Game Theory--A Katerina Carter Fraud Legal Thriller

by Colleen Cross

  “Does Harry know?”

  “I’m not sure. He seemed to understand, but now he’s forgotten all about it.”

  “Everything will be fine, Kat. We’ll deal with it.” Jace stroked her cheek and wiped away a tear.

  “I don’t want Harry to end up like her, Jace.”

  She still held out hope that the diagnosis was a mistake. But in her heart she knew otherwise.

  “I’ll help with Harry. Don’t worry about anything.”

  They were interrupted by a crash coming from the reception.

  “Uncle Harry?”

  Kat ran down the hall, with Jace close behind her.

  Harry lay on the floor. His upturned chair was beside him, wheels still spinning. He held his shoulder and winced in pain.

  “I’m okay. Just lost my balance.”

  “Never stand on a chair with wheels, Uncle Harry.”

  “I had to help her. The file was on the top shelf.” Kat’s office previously housed a dental practice, with floor to ceiling filing. She didn’t use the top rows, but hadn’t got around to renovating yet.

  “Help who? Nobody’s here but you.”

  “Hillary,” Harry explained. “She needed a file for her school project. It’s due tomorrow.”

  “Right,” Kat said. “I don’t see her. Where is she now?”

  “She had to go. Or she’d be late for school.”

  Kat fought the urge to cry. Jace had no idea what he was in for, and she couldn’t expect him to help for long. It was too much to ask of anyone.

  Chapter 21

  Kat finally found time to drive over to check out Research Analytics. She pulled up to the curb and put the Lincoln in park. The only space big enough to park Harry’s boat-like Lincoln was a block away. That was okay, since parking down the street allowed her to observe Research Analytics without drawing attention.

  Harry insisted they take his car, which of course meant she had to drive. Despite losing his driver’s license, he’d repaired the Lincoln after the accident and refused to sell it. He sat beside her in the passenger seat, rolling his thumbs. He fidgeted constantly now, although seemingly unaware of it.

  “Watch the whitewalls, Kat. You’re going to scrape them.” Harry sucked in his breath. “Why do you always park so close to the curb?”

  Kat turned to Harry. “I’m six inches away. Open the door and see for yourself.” She always parked further away to avoid this endless debate, but Harry’s perception of space and proximity to things seemed off now.

  Harry averted his eyes and rolled his thumbs faster. “Why are you arguing with me, Kat?”

  “No, you’re right, Uncle Harry. I am too close.” Kat suddenly realized why he was agitated—the door handle. Dementia’s mental erosion was uneven. Harry remembered lyrics from the hit songs of his youth, yet forgot how to work a door handle. Even in a car he had owned for thirty-plus years. “I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

  Kat jumped out of the car and ran around to the passenger side to open the door. She studied the street front while she waited for him to exit. This part of the city was a jumble of storefronts and three-story apartment buildings, built mostly in the forties to the seventies. Except for the faded paint and disrepair, it remained almost unchanged from its heyday. Even the people here oozed tiredness. She shut the car door. “Ready?”

  Harry nodded and they plodded up the street. It was his old neighborhood, just three blocks from the house he grew up in.

  “Where are we, Kat?” Harry glanced around in wonder. “I’ve never been here before. It’s sure busy around here.”

  “I know.” Kat didn’t correct him. It would only upset him, and they were already at their destination. Research Analytics’ corporate headquarters appeared to be a stucco apartment building with a vacancy sign out front. She walked up to the front door and inspected the suite listing. None of the names were even remotely similar to Research Analytics. The closest thing to suite fourteen hundred was number twelve, listed as belonging to A. Knopf.

  Just as she had suspected, Research Analytics was a complete fabrication. The phone number hadn’t checked out either—it turned out to be a disconnected number. Fictitious vendors were a common method of insider embezzlement. Kat pulled out her cell phone and snapped a picture of the building as evidence for her report.

