Power Blind (23 page)
Authors: Steven Gore
“When did they add the third step?”
“About six, seven years ago.”
“Is that how Anston got hooked up with Quinton?”
“I don't know. I just know they're hooked up somehow.”
S
o how'd you get onto this trail?” Charters asked Gage as he pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“I'd rather not say.”
“Let me guess. We talked about Anston. We talked about Quinton. We talked about Meyer. We talked about Cayman Exchange Bank. Let's see . . . let's see . . . whose name could be missing?” Charters smiled. “Who could it be? Maybe Charlie Palmer? My dear investigator. Or, shall we say, Anston's dear investigator, may he rest in peace.”
“Why âmy dear investigator'?”
“I paid him fifty grand for nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because Anston told me to. He said we needed some investigation done. I think I just paid for Palmer's summer vacation in the islands. I never got any benefit from it. He didn't need to go down there and talk to people in Quinton's firm or at the bank. By the time you and the FBI were done, everybody knew what happened and it wasn't like I had a defense.”
“I take it you paid him offshore, too.”
“Yeah. It was to Pegasus.”
Charters took a sip of coffee, then said, “I don't know where you're going with all of this, and I don't want to know. But I'd be careful if you're thinking about taking on Anston. The way his mind works scares the hell out of me.”
Charters set his cup down.
“Anston figured it might help if I started going to church in case he wanted to put on a character defense. You know, get some minister to come in to say how I wouldn't cheat people or, if I did, it was unintentional or maybe the devil made me do it. Anston took me with him one Sunday to get me hooked up with a preacher. The sermon was about the Book of Job, and the suffering God had inflicted on the guy. Real graphic. Skin lesions and flesh falling off. I felt like throwing up.
“As we're driving away, Anston gives me this matter-of-fact look and says about the spookiest, most megalomaniacal thing I ever heard a man say. He says:
“ âThe minister has it all wrong. The real lesson of the Book of Job wasn't that God tortured Job and killed his wife and his kids and destroyed all his animals and crops. It wasn't that at all.' Then Anston does a long pause, and says, âIt's that Job made God come to
him
.' ”
I
hate this place,” Boots Marnin complained in his third international call to Marc Anston. “Everything is filthy and noisy. I can't even sleep at night, between the imams calling the rag heads to prayer and horns honking and those goddamn Bollywood soundtracks blaring out of sidewalk speakers. And every day there's another idiotic Hindu festival for some god who looks like a mutant animal.”
“Then find Hawkins and get out of there.”
“What do you think I've been doing? You know how big Hyderabad is? Seven million dirty, sweaty, smelly people.”
“Are you even sure he's there?”
“Positive. Some girl in his house overheard him tell a cop in town that's where he was going.”
“Why do you believe her?”
“Because I gave her enough money to buy her folks two of them Brahma bulls and told her I'd come back and slit the throats of the cattle
and
her parents if she was lying to me.”
“How are you going to find him?”
“I'm hoping he'll come to me. I hired some ex-cops to watch the
dhabas.
They're food shacks along the highway where the hookers work. It's the only place around where you can get teenage girls easy, and that's what he's into. Sometimes two, three at a time. Costs him about seventy-five cents each. Sneaking out to the
dhabas
is safer than bringing his own girls from Gannapalli. They might talk to neighbors and give him away.”
“And when you find him?”
“My guess is he'll have a heart attack the moment he looks at me.”
“Get it done. I need you back here. We're going to have to do something about Gage. He's been cozying up to Porzolkiewski. Been to see him a couple of times.”
T
he mob of Indian truck drivers surged like an amoeba as the fighting cocks jabbed and clawed and pursued one another in the trash-strewn dirt patch behind the row of food stalls and shacks along the Hyderabad Highway.
Despite the setting sun and the gray-brown haze of the dusty road, Boots Marnin caught flashes of rooster wings rising above the screaming men. He was hunched low in the rear sleeping seat of the tractor cab parked to the east, hiding his face from the drivers passing by and from the prostitutes trolling for customers.
The circle surged again as the cocks tumbled toward the legs of the men standing close to the rear of the nearest shack. Boots heard the thump of sweaty backs slamming against the wooden wall as the men dodged the razor-sharp spurs cinched to the roosters' legs. They re-formed the circle as the birds rolled the opposite way, toward the mango trees bordering the lot to the north.
