“Okay. Keep going. I’ll call Global and let them know where we are.”
Global Insurance was the dominant professional liability insurer for most companies selling advice of some sort or another around the world. It was St. James’s largest client, and he reported to Vice-President Mary DeSilva in New York whenever he was investigating an active case for them.
Mary was one of the smartest people, if not the smartest person, St. James knew, able to analyze complicated problems without a single scrap of paper. A member of Mensa. St. James figured her IQ north of 180.
Mary insisted that St. James update her weekly on the Global cases he was investigating for her. Information could drive claims up or down depending upon evidence he uncovered. Evidence refuting claims reduced Global’s liability; money it didn’t have to pay out, at least not in full. Evidence validating claims increased Global’s liability. Total legitimate claims were continually recalculated as evidence came to light, to forecast the quantum and timing of substantiated claim payouts. For this reason Mary adjusted worldwide claims weekly.
Global paid St. James ten per cent of claims it did not have to pay as a result of his investigations, real cash savings. Document errors, fraud, or recovered assets all reduced Global’s liabilities, usually by millions, which translated into substantial success fees for St. James.
Mary was happy with St. James’s progress. But he was not. It was taking too long to make a breakthrough in the Stevens case.
Chapter 6
Past Threats
St. James frequently checked in with an old friend, RCMP inspector Pierre DuPont, to determine the status of criminals they had brought to justice together, who was in prison and who was not. Those who remained inside, DuPont and St. James were relatively safe from, “relatively” being the important word. Those incarcerated could still control the streets from inside and issue orders anytime through coded messages anyone else would consider gibberish. Convicts back on the streets usually carried out threats personally, no proxy necessary.
A Miss Barnes answered when St. James tapped Pierre’s number into his Samsung cell.
“Inspector DuPont has a very busy schedule,” Miss Barnes said authoritatively. “He does not wish to be disturbed.”
St. James wasn’t in the mood for attitude, nor gratuitous gatekeeping. So, he pushed back, gently at first, and when that didn’t work, harder. Realizing he wasn’t taking no for an answer, she buzzed the inspector.
Back on the line in seconds Barnes said, “Inspector DuPont will see you for forty-five minutes at 2:15,” obviously displeased her authority had been overridden.
Thinks Pierre’s authority extends to her.
At 2:00 sharp St. James stepped out of a taxi at 1200 Vanier Parkway and asked the driver to wait. For a long moment he eyed the complex where he and DuPont had spent many late nights working cases.
DuPont and St. James had met years before when chasing the same cyber-gang, but for different reasons: DuPont to solve a case of identity theft, St. James to prove an insurance claim fraudulent. They teamed up and solved the two cases more quickly than they would have on their own.
In the years to follow they became good friends. Mutual trust grew. Now when one was stuck on a case, they called the other for counsel, to determine if something important had been overlooked; perhaps a fact not adequately thought through, or a crook’s motivation not properly considered.
Their investigative styles were vastly different. St. James’s flowed from general concepts to specific facts. A theory first, then an exploration for facts to prove or disprove the theory. When disproved, St. James moved to a new theory. Process of elimination. Pierre’s approach was the reverse. Specific facts came first, mixed and matched until permutations and combinations morphed the facts into a provable theory.
St. James walked down the second-floor corridor and knocked on a door bearing Inspector DuPont’s name.
“Mr. St. James, you are early,” said Miss Barnes as if he had committed a wrong.
St. James restrained himself. “Yes, I am. Would you kindly tell Pierre I’m here, please?” he said in a stern voice.
The short, stout Miss Barnes became abrupt. “He left strict instructions not to be disturbed until 2:15.”
Wouldn’t last fifteen minutes with me.
An inner door swung open and Pierre’s tall, slim frame emerged, his face lighting up when he saw St. James.
In his late forties, DuPont was broad shouldered, muscular, and fit. Thick wavy brown hair and a carefully trimmed moustache emphasized a notable presence. He rose through RCMP ranks quickly by solving cases others could not and due to high praise from the Paris police chief for helping to capture an identity theft ring while on secondment in France.
“Good to see you, mon ami,” he said in his usual gregarious tone.
They shook hands enthusiastically.
“Good to see you too. How are Hélène and the girls?”
“Great. She’s planning a trip to the south of France this fall. Girls are off to college next year.”
“Wow. Seems like only months ago I held the twins on my knee,” St. James mused, shaking his head. “Where does the time go?”
DuPont nodded, beaming with pride.
“I’m a little pressed for time, but come in and let’s catch up,” he said with a sweeping hand motion toward his private office.
Miss Barnes looked miffed.
St. James settled in a grey leather chair in front of Pierre’s large oak desk. Pierre sat in the matching chair behind. He leaned forward and took an unlit pipe from a spotless ashtray and placed it firmly between his teeth.
“Still smoking that thing?” St. James said, smiling.
DuPont grinned. “I quit. Turns out it’s easy. I’ve done it many times.”
St. James laughed.
Pierre’s jocularity gave way to serious business.
“Remind me again what case you’re working.”
