No doubt about it, Earl Cappel was a hot broker who was on the verge of arriving. He not only had charm and smoothness, he also had a hidden trump card: an uncanny knack at spotting takeovers in the gold-mining circuit. There were some who thought he couldn't be that lucky...
Showing posts with label insidescoop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label insidescoop. Show all posts
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Lucky Broker, Lucky Client
The name on the client application was Arthur Hollingshead. The laws and convention demanded that the broker on the other side of the ornate and heavy antique desk Know the Client, and Earl Cappel had reasons of his own to screen with care.
The desk was the near-centrepiece of a good-sized office, with dark oak bookshelves filled with plush hardcover tomes. Only some of them had to do with stocks, other investments and economics. Taken in cursorily, they suggested a thoughtful literate man. An examination in detail would reveal many of those august tomes to be lightweight quickie books on current events. None of them showed any definite political affiliation.
Cappel himself didn’t quite fit the office. Overweight, he showed a subtle eagerness that would have made him an unfit hire in the eyes of the original owner of his desk. His dark hair with receding hairline was plastered on his scalp. His off-white silk shirt and muted red silk tie showed class. His suit was made of an especially smooth fabric with checker-boarded stitching and visible surgeon’s cuffs. He showed it, subtly, by buttoning and unbuttoning them while looking abstracted. The image he sought to convey was that of a thinking man, just as an executive fifty years ago would cultivate the art of the pipe. The eagerness was not only acceptable nowadays, but also was encouraged. He was a big producer, and rated a big producer’s office.
No broker gets very far without a reliable and profitable shtick. Contrary to his appearance, and the appearance of his office, Cappel’s shtick was anticipating takeovers in the gold exploration sector. At first, it had only been a sideline to his main focus on scrabbling good drilling news from them; takeovers had been traditionally few and far between in the sector. As the capital costs of new megaprojects grew, as the major producers saw their reserves diminishing, takeovers had moved from the periphery to the capitol. Claiming experience when few others had, he used his insights as a come-on. Prudently, he recommended that the bulk of a new client’s assets be put in a firm-structured basket of stocks. The light bulb went off in his head when he realized that dollars mattered less to a more openly eager client than the brag. This insight allowed him to square prudence with his come-on. It had guided his pitch ever since.
Yes, he had been good at crafting a smooth pitch that painted a picture of a happy shareholder on the right side of a takeover. His pitch emphasized good feeling, a war story for admiring friends and envious gym pals, means for a much-deferred splurge. It did not emphasize newfound riches.
Some of his anticipations had been very profitable indeed, which had caused his assets under management to swell to a plump eight figures. He no longer took accounts under $250,000, and had idly dabbled with raising the minimum to $500,000. For those who didn’t qualify, he personally referred them to an expanding list of small producers who needed the business. They tended to be five to ten years younger than his thirty-five, but he did feed one old guy who was always as risk of being culled. In an almost crass declaration of his ambitions, he hadn’t put the branch manager in his loop. Said manager was miffed at first, but she reconciled herself to it by noting that he had a habit of turning also-rans into solid producers. As a result, she benefitted by having an unusually low wash-out rate. As for his shtick, her greater experience convinced her that he would either burn out or he was pulling something. Either way, it was a net benefit for her not to be involved. She had other means to keep the branch humming, and being included in his growing loop would have made her too dependent upon a single star.
Quickly checking the paperwork that had been dealt with by his sales assistant, he glanced at the wood-framed analog clock and a golden cube with 11.7 mm sides on his desk. Like most of his clients, Hollingshead would be in the capable hands of his assistant Mitch. Cappel would be generous with his time this once, so as to anchor his new client right.
“So, you’re an employee of the provincial government,” he continued smoothly as his dark eyes rested on Hollingshead’s lighter ones. Those eyes stayed placidly fixed on his new broker. “If you don’t mind me asking, how’s your job security?”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Hollingshead responded easily. He didn’t show it, but he was far more muscle than fat. “The department I’m in doesn’t have formal tenure, but hardly anyone’s let go except on retirement. If you remember, I told you I won the Lotto Max second prize. Almost three hundred grand.”
That gave Cappel his cue. “It must have been wonderful. Can’t say myself that I ever got that far; I’m only a broker” he continued with an appropriately abashed smile for the client. “The excitement: seeing your friend’s eyes light up –“
“Kid,” said the older man on the other side of his desk, “you don’t get my drift. Yes, I liked winning the lottery. The only reason I’m here is I want to keep winning.”
Cornered, Cappel’s eyes flicked around his office. “Well, yes. Mr. Hollingshead. Everyone likes to win, and you’ve managed to win big. But you must remember that –“
“I don’t think you get it,” Hollingshead continued more firmly. He was 190 cm tall, and was now acting it in his chair. “If you’re going to whine to me about safety, you’re only telling me how replaceable you are. Any one of those idiots –“ he pointed in the direction of the open desks – “can regurgitate the firm’s freezum. I know for a fact that you have leads, and I want them.”
