“I’m beginning to see why you need time,” Johnstone said. “It isn’t often someone comes into this office to tell us about giving away nearly a half a billion dollars. I’m sure you have an explanation.”
“I assumed you’d want to know where I got the money.”
“That was going to be my first question.”
“I’m going to start at the beginning. It’s a very long story. Let me know if it’s too long… If you did a computer search using the keywords: Jim Servito, John Hill, and gasoline tax evasion, you would understand the origin of the money. Jim Servito, a U.S. draft dodger who became a Canadian citizen, accumulated three hundred and twenty-five million dollars by evading tax on gasoline he sold in Canada and the Untied States. John Hill was head of the Criminal Investigation Division of the I.R.S. during the years Servito stole the money.”
Johnstone turned to his computer and keyed in the words and names Kerri suggested. “You’re right. It’s here, and it’s a huge file,” he said. Minutes passed in silence as he continued to read. “It says Servito was killed in Caracas, Venezuela by his wife. Do you know how that happened?”
“Here’s a short answer… Servito hid his money in the Cayman Island branch of The Banco International Venezolano. Alfred Schnieder, the bank’s manager in Caracas, managed it. Servito left Canada in nineteen seventy-nine, and took his son, Phillip with him. Karen, Servito’s wife and Phillip’s mother, followed him to Caracas, killed him, and returned her son to Canada. The reason I know all this is because Servito’s wife went to Caracas with a man named Mike King, my father. While they were in Caracas, and subsequent to Servito’s death, Phillip led his mother and my father to Alfred Schnieder and Servito’s money.”
“So they really did find it. This text says it was never found.”
“They found it and they kept it. My father told me they kept it because the Feds had put both him and Karen Servito in jail for crimes they didn’t commit. He said the Feds eventually apologized for any inconvenience their actions might have caused them, but that wasn’t nearly enough. Karen and my father never forgave them. My father said the Feds’ only interest was recovering the money, and they didn’t care who they hurt in the process. Dad and Karen were damned mad and they weren’t going to take it anymore. They went to war with the Feds, and they survived. They had Alfred Schnieder set up a trust for them, and he continued to manage the money until he retired a year later. He turned the trust’s management over to a man named Louis Visconti, a broker in New York. You might want to do a search on Visconti. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of information on him.” Kerri paused while Johnstone tapped ‘Louis Visconti’ on his keyboard.
Johnstone nodded as he read. “Yup, we’ve got a big file on Visconti.” He looked up at Kerri. “Before you go on, tell me about your father. How did he know Karen Servito?’
“They met and fell in love with each other while my father was at the University of Toronto. Circumstances caused them to drift apart, but they never stopped loving each other. After Jim Servito died, they got married and stayed married to this day. They were, and still are very much in love with each other… That’s all very interesting, but it’s off topic. I want you to follow the money. That’s why I’m here.”
“Okay, so back to Louis Visconti.”
“Louis did a great job of managing the money until the crash of eighty-seven. He lost a half a billion of the trust’s value on Black Tuesday. Then he tried to make it all back in a hurry by shorting crude oil in a big way. I know this because he did the shorts through Iacardi & Sons, my employer. That’s how I got involved. In fact, I got so involved I had an affair with Visconti. I didn’t see it when I fell in love with him, but he was corrupt to the core of his existence. The money would have stayed hidden forever, but three things happened to change everything: Phillip Servito decided he wanted his father’s money, my father decided he wanted to give the money to charity, and Louis Visconti, with Alfred Schnieder’s help, stole the money and flew to Monaco with it.”
“Stop,” Johnston said, raising his left hand while still scribbling. “I have so many questions, I don’t know where to start.”
“I promise I’ll answer them all, but I still want you to follow the money. Please remember. It’s why I’m here.”
Johnstone tightened his lips and conceded with a wave of both hands. “Sorry. Go on.”
