Anna wanted nothing more to eat after her sandwich, so St. James made a soothing cup of herbal tea for her and a small chicken stir fry for himself.
She wasn’t content to stay in bed as Dr. Singh had ordered. Instead she lay on the couch while St. James waited on her with tea, water, and juice. No wine, not with the medication she was taking. He, on the other hand, had received no such medical advice, nor was he on any prescribed medication. But he was in pain. And as far as he was concerned, that was a license to self-medicate. So, he took great liberties with Chianti while they watched an action movie on the large projection screen.
They awoke on Sunday morning to a gorgeous fall day. St. James opened the living room doors and eyed two fluffy white lines ripping across the eastern sky.
People flying somewhere, he thought.
The fall sun sat high over Ottawa’s cloudless sky, keeping watch over orange and yellow leaves floating aimlessly in the warm, gentle breeze, a sea of unmanageable stringless kites.
Sounds of church bells drifted in from the cathedral down Sussex; sidewalks were filling with people, some scurrying to mass, some piling into the bookstore across the street, others most likely looking for a satisfying Sunday brunch.
After he and Anna had toast and coffee he said, “Since you’re feeling better, do you mind if I slip out to the police station to review my statement?”
“Only if I come too,” she said with a bit more spark than Saturday.
“But … you know what Dr. Singh said.”
“I feel fine now,” she argued. “Anyway, I should review the statement too. After all, we were both witnesses. What if I don’t agree with what you say? Wouldn’t police want both versions?”
“Aw hell, get your coat. Don’t blame me if you pass out in the police station.”
Fifteen minutes later the taxi pulled in front of the police station on Elgin. The duty sergeant for the day handed St. James a brown envelope containing two copies of the statement left by Detective Spencer. They sat on a bench in the foyer, each reviewing a copy.
“Were we rammed two or three times, Hamilton?”
“Three. Twice in Gatineau and once on Sussex.”
“That’s right. I was confused for a moment.”
“Pretty hard to argue facts when you’re confused,” he quipped.
Anna’s smile suggested her usual playfulness was slowly making a comeback. “Oh, shut up.”
“Is that how you win an argument, by telling your opponent to shut up?”
“Don’t know if I should arrest you two for disturbing my Sunday or get you a room,” the duty sergeant said in a grumpy voice.
“Could go either way, officer,” St. James said, grinning.
Spencer’s chronology of events was well written and factual as far as they could see, so they signed off on it and gave one copy to the sergeant, keeping the second for their own records.
Outside the station Anna grabbed St. James’s arm, turned to face him, and flashed a determined look. Her hair was flaring, unmanageable in the breeze, dark-brown eyes unwavering as she glared into his.
“Now it’s your turn to be stubborn,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
Feigning crossness, Anna said, “Since we were hit by that Mercedes, you’ve done everything for me and nothing for yourself. You’ve been holding on to your ribs since you woke up yesterday. I insist you get an X-ray right now! Tell me you’re not going to argue.”
“Absolutely not,” he said calmly. “That would make me just as stubborn as you.”
Her pretend crossness turned into frustration. “Ooooh … you’re incorrigible, Hamilton St. James!”
The only clinic he could think of that X-rayed on Sunday was the Heron Medical Group, a storefront on Bank. He hailed a taxi one block north of the police station, then googled the clinic’s address and gave it to the driver.
The clinic wasn’t all that busy, so St. James found himself on the X-ray table within five minutes. A lady named Amira with light-olive skin, dark eyes, and short black hair was the technician-on-duty. Her demeanor was cool; definitely not the friendly type. Amira didn’t talk much. She just mumbled short commands.
“Lie on your back.”
St. James did.
“Lie on your right side.”
St. James did.
“Lie on your left side.”
St. James did.
“Roll over on your stomach.”
St. James did.
Finally Amira gave him permission to roll off the X-ray table and put his shirt back on.
Back in reception Amira said, “Results will be available to Dr. Singh in a couple of days.”
St. James thanked her and off they went back to 700 Sussex.
When St. James unlocked the condo door, Anna immediately headed down the hall to pour a bath while he got started on the CISI case.
Before preparing tomorrow’s interviews he decided to call Al Dunlop. Al was a friend, a straight shooter who wouldn’t hold back whatever he thought, regardless of what was going on at CISI. St. James had once said, you ask Al his opinion, you’ll get it, pure and simple.
St. James popped a couple more Tylenol, headed for the study, fired up the computer, and discovered an email from Juanita Mendoza listing director phone numbers. Attached was a note she had sent to everyone describing St. James and Anna’s unfortunate Friday night. There were emails back from most directors expressing concern for their health and safety. St. James noted no such email from Graves or Blakie.
He tapped Dunlop’s name into the database and a number popped up. He looked at his watch. Ten past three.
Might be on the golf course.
Dunlop picked up on the third ring.
“Do you have time to talk, Al?”
“I have about a half hour,” he replied. “Are you and Anna all right?”
“We’re fine. Anna is shaken with a bruised forehead, and I have a couple of sore ribs, that’s all.”