Hollingshead had taken a bit of a risk with that gambit. Cappel’s demeanour, despite his old-school office and half-paid-off mortgage on a 5,500 square foot monster home, still radiated “hungry broker.” Had Earl Cappel had a few more years of million-+ commissions under his belt, if his house had been fully paid off, he might have had the gumption to genteelly throw the older man out on his ear. But, Earl was still building his business. Instead of standing up for himself, he instead assessed Hollingshead as a possible inroad to the provincial government. Lots of senior civil servants had a quarter of a million bucks on hand…
That angle was dashed by what Hollingshead had to say next. “You’re not one of those affirmative-action people, are you?”
Cappel’s mind raced across usual diplomatic channels, but his response was visceral. “Sir, those programs were put in place to help those who were cut out.” His slouch had almost disappeared when he realized how what he said could be taken.
The bigger man didn’t seem to mind, though. Instead he eased up and his eyes twinkled a little. “Well, you’ve said your piece.
“I guess you’re not interested in the others who think my way.”
The broker had recovered his smoothness, but didn’t back down. “The way I see it, those laws regularize situations where the aggrieved would otherwise take matters into their own hands.” His stomach puffed out he leaned back in his soft leather chair. Point made.
“All right,” his new client added, “but I’d greatly appreciate it if you don’t snow me on how you deplore vigilantes.” His eyes hardened slightly as he continued. “Kid, I know the waste paper says you’re supposed to put me in a whole bunch of doodads that cancel each other out. I’m supposed to fall for your line about how a ten thousand dollar windfall on twenty-five grand is supposed to make me all giddy-happy. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Seeing he had pushed Cappel hard-eyed, he added the bait. “Earl, old boy, I’m a lottery winner. Anyone, including you, who writes one will have the letters thrown clean out. That’s what I’ve done, and I was told to by the Lottery Commission. They won’t listen to you, no matter how good you patter.
“But they’ll listen to me because I happen to be one of them.” He now stood up, showing his full 190 cm, and made a motion as if to start pacing. Looking down at the broker, he added the climax to his own pitch. “Winning big makes me a fan of yours. Despite our differences.”
Cappel stayed in his chair. “Well, I could say my hands are tied. This is a full-service brokerage” – which Upper Canada Quigley, Lambert was – “and we’re obligated under law to protect everyone from themselves.”
Hollingshead sat back down, looking a little deflated. “Just give me the waiver.”
Looking again at the golden cube, Cappel turned to his computer and pulled up the standard form. His dedicated printer, located on the dark-wood carafe to his right, spat it out in seconds. He handed it over and the bigger man took it.
“Lessee… been duly cautioned; heard and understood; want to go ahead anyways; may be a damn fool; don’t care…” Then he smiled, and looked into Cappel’s eyes. His own were placid again.
“This is going to the regulators, isn’t it.” The broker nodded back.
“Okay! Now that we’re friends, I’ll sign it and date it.” Having done so, he flipped it on the desk only to see it slide to his broker’s paunch. Cappel put it aside, as it was going to be sent to the regulators through the compliance department. Pronto.
“Don’t mean to be too cozy, but I noticed you’ve got a sugar cube of gold on your desk. What’s that for?”
“Oh, that,” Cappel replied as he looked at it yet again. “It’s a reminder.
“Back when I was in university, I saw silver being offered for about half spot price. Not using my head, -“
“It was lead, wasn’t it.”
Not minding being cut off, the broker nodded. “Silver-plated lead. Had I melted the first one I got, I would have seen it.
“So, as a reminder to myself, I buy a one-ounce gold bar and take it to a kiln I have back home.” Reaching for a pad of custom-printed personalized and expensive paper, and pulling out a gold-plated pen, he quickly sketched out a mould that had enough space for a standard gold bar – about 42 by 25 mm area, 2 mm depth. Below that space, in the centre of the area, was a square hole 11.7 mm a side; the depth was slightly longer, giving it a slightly rectangular appearance. Cappel’s sketch, although quick, was fairly accurate. “The gold goes on top and melts down to a cube.
“It’s how I remind myself to always check on what’s too good to be true.”
Hollingshead’s eyebrows lifted up. “That’s quite a story you have. Mind if I have a feel?”
“Well – gold is malleable, so I’d appreciate it if – “
“S’alright, then. Never mind.” The bigger man got up.
The desk was the near-centrepiece of a good-sized office, with dark oak bookshelves filled with plush hardcover tomes. Only some of them had to do with stocks, other investments and economics. Taken in cursorily, they suggested a thoughtful literate man. An examination in detail would reveal many of those august tomes to be lightweight quickie books on current events. None of them showed any definite political affiliation.
