“Thanks, Beth. Could I have a photocopy?”
Without a word Beth went into the same room and returned with a photocopy of the log, which St. James shoved into his attaché case.
“May I see the passport itself?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Follow me.”
Beth led St. James down a dark, narrow, beige corridor, through a large bright yellow kitchen to a green door that opened to stairs that led to the basement.
The basement wasn’t finished. Shelving along one wall bore neatly stacked boxes, Christmas decorations, garden tools, a carpenter’s toolbox, and a number of used paint cans, all positioned with order and purpose.
Stevens was certainly neat, St. James thought as he passed by.
In the far-left corner sat a single large movers’ box. To the naked eye it looked heavy, but Beth pushed it aside with relative ease, exposing a combination safe embedded in the floor.
“Full of old stuff from a previous move,” she said pointing to the box. “No one would ever suspect it concealed a safe.”
St. James nodded.
Beth bent down and quickly spun the dial twice to the right and once to the left, each time making sure St. James couldn’t see where it landed.
The safe contained a number of official-looking documents. Probably a deed to the house. Maybe investment certificates, or bonds, or wills, or contracts of some sort.
Beth moved a number of papers around before pulling Thomas’s passport out and handing it to St. James. The first thing he noted was the document would expire in six months. Not long enough for some international travel.
He noted the most recent trips. “He went to Mexico during April last year,” he said. “Do you know what for?”
Beth shrugged. “I assume work.”
He looked at Beth. “Before that, Honduras?”
“Not a clue.”
St. James carefully studied passport stamps to satisfy himself there were none for Cayman, or any other location that might trigger a clue. None. He handed the passport back to Beth, and she placed the document back in the safe, closed the lid, and spun the dial to neutralize the combination.
They made their way back upstairs to the living room, to the same chairs they occupied several minutes before.
St. James made some notes and then continued. “Did Tom ever mention the word ‘csprite1’?”
“What’s that?”
St. James unfolded the now crumpled paper bearing the code from Stevens’s hard drive and placed it on a table in front of Beth.
Taking a moment to smooth the well-worn document he said, “I showed this to you when we first met. You had no idea what it meant. But then you were understandably distraught, and perhaps not of a mind to focus.”
Beth studied the paper. “Yes, I remember this.” Looking down she rubbed her forehead with both hands. “I was in such a state then. You’re right. I couldn’t focus,” she said thoughtfully.
“Understandable,” St. James said, giving Beth a moment to eye the letters and numbers.
“I see the word ‘csprite1’ in the second part, but I have no idea what it means.”
“My tech guy believes it’s connected somehow with the transaction ID for transferring money to the Cayman National Bank. The one at the beginning of the parenthesis.” St. James pointed to the transaction ID ABA#021000089.
Beth’s face strained as if that would bring recollection. “Means nothing to me. Nor had I seen it before you showed me last time.”
“Okay. What about the set of digits following the transaction ID?” St. James pointed to 012-67141. “Does that ring a bell?”
Once again Beth’s face strained. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, Beth. No need to be sorry.”
St. James briefly explained SWIFT codes and how the one in the code identified a Cayman bank.
“Oh my … And this was on Tom’s computer?” she said softly, slowly shaking her head.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Why was it the only thing on there?”
St. James sat back.
“Not exactly sure. We think it was something Tom actually wanted us to find. Maybe trying to tell us something.”
“But what and why?” she said, trying to make sense of everything.
St. James shrugged. “We don’t know. Cracking the code will tell us, maybe, or provide a lead of some kind, maybe. That’s what we hope anyway. We’ll see.”
St. James studied Beth as she stared down once again at the code. There were no distinguishable facial expressions. Nothing to indicate a familiarity with any section of the code. Nothing suggesting she might be holding something back.
“What does your man think the rest of it means?” she said finally.
“Numbers following the transaction ID have been confirmed as an account number by the bank. As I said we have no idea what the last part, ‘co-na-csprite1,’ means. The remaining sections have yet to be worked out. That’s why I wanted to meet in person. I thought the Cayman connection and the passage of time might trigger a memory of some sort.”
Beth pointed to the other sections. “Mixture of numbers and letters doesn’t trigger anything. I’m afraid I’m no help, Hamilton. Would you like more coffee?”
“Please. And I’ll take another cookie if I may,” St. James said, smiling.
“Help yourself,” she said, picking up both mugs and heading back to the kitchen.
When Beth returned St. James said, “You remember Tom’s client Malachi Jensen?”
Beth’s expression instantly went from sweet to vicious. She reddened, and her fists clinched tightly. “That bastard … son of a bitch.”
St. James pulled back, startled by the sudden change. He shouldn’t have been. The transformation was similar to the first meeting. Yet the volatility was still off-putting, the speed of change frightening.
Beth didn’t notice the effect she had had on St. James.
“Tom worked his heart out for that tyrant, and in return was treated like dirt. Made the bastard a lot of money too. So Tom makes one bad decision after making the thug millions, and he gets hung out to dry. Ungrateful piece of shit.”
