The water rat of Wanchai al-1 Read online

  “He said you’re remarkably good at what you do.”

  “That doesn’t mean it always works.”

  “Do we need to talk about your fee?” he asked.

  “Did your uncle explain how it operates?”

  “He said you keep one-third of everything you collect.”

  “We do. It seems like a lot, but we don’t ask for anything upfront, we pay all our own expenses, and if we don’t collect, then not only do we not get paid, we are also out of pocket for the money we’ve spent.”

  “Yes, he said that too.”

  “Good.”

  “Andrew, send me the information I requested, and be available if I need to talk to you. If you don’t hear from me for a while, don’t sweat it. I’m not going to call you with regular updates.”

  She hung up and walked back to the window. It was snowing, and the long-range forecast called for more of the same. A week or two in Hong Kong and Bangkok didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

  (4)

  Ava slept well and woke with a sense of purpose, but she didn’t hurry her morning routine of prayer, stretching, coffee, Globe and Mail, and TV. It was nine o’clock before she called Uncle. From the background noise she could tell he was in a restaurant. She explained to him in detail what had happened to Tam.

  “Stupid,” Uncle said.

  “We’ve seen worse.”

  “He is supposed to a professional.”

  “He finances purchase orders. Who is more credit-worthy than Major Supermarkets?”

  “True. What will you do?”

  “I’ll start off by finding the shrimp and/or the money.”

  “Will that be hard?”

  “No, I should get it done this morning.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll have to find Seto and Antonelli.”

  “That’s an unusual combination for partners: a Chinese and an Italian. They usually like to stick to their own.”

  Ava hadn’t thought about it, but it was true. “I might have to come to Hong Kong and I’ll probably have to go to Bangkok.”

  “When?”

  “In a day or two.”

  “Let me know your schedule. I’ll meet you at Chek Lap Kok.”

  “Uncle, I may need some help in Bangkok.”

  “I’ll call our friends.”

  “If I go, I’d like a car and a driver who can speak English and handle himself, and I’ll need some of the usual odds and ends.”

  “It will be a cop. That is who we are connected to. It has to be either the police or the army, and since we don’t smuggle drugs or sell rocket launchers, the cops are the best choice.”

  “That’s fine. As soon as my schedule is set, I’ll send it to you.”

  She had called Uncle from her land line. She put down that phone and pulled out her cell, opened the back, and took out her local SIM card. From a drawer in her desk she pulled out a business card organizer, but there were no business cards in the clear plastic sleeves. Instead there were about forty SIM cards, each neatly identified by city and country; in the back were prepaid phone cards. She found the SIM card she wanted and slid it into her cell. When the phone was turned on, it read WELCOME TO AT amp; T 202-818-6666 — a Washington, D.C. number.

  The Andrew Tam file was open in front of her. She found the phone number for the trucking firm that moved most of the shrimp and punched it in.

  “Collins Transport,” a woman said.

  “This is Carla Robertson from the Food and Drug Administration,” Ava said. “I need to speak to the person who runs this business.”

  There was a pause. Any mention of the FDA always caused a pause. “That would be Mr. Collins.”

  “Then put me through.”

  Another pause. “I’m afraid he’s in a meeting.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t care if he’s in a meeting. It’s imperative that I speak to him. Please interrupt whatever he’s doing and put him on the line.”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was a few minutes before Collins picked up the line. Ava guessed that he really had been in a meeting. “Hello,” he said, “this is Bob Collins.”

  “Mr. Collins, good morning. My name is Carla Robertson and I’m a senior inspector with the FDA here in Washington.”

  “Yes, Ms. Robertson, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Collins, about eight weeks ago your firm picked up multiple truckloads of shrimp from the Evans Cold Storage Warehouse in Landover, Maryland.”

  “We did.”

  “That shrimp, Mr. Collins, had been inspected by us and found to violate several FDA regulations. It was our intent to put it on formal hold, but before the paperwork could be processed the product was moved by your trucking firm.”

  “Ms. Robertson, we had no idea about any FDA involvement,” he said quickly. “We were given the business and treated it like we would any other. The cold storage facility would never have released the order if it was on hold.”

