by Steven Gore
“Tell him we’ll send a Mutual Legal Assistance Request as soon as we get Washington’s approval. In the meantime, maybe he can start checking out Fitzhugh-but carefully.”
Zink rose to leave.
“We don’t want this guy spooked,” Peterson said. “So make sure they don’t haul him in until we’re ready.”
CHAPTER 20
W hoever dumped Fitzhugh’s body into the Thames on the day Chief Inspector Devlin and Agent Zink were to knock on his door wasn’t a fisherman, a meteorologist, or a sailor. Instead of drifting out to the North Sea, Fitzhugh’s remains rode a tidal surge upstream, driven by winds blowing in from the east. Fishermen dropping lines off Victoria Embankment, where he was found wedged between a skiff and a piling, considered and debated the matter for weeks. The consensus, ultimately, was that Fitzhugh must’ve been dropped into the river at St. Katharine’s Docks, perhaps even dragged down Alderman’s Stairs. In any case, certainly no nearer than the Tower Bridge. After all, the paper said Fitzhugh hadn’t been dead all that long when the young solicitor walking in the darkness along the river toward his office in Blackfriars vomited at the sight of Fitzhugh’s headless and limbless torso floating by.
Chief Inspector Eamonn Devlin was disappointed. While some officers viewed the murder of a criminal as just deserts, Devlin figured it was no more or less than a timely escape from justice. He often fantasized about becoming the Lord High Executioner, thinking it a shame that the position no longer existed.
Devlin wasn’t personally certain Fitzhugh was a crook, but when the FBI rings up and asks you to perform discreet inquiries, and when an agent arrives bearing a most solicitous letter from Washington, it wasn’t much of a leap.
By the time he’d noticed the homicide entry on the morning bulletin, Fitzhugh’s two arms and one leg had been recovered. By noon, when Zink arrived at Devlin’s office, Fitzhugh’s head, which had been bobbing along and unnerving tourists near the Houses of Parliament, had been netted by a passing tour boat captain.
Just before 2 P. M., Devlin received word that Fitzhugh had been provisionally identified based on a missing person’s report filed by his wife when he hadn’t returned home the previous evening.
Devlin walked Zink down the hallway in the City of Westminster’s Agar Street Station to meet with Inspector Rees of homicide, who’d been assigned the Fitzhugh case, unofficially categorized as a Humpty-Dumpty.
“What’s your interest in Fitzhugh?” Rees asked, as they stood in his small office.
“Securities fraud,” Zink said. “We were going to indict him in a few weeks.”
Rees grinned. “Instead, he’ll be reassembled.”
Devlin frowned.
“Sorry, Chief Inspector. Sometimes we…I…”
“I don’t think our guest appreciates your attempt at levity.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector.”
“It’s okay,” Zink said. “I’m used to it. I started out as a street cop.”
“What was the cause of death?” Devlin asked.
“A slim sharp object entered his thoracic cavity from the rear and came to an abrupt stop in his right ventricle.”
“Any similars?”
“By victim? Chartered accountants. None. By method? A few.”
“Suspects?”
“In Fitzhugh? None. In dismemberments? Russians or Chechens.” Rees looked toward Zink. “Of the fifty-four nationalities in the City of Westminster, few others have the stomach for this kind of work. But anything is possible.”
“Motive?” Zink asked.
“Until you arrived, we had no thoughts beyond the likelihood that it was a contract killing or, of course, a domestic manslaughter followed by a desperate attempt to dispose of the body.”
“Have you searched his home and office?” Devlin asked.
Rees shook his head. “That’s next on the agenda.”
“Why don’t you take Agent Zink with you? I’m certain he’ll be interested in examining Fitzhugh’s files.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector.”
“And I’d like you to copy me on your reports.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector.”
As Zink was boarding his Heathrow flight back to San Francisco, he telephoned Matson, ordering him to appear at the Palo Alto safe house at 3 P. M., fifty-five minutes after his scheduled landing.
Twelve hours later, Matson’s sunken-eyed, ashen face stared at Zink on the other side of the coffee table.
