by Ian Hamilton
“You’re my lucky charm,” Fai said when finally pulled apart. “I’ve always wanted to work with Andy Gao, and do a love story with a happy ending, and work in Taiwan. Now I get to do all three at one time.”
“Go and call Chen,” Ava said. “But do me a favour, will you? Read Lau Lau’s script while you’re in the air and talk to Chen about it when you’re done. I’m keen to know what the two of you think about it.”
“I will, I promise,” Fai said.
“And don’t talk to Chen for too long,” Ava said. She smiled. “This will be our last chance to be alone together for a while. Let’s make it a shower to remember.”
(5)
Chen booked Fai on an Eva Airways evening flight that flew from Toronto direct to Taipei. That gave Fai and Ava the day together, but it was hardly relaxing. Fai needed a visa, which meant filling out numerous forms and then driving to the Taipei Economic and Cultural Office on Yonge Street with the application and Fai’s passport. When they got there, they were initially told it might take up to three days to get the visa approved, but when Fai explained the reason for her trip and the official realized who she was, they were fast-tracked. Still, it was mid-afternoon by the time Ava pointed the Audi in the direction of Pearson International Airport, in the city’s northwest corner.
They had spent close to six weeks together, minus a few days when Ava had been in Hong Kong. It was the longest continuous time Ava had ever spent with someone who wasn’t her mother or sister. In previous relationships, the most had been a two-week holiday, and by the end of that Ava had begun to feel suffocated. This was different. She was actually sad to see Fai leave, and she was quietly pleased when Fai packed only half of the clothes she’d brought with her. The other half remained hanging in the closet or nestled in Ava’s drawers.
It was early rush hour in a city where rush hour was getting perpetually earlier, and it was stop-and-go along the Gardiner Expressway and for part of the way up Highway 427. But by four-thirty Ava had reached the airport and was walking with Fai into Terminal 1.
Chen had booked Fai a first-class ticket, so check-in was quick and smooth. Security was another matter — even the priority lanes were jammed.
“You don’t have to hang around until I clear security,” Fai said.
“And I won’t. It’s hard enough watching you leave without having to do it inch by inch.”
Fai threw her arms around Ava’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I’ll stay in touch,” she said.
“Make sure you do.”
“Good luck with Mimi’s family problem.”
“I suspect I’ll need more than luck,” Ava said, and then hugged Fai so hard she could almost count her ribs.
The line in front of Fai shuffled forward. “I have to go,” Fai said. “I love you.”
“Love you too. See you in six weeks,” Ava said.
Highway 427 was lighter going south and the Gardiner wasn’t bad going east, so Ava made it home by six-thirty. She parked the car, thought about going to a restaurant in the neighbourhood for dinner, and then decided she’d eat at home and start working through the Harvest documents.
The condo was eerily quiet when she entered it, and Ava felt Fai’s absence immediately. This was a new experience for her. Her home had always been her refuge, a place where she could be gloriously alone. Now it felt cold, as if something was missing — and it was, of course. Ava went to the fridge, took out the leftover wine, and emptied the remains into a glass. Then she walked over to an oak credenza to get a couple of pens and a Moleskine notebook. She carried them back to the table, opened the notebook, and wrote across the top of the first page: Gregory / Harvest Investment Fund.
She looked at the stack of statements. Where to begin? She flipped to the last one Phil Gregory had been sent. It consisted of two pages; the first was titled “HARVEST FUND ASSETS,” and under that was the amount $31,554,629. Down the left side of the page was a list of common investment sectors, including automotive, banking, oil and gas, and agriculture. Beside each sector was a dollar figure that Ava assumed was supposed to represent the value of the fund’s holdings in it. Near the bottom of the page, in a different font, it read: “Phillip Gregory’s Account Balance: $2,743,489.” Directly beneath was the now familiar disclaimer that the fund wasn’t affiliated with the Chapel.
