But not before reading them. It was a wonderful opportunity to gain insight into Jensen’s true financial state. Right or wrong, he couldn’t pass it up.
St. James flipped open the leather-bound document to the Balance Sheet page and was immediately shocked by what he saw. All the money Jensen had invested was borrowed from third parties. And not from banks at reasonable interest rates, but from syndicates at higher rates. The company was losing money fast. Shareholder equity had been completely wiped out the previous year. The company was a house of cards, ready to fall.
“No wonder he’s pushing so hard for an insurance cheque. He can’t survive without it,” St. James mumbled.
He spent the next twenty minutes or so reading cashflow and income statements, as well as the notes on the statements themselves. He was stunned; he just couldn’t believe the disaster. Unless the company received a major equity injection soon, it would be bankrupt.
For a moment he thought about keeping the statements, to make sure they were never found. But that was wrong, and he was in the business of detecting wrongdoing, not committing it. If he took the document, he’d lose all respect for himself, as well as that of those who might one day find out.
He carefully placed the document between two files, then positioned them in the middle of the stack and re-applied the three elastic bands just as he had found the stack an hour earlier. Satisfied the document was secure and concealed he delivered the stack to Eleanor’s workstation, thanked her for the help, and wished her a long and happy retirement.
All told, the review had taken a little over two and a half hours, long enough for Jensen to make it through his luncheon meeting. St. James stopped by his office and found Jensen reading a legal document.
St. James knocked lightly on the doorjamb. “Malachi, I’ve finished the investigation.”
Jensen just grunted. He didn’t look up, nor ask St. James what he’d found, if anything, or if he would now sign off so Global would issue a cheque.
“Make sure you speed up that cheque,” was all he said as St. James left the office. “I’ve obligations, you know!” he yelled as St. James closed the door behind him. St. James said nothing; he just kept walking.
On the way back to the InterContinental, St. James wondered how such an arrogant, deranged, angry malcontent like Jensen had survived in business as long as he had.
St. James’s cell vibrated.
Jason Williamson.
“Just got word from Fargo. Police picked up Gyberson this morning on suspicion of murder. He’s being questioned as we speak.”
“Excellent. Can you ask the chief there if Dozer can question him when they’re finished?”
“Already have. No problem, after they have first crack.”
Back in the hotel room, St. James discovered an email from Higgins Johnson with legal searches attached and another from Dozer saying his best men were tailing the CISI people.
St. James replied, asking Dozer to fly to Fargo to question Gyberson. Dozer confirmed his next-day Fargo flight a half-hour later.
St. James’s cell vibrated a second time.
Anna.
“Sorry I was cranky with you last night,” she said apologetically. “I really don’t do jet lag well.”
“Don’t worry about it. I need you to do more searches.”
“What for?”
“To satisfy a hunch.”
Chapter 51
St. James called Anderson from his Washington hotel room to report on the UK trip. He described his investigation into CISI’s two largest plants, their inventory records, the excellent cooperation he had enjoyed from Basil and William Hughes, and his discussions with Captain Thorne. Anderson was pleased with the thoroughness.
St. James then asked Anderson if it would be possible to review a list of internal shareholders. Anderson said he would arrange it.
“Would you know if any director or employee pledged shares with a broker on margin?” St. James asked.
“Well, we’d know if shares were pledged for a loan, but not whether it was on margin. I believe most institutions ask for a letter before lending against employee shares.”
“To ensure the bank is repaid loans if shares are redeemed before money reaches the borrower’s hands?”
“That’s right. Security thing I guess.”
“I’ll be back in Toronto on Monday. Could shareholder files be available then?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll have my assistant pull the files and book a room for you on this floor.”
“Excellent.”
St. James was beginning to like Anderson. Odd, considering their rocky beginning. Anderson’s strong focus on company performance and doing what he said he would when he said he would were two qualities St. James admired. Not many executives had both. To some, a commitment to deliver by a certain date was merely a suggestion.
St. James’s flight to Ottawa was not until eight the next morning. He had time for himself. At 4:00 he felt the need to walk; exercise was always his best head-clearer.
The air had turned damp, even colder than when he met with Jensen that morning. The wind had picked up substantially. The hotel concierge directed him to a men’s shop four blocks from the hotel where he found a suitably warm jacket. Now more comfortable, he walked up Pennsylvania Avenue, as close to the White House as Secret Service would allow.
The usual army of media personnel dominated the White House lawn: vans covered with advertising, each sprouting multiple antennas and dishes pointed in every direction.
St. James wondered what all the fuss was about. Maybe a major policy speech from the President, or a natural disaster somewhere in the world?
He stood watching the activity for some time, thinking of all the times he’d seen this very picture on television. It felt surreal to be standing there in person.
He walked a number of other streets before returning to the hotel. He grabbed the Stevens file and went down to the bar, where he ordered a double Forty Creek. Mack was off duty and there was no sign of Cyril the pig guy.
