“Then what happens?”
“HQ checks all calculations and compares the value of actual inventory counted to book value, and, where necessary, make adjustment recommendations to me. I sign off or amend as the case may be.”
“So you still do some manual checks?” St. James said.
“Yes. It’s an inefficiency we’ve identified. At the moment we’re evaluating software to address the manual work. Only IT and I know this, so please don’t mention it to anyone. It will affect five positions, maybe more, so I don’t want to spook the whole department before we decide one way or the other.”
St. James raised a hand. “Don’t worry. I know how delicate these matters can be.”
“Thank you.”
“Do HQ accountants ever amend what comes from plants?”
“Only calculation errors that happen from time to time. No way of checking pounds of course, other than count sheets themselves. They’re not present when counts are actually conducted. We rely on the count teams’ division of duties for that. One member of the team counts a section first. Then, a second member counts the same section. If there are differences they count the same section a third time, together, to agree on or change poundage.”
“Seems safe enough,” he said smiling.
“We’ve never had a problem with the procedure itself, not that I’m aware of anyway.”
“Once your people check everything do you ever make additional adjustments?”
“Not very often. If I’ve been to a plant recently and know of problems with excess freezer burn, I may question whether additional write-downs should be taken. Or, if a pounds flow-through analysis suggests significant difference in inventory values, I investigate further.”
St. James knew what “pound flow-through analysis” meant but played dumb, hoping to learn more.
“Pounds flow-through analysis?”
“Yes. I take opening inventory, add production cost, and subtract product shipped to customers. What’s left should approximate closing inventory. Not exactly though. It assumes consistent yields, that every pound is top quality, and that the same species are being processed. It’s impossible to achieve, at best only an approximation to compare with the physical count. If a discrepancy is, say, up to fifteen per cent, I assume physical count is accurate. Anything over fifteen per cent is cause for further investigation. There could be a significant shift in species mix or a write-off of poor-quality fish. Whatever the reason, I want an explanation from the plant manager for anything over fifteen per cent.”
“Logical and reasonable,” St. James offered respectfully.
Van Hoyt looked pleased with the assessment.
“May I have a copy of the analysis and year-end Excel spreadsheets for larger plants?”
“My assistant will give you copies on the way out.”
St. James nodded. “What’s the discrepancy between pound flow-through analysis and the physical count last year-end?”
“If my memory serves me correctly, it was approximately twelve per cent.”
“So it wasn’t high enough to warrant further investigation?” he pressed.
“That’s right.”
“So, cost of trawler inventory was added to the books when year-end financial statements were prepared?”
“That’s correct.”
“I may want to visit the plants in England. Should I arrange that through you or Cameron?” St. James asked.
Van Hoyt looked surprised.
Chapter 33
Van Hoyt went silent for a long moment, then said, “Do you really have to physically go? Can you not achieve the same thing by Skype or telephone or email? We’d like to avoid the cost of extra time and travel.”
“I’m afraid if I’m to be thorough in my job, it’s obligatory,” St. James said.
Van Hoyt looked unconvinced, but reluctantly agreed.
They talked about accounting procedures for another half-hour or so; who did what and why, and what, if any, were CISI’s system weaknesses.
Satisfied he’d asked the right questions for now, St. James collected copies of inventory calculations from Karen’s assistant on the way out.
He strolled down the hall to Juanita Mendoza’s workstation to see about an office. She had a spare office one floor below that St. James could use. He walked down a colourless stairwell and through a fire-retardant door into a brightly lit peach hallway. Two doors down he found a small, bare office containing nothing but a well-used veneer desk, a single chair with a wobbly back, and an old phone.
He settled behind the desk, booted his laptop, and logged online using the guest password Juanita had given him.
An email from Detective Jason Williamson summarizing criminal searches St. James had requested popped up in his inbox. Jason discovered Stan Gyberson, Samuel Franklin, Bertram Cook, Adam Derringer, and Amanda Fletcher were all registered on FBI watch lists in a number of states. Suspects in a number of different confidence schemes throughout the Midwest. No convictions. Nothing proven, at least not to date.
What St. James didn’t know was that Gyberson and Fletcher were husband and wife. Samuel Franklin was a disbarred attorney who, for many years, acted for Gyberson’s companies until he was caught siphoning trust funds. And Adam Derringer and Bertram Cook were Gyberson’s first cousins.
“Cozy family,” St. James mumbled. “Louis will have fun with this.”
He pulled a vibrating cell from his sports-coat pocket.
“Hamilton, its Dozer.”
“What’s up?”
“Two things. First, I got a call from the concierge in your building.”
St. James tensed. “Oh?”
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ A stranger walked through the main entrance today and headed straight for the elevator. At first the concierge didn’t think much of it: owners have visitors who come and go all the time. But then the man’s black wide-brimmed fedora and raincoat made him suspicious.”
“What’s suspicious about that?”
“It’s warm here, Hamilton, and not raining. No one’s wearing coats.”
“Oh!” St. James said again.