Cappel himself didn’t quite fit the office. Overweight, he showed a subtle eagerness that would have made him an unfit hire in the eyes of the original owner of his desk. His dark hair with receding hairline was plastered on his scalp. His off-white silk shirt and muted red silk tie showed class. His suit was made of an especially smooth fabric with checker-boarded stitching and visible surgeon’s cuffs. He showed it, subtly, by buttoning and unbuttoning them while looking abstracted. The image he sought to convey was that of a thinking man, just as an executive fifty years ago would cultivate the art of the pipe. The eagerness was not only acceptable nowadays, but also was encouraged. He was a big producer, and rated a big producer’s office.
No broker gets very far without a reliable and profitable shtick. Contrary to his appearance, and the appearance of his office, Cappel’s shtick was anticipating takeovers in the gold exploration sector. At first, it had only been a sideline to his main focus on scrabbling good drilling news from them; takeovers had been traditionally few and far between in the sector. As the capital costs of new megaprojects grew, as the major producers saw their reserves diminishing, takeovers had moved from the periphery to the capitol. Claiming experience when few others had, he used his insights as a come-on. Prudently, he recommended that the bulk of a new client’s assets be put in a firm-structured basket of stocks. The light bulb went off in his head when he realized that dollars mattered less to a more openly eager client than the brag. This insight allowed him to square prudence with his come-on. It had guided his pitch ever since.
Yes, he had been good at crafting a smooth pitch that painted a picture of a happy shareholder on the right side of a takeover. His pitch emphasized good feeling, a war story for admiring friends and envious gym pals, means for a much-deferred splurge. It did not emphasize newfound riches.
Some of his anticipations had been very profitable indeed, which had caused his assets under management to swell to a plump eight figures. He no longer took accounts under $250,000, and had idly dabbled with raising the minimum to $500,000. For those who didn’t qualify, he personally referred them to an expanding list of small producers who needed the business. They tended to be five to ten years younger than his thirty-five, but he did feed one old guy who was always as risk of being culled. In an almost crass declaration of his ambitions, he hadn’t put the branch manager in his loop. Said manager was miffed at first, but she reconciled herself to it by noting that he had a habit of turning also-rans into solid producers. As a result, she benefitted by having an unusually low wash-out rate. As for his shtick, her greater experience convinced her that he would either burn out or he was pulling something. Either way, it was a net benefit for her not to be involved. She had other means to keep the branch humming, and being included in his growing loop would have made her too dependent upon a single star.
Quickly checking the paperwork that had been dealt with by his sales assistant, he glanced at the wood-framed analog clock and a golden cube with 11.7 mm sides on his desk. Like most of his clients, Hollingshead would be in the capable hands of his assistant Mitch. Cappel would be generous with his time this once, so as to anchor his new client right.
“So, you’re an employee of the provincial government,” he continued smoothly as his dark eyes rested on Hollingshead’s lighter ones. Those eyes stayed placidly fixed on his new broker. “If you don’t mind me asking, how’s your job security?”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Hollingshead responded easily. He didn’t show it, but he was far more muscle than fat. “The department I’m in doesn’t have formal tenure, but hardly anyone’s let go except on retirement. If you remember, I told you I won the Lotto Max second prize. Almost three hundred grand.”
That gave Cappel his cue. “It must have been wonderful. Can’t say myself that I ever got that far; I’m only a broker” he continued with an appropriately abashed smile for the client. “The excitement: seeing your friend’s eyes light up –“
“Kid,” said the older man on the other side of his desk, “you don’t get my drift. Yes, I liked winning the lottery. The only reason I’m here is I want to keep winning.”
Cornered, Cappel’s eyes flicked around his office. “Well, yes. Mr. Hollingshead. Everyone likes to win, and you’ve managed to win big. But you must remember that –“
“I don’t think you get it,” Hollingshead continued more firmly. He was 190 cm tall, and was now acting it in his chair. “If you’re going to whine to me about safety, you’re only telling me how replaceable you are. Any one of those idiots –“ he pointed in the direction of the open desks – “can regurgitate the firm’s freezum. I know for a fact that you have leads, and I want them.”
Hollingshead had taken a bit of a risk with that gambit. Cappel’s demeanour, despite his old-school office and half-paid-off mortgage on a 5,500 square foot monster home, still radiated “hungry broker.” Had Earl Cappel had a few more years of million-+ commissions under his belt, if his house had been fully paid off, he might have had the gumption to genteelly throw the older man out on his ear. But, Earl was still building his business. Instead of standing up for himself, he instead assessed Hollingshead as a possible inroad to the provincial government. Lots of senior civil servants had a quarter of a million bucks on hand…
That angle was dashed by what Hollingshead had to say next. “You’re not one of those affirmative-action people, are you?”
