Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter

by Kelly, Diane

  The place had two bedrooms, one of which had a closet full of designer clothing and one of which was set up as a home office. On the desk next to his laptop I found a loose-leaf binder. I flipped it open to look inside. Whoa! Talk about smoking guns. “Hana, come look at this.”

  She wandered in from the living room to take a peek.

  The binder was the holy grail of evidence. Inside, Haverkamp’s multiple identities were separated by labeled tabs. Not only had he purported to be Jack Smirnoff, Morgan Walker, and Bailey Chambord; he’d also posed as Jim Cuervo, Remy Cointreau, Gordon DeKuyper, and, my personal favorite, Glenn Fiddich.

  Behind each tab was the head shot he’d used for each persona. Most of the photographs had been taken at chain portrait studios in Forth Worth, though three had been shot at Savannah’s studio and one had been shot at a JCPenney store. After each head shot was a printout of the profile he’d posted on the dating sites, a cheat sheet of sorts.

  I shook my head. “I guess he needed this notebook to keep his alter egos straight.”

  “It is a lot to remember,” Hana agreed. “It was hard enough for me just pretending to be Kim Huang.”

  Behind each of his profiles were the listings his victims had posted on the dating sites, along with handwritten notes he’d made as he’d come to know his victims over the course of their short relationships.

  Has a Yorkie named Pippa.

  Favorite band is the Eagles.

  Broke her pinky toe salsa dancing.

  In addition to these factoids, he’d written some scathing opinions.

  Talks too much.

  Most annoying laugh ever!

  An abundance of ear wax. Q-tip, anyone?

  “Let’s see what he wrote about us.” Hana flipped to the tab marked “MORGAN WALKER.”

  On her profile page he’d written: Gaydar pinging all over the place. Come out of the closet, girlfriend!

  Hana laughed. “He nailed that, didn’t he?”

  “Especially the ping. I told you gaydar doesn’t bloop.”

  She flipped to my page. Underneath my profile pic he’d written: 2 cats—Anastasia and Hank. Thinking of going back to school for accounting degree. Eats more than her fair share of sushi. Can’t walk in heels.

  “What do you know,” Hana said. “He nailed you, too.”

  Okay, admittedly he had a point about the sushi. I had been known to snatch an extra piece or two when my tablemates weren’t looking. But the heels comment? I could manage heels. Well enough, anyway. What’s a little wobble?

  Hana and I looked around for cash, peeking under the mattress, in the toilet tank, and in the freezer. All we found were a couple hundred dollars in his top dresser drawer, and most of that was singles. Probably tips from his bartending job.

  “I suppose he planned to refresh his stash today,” I said. Of course things hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. Instead of coming back here with a cool two grand, he’d been shuffled off to the klink with blurry vision, a busted knee, and a sore crotch.

  We found no bank statements to show where he might have deposited stolen funds, but that wasn’t a big surprise. Many people had gone paperless and kept everything online these days.

  I tried to log into his laptop, but it was password protected. “What do you think his password might be?”

  “‘Bacardi’?” Hana suggested.

  I tried that. “Nope.”

  “‘Tanqueray’?”

  I tried that, too.

  “Nope.”

  “Try ‘Zac Efron.’”

  Ten taps of the keyboard and I was in. “How’d you know that?”

  “It’s a trade secret.”

  I played around on his computer for a bit. When I checked his browser history, I could see that he’d recently logged on to the Bank of America site. Unfortunately, even if his password for banking purposes was also ‘Zac Efron,’ I didn’t know his username. But with his tech skills Josh could hack into the computer and get it for me in seconds.

  Once we’d accumulated all of the evidence we could, Hana and I loaded it into my car and drove back to the office in Dallas. By then it was early evening and everyone had gone home for the day. Everyone, that is, but Nick. When I’d texted him earlier to tell him the good news about the bust, he said he’d wait at the office until we returned. It was nice of him to keep the home fires burning, so to speak.

