Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  St. James checked his watch. 1:45.

  “I’m not far away. I’ll see him in person. Thank you, Catherine.”

  When St. James disconnected, the phone rang.

  First District operator.

  “Mr. St. James. I have a call for you from Inspector Slate of the FBI. When I hang up, he’ll be on the line.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Morning, Bill.”

  “Good morning. I made a few enquiries about Nells this morning. Sources tell me he works for The Carstairs Group.”

  “Know the company?” St. James said.

  “Never heard of them. Apparently they’re headquartered in Chicago.”

  “What business is it in?”

  “Something to do with retirement homes. Construction or managing properties, that sort of thing.”

  St. James went quiet.

  Chapter 13

  Stevens, Gables & Strong’s 12-partner, 125-staff office had built a healthy stable of profitable clients, mostly family-owned businesses focused on niche markets larger firms passed over, a focus that made SG&S very profitable.

  The firm branded itself an extension of client management, a strategy St. James thought brilliant because it created a certain dependence on SG&S, making it difficult for clients to move to another firm.

  When he stepped off the elevator, St. James was met by a middle-aged receptionist, who immediately buzzed Strong’s assistant. Catherine appeared seconds later.

  Late-forties, of average build, and completely bald, Nathan Strong was round-shouldered, his demeanor all business. St. James didn’t believe Strong had much of a sense of humor and had no intention of finding out.

  “I went through police files yesterday and met with Beth Stevens first thing this morning, Detective Williamson after that,” St. James reported.

  He recounted his meeting with Beth; her behaviour was no surprise to Nathan.

  “Sometimes she forgets to take her meds,” he said solemnly. “I feel sorry for her. The stress of all this would have magnified her mental health issues for sure.”

  St. James nodded. “I was very disappointed with the police files yesterday. Nothing of interest came to light. I know Williamson kept only a few of Jensen’s; I’m hoping to have better luck with your files.”

  “There’s a lot of them. Over 130 companies,” Nathan said, lightly scratching his furrowed brow. “You’re welcome to them.”

  The list of companies hadn’t been compiled when St. James had interviewed Nathan weeks ago.

  “Do you have the final list now?”

  “We do.”

  Nathan buzzed Catherine for a copy for St. James.

  “Police already have the list and are in the process of identifying all the shareholders.” Nathan hesitated a beat, then said, “They want to see if Tom is a shareholder in any. They’re convinced Tom siphoned the funds somehow, directly or indirectly.”

  For the time being St. James wanted to keep his opinions to himself. He wasn’t prepared to tell Nathan he didn’t think Stevens stole the money, not yet anyway.

  “But as you said during our first meeting, you don’t believe he’s capable of that.”

  Nathan’s brow furrowed once again. “I’ve known Tom Stevens for over twenty-five years. We not only practiced together, we took family vacations together. I know him as well as you can know anyone. I don’t believe for a moment he could bring himself to do this kind of thing.

  “Hope you find him … and soon. As you can appreciate, we’re anxious to clear up this mess. It’s hurt the firm’s reputation immeasurably.”

  St. James nodded. “I can imagine how the partners must feel.”

  Catherine entered and handed two copies of the list of companies to Nathan, who immediately passed one to St. James. St. James quickly ran a finger down the names but didn’t recognize a single one.

  Pointing the document in Nathan’s direction St. James said, “And this is what you gave Williamson?”

  “The very same.”

  St. James folded the paper and stuffed it in a coat pocket, then said, “Williamson said his people would have the list of shareholders for each company sometime within the next ten days,” St. James said. “I’ll email it to you to check, to see if your partners know anyone.”

  Strong made a wide sweeping gesture, his tenseness visibly off the charts. “Anything you want, Hamilton,” he blurted. “We want this behind us as soon as possible. The partners are upset, anxious about the bad publicity and worried how much insurance premiums will increase next year. It’s all I can do to keep them focused on clients. Times like this, client service is even more important than usual, if that’s possible. Clients need reassurance the firm hasn’t lost its values, that it remains worthy of their respect, confidence, and business.”

  Nathan returned to calm. “By the way, did that odd-looking little fellow working on Tom’s computer figure out what the letters and numbers meant?”

  “You mean Louis,” St. James said, smiling faintly. “He has some clues, but nothing we can talk about yet. It’s long and tedious work I’m afraid.”

  Nathan nodded. “I understand.”

  “Do you mind if I have a look at the files here? Don’t have much time, flight leaves at seven.”

  “Not at all.”

  Nathan led St. James down a cream-coloured hallway, peppered with what St. James considered horrible abstract art, to a locked, windowless office where Stevens’s files were kept.

  Nathan looked at his watch and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, I have to go. If there is anything you need, just ask Catherine. I’ll be in meetings until the end of the day, I’m afraid. Good luck, Hamilton, and let me know if I can be of further help.” Nathan turned to leave, but before he passed through the tiny room’s doorjamb, St. James said, “One last question.”

  Nathan stopped and turned. “Of course.”

  “Have you ever heard of The Carstairs Group?”

  Nathan thought for a long moment then said, “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  Nathan nodded and left.