“By the time Louis had decided to disappear to Europe, I was aware of his plan to steal the money in the trust, and his plan to murder Phillip, so I decided to stay with him and try to recover the money. I knew Louis really wanted me to go to Monaco with him, so I insisted that we sign reciprocal wills before we left… I’ll shorten the story by telling you that Louis died in Monaco, and I inherited all of the money that was left in the trust.”
“How much money was there, and how did Louis die?”
“There was a hundred and sixty-six million left, and I killed Louis,” Kerri replied, causing Johnstone’s eyes to bulge and his mouth to open. She was desperately trying to condense her story, cleanse herself of the burden of the secret with which she had lived for far too long, and most importantly, neutralize Jeffery Wheeler’s blackmail threat. To her horror, the more she said, the more incriminating her story became.
Johnstone moved forward to edge of his chair. Her story was like none he had ever heard, and he had heard some beauties. “You killed him! Why did you do that?” he asked.
“He told me he paid to have Phillip murdered, strangled Alfred Schnieder to death in front of me, then raped me, and threatened to murder me after he was finished. I killed him to save my life… I was cleared of any charges. The Monaco police agreed that it was self defense… At the end of the day, I gave the money to Miles Dennis, a trader with Iacardi in New York, and asked him to manage it for me. He managed to more than triple its value in the past ten years. Neither my father not I wanted one dime of that money. We still don’t. We agreed that we didn’t earn it, and that it was tainted. Then came nine-eleven. That single event affected me more deeply than you can imagine. I still can’t get it out of my mind. Maybe I never will, but I saw it as an opportunity to do something useful with that money. So I did.”
Johnstone extended a smirk in Kerri’s direction. He was excited. He had a coup, a windfall. His compassion, however, dueled with his ambition. He had to weigh the benefits of being the point man in a gigantic, nine digit tax case against cutting some slack for a woman who had voluntarily stepped forward and bared her soul. “I assume you’re referring to the four hundred and eighty-seven million,” he said.
“I am. It’s divided into three hundred and thirty-eight parts and it’s on its way to the United States… I know I’ve probably broken the law, but I’m prepared to accept the consequences. I could have enjoyed a pretty good life with that money, but I didn’t. I used it to make a difference in a lot of lives. I hope you’ll take that into consideration.”
Johnstone stared at his notes, avoiding eye contact with Kerri. “In the period of time that you’ve been in possession of that money, did you ever notify the I.R.S. of its existence?”
“No.”
“Did you ever pay tax on the capital gains you have realized?”
“No.”
Johnstone finally made eye contact with his visitor. “This is a very unique case. In all the years I’ve been with the I.R.S. I don’t think I’ve seen one like it. There are numerous questions that still need to be answered. Of course we’ll need to complete a full review before we talk to you again. In that connection, I suggest you arrange legal representation. Is there anything further you would like to say at this time?”
“Yes. In your professional opinion, what’s going to happen to me?”
“Based on the information you’ve given me, there appears to be a substantial tax liability in this case. In addition, the fact that you have deliberately hidden your money and failed to make any decl
aration to the I.R.S. for a period of ten years could result in substantial penalties. Mitigating in your favor is the fact that you have voluntarily stepped forward. The I.R.S. might be disposed to spare you from criminal prosecution.”
CHAPTER 35
New York. Friday, December 28, 2001.
Peter Tavaris, wearing his trade marked black pin striped suit, marched into Kerri’s office without knocking. A poinsettia flower was stuck in his lapel. He parked himself in the chair closest to her desk and displayed a contemptuous smirk. “Thought I’d stop by and wish you a happy New Year,” he said.
Kerri looked up from her work and glared at him, wishing he would go away. “What do you want, Peter? I’m sure a happy New Year is the last thing you want me to have.”
“You know what I want, Kerri. I was hoping that by now you would have signed the Enerco offer.”
Kerri opened the bottom right drawer of her desk and removed her crumpled copy of the offer. She turned to the final page and held it up for Tavaris to see. “Sorry, I guess I forgot to sign it.”
