by Dave Butler
“Wow,” said Merrix, his body now tight against the table, palms flat on the linen, head and neck tilted forward toward Austin. “That’s gonna be a huge project. What will it cost?”
“The 2005 estimates were two hundred and ten million dollars just for the highway. It’s likely going to be at least double that now. Much more to build the pipeline.”
“Jesus. My clients — most of the people in our world — don’t have that kind of money. The only people who do are the billionaires who own the teams.”
“Do you know any of them personally?” Austin said, chuckling. But then his mouth shifted to a straight line, his eyes serious. “I do understand, Matt. This isn’t for everyone. I can tell you that I’ve begun talks with major Chinese investors who are as interested in the pipeline as they are the highway. They have a stake in oil and gas projects in Alberta and see this as a new way to get their products to market. If they decide to get in on this, it’s likely they’ll be investing in a big way, a very big way. That’s why I wanted to raise this with you tonight. If your guys, or guys they know, want in early, even if it’s only for small pieces of a very big pie, there’s still time to do that. But I expect the door will close soon. The Chinese will demand to be majority players.”
Merrix whistled and turned his head toward the other diners. Austin could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He’d firmly hooked his fish. He smiled. Getting positive feedback for something he’d already accomplished was one thing. But selling a new investment to a professional who was supposed to be business-savvy, whose job it was to represent the best interests of his wealthy clients, who described himself as shrewd and smart, was a whole different level of thrill. Austin knew that the story he would pitch to others about this new opportunity, one that he was still developing and practising, could attract more money than he had seen in any of his previous projects. It was an exciting time. Time to do some more casting with that juicy dry fly.
CHAPTER 22
APRIL 4
“Stafford’s an asshole who cares more about money than anything or anyone. For him, it’s all about the money, and always has been.”
Willson looked across her kitchen table at Berland while they listened to Stafford Austin’s third wife, Cheryl Paine, describing her ex. It was the day after their trip to Collie Creek, and they’d started the conversation with Paine by explaining their desire to learn more about the man behind the project. Even through the tinny speaker on Willson’s cellphone, the woman’s voice was bitterly reflective. She clearly had few good memories of her ex-husband and the way he treated those around him.
“In reality, though,” Paine said, “I think money is only an avenue to power and prestige for him. He’s an egocentric jerk who loves to manipulate others.”
“Did he ever try to manipulate you?” asked Willson.
“Sure,” Paine said offhandedly, “all the time. In the last few months of our marriage I recognized what he was doing, so I ignored most of it.”
“You said he loved money. What do you know about where he got his money from when you were together … or even before that?”
“Not much. He was always extremely secretive about what he was up to, which right from day one was a problem between us. We kept separate accounts, so I never knew anything about his finances. When I snooped in his wallet one day, I found a business card from a banker in the Grand Cayman Islands. Of course, I immediately wondered if he had accounts offshore. I asked him about it later and he just laughed, like I’d told a joke. But he never answered. When the federal agents asked me what I knew about his mining scheme — which was nothing — they described the people who’d lost most of their life savings to his scam. That was the straw that broke this camel’s back. We were done. When I confronted him, he denied it, of course; but didn’t seem to have any remorse for the lives he’d ruined. Our divorce came through six months later, thank god. If he’d hidden any money, my lawyer couldn’t find it. I got very little in the final settlement.” They heard her sigh. “I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that it all unravelled. The marriage was a mistake from the start.”
“How did you two meet?” asked Willson, less interested in their relationship than in keeping the woman talking and getting her to open up to them about Austin’s financial past.
“It was at a Salt Lake Chamber of Commerce lunch meeting. We were at the same table. The guest speaker was a Chinese diplomat who talked about investing in mining and energy. Stafford was there to hear him speak, and I was there because my boss had taken three of us from the office to the lunch.”
Willson heard a pause and another sigh. Perhaps there was at least one good memory in there somewhere. Or maybe she’d recounted her experiences once too often, and was now tired or embarrassed. Or both.
“We talked during lunch,” she said, “and exchanged business cards. But once the meal was done, he left the table and introduced himself to the guest speaker. We didn’t talk again that day, but he did phone me about ten days later. And the rest is history. Ancient history.”
“How long were you together?” asked Willson.
“Only eighteen months. It seemed longer …”
“You say he was secretive about his business dealings,” said Berland. “When you were together, did you get the sense that he might be involved in things that weren’t completely legit?”
