by Kelly, Diane
Leslie let out a huff. “The nice car was part of the reason I trusted him. He looked like he’d done well for himself and had plenty of money.”
“Any chance you know the plate number?”
None of them had it, though all three had noted that the car bore Colorado license plates.
I jotted a note on my pad. CO plates. “I can check with the restaurants, see if they have outdoor video cameras that might have picked up his plate number.” With any luck, they’d have exterior cameras to catch customers who attempted to dine and dash. “Where did he stay when he was in town?”
“The Omni,” all three said in unison.
“Did he ever invite any of you back to his hotel room?”
They all answered in the negative this time, too.
“So you can’t say for certain that he was actually staying at the Omni, right?”
Leslie said, “He had a key card from there. It fell out of his pocket on our second date.”
Nataya rolled her eyes. “Same here.”
Julia groaned. “Ditto.”
The key card could, in fact, mean he’d stayed at the Omni. But the fact that he’d invited none of these women back to his hotel and made a show of dropping the key so that all three women would take note seemed like a ploy. More likely he’d swiped the key or perhaps spent a single night at the hotel and failed to turn the keys in on checkout.
“Besides his sob story,” I said, “what else did he tell you about himself?”
Nataya looked up at the ceiling, Julia tapped her finger on her cheek, and Leslie chewed her lip, all in thought.
Leslie responded first. “He said precious little about himself, now that I think about it. Any time I asked him a question, he’d give me a short answer and find a way to turn the conversation back to me or my interests.”
Julia chimed in next. “Same here. I hate to admit it, but after all the losers I’ve met through the dating site it was refreshing to meet a guy who didn’t have a huge ego and expect me to fawn all over him.”
Nataya concurred. “The only specific thing I can remember him saying is that he liked Elton John’s music. ‘Crocodile Rock’ was playing over the speakers at one of the restaurants while we were waiting to be seated and he sang along with it. At the time I’d thought it was cute.” She punctuated her words with a groan.
Not exactly the kind of information I needed. “What about photos of him?” I asked. “Do you have any?”
All three whipped out their cell phones and showed me pics they’d taken with Jack. In each of the photos, he sported short, dark-brown hair and eyeglasses with oval lenses and black frames. He had a lean but athletic build. He appeared to be Caucasian, though his skin tone was a little on the olive side.
Leslie had a photo of Jack leaning back against a tree on the shore of White Rock Lake. Julia and Jack had done a fun, up-close selfie of the two of them holding up glasses of chardonnay at the winery, smiling big smiles at the camera. Someone else had taken a photo of Nataya and Jack standing with one of the costumed actors from the Broadway show at a meet and greet in the theater lobby.
I mulled things over for a moment. “I’m surprised a con artist wouldn’t balk at having his picture taken.” Most preferred to hide under rocks, the same place they probably crawled out from.
Julia jabbed a button on her phone to close the picture. “The fact that he wasn’t concerned about me taking his photo made him seem for real. If he hadn’t wanted his picture taken I would’ve thought that maybe he was lying about himself and that he was still married or something.”
The other women murmured in agreement.
“I’ve also got the photo he used in his profile on the Big D site,” Nataya said, holding up her phone to show me the head shot she’d downloaded. He wore the same eyeglasses in the profile pic as he did in the other photos.
“E-mail all of the pics to me,” I instructed, giving them my IRS e-mail address. “I’m not sure if any information can be gleaned from the photos, but it can’t hurt for me to take a closer look.”
As they worked their phones to send the photos my way, I asked whether there was anything else they could tell me about him. “Anything that might provide a clue as to his real identity or help me track him down. Anything that caught your eye or ear. Even the smallest detail could help.”
“There was one thing,” Leslie said. “After we went jogging at the lake, he opened his trunk and got a towel out of a gym bag inside. When he pulled out the towel, something that looked like a black belt fell out and I asked him if he did martial arts. He said no, that the belt was some type of strap he used when he worked out. I didn’t have any reason to doubt his explanation at the time. But now?”
Now? She had every reason to doubt anything the guy had ever told her.
Nataya sat up straighter in her seat and cut a glance at Leslie. “Now that you mention it, I remember seeing a martial arts medal in his glove compartment. You know, the kind that hangs around your neck?” She moved her hands as if to indicate a long ribbon draped over her shoulders. She went on to explain that when Jack stopped for gas on their way to the theater her allergies got the best of her. “I was having a major sneezing fit and had used up all the tissues in my purse, so I opened the glove box to look for a napkin while Jack was outside filling the tank. I spotted the medal inside. I asked him about it when he got back in the car, but he said it belonged to his stepson.”
Hm-m. Had he been telling the truth about the strap and the medal? Or was Jack Smirnoff not only a con artist but also some type of ninja warrior?
“Could you tell what type of martial arts the medal was for?” I asked. “Karate? Tae kwon do, maybe?” I knew there were a few other forms as well.
“I have no idea,” Nataya said, cringing apologetically. “All I remember is that the medal was gold and round and depicted two people throwing kicks at each other. The ribbon had red, white, and blue stripes.”
I jotted down the description, though it sounded like a fairly typical type of award.