Cappel’s mind raced across usual diplomatic channels, but his response was visceral. “Sir, those programs were put in place to help those who were cut out.” His slouch had almost disappeared when he realized how what he said could be taken.
The bigger man didn’t seem to mind, though. Instead he eased up and his eyes twinkled a little. “Well, you’ve said your piece.
“I guess you’re not interested in the others who think my way.”
The broker had recovered his smoothness, but didn’t back down. “The way I see it, those laws regularize situations where the aggrieved would otherwise take matters into their own hands.” His stomach puffed out he leaned back in his soft leather chair. Point made.
“All right,” his new client added, “but I’d greatly appreciate it if you don’t snow me on how you deplore vigilantes.” His eyes hardened slightly as he continued. “Kid, I know the waste paper says you’re supposed to put me in a whole bunch of doodads that cancel each other out. I’m supposed to fall for your line about how a ten thousand dollar windfall on twenty-five grand is supposed to make me all giddy-happy. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Seeing he had pushed Cappel hard-eyed, he added the bait. “Earl, old boy, I’m a lottery winner. Anyone, including you, who writes one will have the letters thrown clean out. That’s what I’ve done, and I was told to by the Lottery Commission. They won’t listen to you, no matter how good you patter.
“But they’ll listen to me because I happen to be one of them.” He now stood up, showing his full 190 cm, and made a motion as if to start pacing. Looking down at the broker, he added the climax to his own pitch. “Winning big makes me a fan of yours. Despite our differences.”
Cappel stayed in his chair. “Well, I could say my hands are tied. This is a full-service brokerage” – which Upper Canada Quigley, Lambert was – “and we’re obligated under law to protect everyone from themselves.”
Hollingshead sat back down, looking a little deflated. “Just give me the waiver.”
Looking again at the golden cube, Cappel turned to his computer and pulled up the standard form. His dedicated printer, located on the dark-wood carafe to his right, spat it out in seconds. He handed it over and the bigger man took it.
“Lessee… been duly cautioned; heard and understood; want to go ahead anyways; may be a damn fool; don’t care…” Then he smiled, and looked into Cappel’s eyes. His own were placid again.
“This is going to the regulators, isn’t it.” The broker nodded back.
“Okay! Now that we’re friends, I’ll sign it and date it.” Having done so, he flipped it on the desk only to see it slide to his broker’s paunch. Cappel put it aside, as it was going to be sent to the regulators through the compliance department. Pronto.
“Don’t mean to be too cozy, but I noticed you’ve got a sugar cube of gold on your desk. What’s that for?”
“Oh, that,” Cappel replied as he looked at it yet again. “It’s a reminder.
“Back when I was in university, I saw silver being offered for about half spot price. Not using my head, -“
“It was lead, wasn’t it.”
Not minding being cut off, the broker nodded. “Silver-plated lead. Had I melted the first one I got, I would have seen it.
“So, as a reminder to myself, I buy a one-ounce gold bar and take it to a kiln I have back home.” Reaching for a pad of custom-printed personalized and expensive paper, and pulling out a gold-plated pen, he quickly sketched out a mould that had enough space for a standard gold bar – about 42 by 25 mm area, 2 mm depth. Below that space, in the centre of the area, was a square hole 11.7 mm a side; the depth was slightly longer, giving it a slightly rectangular appearance. Cappel’s sketch, although quick, was fairly accurate. “The gold goes on top and melts down to a cube.
“It’s how I remind myself to always check on what’s too good to be true.”
Hollingshead’s eyebrows lifted up. “That’s quite a story you have. Mind if I have a feel?”
“Well – gold is malleable, so I’d appreciate it if – “
“S’alright, then. Never mind.” The bigger man got up.
Manufactured Luck
Duane Semple was medium height, thin, serviceably clothed, dark-haired and –eyed, triangular-faced, competent, hard-working, passed over. The same age as Earl Cappel, he had been passed over twice for the junior partnership that should have been his. Initially awkward at making friends, he had given up a long time ago. As he aged, his face had assumed a natural scowl and his eyes had naturally narrowed. He knew his stuff, but his social awkwardness has assured that he would be manoeuvred into being the firm’s dogsbody. What that fate had done to his face, gait and posture made his easier to laugh at behind his back.
He had no friends in the office, and no friends at all until Earl Cappel had bumped into him. Cappel had been there to ask on the finer points of a merger deal that had been announced, back when the broker was still a desk jockey in the main room of his branch. Earl, sized up as another figure of fun, had been steered to Duane; both had hit it off. He had been patient with the corporate lawyer’s social awkwardness, and it had paid off. He not only got the information he needed, but he also got an insight into what Duane did for Moyer, Reen and Abert. He also learned that Duane’s employer was the firm of choice for takeovers in the gold field.
