" Look Quinton,” Gage said, “we’ve got two dead people linked through Pegasus. Charlie Palmer and the OSHA inspector.”
Cayman Island barrister Leonard Quinton, QC, pressed his fingertips together on the top of his desk in his office overlooking Hog Sty Bay in George Town, Grand Cayman. He looked back at Gage with the dead-eyed gaze of British ex-pat lawyers trained to keep secrets.
“That’s no concern of mine,” Quinton said. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told you when you were here chasing after Phillip Charters. What companies do is their business, not mine. That would be like Citibank telling their clients what they can and cannot buy with their credit cards.”
“Good analogy.” Gage reached into his black leather folder, then pulled out a sheet of paper and slid it across Quinton’s Victorian mahogany desk.
“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Quinton said.
“Look at it more carefully.”
Quinton slipped on his horn-rimmed glasses, then picked up the page.
“I don’t see the relevance. I’ve never had the pleasure of the acquaintance of a person named Brandon Meyer. More importantly, I don’t control to whom Citibank Cayman issues credit cards.”
“But you do control how the money flows.”
Quinton slid the page back across the desk.
“You’re attributing powers to me that I don’t possess.”
“I’ve analyzed Charlie Palmer’s telephone records. He didn’t make a financial move without a call to this office. Never to anywhere else on the island. Not to any other lawyers. Not to any other accountants. Not even to the Cayman Exchange Bank.”
“That will not advance your investigation. We manage dozens of companies. You saw their names posted outside. Which one do you suppose he was calling?”
“Do you really want to travel down this road again?”
“It’s not my decision. Cayman Islands law limits what I’m allowed to reveal about companies, clients, and accounts. Unless you have some legal authority, there’s really nothing more I can say.”
Gage reached into his folder, withdrew Charlie Palmer’s death certificate and a power of attorney signed by Socorro, and set them on the desk.
“This is all the authority you need to disclose information about Pegasus.”
Quinton glanced at them, then shook his head.
“U.S. documents have no authority in the Cayman Islands. They’re merely pieces of paper. You’ll need to make a visit to the U.S. embassy to have them certified. You do realize, of course, the embassy with jurisdiction over the Caymans is in Jamaica.” He studied his watch. “Just an hour flight, but this late in the day… And you do know inheritance laws can be particularly complicated. It may take quite some time, perhaps many years, for this to work its way through our courts, and I’m not sure what you’re looking for will be there to be found.”
Gage watched Quinton adopt a posture of self-satisfaction: a half smile, shoulders squared, head tilted upward, eyelids lowered. Gage felt like smashing in his face, except he believed he’d gotten at least one of the answers he came for: Charlie Palmer didn’t own Pegasus.
“That’s a round-trip to nowhere,” Gage said.
Quinton didn’t react, except to say, “Then let me propose something you can pass on to your client.”
“Legal advice is always welcome.”
“This isn’t legal advice. It is merely a suggestion. She would be wise to settle on being happy her husband’s investments-by whatever means they were made-paid off so handsomely, and leave it at that.”