St. James sunk down in a huge grey leather wingback that rested well below Jensen’s desk, most likely designed for him to feel above everyone else.
Insecure.
St. James crossed his long legs, folded his arms, and smiled. “All in good time, Malachi, all in good time. We have a few loose ends to tie off first.”
“Okay, shoot. Ask whatever,” he said, waving a hand dismissively.
St. James pulled the shareholder list for the 139 companies from his black leather case, placed it on the mammoth desk, and slid the paper in front of Jensen.
“Tell me about people you know on this list.”
Jensen stared at the paper. Placing the unlit cigar in an overflowing ashtray, he grabbed reading glasses from an open desk drawer and slowly mouthed each name as his chubby finger crept down the list.
“Well, I’ve met them all at one time or another,” he said finally.
St. James pressed. “Who do you know best?”
Jensen studied the list once again, then rhymed off six or seven names, none of whom were Gyberson’s people.
“Samuel Franklin — didn’t he do legal work for you on a property investment in Chicago?”
“Long time ago. Haven’t kept in touch.”
“Wasn’t he recommended to you by Gyberson?”
“Can’t remember exactly who recommended him.”
“When did you first meet Gyberson?”
Jensen snorted. “Couple years ago. He was looking for financing for a company.”
“Which company?”
Jensen pursed his lips and stared at a large angel mural on the ceiling. “Can’t rightly remember. Think it was named after a nut or something.”
“Macadamia Investments?” St. James offered.
Jensen brightened. “That’s it, that’s the one. Macadamia owns shares in a company that builds retirement homes. It was short of cash. Macadamia wanted someone to invest so it could inject more cash into the construction company, complete projects it had on the go.”
St. James nodded. “You mean The Carstairs Group, the construction company Macadamia Investments owned?”
Jensen raised a finger. “That’s the one.”
“Who introduced Gyberson to you?”
“You asked me that the first time. Answer’s still the same: Stevens.”
St. James continued pointing to the list. “You see the names Adam Derringer, Bertram Cook, and Amanda Fletcher?”
“What about ’em?” Jensen said impatiently.
“You have investments in them I take it?”
“Yeah.”
“How often do you interact with them?”
“Talk once a year at shareholder meetings.”
“Nothing in between?”
“Nothing! Is this leading anywhere St. James or are you just fishing?” Jensen snarled.
St. James ignored the question. “How many companies have you invested in with any of those three shareholders together with Franklin and Gyberson?”
Once again Jensen stared at the ornate ceiling as if pondering a more difficult question than the one being asked. “One each, I believe.”
“How well do you know Gyberson?” St. James said forcefully.
“As well as I want to know anyone I do business with. Never get too close: never know when you might have to make a tough decision. Emotion’s a liability in my business.”
Suddenly Jensen began to cough, lightly at first, but it quickly became more violent. He took three quick gulps from a glass of water sitting on the desk, and, struggling to regain his breath, he wiped away tears with a sleeve. “Got to give these damn things up,” he managed to squeak out, pointing to the overburdened ashtray.
St. James wondered what Jensen meant by “tough decisions.”
Jensen recovered as much as he could, and St. James continued.
“So, you, or rather Jensen Holdings, invested in Macadamia to help Gyberson?”
“That’s correct,” Jensen said after drinking more water.
“What did Jensen Holdings get in return?”
“What do you think it got?” he snapped. “Shares in Macadamia. Nothing else to get.”
“Was it a condition of Jensen’s investment in Macadamia that all money flow into Carstairs to finish the retirement home in Chicago?”
“Yes. Macadamia was to loan money it got from Jensen Holdings to The Carstairs Group in return for a promissory note, secured by a mortgage, repayable over ten years at ten per cent interest. Once the home’s completed and operating, Carstairs repays the note to Macadamia from its profits. Macadamia uses that cash to purchase its shares back from Jensen Holdings.”
“And that’s when your money disappeared?”
Jensen wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
“The only shareholder of Macadamia was Gyberson, and he signed cheques made payable to Carstairs in return for a promissory note payable back to Macadamia, as contemplated by the agreement. But money never made it into Carstairs’s bank account. Sonofabitch never intended to finish the building. Stole my money and left town.”
St. James pressed once again. “Then Gyberson must have had signing authority in Carstairs too, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to cash Macadamia’s cheques made in Carstairs’s name.”
A sheepish-looking Jensen said, “Yes, he did.”
St. James frowned at the stupidity. Jensen should have known Gyberson had signing authority for both companies, that his investment was at risk with no division of duties or financial controls between the two companies. Or, maybe he did know.
St. James decided to have a little fun. “Sounds to me a lot like contributory negligence, Malachi. Maybe you caused your own loss. Maybe you have a claim against yourself, not the Stevens firm or Global.”
Jensen jumped from his chair and shouted, “Stevens should have known the guy was a crook! He was supposed to check Gyberson out. I don’t believe he even looked at the financials, let alone investigate Gyberson’s character.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?” he barked.
“Look at the financials and check out Gyberson’s character.”
“Hell no! That’s what I was paying Stevens for.”
