“Do you want me to make love to you, Harry?”
“Yes.” Softly, his hand caressed the length of her thigh. “Please.”
CHAPTER 41
As soon as Harry entered his office next morning, he knew something was different. He stopped and set his briefcase down in the foyer. He sniffed the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. On the table was a bouquet of cut flowers. Strangest of all, a cheery humming came from the kitchenette. Miss Giveny?
Cautiously, he tiptoed to the kitchen door. Holding his breath, he peeked around the corner. Miss Giveny’s back was turned to him. On the counter sat a tray with a cup and saucer and a cream pitcher. He could not imagine what miracle had lifted her from her usual state of crankiness. He took refuge in his office.
The last few weeks had taken its toll on his practice. Expecting to face a desk run amok, he had already resigned himself to buckle down to boredom. When he entered his office, Harry gasped. Warily, he approached the desk. At the far right corner, files were neatly stacked. Each one had a yellow sticky note on its cover. His agenda was open to the correct date, and several dozen pink message slips were neatly clipped to the page.
A soft tap came at the door. “Yes?” he responded cautiously. Miss Giveny backed into the room, with a tray in hand and a newspaper under her arm.
“Good morning, Harry,” Miss Giveny said, smiling.
A beaming secretary was a shocking sight for Harry. And to be addressed by his first name! Could he ever learn to call her Gladys?
Miss Giveny did not wait for a reply, but set the tray down and proceeded to pour the coffee, just as if she had been doing so for years.
“You’re a hero, Harry,” she said, handing him his coffee.
“For heaven’s sake, what are you talking about?”
“Here.” She handed him the paper. “Take a look.”
Harry took a deep breath. From the front page of the city section gazed Harold Jenkins.
Not a bad picture, he thought, taken for the fifteenth anniversary of his membership in the Alton Club. There was not that much difference—maybe a little less on top and a little more around the chin. All in all, he was pleased. Next to his photograph was the trim and devilishly handsome McKeown. Harry read.
ATTEMPTED MURDER AT DEIGHTON RESIDENCE
Anthony McKeown, a senior partner of Cheney, Arpin, has been charged with the attempted murder of Donald Deighton. Several weeks ago, Marjorie Deighton was a victim of premeditated murder. According to authorities, Harold Jenkins rescued the boy after McKeown threatened him with a knife. Sources indicate that McKeown is connected to the Florist murders. The Toronto Police Department also believes that McKeown was at the center of a major real-estate money-laundering scheme. Partners at Cheney, Arpin were unavailable for comment; however, firm sources reveal that Tony McKeown was already the subject of an internal investigation by their security and audit departments.
Setting the paper down, he said, “Maybe they will get to the bottom of it, but you can bet the firm will distance itself fast enough from McKeown.”
“Aren’t they already doing that with their internal investigations?”
“More likely, covering up.”
Miss Giveny held out a pink message slip. “Jonathan Conroy has been calling this morning. He wants to have lunch at the Alton Club to discuss a potential merger of firms.”
Harry was stupefied. “A merger? You can’t be serious. That’s like being swallowed by a boa constrictor. I’m a speck of dust compared to them.” He tossed the message onto his desk. And a troublesome one at that, he thought.
“Why don’t you find out what they’re up to?”
“They’re wanting to silence me.”
“Aren’t you curious? You might get some useful information.”
He gazed at her thoughtfully and said, “All right. I’ll call them, but I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on.”
Five minutes later, he had Conroy on the line and lunch was set for noon at the Alton Club. First, he had copies made of all relevant documents and correspondence on the Chin files. Then he made an appointment for eleven at the Law Society.
CHAPTER 42
The private dining rooms of the Alton Club were located off a long paneled corridor running from the main dining room past the library. The executive committee of Cheney, Arpin had been closeted in the furthest room since nine o’clock, Monday morning. Any calls or visits from members of the press had been flatly turned down.
Jonathan Conroy sat at the head of the table, flanked on either side by Bill Cawthorne and Arnie Rosenberg. He popped an antacid pill into his mouth. He had slept little since early Sunday, when the press had called for a reaction to McKeown’s arrest for murder and fraud. God help them—it looked like McKeown was the Florist. Nightmares had spilled over into reality.