Ava turned the page, expecting to find more details about the fund’s holdings. There was only text: six paragraphs, each describing the good work the fund’s investments had achieved in various African and Asian countries, by installing water purification systems, supporting missionaries, and donating to the construction of schools and health facilities. At the bottom of that page was the name Malcom Muir and the words “Together in Christ.”
That can’t be all there is, she thought. Surely there have to be other numbers, some reasonable level of detail. She picked up another statement and found it was identical to the one she’d just read. She looked at the one with the earliest date. It followed the same pattern. The fund’s assets were listed as $6,321,623, and Phil Gregory’s account contained $250,000, which she assumed was his first contribution. She made a note: How many people invested in the fund? and then thought, How on earth could people put their money into something like this?
She turned her attention to the terms sheet, hoping it would shed some light. It did, but in a way that made Ava shake her head. Its introduction read: The fund provides members of Harvest Table Bible Chapel an opportunity to invest as part of our Christian community in companies that reflect Christian values or are owned and/or managed by people of avowed Christian faith. Moreover, the fund is committed to investing half of any profits it generates to promote Christianity in the developing world and to provide material support to Christian communities in need.
The terms sheet was quite specific that membership in the fund was restricted to members of the Chapel, but immediately added in bold lettering: THE FUND IS NOT FORMALLY OR INFORMALLY PART OF THE HARVEST TABLE BIBLE CHAPEL ORGANIZATION, ALTHOUGH ITS OBJECTIVES ARE ENDORSED BY CHAPEL LEADERSHIP. It went on to say that in line with those objectives, the fund would be managed by Chapel members who were experienced and skilled in financial management. That team would be led by Malcolm Muir, who was also a member of Harvest Table Bible Chapel’s finance committee. Then, again emphasized, it read: MR. MUIR AND THE OTHER TEAM MEMBERS WILL NOT BE PAID MANAGEMENT FEES. THIS WORK IS VOLUNTARY ON THEIR PART. ANY COMPENSATION THEY RECEIVE WILL BE IN THE FORM OF THE PROFITS THEY MAKE FROM THEIR OWN INVESTMENTS IN THE FUND, AND THOSE PROFITS WILL BE AT THE SAME LEVEL AS FOR ANY OTHER INVESTOR.
The terms sheet went on to specify that membership in the fund required an initial investment of $100,000. All of an investor’s money could be withdrawn, in whole or in part, on the anniversary of their joining, but the fund reserved the right to take sixty days to return the money after such a request was made. There would be monthly financial statements, regular reports on how the profits were being invested, and an annual meeting that would be open for investors to attend. It all sounded entirely reasonable, Ava thought, especially to someone who might not question the fund’s motives.
Aside from Muir’s name, there were no other names, phone numbers, or email addresses on the statements. Ava made a note of it, picked up her cell, and called Derek.
“I was wondering when I was going to hear from you,” he said.
“Sorry, I’ve been running around all day with Fai. She needed a visa to go to Taiwan. She’s leaving tonight. In fact, she’s probably in the air now,” Ava said. “I got back here only a few hours ago, but I’ve managed to get started on the Harvest Fund paperwork.”
“You didn’t mention she was leaving. Is everything okay between you two?”
“Everything is fine. She was offered a role in a film by a director she likes and decided to take it,” Ava said. “It was a last-minute thing.”
“I’m glad it�
��s that and nothing else. We really like her,” Derek said. “I’m also glad you found the time to look at the paperwork. What do you think of it so far?”
“There’s a complete lack of detail that looks very suspect,” she said. “Mr. Gregory and the other investors were operating on blind faith.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that.”
“What is surprising is that anyone would put their money into something this half-baked,” Ava said. “I can understand the desire to do good works, but there should still be some level of proper accounting.”
“How much accounting was done?”
“None that I can see,” Ava said. “Whoever put these statements together — it was probably this Malcolm Muir — was most likely just making up stuff.”
