Steven Gore - Power Blind

“That will not advance your investigation. We manage dozens of companies. You saw their names posted outside. Which one do you suppose he was calling?”

“Do you really want to travel down this road again?”

“It’s not my decision. Cayman Islands law limits what I’m allowed to reveal about companies, clients, and accounts. Unless you have some legal authority, there’s really nothing more I can say.”

Gage reached into his folder, withdrew Charlie Palmer’s death certificate and a power of attorney signed by Socorro, and set them on the desk.

“This is all the authority you need to disclose information about Pegasus.”

Quinton glanced at them, then shook his head.

“U.S. documents have no authority in the Cayman Islands. They’re merely pieces of paper. You’ll need to make a visit to the U.S. embassy to have them certified. You do realize, of course, the embassy with jurisdiction over the Caymans is in Jamaica.” He studied his watch. “Just an hour flight, but this late in the day… And you do know inheritance laws can be particularly complicated. It may take quite some time, perhaps many years, for this to work its way through our courts, and I’m not sure what you’re looking for will be there to be found.”

Gage watched Quinton adopt a posture of self-satisfaction: a half smile, shoulders squared, head tilted upward, eyelids lowered. Gage felt like smashing in his face, except he believed he’d gotten at least one of the answers he came for: Charlie Palmer didn’t own Pegasus.

“That’s a round-trip to nowhere,” Gage said.

Quinton didn’t react, except to say, “Then let me propose something you can pass on to your client.”

“Legal advice is always welcome.”

“This isn’t legal advice. It is merely a suggestion. She would be wise to settle on being happy her husband’s investments-by whatever means they were made-paid off so handsomely, and leave it at that.”

The middle-aged Canadian wearing the Savile Row pinstriped suit stood by himself on the smoking terrace of the Silver Palm Bar. From just inside the entrance, Gage watched him turn and face toward Seven Mile Beach, his forearms resting on the white wooden railing, a cigar in his right hand, a half-finished martini in the other.

The early October sun had just set over the second day of the Offshore Trusts and Financial Instruments Conference at the Grand Cayman Sapphire Resort. It was the annual meeting of bankers, attorneys, accountants, and government officials who managed the money flows through and around the Caribbean. Its attendees had just flooded from the meeting rooms to the poolside bars and wine lounges and had eddied up to form their dinner groups.

Daniel Norbett was the only one drinking and smoking alone, just as Phillip Charters had predicted he would be. Norbett was the real reason Gage had traveled to Grand Cayman, as he had little hope that he’d learn much from Quinton. He was still surprised he’d come away with anything at all.

Norbett blinked as the breeze sweeping inland blew smoke into his deep-set eyes, then he moved the cigar into his left hand so the light gray stream would slip past his face. He took in a long breath and exhaled, eyes fixed on the cobalt blue of the horizon. He then shook his head, as if rejecting an internal command or disagreeing with an unspoken proposal.

Gage worked his way through the crowd toward the slumped figure, dodging tray-laden waitresses and the gesticulating arms of cigar smokers. He came to a stop next to Norbett, then joined him inspecting the nearly invisible sea. Norbett stiffened when he sensed someone next to him, then pasted a smile on his face as he turned. The smile turned to a grin when saw it was Gage.

“I didn’t do it,” Norbett said. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

It was Gage’s turn to smile. “I know you didn’t.”

“Didn’t do what?”

“Whatever it was you said you didn’t do.”

Norbett straightened up, stuck his cigar in his mouth, and then reached out his hand.

“I think we’ve had this conversation before.”

“Three years ago, almost to the day. And you really didn’t do that one.”

Gage shook his hand, then glanced around for a cocktail waitress.

“Forget it,” Norbett said, “let’s get out of here.” He ducked his head as he scanned the crowd. “I don’t want to ruin my reputation by being seen with you.”

“What about my reputation?”

“I’m not sure it’s all that good with the offshore money laundering crowd anyway.”

Norbett led Gage across the terrace and through the lounge to the hotel lobby.

“What are you hungry for?” Norbett asked.

“Up to you. My treat.”

“I assumed it would be.”

Five minutes later the cab dropped them in front of the Copper Falls Steakhouse.

Gage pointed up at the restaurant sign. “How come here?”

“A free martini with every entree.”

“I guess that means you get two.”

Norbett winked. “Just what I was thinking.”

N orbett raised his martini to Gage’s soda water as they faced each other in the high-backed leather booth.

“To whatever.” Norbett set down his drink, then folded his hands on the tablecloth. “So, what’s whatever?”

“How’s business?”

“You get right to the point, don’t you? Since I got indicted in Miami last year, it’s been lousy.” Norbett pulled the toothpick out of his glass and sucked off the olive. “But I suspect you guessed that.”

“I thought your case was over.”

“It is. Dismissed.”

“How come?”

“It was all a misunderstanding.”

“And you clarified things for the government?”

“Let’s say, we had some discussions and they were satisfied with my explanations.”

Gage picked up his menu. He’d gotten the first bit of information he came for. What Norbett called discussions were what others called debriefing, snitching, and the suspicion he’d done so was probably the reason he was being treated as a pariah at the conference.

“What are you having?” Gage asked.

“I think the New York strip steak. I always liked New York, at least some parts.”

“You mean the Bank of New York.”

“They were good customers. Or at least their customers were good customers.”

“They’re not sending you their offshore trust business anymore?”

“They didn’t like seeing their name and mine in the same Wall Street Journal article under the headline: ‘Cayman Island Accountant Indicted in U.S. Tax Fraud Conspiracy.’ ”

Gage raised his glass. “To loyalty.”

“Not much of it around anymore.”

“Have you thought about going back to Toronto and starting over?”

“I’m too old, and I let my Canadian license lapse.”

The waitress delivered a second martini to Norbett, then took their orders.

“You pick up any business at the conference?” Gage asked.

Norbett spread his hands and shrugged. “Did it look like I picked up any business?” He leaned back in his seat. “Okay. Enough foreplay. What are you on the prowl for?”

“Information.”

“About what?”

“A group of companies run by Leonard Quinton.”

“I haven’t worked with Quinton for ten, twelve years. Even then I didn’t get all his work. Most of it, but not all.”

“You doing anything with him now?”

Norbett lifted his martini. “What were you saying about loyalty?” He took a sip, then set it down.

“I’m looking into Pegasus Limited,” Gage said.

Norbett’s eyebrows narrowed. “Pegasus?”

“Did you do the accounting?”

“For all the companies?”

“Any of the companies. I went to the Company Registry. There were three companies that made up the group-”