“They lend employees and relatives interest-free money for down payments and promise to buy the properties back at a profit before the shills have to make balloon loan payments.”
May harrumphed. “Pretty slick. By the time real buyers arrive, the market’s made. If the patsies have their lots appraised, the comps look dandy. Appraisers look at sale prices, they’re not paid to do background checks. Of course, if the same buyer names popped up repeatedly, it would raise questions. But that doesn’t sound like their game. They’re using real people, not folks who only exist on paper.
“It would be hard to prove the transactions were fishy,” she added. “The developers could argue their interest-free loans were perks for loyal workers. Still, I’d advise your friend to type her resume and distance herself from those yahoos.”
“Hold on, May, I’m just warming up. Her bosses have been playing this shell game for years. Janie’s worried about something new.”
I filled my aunt in on the surprise ten-million dollar purchase of Hogsback Island and its hurried unveiling. I detailed Woody’s unauthorized use of Janie’s notary seal on Emerald Cay documents and Gator’s refusal to fire him for it. I noted that Gator and Sally had been strapped for cash, partly because a real-estate investment trust created to snap up foreclosures was draining off dollars faster than new Dear sales could mint them. Finally, I described my visit to Woody’s office, including my fib that Aunt May would shell out a million bucks for a homesite close to her beloved niece.
May responded with a hardy guffaw. “Pay a million to get eaten alive by no-see-ums and plot the course of hurricanes spinning my way? No thanks. I’m not that senile. But I’ll be glad to play this Woody. Always wanted to pose as a rich dowager. Tell me again about those documents you read upside down.”
I told her what I remembered, adding tidbits about a prosperous new mortgage broker and a shady appraiser appearing out of nowhere. I skipped over other details—principally Dear’s rash of bizarre murders and the dual attempts on my life. I crossed my fingers the Des Moines Register wouldn’t fill in these blanks.
“Okay, that’s all I know. Any idea what these jokers are pulling?”
May stayed silent a moment, an unusual event. When she spoke, I figured her pause had been intentional. She wanted me to listen and listen hard. “Tell your friend to give notice and find another job. She’s an idjit if she waits for the other shoe to drop. The ten million to buy Hog or Pig Island, whatever, didn’t drop from the sky. I bet they’re laundering money. If not, they may have hoodwinked bankers into loans for a property they have no intention of developing. A while back some high-profile Minnesota promoters skipped town. Defrauded hundreds of homebuyers. Promised a dream lake resort. Built community docks and three model homes, started construction on a clubhouse. Once they sold all the properties, they vanished. It was all over the papers for a month.”
My aunt’s hypotheses prompted a dozen questions. “Would the developers need a crooked appraiser for a scam like that?”
“Not necessarily, though it couldn’t hurt.” May chuckled. “Don’t know whether I should be flattered or insulted that you think I’m an expert on shady real estate deals.”
I laughed. “Be flattered. I figured you’d learn enough about potential real estate pitfalls to make sure nobody fleeced you.”
“Okay, a compliment,” May said. “I’ve read up on land flips. A dishonest appraiser’s essential. Most scams seem to be big-city though. A crook buys a slum property and immediately resells it to a straw buyer—a fictitious person—for three or four times its value. The straw buyer never forks over a penny, though closing documents show a down payment. Then the loan gets sold to an out-of-town mortgage banker who doesn’t know shoelaces from Shinola. The bank gives a half-million-dollars to the land flipper on an appraiser’s say-so.
“A land flip requires a greedy attorney, too, to handle the closings. If he’s not in on the scheme, the lawyer has to be mortally stupid. I’ve heard a land flipper can quadruple his money in weeks. One California scam flipped fifty-odd properties in six months. By the time lenders foreclosed, the crooks were long gone—with ten million and change.”
I started to ask another question, but Aunt May cut me off. “Marley, my bridge club is due in an hour. I have to go. I’ll ask my broker for other ideas. Meanwhile if you’re in such an all-fired hurry to become a mortgage fraud expert, look up land flips on the Internet. You’re always telling me it’s such a wonder. But you be careful, Marley Elizabeth Clark. Don’t let ’em catch you snooping. If these guys are running some big-time swindle, they might cut off any nose they find poking in their business.”
