“It’s time he signed over his interest in the company,” he continued. “Business has changed. We’ll be running things differently from now on.”
“What are you talking about?” Adrian held his hands up in confusion. “We’re already doing business differently — we have the bistro, we’re taking over quotas, my dad’s already pissed off, and the fishermen are calling him to complain, and some restaurants too. There’s no way he’ll sign the business over to me, and when he finds out about Brenda . . .” Adrian was babbling.
“I told you to listen,” Steve said, suppressing his frustration. Why can’t this privileged little shit just do what he’s told? “Forget the fucking fishermen, there’s no future in fishing, we’re in the export business now.”
Adrian stared at him. “What are you talking about? We’re a seafood company! What will we export if not seafood?”
“We’re already exporting other . . . products,” Steve said, looking at Adrian, waiting to gauge his reaction. This has to work. This has to work. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
“What other products?” Adrian said, his voice lower now, his face registering some understanding of what Steve was telling him.
“Let’s just say, if Brenda hadn’t had her little accident,” Steve leaned forward, “you and I would be totally fucked by now.”
“Why would I be fucked?” Adrian seemed to regain some of his arrogance. “This is the first I’ve heard about your . . . your side business!”
Steve settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “Of course you’d be fucked, Adrian. It’s your business. You pay the bills, you sign the paperwork, you enjoy the benefits. How else do you think you could afford the bistro? Look at this office.” He spread his hands out. “You think anyone will believe you knew nothing?” He smiled. “You worry too much, Adrian.”
Adrian sat still and said nothing. Steve watched him, knowing that he must be processing all of this, assessing his options.
This has to work.
Finally, Adrian spoke. “How much does Brenda know?” he asked.
“She suspected. Look.” Steve pulled out his phone and showed Adrian the video of Brenda rummaging through his desk.
“You have cameras in my office?” Adrian said in shock, looking around the office wildly.
“For our own protection.” Steve replaced his phone in his pocket, noticing as he did that he had two voicemails. “If we didn’t have them, I wouldn’t know about Brenda’s snooping, in here or in the plant.”
“You have cameras in the plant too?” Adrian threw his hands up in panic, realizing what Steve was saying. “You knew Brenda was in the freezer? That wasn’t an accident? Are you fucking insane?”
“She has a bump on the head, no big deal. She didn’t find anything, maybe a few illegal salmon, but I got rid of them. And she’s resigned. Now, if she says anything, she’s just a disgruntled ex-employee who broke safety rules in the fish plant. Your problem, Adrian, is not Brenda.” He leaned over and brought his face very close to Adrian’s. “This is the problem you need to focus on now. I need you to listen to me very carefully and then do everything I tell you.”
Half an hour later, Steve left Adrian sitting at his desk. He smiled at Amy and her new colleague, who both beamed back at him, and went to the bistro to get another coffee and make some phone calls in private.
He hoped that he hadn’t underestimated Adrian. One useful thing about Adrian, Steve thought, was his attachment to money and the nice things it could buy. Greed was such an easy character flaw to manipulate.
He sat at the bistro, once again admiring the decor. All paid for with a combination of poaching and drug running, a fact he’d left Adrian slowly digesting. He’d explained, as if to a five-year-old, he thought, rolling his eyes, the next steps that had to happen. Adrian had listened, for once without interrupting, and nodded his agreement when Steve told him that Nikos could no longer own any part of Hades Fish Co. “Myself or my associates will be the new majority shareholders,” Steve had told him.
Adrian was smart enough not to ask about the associates. He didn’t need to know yet. Steve needed Adrian to get Nikos in line before he knew who his new business partners would be.
Steve checked his phone. He still had two voicemails. He listened to the first one and swore under his breath. This was what you got for dealing with fucking idiots. Why the fuck would anyone talk to reporters?
