Toronto. Friday, August 24, 1990.
Dressed in his bulky faded and torn jeans, wrinkled white sweatshirt and Blue Jays baseball hat, Phillip entered Revenue Canada's regional office on Front Street in the heart of the business district of Toronto. He approached one of five receptionists seated behind the information counter.
"May I help you sir?" she asked, frowning as she examined his sloppy appearance.
"I want to speak to the manager," he demanded.
The receptionist glared at him, turned off by his slovenly appearance. "May I ask what it's about? Is this a tax matter?"
"Yup."
"Your name, please?"
"Phillip Servito."
The receptionist pointed to the waiting area, crowded to the point of standing room only. "Wait over there, please? Someone will be with you as soon as possible."
A tall thin man in his early thirties entered the waiting area twenty minutes later. He had well greased blond hair and wore a dark blue suit, matching tie and glossy black loafers. "Phillip Servito," he bellowed.
Phillip raised his right hand and approached the man.
"Come with me, please." He led Phillip into a small austere conference room, not far from the waiting area. "Please have a seat," he said, pointing to a small round table surrounded by eight wooden chairs.
"Are you the manager?" Phillip asked as he lowered himself onto one of the chairs.
"I'm her assistant. She's in a meeting at this moment." He extended his hand. "My name is David Savage. I understand you want to discuss a tax matter. Is that correct?"
Phillip nodded.
Savage took a seat on the opposite side of the table and dropped a note pad on the table. He glared at Phillip, his pen at the ready. "What specifically did you want to talk about?"
"My father left me a lot of money when he died ten years ago. I never received it."
"And what was your father's name?"
"James Servito."
The name, capable of setting off alarm bells in higher Revenue Canada circles, meant nothing to Savage. "Can you tell me what this has to do with Revenue Canada?"
"My father stole the money from Canada and the United States by evading gasoline taxes."
Savage stopped writing and stared at Phillip in amazement. "Can you tell me how much it was? I mean how much money did your father leave you?"
"Three hundred million."
"How much?" Savage asked, astonished, his mouth open, his gray eyes bulging.
"You heard me. Three hundred million dollars."
A grin broke the veneer of Savage's austere professionalism. He had a very large fish on his line. "Do you know where this money is?"
"I might. Is there a reward? If there is, how much is it?"
Savage frowned. "There's no reward. If you have knowledge of the location of that money, you're legally obliged to reveal it. Furthermore, it's a serious offense to withhold that kind of information from Revenue Canada."
Disappointed with Savage's response and attitude, and confused about the legal implications of his knowledge, Phillip decided to back out. "Listen, I'm really not sure. Like I said, I might know where it is. If I find it, you'll be the first to know. If I don't, then it's still lost."
"You said you might know where the money is. What, exactly did you mean by that?" Savage asked, focusing on Phillip's eyes, certain he knew more.
"That's exactly what I said. I might know where it is. Now I gotta try to find it."
"Is anyone else aware of the existence or location of the money?"
"Yah. My step father also might know."
"Please give me his name and address."
Phillip gave Savage Mike's name, address and telephone number.
"Do you have anything else to say at this time?"
"No."
"If you don't mind, I would like to have someone else talk to you about this. Could you wait here for a minute?"
"No. I gotta get back to work."
"Then please give me your address and telephone number."
Phillip gave him the address and telephone number of Gary Matheson's apartment, then left without uttering another word.
New York.
Visconti's secretary entered his office at two P.M. "Louis, there's a call for you on two," she said, then placed a pile of freshly typed letters on his desk.
"Who is it?"
"Phillip Servito. Would you like me to take a message?"
"No. I'll take it," Visconti said, then lifted the receiver and pressed two. "Visconti."
"Mr. Visconti, my name is Phillip Servito. I'm calling because I want to talk to you about my trust."