  He stepped to the door of my office and leaned against the door jamb. “Congratulations, you two. There’s one less bastard out there trying to make an easy buck now.”

  “I don’t know how easy it was,” I replied. “Take a look at all this homework.” I handed him the notebook.

  He flipped through the pages. “Heck, he’s done your work for you. No need to organize the evidence.”

  “I wish every crook would be so kind.”

  Hana begged off. “I’m starving. Gonna head home and get some grub. See y’all tomorrow.”

  Nick eyed me. “It is about that time. Why don’t we grab some sushi?”

  I grabbed my purse and flipped off the light switch. “Sounds yummy.”

  He draped an arm over my shoulders and leaned in to whisper in my ear, “I won’t even mind if you eat more than your fair share.”

  chapter thirty

  Radio Silenced

  By the end of the week, everything had come together.

  Eddie and Nick had discussed the director position, realized they both had some interest and some reservations, and spoken to Lu about whether the job’s duties could be divided so that they could serve as codirectors, still doing fieldwork on occasion. Lu liked the idea and had floated it up the chain but was still waiting to hear from the higher-ups to see if it would fly.

  Thanks to Dustin Haverkamp’s notebook, I was able to discern which dating sites he’d used and identify his other victims. If he decided to plead not guilty to the fraud and tax evasion charges, I had forty women and three men more than willing to testify against him. With eighty grand stolen, most of it spent, and none of it reported on his tax return, he’d no longer get a mere slap on the wrist. He’d serve some jail time and spend several years having his life overseen by a parole officer.

  Neener-neener.

  Documentation and information continued to roll in from those involved in Flo Cash’s bartering site, as well as those with whom she’d traded advertising independent of the the site. But I had enough irrefutable evidence now that she’d enjoyed hundreds of thousands of dollars in tax-free services and products in exchange for radio promotions and reported none of it as compensation.

  Armed with this documentation and with Ross O’Donnell by my side, I returned to Judge Trumbull’s courtroom early Friday morning to request an order requiring the domain registry to turn over the name of the owner of TradingPost.com.

  As I stepped up to the bench with my stack of documentation, Judge Trumbull looked down at the papers and sighed. “It’s Friday and it’s been a long week. Please tell me I don’t have to read all of that.”

  “You don’t.” I pulled my spreadsheet off the top. “I’ve made a summary.”

  “Thank God. If I had to go through all of that documentation I’d knock myself in the head with my gavel.”

  I handed her the spreadsheet. “This page lists the value of barter transactions that were conducted with Florence Cash, who owns and manages KCSH Radio Corporation. She traded the radio corporation’s advertising services for personal items for her own use. Meals, car maintenance, even a mattress set.”

  The judge ran her eyes over the page. “She owes over two hundred grand in taxes?”

  I nodded. “She’s been doing these exchanges for years. Things have really added up.”

  “Okay,” Trumbull replied. “I’m with you so far.”

  Good. I handed her a second page. “Max Brady, the owner of Mister Sandman Mattresses and More, signed this affidavit testifying that Flo Cash suggested he sign up on a Web site called TradingPost.com, which operated an extensive barter exc
hange network. Trading Post never filed the required tax reports for the exchanges it facilitated, and even falsely stated on its site that barter transactions are tax-free and not subject to reporting.”

  The judge raised a finger to silence me as she read the affidavit. When she finished, she looked up. “Go on.”

  “Flo Cash signed up for a private Web site,” I told the judge. “That means I need an order requiring the domain registry to reveal her as the owner of the bartering site.”

  “All right,” Trumbull said, picking up her pen. “You’ve convinced me.” She signed the order with a flourish and handed it to me along with the affidavit.

  “Thanks, Your Honor. Have a good weekend.”

  I thanked Ross for his assistance, too, and returned to my office. There I tuned my radio to KCSH, phoned the domain registry, and asked to speak to their legal department. Once I had an attorney on the line, I said, “I’ve got a court order to send you. I need to find out who owns a domain. Any chance you might be able to get to it this morning?”

