Final Target Read online

  Gage walked down the corridor, counting six rooms and a nurses’ station, unattended. Two patients per room. The wall next to room four bore a handwritten label: “A. Ward.” The roommate was dressed, and asleep. The room smelled of urine, cigarettes, and instant coffee. Gage slipped inside, then quickly searched Ward’s closet. The elderly man stirred in his bed, rolling first toward the wall, then back. Gage froze until the man started snoring again, then checked the chest of drawers. There wasn’t a scrap of paper, even a wallet, to show that Ward had any life at all before his abandonment at Pleasant Acres.

  Gage found Ward sitting alone in the patio but for a shriveled woman propped in a wheelchair at the far end. He was staring up at metal chimes, rusted and silent. A glass of orange juice rested on a low wrought-iron table, untouched. Standing, he would have been five foot ten. Good complexion. Still had most of his silver hair. Looked his age, seventy-two.

  “Mr. Ward?”

  Ward squinted up at Gage. “Am I supposed to know you?”

  “No.” Gage adopted a sympathetic but respectful smile, as if he’d come to learn from an elder. “But I’d like to ask you about the great work you did with Northstead Securities.”

  Ward looked down and repeated the name to himself, then back up at Gage, his face scrunched up in puzzlement.

  “What’s that?”

  “Aren’t you Albert Ward, the stockbroker?”

  “Me?” Ward’s face reddened in frustration and in anger, as if he could no longer bear to walk down memory’s path only to find himself at an abyss. “If I’m a stockbroker, I would know it. Wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Gage said, reaching out and squeezing the bewildered man’s shoulder, “you would know it.”

  Gage walked back to the reception area where Dolores was seated behind the reception desk.

  “Dolores,” he said, “I don’t think it’s a good day. He didn’t even remember my father.”

  “Unfortunately”—Dolores sighed—“most days are like that now.”

  Gage watched her fondle the cross on the chain around her neck, as if seeking strength to bear nature’s ruthless unpredictability that revealed itself daily in the ossifying mind of Albert Ward. He felt a tenderness for her, a righteous woman trapped by her own history in a job with no future, tending for people with no past.

  Gage glanced down at the sign-in book. “You mentioned other visitors?”

  “Mr. Kovalenko comes once a month, of course, just for the paperwork and to pay the fees. And…” Dolores stood up, then leaned over and glanced down the hallway. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell you.”

  “If it’s something important, someone in the family should know.” Gage took her hand and looked into her eyes. “If you can’t rely on family and our Lord Jesus, who can you rely on?”

  “You’re right, of course.” She glanced around again. “You see, an FBI agent came to visit Albert. Zink, his name was Zink. I remember because our old pastor at Love Temple Church of God in Christ was named Zink. It was such a tragedy when he died. We almost renamed the church after him. A saintly man. Except he was black and this Zink is white. But that was on another of Albert’s bad days.”

  “Did Agent Zink say what he wanted?”

  “No. He just talked to Albert for a few minutes just like you, then he got a box from Albert’s room and left.”

  “Do you know what was in the box?”

  “Just papers. There was a time when Albert liked to look through them. I’m not sure now he even remembers it.”

  “Has Mr. Kovalenko visited since then?”

  She shook her head.

  “Dolores, I think the family would appreciate you not telling Mr. Kovalenko about Agent Zink until we can look into the matter.”

  “Of course. If I was Albert, I’d want that, too. And…” She looked around again. “I don’t like that Mr. Kovalenko. You know how some people have a feature that’s just scary. You know, like eyes, especially eyes. But with Mr. Kovalenko it’s not his eyes. You can’t see nothing in his eyes. But he’s got these big meaty hands, ugly and sweaty. Like…like…”

  “Like he could crush your neck with just one of them?”

  “Yes. Dear Lord. Yes.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Is this how they pumped it up?” Gage asked Alex Z on the following morning. They stood in front of a set of four-foot-by-five-foot charts Alex Z had hung on the walls of Gage’s office that displayed dates, events, and share prices.