Tavaris glanced at the offer and frowned. “You have until midnight on Monday to remember. All hell is going to break loose if you don’t sign it by then. Maybe you should just sign it now. I’m going to Houston for the weekend. I could take it with me.”
Kerri decided to find out how much Tavaris knew. “I’m not going to sign it, Peter, so go ahead and tell me all about the hell that’s going to break loose.”
“For starters we’re going to kick the lawsuit against you into high gear. Our legal team is very confident. They have an extremely strong case, strong enough to relieve you of your job, and every dime you have to your name.”
“Is that all? I thought I had something to worry about,” Kerri said, forcing a confident smile.
“I said that was for starters. Jeff Wheeler told me you’ve been hiding a shit load of money in Switzerland. Now if he’s right about that, and I have every reason to believe he is, you could be in up to your ass in alligators before you know it. I understand the I.R.S. are inclined to frown on that kind of activity.” He stroked his stubble and glared at Kerri. “You’re way over your head, my dear. Listen to reason. Sign the offer. Then you can forget about the lawsuit and the I.R.S.”
Kerri shook her head in disgust. “I’m disappointed in you, Peter. I’m disappointed that you’re prepared to go to bed with people who will resort to murder and blackmail to get what they want. I thought you were bigger than that.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“I have a message for your friend, Jeffery Wheeler. Tell him he can shove his offer up his ass. Now here’s a message for you. I’m not going to sign the offer in its present form, not ever, so you might as well start the lawsuit now.
Tavaris stood and headed for the door. He turned when he got there. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.” He hurried to the lobby, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Jeffery Wheeler’s private number. He left a message. “Jeff, it’s Peter. I just left her office. She hasn’t signed, and she’s not going to. It’s time to take the gloves off. See you tonight.”
CHAPTER 36
Muskoka. Saturday, December 29, 2001. 9:30 A.M.
A heavy cold mist hung over Lake Joseph. Visibility beyond a hundred feet was impossible. The temperature was near freezing. There was no wind, almost no sound.
Steve had been working his heart out. He had spent the previous forty-eight hours working and sleeping at The Monster. A commercial grade Salamander heater provided almost all the heat he needed. His objective was to complete all of the interior trim and painting, then escape his beloved Muskoka for a period of two weeks, just enough time for him to attend his bachelor weekend at South Beach, Miami, his wedding to Christine in Naples on New Years Eve, and his honeymoon in the Grenadines.
The two men working for his painting sub-contractor finished their assignments shortly before noon, then Steve paid them and thanked them. He continued to work alone for another thirty minutes, then packed up his tools, loaded them onto his green Ford truck, locked the doors, and headed for his Port Carling home. There, he exchanged his tools for two fully packed travel bags, took a quick shower, then headed south to Toronto’s Pearson Airport. He left his truck at ParknFly, and took a shuttle to Terminal One, where he boarded Air Canada, Flight 719, Toronto to Miami.
Miami. Same day. 4:30 P.M.
Steve cleared customs at Miami International Airport, took a taxi to South Beach, and booked into the Ritz Plaza Hotel on Collins Avenue, position A for exploring the strip. Once the tallest building in Miami, the aging twelve story, four star hotel was the unanimous choice of the five members of Steve’s wedding party: Tom MacDonald, his best man and childhood friend from Muskoka, Ian and Michael Monteith, Steve’s two younger brothers, Peter Mitchell, his hockey buddy and high school class-mate, and finally, Monty Kaplan, a fraternity brother who had managed to drink his way through university, then become one of Toronto’s most successful criminal lawyers.
After throwing his bags on the bed of his room, Steve headed for the bar. He glanced at his watch as he entered the elevator. It was five thirty. “Late for your own party,” he said with a smile to the mirrored wall.
He entered the bar and was greeted with loud cheers and whistles. The other five members of his wedding party were there, and as he would soon discover, they had a huge head start.