“From what we learned from the lawyers today, that’s not surprising.”
“You talked with the lawyers?”
“We met with them. We phoned this morning, not sure that they’d take our call, since we’re not technically clients, but when Mimi told them what had happened to her father, they invited us in to talk,” Derek said.
“That was considerate of them. Did they want you to join the lawsuit?”
“There is no lawsuit. None of the people from the fund were willing to pay the firm’s retainer.”
“So why did the lawyers ask you to go to their offices?”
“Perhaps they felt remorse about Phil,” Derek said. “In any event, they spent close to an hour telling us what they’d found out.”
“Which was?”
“They told us that Malcolm Muir, almost right from the time the fund started, was moving money overseas to a bank in the Netherlands.”
“When was the last of the money sent?”
“A year ago.”
“That’s when Mr. Gregory got the first letter telling him there would be a delay in his profit sharing.”
“Exactly. According to the lawyers, about a month before that letter was sent, two of the investors advised the fund that they wanted to cash out. Each of them had about two million in it,” Derek said. “There’s a sixty-day wait provision in the fund’s terms. On the fortieth day after their requests, Muir put the fund into bankruptcy. He listed its assets as just over ten thousand dollars, which was just enough to pay the bankruptcy trustee.”
“So much for Christian values,” Ava said, looking down at the notes she’d been making as Derek spoke. “How did the lawyers find out about the bank in the Netherlands?”
“I think it would be better if they explained it to you directly,” Derek said, and then paused. “I asked them if they would meet with you and share their information. I said you’re a friend of the family who we asked to help, and then I told them a little about what you did with Uncle . . . I hope you don’t mind me volunteering your time and talking about your past.”
“I don’t mind you volunteering my time. Do you have a contact for me?”
“I’ll text it to you in a few minutes.”
Ava sighed as she put down the phone. If the lawyers knew what had happened and still hadn’t been able to recover any of the money, she had doubts she could do any better. Her phone pinged and she opened it to find a text from Derek; it contained the name Todd Howell, a phone number, and an email address. She quickly composed a message to Howell. My name is Ava Lee. You met today with my friend Mimi, the daughter of Phil Gregory. I’m advised that you are prepared to meet with me as well. How is your schedule tomorrow? She sent it, rose from her chair, and went into the bathroom.
When she returned, she was surprised to see that Todd Howell had already replied, and she was even more surprised when she read what he’d written. Our company name is Howell, Barker, and Mason. We are on the 10th floor of the Toronto Commonwealth Bank building at King and Bay. Any time is good for me after ten a.m. Let me know when you think you’ll be here. Can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to meeting you. Todd.
What an odd way to end an email. What did Derek actually tell him about me? Ava thought. She had no plans for the following day except going for a run, and her favourite time for that was early morning. I’ll be at your office around 11 a.m. she wrote and hit send.
She yawned, then felt hunger pangs and realized she hadn’t eaten. She still didn’t feel like going out, and while she had leftover noodles in the fridge, they had no appeal. “Screw it, I won’t eat,” she said out loud. “I’ll take a glass of cognac to bed with me.”
The glass turned into two as Ava sat on her bed, propped up by pillows, and idly channel-surfed. When she couldn’t find anything that caught her attention, she turned to Netflix. She had subscribed to the service during her previous prolonged stay in Toronto but hadn’t used it — or watched much other television — during Fai’s visit. Now she found the series Peaky Blinders. She had seen season one and part of season two, and she was quickly drawn back into the story of the gangster family from Birmingham.
Ava watched two episodes before her eyes began to close. She finished the cognac, turned off the television, and slid under the covers. She turned her head towards the side where Fai slept, pushed her own pillow to one side, and replaced it with Fai’s. She inhaled and instantly smelled Fai. Ava felt a tingle between her legs and groaned. Being so much in love could be hell.