SIXTEEN
A Google search on mortgage fraud and land flips found a ton of articles. I culled the results and printed six case studies. Then it was six-thirty and time to make supper something more than a good intention. Though my plans for a gourmet feast were flushed, I figured filets and salad might help smooth Deputy Braden Mann’s raised hackles.
After gathering a variety of salad makings, I paused mid-reach for the cutting board. Why did I feel a need to appease Braden? His voice on the answering machine message vibrated with anger. Was he blaming the victim for the crime?
Jaw clenched, I chopped the celery into green mush. True, I’d been a tad careless, but the more I thought about it, my nightmarish afternoon had turned out perfectly. For starters, I was alive, and the authorities had justification to hunt down Underling. Before, they’d dismissed my hunch he was a killer. Today I’d seen his ugly face as he fired his—oops, my—gun.
What’s more, Underling’s motivation to remove me from the planet had lost its urgency. While my pretend amnesia provided incentive to murder me post haste, I’d now identified him. Damage done, and a tenuous link to Kain established.
The doorbell’s singsong made me jump. I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and headed for the door. Janie’s hands cupped her face as she peered through the sidelight. I have to buy curtains.
“So tell me,” she demanded as I let her inside. “Did Woody confess?” Suddenly she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Oh, cripes, is Braden here? I keep forgettin’ you’ve got a man in the house. Can we talk?”
Janie trailed me to the kitchen. “He won’t be back till seven. But I wish you’d talk to him, off-the-record anyway. Something squirrelly is going on in your office. It’s no big honking coincidence that islanders with real estate ties have a high mortality rate.”
My neighbor snagged a baby carrot from my cutting board. “Talking would get me fired. How long do you think Gator would keep me if I blabbed? Plus I can’t prove anyone besides Woody is involved in any hanky-panky. I caught him with my notary stamp; that’s it. Sure I’m suspicious of how Gator and Sally got their mitts on ten million for Hogsback, but I’m hired help. They don’t have to share high-finance secrets with the office manager.”
When Janie’s hand snaked forward for another snack, I batted it away. “Listen, you’re not imagining things. My guess is mortgage fraud, a land flip. Today Woody claimed Dear Island Real Estate had to do more homework before it could start selling Emerald Cay homesites. Yet he had two contracts on his desk—for lots on Emerald Cay.”
“The hell you say,” Janie exploded. “Woody is our sales manager, not the office manager. I handle closings. I’m going to call Sally, demand an explanation. I’ve a mind to corner Gator down at the funeral parlor.”
“Calm down. Don’t let Gator and Sally know you’re snooping. It could be dangerous.”
“Oh, hogwash. These murders are the work of a psychopath. There’s no connection.”
I seized Janie’s shoulders, forcing her eyes to meet mine. “Ever think these murders might be staged? You say you’re a hired hand. Well, maybe the killer’s hired help, too. My hunch is someone told him how to kill Stew and Bea, what messages to write. Whoever’s pulling the strings wants the cops dancing to his tune, looking for mental cases instead of greedy bastards.”
> Janie rolled her eyes. “Marley, you’ve plain wigged out if you think Gator or Sally killed—or conspired to kill—Stew and Bea. God knows why, but Gator loved his wife. Plus it’s a real stretch to claim Bea was involved in real estate. That’s like saying I’m a stripper because my sister runs a gentlemen’s club. Bea knew squat about the business. And if Sally’s some murderous conspirator, why’d she send her own family packing?”
“Valid points,” I conceded. “Gator or Sally may simply be in over their heads. I’m stuck on this Kain Dzandrek. I swear he was talking about Stew’s murder when he lunched with the thug who tried to kill me today…”
“What? Someone tried to kill you again? Today?”
At my friend’s insistence, I sidetracked to relate how Underling and his pal shot out my tire and chased me at gunpoint. Though not a Catholic, I felt an urge to cross myself while recounting the saving grace of metal stairs and a busload of wee witnesses.
Janie’s eyes grew wide. “I can’t believe you didn’t spill the beans the minute I walked in.”
I glanced at the kitchen clock. Five minutes to seven. “Braden will be here any minute. Will you talk to him? Please.”