“It’s about time you got here, Monteith,” Tom MacDonald said, hoisting his third beer in Steve’s direction.
Steve shrugged his shoulders, and turned his palms skyward. “Sorry. I almost forgot I had to spend this weekend partying with a bunch of drunks,” he said with a big smile. After handshakes and hugs, he took a seat and ordered a beer. “So what’s the program?” he asked.
MacDonald stood and saluted. “I’ve been authorized to speak on behalf of the group, sir. First, we’re gonna drink this place dry. Next, we’re taking a limo over to Miami, boarding a big ass boat, and taking a dinner cruise on Biscayne Bay. Finally, after they pour us off that boat, we’re compelled to sample the strip’s eye candy, and the offerings of every bar on South Beach. We’re taking a limo because nobody volunteered to be the designated driver.” He pointed to Ian Monteith, a year younger than Steve, a Toronto stock broker, and almost a carbon copy. “Tell your brother about the torture we’ve planned for tomorrow morning.”
“You’ll be required to report for breakfast at Front Porch Cafe, sharp at nine. It’s on Collins Avenue, just a little north of here. You can easily crawl there. We’re going to hit the beach after breakfast. You’ll be required to endure a Cuban fashion show and stare at a bunch of Cuban goddesses wearing designer dental floss.” He patted his younger brother Michael on his head. “Tell your brother what he has to do tomorrow afternoon.”
Michael was by far the best athlete of the family. He had starred as a Junior A player for the Toronto Marlboros, and was now the starting center for the Toronto Maple Leafs. He married his Leaside High School sweetheart and had two beautiful daughters. He stood and smiled at Steve. “If you’re up to it, you’ll be required to report to the docks near MacArthur Causeway at noon. We’ve chartered a deep sea fishing vessel, and we’ve asked the captain to fill it with beer and slutty women. We’re going to sea and might even do some fishing while we’re at it. Buy some Gravol, and don’t leave home without it.”
Peter Mitchell stood and saluted. “On the assumption that we’re all still alive by Sunday morning, and that’s a stretch, we’re planning to blow out of here by ten. Since you and lovely Christine Stewart are about to make uncles out of them, each of your brothers has rented a car. They’ll drive us to The Ritz in Naples. We should get there by noon. That’ll give us plenty of time to massage our hangovers and get ready for your wedding… You’re a hell of a guy, Steve Monteith. We took a poll to see if any of us
knew a person who could convince us to leave our wives and families and fly to this God forsaken place for a bachelor party. It was unanimous. You’re the only one.”
CHAPTER 37
Naples, Florida. Saturday, December 29, 2001. 2:00 P.M.
Christine, her father, and Vicky Anchutz had taken a chartered Lear 60 from Pearson to Naples Municipal Airport, just off Airport Puling Drive, and a short distance from Jamie Stewart’s palatial home on Gordon Drive in Port Royal. They loaded their luggage and themselves into a dark blue lincoln limousine and headed for the house. Twenty minutes later the limousine passed slowly through intricately designed wrought iron private gates and proceeded over a bridge spanning several ponds which were surrounded by lush tropical landscaping and filled with exotic fish. It continued to traverse a winding interlocking stone driveway to a large circular receiving courtyard, centered with a fountain and a massive Banyon tree. It came to a stop close to the two thick glass and wrought iron patterned front doors. Christine and her father got out and entered the house while the driver opened the trunk and hauled their numerous bags to the atrium. Christine’s father approached the driver and handed him a wad of cash. “Take Miss Anchutz to Handsome Harry’s on Third Street. She’ll have lunch there. Then she’s going to shop her brains out. Take her wherever she wants.” He gave Vicki a peck on the cheek, then helped her into the rear of the limousine. He waved as it started to move, then returned to his house and walked straight through it to the central porch facing the Gulf of Mexico.
Christine followed and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thanks for this, dad,” she said.