White Ghost by Steven Gore Page B

morphed, appearing to read “Keynote Speaker: Juan Cortez-Sanchez. In Memoriam: Graham Gage.” He forced himself to look away, trying to focus on the chandeliers hanging bright and heavy from the ceiling. But he could just as well have been looking up at a rain cloud, and for a moment he wished it was and that he and Faith were back in Costa Rica.
    As Jacques resumed his role as master of ceremonies, Gage felt his mind wandering off, abandoning his body.
    â€œJuan was a twenty-year member . . . a friend to many in this room . . . selfless . . . brilliant . . . too young . . . long bout with cancer . . . his wife is here to accept . . .”
    â€œGraham Gage . . . our keynote speaker . . . youngest recipient ever of the Lifetime Achievement Award . . . received last year at the Paris meeting . . . I present to you the man I like to call the diagnostician of deception and the philosopher of fraud.”
    Jacques moved back from the podium and gestured Gage to approach. No one in the room could have failed to notice Gage’s smile transform into a grimace as pain attacked his hip when he straightened up. After he stepped up to the podium, he steadied himself by gripping the raised edges of the top until he felt his leg hold firm.
    Jacques leaned over and pulled the microphone toward him.
    â€œIf Graham is going to insist on continuing to play basketball, perhaps we can add another training session to next year’s schedule: The proper execution of the pick-and-roll.”
    Gage felt his face redden in response to the crowd’s laughter. He wondered which was worse: being rightly known to be undergoing a painful search for the extent of his cancer or being viewed as physically incompetent. He shook off the thought, then held up his hand, acknowledging the laughter.
    Gage adjusted the mic, then looked about the room at the many familiar faces. An image of Juan slid into his consciousness. Blanket covered, hunched over in a wheelchair at a Spanish hospice, gray, shriveled, hollow eyed, waiting to die. He felt a restlessness in the crowd, opened his file folder, and began.
    A S G AGE CAME TO THE END of his prepared speech he realized he couldn’t remember much of what he’d said. He recalled moments of applause and laughter and, more than anything, two thousand eyes peering up at him and him wondering what they were seeing, or maybe who they were seeing, for he knew that he wasn’t exactly the same man they had seen in Paris.
    Jacques approached the podium clapping. He put his left arm on Gage’s shoulder and said, “How about a few questions?”
    Without waiting for a response, Jacques pointed at a young woman at the nearest table, whose words were lost in the mumbling crowd.
    Voices from the back yelled out, “We can’t hear . . . speak up.”
    â€œLet me repeat the question,” Gage said. “It was about my references to the evolution in fraud and the methods used by crooks. And did I have something deeper in mind.” Gage paused, the thought still unfinished in his mind. “The short answer is, yes. The slightly longer answer goes something like this: We typically catch crooks because most frauds, in fact most crimes, are cookie-cutter jobs. They’re based on paradigms, so to speak. The crooks who are a little smarter than the rest combine these paradigms, sometimes in unusual ways.”
    An image of Ah Ming flickered in his mind.
    â€œThe smartest crooks, the most dangerous ones, adapt these paradigms to a changing environment. That is, crime evolves. That’s not news. However, my evolution reference points toward something else. It’s this: Every adaptation is also a liability. Let me say that again: Every adaptation is a liability. Why? Because it creates a new dependence on the environment.”
    Gage looked down at the questioner. She reminded him of Sylvia Washington as a young San Francisco detective. Intent. Earnest.