Her golden pageboy swished as she fiercely shook her head. “Let me sleep on it. We’re going to Hilton Head, right? If Braden tags along, we can talk. I want to check out some things first. Don’t worry, I won’t set off any alarms.”
I agreed—with misgivings. Even if Gator and Sally were up to their eyeballs in fraud, I couldn’t imagine them killing Janie. Gator was off island burying his wife. Reporters tailed Sally everywhere. And Underling and his understudy were on the run.
How many hit men could Kain have at his beck and call?
***
Braden rang the bell at seven-fifteen. As soon as he stepped inside, he crushed my body against his. The fierce embrace communicated more than words. He pulled back and lifted my chin.
“Do you have cat genes or what?” His index finger stroked my cheek. “If you have nine lives, you’ve blown two. How about going a day or three without cheating death?”
He locked his arms around me once more. “God, am I glad to see you.”
He felt so good, so solid. As he kissed the nape of my neck, hot tears of relief welled in my eyes. “Same here,” I whispered.
He nuzzled my neck. “I can’t believe I almost lost you today.”
I tried valiantly to strike a lighter tone. “Yeah, playing hide-and-seek wasn’t high on my afternoon agenda. Neither was scaling a lighthouse. I’m not fond of heights.”
Determined not to cry, I fought the tears. While I’m ordinarily more likely to rage than blubber, my pent-up emotions resisted protocol. Tears dribbled down my cheeks as sobs shook my body.
“For heaven’s sake. I’m crying again. This isn’t like me.”
Braden slipped an arm around my waist, and walked me down the hall to the master bedroom. I rested my head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Even colonels are entitled to shed a tear or two once the battle’s over. I won’t tell a soul.”
He guided me toward the bed and turned back the coverlet. As I sat on the edge, he tugged off my sneakers. Once he’d tucked the covers around me, he walked to the other side, shucked his own shoes, and slipped into bed. He held me as I cried myself to sleep.
When I woke, the clock’s digital readout glowed brightly in the pitch-black room: 8:33 p.m. Braden was still by my side, though he’d extracted the shoulder that pillowed my head. “You awake?” I whispered.
“Yeah.” He switched on the reading lamp built into the bookcase headboard and fiddled with the dimmer to soften the light.
We kissed. “Thank you. I’m fine now. My emotions have been kind of raw.”
My brisk, all-business tone said the histrionics were over. “You must be starving. Glad I left the salad in the refrigerator or we’d be eating wilted weeds. I can have dinner ready in ten minutes.”
Braden shut me up with a wake-up kiss. Also all business. “We’ve waited this long, why not a few minutes more?”
I was decades past the randy, can’t-get-enough stage when hormones overwhelm good sense. Yet in this opening chapter of our relationship, I surrendered to the tidal pull of lust. Awkwardly we undressed each other beneath the covers.
His hands floated across my breasts, a gossamer touch that left me quivering. He pulled my hips forward and I twined my legs around him. For long minutes, we communed, kissing deeply, almost in a trance, refusing to allow our bodies to bolt ahead to the finish line. Statues a sculptor froze in a final moment of icy-hot anticipation. Consummation a promise just beyond our trembling reach.
Unable to wait a moment longer, I whispered “yes,” and we moved to the next plateau. No fevered thrusts, just a long, rocking meld. The molten sensation of joining as one.
Afterward, we lay on our backs, pillows fluffed behind our heads, fingers twined. I thought about my husband then. The hundreds of nights we’d slept in this same bed.
“A penny for your thoughts?”
“Not worth a penny.” I doubted Braden would be flattered to learn our lovemaking triggered memories of a dead husband. My gaze wandered to the framed cross-stitch my sister gave me for my fiftieth birthday: If you’re lucky enough to be at the beach, you’re lucky enough. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”
“Yes, you are.” Braden’s tone had changed. He obviously wanted to say more. “I can’t understand how that dirt bag found you.” His frustration poured out in a torrent, seasoned with a hint of censure. “How did he get your gun?”
Recess was over. He’d launched into interrogation mode. Dang it. I angled for a postponement. “Look, time we eat, it’ll be nine-thirty. Can we move the cross-examination to the kitchen? I’m starved.”