“That’s enough,” Dunlop said sympathetically.
St. James went straight to business.
“Al, I want your take on CISI before I start.”
“Are you sure you want my biases?”
St. James pictured Dunlop grinning.
“I’ll chance it. What’s your view of Anderson?”
“He’s a salesman. A bit of a control freak. Doesn’t really trust his people. Double-checks everything they tell him with others.”
“Isn’t that smart?”
“To a point, but Cameron takes it to the minutiae, to things CEOs don’t usually bother with.”
“Like what?”
“Phoning plant managers to see if preventative maintenance was done on equipment the previous week, or if they’re sure all inventory has been counted; normally the concern of the COO, not the CEO.”
“I see. What about Blakie?”
“Cut from the same cloth. That’s why they get along so well.”
“What do you think Anderson might be keeping from the board?”
“Don’t know if there is anything. That’s why I recommended you.”
“Let me put it another way: why is the board uneasy?”
“All through last year we were far from meeting the profit target. Then, in the last three months, profit suddenly jumped, and the company exceeded the budget at year-end by one per cent. We pressed Cameron for reasons for the dramatic turnaround. He chalked it up to expense trimming as well as year-end inventory adjustments. The auditors stated financial statements were presented fairly, but external board members remain unsettled. Timing and size of the adjustment was troublesome. There had never been an adjustment that size in company history.”
“When Cameron was hired were his past positions thoroughly checked?”
“Glowing references,” Dunlop said.
“You mean for his performance as vice-president of sales?”
“Yes. CISI sales were flat at the time, and it was his ability to drive revenue growth in p
revious positions that made him an attractive candidate.”
“Did reference checks cover character?”
“I was on the search committee at the time and I don’t recall anything negative.”
St. James persisted. “But did anyone actually ask previous employers about his character?”
“The committee was assured by the firm that headhunted Anderson.”
“Hmm. Okay. How is he compensated?”
“If I remember correctly, his salary is $800,000, plus stock options and a bonus. Typical compensation for public companies of this size.”
“When was the last time his compensation was reviewed?”
“Last year. By an independent firm.”
“Was there a written report?”
“Yes. Juanita can send you a copy, if you wish.”
St. James spent the next fifteen minutes asking Al his perceptions of other board members and the overall management of the company. Dunlop felt the external directors were relatively strong and generally asked the right questions. The company was well managed and consistently profitable, though he thought the board could benefit from an independent review of its performance.
When the call ended, St. James wrote Juanita requesting the corporate strategic plan, the current year’s business plan, and the report on Anderson’s compensation, as well as all correspondence with the auditors. It was a start. As time went on he’d want more. There was always more.
Anna walked into the study. St. James noticed some colour had returned to her face: she looked more relaxed after the hot bath.
“How’s it going?” she asked softly.
“Good. I made a start on CISI. Requested documents from the company and conducted one interview.”
“You’ve been busy,” she said with a faint grin.
“Indeed I have, my dear,” he said smiling.
“Think I’ll read for a while. I’m at a good place in my book. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”
“I have a couple hours work. Then we’ll have supper, either here or out, whichever you like.”
Anna said, “I also want to check my apartment. I need fresh clothes if I am going to stay longer.”
St. James spent the next two hours preparing Monday’s interviews. External board members would be first; Cameron last. He wanted eight opinions of Cameron before he interviewed him. Cheryl Tomkins first, then work his way up to Graves. No particular reason. Just seemed a good place to begin.
At 4:30 they took a taxi to Anna’s apartment, where St. James checked if anything had been disturbed while Anna packed things for the week. He didn’t tell Anna that whoever had tried to run them off the road might also attempt to kidnap her to lure him into a trap. She wouldn’t take that well. And the more he thought about it, the more additional protection seemed necessary. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her because he didn’t take the proper precautions.
Anna turned the heat down when she had finished gathering what she needed, and they descended stairs and jumped into a waiting taxi.
Time for more Tylenol.
Before dinner Anna phoned the Dirty Duck to say she wouldn’t be at work the coming week. She explained the crash, head wound, and trauma she’d suffered. The doctor had ordered bed rest. Sid acknowledged it all with a grunt.
When she disconnected, Anna just shook her head.
At six they walked next door to the Château Laurier for a quiet dinner at Wilfrid’s, eating mostly in silence. Anna didn’t feel like talking, and St. James had CISI on his mind. They were home in a little over an hour.
At 2:00 in the morning St. James awoke to Anna sobbing: the flashback Dr. Singh had warned about. He held her for twenty minutes or so until the fear faded, and she drifted back to sleep. He wondered if this would be the first of many.
First thing Monday morning, St. James booted his computer to an email from Jason Williamson listing shareholders for the 139 companies Jensen had invested in. Jason’s nephew had completed the searches sooner than expected. St. James printed the document, and one by one focused on each name. Some names were familiar, people who had signed documents he had found in the boxes in Nathan Strong’s office. Stevens’s name didn’t appear anywhere.
Dead end for Jason.