Diesel fumes pumping out from the dozens of trucks parked around him once would have reminded Boots of his father's garage, but now they merely choked him and engendered not thoughts of Houston, but fantasies of escape. The only break came in the form of the wind-driven odor of reused coconut oil, deep-fried samosas, chickpea balls, burned wheat
chapattis
, and cumin and coriander and turmeric and a dozen other spices that made Boots want to reach for a gun. For the few days of his surveillance, Boots would look at the cows wandering along the highway or grazing in the fields, then daydream about a T-bone steak. Now the thought turned his stomach because he knew the meat would taste like India.
Boots heard a cheer and saw triumphant brown hands raise the victorious cock above the crowd. He then watched men separate into groups and exchange rupees before wandering back to their trucks or to the small wooden tables spread along the front of the
dhaba
.
The skies darkened as he watched them eat, then disappear into the shacks, and drive off twenty minutes later, making room for a continuing stream of other drivers stopping to eat at the tables or screw on the dirty cots or sleep in their trucks.
Boots leaned forward toward the ex-cop sitting in the driver's seat of the tractor cab.
“You sure this the right place?” Boots asked. “We've been here a long time.”
“I am still believing this is the only
dhaba
he is visiting along the Hyderabad Highway.”
They sat without speaking for another hour watching trucks, cars, and vans arriving and leaving, men cooking rice and lentils in stainless steel pots over open gas flames, women chopping vegetables and mincing herbs.
The ex-cop tapped Boots's shoulder, then pointed at a yellow, canvas-topped auto-taxi pulling to a stop along the side of the nearest shack.
The taxi
walla
remained seated inside the three-wheeled, open-sided vehicle while a potbellied man slipped out the far side, into the shadows along the wall, then disappeared around the back of the shack.
“That is Mr. Wilbert, yes?” the ex-cop said.
“We'll find out soon enough.”
W
ilbert Hawkins, beer in hand, bald head illuminated by the shack's dangling lightbulb, pants around his ankles, stared down at the naked teenage girl on her knees before him. He grabbed her hair and rocked her head back and forthâ
Then flinched at the sound of the wooden door scraping the dirt.
“Close that thing,” Hawkins yelled. “I got this one.”
But the door didn't close.
Hawkins glared into the darkness at an unmoving charcoal gray figure framed in black.
“Who the . . . ?”
The man stepped forward, but his head and torso remained in a shadow that cut him off at the knees.
Hawkins's eyes alerted to the pressed Levi's, then widened in terror as they fixed on dusty alligator-skin boots poised at the threshold. His scream choked in his throat as his erection died in the girl's mouth.
D
id he have a heart attack when he saw you?” Marc Anston asked during Boots's call from India.
“Not immediately.”
“What about the body?”
“The Indian police will have it cremated.”
“Do they know who he is?”
“No. Just a white guy who could've been from anywhere and collapsed while getting a blow job. Dead men don't have accents.”
“How much did Gage find out?”
“Gage knows Hawkins got a million dollars from Pegasus. He knows TIMCO understood from the get-go why the valve blew. And he knows Hawkins believed you were behind Palmerâbut dead men don't have beliefs either.”
“Any way to control the fallout?”
“Not easily,” Boots said. “Gage made a tape.”
“So removing Gage won't solve our problem.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Gage has been telling pieces of what he knows to too many people,” Anston said, “but I'm not sure any of them would be able to put it together but him.” He fell silent for a few seconds, and then said. “We need to go after Gage's weakness.”
“What's that?”
“He's like a bloodhound. We just need to keep dragging the scent down the wrong path.”
“Why not just take him out?”
“Gage is too well connected. And his pals Joe Casey and Spike Pacheco would never let it go. Especially Pacheco. He's like a Gila monster. You'd have to cut off his head to separate his jaws.”
L
ook Quinton,” Gage said, “we've got two dead people linked through Pegasus. Charlie Palmer and the OSHA inspector.”
Cayman Island barrister Leonard Quinton, QC, pressed his fingertips together on the top of his desk in his office overlooking Hog Sty Bay in George Town, Grand Cayman. He looked back at Gage with the dead-eyed gaze of British ex-pat lawyers trained to keep secrets.