Still friends, they had added to their buddyhood by entering into a side arrangement. Having no girlfriend, and no taste for luxuries, Duane saved a lot of his salary – but he wanted more. Like other salaried men with no real stake in the world, he had comforted himself with the thought that an eventual seven-figure net worth would show them all. He didn’t mind getting there more quickly than he should. His less-than-boony colleagues had added to a disaffection that had hardened into a shell.
Reading and then deleting his good friend’s text message, he replied that he’d send the particular the usual way. Nothing yet. Yes, he would text Larry too.
*
Sergeant Hollingshead of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Commercial Crime Section (Securities Fraud) retained his original placidity. He didn’t care that he was in the amply-decorated boardroom with the senior vice-president in charge of compliance, senior vice-president in charge of retail sales, executive vice-president in charge of corporate finance, and the CEO of Upper Canada Quigley, Lambert. They might as well have been brokers to him.
“So you’re sure that Cappel didn’t try to break any firewall in the firm,” he concluded to the executive vice-president.
“No; he kept away. Everyone knows he wants to skip off and start his own shop; had you not shown up, we still would have been glad to see him go.”
“Too lucky,” the CEO amplified. “Even if he has been legal, guys like that burn out and take a lot of clients with them. We don’t need that here.”
“No E-mails, either.” Cappel’s texter had a special encryptation program added, one with no back door. The trouble was, the RCMP’s interceptor could detect no pattern of activity timed to Cappel’s phone calls to spread the good news. On the last insider trade, he hadn’t used his special texter at all before spreading the word around…and taking a chunk of the target company himself.
“Actually,” the senior vice-president of compliance informed him, “there were two E-mails timed with his first two lucky strikes” she finished with irony. “No more. The timing fits, but they were ravings.
“He said it had been an old high-school classmate of his, who suffers from schizophrenia. The branch manager told him to use his personal mail, and left it at that. Records show he did check his personal E-mail right before working the phones.”
*
Constable Evelyn Grau was on a similar mission, to visit with the managing partner of Moyer, Reen and Abert. Their firm being the one leaked from, they had a pressing interest in closing the case. As soon as texted, she had sent the request to impound Cappel’s private E-mails along with the two sent to his firm address. She gave the obviously schizophrenic maunderings to the decrypt team, who came up dry. “It’s a Linear A matter, Sergeant. The decrypters can’t get anything anywhere near consistent from it.”
She was past her youth, but only a little. So, she enjoyed decking herself up as a courier. Having submitted E-mailed questions in advance to the managing partner’s son’s E-mail address, she was there to pick up the “urgent letter” that contained the researched and written answers.
Back at her desk, she opened up the letter and read that there was no obvious culprit. The obvious suspect was Duane Semple, because of his friendship to Earl Cappel, but Duane in now way fit the standard profile of a greedy man. No cheeriness after the insider-trading scam had started. No new brokerage accounts disclosed. No evidence of any change in spending patterns; no new gadgets, suits, car or anything like it. No newfound cockiness. Duane’s immediate boss added that he was a competent lawyer but lacked flair and had below-average people skills. He seemed to resent being passed over, but no more than baseline. A simple soul at heart, he would be easy to catch in the eventuality it was him. He was the type who’d set up an account in his mother’s name; nothing more. He was not just unpersonable, he was also uncrafty. That went with the lack of flair.
An earlier check had shown no new account or suspicious activity in any of his few relatives. The prime suspect showed no hint of chicanery.
*
Hollingshead didn’t mind waiting around to see Cappel. As a “lottery winner” with connections to others, he wasn’t questioned as he waited by the closed door. It was twenty minutes before he spotted the hurried broker.
He had made sure that the captain had authorized a disbursement precisely equal to the prize he had “won,” and made doubly sure the colleagues and boss at his “job” had been thoroughly coached. Cappel had checked up on him, and the call had been transferred to his desk at the station. He himself having been coached, he let nothing slip during their conversation.
Constable Grau was waiting in the parking lot where Cappel had parked his car. Sgt. Hollingshead, although well short of enough proof that would get the Crown prosecutor satisfied, had enough for a little lean-on that would get this rabbit bolting.
“Hey, Earl! What about my account?”
Surprised, Cappel smiled. “The luck of the gods hasn’t arrived yet. Now, if you’ll –“
“Hey, hold on.” Hollingshead had fifteen centimetres on the broker, who felt it as the larger man got close to him. “I hear you have an interest in schizophrenia.”
Blinking, the shorter man replied “Yes, I do. An old classmate of mine is afflicted with it. Did you check up on me?”
So much for the lean-on, the police officer noted as he confirmed. The quick conversation ended with an assurance that Hollingshead would be the first to know when a great idea occurred to the broker.
Still waiting in the parking lot, Grau got two messages. The first, from the sergeant, said that the encounter had been a disappointment. No nerves, no urge to bolt, nothing. The second came from the compliance officer who was liaising with the two. He reported searches: “Arthur Hollingshead Lottery Winner” and “Lotto Max Second Prize Winner.” Cappel later turned to normal business use.