“Who have you been talking to?” Zink demanded.
“No one. No one knows.”
“Burch gets hit just before we’re about to lean on him. Now it’s Fitzhugh.”
“I haven’t said anything to anyone. Not even my wife.”
“Bullshit. What about Granger? When did you last talk to Granger?”
“A week ago. But we didn’t talk about the case except he said he wasn’t gonna make a deal. I was gonna tell you about it when you got back from London.”
“And when were you going to tell me about your connection to TAMS Limited? I found the papers in Fitzhugh’s house.”
Matson blanched. “I was gonna…”
Zink sprang across the table and grabbed Matson by the shirtfront, yanking him from the sofa.
“You were gonna what? I could go to Peterson right now and get your ass indicted by sundown. Is that what you want? Hide one more thing from me and that’s what you’re going to get. You got it, you little shit?…I said, you got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Matson squeaked out. “I got it.”
Zink pushed Matson back down, but remained standing, glaring at him. Matson flinched when Zink reached into his briefcase for a legal pad, still astonished that a man that small could be so strong, and so quick.
Zink yanked a pen from his shirt pocket, then sat down.
“Tell me every fucking thing about TAMS fucking Limited.”
“It’s nothing.” Matson wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Just a company Fitzhugh set up. Burch was supposed to do it, but he was busy or something. TAMS owns a flat in London. Alla lives there. I wasn’t hiding it. We haven’t even gotten to the stockbrokers yet. They came long before TAMS. You got to have money before you can buy anything. Even though Granger had gotten the SEC to let us issue the shares, we still had to find somebody to sell them for us. That’s how we hooked up with Northstead Securities.”
Matson took in a breath and exhaled, then leaned forward on the couch.
“The guy we dealt with was named Yuri Kovalenko. You should’ve seen this monster. Granger and I walked into his office in San Diego and sitting behind the desk was a guy with a huge, shaved head and hands like a meatpacker.
“Kovalenko had a spreadsheet all ready. It showed that SatTek was supposed to issue Northstead some shares at two dollars each, and that they would keep whatever they could sell it for above that. The stock goes up to five, they get three; goes up to six, they get four. It pissed me off. They could be making twice as much as SatTek.
“I wanted to get up and walk out right then, but it hit me real hard what kind of guy I’m talking to, and I’m not sure who to be more frightened of, the SEC Enforcement Division or him. But I figure I need to say something, so I tell him that the SEC will only let us pay a commission. A few percent. Kovalenko looks at me like I’m a fool and points this sausagelike finger at me, but Granger cuts in and says how much of a risk Northstead is taking in the deal and blah, blah, blah.”
Matson emitted a nervous laugh. “The only one who was at risk right then was me.”
Zink smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re claiming you got coerced into doing this by Kovalenko?”
“No, I’m not saying that. I was still thinking that if we did things just right, and brought in enough money, even at two bucks a share, we could grow SatTek into a big company. Five million shares meant ten million dollars for SatTek. That and a little leverage and we could buy up some of our competition.”
Matson rose to his feet and started pacing.
>
“Kovalenko took us into a big trading floor, about forty guys working the phones, and then across the hall to meet an old man they called the Maestro. A droopy-jowled guy with the worst rosacea I’ve ever seen. I never learned his real name. His job was to push the stock. Plant stories in the press. Spam out stock tips.
“Granger was pissed at me when we left because I had challenged Kovalenko and I was pissed at him because he was always treating me like a child, and I was sick of it. But we needed to get cash coming in, so the next morning I did what he told me. I called the stock transfer agent and had him issue five million shares to Northstead and then two million each to Cobalt Partners, Azul Limited, and Blau Anstalt.”
Matson paused, and his eyes went vacant for a moment.
“Right after I hung up the phone, I got a real sick feeling in my stomach.” He looked down at Zink. “You ever go to a magic show in Vegas?”
Zink shook his head.
