“They had a couple of problems.”
“Such as?”
“Ms. Robertson, I’m not sure I should be talking to you without their permission.”
“Mr. Ho, we inspected this product just before they moved it. We were about to put it all on hold, but they beat us to the punch. Now, there’s no way you could have known that, and we’re not going to hold you responsible for acting as if everything was above board. But let me assure you, it would be beneficial for you to tell me what you know.”
Ho sighed. There was no upside to refusing her. “Well, the product was packed in retail bags for sale at Major Supermarkets, and it was short weight. We repacked a lot of it for another retail chain, and the rest we put up in a Seafood Partners bag.”
“With the correct weights?”
“Of course, and it wasn’t easy. Usually we need to overpack by about five percent to make up for glaze. This time we were at ten percent and more.”
“Who was the retailer?”
“G. B. Flatt.”
“In their bags?”
“Yeah.”
“How much product?”
“Twenty truckloads.”
“Do you still have any of the product?”
“No, no, we shipped it out as soon it was repacked.”
“Where did the G. B. Flatt product go?”
“To their central distribution centre in Houston.”
“And the balance?”
“To a warehouse in Seattle.”
“Which one?”
“Continental. They only have the one freezer.”
“Care of?”
“Seafood Partners.”
“Have you been paid?”
“We wouldn’t let product leave our warehouse unless we were paid.”
“By cheque?”
“Yeah.”
“From Seafood Partners?”
“Yeah.”
“You wouldn’t have a copy of that cheque handy, would you?”
“Sure.”
“Please get it for me.”
She heard a filing cabinet opening and closing, paper rustling.
“I have copy in front of me,” he said.
“Give me the particulars,” she said.
It was from Northwest Bank, a major financial institution headquartered in Seattle. Seafood Partners had an account at a branch near Sea-Tac Airport. Ho provided the address, phone number, and account number.
“Who did you deal with at Seafood Partners?”
“Jackson Seto.”
“Just him?”
“No one else.”
“Did you ever meet his partner, George Antonelli?”
“No, and I never really met Seto. We did business over the phone.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“I called him about four or five weeks ago, when the last of the product was repacked.”
“What phone number did you call?”
He gave her the same cellphone number that Andrew Tam had provided.
“Tell me, Mr. Ho, how did Jackson Seto find you?”
He laughed. “In this business, sooner or later everyone in the U.S. needs to find me. That’s all I do — fix other people’s problems.”
“Well, this is one problem I would appreciate your not discussing any further with Seto. There is no reason for you to call him, and if by chance he calls you, I would not mention this conversation.”
“He’s all yours.”
“Thanks.”
“But I’d be happy if you could make a note in the report you’re going to write that I was cooperative.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Ho,” she said.
Ava did a search on the Internet to find G. B. Flatt. It was the largest retail food chain in Texas, with more than three hundred stores. She trolled through the various departments until she found the seafood director in a sub-listing in the perishables department. The name was J. K. Tran — Vietnamese for sure. Man or woman? Not so certain.
She debated whether or not to maintain the FDA persona. It’s working well enough, she thought. Carla was on a roll.
J. K. Tran wasn’t happy to hear from her. “We’ve done nothing wrong,” he said the instant she mentioned the FDA and Seafood Partners.
Why is he so defensive? she wondered. Is he on the take? Did Seto pay him off to take in the product?
“Mr. Tran,” she said slowly, “our interest is solely in Seafood Partners. We have already talked to Barry Ho at Garcia Shrimp, and he swears that the product is now entirely within regulations. My problem is that we told Mr. Seto the product was not to be moved. I just need to confirm that you have that product. We have no, I repeat, no axe to grind with G. B. Flatt. You can keep the product. I just need you to confirm who you bought it from.”
“Seafood Partners.”
“Jackson Seto?”
“Yes.”
“How much did you pay?”
“Why do you need to know that?”
Tran’s not slow, she thought. “There’s going to be a fine. It will be based on the value of the goods sold.”
That must have sounded plausible, because Tran said, “I paid four dollars a pound.”
“For how many pounds?”
“Just over 900,000.”
“And how were they paid?”
“We sent them a wire.”
“Is that usual?”
“It was a one-of-a-kind deal. The price was exceptional, so we didn’t mind the terms.”
“Where was the wire sent?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who does know?”
“Accounts payable.”
“Who should I speak to there?”
“Rosemary Shields.”
“Mr. Tran, could you do me a favour? Put me on hold, call Rosemary, and tell her to give me the wire information. I will make sure that you, she, and G. B. Flatt are kept out of this mess as we go forward.”
“Wait,” he said.
The line went dead for close to five minutes, and Ava began to think she had been cut off. She was just about
