Layton smiled. “I like the way you think, Peter. You’re going to fit very nicely into the Enerco team… I’ve already instructed Sydney to go for the kill.”
Tavaris clenched his teeth and his fists. His irrepressible need to crush his opposition had, at long last, led him to the promised land, in plain sight of the power and glory. “Thanks, Ken. You’re very kind.”
“No, Peter. I’m very practical… Let’s join the party.”
“Wait. There’s one more thing. You should know that our former president has called her hundred million dollar loan. She wants cash in thirty days.”
“Chump change,” Layton scoffed, deliberately neglecting to inform Tavaris that Enerco’s credit lines had been stretched close to their limits, and that raising a hundred million would be painful.
CHAPTER 61
Muskoka. Friday, March 29, 2002.
The Muskoka Lakes Ice Lottery was an annual event. Every spring, a vehicle was parked on the ice in the center of Cox Bay, a three kilometer long and one kilometer wide body of water forming the south end of Lake Joseph. A functioning electric clock was placed inside the vehicle. Everyone who participated in the lottery knew that the clock’s electrical supply would short and the clock would stop when the vehicle sank as a result of the melting ice, so they placed their bets. The Lottery winner was the individual who correctly, or most closely guessed the day, hour, minute, and second the clock stopped.
Hubert Crowther, the Lottery’s founder and annual coordinator, paced up and down the rows of wrecked and deposed cars and trucks in the Bala Junkyard, a chain-linked hectare on the east side of Highway 169, a kilometer north of Bala. He stopped when he saw a green Ford pick-up truck. “Perfect,” he said, certain he had found the ideal vehicle for the 2002 Lottery.
He purchased the truck, hoisted it onto his flat-bed, then drove it to the driveway of his Port Sandfield home. Port Sandfield was a small village on an isthmus of land separating Lake Joseph from Lake Rosseau. He planned to park the green truck on the ice the following day. A Saturday kick-off always maximized the Lottery’s exposure. He stepped down from the cab of his flat-bed, then climbed up to examine his prize. He entered via the Ford’s passenger side door and sat in the cab to scan its interior. Curiosity prompted him to open the glove compartment. Pushing its button failed, so he banged it with his fist. The door opened exposing a letter. He removed the letter and saw that it was stamped and addressed to Kerri King in New York. The return addressee was Steve Monteith, Port Carling, Ontario.
The following day, he deposited the green Ford on the ice in the middle of Cox Bay, then drove to the Port Sandfield post office and mailed the letter.
CHAPTER 62
Houston. Monday, April 1.
Sandra Schafer, C.P.A., loved and needed her job. She was employed as an internal accountant in the Houston headquarters of Enerco. She had been with the company since she received her State of Texas certification in 1997. She was thirty-two, married, and the mother of two, a boy and a girl, both attending expensive private schools. David, her husband, was an engineer with N.A.S.A, also in Houston.
She was deeply troubled. For the past six months, she had agonized over the questionable money shuffling and commodity trading activities of her employer. The trades, made by of myriad of the company’s subsidiaries, many of which were domiciled in tax haven jurisdictions, were large, aggressive, and highly leveraged. In her spare time she had managed to cobble together a tapestry of the Enerco trading structure. When she finally connected all the dots, the picture astounded her. The company had almost three thousand trading subsidiaries, forty-two percent of which were incorporated in tax advantaged countries. Ground zero was Grand Cayman Island. Her research led her to three conclusions: the company was hiding, via the mechanism of ‘off balance sheet’ transactions, colossal trading losses from its shareholders, the company was evading taxes on its trading profits, and the company was fraudulently reporting enormous unrealized mark to market profits in its quarterly report to shareholders. She further discovered that Enerco senior management, namely Ken Layton, Jeffrey Wheeler, and Andrew Speers, were conducting a massive pump and dump operation. While publicly touting the success and fabulous future of the company and illegally over-stating revenues and profits, all three were simultaneously selling Enerco stock as fast as their absurdly generous options made it available. Equally troubling was the obvious complicity of Benjamin, Alexander & Gabriel LLP, the huge and respected multinational accounting firm responsible for certifying the accuracy of the company’s financial reports.