“The magician asks somebody to come up on the stage, then he does a little razzle-dazzle, and suddenly he’s holding the guy’s wallet and everybody in the audience is laughing at him. I decided right then that I wasn’t going to let that happen to me. I called the guy back and had an extra two million shares issued to Cobalt Partners. Then I told the lawyer in Guernsey to have the nominee directors sell them as soon as the stock hit five dollars a share and send the profit to my Barclays account in London.”
“And that’s the first money that went into TAMS?”
Matson nodded.
“Did you tell Granger and Fitzhugh about the additional shares?”
“Fuck no.”
CHAPTER 21
W hen Gage arrived at his office after a futile morning meeting with Courtney and Burch’s doctors at SF Medical, he found that Alex Z had converted it into a war room. Conference tables. Easels. An additional computer workstation. Redbrick walls now bare, waiting for poster boards bearing flowcharts and chronologies.
“SatTek was self-underwriting,” Alex Z reported as he sat down across the desk from Gage. “They sold a lot of the stock themselves. The rest through a brokerage firm called Northstead Securities.”
Gage sat poised behind his desk, chin propped on his folded hands.
“It’s owned by Albert William Ward, a broker hanging on to his license by a thread.” Alex Z pointed toward the floors below. “I asked all of our ex-FBI people to use their contacts at the SEC. It turns out that he’s been on their radar for a long time.” He slid a Securities and Exchange Commission Litigation Release across the desk. “The Enforcement Division slapped his wrist a few years ago. He laid low for a while, then came back as Northstead.”
Gage picked it up and read it over. “Is he still in Colorado?”
“No. San Diego. Off Highway 5 close to downtown, right near the Hyatt Regency.” Alex Z grinned. “I mean real, real close by.”
Gage drew back, brows furrowed. “What does the Hyatt Regency have to do with Northstead?”
“I made you a reservation for tonight. Late check-in.”
Gage shook his head and smiled. “I think we’ve been working together too long.”
“Your flight is at 7 P. M. out of SFO.”
“I’ll be on it.”
“Pretty soon after SatTek went public, they used some stock to buy an engineering software firm in Ireland. No cash changed hands. A shares-for-equity deal. Three million shares worth about fifteen million dollars.”
“And the shareholders put up with that?”
“Some didn’t like it but it went through anyway. They thought SatTek was straying from its business plan with no justification.”
“Still, that’s quite a chunk.”
“SatTek did everything in chunks. There were eleven big shareholders. The biggest were Blau Anstalt, Azul Limited, and Cobalt Partners.”
“Blue companies.”
Alex Z’s face washed with puzzlement as if he’d gone colorblind. “Blue companies?”
“ Blau is ‘blue’ in German. Azul is ‘blue’ in Spanish. Cobalt is blue as the deep blue sea.”
“You think they’re linked some way?”
Gage nodded. “It’s not likely to be a coincidence. Any blue ones on the domestic side?”
“Nope, but there’s a large shareholder in Nevada. The registered agent is named Chuck Verona.”
“Send someone out there to find out who he is and what else he’s into.” Gage pointed at an easel bearing a fresh pad of poster board. There was already too much to keep track of in his head. “Then chart all of this out.”
“I’ll do it tonight.”
“You don’t have to spend-”
Alex Z shook his head. “I know I’m just a computer guy but something smells real bad about what happened to Mr. Burch. So I’ll be living here until you figure it out.”
Gage reached for the phone to make a call as Alex Z headed back downstairs to his office.
“Tiptoe?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Graham Gage.”
Gage heard Tiptoe chewing. He was always chewing. Gum. Tobacco. Beef jerky. He said it kept the rest of his body steady, especially his hands. His life-spent performing black-bag jobs for the good guys-sometimes depended on it.
“What’s cookin’?”
Gage heard his lips smack.
“I’ve got a little situation. You doing anything tonight?”
“Depends on what’s on the Playboy Channel and how much you wanna spend.”
“A thousand.”
“I think my cable just went out.”
“How long would it take you to get to San Diego?”
“That also depends…”
Tiptoe’s jaws fell silent.
“Fifteen hundred.”
“Two hours.”
“The place is called Northstead Securities.”