(6)
Ava woke at seven with the sun pouring in through her bedroom window. The summer hadn’t been particularly hot or humid, and on most mornings the air was crisp — perfect weather for joggers and walkers.
She roused herself from bed, made a bathroom dash, and then headed for the kitchen. Two cups of instant coffee later, Ava left the condo in Adidas shorts and a black Giordano T-shirt, made a right turn onto Yorkville Avenue and ran over to Avenue Road. Traffic was heavy going south towards downtown, but it was Toronto-heavy and not Bangkok-heavy, so at least it was moving. She stopped at the corner for a few seconds, deciding whether to go north or south. Then she thought about Mimi and turned right.
There weren’t many pedestrians on Avenue Road, so Ava ran unimpeded except for a few stoplights. The route was uphill for the first part but flattened out around St. Clair Avenue. She had to wait for a stoplight at that intersection but then ran around Upper Canada College — the country’s most exclusive private boys’ school — towards Eglinton Avenue. She normally turned around and ran back from there, but this time she kept going north until she came to a complete stop in front of what looked like an ivy-covered brick-and-stone English mansion, complete with turret. She was at Havergal College, and the building was its most public face. She had driven by the school many times in recent years without really taking it in, but Mimi’s troubles had inspired memories of their days there, and Ava had felt an unconscious need to reconnect.
The school went from kindergarten to Grade 12 and welcomed boarders as well as day students. Mimi and Ava had been day students and didn’t start attending until Grade 9, which made it difficult to make friends. Ava wasn’t sure that her father’s money had been well spent on sending her to the school. She believed she would have received as good an education in a public high school, and she wasn’t into networking, so the benefits of contacts with the daughters of the wealthy and famous who attended the school were lost on her. Meeting Mimi, though, had justified the years she spent there.
It seemed like several lifetimes ago, Ava thought as she stood looking at the main building and the courtyard that separated it from the street. She knew she was fortunate to have such wonderful friends, people who would support her without question or hesitation. And when it came to Mimi and Derek, they were friends from whom she’d taken more support than she’d ever given. Now perhaps I have a chance to give back, she thought, as she turned and started running the seven kilometres home.
Ava reached her condo at ten. Half an hour later she re-emerged freshly showered and in black linen slacks, black pumps, and a powder-blue cotton butto
n-down Brooks Brothers shirt. Her hair was pulled back and fixed with an ivory chignon pin, and she had put on a trace of red lipstick and black mascara. She carried a Louis Vuitton bag in which she’d placed the Moleskine notebook. The bag might seem slightly ostentatious, as did the Cartier Tank Française watch on her wrist. Her clothes were a reflection of her image of herself as a serious businesswoman, but the bag and the watch sent the additional message that she was also a successful one.
She walked to Avenue Road, turned right, and went past Bloor Street to the subway station at the Royal Ontario Museum. She caught a train going south and four stops later got out at St. Andrew station. Todd Howell’s office was in a building that was a five-minute walk along King Street, in the downtown area that headquartered all of Canada’s national banks. Ava walked in the shadow of a multitude of skyscrapers that were distinguished architecturally mainly by colour and the materials used on their exteriors. The Toronto Commonwealth Bank was sheathed in black metal and its windows were tinted dark. It looked forbidding from any distance, which Ava was sure was the intent.
Like the other banks, Toronto Commonwealth leased office space to other businesses. When Ava reached the tenth floor, she followed the signs to Howell, Barker, and Mason, which took her past an accountant’s office and another law firm until she got to a double set of glass doors. She looked through them at an open space dotted with desks and workstations and surrounded by offices.
Ava opened the doors and was starting to walk towards the reception desk when she heard her name called. She stopped, looked in the direction of the voice, and saw a tall, lean man standing next to one of the workstations and waving at her. When she nodded at him, he approached her with his right hand extended.
“I’m Todd Howell. I’m glad to meet you,” he said.
“And I’m Ava Lee.”
“I know who you are.”