“Fair enough. We’ll send you a closing statement. I hope business improves for you.”
I turned and walked out, ignoring the smug look on his face. I had mentioned Galt to Clay the night before, in one of our update calls. Without any prompting at all Clay had said Galt was one of those clients we might be better off without — small account, high maintenance, slow payer. I got the feeling he would have liked to see me put the good doctor in his place.
I was running up so much phone time with Amy I was thinking she could run a 1-800 service, maybe 1-800-SEXYCOP. She’d be retired in three years.
She’d been calling me twice a day with updates on the bust and Niki’s trip through the justice system, and I was eating it up. It was like my own episode of Law and Order, delivered by a sexy narrator.
“The lab guys are just drooling over this stuff. They didn’t have enough samples to figure out the chemical makeup of Rev before, and now they’re handed a full lab. Turns out it’s fairly close to meth — ammonia, lye, lithium, battery acid. All nasty shit. Even some weird plant,” I could hear the sound of pages turning, “get this — black fringed bloodroot. It’s a rare poppy, native to just a few areas of Northern Ontario and Quebec. Sounds like something one of your customers would come up with.”
Yes it did, which is why I had pulled a pad of paper in front of me and written the words black fringed bloodroot in capital letters, then drawn a frame around the words. Could be worthwhile checking into that one.
“So you think the bust’ll keep some of this crap off the street?”
“Oh yeah. Rev sells for twenty, maybe twenty-five bucks a point. We figure there was half a million dollars of finished product, maybe three times that much in production. And that assumes they were delivering pure product. You could cut this shit by as much as fifty percent and still sell it for full value.”
“One other thing — the paper trail is looking real promising. Seems like Mr. Legenko didn’t insulate himself near enough. The Taskforce is leaning on him big-time, threatening to expand the charges and go international with the investigation if he doesn’t cop to a plea.”
“What about Niki?”
“Kuzmenko lawyered up pretty quickly. Some hotshot from downtown. Somehow, he managed to convince the Bail Court that Kuzmenko wasn’t a threat. He’s out on bail already.”
Great. Ah well, I just had to stay out of his way for a short while.
CHAPTER 31
Tuesday of the week following the big bust, I woke to find Ted plowing back a massive bowl of Fruit Loops, engrossed in the front section of the Daily Times.
“Hey. Take a look at this.”
I glanced over his shoulder, then leaned forward when I saw the headline.
RUSCAN INDUSTRIES’ EXEC GUILTY OF FRAUD
Toronto
— CEO Maxim Legenko was lead away in handcuffs yesterday after pleading guilty to eight counts of fraud, money-laundering, tax evasion and obstruction of justice arising from his activities at Toronto-based real estate developer Ruscan Industries.
Legenko’s wife Elena, founder of Ruscan, watched on stoically as her husband was led away to begin his jail sentence.
Prosecutors have confirmed that Legenko was the mastermind behind the embezzlement of tens of millions of dollars from Ruscan subsidiaries through payments to offshore holding companies. He also bribed foreign dignitaries in connection with the apparent transport of illegal substances across borders in Asia and Europe, though details of these shipments remain unclear.
It was widely assumed that the prosecution’s case against Legenko was irreparably damaged nearly three weeks ago, when Andrew Simpson-Doig, former Chief Financial Officer of Ruscan Industries subsidiary Timber Circle LC, was found dead. Simpson-Doig’s death was ruled a suicide by the Toronto coroner’s office. However, rumors persist that his death was a hit sponsored by Legenko.
Under the terms of the plea agreement, Mr. Legenko faces up to fifteen years of imprisonment and a maximum fine of $650,000.
“This case was a brazen example of the manner in which certain corporate executives view company assets as their own” said Crown Prosecutor Barbara Moodie. “This prosecution and the resulting plea serve as notice of our intent to weed out corruption in Canadian companies.”
Little Maxi was going to jail. That was great news. Made me think the whole mess might go away for good.
How wrong I was.
CHAPTER 32
Two weeks later, I found my patience being tested in an entirely different arena.
Fact is, I’m a tolerant driver. Ted is your classic road rage meathead, but I don’t let the frustrations of driving get to me. Not sure I could have worked at Arcane if I did. However, there are some days when you just want to slam on the breaks, jump out of the van, and smash every window on that bubblegum blue Ford Focus, the one with the asexual plump and curly haired driver who was pointing his or her finger at me, demanding to be let into the lane I was occupying despite the fact that I had seen him (or her) race down the unoccupied merging lane to gain as much headway as possible before having to join the rest of us drones. License plate AAVW 774, if you should happen to care.
I had stupidly allowed myself to get trapped on the QEW, just past Park Lawn. Rather than cut off and work my way through smaller feeders into the Core, I had been suckered into going for it — trying to take the whole plate of nachos in one go. Which left me in one of four lanes heading East, bumper to bumper as far as the eye could see, and some shemale trying to gain a twenty foot advantage (sixteen feet and nine inches, to be exact) by sliding in front of the van.
Over my dead body.
I stayed the course, never allowing more than three inches between the front of the van and the back bumper of the Subaru hatchback in front of me. Didn’t seem to be helping the stress level of the driver in front of me, who was clutching her steering wheel so tight her hands were shaking from the strain. I’m sure it also didn’t help that every few seconds a plastic toy projectile was hurled from one of the two baby seats in the back of her car, just clearing her head rest and thumping off the back of her skull with enough force to make her question whether it could be considered infanticide if you were to stuff six bath toys into a three year old’s gaping mouth.
But by God, I was not giving up the fight.
Terry, or Pat, or Morgan, Jamie, Taylor or whatever Gender Neutral Person called itself, was now beginning to realize the quandary he or she was in. Closing fast on the right side was a three and a half foot high concrete barrier which already bore battle scars from a tussle with one or more front quarter panels. Based on the lack of any damage to the barrier, it appeared to me that Mr. Barrier tended to win such battles. The Focus was now inching along in a space no more than six inches wider than the vehicle, three to a side, with one side narrowing ever so gradually with every foot of forward movement.
Curly was near apoplectic now, finger stabbing out the window and prodding the side of the van. But finally, the Focus stopped.
I pulled forward, foot by foot, and when my back bumper cleared the front bumper of the Focus, it pulled into a space kindly provided by the elderly couple in the Oldsmobile behind me. So for the next forty minutes, I was able to enjoy the sight of the sexless wonder shrieking and miming various anatomically impossible acts. All in my rearview mirror.
It was at the end of this saga, as I exited the Gardiner at Lakeshore, that my cellphone rang. I bulled my way across two lanes and pulled into the front drive of one of the waterfront condos, hoping my reception would stay clear. Whenever possible, I pulled over for calls, even with my wireless earpiece. I couldn’t face Clay if I ever got into an accident while on the phone.