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?”
“You got it.”
“So where did the money go?”
“The British Virgin Islands,” he said.
“I could have guessed,” she said.
“How’s that?”
“Mr. Goldman, the BVI are the world’s tax haven. There are more than half a million offshore companies registered there — that’s about half the world total.”
“I run a small local bank, that’s all,” he said.
“I understand, I understand. Now, to which company was the money sent?”
“S amp;A Investments.”
“Address?”
“I have a copy of our wire in front of me. It was sent six days ago to S amp;A Investments, P.O. Box 718, Simon House, Road Town, Tortola, British Virgin Islands.”
“Care of which bank?”
“Barrett’s”
“Account?”
“Account number 055-439-4656.”
“Great,” she said. “You’ve been just great.”