Bunnie, his wife, had been mystified. In her books, unless you were stupid enough to get caught with a smoking gun in your hand, or worse still, with your pants down, there was no trouble.
“For God’s sake, Jonathan. What is your problem?” she had demanded.
“I’m accountable,” he fussed. “I’m the Treasurer of the Law Society.”
“So? You didn’t steal anything. You didn’t bump anyone off.”
“Yes, but I should have seen McKeown was trouble.” He sank onto the bed clutching his stomach.
Jonathan was beset by the subtle shades of gray. Actually, he had known plenty and had turned a blind eye. And so, all Sunday and into the night, Jonathan weaved a tortured path through the realms of his distraught conscience. Fortunately, the fraud seemed to be contained within McKeown’s practice. The firm could cope with one bad apple.
Looking down the boardroom table, Conroy cleared his throat. “This money-laundering scheme of Tony’s…” Jonathan drove to the heart of the matter.
“Alleged money-laundering scheme, Jonathan.” Arnie Rosenberg corrected him.
Jonathan merely nodded. “How in hell did it get past our accountants? I thought we had every conceivable check in place.”
Rosenberg shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We’re just learning too.”
“Well, what part did Jenkins play in it?”
“Tony used him as a front.” Peter Niels said. “Apparently, it was better to use his trust account as a conduit for the funds.”
“So he was a dupe. He knew nothing,” Conroy persisted.
“Not at first,” said Rosenberg. “But he immediately took a big chunk of the retainer, before he’d done any work.” His eyes darted to Niels. “I’d say that implicates him big time.”
“How does that establish his knowledge, his willing participation?” asked Conroy.
Arnie spoke patiently, as if to a half-wit. “He had to know what was up, otherwise he wouldn’t have dared rip Albert off.”
Steeves broke off from his doodling to say, “Our guys are not forensic accountants. Who knows? Tony was brilliant, you know. He could hide just about anything.” Steeves’ admiration was scarcely concealed in his wistful tone.
“Did Tony set up that chain of companies himself?” Conroy asked.
The simple, straightforward question demanded a forthright answer. Aware of the uncomfortable silence, the Treasurer of the Law Society glanced down the conference table. A moment passed.
“Well, Peter?” Conroy tried again. “You’re head of the corporate department.”
Peter Niels had begun twisting his third paper clip, and Cawthorne, suddenly developing a tickle in his throat, reached for the water.
Rosenberg spoke. “Who the hell knows, Jonathan? Tony didn’t exactly tell us everything he was doing. Probably those paralegals did it for him. They were just dummy corporations.”
Cawthorne at last silenced his cough. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. All present listened intently.
“Jonathan, I must confess, that I did.”
Steeves dropped his pen.
“What? Did what, Bill?” Conroy asked.
&
nbsp; “Set up Tony’s companies.” Cawthorne’s paleness grew with every word. “I didn’t know—how shall I say it?—the precise purpose of the companies.”
“Shut up, Bill!” Arnie Rosenberg’s voice was a low, commanding growl.
Cawthorne removed his glasses and began polishing them with great care. No one spoke. Not until he replaced them did he continue to speak. “Arnie, I’m not prepared to live like this, wondering when the other shoe is going to drop.”
Niels sprang from his chair and stood over his partner. “Listen, Bill. You’re not going to screw everything up for the rest of us just because you’ve got some over-developed conscience!”
Arnie yanked Niels’s sleeve. “Shut the fuck up, Peter! You’re as stupid as he is!”
Jonathan looked down to see his dead-white knuckles grasping the table. He forced his next words out. “Gentlemen, does this mean you’re all involved?”
Cawthorne pushed Niels away. “Yes, it does—and so are you! Ever heard of Zaimir Heights, Jonathan?”
“Yes. It’s one of the firm’s management companies. We’re all shareholders in it,” Conroy answered carefully.
“Well, our cut of the money clients launder gets channeled through Zaimir,” Cawthorne continued.