  An hour later, Kat sat across from Zachary in the Edgewater Investments’ boardroom. Despite it being a Saturday, half the offices were occupied by people talking on the phone or typing on their computers. Snippets of hallway conversations drifted in through the open boardroom door as people sauntered by with their morning coffees.

  She pulled a thick stack of documents from her briefcase and set it on the table.

  “What have you got? Enough to nail him, I hope.” Zachary appeared almost happy. An odd reaction since discovering his partner—and father—was stealing from him.

  Kat’s investigation had brought more questions than answers. One thing was certain: Edgewater and the Barron family would never be the same again.

  She drew in her breath. Zachary wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “I’m working on it. Here’s what we’ve got so far.” Kat recounted how the money had moved from Edgewater to Research Analytics.

  “The investment research company you told me about? How much money are we talking about?” Zachary stared at her.

  “Fifty million so far this year. Two hundred and twenty million last year.” She help up her hands and shrugged. “Before that—I’m still working on the number.”

  He shot up out of his chair. “That’s impossible. I know something’s going on—but a quarter of a billion? That can’t be right.”

  “Remember you said there was no money in the bank?”

  “But that much? It’s impossible.”

  “I’m afraid it is possible, Zachary.”

  His smug expression morphed into panic. “How can we get it back?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out right now. What I know so far is that Research Analytics is a sham. The address on the invoice is a seedy run-down apartment building on the eastside.” She spun her cell phone around to show him the photograph of the derelict building.

  Zachary scoffed. “I knew it. Nathan’s a thief. I want to press charges, run him out of Edgewater.”

  “Nathan didn’t act alone, Zachary.”

  He stiffened and his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “He had help. Someone had to issue the checks to Research Analytics. He doesn’t have the security access to do that.”

  “Well, who does?”

  There was no avoiding it. “Victoria did. Edgewater’s auditors are suspect, too.” Kat explained the sequential invoice numbers and Beecham, including its connection to Nathan. Victoria was the only other person at Edgewater with access to the checks.

  “They don’t exist? Nathan set up a fictitious auditing firm?” He didn’t seem all that surprised. Zachary’s lack of emotion troubled her. Didn’t he understand the implications? Or maybe he did, but was in denial.

  “It’s very serious, Zachary. Everything about Edgewater is suspect. The financials, the investment performance—everything.” There was no way to sugarcoat it. “Edgewater’s broke, and so are you.”

  “What do you mean, broke?”

  Kat pulled the bank statement out of her briefcase and slid it across the boardroom table.

  Zachary snatched the paper and was silent for a moment as he read her analysis. “I’ll kill the bastard.” He pounded his fist on the table.

  Kat jumped, even though she had expected his reaction. “The hard part will be getting the money back. Do you have anything in reserve? Any lines of credit?”

  Zachary shook his head. “Isn’t there any money left?”

  Kat shook her head.

  “You’re telling me I’m ruined?” Zachary jumped up from the table and paced in front of it.

  Zachary was even more broke than Harry. He just didn’t know it yet.


  Chapter 22

  Kat and Jace sat in her office and stared at the twenty-seven names on her whiteboard. Many of the World Institute conference attendees were also on Nathan’s contact list. To the right of the names were columns, one per year for each of last five conferences. Saturday afternoon was slipping away, and they were inching ever closer to Zachary’s Monday deadline.

  Outside, seagulls squawked as they circled the overcast sky, searching for scraps on the harbor docks below. A large gull swooped down on smaller bird on the wharf, stealing his catch.

  They had decided to focus their efforts on Research Analytics. But that just meant following the money to its ultimate destination, the World Institute. Every step brought more questions, and Zachary demanded answers for all of them.

  “Who are these people?” Kat asked herself as much as Jace. She stood and walked over to the white board.