“That's no concern of mine,” Quinton said. “I'll tell you the same thing I told you when you were here chasing after Phillip Charters. What companies do is their business, not mine. That would be like Citibank telling their clients what they can and cannot buy with their credit cards.”
“Good analogy.” Gage reached into his black leather folder, then pulled out a sheet of paper and slid it across Quinton's Victorian mahogany desk.
“That doesn't mean anything to me,” Quinton said.
“Look at it more carefully.”
Quinton slipped on his horn-rimmed glasses, then picked up the page.
“I don't see the relevance. I've never had the pleasure of the acquaintance of a person named Brandon Meyer. More importantly, I don't control to whom Citibank Cayman issues credit cards.”
“But you do control how the money flows.”
Quinton slid the page back across the desk.
“You're attributing powers to me that I don't possess.”
“I've analyzed Charlie Palmer's telephone records. He didn't make a financial move without a call to this office. Never to anywhere else on the island. Not to any other lawyers. Not to any other accountants. Not even to the Cayman Exchange Bank.”
“That will not advance your investigation. We manage dozens of companies. You saw their names posted outside. Which one do you suppose he was calling?”
“Do you really want to travel down this road again?”
“It's not my decision. Cayman Islands law limits what I'm allowed to reveal about companies, clients, and accounts. Unless you have some legal authority, there's really nothing more I can say.”
Gage reached into his folder, withdrew Charlie Palmer's death certificate and a power of attorney signed by Socorro, and set them on the desk.
“This is all the authority you need to disclose information about Pegasus.”
Quinton glanced at them, then shook his head.
“U.S. documents have no authority in the Cayman Islands. They're merely pieces of paper. You'll need to make a visit to the U.S. embassy to have them certified. You do realize, of course, the embassy with jurisdiction over the Caymans is in Jamaica.” He studied his watch. “Just an hour flight, but this late in the day . . . And you do know inheritance laws can be particularly complicated. It may take quite some time, perhaps many years, for this to work its way through our courts, and I'm not sure what you're looking for will be there to be found.”
Gage watched Quinton adopt a posture of self-satisfaction: a half smile, shoulders squared, head tilted upward, eyelids lowered. Gage felt like smashing in his face, except he believed he'd gotten at least one of the answers he came for: Charlie Palmer didn't own Pegasus.
“That's a round-trip to nowhere,” Gage said.
Quinton didn't react, except to say, “Then let me propose something you can pass on to your client.”
“Legal advice is always welcome.”
“This isn't legal advice. It is merely a suggestion. She would be wise to settle on being happy her husband's investmentsâby whatever means they were madeâpaid off so handsomely, and leave it at that.”
T
he middle-aged Canadian wearing the Savile Row pinstriped suit stood by himself on the smoking terrace of the Silver Palm Bar. From just inside the entrance, Gage watched him turn and face toward Seven Mile Beach, his forearms resting on the white wooden railing, a cigar in his right hand, a half-finished martini in the other.
The early October sun had just set over the second day of the Offshore Trusts and Financial Instruments Conference at the Grand Cayman Sapphire Resort. It was the annual meeting of bankers, attorneys, accountants, and government officials who managed the money flows through and around the Caribbean. Its attendees had just flooded from the meeting rooms to the poolside bars and wine lounges and had eddied up to form their dinner groups.
Daniel Norbett was the only one drinking and smoking alone, just as Phillip Charters had predicted he would be. Norbett was the real reason Gage had traveled to Grand Cayman, as he had little hope that he'd learn much from Quinton. He was still surprised he'd come away with anything at all.
Norbett blinked as the breeze sweeping inland blew smoke into his deep-set eyes, then he moved the cigar into his left hand so the light gray stream would slip past his face. He took in a long breath and exhaled, eyes fixed on the cobalt blue of the horizon. He then shook his head, as if rejecting an internal command or disagreeing with an unspoken proposal.
Gage worked his way through the crowd toward the slumped figure, dodging tray-laden waitresses and the gesticulating arms of cigar smokers. He came to a stop next to Norbett, then joined him inspecting the nearly invisible sea. Norbett stiffened when he sensed someone next to him, then pasted a smile on his face as he turned. The smile turned to a grin when saw it was Gage.