“I didn’t. I mean, I often wondered because he wouldn’t tell me what was going on. And there was that card from the Caribbean banker. But then, Stafford was always an enigma, and not in a good way, so it was par for the course. At first, the mystery was interesting. But I soon tired of it. Even after a year and a half of marriage, I didn’t really know the guy. I realize now that we never had any emotional connection — other than at first, maybe. In hindsight, anything I thought we did have was nothing more than an act on his part. It was like he couldn’t make emotional connections with anyone, except when he was in selling mode. If he was trying to sell you something, he was your best friend. There was no doubt he was driven by money and what it gave him. No doubt at all. He loved to talk about money, about fancy cars and clothes and trips and people who wanted to talk to him. Important people. When the cops started asking questions about the mining scam, I wasn’t at all surprised. Incredibly disappointed, angry, sad, yes, but not surprised.”
Willson grimaced at Berland, her hands clenched. She refused to let the woman go without giving them some kind of lead. She despised dead ends. “Is there anything you can tell us about what he was up to? Anyone you can point us to who might know more? Business associates? Investors? Former partners?”
“The only thing I can think of is that there was a guy from South America who began calling, looking for Stafford, around out the time we separated. That was maybe a year or so ago? I might still have his name and contact information here somewhere in one of my files. He wouldn’t tell me why he was looking for him or what he wanted. But I got the sense that he wasn’t a big fan of Stafford. I don’t know how he tracked him down; maybe he saw his name online in connection with the mining case. I told my lawyer about him, but as far as I know, she didn’t find anything that helped my case. Just more questions.”
Willson sat up straighter. “Have you got that contact information handy?”
“If I do have it, I can email it to you.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” said Willson. “We’d like to follow it up, so if you can find it now, I’ll stand by.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Hang on.”
Five minutes later, she returned to the phone. “Sorry about the wait. I found it. First name Mauricio, last name Castro — like the Cuban president.” She read them a phone number. “I remember asking him where he was from, and he said Santiago, Chile. He had an accent, but his English was good.”
At the mention of Chile, Willson and Berland shared a quick fist bump. A potential link had just been made.
“Thanks so much for this, Cheryl,” said Willson. “
You’ve been very helpful and we appreciate your candour. If you think of anything else you haven’t told us, or remember other people we should talk to, would you give me a call or drop me an email?”
“My pleasure,” she said.
Willson gave the woman her cell number and email address.
“If Stafford’s involved in a business in Canada,” Cheryl continued, “I wouldn’t be shocked if he ended up charged with something that involves stealing people’s money. If that’s what’s happening, then your cops better build a hell of a case against that slimy bastard. He always finds a way to wiggle out of trouble and disappear.”
“I understand,” said Willson. “One more question. Was your ex-husband ever violent, either to you or to others?”
“Have you ever met Stafford?”
“I have.”
“Well, then you know he’s a big man. To many people, that’s intimidating in itself. He knows it and he often uses it to his advantage to dominate, be the one in control. Sometimes he does it subtly, sometimes overtly. But did I ever see him lay a hand on someone? No. Did he ever physically hurt me? No. There were a few times when I felt he might, if pushed further. Would he turn to violence if someone threatened his power or prestige or money? I have no doubt. Would he hire someone else to do it? Absolutely.”
“I appreciate you giving me the heads-up,” said Willson. “I’ll consider myself warned.”
“Has he done something up there that led you to ask that question?”
“At this point, we don’t know. Thanks again, Cheryl.”
As soon as she’d hung up, Willson punched the number Paine had given them into the cellphone. “No time like the present,” she said.
“Hola,” a woman’s voice said after two rings. “Confiable Investigaciones. Dónde puedo dirigir su llamada?”
“Uh, sorry, do you speak English?” asked Willson, momentarily flustered by the rapid Spanish.
“Yes, I speak English.”
“Sorry … but what company is this?”
“You have reached Confiable Investigations. Who do you wish to speak with?”
“I’m looking for a Mauricio Castro?”
“Si. Señor Castro is in the office today. I’ll put you through. Please hold.”
While they listened to soft Latin music through the speaker, Willson looked at Berland, her face reflecting their shared puzzlement. “Investigations? If this is some kind of private investigator, this just got a whole lot more interesting.” He nodded, clearly thinking the same thing.
The music ended and for a few seconds there was silence. Just as they began to think they’d been disconnected, a deep voice said, “Buenos dias, this is Mauricio.”
“Señor Castro, good morning. My name is Jenny Willson. I am a park warden in Yoho National Park, in Canada. I’m here with my colleague, Mike Berland. Could we ask you a few questions?”
“About what?”
“About someone by the name of Stafford Austin. I understand that you spoke to his ex-wife a while ago and that you were trying to reach him.”
“Why are you asking me about Señor Austin?”