St. James forwarded the list to Nathan for his partners to check, then did the same for Slate, DuPont, and David Kingston at Scotland Yard, and, finally, Mary DeSilva. Any one of the names could appear in multiple databases.
Chapter 28
St. James’s first interview was at 9:00 with Cheryl Tomkins. He called her on Skype, so he’d have a visual. Not as good as face to face, but much better than just on the phone. He’d guessed Cheryl to be about fifty-five. Not the most feminine of ladies. Brown hair cut short, parted on the right, no makeup and dressed in what looked like a man’s grey suit, white shirt, black Alaskan cufflinks, and wide black tie. She looked like a model from an old haberdashery magazine.
As former US ambassador to Portugal she had helped negotiate fishing treaties between the two countries, gaining significant industry knowledge along the way to make her an attractive CISI board candidate.
Cheryl was a talker. St. James expected this to a certain extent, ambassadors being politicians in disguise. Unfortunately, great talkers also tend to hijack meetings, which is exactly what happened to St. James.
The first fifteen minutes saw Cheryl boasting of her many diplomatic accomplishments. Meetings with the president of the United States, the prime minister of Portugal, and various other heads of states. What she didn’t know was that St. James knew the last agreement between Portugal and the United States didn’t go well, ending with the president quietly replacing her as ambassador. It was amusing as he listened to her speak as if still in Washington’s good graces.
He tried numerous times to wrest control of the meeting from her. Finally, after several attempts, he shoehorned in a question.
“What are your impressions of Cameron?”
“Very capable CEO. Strong public face for the company. Very engaging. Has a tendency to get too far down in the weeds though, if you know what I mean.”
St. James nodded.
“He rejuvenated the sales group. Developed a strategic plan that was unanimously accepted by the board and is vigorously pushing through its implementation.”
“What, if anything, makes you uneasy?”
“Well, we exceeded budget last year, which seems a miracle to me. Profit was behind after nine months. Then, all of a sudden, we exceeded for the year. He’s given logical explanations but keeps selling us on reasons, as if we don’t believe him. The irony is we believed him at first, but after repeating himself in different ways we began to have doubts. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense. Like a friend of mine, a judge, who once said that when a witness begins an answer with ‘to tell you the truth,’ I expect the next words out of his mouth to be a lie.”
“Yes! Good analogy,” she said, sounding pleased he got her point.
“Is there anything else?” St. James asked.
“Nothing I can think of at the moment, related to Cameron, that is.”
“Related to anyone else?” he pressed.
“While I respect all my board colleagues, I think Blakie’s too close to Cameron. Sometimes I wonder about his objectivity. He refuses to challenge Cameron on anything. And becomes annoyed if the rest of us do. I find that odd considering it’s a director’s responsibility to challenge management performance.”
St. James continued. “What about the chairman?”
“Consults as he should. Stickler for detail.”
“Isn’t that a good quality for a chairman?”
“Maybe stickler is the wrong word. Maybe some mixture of ‘officious’ and ‘pretentious’ stirs up a more accurate picture. Or maybe … maybe he’s just British.”
Just as St. James smiled the Skype connection flickered, creating a wavy return smile from Cheryl.
Over the next half hour or so he asked a number of questions concerning typical board meetings, who participated the most, who was constructive, who was not, then thanked Cheryl for her time and disconnected.
He went into the kitchen and found Anna sitting on an island stool still in her housecoat, coffee in hand, and reading a book.
Even in the raw she’s attractive.
“Hi there,” she said, her robust smile showing signs of recovery. “Heard you on the phone. I gather you’ve started your interviews.”
“First one of the day now behind me.”
“Appreciated you comforting me last night,” she said softly. “Maybe I’m not as ready to go home as I thought.”
St. James smiled. “Never thought you were. Was just waiting for you to realize it yourself.”
She threw him a look that only Anna could, a cross between a smirk and a scrunched face, with a slight tilt of the head. St. James was afraid to ask what it meant. It couldn’t be good.
He poured a coffee, kissed her gently, and returned to the study to Skype the next director. An email from Juanita with documents he had requested attached popped up on the laptop screen.
Tomorrow’s reading.
The next three interviews went much faster than the first. For one thing, no one hijacked them like Cheryl Tomkins; big time-saver right there. And St. James seemed to develop an efficient rhythm with successive interviews on the same subject. The first was always the longest. The trailblazer. Successive ones were more focused, deeper dives into information learned from the first.
Nothing new was learned from Nancy Slitter, John Coughlin, or Harold Tewksbury. Next was Blakie. Because of his close relationship with Anderson, St. James left out questions around Anderson’s competence and character. He treaded softly, wanting Blakie to accept him rather than obstruct the investigation.
St. James said, “I know from the website you own an HR consulting practice. Have you been practicing long?”
“About thirty years, I guess,” Blakie replied in a brisk tone.
“Does your firm specialize in any particular area of HR?”
Blakie’s tone sharpened. “Look, Hamilton, I’m a busy man, pressed for time. Is this call about my firm or CISI?” he snapped.
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