Beth suddenly realized her state and went quiet for a beat.
“Now,” she said calmly. “Where were we?”
St. James struggled to get back on script.
Finally he said, “Did you and Tom ever have clients for dinner?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile. “Many clients many times.”
“Anyone stand out as having odd, unusual conversations, strange behaviour, that sort of thing?”
Beth squinted. “To me they were all strange. I had nothing in common with any of them.”
St. James hesitated for a moment, trying to pick an approach that wouldn’t set her off again, yet would still lead to something worthwhile. A difficult line to walk. “Let’s see if we can break it down into degrees of strange, starting with the worst.”
Beth stared at a crack in the plaster ceiling, trying to gather her thoughts.
“There was one couple. Can’t remember their names. He was in imports … booze, clothing, and decorative things from around the world, to sell in America. She was nice enough. But he was a buffoon. Got very drunk. She was so embarrassed. I felt sorry for her.”
“Remember anything about him?”
“I seem to recall him being a heavy man, always bragging about his business success. A total bore.”
St. James made a note, then thought for a moment. “Remember anything about the conversation?”
“No. It was the darkest time of our relationship.”
“Relationship between you and Tom, you mean?”
“Yes. He insisted I put on that dinner and I reluctantly agreed to keep my peace. For the sake of the girls, you know.”
St. James nodded.
“But my heart wasn’t in it. Not like it used to be, anyway. You know, back when Tom was a new partner and we were happier together.”
<
br /> “I understand. Were there other dinners that stand out in your mind?”
Again Beth took a minute to reflect. “There was a fellow in from out of town one time. A very strange man. He had a kind of scary look … you know?” Beth nervously played with a coffee spoon.
“What do you mean by scary?”
“Don’t know really … Almost like he would do or say anything to get what he wanted.”
“What made you think that?” St. James said carefully, trying to maintain her even temper.
“Ah … it was a look that made me feel very uncomfortable. Dangerous look. Can’t point to anything specific … woman’s intuition, I suppose. Natural instinct to protect myself.”
“Was it a sexual predator’s look?”
“No. That I can handle,” she said with a faint smile.
“What then?”
“He seemed like a man … a man who could, and would, kill.
“Do you remember his name?”
“No. Seems to me his first name began with S … Sam, maybe? Or Seth? Perhaps Stan? I don’t remember.”
St. James nodded and noted down her answer.
“Remember anything about his features, a description of some kind?”
Beth’s face scrunched.
“I seem to remember him as a man on the smaller side, homely, scrawny-like. Best I can do, Hamilton.”
“That’s great, Beth.” St. James noted the description.
Next he took Beth through descriptions of people and companies connected with both Stevens and Jensen, allowing her time to digest each, at the same time being careful not to say Jensen’s name.
Nothing clicked.
“Never met any of them at business functions or parties,” she said finally.
St. James reached over and placed a hand on hers. “It’s okay, Beth. You can only remember what you can remember,” he said softly.
She smiled warmly. “Thank you for your help, Hamilton.”
He looked at his watch. “I have to meet Detective Williamson at the station at eleven. Better get going. Thanks for the coffee and cookies.”
“Anytime.”
St. James grabbed his attaché case, rose and made his way to the front door, Beth close behind. Leaning against the door, she watched him stroll down the walkway.
Partway down he looked back. “Things will get better, Beth. I promise.”
“They have to, Hamilton. They can’t get much worse.”
Chapter 12
It was a fabulous clear autumn day, a crisp sixty-two degrees with the fall sun beating down, seemingly brighter than usual for the time of year.
St. James sat in the Lincoln in front of Beth’s house, trying to piece together the conversation they had had in her antique-furnished living room. He was certain she knew nothing about a Cayman bank account just by the way she answered. Body language. The eyes.
And the intensity with which she had put Jensen down meant she still had some respect, if not love, for Stevens, otherwise she wouldn’t care whether Jensen had treated Stevens poorly or not. Then there’s this fellow with the killer look, the man who came to dinner, the one who made her uneasy, a small homely man; possibly a Stan, a Seth or a Sam. Perhaps a lead if St. James could determine the name with certainty.
St. James slipped the Lincoln into drive, turned in Beth’s drive, and edged the vehicle toward downtown.
When he arrived at the hotel, he handed the rental keys to the concierge, grabbed his duffle, and piled into a cab that took him to First District.
Jason greeted him with a smile and an apology for being unavailable the day before.
“Not an issue, Jason,” St. James reassured. “I needed a day alone with the files, regardless.”
Jason Williamson was in his mid-thirties, young to be a full detective; a six-foot-four blond athletic American who had won a basketball scholarship to the University of Maryland, College Park, where he came first in his year in criminal justice and law enforcement. Washington Police snapped him up the very day he graduated. He systematically passed every departmental exam as fast as the chief would let him write them. St. James was sure he’d be chief one day.
They settled in Jason’s dark-blue leather chairs and St. James took a moment to survey the room. “Bit nicer than the office you put me in,” he said with a grin.