Slowly and methodically he began to put the Stevens story together, separating fact from supposition, and isolating holes that needed to be filled to close the case. He had the theory of the case. For a moment, he wished DuPont was there to help with details, to challenge him on specifics. That was Pierre’s strength, not his.
One loose end was whether a deep clean actually could completely sanitize, leaving no prints. St. James wasn’t sure how he would prove that, one way or another. So he called Nathan Strong who, by chance, was still in his office.
“Thought you would have already left for home,” St. James said lightheartedly.
“Used to leave earlier when I was young but found sitting in traffic to be a waste of time. I am afraid the older I get the more impatient I become. I can’t tolerate bad, indecisive drivers like I used to. A weakness, I’m afraid. Besides, I get a lot done during the hour and a half everyone else sits in traffic.”
“A much more productive use of time,” St. James offered. “Nathan, I need a favour.”
“Name it.”
“I need to talk to your cleaning company. But they won’t talk to me unless you authorize it.”
“What would you like?”
“I’d like to tag along with them when they do a sanitation clean, see how it’s done, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll call the owner right now and get back to you.”
St. James went back to his notes and scotch.
Anna didn’t know it, but she was researching the second major hole in the case. And, depending upon what she found, he could be going to Cayman sooner rather than later.
He waved the bartender over for another scotch and when it arrived he closed the file and carefully considered what he’d summarized.
His cell vibrated.
Nathan.
He had spoken with the owner of the cleaning company, a man named Mohammed, who was anxious to please him. It so happened that Moham
med was starting a clean in an investment house the next morning and was happy to have St. James tag along. Nathan gave St. James Mohammed’s coordinates.
Meeting Mohammed in the morning meant St. James had to change flight plans from Friday morning to evening and let Anna know, both of which he did as soon as he returned to the room.
Mohammed was an early riser and wanted to meet at 7 a.m. at an address on L Street. An ungodly hour, but he had to start then because the client’s employees couldn’t work with cleaners milling about, and certain offices on the executive floor had to be done before nine.
The next morning, St. James made his way to the address Mohammed had provided, arriving promptly at seven after gulping down a blueberry muffin and a large coffee.
Mohammed was a short man with dark skin and sunken eyes who walked with a limp. Greeting St. James as he stepped off the elevator, Mohammed introduced himself as a hard-working Palestinian Christian who had arrived from Ramallah seven years ago. He had grown the cleaning business from two to forty people, mostly with Middle Eastern workers who couldn’t find work at American companies.
They entered a large executive office that St. James assumed belonged to the president of the investment house. There, Mohammed began to explain the details of a sanitation clean. Fortunately, his people were just about to begin, so St. James was able to witness each step firsthand.
“First we wash everything down with soap and water. Then we apply various types of cleaning products based on surface material to be sanitized, being careful not to cause a damaging chemical reaction. The most common cleaners are Lysol, Virox, and Fantastik, all with different dilution ratios to minimize corrosion and still achieve the job. Whatever the product, it should contain sodium hypochlorite, quaternary ammonium, or hydrogen peroxide in sufficient quantities to kill 99.99% of bacteria.”
St. James wasn’t looking for this much detail, but Mohammed was so enthusiastic he didn’t have the heart to suggest more brevity. In the end, he was glad he didn’t. It was Mohammed’s detail that ultimately gave him the confidence he had in his own conclusions.
“Do you do every surface? Walls, furniture, doors, finish work, that sort of thing?” St. James inquired.
“Everything within six feet of the floor. Above that nobody touches. Even there we take no chances. We damp mop above six feet with a solution of vinegar and water.”
St. James nodded. “How do you know you’ve covered all surfaces?”
Mohammed smiled as he produced a checklist that went on for pages and covered everything from doorknobs to toilet handles, and all points in between.
“My people use this for every room,” he said, pointing to the checklist. “Each room has a supervisor who also cleans as they go. The cleaner checks off boxes as each step is completed. The supervisor checks the work and signs off. A cleaner has to be with me more than eighteen months and earn my trust before I make them a supervisor. Can’t afford to lose a client. It’s a cutthroat business, and once you lose a client they’re gone forever.”
St. James nodded again. “What are the chances of a fingerprint anywhere in this room surviving?”
Without hesitation Mohammed said, “Less than one per cent.”
“You answered that very quickly, Mohammed,” St. James said with a smile.
“That’s because I get asked that question a lot by police whenever there’s a homicide and no prints.”
“How did you arrive at the ‘less than one per cent’ figure?”
“I hired a marketing company several months ago to help grow my revenue. They suggested that a test could be an effective way to market our services. If we could prove more than ninety-nine per cent success sanitizing a room, it would give us a competitive advantage. Good branding, they said. We had already perfected training and quality control programs ahead of our competitors. We just weren’t telling anyone.