St. James pulled a paper bearing the Stevens code from a pocket and placed it in front of Jensen.
Jensen calmed slightly, looking puzzled as he scanned the code.
“What the hell’s this mumbo-jumbo?”
“It’s a code we found on Stevens’s computer. Ever see it before?”
His eyes squinted. “No. What’s it supposed to mean?”
St. James’s grin was superficial. “Was hoping you could tell me.”
“Haven’t a goddamned clue,” Jensen said dismissively as he shoved the paper across the desk back to St. James.
St. James’s forehead furrowed at the man’s arrogance.
“Do you have a bank account in Cayman?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Have you ever had trouble with tax authorities anywhere in the world?”
“No, I haven’t,” Jensen said without hesitation.
“Tell me, Malachi, were any investment recommendations from Stevens winners for you?”
Jensen considered this for a moment, concluding it to be a trick question.
“Yes. Why do you ask?” he said aggressively.
“Just curious.”
“All of them paid some return except Macadamia and its investment in Carstairs.”
“So Stevens wasn’t a complete dud?”
“If you’re trying to defuse the Macadamia–Carstairs mess with successes, it won’t work. I lost $23 million, plain and simple. Nothing to do with other successes. You’re trying to create a diversion, St. James, dilute my claim.”
Jensen was now even more red, and St. James was worried the man might stroke out.
St. James changed his line of questioning once again, spending the next hour or so moving through every other name on the shareholder list. A
fter three or four names Jensen began to calm, claiming he had met each shareholder only a couple of times before investing, and after that only at quarterly board or annual shareholder meetings.
“Were you ever invited to dinner at the Stevens home?”
Jensen looked at St. James as if he was somehow being set up. “Couple of times, I guess,” he said cautiously.
“What was the relationship like between Beth and Thomas?”
Jensen almost came out of his chair a second time. “What the hell does that have to do with my claim?” he shouted.
“Everything,” St. James replied without batting an eye, “everything to do with Thomas’s health, happiness, and state of mind when dealing with you.”
Jensen didn’t seem to grasp this.
“Uh…?”
“Never mind,” St. James said with an air of disgust. “I have other names I want to run by you.”
“But we’ve gone through all the names on the list,” he said.
“These are additional ones.” One by one St. James rhymed off the names of the two burned in the Mercedes, Long, and Sterling from Montreal, then listed the four ex-cons he had helped put in prison. After grilling Jensen a number of ways, St. James was satisfied he had nothing to do with any of them.
Jensen looked at his watch. “How much longer is this going to take? I have a luncheon appointment.”
“Just one last question,” St. James said.
“What’s that?”
“Where did you go to university?”
“Florida State. Why do you want to know that?”
St. James ignored the question.
“What years?”
“’72 to ’75. Why do you want to know that?” he repeated.
“Just curious.”
“Don’t see what that has to do with my claim either. Matter of fact, you asked a lot of questions that have nothing to do with my claim. You’re curious about some strange things.”
St. James ignored the comment. “Now, Malachi, before I go, I have to review your investment records for a few companies on the list.”
Jensen was stunned. He hadn’t seen this coming, which gave St. James a certain amount of pleasure.
“Absolutely not,” he barked.
“Too bad,” St. James said shaking his head, feigning the closing of his file.
“What do you mean, too bad?”
“Well, you don’t get a cheque unless I sign off. And if I can’t complete my investigation, I can’t sign off,” St. James said with glee he barely managed to conceal.
Jensen jumped to his feet. “Look here, St. James, nobody said anything about you messing with my records. You can’t just waltz in here like you own the place!”
“All I’m asking is to see records related to relevant investments. If you won’t do that, I’ll close the file and advise Global the claim cannot be verified. Your choice.”
Chapter 50
Jensen fell into the large chair behind his huge desk, staring blankly at the ostentatious ceiling. St. James could see he was considering the risk of him roaming through Jensen Holdings files.
Trying to remember what’s damning.
Jensen knew he could kiss the insurance money goodbye if he didn’t cooperate. St. James wasn’t going any further if he couldn’t verify what had transpired between Gyberson and Jensen.
After several seconds Jensen let out a long sigh. “Okay.”
“Wise decision, Malachi,” said St. James. “I’ll need a place to work and someone to bring me files.”
Resigned to the corner he was forced into, Jensen buzzed his executive assistant. A moment later an underweight, sickly-looking woman in her late 60s wearing a baggy, flowered dress, and a well-worn grey sweater entered the room.
“Yes, Mr. Jensen?” she said in a low voice.
Jensen pointed rudely to St. James. “This here’s St. James. Put him in the spare office and bring him the files.”
Jensen’s disposition certainly didn’t improve in the presence of ladies. It was his nature no matter what. St. James doubted there’d be any difference if the president of the United States walked in.
“Very well, Mr. Jensen,” she said, looking at St. James. “Please follow me.”
Down the hall she said, “Is St. James your first name?”
“Actually it’s my last name. First is Hamilton.”
“Thought so. Mr. Jensen calls everyone by their last name. My name is Eleanor.”
“Pleased to meet you, Eleanor. That’s quite a guy you work for.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Just three months till retirement. Nerves couldn’t take much more.”