Alex Z had a rental van reserved for Gage when he arrived at the San Diego International Airport. American. Gray. Anonymous. Tinted windows.
Gage made a quick run down Pacific Highway, glanced at the bay and the Naval Air Station on North Island, then cut a few blocks inland. Northstead Securities was located on the ground floor of a U-shaped glass and metal office building north of downtown. Parking places filled and surrounded the U.
At 8:45 P. M. Gage slipped into a parking space shadowed by a Torrey pine. The lights inside Northstead were still on; a few brokers remained. Gage didn’t need to bug the place to know what was going on. Every boiler room he’d ever investigated was the same. Twenty, thirty, forty cubicles. Guys, all guys. Not members of a team or a group or a staff, but a crew that moved like a toxic cloud. When it was time for Northstead to evaporate, they’d condense somewhere else and adopt a new British-sounding name with the resonance of marble columns and old money: Oxford Capital or Oxford Securities or Oxford Investments, Stratford Asset Management or Stratford Equities or Stratford Partners.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Gage surveyed the brokers working the phones, pumping and dumping penny stocks, an archaic nickname for those selling for less than five bucks, and often, Gage knew, not worth a cent. As he watched their bobbing heads and gesticulating hands, he imagined the pitches Northstead used to push SatTek, ones appealing to the war on terror, the military’s need for SatTek’s proprietary technology to fight it, and its stock being a way to make a patriotic killing in the stock market.
Gage saw two of them jump to their feet, high-fiving their half-height cubicles. A sucker bit.
Moments after the last of the brokers turned off the lights two hours later, a potbellied little man in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans appeared out of the darkness. He opened Gage’s passenger door and climbed in. He cradled a black canvas bag on his lap.
“Can you get us in?” Gage asked Tiptoe.
“I’ve already been inside. They had a little electrical problem earlier. It fucked up their security system.”
“And you fixed it?”
Tiptoe grinned. “I caused it.”
&
nbsp; Gage pointed at the lights glowing in a third floor window. “Do we need to worry about them?”
“No. They’re just kids running a start-up. As long as they don’t spot us going in, we’ll be okay.”
An hour later, Tiptoe jimmied the lock and stepped through the double glass doors. He pulled out a tiny flashlight, turned toward the wall, and punched in the code to disable the alarm. Gage scanned the parking lot, then followed him inside.
They stood silently, letting their eyes adjust to the semidarkness. Only the screen saver on the receptionist’s monitor and an exit sign at the end of a short hallway provided light.
Gage spotted a restroom sign and an arrow pointing down the hallway, then whispered to Tiptoe, “The file storage room is probably down there.”
Tiptoe slipped away while Gage skirted the reception station and the glass partition behind it, then headed along the carpeted floor toward the half-height cubicles of the boiler room. The empty desks seemed like epicenters of thousands of tragedies: retirement savings lost, college funds wasted, and houses in foreclosure.
Gage’s foot slipped on a piece of paper. He flicked on his flashlight. A handout for the brokers. The title: “Human Motivation.” And below that, the scales of justice with one side labeled “Greed,” the other “Fear.”
He moved on, then stopped halfway down the aisle and pointed his flashlight at a desk. A lead book. A thick blue binder. “Do Not Remove. Property of Smith Barney.” He flipped it open. Names. Telephone numbers. Pages and pages and pages of leads. Smuggled out and sold to Northstead for cash that had been stolen from previous victims. Tacked above on the cubicle wall were scripts for pushing new stocks. One was for a company promising renewable energy using a process the brokers weren’t allowed to disclose and, Gage suspected, didn’t exist.
Headlights swept the window, backlighting the closed blinds. Gage snapped off his flashlight and ducked down. Headlights once again. This time bearing down. Then off.
Gage reached for his cell phone. Tiptoe’s number was set for redial. “A car pulled up.” He crawled to the window and peeked out. The driver’s door opened. A man stepped out. His starched white shirt glowed in the parking lot’s halogen lights. Black hair. No more than thirty-five. Six foot two. Broad-shouldered.