  “As I said, we were slow to act, but the product should not have been moved. Who authorized it?”

  “A company called Seafood Partners.”

  “Have you done business with them before?”

  “Actually, no. We got the business through a freight broker. We never talked to them.”

  “Where did the product go?”

  “Biloxi, Mississippi,” he said.

  “Where in Biloxi?”

  “The Garcia Shrimp Company.”

  “I would like an address, phone number, and contact name for that firm.”

  “I don’t have it at my fingertips. Can I email it to you later?”

  “No, I’ll wait.”

  She heard him mutter and then put the phone down. The next voice she heard was that of the receptionist, who gave Ava the information she wanted. Their contact at the Garcia Shrimp Company was a man named Barry Ho. What was a Chinese guy doing running a shrimp company with a Mexican name in Mississippi?

  She dialled the Biloxi number Collins’s receptionist had given her. The phone went directly to voicemail. She debated about leaving a message, but in the end she did, emphasizing how important it was for someone to get back to her.

  Twenty minutes later her cellphone rang. “Carla Robertson, FDA.”

  “This is Barry Ho.”

  “Thanks for returning my call so promptly.”

  “When it comes to the FDA, we take things very seriously,” he said, with a slight trace of a Chinese accent and a stronger trace of stress.

  “We appreciate that. It makes our job a lot easier when we get cooperation.”

  “So what can I do for you? Your message said it was important.”

  “Do you do business with a company called Seafood Partners?”

  Ho hesitated, and Ava swore she could hear him wondering whether he should try to bullshit her or not. “Yeah, I do. Not that often.”

  “According to our sources, they trucked a substantial amount of shrimp to your plant about eight weeks ago.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did they ship it to you?”

  “They needed it repacked. That’s our specialty — repacking.”

  “Repacked how?”

  “They had a couple of problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “Ms. Robertson, I’m not sure I should be talking to you without their permission.”

  “Mr. Ho, we inspected this product just before they moved it. We were about to put it all on hold, but they beat us to the punch. Now, there’s no way you could have known that, and we’re not going to hold you responsible for acting as if everything was above board. But let me assure you, it would be beneficial for you to tell me what you know.”

  Ho sighed. There was no upside to refusing her. “Well, the product was packed in retail bags for sale at Major Supermarkets, and it was short weight. We repacked a lot of it for another retail chain, and the rest we put up in a Seafood Partners bag.”

  “With
the correct weights?”

  “Of course, and it wasn’t easy. Usually we need to overpack by about five percent to make up for glaze. This time we were at ten percent and more.”

  “Who was the retailer?”

  “G. B. Flatt.”

  “In their bags?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How much product?”

  “Twenty truckloads.”

  “Do you still have any of the product?”

  “No, no, we shipped it out as soon it was repacked.”

  “Where did the G. B. Flatt product go?”

  “To their central distribution centre in Houston.”

  “And the balance?”

  “To a warehouse in Seattle.”

  “Which one?”

  “Continental. They only have the one freezer.”

  “Care of?”

  “Seafood Partners.”

  “Have you been paid?”

  “We wouldn’t let product leave our warehouse unless we were paid.”

  “By cheque?”

  “Yeah.”

  “From Seafood Partners?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You wouldn’t have a copy of that cheque handy, would you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Please get it for me.”

  She heard a filing cabinet opening and closing, paper rustling.

  “I have copy in front of me,” he said.

  “Give me the particulars,” she said.

  It was from Northwest Bank, a major financial institution headquartered in Seattle. Seafood Partners had an account at a branch near Sea-Tac Airport. Ho provided the address, phone number, and account number.

  “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.

  “Now, Mr. Goldman, that money from G. B. Flatt, is it still in their account at your bank?”

  “Some of it is,” he said carefully.

  “How much?”

  “About ten thousand.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No, and the way this conversation is going, I wish I was.”

  “Mr. Goldman, don’t fret,” she said. “This happens all the time. A bank, a good honest bank, opens an account for a customer who seems entirely above board, takes in deposits for genuine commercial transactions, and then at the customer’s request transfers that money elsewhere for what are thought to be other real commercial transactions. That’s just about what happened, isn’t it?”