“The elevator stopped on the fifth floor. The concierge called security and a guard high-tailed it up to your floor. The stranger caught sight of him when the elevator opened and booted down the stairwell as fast as he could, making a clean getaway before security could nail him. The hat and coat were a disguise, not protection from the weather. Neither the concierge nor security got a good look at the man’s face.”
“Did the guy break in to my condo?”
“Concierge says no. No visible damage to the lock, and when he used the master key to check inside, nothing had been disturbed. Guess Raincoat didn’t have time to do anything.”
“Still, it’s disturbing. An attempt to do something, surveillance maybe, checking the make of the lock so it could be picked later.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m afraid to ask about the second thing.”
“The phone alarm went off two hours ago.”
St. James tensed yet again. “The traps at Anna’s?”
“Yes. I rushed over and found an intruder lying on the floor bleeding heavily. Couldn’t get anything out of him without hurting him more. Didn’t think that would be right.”
“Sometimes I wonder about you, Dozer,” St. James said, shaking his head.
Dozer ignored the jab. “I called 911 and eventually spoke to the detective who dealt with your car crash.”
“Spencer?”
“That’s the one. He followed the ambulance to the Ottawa Hospital.”
“Was the guy carrying ID?”
“No, nothing.”
“Where is Anna right now?”
“Still at work. Doesn’t know about either event yet.”
“Good. Keep it that way until I get home.”
He disconnected.
St. James’s mind skipped over the raincoat guy, focusing instead on the man caught in Dozer’s trap.
> The intruder wouldn’t be the leader, but he might know who or what was behind all this. As Dozer said, they’d have DNA and fingerprints.
At least someone to question.
His computer pinged twice with new emails. The first, DuPont. The RCMP said none of the shareholders in the 139 companies had a record. Second, Scotland Yard’s David Kingston indicated the same. Not long after, Slate emailed to say he’d already given FBI on Gyberson’s gang to Williamson.
St. James dialed the four-digit extension for Van Hoyt and asked to be introduced electronically to Basil and William Hughes in England.
“I’ll send an introductory note right now,” she said.
His cell vibrated once again.
Smythe.
“Just want to report I have made no further progress with the code since we cracked sections five and six.”
St. James spent the next fifteen minutes filling Smythe in on the five shareholders and what Jason’s investigation had turned up; Smythe was vigorously typing in the background.
“Okay,” he said hurriedly, “I’ll see if I can make something of this. By the way, I took the liberty of passing the flight numbers and dates from sections five and six on to Williamson. You were busy. I thought he should have them sooner rather than later.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Louis.”
St. James paused for a moment and considered the speed at which the two cases were moving. Stevens was now beginning to bear fruit, albeit just the thin edge of the fruit wedge, but still, progress. St. James’s adrenalin was beginning to crank up.
His cell vibrated a third time.
“It’s Jason.”
“Hi Jason, I just read your email on our five shareholders.”
“That’s not why I am calling,” he said in a sombre tone.
“What’s up?” St. James asked.
“Thomas Stevens was found dead in a downtown Fargo hotel room. Shot in the back of the head. Execution-style.”
Chapter 34
Even though St. James had known all along there was a good chance Stevens was dead, he had still hoped for a chance to question him. Now, that would never be. In a way it saddened him. Part of the story would go untold. Generally he knew the man’s state of mind from interviews with others, but now he would never experience it firsthand.
St. James had intended to spend the night at the Royal York, down the street from CISI. But with Stevens murdered and her apartment broken into, Anna would be a mess. Maybe it would trigger another flashback, at the very least an anxiety attack. He was confident Dozer could keep her safe physically, but only he could protect her emotionally. So he cancelled the reservation at the Royal York and caught the 6 p.m. flight back to Ottawa.
***
A young maid had unlocked the hotel room around 11 a.m. and found Stevens lying face down at the foot of the bed in a pool of his own blood. It didn’t take long for Fargo police to conclude it was an execution: the bullet to the back of the head was very compelling evidence.
There was no sign of a struggle, so it was probably someone Stevens knew, someone he felt comfortable letting in the room. The angle of the bullet entry made suicide unlikely. Not a robbery gone wrong either, since nothing seemed to be missing, his laptop, credit cards, and money all present and intact.
It looked as if Stevens had just checked in. Except for the brain matter splattered all over the bureau, mirror, and walls, the room was fairly tidy. Clothes were neatly folded in an open suitcase. The bed wasn’t slept in.
Had Stevens threatened to blow the whistle on someone? Or had fellow thieves thought him no longer useful? Either way, he was dead.
***
When St. James opened the condo door at eight that evening, Anna came running from the living room and threw her arms around him.
“What a wonderful surprise, Hamilton,” she said, eyes dancing with excitement. “I was just waiting for your call. Never dreamt you’d come home.”
“Got homesick” was the only answer he could muster.
Anna was anxious to hear about the investigation. St. James told her about the interviews at CISI: Anderson’s better behaviour, and his concern something might be wrong with inventory, a total turnaround from last week.
Anna said, “I found information on The Carstairs Group.”