Both the sergeant and she had been cleared by a search that pulled up neither of them in any extraordinary capacity. A search for Arthur Hollingshead would find a lot of junk and false leads between the first result and Sergeant Hollingshead of the RCMP. Lotto Max didn’t name names of second-prize winners on any press release, and only one of the three winners had been named in the paper. One other, safely anonymous, had been in the same city they were all in.
The compliance monitor had not though to reverse-lookup one of the phone calls Cappel had made later. It had looked like one of many cold calls throughout the day. So, he didn’t bother the constable still waiting in the parking lot about it.
She continued to wait, on what was basically a hunch. Hollingshead said he would cover for her, and he ended the call with a crack about donuts. She was on her second self-debate over whether to leave when that little phone call got Cappel the answer he had been looking for. A pushover of a lottery officer had given him the three names of the Lotto Max second prize winners on the same day. None them were Hollingshead’s.
He stifled an expletive that exploded in his head, and ordered himself to wait out the day. It was now clear to him that his new “client” was a cop.
He had no friends in the office, and no friends at all until Earl Cappel had bumped into him. Cappel had been there to ask on the finer points of a merger deal that had been announced, back when the broker was still a desk jockey in the main room of his branch. Earl, sized up as another figure of fun, had been steered to Duane; both had hit it off. He had been patient with the corporate lawyer’s social awkwardness, and it had paid off. He not only got the information he needed, but he also got an insight into what Duane did for Moyer, Reen and Abert. He also learned that Duane’s employer was the firm of choice for takeovers in the gold field.
Still friends, they had added to their buddyhood by entering into a side arrangement. Having no girlfriend, and no taste for luxuries, Duane saved a lot of his salary – but he wanted more. Like other salaried men with no real stake in the world, he had comforted himself with the thought that an eventual seven-figure net worth would show them all. He didn’t mind getting there more quickly than he should. His less-than-boony colleagues had added to a disaffection that had hardened into a shell.
Reading and then deleting his good friend’s text message, he replied that he’d send the particular the usual way. Nothing yet. Yes, he would text Larry too.
*
Sergeant Hollingshead of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Commercial Crime Section (Securities Fraud) retained his original placidity. He didn’t care that he was in the amply-decorated boardroom with the senior vice-president in charge of compliance, senior vice-president in charge of retail sales, executive vice-president in charge of corporate finance, and the CEO of Upper Canada Quigley, Lambert. They might as well have been brokers to him.
“So you’re sure that Cappel didn’t try to break any firewall in the firm,” he concluded to the executive vice-president.
“No; he kept away. Everyone knows he wants to skip off and start his own shop; had you not shown up, we still would have been glad to see him go.”
“Too lucky,” the CEO amplified. “Even if he has been legal, guys like that burn out and take a lot of clients with them. We don’t need that here.”
“No E-mails, either.” Cappel’s texter had a special encryptation program added, one with no back door. The trouble was, the RCMP’s interceptor could detect no pattern of activity timed to Cappel’s phone calls to spread the good news. On the last insider trade, he hadn’t used his special texter at all before spreading the word around…and taking a chunk of the target company himself.
“Actually,” the senior vice-president of compliance informed him, “there were two E-mails timed with his first two lucky strikes” she finished with irony. “No more. The timing fits, but they were ravings.
“He said it had been an old high-school classmate of his, who suffers from schizophrenia. The branch manager told him to use his personal mail, and left it at that. Records show he did check his personal E-mail right before working the phones.”
*
Constable Evelyn Grau was on a similar mission, to visit with the managing partner of Moyer, Reen and Abert. Their firm being the one leaked from, they had a pressing interest in closing the case. As soon as texted, she had sent the request to impound Cappel’s private E-mails along with the two sent to his firm address. She gave the obviously schizophrenic maunderings to the decrypt team, who came up dry. “It’s a Linear A matter, Sergeant. The decrypters can’t get anything anywhere near consistent from it.”
She was past her youth, but only a little. So, she enjoyed decking herself up as a courier. Having submitted E-mailed questions in advance to the managing partner’s son’s E-mail address, she was there to pick up the “urgent letter” that contained the researched and written answers.
Back at her desk, she opened up the letter and read that there was no obvious culprit. The obvious suspect was Duane Semple, because of his friendship to Earl Cappel, but Duane in now way fit the standard profile of a greedy man. No cheeriness after the insider-trading scam had started. No new brokerage accounts disclosed. No evidence of any change in spending patterns; no new gadgets, suits, car or anything like it. No newfound cockiness. Duane’s immediate boss added that he was a competent lawyer but lacked flair and had below-average people skills. He seemed to resent being passed over, but no more than baseline. A simple soul at heart, he would be easy to catch in the eventuality it was him. He was the type who’d set up an account in his mother’s name; nothing more. He was not just unpersonable, he was also uncrafty. That went with the lack of flair.
