little profiles of them, silly, party-game personality profiles, but those are stored on the desk top. If we play another round, I can compare the profiles and see who has a different profile today. That will be the blackmailer. A good tactic!

Reader, you're mulling over whom to cheer for, I suppose. Certainly I'm a bad guy--I stole a lot of money, even if it was from crooked crooks. They're bad too. And what about this blackmailer? Not an upstanding citizen, I think. You have a moral dilemma, but I don't have time just now to discuss it with you. I'm in a rush.

6:00 p.m.

Bill's here first. Retired lawyer. I hope it's not him. I'd be sorry to see him go.

Next comes Ryan, dentist, and everybody needs one from time to time. Unimaginative, don't know what he'd do with the money if he had it, but still he might want it.

Last is Preston, semi-retired psychiatrist. In the painting I guess he's the dog with the pipe. Is that a bulge in his jacket? I know he owns a revolver. He's one to watch!

I explain that there's a new version of Cahoots. Could we test it before starting our game? They agree.

We all take out our phones, log in to the software. I read the first question: 'What percentage of people say they might cheat on their spouse? (a) 10% (b) 20% (c) 30% d) 50%'

We punched in our answers. The readout was immediate. Correct answer (b)--Bill and Preston got it right. Ryan and I thought 50%.

The questions rolled along. We got to the second-last one. 'How many people would steal from a thief? (a) 10% (b) 30% (c) 75% (d) 90%' Correct answer (c). Bill answered (b) but the rest of us answered (d). Nobody got it right.

Finally, 'What percentage of people say they own a gun and would use it? (a) 5% (b) 10% (c) 40% (d) more than half' Correct answer (d). Preston and I got it right. I glanced again at the bulge in his jacket.

8 p.m.

The software worked fast. I called up the profiles of the past answers, and compared them with these newest answers. No significant changes. I announced that, the others approved of the new questions, and I let the result roll around my head. The conclusion was inescapable and some surprised part of my mind spoke, almost out loud, "It's not one of them. It's not one of them." Bravo Cahoots! Then a light bulb went on.

Preston's wife is the only one with brown eyes. The shade of the earring... "Preston, is this your wife's earring?"

He was surprised. "Yes, where did you get it?"

"It was in my private study, right in front of the wine fridge."

"What was it doing there?"

"I don't know, but I think she believes I'm someone else. She seems to think I'm some kind of criminal, thinks she can blackmail me."

"What?" Preston was one confused psychiatrist, and Bill and Ryan could have been knocked over with a feather.

The walkie talkie squawked. I raised a finger to my lips. "I've been expecting your call," I said calmly.

"Are you alone?" the scrambled voice at the other end asked.

"What do you think?" I asked back.

"I think you offed those losers," the voice snarled.

"Does that upset you?" I asked mischievously.

"What do you think? I should thank you for taking care of my useless husband. Preston was a jerk. I'm glad he's dead!"

The three men paled. Preston's hand went involuntarily to the bulge.

"And the others?" I queried.

"They won't be missed. They'll none of them be missed," she responded, quoting Gilbert and Sullivan. The male faces turned from white to red.

"Are their wives in on this too?" I asked curiously.

"Are you kidding? As if I'd share the pot with those two Shirley Temples! Now, let's talk about a BitCoin transfer. You have the blockchain address."

"What makes you think I'll do what you say?" I asked, winking at the others.

"I could turn you in," she taunted.

"I could run away," I offered, eyeing my companions.

"If you do, I won't give you the antidote," she smirked.

"The antidote?" I asked.

"The antidote to the poison I slipped into your wine, your favorite wine, the one you keep in your precious little wine fridge, the one in your private study!"

"You poisoned my wine?" I asked in mock seriousness.

Preston motioned me to press the mute button. "What's the range on this thing?" he asked.

I examined the instrument and read the range to him--200 yards.

He stood up and walked to the door, then out into the dark. "Keep her talking," he commanded.

I turned the volume back on. "I want that antidote."

"I want your BitCoin," she said simply.

"I don't trust you," I countered.

"You think I trust you?" she sneered.

"So how do we do this?"

"I'm outside," she remarked. "Bring your phone. Transfer the BitCoin. I'll know on my phone and I'll give you the phial. And no tricks. I'm armed."

"I don't doubt that," I said solemnly. Click. Transmission ended.

We waited in silence. Suddenly there were two sharp reports. Three of us ran through the door. "Preston!" we shouted. We found him in half a minute, holding his gun at his side, staring fixedly. Just a few yards away she was stretched out on the ground.

Ryan ran to her and felt for a pulse. "She's gone," he said plainly. He lifted the gun from her dead hand.

Preston spoke in a flat tone. "I had no choice. She shot at me."

Bill piped up, "We all heard the gun shots. First her then you. I'll swear out a statement."

Ryan said, "We'll all sign it. Do you really think she poisoned the wine?" he asked me.

"The earring was right beside the wine fridge," I noted. I opened the bottle. The smell is off. I set it aside for testing. I don't think that's necessary now. Does anyone?" Three heads shook no.

"I'll call a police lieutenant I know, and a judge," Preston offered.

"We'll wait here with the body," Ryan offered.

Well Reader, the conclusion is up to you. What do you think? Three wrongs don't make a right? All's well or unwell that ends well or unwell? It's up to you. And as for me? I'm not going anywhere. Events like this cement friendships. Plus there's Melissa. Blame me, tolerate me, just call me Jeff. I wish you well with your operations.

.