Stretched to the limit of her conscience, she approached her boss, Clarence Soloman, a nerdy, shiny-assed book-keeper who had been with Enerco since the day it was born in 1989. Primarily the result of his fanatical dedication, work ethic, and a healthy dose of ass-kissing, he was now the managing director of accounting for the company’s worldwide operations. His boss was Andrew Speers. Soloman was fifty-eight, fat, almost completely bald, and way too close to his much anticipated and cherished pension to even think of rocking the boat. “Can we talk?” she asked, prompting Soloman to frown. “Something’s bothering me, and you’re the only person in the entire company who I think will listen to me.”
“Certainly,” Soloman said, hiding a yawn with his fist and wishing Schafer would just go away and leave him alone.
“I need this conversation to be off the record. Can you live with that? If you can’t, I’ll find someone else.”
Soloman’s facial muscles tightened, his face reddened. “What’s it about?”
“Enerco. It’s breaking the law, and I can prove it.”
“How?”
“I’ll show you, but first I need you to promise that everything we say in this room today is off the record.”
Soloman’ response was instant and definite. “I don’t want to know about it,” he said, even though he already did. His position had given him a box seat to witness the company’s transgressions. “If you can prove the company’s breaking the law, then it’s up to you to report what you know to the appropriate authorities… Just don’t get me involved. I’m less than seven years from retirement, and I’m not prepared to mess with it.”
Soloman’s refusal to ‘get involved’ made it clear to Schafer that appeasing her conscience would require finding someone else in the company who was prepared to listen to her, or stepping forward herself, becoming a whistle-blower, and risking her job. Her choices were challenging in the extreme. The Enerco culture resembled a communist country. Everyone was under constant observation. Anyone who risked criticizing management experienced a downward sloping career path, or worse. She knew of no other Enerco employee she could trust with her information. She worried that whoever she talked to might expose her rather than help her. Keeping her job was crucial. In spite of their combined six-digit income, she and her husband were barely making ends meet. Their children’s college fund and the mortgage payments on their new thirty-five hundred square foot suburban home left no disposable income. “I understand,” she said, furious with her spineless boss. She stood and turned to leave.
“Wait. Don’t go,” Soloman said, causing Schafer to stop. “I have a suggestion for you. It’s obvious that you’re pissed and won’t stop until you’ve done something… I know a person you should talk to.”
“Who?” Schafer asked, her curiosity aroused.
“Would the name Kerri King ring a bell with you?”
“It certainly would. She’s been in the news every day for the past week. She’s the Iacardi Santa Claus… Why do you think I should talk to her?”
“Enerco just bought Iacardi. Coincident with that purchase, Kerri King was ousted as Iacardi’s president and chief executive officer. I don’t profess to know all the details, but it certainly seems strange to me that the Iacardi management would dispose of a president who had just given almost a half a billion dollars to the estates of the employees who were killed in The World Trade Center. What on earth were they thinking
? So now they’ve offered her a job with Enerco. She’s supposed to be the new vice president of trading, reporting to Jeffrey Wheeler. I’ll be shocked if she accepts it. I understand her Iacardi stock is worth at least ninety million… Now I’m going to give you a private thought. It’s for your ears only. If you breathe a word of it to anyone, I’ll deny it… I agree with everything you’ve just told me about what’s going on inside this company. Furthermore, I think Ken Layton, Jeffrey Wheeler, and Andrew Speers are thieves. They should be thrown in jail for what they’re doing. I also think the management of Iacardi should be thrown in jail for what they’ve done to Kerri King. In any event, I’m sure she would be delighted to be given an opportunity to give the whole lot of them a little retribution. Now if you want to take this thing further, I’ll contact Human Resources and get Miss King’s telephone number and email address.”