“And out pops a big, fat dividend check with Jonathan Conroy’s name on it,” said Arnie, wrestling to his feet to approach Conroy.
Conroy saw blackness swiftly closing around the edges of the room. His heart raced. He struggled to shake off the nightmare. At last his vision cleared. He heard his own voice choking, “You mean we’re getting laundered money directly?”
Arnie’s laugh was a bark. “Wake up, Jonathan.”
“How could you not know?” Niels said, smirking.
“Like it or not, you’re in just as deep as we are,” said Arnie.
“But I didn’t know!” protested Conroy.
Rosenberg stood over Conroy. “Well, you should have. Director’s fiduciary duty and all that bullshit.” Then, more quietly, he continued, “You’re a big boy, Jonathan. Don’t get all high and mighty with us. Maybe we set up the companies, but who closed the Chin deals?” Rosenberg paused to assess his effect. Jonathan was almost green. “Better believe it, buddy: you’re in exactly the same deep shit we are, unless you cooperate and stonewall this one.”
As if as an afterthought, Rosenberg turned back on Cawthorne. “And that goes for you too, Bill. Just keep your mouth shut, and everything will be fine.”
At last Jonathan understood. It wasn’t just McKeown. It was all of them. He saw Rosenberg and Niels in a new light. Their sharp, flickering eyes darted about the room. Cawthorne and Steeves were quiet, but white as sheets. Willing participants.
Jonathan took great stock in civilized and gentlemanly behavior. There had to be a way out. Jenkins was the problem.
“How much does Jenkins know?” Jonathan asked.
Rosenberg answered, “Probably not much. He’s just a family solicitor, a general practitioner; it would be way over his head.”
Jonathan was desperate. If Jenkins could be persuaded to remain silent, the firm might be saved. But, by God, he’d read the riot act to his partners! No more screwing around with scams.
Feeling his strength return, he said, “Gentlemen! This firm needs strong leadership. We are not going down on this one. We knew absolutely nothing. McKeown got us into this mess and he probably won’t survive.” Jonathan looked at each of his partners in turn and said, “Mr. Jenkins is going to join the firm, whatever his price.”
Both Rosenberg and Niels smiled with relief. Sanity was returning. Steeves and Cawthorne were mute. All of them nodded in agreement.
A sharp rap came at the door. The manager of the Alton Club opened the door and then discreetly withdrew.
Harold Jenkins strode into the room.
Conroy, bluff and gracious, rushed forward to shake his hand.
At once, Rosenberg assessed the opposition. Hiding a smirk behind his coffee cup, Arnie noted the suit. Jenkins was dressed conservatively in a gray three-piece suit and a solid blue tie—at least six years out of date. Could do with regular workouts at the squash club too. The briefcase was old and scuffed. Rosenberg was examining another species of lawyer: the family solicitor, the old family retainer. A glance in Niels’s direction confirmed his view.
Harry remained standing. Surveying the conference table, he saw the litter of crumpled napkins, drained coffee cups, and dirty plates.
“Am I late, gentlemen?” He looked about the table, only to see the blank expressions of the executive committee. “I understood this was a luncheon.”
A flush grew from the collar of the Treasurer of the Law Society. At least Conroy had the decency to be embarrassed, Harry reflected as he settled into a chair.
“Why, of course, Harry. The waiter will be along in a moment to set the table and take orders. Would you care for a drink first?” Conroy had recovered sufficiently to become the genial host.
“That would be very nice. Perhaps some wine, to aid the digestion, of course.”
In unison, the executive committee broke into nervous laughter.
Harry looked surprised. “I’m sure we’ve all had a lot on our minds for some time. It doesn’t help the stomach much.”
Rosenberg glanced at Cawthorne, who bit his lip and studied his fingernails. Steeves continued his erratic doodling. Conroy summoned the waiter.
Harry looked about the room with his best bland expression. Momentarily, the image of Natasha floated into his mind. She had given him the courage to proceed when the risk to himself was so great. Restore the balance, she had urged.