His hand shook a little as he sipped the coffee the waitress had just put in front of him. It wasn’t the caffeine giving him the jitters, he knew that. One more obstacle he’d have to deal with. He checked the time. If he hurried, he could get the lunchtime ferry. It would be quicker to take a floatplane to the island, but he could pay with cash if he took the ferry. Cover his tracks.
Steve drained his coffee and ordered a sandwich to go.
He listened to the second voicemail as he waited.
“Mr Hilstead, this is Jonathan Dunn of Dunn and Grant Associates. There has been a change of plan. Our mutual friend requires the transfer of assets in Hades Fish Co. to be completed no later than a week from today. This is quicker than first discussed, but our friend has a large contract that needs to be fulfilled and he is keen to funnel this business through his new company. We drew the paperwork up for your convenience. Please pick it up from my office and get the necessary signatures. One week, Mr Hilstead, one week.”
Steve closed his eyes. Focus, he thought, breathe.
“Mr Hilstead?” The waitress was standing in front of him, holding a cardboard box. “Your sandwich?”
He opened his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, “put it on Adrian’s tab.”
One thing at a time, he thought, one thing at a time.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Christina!” Gerry Roberts shouted from behind his desk. “Christina!”
Nothing. She’d gone home.
Gerry got up and walked to his office door and opened it.
He was alone in the office. Nobody popped their head around the door to say goodnight these days or invite him for an after-work drink. How had he fallen this far?
Gerry Roberts looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly. He needed a drink. He thought of the empty vodka bottle back at his apartment, and even though he’d promised himself that it would be the last time, he knew he would stop at the liquor store on the way home. Not the liquor store in his neighbourhood. He would drive to the other side of town, even though it was fifteen minutes out of his way.
Last time he picked up a bottle from the usual place — was it yesterday? The day before? He couldn’t remember. But he recalled clearly the comment from the fat woman behind the till who always asked too many questions. “Back again, eh?” she said, with a wink. “You know you can buy a bigger bottle? Right there,” and she held out a flabby arm and pointed at the Supersize Saving option for his preferred brand. He’d grabbed the bottle in the brown paper bag and slammed down the exact amount of cash. He’d left the store clutching his booze and muttering under his breath, humiliated. Sat in his car, he hesitated for a moment, then unscrewed the cap from the bottle and took a fiery swig. Then he backed the car out of the parking bay, still angry enough to jam his foot on the gas but aware that being stopped by traffic police with alcohol on his breath would be his undoing.
When he got home that night, like most of them, he didn’t bother to take off his shoes or jacket. He sat in the small living room, which was as impersonal and gloomy as his office. He didn’t get a glass, he just took swigs of vodka straight from the bottle and festered about the unfairness of his life. It had been so good at first. Where had it gone wrong? He’d been top of the heap! Now he was in this cruddy apartment and pushing fucking paper around all day long. This wasn’t what he signed up for, no sir, and it wasn’t what he deserved either, not by a long shot. As the booze took hold, so did the self-pity, and he started to blubber a little, not bothering to wipe away the tears or mucus
that dripped from his chin.
He’d started his career with such high hopes, and he was good too. He’d joined as a second mate and soon been promoted to first mate, then relief captain and finally captain. He was so proud. He’d risen quicker than most through the ranks of the Canadian Coast Guard and soon took a move to the Department of Fisheries and Oceans. He’d had a pretty young wife who loved being married to a captain. They were members of the prestigious Yacht Club and had their own little cabin cruiser that they took out on weekends, just putting around the Gulf Islands, mooring for lunches and cocktail hours. Life was good.
Just one bad decision changed everything. He moaned slightly as he remembered and took another gulp of vodka, hoping to dull his memory. But no matter how much booze he drank, that afternoon was still clear in his mind.
It was the first salmon opening of the season. Back then, the fishing fleet was over a thousand purse-seiners, all competing for the largest hauls of the prized sockeye salmon. There were no aircraft in those days to monitor the fleet and make sure that fishermen stayed in their boundaries and didn’t fish over the scheduled time.