  Gage scanned the first two entries. The stock had been issued on June 5 at two dollars a share, then jumped fifty cents a day later when Investor’s Blue Sheet made a strong buy recommendation.

  “I take it Investor’s Blue Sheet is just an arm of Northstead Securities,” Gage said.

  “It’s run by a defrocked stockbroker. He calls himself the Maestro.”

  “Made to order?”

  “All made up to order.”

  On June 8, the stock jumped another fifty cents based on a rumor that the Chinese government was placing a thirty-seven-million-dollar order for sound amplifiers to be used as part of an early warning flood control system.

  “Who started the rumor?” Gage asked.

  “My guess? Maestro the Scumbag.” Alex Z almost spit out the words. He glared at the chart, shaking his head. “This whole thing really pisses me off. When I think of the naïve people who fell for this scam…”

  Alex Z lowered his head and exhaled, then waved his hand toward the share prices, as if each represented a tragedy in someone’s life. “Actually, it’s worse than that. For the first time ever, I imagined myself old and vulnerable. I felt queasy, almost seasick.” He pointed at a graph to his right and made a chopping motion with his hand that tracked the plummeting of the stock at the end of the scam. “Imagine what the older shareholders went through watching their futures collapse.”

  Gage reached his arm around Alex Z’s shoulders. “Maybe we can help them get some of their money back, and give them a chance to start over.”

  “I don’t know, boss. I haven’t been able to figure how the scam worked. And if we don’t know how they did it, we won’t be able to figure out where the profits went.”

  “Let’s work on the how first, and the where later.” Gage dropped into a chair and looked up at the chart. “Did the Chinese ever buy anything?”

  “SatTek put out a press release saying that they were still in negotiations and that was the end of it, but the share price didn’t drop back down.”

  Alex Z pointed at the next entry. June 10. The stock had jumped to nearly four dollars a share based on a report that AB Labs was considering a buyout of SatTek.

  “And that didn’t happen, either,” Gage said.

  “AB Labs’ denial was taken as an attempt to keep the stock price down until they made their move. Meanwhile Matson, Granger, and an engineer started doing road shows. Granger to lend financial credibility, Matson to do the sales pitch and the engineer to explain the technology…And one more guy. Retired from the CIA. He talked about counterterrorism and military applications—”

  “To combine the fear of growing old with the fear of dying young in a terrorist attack.”

  “And it worked. The stock kept ratcheting up. You can even see little jumps every time Homeland Security raised the threat level.”

  Gage scanned down to the next item. June 14–18. SatTek had been one of the most actively traded stocks on NASDAQ, and the price jumped to almost five dollars a share.

  “One of the most actively traded on NASDAQ?” Gage asked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Four brokers were responsible for most of the volume. It looks like Northstead just traded the stock among them, millions of shares, back and forth, and around and around. All the activity put the little investors into a frenzy, wanting to get in on it. A couple of days later the stock hit five dollars and thirty-five cents—and then the dump. All of the offshore companies, the blue companies, Cobalt, Blau, and Azul, started selling and the l
ittle people started buying heavy. Northstead’s boiler room couldn’t sell the stock fast enough.”

  “Which stock?” Gage asked. “From the blue companies?” He didn’t wait for Alex Z to answer. “Couldn’t be. SatTek would’ve fronted a separate chunk to Kovalenko.”

  Alex Z nodded. “And Northstead didn’t even pay SatTek for it until after they sold it off. They didn’t take any risk at all.”

  Gage studied Alex Z’s chart. “What happened after the stock sold out?”

  “SatTek filed its quarterly report with the SEC. Looked perfect. The company was booming like a son of a gun. Tons of money coming in, like from the Asian companies Mr. Burch set up. They paid in full and placed another ten million dollars in orders, each.”

  Gage’s body stiffened. He stopped breathing. He could almost hear the cell door slam in Jack Burch’s face. He now grasped Peterson’s theory: Without Burch there couldn’t have been a SatTek fraud. He created the Chinese and Vietnamese companies, and they were the key to the entire scam.

  Alex Z searched Gage’s face. “What is it, boss?”

