“Ah, the Caymans. The haven of money fraud.” Jake crossed his arms. “OK, fine. So he supposedly embezzled all this money over the years from these little hidden investments.”
Another nod. “We believe that’s what happened.”
Jake blew out a long stream of air. “That’s a pretty serious allegation. Got any proof?”
Three simple words, but they meant everything right now. No way was Jake going into this situation without some hard evidence.
Andrew nodded and tapped the manila folder he’d brought with him. “We started digging into his files. His e-mails. Anything we could find from the servers. He was pretty thorough in covering his trail, but our IT forensics team was able to track down a few unusual e-mails. Some we’re still sorting through, but one of them includes a deleted e-mail from Eli to Constantine Trevino,” he said, and Jake’s eyebrows drew together.
Jake knew the name. Everyone in his line of work—recovering stolen goods—knew the name. Need art moved illegally? You called Constantine. Want blood diamonds? He was your guy. Hankering for some ivory tusks? Constantine was the middleman.
“The luxury-goods trafficker,” Jake said as Andrew unfastened the clasp on the envelope. “I know of him. He can move anything.”
“Evidently. That’s why our radar went off. In this e-mail, Eli references a payment for ten million dollars. That’s the amount that’s missing. Well, to be precise, it was $10,003,597. We can document that as the money that’s missing from the investments in the fund over the last five years. It was incredibly calculated as far as I can see. The missing money over time added up to the money cited in this transaction, which also references the need for safe transport, for a grand.”
Andrew handed him the paperwork. Jake read the e-mail carefully, as well as the related documents. That was some damning evidence right there in black and white, but Jake still wanted his sister Kate to vet it. In the years since he’d started this business, she’d developed and honed her expertise in all sorts of document verification, and he relied on her eyes and her analytical mind to confirm that the evidence added up. What Jake brought to the table, besides the on-the-ground work, was his possession of an excellent bullshit detector, and so far it wasn’t ringing in concern. The man seemed legit.
“You have digital copies, too?” he asked, handing the papers to Andrew.
“Yes. I can send them over immediately.”
“You said you think the ten million he embezzled from the fund went into art. Into a painting. Why art?”
“His fiancée runs an art gallery that sells high-end art to discerning buyers in the Cayman Islands. And,” Andrew said, taking a beat, “because art is portable and it requires safe transport.”
“For a grand?”
“Evidently.”
Jake nodded, letting the details soak in, from the amount, to the parties involved, to the methodical level of planning.
“Question for you. Tell me why I should care. Tell me why I should get on a plane and go to the Caribbean and track down your guy and his painting. Tell me something other than the fee you’re going to pay me. Because money isn’t my only motivation. I need to know why this matters.”
Jake had nothing against money, and he definitely enjoyed the way dollars he earned paid for college for his younger brother, Brandt, who was applying to law school, and his little sister, Kylie. The baby of the family, she’d been struggling in a few classes but, fingers crossed, was starting to turn her grades around. But he wasn’t in this line of business for the greenbacks.
He was in it because he craved the chance to right a wrong.
“Here’s why,” Andrew said, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “The whole average Joe and Bob in Middle America approach of our firm? That’s true. That’s who we serve. We built this company with Eli on the premise of making a hedge fund accessible to the guy who runs a body shop in Ohio or to the woman who operates her own booth at a hair salon. Real people, saving money for retirement, saving the money for their kids’ college funds.” That hit close to home, making Jake’s chest twinge with both anger and memories. His parents had been Middle Americans through and through. Dad was a retired cop in Tampa, and Mom had worked in dispatch. They’d been tucking money aside for both causes and never had the chance to see either retirement or any of their four kids go to college—not Kate, not Jake, and not the two younger ones, Brandt and Kylie.
“Those are the people who got screwed by Eli’s cocoa bean farm that didn’t pan out,” Andrew said, jabbing his finger against the wood post. “I don’t care if you get the money back for me. I truly don’t. I’ll survive just fine. But I do care about the hairdresser. And I do care about the mechanic. And I do care that Eli ‘Cocoa-Beans-are-the-New-Coconut-Water’ Thompson made off with their money. We want to locate the painting, or paintings, he bought with the fund’s money, sell the art through legitimate channels, and put the money back into the fund. This is the rightful property of the Eli Fund, not the rightful property of Eli Thompson.”
That was compelling enough, but Jake had more questions, similar to ones he’d ask any client. “Why not go to the cops? The SEC?”
“We’re a private firm, so it’s not an SEC matter. Plus, we want to see if we can resolve this as quietly as possible, keep our existing clients, and restore the money to them.”