“I just call it the Stevens case. Getting back into it now. Took a week off to play golf. Kept running into brick walls in my head. You know how it is.”
DuPont nodded as he carefully placed the pipe back in the ashtray.
“Happens to me almost every case now,” he said with a smile.
St. James told DuPont about the old white Cadillac following him.
“Get the plate number?” DuPont said anxiously.
“Too dark. Have you checked force databases lately to see if any of our boys are back on the streets?”
“Not lately, no. Why, something bothering you?”
“Just a hunch.”
Pierre’s face scrunched. “Ouch! Your hunches make me nervous. They start out hunches and end up expensive. Or worse still, life threatening. Like that car chase in Paris. Remember? You wrote off four cars and a sidewalk bistro helping me catch those cyber-crooks.” Pierre’s laugh shook his entire upper body. “Paperwork was brutal.”
Colourful memories resurrected in St. James’s head and he chuckled. “Every once in a while I think of that bistro owner screaming and yelling, chasing me down the Champs-Élysées with a meat cleaver in his hand, threatening to chop my head off. I was more scared of him than the cyber-gang. If it wasn’t for Detective Roux de-cleavering the guy, I might not be sitting here.”
DuPont was still laughing as he summoned Miss Barnes.
“Miss Barnes, pull status reports for inmates in Canada, United Kingdom, and United States apprehended by St. James or me or Kingston or Slate.”
“Kingston and Slate, sir?”
“David Kingston is Scotland Yard. Slate’s FBI.”
She noted the names and waddled out as quickly as she came in.
“New?” St. James asked, pointing to the door closing behind her.
DuPont just rolled his eyes.
“What about Stevens himself?” he said.
“Police still haven’t found him. No sign of the money either.”
“How much did you say?”
&nbs
p; “Twenty-three million.”
DuPont whistled.
“Did Louis figure out that thing he was working on?”
“The code? No, not yet.”
“The code,” DuPont echoed thoughtfully, running hands through his hair. “What does it look like?”
St. James pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Pierre.
“Just what you would expect. Letters and numbers.”
(g,cnbtkyk1,j), (ABA#021000089-36148883-012-67141-co-na-csprite1), (Virgo23+7+8+4+6+3), (G, F, D, C, F), (1104-419, 1130-1930, 700-1106, 145, 905), (U3743-5847, A3570-B0112, D4883-1916, A194, A3657) (A21+11)
DuPont mumbled something under his breath. “Formula of some sort. What do you make of it?”
“Not much yet. Louis is still grinding away.”
DuPont started at the code for a few more minutes. “Sections are bracketed which suggests separate messages within each. Commas reinforce that. I suppose Louis tried everything on the Internet?”
“Couple of times.”
“Criminal databases?”
“Yep.”
“Maybe it’s not related to anything like that? Could be something completely different?”
“That’s Louis’s thinking now he’s exhausted all the usual sites.
DuPont peaked over half-glasses. “It could be a code for directions, or an event, or a location of some sort. Something leading to the money or Stevens himself.”
“Or both,” St. James added, nodding. “That’s what Louis said this morning.”
About ten minutes into the conversation Miss Barnes returned looking quite pleased.
“What did you find?” DuPont asked.
“Four men were released within the past several months, cases worked by some combination of the four of you,” Barnes replied triumphantly.
“Who?” DuPont asked.
“Roger Nells.”
“Nells,” St. James echoed softly, “a mean one.”
DuPont nodded, “No match for Slate though.”
Barnes continued. “Nells got out in the States four months ago. Spance was released two years early for good behaviour, and poor health.”
“How long was the original sentence?” DuPont said.
Before she could answer, St. James said, “Eight years ... Sales fraud.”
“Why so long?”
“Remember? He drained that elderly couple of everything. Left them homeless, penniless, without means even for food. Judge took particular offence. Threw everything at him.”
“Yes, yes, now I remember. Too many cases in between, I’m afraid. Sometimes they all seem to run together,” DuPont said, arms folded, peering thoughtfully at the ceiling.
Miss Barnes interrupted. “Jeremy Stern. Released in Toronto after a couple of years. And Clifford Dunning, forty-five days ago in London, England.”
“Thank you, Miss Barnes. That will do,” DuPont said dismissively. “Notify Slate and Kingston. They may want to take precautions.”
She nodded and left the room.
St. James slouched in his chair and remained silent for a moment.
Finally he said, “Nells, Spance, Stern, Dunning? Looks like you and I have to be careful for the next little while, Pierre. They threatened to kill us both, remember?”
“Yeah, I know,” DuPont said, nodding solemnly. “Goes with the job, I’m afraid. You think these guys may have followed you in the Cadillac?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Be careful, for God’s sake.”
St. James shrugged. “I will.”
Pierre sighed and looked at his watch. “I have a meeting momentarily. Let me know if you think I can help.”
The taxi was waiting when St. James emerged from RCMP headquarters. On the way home he felt a bit better about the Stevens affair. Smythe seemed to think he’d made a breakthrough of some sort. And had expressed similar hunches. That told St. James they were headed in a logical direction, if not the right one. Mary DeSilva was happy, at least for the moment. A fool’s paradise, perhaps, but nevertheless St. James was feeling better.