Schafer rounded Soloman’s desk and planted a big kiss on the top of his bald head. “Thanks, Clarence. I was about to leave here thinking you were an asshole. Now I think you’re wonderful… That’s just a private thought. If you breathe a word of it to anyone, I’ll deny it.”
CHAPTER 63
Muskoka. Wednesday, April 17.
Mid April was a magic time in Muskoka. Each year the month featured a re-awakening, a renaissance. Straddling the forty-fifth parallel of latitude, half way to the north pole, the area was once again in the process of emerging from the deep freeze of winter. Today was exceptional. The sky was cobalt blue, no clouds, no wind, temperature in the mid fifties. It was the day Kerri had chosen to take Steve back to Muskoka, to risk exposing him to an environment very familiar to him, until the day of his accident.
Since her return to Canada at the beginning of the month, she had moved into the guest suite of her father’s North York home and dedicated her life to obscurity, and to her friend, Steve Monteith. She had visited him each day, taken him on long walks, and, as his schedule stipulated, driven him to the Thornhill CBT, (cognitive behavioral therapy), Clinic. She was encouraged by his rapid progress, but his frequent failure to remember names and events made it clear that he was still far from full recovery from his head injury. It broke her heart to see his anger and frustration when he struggled with detail. Gail Menschew, Steve’s psychotherapist at the clinic, had recognized Kerri as a critical component of her patient’s recovery therapy. She knew they shared a strong emotional bond. She coached and encouraged her, urging her to suppress her frustrations and to keep going. “Steve’s recovery is a marathon, not a sprint,” she insisted.
Kerri’s black BMW rolled to a stop on the graveled parking area of The Monster. She had discussed with Gail Menschew her idea of re-introducing him to the palatial cottage, and, in spite of the risk of inducing a negative response, had gained approval. A few patches of snow and ice in shaded areas remained, survivors of the warm April sun. A large green and white Muskoka Lakes Realty ‘FOR SALE‘ sign protruded from the ground in front of the cottage. Kerri, for the first time staring at the huge and magnificent structure into which Steve had poured his heart and soul, was aware of why it was no longer his. Her father had told her the grim details of Jamie Stewart’s mortgage and his ruthless re-possession subsequent to the demise of his daughter’s marriage to Steve.
Steve frowned as he stared at the sign. “I don’t want to be here,” he said, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Steve’s reaction to the visit was a clear indication to Kerri that he had remembered and associated the scene with a bad experience. “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea,” she said, then turned her car around and headed for the southbound lane of Highway 69.
Steve was sullen, quiet and almost motionless until Kerri slowed her car to make the left turn at the T-intersection of Highways 69 and 169. His face blanched as he turned to his right to stare at the huge boulders where his green Ford truck had come to rest. He covered his face with his hands as he turned to face the entrance to Highway 169. “No!” he shouted, visions of the large chrome grill of a Peterbilt truck flashing through his brain.
Without a word, Kerri completed the turn and accelerated to the speed limit. She remained silent until she made the left turn onto Highway 118, then turned to face Steve. “You okay?” she asked.
He nodded without speaking or facing her.
Twenty minutes later, she parked her car beside the Health Club’s tennis court and the two got out. Both wore black Sunice ski pants and jackets, a gift from Steve’s mother. She put on her beloved Yankees hat, then grasped Steve’s hand and led him around the south side of the lodge and down the flat stone path to the dock. The channel separating Beaumaris island from the mainland was still frozen, but the dock’s bubblers had saved its cribs from the ravages of winter ice shift. The vast expanse of Lake Muskoka to the north west was still mostly ice covered, but sections of deep blue water were clearly visible. Only the occasional sound of cracking ice broke the silence. Kerri could see the outline of Karen’s beloved Azimuth Island in the hazeless distance. She would love to have shown the island to Steve, but it was impossible at this time of year. The ice was too thin to support the weight of a human, but still too thick to use a boat.
Kerri tore her eyes from the incredible view and faced Steve. “Is this familiar to you?” she asked.