"Excuse me. I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, so please don't lie to me. I called Alfred Schnieder at the Banco International Venezolano. They told me he wasn't there any more, but a guy named Blanco gave me your number...Can I meet you somewhere? I don't want to talk on the phone."
"First give me some idea what this is about."
"The money. What else?"
"Does Mike know you're talking to me?"
"Nope, and that doesn't matter any more."
"Why?"
"Because the money's mine, and I want it, now."
It was now painfully clear to Visconti that the equation had changed. He had to adjust. "That may be so, but there isn't a thing I can do about it. The money's in a trust, and I work for its trustees. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you talk to them."
"I already have and they told me they're going to give the money to charity. So I told them if they do, I'm going to tell the Feds that they've been hiding it for years."
"I still don't see what that has to do with me," Visconti said, his heart now in his throat.
"I was hoping you could change their minds. Can we talk somewhere?"
Phillip was now a major player and in a position to destroy Visconti's plan to steal the money in the trust. Clearly, he was the reason Mike King had delayed the distribution of the trust's funds. "Sure. Where and when?"
"Your office. Friday night."
"Friday night's good, but don't come here. Come to my apartment." Visconti gave Phillip the address and telephone number. "How soon can you get there?"
"I'll call you and let you know."
Phillip called Visconti thirty minutes later. "I have an Eastern Airlines flight from Toronto to Newark. It leaves Toronto at eight-thirty on Friday night. I should be at your apartment by ten-thirty or eleven."
"Good. See you then."
"Wait a minute. This trip's going to cost me. Can you help me pay for it?"
"Just give me your bills when you get here. We'll take it out of the trust's expenses."
Toronto.
Mike received a call from William Dare, now deputy director of Canada's Security Intelligence Service. He immediately remembered Dare, the man who led a team of S.I.S. agents on a search and seizure mission of his office over ten years earlier. "What do you want?" Mike asked, his tone making it clear to Dare that his call was unwelcome.
"Your stepson visited the Toronto regional office of Revenue Canada yesterday. He indicated to one of our people that he might know the location of a lot of money his late father left to him...Would you care to comment on that?"
"No," Mike replied, his heart now racing, his brain processing the implications.
"Does that mean you don't know anything about it or that you don't have anything to add?"
"I don't mean to be rude, Dare, but ten years ago my lawyer advised me to refer any and all inquiries connected with that matter to him. I continue to respect that advice. In case you've forgotten, his name is Dan Turner and his telephone number is the same as it was ten years ago. Do you still have that on file?"
"Yes. Thank you for your time."
Mike hung up, then hurried to call Dan Turner using his car phone. "Dan, I just received a call from William Dare. Remember him?"
"I certainly do. What did he say?"
"He said Phillip went into the Revenue Canada office in Toronto yesterday. He told them he might know the location of a lot of money his father left him."
"Are you in your office?"
"No. I'm in my car."
"Good. Call me from there from now on. If I need to reach you, I'll leave a message...Now, what did you say to Dare?"
"Nothing. I referred him to you."
"Good. I'll take it from here. I'll keep you advised."
Mike hung up, stepped from his car and walked across the parking lot toward his office. A company van raced onto the lot and screeched to a stop beside him. Phillip rolled down his window and leaned out. "Hi boss," he said, flashing an impish smirk. "You having a nice day?"
"What are you doing here? Why aren't you on the road?"
"I won't stay long. I just wanted to find out if you've heard from the Feds yet."
Mike nodded.
Phillip's grin disappeared. "I wanted it to be a warning, to prove I'm serious. Next time I see them I'll give them the rest of the story."
"How much did you tell them?"
"Enough to make them interested."
Mike frowned and gritted his teeth. "You may have started something that can't be stopped."
"Sure it can. All you have to do is give me the money."
"I told you that's not going to happen. The only way you're going to get it is over my dead body. Now get your lazy ass out of my sight!" Mike turned and continued toward his office.
"Have a nice day, boss," Phillip shouted, raising his right hand and pointing its middle finger skyward.