  Gage looked up. “Where’d the Asian companies Jack set up get the money to pay for the products?”

  Alex Z shrugged again. “From sales, I guess.”

  “Think. We know they didn’t do that. We found the devices SatTek sent to China piled in a basement, covered with a tarp. Same thing in Vietnam.”

  Alex Z stared at the charts, as if the pattern would somehow emerge on its own. “But I don’t…”

  Gage pushed himself to his feet. “The money to pay for the products came from the blue companies.”

  Alex Z shook his head, almost a double-take. “What?”

  “The money…to pay…for the products…came from the blue companies.”

  Gage picked up a black marker and began charting.

  “Look.”

  Alex Z traced the lines with his forefinger. “But…” He locked his hands on top of his head and closed his eyes for a few seconds, then looked back at Gage. “You mean SatTek pretended to sell millions of dollars of products to the Asian customers to convince the SEC to let them issue stock…”

  Gage held up a finger. “Step one.”

  “Then used the blue companies to sell the stock…”

  Gage held up a second finger. “Step two.”

  “Then the blue companies wired the money to the Asian customers so they could pretend to pay SatTek for the products they had pretended to purchase?”

  “Exactly.” Gage rotated his hand. “Step three was a pirouette. SatTek paid for its own products with the money it made from selling its own stock.”

  Alex Z looked back at the flowchart, eyes wide, almost awestruck. “It’s the perfect crime.”

  Gage sat down, then grabbed a pen and a legal pad from the conference table. There was a box missing from the chart.

  “How many shares went offshore right after they went public?”

  “At least eight million.”

  Gage thought out loud as he wrote. “If the blue companies sold the stock for an average of five dollars a share…” He performed a quick multiplication on his pad. “That’s forty million dollars.”

  “Right.”

  “Even after the blue companies paid SatTek sixteen million dollars for the stock and sent ten million to China and Vietnam, they still had fourteen million left.”

  Alex Z whistled. “That’s a whole lot of money.”

  “And that was exactly the goal of the whole scheme—Matson and Granger have got to be behind all of the blue companies.”

  Gage stood up and added to his flowchart.

  “And that’s not the end of it, boss. A few months later, the SEC authorized SatTek to issue another twenty-five million shares, then another thirty after that.”

  Gage looked back at the flowchart, his stomach in a knot. What if he was wrong and Faith was right? What if Burch’s rage really had turned into greed?

  One thing he knew for certain was that when Peterson presented his own flowchart to the jury, the bottom box would read: Matson, Granger, and Burch.

  CHAPTER 24

  The train is leaving the station,” William Peterson told defense attorney Sid Lavender. Peterson propped his legs on his desk, leaned his oversized ergonomic chair back to its limit, and locked his hands behind his head. “Sid, your client better get on board.”

  “Come on, Billy-boy, I’ve been taking these cases to trial for twenty-seven years. No way you’ll convict Ed Granger, relying on Matson and Zink. Zink couldn’t investigate a plumbing leak. Why do you think he never got promoted?”

  Lavender loved the game and loved to go to trial. He’d rather go to trial than have sex, eat prime rib, hit a hole in one, or win the lottery. In fact, trial was his lottery except the odds always were that he’d win. White hair, chubby face, playful smile, everybody’s favorite uncle. Juries adored him and prosecutors could never bring themselves to hate him.

  Lavender unbuttoned his suit jacket, took a sip from his Starbucks latte, then grinned at Peterson.

  “How do you spell impeachment? M-a-t-s-o-n,” Lavender said. “Granger’s got lots of stuff on Matson. Lots and lots. You’d be better off taking the case civil.”

  Peterson slipped his feet off the desk.

  “You’ve got to be kidding, Sid. Let Granger kick all the dirt he wants at Matson, they’ll both be covered in dust.”

  “Who’s kidding who?”

  “Whom.”