“Fabulous. What did you learn?” St. James’s voice was less than enthusiastic, anticipating the bad news he was about to deliver.
“There are a number of newspaper stories about an abandoned property in Chicago. The company ran out of money before it could finish building a retirement home; five liens filed by unpaid suppliers. I think I know what a lien is, although I’d like your take.”
“It’s a legal remedy available to those unpaid for work done on real property. Triggers the sale of the property so suppliers and trades can be paid from the proceeds,” St. James explained.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked, changing the subject.
“That would be lovely,” she said, smiling.
St. James draped his sports coat over a dining chair, rolled up his shirt sleeves, then selected a bottle of Primitivo, poured two glasses, and handed one to Anna.
“Let’s go in the living room,” he suggested.
They sat side by side on the black leather chesterfield.
“Anything more on Gyberson or Nells?” he asked, working up to the bad news.
“Nothing on Nells but quite a bit on Gyberson. He was in all the newspapers as a guy who stiffed creditors then disappeared.”
“Any financial information on The Carstairs Group?”
“Some reporter was digging for financial stuff but couldn’t find much of anything because it’s a private company.”
“How was work today?” he asked.
“Same old, same old.”
“How are you getting along with Dozer?”
She smiled. “Great. He’s very sweet and considerate. Took me by the apartment today to enter the front and go out the back, as we planned. No sign of anything. Then to the pub for my shift.” Her brown eyes lit up. “You should have seen the look on Sid’s face. Totally spooked by a huge biker-looking dude drinking milk.”
St. James laughed. “Oh, Dozer can put away the pints, I assure you, just not when he’s on duty.”
St. James thought the timing was as good as it was ever going to be.
“Anna, there are a couple of things I want to report.”
Her face clouded over as it always did when St. James became serious.
Expecting the worst was how St. James thought she managed disappointment. Think the worst, be relieved when it’s something less.
“They found Thomas Stevens in a downtown hotel room in Fargo, North Dakota. Murdered.”
St. James waited for a response. But it was him, not Anna, who was surprised.
She sat up straight. “Fargo! That’s one of the code destinations.”
Didn’t freak.
“That has to mean something … the location, I mean.”
She looked at him. “You said a couple of things.”
“Dozer’s cell went off this afternoon, after he escorted you to work. Someone broke the sitting room window, smashed the sill just as Dozer predicted when he assessed the risk. When the guy sat on the broken window ledge and swung his legs inside, the trap snapped on his right leg. Dozer found the man on the floor in severe pain, bleeding heavily. The guy wouldn’t talk. Dozer called 911. The perp’s in the Ottawa Hospital under police watch. Our friend Mark Spencer’s the detective on the case.”
Anna stared at the floor, looking glum. This news was different than Stevens’s murder. Closer to home. It was home. Suddenly she felt the invasion of her privacy. St. James pulled her close, brushing strands of long blond hair away from her face. Much to his surprise, she didn’t cry. Her expression was more about ‘what do I do now’ than fear.
St. James’s cell vibrated.
“It’s Lou
is, Hamilton. Those five names you mentioned from Jason’s email?”
St. James first thought was that Smythe’s timing couldn’t have been worse.
“What about them?”
“Pull out your paper with the code.”
St. James went to the dining area and retrieved his copy of the code from a sports-coat pocket.
“Who is it? “Anna asked.
“It’s Louis, honey,” he said to her. “Okay, Louis, I have it.”
“Look at section four. Anything jump out at you?” he said in an elevated tone.
St. James looked at the code for a few seconds: “(G, F, D, C, F)”. Suddenly he slapped his forehead and said, “How could I have been so stupid? I’ve been so focused on the trees I missed the forest! Gyberson, Franklin, Derringer, Cook, and Fletcher!”
“You got it,” Smythe said, his voice filled with excitement. “Now we have most of the code!”
St. James turned to Anna, also with excitement.
“Dear, Louis has broken section four!”
Anna said, “But what does it all mean?”
St. James stared at her in silence for a beat.
“Hamilton, you still there?” Smythe said loudly.
“Louis, hang up and call back on the landline so I can put you on speaker.”
Seconds later the house phone rang, and St. James pressed the speaker button to reconnect Smythe.
“It’s just Anna and me in the room. You can speak freely.”
Anna said, “What does the code mean now that that section is broken?”
“Excellent question Anna,” said Smythe. “Here’s what I think: money was transferred to the main branch of the Cayman National Bank (‘g,cnbtkyk1,j’) with the transaction code ABA#021000089 through clearing account number 36148883 to account number 012-67141 (‘ABA#021000089-36148883-012-67141-co-na-csprite1’) on August 23 (‘Virgo23’). Seven days later (‘Virgo23+7’) Stan Gyberson (‘G’) flew on United Flight 3743 from Atlanta to Chicago (‘U3743-5847’) where he connected to Fargo on United 5847. The flight to Chicago left Atlanta at 11:04 a.m. and the flight to Fargo left at 4:19 p.m. (‘1104-419’).
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