An earlier check had shown no new account or suspicious activity in any of his few relatives. The prime suspect showed no hint of chicanery.
*
Hollingshead didn’t mind waiting around to see Cappel. As a “lottery winner” with connections to others, he wasn’t questioned as he waited by the closed door. It was twenty minutes before he spotted the hurried broker.
He had made sure that the captain had authorized a disbursement precisely equal to the prize he had “won,” and made doubly sure the colleagues and boss at his “job” had been thoroughly coached. Cappel had checked up on him, and the call had been transferred to his desk at the station. He himself having been coached, he let nothing slip during their conversation.
Constable Grau was waiting in the parking lot where Cappel had parked his car. Sgt. Hollingshead, although well short of enough proof that would get the Crown prosecutor satisfied, had enough for a little lean-on that would get this rabbit bolting.
“Hey, Earl! What about my account?”
Surprised, Cappel smiled. “The luck of the gods hasn’t arrived yet. Now, if you’ll –“
“Hey, hold on.” Hollingshead had fifteen centimetres on the broker, who felt it as the larger man got close to him. “I hear you have an interest in schizophrenia.”
Blinking, the shorter man replied “Yes, I do. An old classmate of mine is afflicted with it. Did you check up on me?”
So much for the lean-on, the police officer noted as he confirmed. The quick conversation ended with an assurance that Hollingshead would be the first to know when a great idea occurred to the broker.
Still waiting in the parking lot, Grau got two messages. The first, from the sergeant, said that the encounter had been a disappointment. No nerves, no urge to bolt, nothing. The second came from the compliance officer who was liaising with the two. He reported searches: “Arthur Hollingshead Lottery Winner” and “Lotto Max Second Prize Winner.” Cappel later turned to normal business use.
Both the sergeant and she had been cleared by a search that pulled up neither of them in any extraordinary capacity. A search for Arthur Hollingshead would find a lot of junk and false leads between the first result and Sergeant Hollingshead of the RCMP. Lotto Max didn’t name names of second-prize winners on any press release, and only one of the three winners had been named in the paper. One other, safely anonymous, had been in the same city they were all in.
The compliance monitor had not though to reverse-lookup one of the phone calls Cappel had made later. It had looked like one of many cold calls throughout the day. So, he didn’t bother the constable still waiting in the parking lot about it.
She continued to wait, on what was basically a hunch. Hollingshead said he would cover for her, and he ended the call with a crack about donuts. She was on her second self-debate over whether to leave when that little phone call got Cappel the answer he had been looking for. A pushover of a lottery officer had given him the three names of the Lotto Max second prize winners on the same day. None them were Hollingshead’s.
He stifled an expletive that exploded in his head, and ordered himself to wait out the day. It was now clear to him that his new “client” was a cop.
Action Affirmative
“Here’s your donut, Constable,” Captain Sood said jovially as he placed the brown paper bag on Cst. Grau’s desk. “That’s for having the sense to wait.”
Her light eyes became lighter. “Part of the duty, Captain.”
She then turned to Sgt. Hollingshead: “Just between you and me, partner, I’d been sure that I’d only see his wife.” With that and a smile, the captain went back to his office.
Instead, she had seen Cappel drive to a small gold dealer. Looking out her window and into the shop’s, after double-parking in front of the store, she saw an agitated conversation that told her she had seen all she needed to see. He had shot a tense glance at her when exiting, but she didn’t care. There was no more need to follow him, at least not on that night; she had gotten what she had been waiting for.
Texting Hollingshead on the official channel had gotten him over quickly. The shop owner, a nervous stick of a man in normal times, had made for an easy interrogation.
It had been the gold bars. Using the same encrypted texter program, Larry the shopkeep had gotten the names of the companies and lightly etched them onto the sides of a bar. Cappel not only had a kiln but also a microscope: having gotten the name, and having had his wife innocently fire up the kiln long before he arrived home with the gold, he quickly got the name from it and put it in the mould. The already-heated kiln, necessitating protective gloves, made short work of the evidence. The schizophrenia connection had been nothing more than a red herring.
There was something else about the case that bothered her. The dealer had gotten a piece of the action, and had been easy to threaten into compliance after being hooked by his greed. Duane Semple’s motive was fairly obvious, and the mystery of how he did it was solved by a scan through his personal computer. Semple the simple, as it turned out, had the benefit of expert advice about Cayman Island brokerage accounts. He must have gotten the technique from his old friend Earl. Still, that connection led to a piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit: Cappel himself.
Looking into the glaze, she wondered. From what she had found out on the broker, he was a liberal. The kind that was sometimes stupid, but not the kind that was greedy. He was guilty, that was proven now, but she wondered about the motive.
“Evelyn?” her partner asked. “What’s bothering you?”