“And they were bloody cowboys,” he said aloud in the dark.
How were they supposed to make sure all those fuckers followed the rules?
He’d decided to check on a packer vessel. The packer was buying fish for cash straight off the fishermen. It was useful when there was a short opening. They could offload their catch to the packer, get cash immediately and carry on fishing. The packer transported the fish to the processors and made their money selling it.
At least, that was how it was supposed to work. Roberts had got a tip-off that there was something not right about this vessel.
The King of Cash. He watched for most of the day. Fishing boats, their hulls low in water, loaded with salmon, pumped their precious catch into the hatches on the packer and headed back out to the fishing grounds to do it all again. An hour before the opening was due to finish, he ordered his vessel alongside the King of Cash and told the skipper he was coming aboard, and to have his tally slips ready for inspection.
Roberts had heard rumours about the skipper, Stan Hilstead, and his son. Some said they were working for the bikers. Stan was a short man, with large forearms covered with faded tattoos. When he grinned at Roberts and said, “Welcome aboard, Captain, what can I do for you?” and then laughed as if he’d told a hilarious joke, Roberts could see the glint of a gold tooth.
Roberts ignored him. He stepped into the galley and found Steve Hilstead, Stan’s son, sitting behind the biggest stack of cash Roberts had ever seen. For a second it mesmerized him. Then he saw white bundles piled up beside the cash. He must have looked startled.
“What’s the matter, Captain?” Steve Hilstead drawled. “Never seen top-grade coke before?” and he too threw back his head and laughed. Gerry Roberts had replayed that moment over and over in his head all these years. Hilstead must have been high. But Gerry was stone-cold sober, and there was no excuse for what happened next.
“So what’ll it be, Captain? Coke or cash? We’ve got lots of both.” Hilstead grinned brazenly, making no attempt to hide.
Gerry Roberts said nothing. He was trying to process this. He knew what he should do, of course, but the cash . . . His wife liked nice things. She wanted a bigger boat, a golf course membership and a motorhome so they could winter in Arizona. And the problem was, despite the badge on his arm, his salary wasn’t enough.
As if Hilstead was reading his mind, he tossed Gerry an envelope.
“Have this on me, Captain, no questions asked,” he said, and tapped the side of his nose. “Buy the wife something nice, eh?”
The rest of that day was a blur. The envelope contained thousands of dollars. For weeks, Gerry kept the envelope under his mattress at home, worried that he’d get called into the office. If he didn’t touch it, he could just say he was gathering evidence, right? Just about to hand it in, report the matter. He’d get away with it. No harm, no foul. But weeks passed and then a month, and nothing. He began to relax.
One evening, he took his wife out to dinner at the golf club. He presented her with membership documents. As she flung her arms round his neck, he murmured, “Christmas in Mexico this year?”
He spent all the cash.
A few months later, as the fall fishing season started, his phone rang.
“Captain Gerry Roberts, how are ya?” a familiar voice drawled.
And that was it. Just a few favours at first. Make sure his enforcement vessels avoided this area at this time. Turn a blind eye. Make sure that discrepancies on paperwork were overlooked. Nothing big, Gerry told himself. Nobody gets hurt. And to reward every small favour, an envelope would appear, sometimes on the front seat of his car, sometimes hand-delivered to his home and left in the mailbox. A thank you and a veiled warning.
We know how to find you. Keep your mouth shut.
Gerry Roberts came to rely on the cash. By now he had twin daughters. His wife wanted them enrolled in a private French immersion school. She wanted a sports car and expected two foreign vacations per year.
Sometimes he didn’t hear from Hilstead for months. So he borrowed money to make up the shortfall.
Some nights he couldn’t sleep, worrying about paying bills and getting caught. He got the sense that he was being sidelined a little. Paranoia set in so he started having a few drinks in the evening.