  The World Institute conference attendance list hadn’t been difficult to get. Conspiracy theorists had documented the comings and goings of the attendees for years, following a few key players to hone in on the location. That was about all they found out. Since nonmembers weren’t allowed in, they couldn’t report on the meeting agendas. The security detail for a World Institute conference rivaled a G8 summit, replete with police SWAT teams, air and ground surveillance, and the personal security details of each of the attendees.

  “Most are rich,” Jace said. “Almost all of them are famous. All are important public figures. Aside from being World Institute invitees, all these names have something to do with money.”

  “That’s true.” Kat studied the list. “Treasury secretaries, central bank heads, bank CEOs, and hedge fund principals. They either develop policy, regulate it, or are impacted by the rules.”

  “Agreed,” said Jace. “And they’re all global experts in monetary policy. But why all the secrecy? Why meet as a supra-national group, outside of government?”

  “Governments are obstacles to them. They involve voters, laws, and discussions. Democracy and consensus. Powerful people like Nathan Barron and the rest of the World Institute want things done their way, on their terms. As a bloc, their multi-national corporations are also bigger than most governments.” Sometimes it was better not to know how the world really worked.

  Jace didn’t say anything.

  “That sounds kind of paranoid, doesn’t it?” Kat asked.

  “It does, but there’s a ring of truth to it. More and more, big multi-nationals set the rules. They use paid lobbyists to influence lawmakers, and eliminating trade barriers equals higher profits. Foreign currency transactions are simply another hurdle that costs them time and money.”

  It was the only connection they’d made in the last hour, and it was troubling. Kat still couldn’t understand why Nathan would be part of it. Fewer currencies meant fewer opportunities to arbitrage the differences, and that’s where Edgewater Investments profits were made.

  “What kind of a conference organizes itself at the last minute?” Kat asked.

  “A secret one. One that wants to achieve its aims without outside interference.”

  “Right.” Kat tapped the white board with a dry erase marker. “Let’s review each name and see what else they have in common.”

  “Jason Blackstone,” she said, “U.S. Federal Reserve Chair.”

  Jace read from his laptop. “He’s been at the conference for the last three years.”

  Kat placed three X’s beside Blackstone’s name.

  “Jean-Claude Bruneau.”

  “Attended for the first time last year. He heads the International Monetary Fund.”

  “Since when?” Kat asked.

  “Six months ago. Before joining the IMF he served as France’s finance minister.” Jace emptied a packet of sugar into his coffee and stirred it with the end of his pencil.

  Kat shot him a disapproving glance. “You’re going to get lead poisoning. Can’t you just grab a spoon?”

  “No time.” He smiled sweetly at her.

  “Whatever. The timing sure is interesting. Bruneau was invited just prior to his appointment as IMF chief. Just like the current U.S. president and Canadian prime minister were.”

  “Invited before they became heads of state,” Jace recapped.

  “That’s right. And finance ministers like Bruneau don’t usually attend.”

  “Unless the World Institute had bigger plans for them.”

  “It’s starting to seem that way. The World Institute decides who gets on the slate. Your choice is made even before you vote.” Kat went on:

  “Gordon Pinslett.”

  Jace choked on his coffee. “Who?”

  “Gordon Pinslett. He’s a media tycoon—Global Financial.”

  “I know who he is, Kat. He owns the Sentinel.”

  “Really? You never mentioned him before.”

  “He’s never set foot in our humble office. Technically, he owns the conglomerate that owns the Sentinel.”

  “Oh. What’s he doing at the World Institute?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” Jace scratched his bandaged arm. “Maybe he’s the reason the editor killed my story. Criticizing the rich hits too close to home, I guess. But if stories like mine aren’t told, we never know the truth. What kind of world is that?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “A censored one.”

  Kat shrugged and smiled, hoping to drag him out of his dark mood. “None of that matters now, since you don’t work there anymore.”

  “It matters to me, Kat. People like Pinslett can’t just buy up all the media and stifle us. Stories like mine have to get out.”