“Anything else?” I asked a final time, offering suggestions that might jog their memories. “Did he have a parking sticker on the back of his car that might indicate where he works or lives? Root for a particular college sports team? Take any prescription meds that you know of?”
Apparently he’d done none of the above. The women offered nothing further and I realized I was grasping at straws. Of course you never knew when one of those straws might pay off.
Having collected all of the information I could from the women, I typed up affidavits for them to sign. After printing them out, I led the trio to Viola’s desk so that she could notarize the documents. When the affidavits were complete, I walked the women back to the elevators. As they waited for the car, I told them I’d do my best to try to track the man down and see that justice was done. Still, I had to be careful not to get their hopes up.
“The chances of me finding the guy are slim,” I warned, “Even if I find him, there’s a good chance he’s already spent most, if not all, of your money.” Which meant there might be no funds left for him to pay taxes on his ill-gotten income or restitution to these women.
“Frankly,” Julia said, “I’m more interested in seeing him put behind bars than I am in getting my money back.”
“Me, too!” Nataya snapped. “Losing a couple grand wasn’t nearly as bad as the humiliation.”
Leslie was a bit more pragmatic. “Me? I’d just love a chance to kick him where the sun doesn’t shine.”
With any luck, Leslie would get that kick in.
chapter five
Hooking Up
After the women left, I returned to my office. Unfortunately, as much as I wanted to help these women and see justice done, I also knew that if Jack Smirnoff were captured today he’d likely get a mere slap on the wrist. While six grand was nothing to sneeze at, it was a paltry sum compared to many theft by deception cases. Moreover, he’d hadn’t preyed on anyone who couldn’t withstan
d the loss. Judges tended to go harder on con artists who preyed on the elderly or poor. Leslie, Julia, and Nataya were all successful women on solid financial footing. In order to put this guy behind bars, I’d have to show that there were more victims and a significant sum of money involved.
I spent a little more time digging into this so-called Jack Smirnoff. While I suspected there was little or no chance Jack Smirnoff was the guy’s real name—after all, what idiot would pull a stunt like this and give his victims his real name?—I figured the con artist must have gotten the name somewhere. Maybe from a coworker or neighbor or acquaintance. Hell, for all I knew, Jack Smirnoff could be the name of his childhood soccer coach or scout leader. Or maybe it was simply his favorite brand of vodka.
I searched online to find men named Jack Smirnoff. While several popped up, neither of the two who turned up in Colorado was the right age to be the suspect. One was seventy-six, the other a mere twenty-four. Despite the Colorado license plates on the Mercedes he drove, it was possible the suspect was actually a local man, so I searched in the North Texas area as well. I found three Jack Smirnoffs in the Dallas–Fort Worth metropolitan area, only one of whom was in the right age range. A quick look at his driver’s license photo told me it wasn’t the same guy. The Jack Smirnoff in the photo was black. “Nope,” I told the screen. “You’re not the man I’m looking for.”
Next, I phoned the restaurants where the women had gone on their dates with the catfisher. While three had exterior cameras, none retained their footage for more than thirty days.
“If there’s a problem,” one of the managers told me, “we usually know about it pretty quick. You know, someone running out on their bill, or a fight in the parking lot, or maybe one customer backs into another’s car. That kind of thing. I’ve worked here for years and you’re the first person who’s asked for older footage.”
Darn. “Thanks for your time.”
I contacted the Big D Dating Service next. “May I speak to the manager, please?”
“You got him.” The manager, who identified himself only as J.B., refused to give me any information by phone. “I’ll tell you this much,” he said. “When a client makes a complaint, the Big D policy is to contact the person they’ve complained about and give that person a chance to refute the story. If the response isn’t satisfactory, or if the person fails to respond within five business days, that person is removed from the site and banned from rejoining.”
“Who at Big D makes this contact?”
“I do.”
“So you communicated with Jack Smirnoff?” I said. “What was his response?”
“Hold up just a minute here,” J.B. said. “You say a man on our site wasn’t who he claimed to be. But how do I know that you really are who you say you are? How can I be sure that you actually work for the federal government? For all I know, you’re this Smirnoff guy’s wife or girlfriend and you’re just trying to catch him stepping out on you.”
Ugh. I’m going to have to go see this J.B. in person, aren’t I? “I’ll come to you, then. Prove I am who I say I am.”
“But that means I’ll have to put on pants.”
Sheesh. “Would you rather I issue a summons for you to appear at our office?”
“No,” he said. “That would require socks and shoes, too.”
“So we’re in agreement. I’m coming over. What’s your address?”
He growled in protest but rattled off a number and a street in the Greenville area. “Unit Fifty-Six.”
I plugged the address in my phone’s GPS app. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll start looking for some pants.”
The address turned out to be a condominium complex, four modern three-story buildings of gray stucco with glass-enclosed balconies centered around a pool, hot tub, and small lawn area. Unit Fifty-Six was in the third building. This is the home of Big D Dating Service?
I rapped on the door and J.B. answered a moment later. The guy appeared to be in his late twenties, like me. He sported a slightly scraggly dark-blond beard and hair, a T-shirt, and hopelessly wrinkled cargo shorts. He was barefoot and held a bottle of hard cider in his hand.