  “Sure,” the woman said. “It doesn’t take long. If you e-mail the order to me I can take a look while you’ve got me on the phone.”

  “Wow. I hadn’t expected such a fast turnaround. But I appreciate it very much.”

  “Forget about it,” she said. “I used to work for the state attorney general’s office. I know how frustrating it can be to get information out of people.”

  She gave me an e-mail address and I sent the order over via attachment.

  “I see it,” she said a few seconds later. She mumbled into her mouthpiece as she apparently read it over. “Okay. Let’s take a look.” I heard the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. “According to our records, the owner of TradingPost.com is someone named Florence Cash.”

  Yes! “That’s what I’d hoped to hear. What address did she provide?”

  The attorney rattled it off. Flo had given the radio station’s address.

  “Can you send me a copy of your registration records?” I asked.

  “I’d be happy to.”

  I thanked the woman and, a minute later, the domain registry popped up in my e-mail in-box. I printed it out and added it to my stack of evidence against Flo Cash.

  I carried the documentation down to the copy room and ran the stack of papers through the machine, making a copy of everything for Flo. She and I were due for a come-to-Jesus meeting.

  Lu walked in for a coffee refill as the papers were swish-swish-swishing through the copy machine.

  “Good job on the catfisher case,” she said as she filled her cup. “Where do things stand with Flo Cash?”

  “I’m on my way to see her.” I motioned to the machine. “Just as soon as the copies are ready.”

  “Good,” Lu said. “I’ve got a backlog I need to assign. Since you seem to be wrapping up your biggest investigations, I’ll send some of the new cases your way.”

  No such thing as downtime on this job.

  The papers stopped swishing, the copies complete. Before leaving the room, I snatched an empty copy paper box from the recycle bin to carry the paperwork in.

  It was a few minutes before eleven when I pulled into the parking lot of KCSH. The Flo Cash Cash Flow Show was beginning to wrap up.

  I carried the copy paper box to the door. Though the young woman at the desk inside looked up and made eye contact with me through the glass, she made no move to come open the door for me. Looked like those donuts I’d brought to the station hadn’t bought me any goodwill. Not even the one with three inches of pink frosting on top.

  “Buzz me in!” I called. I placed the box on the ground, pulled the door open when I heard the lock release, and held the door open with my butt as I picked the box back up and stepped inside. “Good morning. I need to speak with Flo.”

  The young woman pointed up at the speaker, over which Flo’s voice could be heard. “She’s still on the air.”

  “I’ll wait.” I put the box on one of the chairs and sat down in another.

  A minute later, Flo issued her standard sign-off. “Make your money make money for you!”

  I eyed the receptionist, cocked my head, and pointed to the speaker, which was now broadcasting the introductory theme music for a syndicated show.

  Exhaling a long breath, she stood and went through the door behind her to speak with Flo. A moment later she returned. “Go on back.”

  “Thanks.” I grabbed the box and managed to catch the door with my foot before it swung closed. I carried the box down the short hallway to Flo’s booth. The door was closed, but since it and the upper part of her booth were glass, there was no need for me to knock to announce my presence. She could see me through the window.

  Flo’s eyes went from my face to the box in my hand and back. Like her receptionist, Flo made no move to get out of her cushy chair and open the door for me. She merely stared me down while sipping steaming tea from her oversized mug. Obviously, her mother hadn’t sent her to Miss Cecily’s Charm School.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I muttered to myself. I repeated the same process I’d done at the main door, setting the box on the floor and holding the door open with my butt to carry it into the booth. As I eased through, the two tech guys in the room across the hall eyed me through the glass before turning back to their work.

  Flo’s door swung shut behind me.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here,” she spat, “after everything you’ve cost me.”

  I dropped the box at her feet. “I’m about to cost you a lot more.”

  She looked down at the box but made no move to open it or peruse the contents. Rather, she tugged on the string to the tea bag in her mug, steam rising from the surface as she repeatedly and aggressively dunked the bag.