Steve frowned and once again scanned his surroundings, a clear indication that he was struggling with his connection to The Health Club. Then he looked at Kerri and his frown gradually transformed into the irresistible smile she remembered seeing for the first time, a few feet from where she stood. “I think this is where I met the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Overjoyed, Kerri lost her veneer of control. She did what she had wanted to do for a very long time. She hugged him, then gazed into the most compelling hazel eyes she had ever seen. Her joy exploded when he returned the hug. “Welcome back,” she said with a huge smile.
Seconds passed in silence as the two, still locked in an embrace, contemplated what to do or say next. As she had concluded on their first date in New York, a kiss would take her over the invisible line separating friendship from something else. Her heart screamed at her to do it, but fear gripped her. She had crossed that line twice before in her life, once with Brian Pyper, next with Louis Visconti. Both crossings had resulted in misery and unhappiness.
Steve’s smile again transformed, this time into a more serious expression. He allowed his lips to graze Kerri’s. “It’s nice to be back,” he groaned, then gently placed his right hand against the back of her head and pulled her into a long and passionate kiss. She responded eagerly. At last she was where she wanted be, in the arms of a man she had thought would forever be unavailable. The multitude of problems that had plagued her for so long were temporarily forgotten.
CHAPTER 64
THE NEXT STOP ON KERRI’S PLANNED itinerary was Steve’s Port Carling home, the place she knew he had not seen since the day of his accident. Even though Steve’s therapist had encouraged her to take him there, she worried that the exposure could upset him further. His last day in the house did not end well.
“Stop here,” Steve said as they drove slowly through the village and approached the Canada Post building, an aging one story, red bricked edifice on Highway 118, also the main street.
Kerri parked in front of the building while Steve fumbled in his pocket. He removed a key ring holding at least six keys, then stepped from the car and hurried inside. He emerged three minutes later holding a five inch stack of envelopes and flyers. She continued her drive while Steve sorted his stack, consisting primarily of letters from attorneys, bills, and junk mail. She turned right on Stephen Road and continued until Steve pointed to his driveway. “There it is. Turn left here.”
She stopped in the small parking area, less then fifty feet from the front door. An ugly mixture of mud, gravel and ice coated the wheels of her car. She emerged from the car and studied the small, dark green stained, single story wood framed structure. She saw the blue white southern extension of
Lake Rosseau through the tall hemlocks beyond. “It’s beautiful,” she said, and meant it. The thought of living in a setting as modest, natural and tranquil was enormously appealing to her. She turned to face Steve, who was now standing beside her and still sorting his mail. “Did you hear me?” she asked.
He nodded. “Thank you,” he said, still examining his mail. He removed an envelope from his stack and handed it to her. “This one’s for you.”
She glanced at the letter and verified that it was, indeed, addressed to her at her Tribeca home. The March thirty-first postal stamp confused her. ‘RETURN TO SENDER. FORWARDING ADDRESS UNKNOWN’ was stamped on the front in bold red letters. She turned the envelope over and was shocked to see that the sender was Steve. “This is from you… Do you remember sending it?”
He gave her a blank stare, then shook his head.
“I’m going to open it and read it to you. Do you mind?”
“No. Go ahead.”
She opened the envelope, taking care not to destroy it, then read aloud,
“Dear Kerri;
There is so much I want to say to you, it’s difficult to know where to start. A large part of me is insisting that I do it in person, but a larger part wants me to do it in writing. I’m not sure why, but I think the first part is afraid I’ll make a mistake, leave something out, say it the wrong way, or worst of all, say something I’ll regret. After what’s just happened in my life, I’m not exactly long on confidence.
The first thing I want to do is to thank you again for everything you have done for my mother. I appreciate it more than you could ever know. Your generous efforts and unique insight into the source of her grief have made an incredible difference in her attitude in a very short period of time. It is my sincere hope that someday I’ll be in a position to thank you in a much more tangible way.
KERRI'S WAR: VOLUME THREE OF THE KING TRILOGY Page 23