He backed off. “Okay. Sorry. This creep is frustrating the hell out of me. Can’t believe we haven’t gotten a line on him. And now we know he has an accomplice. But, you’re right, no point ruining our appetite.”
During dinner, we shared a little about our parents and told funny and not-so-funny stories about our childhoods. Due to circumstances, we’d skipped the usual courting, getting-to-know-you rituals. Now we backtracked to pick up missing pieces. I wanted to know what molded the man who’d seized center stage in my life, virtually overnight.
I sensed Braden felt the same way. I also wondered how the difference in our ages might influence our views. I grew up with Mork & Mindy, Happy Days, and The Six Million Dollar Man. I watched Bobby Kennedy’s assassination, remembered disco.
Braden inhabited another generation. My husband, ten years older than me, could have been Braden’s dad. Did we really have enough in common to remain lovers?
After supper, Sheriff Conroy phoned to say a police artist would come by at nine the next morning.
Braden helped me load the dishwasher, tidy the kitchen. Once we moved to the living room, he forsook the easy chair to spoon with me on the sofa. My fingers traced the muscles in the arms enfolding me in a loose embrace. I sipped peppermint schnapps and sighed contentedly.
“Can we talk about your lighthouse romp now?” He crossed his heart. “Promise, no bad cop routine.”
“Sure.”
He returned to the question of my pilfered gun. How did Underling steal it? I recalled the car alarm, admitted my failure to check the glove box afterward.
I walked Braden through the trap and my attempts at evasion tactics.
“There is an up side. I’m out of the woods as far as this madman’s concerned.” I smiled. “Underling gains nothing by killing me. I’ve identified him. Any attempt on my life would be extremely risky. The cops are looking for him now, not some anonymous bogeyman.”
Braden stood and carried our schnapps glasses to the wet bar for a refill. “Wish I saw it your way. But Underling still has a strong motive to kill you. If he stands trial, your testimony will be crucial. I just wish we knew his motive for the other murders.”
“We know his motive—he’s doing what his boss pay
s him to do,” I interrupted. “Kain Dzandrek. He decides who gets killed.”
Braden shrugged. “Okay, I’ll bite. What reason could this Kain have to murder Bea and Stew? As far as we can tell, he’s never set foot on Dear Island. We’ve asked dozens of people. I even called the former owner of Hogsback Island—MacIsaac. He never heard of Kain.”
“Did MacIsaac sound on the up and up?”
“Yeah, he chummed the waters, writing a bunch of letters to likely buyers. When he didn’t get a nibble, he figured he’d sit on the property a few more years.”
Braden rattled the ice in his glass. “MacIsaac said the call from Gator last month was a real shocker. The seller’s attorney swapped the deed to Hogsback Island for a two-million-dollar certified bank check and a loan agreement. The buyers agreed to pay MacIsaac two million plus interest each January 1 for five years.”
I frowned. “Who wrote the check?”
“It was drawn on the account of Emerald Cay, LLC, at a Cayman bank. And before you ask, no—I haven’t gotten my hands on any bank or corporate documents yet to see if Kain’s connected. A SLED forensic accountant is digging.”
With Kain a main conversation topic, the time seemed ripe to press for a Hilton Head excursion. After I proposed an invasion of a gentleman’s club by three unlikely musketeers—Janie, Braden and me—the deputy laughed.
“Say what? You’re pulling my leg.”
When I shook my head, he crossed his arms. Closed off, but still listening.
Finally, he shrugged. “I can’t imagine what we’ll accomplish. Regulars at April’s club aren’t likely to spill their guts to two women and a cop. But I suppose a surprise appearance can’t hurt. It could make Dzandrek jumpy. If we know where to find him on a Friday night, he might decide we know a lot more than we do.”
I rewarded Braden with a smile, and he raised a hand in a stop gesture. “Three requests. I won’t call ’em conditions because you’ll get riled. One, you and I spend the night in a hotel, not at April’s condo. Janie can sleep where she pleases. Two, we don’t leave one another’s sight. Ever. Underling and his buddy may be a thousand miles away, but there’s nothing to say Kain couldn’t decide to do his own wet work.”
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 18