He tipped the bottle toward me. “You the IRS investigator?”
“That’s me.” I flashed my badge before offering him a business card. “Special Agent Tara Holloway.” I glanced into the unit. To the left was a kitchen and breakfast bar, to the right a living area with a couch, recliner, and big-screen television. A laptop computer sat open on the coffee table next to a large bag of potato chips. “This is the Big D Dating Service headquarters?”
“Sweet, isn’t it? My morning commute is ten steps from my bedroom to my chair. Less if I fell asleep on the couch.”
He stepped back in a manner that seemed to be an invitation for me to come inside, so I did.
He raised his bottle. “Want a beer?”
“Thanks, but I’m on the job.”
“So am I.”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to fire yourself. My boss wouldn’t look too kindly on me drinking while on duty.”
He flopped down on the recliner and pulled the lever to raise the leg support.
I perched on his couch. “How long have you managed the Big D site?”
“Since I launched it three years ago. It started on a whim. I used to work as a programmer. Busted my ass for fifty hours a week in a cubicle in a windowless room. When my girlfriend and I broke up, I signed up on some of the national dating sites. I realized pretty quick that I could offer a locally focused site for a third the price the larger sites were charging and still break even. Nobody else had a site targeted for people in Dallas. I figured what the hell, you know? Nothing to lose. Now I’m pulling down six figures and I work only twenty, thirty hours a week tops, from home, in my underwear. Plus, I get first shot at the new girls who sign up.”
“Sweet gig,” I told him. “And thanks for putting on pants.” Might as well show some appreciation, huh? “Like I said on the phone, one of your clients used the Big D Web site to prey on three women who have contacted the IRS for help. Your client took these women out on several dates, then asked each of them to cash a check for him. The women cashed the checks and turned the cash over to him but later learned the checks were fakes. Their banks recouped the losses from the women’s accounts.”
“I get complaints all the time,” J.B. said, waving his cider. “‘She didn’t look at all like her picture.’ ‘He’s been sleeping on my couch for two months and won’t leave.’ ‘She borrowed my car and disappeared with it.’ I’ll tell you the same thing I tell them. That’s not on me. My attorney made sure my ass is covered. The Big D client contract clearly states that the service merely provides an online venue to meet other people. We are up front about the fact that we don’t run background checks and make no guarantees about anyone’s behavior. Clients are warned to take precautions. They agree to hold us harmless for any losses. It’s right there on page one of our contract in bold print.”
“These women don’t want to sue your company,” I told the man. “They just want this guy to be stopped. I’ve run searches on the name Jack Smirnoff and nobody by that name matches your client’s description. It’s obviously an alias. You can help by providing me with all of the information you have on the guy and contact information for the women he was matched with.”
“That contract I mentioned?” the guy said, taking a swig of his cider. “It’s got a privacy clause in it. If I hand over information about the women he met through the site I’ll be in violation of the terms. The clients could sue me.”
“What about that ‘hold harmless’ clause?” I said, noting the provision he’d been so happy to hide behind only a moment ago. “Wouldn’t that protect you?”
He mulled things over, his nose wriggling as he did so.
“I’ve got affidavits from the victims,” I added, “signed under penalty of perjury. How about that?”
He sat up a bit, which I took as a good
sign.
“See?” I whipped out copies of the affidavits and reached across the coffee table to hand them to him. “Official legal affidavits. They’re notarized and everything.”
I pointed to the notary seal. Many people thought that having paperwork notarized proved the veracity of the information contained therein. Actually, all it meant was that the notary had verified the identification of the person signing the document and thus prevented later legal challenges by signatories who might attempt to claim forgery. I wasn’t sure whether J.B. knew any of this, but I had to use whatever means of persuasion were available to me.
He looked the affidavits over and let out a long, loud breath that let me know his resolve was dissipating. I could be fairly stubborn and insistent, but it was an effective way of wearing people down.
“Look,” I pressed. “I understand you need to comply with your contract. But this kind of thing can give your site a bad name, even put you out of business. You don’t want to end up back in that cubicle, do you? Having to put on pants every day?” Oh, the tyranny of outer garments!
He squirmed in his recliner, a sure sign his resolve was melting.
I continued to hammer at him. “The women who complained to the government are determined to have this guy tracked down and punished, and if I can’t nip this case in the bud they might take things to the media.” None of the three women I’d spoken with had threatened to do any such thing, but this guy didn’t need to know that. Besides, it was possible they’d contact the newspapers or TV stations, right?
“I’m more concerned about a bad review on Yelp.”
“Good point,” I agreed. “And if I have to tell these women that you refused to help me, they might post a bad review of your service. So how about you tell me everything you know about Jack Smirnoff, since he’s clearly not legit, and then you can contact the other women he met through your site and pass my name and phone number on to them? That way, you’re not violating your contract’s privacy clause. Besides, they’d surely appreciate you giving them a heads-up. You might save them from being ripped off, too. Heck, you’d be a hero!” Given his dislike of lower body garments, being a superhero would be a good job for this guy. Superheroes didn’t wear pants, either.