Just to help me relax, he told himself.
One day he was called in to talk to his superior.
His hands went clammy. His neck felt constricted in his shirt. He was sure that this was it. He would be fired, or worse, turned over to the police.
But he was wrong. His superior officer told Gerry curtly that he was being transferred to a desk job.
His first reaction was relief. Then horror. Pushing paper? And more importantly, no more money?
Gerry Roberts was smart enough not to argue. He felt certain that the department managers had an inkling about his lucrative side business. After all, it was hard to keep a secret in this town. His wife openly boasted about their wealth, and it wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together. He decided it was probably a blessing. They had given him an off-ramp and he should take it. He’d had a good run.
“Ah well, Captain,” Hilstead said in that mocking tone when he told him, “I guess our business is concluded.” He took it well, Roberts thought. His wife did not. Especially when Gerry told her that their household budget would be severely curtailed.
Gerry and his wife argued. Her spending habits remained the same. Gerry’s credit card debt soared and his drinking increased.
He couldn’t remember when he started taking a mickey of vodka to work. It just happened. He only intended to have the odd shot at the end of a busy day — to unwind, he told himself. But soon he was filling up a water bottle with booze and taking regular sips during the day.
He was sure nobody noticed.
Then he arrived at work one morning to find the manager of his department and two of his colleagues waiting in his office. His secretary was nowhere to be seen.
“Well, what’s going on here?” Gerry asked. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
His colleagues shuffled their feet awkwardly and refused to look at him directly. Finally, his manager told him. His secretary had requested a transfer because of his drinking. He smelled of booze most days and slurred his speech. He often fell asleep in his office and she was tired of covering for him.
“Go to rehab,” his manager said. “Get help.”
Gerry Roberts denied it angrily. “Bullshit!”
His manager handed him a letter. “You have no choice, Gerry. Get help or be fired. You are suspended as from today.”
Gerry’s bravado deflated. He snatched the letter and drove home.
His wife was playing golf, and she arrived home to find him passed out. She read the letter, and when Gerry came round, he found another letter. She was leaving. She was humiliated. He
had humiliated his family. He was a loser and a disgrace. She wanted a divorce. He staggered out to the car and drove to the liquor store and bought another bottle of vodka.
For a few months, he tried. He refused to go to rehab, but he went to AA meetings. He hated them. He looked around the room, the earnest faces clutching plastic cups of coffee, taking turns to air their dirty laundry, he thought. He refused a sponsor, refused to speak, and grudgingly held hands and muttered the prayers and phrases that were supposed to cure him, he supposed.
After a month, he went back to work. He found himself in a tiny windowless office with a new secretary.
After a bitter divorce, he sold the house, the boat and the new car. It covered his debt, but not the financial settlement to his wife and children. So he took out a new loan and moved into a basement suite.
And this is it, he thought. This is how it’s going to be. For fucking ever.
He didn’t hear from Steve Hilstead again. He turned up for work, put the hours in, paid his wife every month and saw his daughters less and less. The only change to his dismal routine was the occasional new secretary seated outside his office.
Until a year ago.
Gerry’s cell phone rang that day, and the display showed only Unknown Number. He answered.
A voice he hadn’t heard in a long while said, “Captain Gerry Roberts, how are ya?”
“I can’t do anything for you,” he said abruptly and pressed the End Call button. The phone rang again an hour later. And then again in the evening and twice the following day, before Gerry finally answered. “Look,” he said angrily.
“Now, now, Captain,” Hilstead said pleasantly. “I don’t need you to do anything. All I need from you is some information. And I’ll be paying you, of course.”
Gerry was silent. He needed cash.
“What information?” he asked at last.
Hilstead explained that he and a very good friend had got themselves in a spot of bother. Mr Nguyen, his friend, would be grateful in the usual way if Captain Roberts could provide a heads-up on an operation that the department was currently conducting.
COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) Page 16