  At most St. James had a little over two hours before he had to leave for Dulles Airport.

  Jason was right. There were 139 companies, all with files containing directives, correspondence, and legal documents, each in the same order with the same labels. Stevens was a very neat and organized man indeed. It certainly explained the order in the Stevenses’ basement.

  He didn’t have time to go through every document for every company. And even if he did, he doubted it would yield much more than diminishing returns. It would be more efficient to concentrate on larger investments that could total the missing $23 million. No sense wasting time on anything less.

  He selected the five companies with the most transactions with Jensen Holdings. The first, GLZ Investments, carried the signature of a Samuel Franklin. Second, Saltwater Investments, owned by an Adam Derringer; third, Cook Enterprises, owned by a Bertram Cook; fourth, Fletcher Family Holdings, owned by an Amanda Fletcher; and fifth, Macadamia Investments, owned by a Stan Gyberson.

  The names meant nothing, but he made note of them anyway. The tone and choice of words in correspondence among the five suggested they were more than just business acquaintances.

  One by one he eyed amounts transferred from Jensen Holdings to each of the five companies. The first four received investments totaling $18 million, not the $23 million St. James was looking for, so not worth pursuing on their own.

  He turned his attention to the fifth company, Macadamia Investments. There was correspondence back and forth between Stevens and Gyberson.

  “First name beginning with ‘S.’ Wonder if he’s the man with the ‘killer look’,” St. James mused. “Possible.” He made an additional note.

  Jensen Holdings made a number of investments in Macadamia totaling something in excess of $23 million. The lead he’d been looking for, or just a coincidence? St. James would have to dig deeper.

 
; It took an hour and a half to get through all the files, and by the time he’d finished with Macadamia it was time to leave. Staying longer meant missing the flight home.

  He took a moment to phone Anna.

  “Can you research everything on The Carstairs Group?”

  “Who are they?”

  “Hoping you could tell me.”

  “Smartass.”

  “I believe they’re located in Chicago, not sure.”

  “Okay, on it.”

  St. James left SG&S’s office at 4:15, made his way to the lobby, and turned the corner to a taxi stand. The ride to the airport was exceptionally slow, late-day traffic quite heavy. But Air Canada made up for some of the delay with a faster check-in, and by 6:05 he was sitting on an airport bar stool with a double Glenfiddich in hand.

  It was close to 11:00 p.m. when St. James unlocked the door to his condominium. Immediately he jumped in the shower, and after a good five minutes under forceful hot water, toweled down and put on the most comfortable thing he owned — baggy sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. He went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of Gabbiano Chianti, and poured a healthy glass.

  Rooting through the fridge he found enough sliced chicken to make a sandwich. With Chianti and sandwich in hand he turned on the news channel.

  He should have called Anna to say he was home safe, but it was late and, for some reason, he needed time to think, to reflect on where things were going with Stevens.

  When he had his fill of sandwich and news, he turned off the television, refilled his wine glass, and stared out onto Sussex, thinking about Washington. What he had found, or rather what he hadn’t found.

  Hopefully the shareholder list would bear some fruit. Surely Strong and his partners would know someone on it. Then there was the $20 plus million invested in Macadamia Investments by Jensen Holdings. Is that the missing money? Or is it a different investment altogether? And this Gyberson fellow, the 100% shareholder of Macadamia, was he the dinner guest who made Beth Stevens so uncomfortable? Lot of moving parts. Many pieces would have to fit together before the story could unfold and the theory be proven … or not.

  Chapter 14

  Sitting in the darkened living room in his fifth-floor condo at midnight, St. James’s mind drifted to The Carstairs Group and Nells. Was it a coincidence Carstairs was in the same industry as Jensen’s investments? Not likely. St. James was not a believer in coincidences. He would have to continue the investigation assuming the coincidence was genuine, until proven otherwise, that is.

  Once shareholders of the 139 companies were identified, he’d have to interview Jensen again; essential to determine if Jensen had a relationship with any of them.

  We’ll see what that brings.

  With that, St. James went to bed.

  Next morning the phone rang at 9:00.

  Smythe.

  “Ninety per cent certain,” he said without even saying hello, “that ‘Virgo23’ refers to astrology.”

  “Zodiac signs?” St. James said in disbelief.

  Smythe was emphatic. “Yes, zodiac signs!”

  “Whatever in God’s name brings you to that conclusion?”

  “It’s the number 23 that boosts the probability. Virgo runs from August 23 to September 22 so ‘Virgo23’ is the first day of the zodiac sign. Software gives it the best chance of being statistically correct.”

  “Hmm. What could that mean?”

  “Could be referring to a birthday, or a personality description. I looked it up. Virgo people are supposed to be analytical, observant, helpful, reliable, and precise. Fits the description of an accountant, don’t you think?”

  “Not too helpful if he steals $23 million,” St. James said. “Don’t think that’s the avenue we want. What about the date itself? Maybe it’s the day something was to happen.”

  “Have no idea. Money disappeared on the twenty-third but wasn’t reported missing until the thirtieth, the only events we know for sure.”