“So, I picked a client to film a commercial in exchange for five free cleanings. We made sure the office was laden with prints. I asked police if they would join in, which cost me a hefty donation to their charity foundation, but it was worth it to have the independent verification reinforcing a client endorsement. Plus it helped the police understand why there were no fingerprints at certain crime scenes.”
St. James nodded.
“Police lifted fingerprints before and after we sanitized. Lots of prints before, but only a single partial unclear thumbprint was found after. What soap and water didn’t get, cleaning products did. The commercial plus police verification boosted revenue forty per cent over eighteen months. Best money I ever spent,” Mohammed said jubilantly.
St. James laughed. “Your enthusiasm is admirable, Mohammed. You’re your own best salesman.”
“Thank you, Mr. St. James, for those kind words.”
St. James watched for almost an hour until he had the evidence he needed. He thanked Mohammed for his help.
Back at the hotel, St. James went online to find two more cleaning companies. With very little variation he got the same answers to the questions he had put to Mohammed.
St. James looked at his watch. 10:15. He was thinking about an earlier flight back to Ottawa when his cell vibrated again.
“I’m in Fargo,” said Dozer. “Got in last night about ten. Colder than hell here, man.”
“Thought hell was supposed to be hot.”
“Okay, it’s colder than Ottawa. Same thing.”
St. James smirked at the phone. “That’s what I’ve heard. That’s why you’re there and I’m here.”
“Thanks, man,” Dozer said disingenuously.
“What’s your plan?” St. James said.
“I’m on my way to police headquarters right now to meet Detective Hanlon, the guy heading up the murder investigation. We talked first thing this morning and he’s okay to team with us. He’s interested in what we’re doing, if it could somehow help them nail Gyberson.”
“Let me know how it goes.” St. James clicked off.
St. James was able to catch a 2:30 flight to Ottawa, and was home by 5:30. The first thing he did was call Anna at the pub.
“How late do you have to work?” he asked.
“I’m here till nine, I’m afraid.”
“Take a cab when you’re off. In the meantime I’ll open a bottle of wine, read my mail, pay some bills, and do laundry. So probably best I don’t pick you up. I’ll either be too cranky because of bills or have had too much wine.”
“Or both,” she said, laughing.
“See you when I see you,” he said.
Bills were mounting, and St. James was feeling pressure to tie up the Stevens case. His bank account was anemic, and that was without invoices from Dozer and Smythe. He kept the two so busy they didn’t have time to bill.
Good cashflow strategy.
While the wash wound its way through the dry cycle, he paid creditors, opened a bottle of Conquista Mendoza, and poured it through the aerator. He sat on the living room couch, flipped on the news, and saw the very same view of the White House he had seen in person the previous day.
Anna had been home from England for more than a day now and had found time to replenish the fridge with a cooked chicken, fresh vegetables, cheese, and a variety of juices.
After grilled chicken and mixed vegetables, he poured more wine and headed for the shower. Five minutes under hot, steamy water was wonderful. He examined his wound, which was now just a reddish scar. He could finally forget about it, as much as anyone could forget being shot.
Showered and shaved, he dressed and wandered down the hall at precisely the same time that Anna came through the front door.
“You’re a half-hour early,” he said, looking at his watch.
“What? We’ve been apart for a couple of days and that’s how you greet me?” she said, mock-hurt in her voice.
“Sorry. Let’s start over.”
He walked closer, held her in his arms, and they kissed.
“Now that’s more like it,” she said, sm
iling. “My feet are killing me. I’m going to run a bath. Would you be a doll and pour me a glass of wine?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
St. James headed to the kitchen, Anna to the bathroom. A few minutes later he handed her a glass of Pinot Grigio in the tub.
“Did you eat?” he asked.
“Had a sandwich at the pub. By the way, I forgot to mention that the owners fired Sid yesterday.”
“About time! What brought it to a head?”
“A group of Jim’s friends wrote a complaint letter saying if Sid wasn’t gone by today, they’d drive business away from the Duck. Everyone signed it. That was all it took. No more Sid.”
“Pity someone didn’t think of that before. Put us all out of our misery. Who’s in charge now?”
“Katie Cameron. She’s great. Everyone loves her. We felt the tension lift the minute Sid left the building.”
“Not a job you were interested in?”
“No. I’ve been thinking of our conversations, about my capabilities, that is. You’re right. It’s time I made a move.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Don’t know. Still thinking.”
St. James left it at that.
When Anna finished bathing, she dressed in a comfortable grey track suit and joined St. James in the living room, where he refilled their glasses.
“I managed to dredge up the university list you asked for,” she said when they had settled together on the chesterfield.
St. James smiled. “Great. Let’s see?”
She handed him a paper she took from her purse, and he looked down the list of names.
“What did you want it for, anyway?”
“You’ll see.”
“Thought that’s what you’d say. You sure do have a funny way of team playing. Sometimes we’re in, sometimes we’re not.”
He smiled.
Double Shot of Scotch Page 29