She swivelled her chair his way. “I’m just having trouble picturing Mister Cappel’s motive.” Shaking her head enough to agitate her short-cropped chestnut hair, she added: “he’s not that kind of a liberal.”
Her partner hadn’t admitted it, but he had been mulling over the same point. The only fight he had gotten out of Cappel was over Hollingshead’s in-character jab at affirmative action. In retrospect, Fatty had given away the game right there.
But what had been his stake in it? He really wasn’t the greedy type, and he had been pretty good at his job before turning to crime. Desperation didn’t fit. If he had seen it as a means of striking a blow for some kind of social justice, it was an odd way to go about it. No; nothing fit.
*
The answer didn’t come until both police officers had heard about Cappel’s father. A man who had been fully qualified to become a stockbroker, he had taken a back-office job to make ends meet. Once he was in, he was stuck there until retirement.
Cappel had had something to hide, all right: years of listening to his embittered father, some of which stuck to him by osmosis. Despite his original intent to play it straight, he had cut corners like the rest of them; there was no other way to stay competitive. Unlike the rest of them, though, he had buried in his subconscious an attitude that even the good broker was half crook. When Duane had opened up to him, Earl had seen a man like his father – and a chance to strike back at the system he was half-convinced was irredeemably corrupt. In his subconscious, he was just pushing it to the next level. Consciously, he had assured himself that he would never be caught. He had been damned smart about it, and might not have.
“The man should have been a crusader,” Grau remarked to herself when she learned. But he just didn’t have the guts…
Her light eyes became lighter. “Part of the duty, Captain.”
She then turned to Sgt. Hollingshead: “Just between you and me, partner, I’d been sure that I’d only see his wife.” With that and a smile, the captain went back to his office.
Instead, she had seen Cappel drive to a small gold dealer. Looking out her window and into the shop’s, after double-parking in front of the store, she saw an agitated conversation that told her she had seen all she needed to see. He had shot a tense glance at her when exiting, but she didn’t care. There was no more need to follow him, at least not on that night; she had gotten what she had been waiting for.
Texting Hollingshead on the official channel had gotten him over quickly. The shop owner, a nervous stick of a man in normal times, had made for an easy interrogation.
It had been the gold bars. Using the same encrypted texter program, Larry the shopkeep had gotten the names of the companies and lightly etched them onto the sides of a bar. Cappel not only had a kiln but also a microscope: having gotten the name, and having had his wife innocently fire up the kiln long before he arrived home with the gold, he quickly got the name from it and put it in the mould. The already-heated kiln, necessitating protective gloves, made short work of the evidence. The schizophrenia connection had been nothing more than a red herring.
There was something else about the case that bothered her. The dealer had gotten a piece of the action, and had been easy to threaten into compliance after being hooked by his greed. Duane Semple’s motive was fairly obvious, and the mystery of how he did it was solved by a scan through his personal computer. Semple the simple, as it turned out, had the benefit of expert advice about Cayman Island brokerage accounts. He must have gotten the technique from his old friend Earl. Still, that connection led to a piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit: Cappel himself.
Looking into the glaze, she wondered. From what she had found out on the broker, he was a liberal. The kind that was sometimes stupid, but not the kind that was greedy. He was guilty, that was proven now, but she wondered about the motive.
“Evelyn?” her partner asked. “What’s bothering you?”
She swivelled her chair his way. “I’m just having trouble picturing Mister Cappel’s motive.” Shaking her head enough to agitate her short-cropped chestnut hair, she added: “he’s not that kind of a liberal.”
Her partner hadn’t admitted it, but he had been mulling over the same point. The only fight he had gotten out of Cappel was over Hollingshead’s in-character jab at affirmative action. In retrospect, Fatty had given away the game right there.
But what had been his stake in it? He really wasn’t the greedy type, and he had been pretty good at his job before turning to crime. Desperation didn’t fit. If he had seen it as a means of striking a blow for some kind of social justice, it was an odd way to go about it. No; nothing fit.
*
The answer didn’t come until both police officers had heard about Cappel’s father. A man who had been fully qualified to become a stockbroker, he had taken a back-office job to make ends meet. Once he was in, he was stuck there until retirement.
Cappel had had something to hide, all right: years of listening to his embittered father, some of which stuck to him by osmosis. Despite his original intent to play it straight, he had cut corners like the rest of them; there was no other way to stay competitive. Unlike the rest of them, though, he had buried in his subconscious an attitude that even the good broker was half crook. When Duane had opened up to him, Earl had seen a man like his father – and a chance to strike back at the system he was half-convinced was irredeemably corrupt. In his subconscious, he was just pushing it to the next level. Consciously, he had assured himself that he would never be caught. He had been damned smart about it, and might not have.
“The man should have been a crusader,” Grau remarked to herself when she learned. But he just didn’t have the guts…
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