Jason laughed. “I have news for you, my friend, you weren’t in an office. We’re so short of space around here we hijacked a storage room just for you.”
“Thought that might be the case,” St. James said in a light-hearted, sarcastic tone.
St. James filled Jason in on his meeting with Beth Stevens and the conclusions he’d drawn. Jason made notes, paying particular attention to the Stevenses’ dinner guest with the killer look.
Jason said, “Thoughts? Questions?”
“I’m intrigued by how Stevens operated. In Canada accountants don’t manage client money, although the profession’s talking about it. They don’t have signing authority over bank accounts or authority to commit transactions. Insurance premiums would shoot through the roof. Insurers would have great difficulty insuring professional work like Stevens does. Countless $23 million-like claims would haunt them. Then there’s the independence issue. Accountants can’t audit their own transactions and still claim to be independent.”
“It’s not all that common here either. Stevens’s practice was unique. He developed relationships with estate lawyers who referred clients. Mostly wealthy families who, for one reason or another, wanted a third party to manage investments. Maybe a status thing. As far as we could tell that’s how it all began. Of course, wealthy families hang around other wealthy families, so word got around Stevens was a trusted manager.”
“Up until $23 million disappeared, anyway,” St. James said.
Jason nodded without smiling.
“Lot of money going into retirement homes down here. System’s not equipped to handle the tsunami of aging baby boomers.”
St. James agreed. “Same up north.”
“Jensen was in the habit of preparing annual plans to support what he wanted Stevens to do. There’s one in one of those boxes.”
“Yeah, I read it. Remembered it from my first visit.” St. James hesitated. “Have your men traced funds after they were invested?”
Jason looked pained. “No. Couldn’t justify the time. With signed directives from Jensen carried out to the letter by Stevens, the chief wouldn’t authorize the extra manpower. Not enough evidence to warrant the cost.”
St. James was incredulous. “But $23 million has been fully accounted for with transfers Stevens made. Something has to have happened after that. Doesn’t that fly in the face of the theory Stevens stole the money?”
“On the surface, yes, but we’re checking who benefitted from Jensen’s investments. If Stevens held shares in companies Jensen invested in, it could be motive enough to take the investigation further. If that was the case, the chief would likely allocate additional resources.”
“How did you persuade him to check shareholders?”
“Didn’t,” Jason replied with a grin.
St. James’s forehead furrowed. “You’re running skunk works on the chief?”
“Not exactly. My first cousin’s in third-year law. He’s doing it because I help with his tuition.”
St. James laughed. “You’re resourceful, my friend, I’ll give you that. Mind sharing what you find?”
“Of course not. If it’s insurance fraud, you’re entitled to it anyway.”
“Must be more directives than stored here,” St. James mused.
“Hundreds dating back several years are in storage at SG&S, all in the same format, only amounts and names differ. If I brought everything down here, we’d be paying a lot more for storage. Wouldn’t go over very well in this budget climate.”
St. James nodded. “Smart. How long do you think it will take your cousin to get through every company?”
“He’s about two-thirds through n
ow. Give him another ten days or so and I’ll email the report to you.”
St. James said, “Have you spent more time grilling Jensen?”
“Interviewed him a couple of times since you were here. Didn’t get much more out of him. Rough diamond. Don’t trust him one bit. Could have taken the Godfather role away from Brando.”
“I agree,” said St. James, rubbing his neck. “Is he still saying that he put all his reliance on Stevens vetting his investments?”
“Doesn’t budge an inch.”
St. James spent the next hour or so asking a number of questions about Jason’s investigation procedures and steps.
Thorough. No holes.
“Thanks, Jason. Is the storage room I used yesterday still available? I’d like to make a call.”
“As long as it’s local,” he said with a grin. “At the rate budgets are being cut around here, one long-distance call could put me in front of Internal Affairs.”
“Yeah? Bill’s complaining about FBI cuts too. Seems to be running through every police authority. The new reality.”
“How’s Louis doing with the code? By the way, I am very grateful you took on that job. By rights we should be doing it as part of the investigation, but our guy is up to his neck. Almost every case now has at least some computer component to it. Louis is the better man anyway.”
“He’s made some progress, but I’m not confident enough yet to share. When I am, you’ll have everything.”
“Great.”
St. James made his way back to the tiny office he occupied the previous day. There, he punched in the telephone number for Stevens, Gables & Strong.
“May I speak with Nathan Strong please?” he said to the receptionist.
“I’ll put you through to his assistant.”
“Mr. Strong’s office, this is Catherine.”
“Hi Catherine, Hamilton St. James. We met a few weeks ago, if you remember.”
“Yes, of course,” she said in a gravelly voice.
“I’m in Washington reviewing police progress with the case and would like a follow-up with Nathan, if I could. Wonder if he could spare a few minutes?”
“I’ll see, Mr. St. James. Just one moment.”
Back in seconds, Catherine said, “He has about fifteen minutes at two. Do you wish to see him or talk by phone?”
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