“I didn't do it,” Norbett said. “Whatever it is, I didn't do it.”
It was Gage's turn to smile. “I know you didn't.”
“Didn't do what?”
“Whatever it was you said you didn't do.”
Norbett straightened up, stuck his cigar in his mouth, and then reached out his hand.
“I think we've had this conversation before.”
“Three years ago, almost to the day. And you really didn't do that one.”
Gage shook his hand, then glanced around for a cocktail waitress.
“Forget it,” Norbett said, “let's get out of here.” He ducked his head as he scanned the crowd. “I don't want to ruin my reputation by being seen with you.”
“What about
my
reputation?”
“I'm not sure it's all that good with the offshore money laundering crowd anyway.”
Norbett led Gage across the terrace and through the lounge to the hotel lobby.
“What are you hungry for?” Norbett asked.
“Up to you. My treat.”
“I assumed it would be.”
Five minutes later the cab dropped them in front of the Copper Falls Steakhouse.
Gage pointed up at the restaurant sign. “How come here?”
“A free martini with every entrée.”
“I guess that means you get two.”
Norbett winked. “Just what I was thinking.”
N
orbett raised his martini to Gage's soda water as they faced each other in the high-backed leather booth.
“To whatever.” Norbett set down his drink, then folded his hands on the tablecloth. “So, what's whatever?”
“How's business?”
“You get right to the point, don't you? Since I got indicted in Miami last year, it's been lousy.” Norbett pulled the toothpick out of his glass and sucked off the olive. “But I suspect you guessed that.”
“I thought your case was over.”
“It is. Dismissed.”
“How come?”
“It was all a misunderstanding.”
“And you clarified things for the government?”
“Let's say, we had some discussions and they were satisfied with my explanations.”
Gage picked up his menu. He'd gotten the first bit of information he came for. What Norbett called discussions were what others called debriefing, snitching, and the suspicion he'd done so was probably the reason he was being treated as a pariah at the conference.
“What are you having?” Gage asked.
“I think the New York strip steak. I always liked New York, at least some parts.”
“You mean the Bank of New York.”
“They were good customers. Or at least their customers were good customers.”
“They're not sending you their offshore trust business anymore?”
“They didn't like seeing their name and mine in the same
Wall Street Journal
article under the headline: âCayman Island Accountant Indicted in U.S. Tax Fraud Conspiracy.' ”
Gage raised his glass. “To loyalty.”
“Not much of it around anymore.”
“Have you thought about going back to Toronto and starting over?”
“I'm too old, and I let my Canadian license lapse.”
The waitress delivered a second martini to Norbett, then took their orders.
“You pick up any business at the conference?” Gage asked.
Norbett spread his hands and shrugged. “Did it look like I picked up any business?” He leaned back in his seat. “Okay. Enough foreplay. What are you on the prowl for?”
“Information.”
“About what?”
“A group of companies run by Leonard Quinton.”
“I haven't worked with Quinton for ten, twelve years. Even then I didn't get all his work. Most of it, but not all.”
“You doing anything with him now?”
Norbett lifted his martini. “What were you saying about loyalty?” He took a sip, then set it down.
“I'm looking into Pegasus Limited,” Gage said.
Norbett's eyebrows narrowed. “Pegasus?”
“Did you do the accounting?”
“For all the companies?”
“Any of the companies. I went to the Company Registry. There were three companies that made up the groupâ”
“Four.”
“Four?”
“One is in Bermuda. That's where the insurance company finally ended up. They figured out it was better if the right hand didn't know what the left hand was really doing, or at least how they were doing it.” Norbett smiled. “The bank account was here, but the company was there.”
“Let me guess. Cayman Exchange Bank.”
Norbett spread his hands. “Who else does Quinton use?”
They fell silent as the waitress delivered their salads and walked away.
Norbett stabbed at a piece of spinach and then locked his eyes on Gage's.
“How about we cut to the proverbial chase?”
Gage nodded. “What's your hourly rate?”
“For accounting?”
“For what we'll call research.”
Norbett drummed the table with the fingers of his left hand. “I would say . . . maybe . . . ten thousand as a retainer and two hundred an hour.”
“I take it the retainer would be nonrefundable.”
“Call it catastrophic medical insurance. Because if anybody finds out . . .”