  I gestured to the box. “That’s the documentation your advertisers and the Trading Post participants have provided to me so far.” I pulled the lid off the box, retrieved the copy of the spreadsheet, and held it out to her. “You owe two hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars in taxes, interest, and penalties so far. Of course, that number is going to go up as more evidence comes in, and that doesn’t include what you’ll owe in sales tax. The state comptroller’s office will be in touch with you about that.”

  She made no move to take the spreadsheet from my hand.

  “Look,” I said, “the less you cooperate, the worse it’s going to be for you. I came here as a courtesy to let you know where things stand.”

  “A courtesy?” She stopped tugging the string and smirked. “You call this a courtesy?”

  “Actually, yes. I could’ve come to arrest you, but instead I’d hoped maybe you’d come to your senses and we could work something out.”

  “Senses?” Flo stood, her fingers wrapped around the dollar-sign handle of the mug, its bottom cradled in her other hand. As she stared at me, something dark and evil flashed in her eyes. “Here’s some senses for you!”

  Before my mind could process her movements, she flung the contents of the mug at my face. Piping-hot tea washed over my skin, scalding my face, the tea bag sticking momentarily to my forehead before falling to the floor with a soft, soggy thup.

  Flo smirked at me, her expression self-righteous and smug. Or at least it was until my blood began to boil as hot as my face and I pounced on her. Then her expression was sheer terror.

  Having suffered full-body impact from a human projectile—me—Flo fell backward over her console, her ass hitting the control panel. Click. The “ON AIR” light illuminated over the booth. We’d gone live. Ironic, really, because at the moment the two of us wanted nothing more than to kill each other.

  With a primal roar Flo pushed herself off the console, inadvertently pressing several of the sound-effect buttons. Kaboom! Bzzz! Aoogah! Wielding her now-empty mug over her head like a weapon, she rushed at me with the force and fury of a Cowboys offensive lineman.

  I threw myself to the side while raising my forearm to block her. It was an effective maneuver. While she’d manag
ed to push me back a foot or two, I’d managed to block her attempts to impose blunt-force trauma to my already-blistered face.

  She spun around to come at me again. She hurled the mug at me but missed. The mug landed on the console but remained intact, rolling across three of the sound-effect buttons. The clock. Tick-tock. The laugh track. “Ha-ha-ha!” The scream. “Aaaaah!”

  The mug having proven ineffective, Flo hurled herself at me now. “You bitch!”

  She knocked me back over the sound panel. Arf! Arf-arf! The effect was an appropriate follow-up to the insult she’d slung.

  “I’m going to kill you!” she shrieked.

  With thousands of listeners tuned in, I knew better than to respond out loud. But inside my mind I yelled back at her, Not if I kill you first!

  We struggled for several seconds—Quack-quack! Kaboom!—as Flo tried to pin me to the control panel. Knobs and buttons and switches poked me in the ass, thighs, and back as I squirmed. Screech! Ding-dong! Flushhh! Boing!

  Though I fought as hard as I could, Flo had a forty-pound advantage on me. Normally my weapon skills would compensate, but with her on top of me I couldn’t get to my gun or pepper spray.

  I rolled to my right, apparently activating the barnyard sound section of the keyboard. Cluck-cluck! Baaa! Oink-oink! Moooo!

  I rolled to my left, across the superhero series. Crash! Bang! Pow! Bam!

  By this point, Flo’s entire three-person staff had come to the hallway and stood at the glass watching us brawl, their expressions dumbfounded, their mouths gaping. None of them made a move to get involved. At this point, they probably weren’t sure whose side to be on.

  When I slapped at Flo’s face she grabbed my wrists and forced my arms up over my head. If she thought that would disable me, she’d thought wrong. I might look scrawny, but I was scrappy.

  Ding-dong! Tick-tock! Kaboom!

  Pulling my knees up, I put my Doc Martens to her belly and used my legs to shove her back with every bit of might I could muster. The force sent her sailing in reverse across the room. She tripped over the leg of her rolling chair and sprawled to the floor, landing flat on her ass. Fwump!