St. James said nothing.
Eleanor showed him into a medium-sized bright and airy office bearing absolutely no resemblance to Jensen’s tomb down the hall.
“Now,” she said, “what can I get for you?”
St. James rhymed off the list of companies he wanted to see, emphasizing that he’d like every file related to each one and that nothing should be left out or considered irrelevant.
“It will take some time to gather them all at once. Do you mind if I bring one company at a time?”
“Not at all, Eleanor.”
“Which would you like first?”
“Macadamia and then Carstairs, please.”
“Very well, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Help yourself to coffee. Servery’s next door.”
St. James went into the next room, popped a pod of Colombian dark roast into a Keurig, and waited for the machine to fill his mug. Then he returned to find Macadamia’s files neatly stacked in the centre of the desk. Eleanor was efficient if nothing else.
He took a couple of sips of coffee and then flipped open Macadamia’s correspondence file, which consisted mostly of emails between Gyberson and Jensen with occasional CCs to Stevens. There were also copies of wire transfers to Macadamia’s bank account from Jensen Holdings’s.
He whipped out a calculator from his attaché case and, running a finger down each internal document, began tapping in amounts transferred to Macadamia. When every amount had been entered, $23,122,699 flashed up on the calculator screen. Not exactly $23 million, but close enough for his purposes.
Emails CCed to Stevens were confirmations that legal and other documents had been executed by Macadamia. St. James could see that Stevens was orchestrating everything from the exchanges. Yet, he seemed privy only to some, but not all, emails. Odd. Why wouldn’t all correspondence be shared with him? He was, after all, quarterbacking the work. It would be normal to be copied on all correspondence; if not, actions could be missed or could go off the rails and Stevens wouldn’t know.
St. James made several notes before moving on.
Just as he finished examining Macadamia, Eleanor arrived with Carstairs’s files. St. James went through the very same procedures with Carstairs that he had with Macadamia.
Documentation confirmed that $23 million was transferred from Jensen Holdings to Macadamia to Carstairs, which was internal evidence that funds had made it through to the contractor.
But internal evidence didn’t prove that money had actually moved from one bank account to another: only external evidence could verify that. It was one thing to record transfers in company records; it was quite another for a bank to acknowledge that transfers had actually taken place.
St. James asked Eleanor for Jensen Holdings’s bank statements, which she promptly delivered.
“Even though they are not his companies, would Malachi happen to have copies of bank statements for Macadamia and Carstairs?”
“Well, Jensen Holdings owns shares in Macadamia, and Macadamia owns Carstairs. Under the shareholder agreements, he has the right to all bank statements. I’ll get them.”
“Thank you, Eleanor.”
Eleanor returned a few minutes later with stacks of bank statements.
St. James opened bank statement files for Jensen Holdings, Macadamia, and Carstairs and ran a finger down each page, following dep
osits, cheques, and transfers in and out of all three bank accounts, comparing each date and amount recorded by the bank to those recorded in the internal records.
The bank statements confirmed that Jensen Holdings had transferred $23 million to Macadamia, just as Jensen had said. That corroborated the internal records. The statements also confirmed $23 million coming out of Macadamia’s account. However, no $23 million had been deposited into Carstairs’s.
St. James considered this. Why did internal documentation show money being transferred into Carstairs when it wasn’t? If money was taken when leaving Macadamia’s bank account, why would Carstairs’s internal records confirm it being received? Internal and external didn’t match. Puzzling.
St. James made a note.
The last piece of correspondence from Gyberson to Jensen caught St. James’s eye. It simply said, Good to go. Can do anytime. Two short, intriguing sentences. But there was nothing to indicate what they meant. St. James made a note anyway. He did notice that Stevens wasn’t copied in on this one.
The remaining Carstairs files held nothing of interest until he got to an unlabelled one containing a single piece of paper: a note in Jensen’s handwriting describing dissatisfaction with Stevens’s investigation into Gyberson, Macadamia, and Carstairs.
“Probably when he first contemplated suing SG&S,” St. James mumbled. “He’s manufacturing evidence for the lawsuit.”
Jensen had said that he communicated with shareholders only once or twice a year, at shareholder and director meetings. Yet communication with Gyberson amounted to considerably more.
Eleanor arrived with another stack of files and left with Carstairs’s. St. James made another coffee and then selected another company’s files.
The stack was held together by three large elastic bands, which St. James removed to separate the pile into individual files. As he pulled files from the stack, a leather-bound document fell onto the desk.
St. James was surprised to see it labelled Jensen Holdings Inc. Financial Statements. It had to be misfiled; no other logical reason for Jensen Holdings’s financial records to be among investment files. It should have been filed in Accounting.
If Jensen knew that Jensen Holdings financial information had fallen into the hands of St. James, he’d have a coronary and fire Eleanor on the spot, even with her being only three months from retirement. He was a nasty piece of work. In Eleanor’s fragile state, St. James didn’t think it likely she would survive his rage. St. James decided to place the financial statements back where they came from before Eleanor re-boxed the files.
Double Shot of Scotch Page 28