Chapter 7
Just as St. James had finished the following Friday’s lecture and the last student had disappeared up the theatre steps, a shuffling sound emanated from above. St. James looked up to see a short, portly, and stoic-looking middle-aged man with snow-white hair, wearing a dark blue suit and horn-rimmed glasses. St. James’s attention was immediately drawn to the one wider eyebrow.
Spencer Tracy, St. James thought.
The man descended the steps with an air of aristocracy, approached the lectern and extended a hand for St. James to shake.
“My name is Nelson Graves,” he announced with a strong British accent. “Hamilton St. James, I assume?”
“I am,” said St. James enthusiastically as he shook the man’s meaty hand.
“Dean Ramsey said I would find you here. I wonder if we might have a word, in private.”
St. James nodded. “My office is only one floor up.”
“That would be acceptable,” Graves said haughtily.
When St. James had finished shoving things into a leather case, Graves followed him up to the theatre entrance, down a noisy pale-yellow corridor filled with students rushing in every direction, and up concrete stairs to St. James’s fifth-floor office, where they exchanged business cards. St. James motioned Graves to a guest chair while he settled in his.
Graves surveyed the soft green room, appearing somewhat uncomfortable. It occurred to St. James that his visitor might have no idea how simplistic a professor’s office could be.
Broom closet in his world.
When St. James noticed Graves’s eyes shifting from plain green walls to plastic floor plants, he guessed what the man must be thinking.
“Universities are terminally poor,” St. James offered with a faint smile. “Never any money for decorating.”
Graves nodded without smiling, as if to indicate an understanding, if not an acceptance, of St. James’s circumstances.
“Well, Mr. Graves, what brings you here?” St. James asked.
“Please, call me Nelson.”
This surprised St. James. Graves’s highbrow manner suggested he’d demand a more formal address.
St. James reciprocated. “Call me Hamilton. What brings you here?” he repeated.
Graves leaned his sizeable girth forward and whispered as if someone was near enough to overhear. “I’m told you are very discreet and can be trusted to handle delicate corporate matters.”
St. James smiled inwardly at the man’s overstated drama. “What kind of matters?”
Graves raised a plump hand to protest St. James’s interruption. “Please … let me finish.”
St. James shrugged.
“I’m the Chairman of the Board of Directors for Canadian International Seafoods Inc. CISI we call it.”
St. James moved papers to one side to make room for note-taking.
“I’ve heard of it,” St. James said, pulling a fresh writing pad from the desk’s bottom left-hand drawer and a gold monogrammed pen from an inside coat pocket.
Graves’s wide eyebrow twitched. “Most people have. The company is public, you know. One hundred and twenty-five years old. Operates twenty fish-processing plants around the world. Revenues last year were nineteen billion, net income after taxes ninety-four million.”
Now it was St. James’s turn to raise a hand. Graves stopped mid-way through his description of the CISI’s business.
“Details of the company I can get later. I’d like to understand what you want, and if I can accommodate. First, who referred me?”
Graves pulled a handkerchief from his suitcoat pocket, removed his glasses, and began cleaning the lenses.
“One of my fellow board members, Al Dunlop, gave you a strong endorsement.”
St. James leaned back in his chair. “Al’s an excellent man. You’re lucky to have him.”
Graves ignored St. James’s assessment, ta
king a moment to replace his glasses and wipe his leathery brow before returning the handkerchief to its pocket.
“My board feels something’s not quite right. Naturally they’re concerned about director liability. Directors carry enormous responsibility nowadays, you know.”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“We don’t really know if anything is wrong. It’s a feeling more than anything ... a feeling that the chief executive officer, shall we say, is not telling us everything.”
Surprised by this, St. James said, “Unusual. Is the company financially stable?”
“Very strong. Very profitable. Revenues growing faster than the industry average.”
St. James shrugged. “Then what’s the problem?”
Graves’s wider eyebrow twitched once again.
“Things are too good … too good to be true, to put it bluntly. It’s incumbent upon us to find what may be lurking in the shadows, or at least confirm there’s nothing to be concerned about.”
Graves pointed to St. James. “That’s where you come in. We’d like you to review the management team, investigate if there are, or could be, irregularities.”
St. James cocked his square head sideways. The absurdity of what Graves had just said caught him off guard. He stared out the window for a long moment, noting heavy Friday afternoon traffic on Laurier.
Graves’s forehead furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Management usually does the engaging. Most unusual for a board to engage someone like me. For one thing, what do you tell management? That you think they’re hiding something? So you’re hiring an outsider to find out what! You won’t get much cooperation that way.”
“We thought of that. Cameron has been asked to engage you to review cost efficiencies. Your findings and recommendations are to be reported directly to him. Anything by way of unusual management behaviour you will report only to non-executive board members. Reviewing cost efficiencies should get you close enough to behaviour to fulfill both mandates. Of course, Cameron has no knowledge of the second mandate. He’s accepted your appointment to keep the board happy. He feels pressure from us and sees engaging you as a reasonable compromise.”
Double Shot of Scotch Page 4