Ian Hamilton - The water rat of Wanchai

“Who did you deal with at Seafood Partners?”

“Jackson Seto.”

“Just him?”

“No one else.”

“Did you ever meet his partner, George Antonelli?”

“No, and I never really met Seto. We did business over the phone.”

“When was the last time you heard from him?”

“I called him about four or five weeks ago, when the last of the product was repacked.”

“What phone number did you call?”

He gave her the same cellphone number that Andrew Tam had provided.

“Tell me, Mr. Ho, how did Jackson Seto find you?”

He laughed. “In this business, sooner or later everyone in the U.S. needs to find me. That’s all I do — fix other people’s problems.”

“Well, this is one problem I would appreciate your not discussing any further with Seto. There is no reason for you to call him, and if by chance he calls you, I would not mention this conversation.”

“He’s all yours.”

“Thanks.”

“But I’d be happy if you could make a note in the report you’re going to write that I was cooperative.”

“Consider it done, Mr. Ho,” she said.

Ava did a search on the Internet to find G. B. Flatt. It was the largest retail food chain in Texas, with more than three hundred stores. She trolled through the various departments until she found the seafood director in a sub-listing in the perishables department. The name was J. K. Tran — Vietnamese for sure. Man or woman? Not so certain.

She debated whether or not to maintain the FDA persona. It’s working well enough, she thought. Carla was on a roll.

J. K. Tran wasn’t happy to hear from her. “We’ve done nothing wrong,” he said the instant she mentioned the FDA and Seafood Partners.

Why is he so defensive? she wondered. Is he on the take? Did Seto pay him off to take in the product?

“Mr. Tran,” she said slowly, “our interest is solely in Seafood Partners. We have already talked to Barry Ho at Garcia Shrimp, and he swears that the product is now entirely within regulations. My problem is that we told Mr. Seto the product was not to be moved. I just need to confirm that you have that product. We have no, I repeat, no axe to grind with G. B. Flatt. You can keep the product. I just need you to confirm who you bought it from.”

“Seafood Partners.”

“Jackson Seto?”

“Yes.”

“How much did you pay?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

Tran’s not slow, she thought. “There’s going to be a fine. It will be based on the value of the goods sold.”

That must have sounded plausible, because Tran said, “I paid four dollars a pound.”

“For how many pounds?”

“Just over 900,000.”

“And how were they paid?”

“We sent them a wire.”

“Is that usual?”

“It was a one-of-a-kind deal. The price was exceptional, so we didn’t mind the terms.”

“Where was the wire sent?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who does know?”

“Accounts payable.”

“Who should I speak to there?”

“Rosemary Shields.”

“Mr. Tran, could you do me a favour? Put me on hold, call Rosemary, and tell her to give me the wire information. I will make sure that you, she, and G. B. Flatt are kept out of this mess as we go forward.”

“Wait,” he said.

The line went dead for close to five minutes, and Ava began to think she had been cut off. She was just about to hang up and redial when Tran came back to the phone. “The wire was sent two weeks ago. It went to Dallas First National Bank, 486 Sam Rayburn Drive, Dallas, Texas.”

“Whose bank account?”

“Seafood Partners, who else?”

“Do you have a contact at the bank?”

“No.”

“Phone number?”

“None.”

“Well, thanks for this. I’ll follow up with the bank.”

Ava hung up and went back to her computer. Dallas First National was a two-branch bank, and the main branch, on Sam Rayburn Drive, was located in a strip mall. Jeff Goldman was the chairman, president, and CEO. Busy man, she thought.

The FDA cover wasn’t necessarily going to have an impact on Goldman. It was time to bring Rebecca Cohen out of the drawer.

She called the general phone number provided on the website. For close to a minute she listened to a Texas drawl extolling the virtues of hometown banking and personal service, and then she was transferred to voicemail. Again she debated about leaving a message. In the end she felt she had no choice, and added that the number she was giving was her direct personal line.

Goldman didn’t call her back until mid-afternoon. In the meantime Ava had convinced herself that he had checked her out and was never going to call, so it was with some relief that she saw the 214 area code appear on her screen.

“This is the Treasury Department, Rebecca Cohen,” she said.

“Ms. Cohen, I’m Jeff Goldman, Dallas First National Bank. You called me earlier today.”

The accent was hardly Texan; he sounded more like a New Yorker. “Yes, I did, and thank you for returning my call.”

“Ms. Cohen, exactly what part of the Treasury Department are you with?”

“Internal Revenue.”

“That’s still pretty vague.”

“My section specializes in money laundering,” she said.

“So why in hell are you calling me? We’re a local bank, a mom-and-pop shop.”

She waited for him to consider some possibilities, then asked, “Do you have a customer called Seafood Partners?”

She heard his fist banging on the desk. “Shit,” he said.

“How long have they been a customer?”

“Shit, shit, shit.”

“Mr. Goldman,” she prodded, “how long have they been a customer? Not very long, I would wager.”

“About three weeks,” he said, his voice pinched.

“Who opened the account?”

“A Chinese guy named Seto.”

“How much did he put in the account?”

“A thousand dollars.”

“Did he do it in person? Did he come into your branch?”

“That’s the only way we do business.”

“So you met him?”

“No, one of my account officers handled it. I mean, it was a business account with a thousand-dollar deposit. I saw the guy, though. Tall, real skinny, scrawny moustache.”

“And then about two weeks ago the account received a wire transfer from G. B. Flatt in Houston for close to four million dollars. You saw that, I bet.”

“I sure did.”

“You didn’t find that a bit strange?”

“No, why would I? We’re a small bank, but this is Texas, this is Dallas, and million-dollar transactions are common enough.”

“Still, one of your staff brought it to your attention.”

“We had to make sure it was legit.”

“How did you do that?”

“We called the issuing bank, and then to make doubly sure, we called the accounts department at G. B. Flatt.”

“And?”

“Flatt said they had bought a lot of shrimp from them. It made sense.”

It was time to back up, she thought, not to press too hard too quickly. “This Seto — what kind of information did he provide on his company?”

“They’re registered in Washington state, with a Seattle address.”

“So why use a Dallas bank?”

“He told my girl they were thinking of relocating to Texas. Looking at the deal they did with Flatt and knowing how big the shrimp business is in places like Brownsville, it was kind of logical.”

“So they didn’t have a Dallas address or phone number?”

“No, everything was Seattle.”

“Can you give me that information, please?”

“It’ll take a minute.”

“I’ll wait.”

The address and phone numbers were the same ones she had gotten from Andrew Tam and Barry Ho.