  “Okay. Whom. You’ve got to prove that Granger knew what Matson was up to. It’s he said, he said. You got Granger’s signature on anything? He own any of those companies? You got his name on a single overseas wire transfer? Can you even trace any of the shares to him? No, no, and no. How many was that? No. He was just an elder statesman offering a little advice to a guy he thought made a good product. All he got were consulting fees. Not even a quarter mil. Trust me, he feels betrayed…No, heartbroken…” Lavender sighed and placed his hand on his chest. “That’s it, heartbroken and betrayed.”

  Peterson waved him off. “Save it for your closing argument.”

  “You don’t really have anything. At least anything solid. I know it and you know it.”

  “Sid, Sid, Sid. I’m not giving you a peek at my case unless your guy wants to do a Queen for Day about what he knows.”

  Lavender set his cup down on Peterson’s desk, then leaned forward, reaching out his hands, palms up.

  “Hypothetically speaking—get that? Hy-po-thetically. Who’s left for him to give? You got Matson. Granger never even sat down with Burch.” Lavender drew back. “What? He’s supposed to roll down on a bookkeeper at SatTek? What’ll that earn him? Two days off a ten-year sentence? Four days off twenty?”

  “I think you better have a heart-to-heart with your client,” Peterson said, tapping his middle finger on a file folder bearing Granger’s name. “This isn’t the first time he’s come up on the radar. As soon as he stops lying to himself, you’ll be knocking on my door. If he doesn’t come in, it’s dasvedanya, baby. I hear Lompoc in the fall is just lovely.”

  “That’s the last word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?” Sid grinned. “Lovely or dasvedanya?”

  “You’re enjoying this too much, Sid.” Peterson slid aside the file “Anyone else on the agenda for today?”

  “Nope.” Sid rose to leave. “But put on your trial suit. Granger won’t come crawling in. I think he’ll roll the dice in front of a jury.”

  “It’ll be fun,” Peterson said. “We always have fun in trial. Just don’t use that peel-the-onion metaphor again to describe my case—it’s getting old and smelly.”

  Sid spread his arms like a farmer showing off his crop. “But for jurors it conveys the aroma of spring planting. And don’t forget, it takes a little manure to grow something really tasty.”

  Peterson smiled and shook his head, “Sid, Sid, Sid.”

  Zink was sitting in Peterson’s office when he returned from esc
orting Lavender to the exit.

  “Is Granger coming in?” Zink asked.

  “Nope.” Peterson dropped into his chair. “At least not right away.”

  “I’ve traced a few million dollars of Matson’s and Granger’s money to Liechtenstein. It all went through Blau Anstalt. The authorities froze the accounts but Granger’s nominee directors are fighting our bank record demands in court. They can tie it up for years. All it would take is for Granger to tell his people to back off and we could give it all back to the shareholders.”

  Peterson had fought with Liechtenstein before, but never won—and didn’t expect to this time. He knew that their economy depended on keeping exactly the kind of financial secrets the U.S. Justice Department had an interest in exposing.

  “How do you know that Granger is behind Blau Anstalt?” Peterson asked.

  Zink shrugged. “That’s what Matson says.”

  Peterson thought for a moment. “Granger just may be one of those guys we need to indict first, unless you’ve got something new to spook him with.”

  “Nothing more than what Matson’s given us. I’ve leaned on him every which way I can, but all he’s come up with is that Granger was the connection to the guys pushing the stock at Northstead. I feel like I’ve been digging well after well, but coming up dry.”

  “Sticking it to brokers isn’t going to get us anywhere. We need Granger to roll up, not down.”

  Peterson saw in Zink’s expression that he’d had enough of this particular little snitch. Peterson made a college-try fist, then said, “Let’s give it one more shot. But this time, go heavy on him. Push him hard. Maybe Granger bragged about some deal or somebody he knows. We just need a little leverage.”

  Zink nodded.

  Peterson’s eyes narrowed. “Granger is what? Late sixties?”

  “About.”

  Peterson looked at his wall calendar. “We just need to get him doing the numbers. Say he goes to trial in sixteen months. Ninety days until he’s convicted, and gets sentenced ninety days after that. Say he gets twenty years. They let him out when he’s what? Almost ninety?”