  “But look at the next part of the code, Louis: ‘+7’; 23 plus 7 is the thirtieth of August, the date the funds were reported gone.”

  “Is that too simple?” Smythe said anxiously. “If that’s it, what would +8, +4, +6, and + 3 mean? If you follow the same logic all the way through it gives you September 7, 11, 17, and 20. September 11 is a significant date only because of the Twin Towers. Not aware of anything else that has or is about to happen during the rest of September.”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Maybe the dates don’t mean anything public. Maybe they’re private actions. Not dates at all.”

  “Maybe. Still think I’m right. Everything related to Virgo in the code is captured in parentheses. That tells me ‘(Virgo23+7+8+4+6+3)’ is meant to be a complete thought on its own. It’s a command, or a confirmation of actions, or dates for things to happen.”

  “Maybe, Louis … maybe.”

  Chapter 15

  Graves phoned St. James after class the following Friday morning.

  “Next week is the third week since our meeting in Ottawa. Are you far enough along with the Washington case to begin work with us? The board is anxious to begin the project,” he said with his strong British accent.

  St. James paused, then said, “I’m not finished that case yet, but I am far enough along to at least meet your board … next week if that’s convenient.”

  “My executive assistant polled the board members yesterday to determine availability. She managed to speak with everyone and the earliest they can meet is next Tuesday at 2 p.m. here at Toronto HQ. Will that work for you, Hamilton?”

  “That’s fine, Nelson,” St. James said without referring to his phone calendar.

  “Excellent. You have the address.”

  St. James clicked off.

  Late in the afternoon St. James and Anna met for dinner at Restaurant E18 on York and then went to Anna’s for the night.

  Next morning St. James woke to the sound of rain dancing on the windowsill. Eyes closed, he reached for Anna only to discover an empty pillow.

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted in, enticing him to rise, dress, and make his way to the tiny kitchen where he found Anna diligently preparing breakfast. Hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, she wore a grey track suit and blue running shoes.

  “Good morning,” he said, putting his arms around her from behind and gently kissing her neck. “You were wonderful last night.”

  “Weren’t so bad yourself,” she said, turning in his arms for them to kiss. “Bacon and eggs?”

  “Works for me.”

  St. James sat at the small table, drinking coffee while Anna finished breakfast preparations.

  “What are you doing today?” she asked.

  “I have a new case starting in a couple of weeks and have some time this weekend to do preliminary research.”

  “Oh. What’s the case?” Anna said quizzically.

  “Company called Canadian International Seafoods Incorporated, CISI, a large fish-processing company headquartered in Toronto. The chairman called me yesterday to confirm a meeting with directors next Tuesday. They want a management review, which sounds a bit odd to me. That’s all I know at the moment. But I want to learn as much about the company as I can before that meeting. What are you doing today?”

  “First I’ll tidy up here. I have mending to do and a book I want to start. That’s about it. Not very exciting, is it?”

  St. James smiled. “In addition to the research I asked you to do on The Carstairs Group I could use some help with this new client.”

  Anna shifted a fry pan to another burner.

  “What do you want me to research?” she said after a few minutes’ silence.

  “I’d like you to find everything you can on a Nelson Graves.”

  “And he is who?”

  “The chairman of CISI.”

  “And what am I looking for?”

  “Anything and everything. Nothing’s too trivial. Something you see now, no matter how insignificant it may seem
at the time, could be of great importance later as the story unfolds.”

  “I think I can handle that,” she said, smiling.

  “Meanwhile I’ll see what I can learn about CISI itself.”

  Walking through the ByWard Market, St. James wondered what CISI’s chief executive officer could possibly keep from the board. And why? What could be significant enough to motivate withholding information? A major asset write-off maybe, lurking somewhere in financial records? One Anderson might want to cover up, perhaps? Or was he siphoning funds? Or was there a contingent liability about to rear its ugly head? Perhaps a potential lawsuit or government fine for bad fish?

  Once again St. James asked himself why he had accepted the mandate. Wasn’t a crime, although there could be when all was said and done. A block later he concluded intrigue motivated his acceptance of Graves’s mandate. A board unable to extract information from its CEO intrigued him. CEOs are accountable to boards, not the other way around. And Graves didn’t strike St. James as one who tolerated resistance.

  Chapter 16

  It was almost an hour after leaving Anna’s before St. James slid the key into his condo door. He went into the study, settled at the mahogany desk, opened his laptop, grabbed a notepad from the bottom right-hand drawer, and began gathering director biographies from CISI’s website.

  Leaving Graves to Anna, he excluded Al Dunlop, who he knew well: no research required. And for the time being he put Anderson aside as well. St. James would research Anderson later when he had a handle on the others.

  Blakie was chairman of his own human resource firm. Of the remaining five external directors, John Coughlin had thirty years’ experience in marketing with a major consulting firm. In-house counsel Andre Fox had practiced twenty-five years with a prominent Toronto law firm. Nancy Slitter served thirty-three years in Canada’s civil service, the last five as Deputy Minister of Fisheries and Oceans. Harold Tewkesbury was a forty-year veteran of Canada’s largest bank. And Cheryl Tomkins was the former United States Ambassador to Portugal.