Turning directly to Conroy, Harry said, “Well, you invited me here. Something to do with 42 Highland or Albert Chin’s deals?”
Conroy shook his head, as though trying to recall. “Albert Chin? 42 Highland?”
Harry unsnapped his briefcase and shuffled through the papers. Finally he extricated two large files and spread them on the table.
“Surely you’ve not forgotten!” Harry gestured at the files. “Just look at the size of them. Lots of billable hours there.”
“What’s this got to do with us?” broke in Niels.
Harry waved him off. “Jonathan knows. Here’s my correspondence to him enclosing the offers.” Harry rooted about for his reading glasses. Adjusting them on his nose, he peered at Conroy. The room was silent.
“Don’t you remember? I sent the offers from Albert Chin to you, on his specific instructions.” Harry tossed the offers, which had the slice in them, along the table to Conroy. “Deirdre and Linda Lee worked on these files with you. Remember?” He glanced at Niels and Rosenberg.
“And look! Tony McKeown submitted an offer on behalf of one of his client’s companies to the estate of Marjorie Deighton on 42 Highland.”
No one in the paneled boardroom moved.
Harry held up another sheaf of papers. “My title and corporate searches. Funny how all the surrounding properties are flipped back and forth at ridiculously inflated prices, within a space of a year. And each company was incorporated by Cheney, Arpin.”
Conroy was white. Rosenberg was livid. He leaped to his feet. “What the hell are you suggesting, Jenkins?”
Smiling gently, Harry sat back to assess the effect. When Rosenberg’s left eye twitched, he knew he was on the right track.
“As I was saying, Jonathan,” Harry continued, “there’s Tony’s offer on 42 Highland.” Harry leafed through his searches. “Then there are all these numbered companies.”
He sat back to assess the effect. Yes, it was going very well indeed. Natasha would be proud. All members of the executive committee stared at him. None of them took a breath.
“And then there’s Zaimir Heights.” Harry paused. “It took me a long time to unravel that one. I’m sure one of your paralegals could have traced the chain faster than I did. Everything comes back to Zaimir. It’s a good name. Only trouble is, it’s so good, it sticks in your mind.”
&nb
sp; Harry shook his head and chuckled. “You know, it was just a lucky break, really. But finally, I found the names of the directors and shareholders of Zaimir. Tough to trace. But, gentlemen, all of you, including Mr. McKeown, are the shareholders and directors of Zaimir.
“Another interesting point, gentlemen!” Harry withdrew a single sheet of paper from a slim file marked Offshore Transfers. “When I was in Mr. McKeown’s office several days ago, I obtained this ledger sheet.” Harry frowned as he studied the columns on the page. “A lot of money has been funneled from these numbered companies through my firm trust account, to Zaimir Heights.” Harry threw up his hands. “I was a very useful dupe.”
Harry glanced around the room. Rosenberg was looking for an opportunity to pounce. Niels looked like he might run for the door at any moment. Conroy was confused: out of his depth and sinking fast. The room was silent. Harry smiled blandly.
“Of course, gentlemen, although the chain is convoluted, it does become clear. All of you have received laundered funds directly from Mr. Chin’s and Mr. McKeown’s escapades. And just in case you’re wondering, I’ve taken the precaution of copying the whole file for the Law Society.”
Rosenberg spoke up. “So what? And you, Mr. Jenkins! We know you have Albert’s two hundred grand. Or should I say you had it? Probably it’s all gone.”
He rose from the table and started pacing. “So you’ve benefited too, right?” Not waiting for a reply, he jabbed his finger at Harry. “That money, Harry, was very nice to have. Got you out of a lot of debt, didn’t it?”
“Yes, it did.” Harry replied.
“You never saw so much money in your life, did you? You knew right from the start what was going on, didn’t you Harry? Your practice has been dying on the vine ever since Crawford packed it in.” Rosenberg had rounded the table and was now standing over Harry. “You’re in this shit just as deep as we are.” His face was within inches of Harry’s. “So don’t play innocent with us!”
Harry sighed deeply. “Arnie, you’re absolutely right. It has been a struggle.”
Conduct in Question Page 30