Willson sensed the hesitation in Castro’s voice. “I understand that you might be a private investigator?” she said. “You might have been looking for Austin, perhaps in the context of a failed ski area project in your country? Thing is, he’s involved in a project of a similar nature here in Canada, and we’re wondering if you have any information about him that would be of use to us.”
“Yes, I am an investigator. Has Austin done something wrong again?”
Willson saw Berland grin. The man on the phone had asked the one question that was the clue to why he’d been searching for Austin. The fact that Castro was a private investigator was suddenly more intriguing.
“Not that we’re aware of,” said Willson. “At this point, our governments are early in the process of reviewing Mr. Austin’s proposal. Would you be surprised if I told you that we weren’t 100 percent sure that everything is as it seems with his project?”
“No,” said Castro. “It’s interesting to me that he’s now in Canada. How did you say you found me?”
“I didn’t say. We recently spoke to Austin’s ex-wife in Salt Lake City and she told us about your call to her. She gave us your name and phone number.”
“I see. Well, perhaps we have something to talk about. And perhaps we can help each other.”
“Perhaps we can, Señor Castro,” said Willson. “Are you willing to tell me about Austin and why you were looking for him?”
“First, please call me Mauricio. And second, I am still looking for this man, so your call is very welcome. I was hired by a pair of my countrymen to find your Mr. Austin. It seems he has some of my clients’ money — a significant amount. They would like it returned to them.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“They’re missing sixteen point four million pesos. That sounds very high, but in American dollars, it’s approximately two point five million between the two of them.”
“Two point five million U.S. dollars?” asked Willson, now reeling from the second surprise of the call. “That’s still a very large amount.”
“Yes. And that is why they are so interested in talking to Señor Austin and getting their money back from him. They’re not the kind of men to accept refusal.”
“How did Austin get their money?”
“He persuaded them to invest in a new ski area near Portillo. That’s our most famous ski area in Chile. He did an excellent job of selling the project to them as an opportunity to make a significant return on their investment. They believed it was a benign way to get into the beginning of something big. I would not say this to them, but I believe their greed got the best of them.”
“And the money disappeared?”
“It was not that simple. For the first year, they received dividends every three months that were very attractive. They were pleased. At the end of that year, when their money was due to be returned to them, plus some healthy interest, Austin persuaded them to reinvest the original investment amount back into the fund. Shortly after they did that, they discovered that the ski area application had been rejected by our government, Austin was no longer in the country, and their money had somehow left the country with him.”
“Fascinating,” said Willson. Berland’s waving hand showed that he was keen to ask the Chilean investigator his own questions. His eyes were bright, and he was clearly no longer comfortable staying in the background taking notes. “My colleague has some questions for you.”
“Please go ahead,” said Castro.
“Mauricio, Mike here. Were you able to contact Austin after he left your country?”
“Eventually. As you heard from his ex-wife, I did, with some difficulty, track him to Salt Lake City and tried to contact him there without success. He did not return my calls. I’d heard about his legal troubles regarding a mining project in that area. I was ready to go there when I learned that he’d left town, quite suddenly.”
“Were you able to trace any of the missing money?”
“I was not. I assume that our financial disclosure rules are very different than yours in Canada. Even the government prosecutors could not trace the money. I can only assume he was using offshore accounts — in Europe or the Caribbean — but I have no way of knowing for sure.”
“And after Salt Lake City?” asked Berland.
“I found him again in Boise, Idaho. He wouldn’t return my calls there, either. I did go there to talk to him and ended up following him for a few days. At dinner one night, I approached him in a restaurant. He was there with a young woman.”
“What happened?”
“I simply sat down at the table with them and began to ask Austin questions about the money he owed my clients.”
“Did you get any answers from him?”
“Not at all,” said Castro with a chuckle. “He ignored my questions and had me thrown out of the restaurant. The wom
an he was with was clearly shocked by the incident. I bet he had to answer a few questions from her after I left.”
Berland laughed with him. “You got nothing from him?”
“Nothing beyond the satisfaction that he knew I was still after him, and that my clients are not the kind of men to walk away from their money.”
“Did you know he was in Canada?”
“I did not, not until your call today. I knew that he’d left Boise and have been trying, when I have the time, to track his movements from there. But because I’m not from the U.S., I don’t have the same access to people and resources as I do here. I talked to an Idaho-based investigator only last week, hoping he could dig up things I could not. And then you phoned me.”
“Were you surprised to hear from us?” asked Berland.
“Yes, I’m surprised to hear from someone in Canada. But I’m not surprised that he’s involved in another ski area. I’m sure he learned valuable lessons here that he’s putting to good use there.”