  Kat sighed. “Okay, but for now, let’s focus on the story at hand. Why Nathan is diverting money to Research Analytics and The World Institute.” Discussing democracy with Jace could last for hours. If she wanted to meet Zachary’s deadline she needed to steer him in the right direction. Seeing Pinslett’s name had got Jace all riled up again. “You’re better off, Jace. You said yourself things have been going downhill at the Sentinel for a while. This is a chance for a new start.”

  Jace shrugged. “I suppose. But I still need to earn a living.”

  “I’ve got it covered.” That was debatable. They had won their run-down heritage house with their bid at the city tax sale last year. Won was the wrong word. The old Victorian was a bottomless money pit, consuming endless time and money with repairs and remodeling. The city’s strict heritage rules meant expensive and drawn-out renovations. It was a constant challenge to stay onside with the zoning bylaws.

  “Let’s get back to the list.”

  They reviewed the remaining names as the sky outside darkened. It started to rain.

  “Svensson,” Jace said. “Invited for the last three years. His Nobel nomination was the basis for most of the one-world-currency theories out there.”

  Kat wrote Edgewater payment and snowshoe accident beside his name.

  “The guy who died in the mountains, right?”

  Kat nodded.

  Jace tapped on the keyboard. “He fell through a cornice.” Cornices formed under heavy snow conditions, causing snowpack to extend a few feet past the edge of a cliff. It was only obvious from underneath that there was no ground supporting it. Above it appeared to be snow-covered earth. It was a common cause of falls in the backcountry.

  “I remember hearing about the accident, just not the details,” Kat said.

  “The details weren’t on the news. Kurt told me. He was part of the recovery operation.” Jace’s friend, Kurt, was also a search and rescue volunteer. Kurt worked on the Sunshine Coast, while Jace’s territory was the North Shore.

  Jace typed something on his keyboard. “Hold on a sec—says here the coroner now suspects suicide.”

  “Suicide? When he’s up for a Nobel?” Kat asked. “Winning a Nobel would be the pinnacle of anyone’s career. It’s only two weeks away. Definitely worth waiting for, even with depression.”

  “Depression does strange things to people.
They also found narcotics in Svensson’s system. Too much to have hiked there. He must have taken it after reaching the spot where he fell. The story goes on to say he had money troubles.”

  “Lots of people have financial difficulties, Jace. The Nobel prize money would fix that.”

  “This article says he left a note. They just found it in his hotel room.” Jace tapped his computer screen.

  “I’d like to see that suicide note,” Kat said. “He’s in a foreign country in the middle of winter, and he hikes for hours just to jump off a cliff? That’s a lot of effort for someone who wants to end it all.”

  “True,” he said.

  Kat stared out the window. An old man in a yellow slicker scattered bread crumbs along the wharf. A few dozen pigeons swarmed around his feet, pecking at the crumbs.

  “Wait a sec—it’s not just your average suicide note. Says here that he apologized.”

  “Apologized? For what?”

  Jace tapped away at his keyboard. “Svensson changed his mind. He decided one world currency was wrong after all.”

  “But that was the whole basis of his Nobel nomination.”

  Jace held up his hand as he read from his screen. “An excerpt from his note was printed in the Herald today.”

  Kat rushed to Jace’s side to read over his shoulder:

  A single global or supra-national currency undermines the sovereign rule of nations. Money is a fundamental tool in monetary policy. Governments need it to adjust interest rates, debt, and money supply to manage their economies.

  The Herald was the other daily paper in town, the Sentinel’s competition.

  “I have to agree with him,” Kat said. “Take away the tools and suddenly you lose control over your economy and, to some extent, your destiny.”

  “Of course his new theory is completely at odds with the World Institute. One global currency is the World Institute’s raison d’être.”

  “I wonder what changed Svensson’s mind?” Kat stared out the window. Two of the larger pigeons had attacked a smaller bird. It flew up to a post, watching helplessly as the two bigger birds devoured its share.