by Diane Kelly
Josh used stock images he found online and doctored them with Photoshop to create a realistic Web site for the alleged band, complete with a colorful tour bus, a schedule of appearances over the preceding three months, and a CD cover for their debut album, Rock Us, Ruckus! Now that the band’s fictitious tour had wrapped up, Mitch found himself temporarily out of work until the band produced a second album and went on tour again.
Josh programmed another cell phone, one with a Los Angeles area code, to serve as a decoy number for the band’s fictitious manager. He faked us up a couple of Texas driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, and birth certificates.
Once we’d finished, Josh drove us to the vehicle impound lot and dropped us off. Nick and I entered the lot and strolled down the rows of cars, trucks, trailers, and RVs that had been seized from deadbeats who’d been given multiple opportunities to pay their taxes but stubbornly refused.
We bypassed a white Mazda 3. While the car was relatively new and clean, the up-curved grill made it look as if it were smiling. I found that fact both cute and creepy at the same time. A silver Ford Focus caught my eye, but the potentially incendiary bumper stickers turned me off.
DISSENT IS THE HIGHEST FORM OF PATRIOTISM.
IF YOU’RE NOT OUTRAGED, YOU’RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION.
I’M AGAINST THE NEXT WAR, TOO.
DROP ACID, NOT BOMBS.
SAVE A TREE—EAT A BEAVER.
Nick stopped in front of a bright yellow Hummer H2, a 2008 model. “Oh, yeah. This is my ride.”
I frowned. “These things get, what, two or three miles to the gallon? Those tightasses in internal accounting will never reimburse you for all the gas this thing will use. Mother Nature isn’t going to be very happy with you, either.”
Nick cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face against the driver’s window to take a look inside. “What’s more important? Putting drug dealers and pimps out of business or saving the environment?”
“Can’t we do both at the same time?”
He stepped back, reached out a hand, and playfully rumpled my hair. “You’ve got your head in the clouds again, Tara.”
My head tended to always be in the clouds when Nick was around. But he had a point. Driving a car like an H2 would show Donald Geils that Nick had expensive tastes and could potentially be persuaded to engage in some less-than-exemplary behavior in return for cold, hard cash. Maybe it was time to trade in my rookie idealism for reality.
I decided to make up for the H2’s excessive emissions by selecting a small and presumably fuel-efficient Mini Cooper with a British flag motif. I pointed to the car. “This one’s right jolly good, ay?” I asked in my best fake British accent. “I’ll bet it doesn’t use much petrol.”
When Nick offered only a small chuckle in return my heart twitched. Speaking in horribly faked English accents was something I’d done with Brett as we watched episodes of MI-5 and British comedies on the BBC America channel. But those days were probably over now. Unless Nick did something horrible and unexpected, I couldn’t see myself going back to Brett when the trial period was over. Still, giving up my fake English accent was a small sacrifice compared to what I’d get in return. A badass with rock-solid pecs who could two-step like he’d been born with boots on.
Nick and I found the lot’s attendant in the prefab building that served as his office, filled out the paperwork to borrow the cars, and obtained the keys.
“We’re still on for dinner, right?” I asked as we wove our way back through the lot to the cars we’d selected. “I’m making my mother’s chicken-fried steak.”
“Sounds delicious.” Nick slid me a sly smile. “But I’m much more interested in what’s for dessert.”
I slid him a sly smile right back. “It’s a secret,” I said, “but it involves caramel sauce, whipped cream, and cherries.”
“Mmm. Can you work in some chocolate sprinkles, too?”
“For you?” I replied. “Sure.”
When we reached the cars, Nick helped me into the Mini Cooper and leaned down to kiss me through the open window. This kiss was soft, warm, and relatively innocent, though it still set my heart pumping like a piston. I would’ve loved more, though I supposed it would have been inappropriate for the two of us to engage in an all-out make-out session while we were on Uncle Sam’s time, huh?
While Nick headed off to Guys & Dolls to submit his resume in person, I set course for an office supply store to fax mine to Donald Geils. Nick and I figured it was best to vary our approaches so we wouldn’t appear to be in cahoots. Didn’t want to do anything to raise Geils’s suspicions that we weren’t who we purported to be.
* * *
I stopped by the grocery store on my way home and picked up the ingredients to make my mother’s chicken-fried steak. Nick had tried it at my parents’ house a while back and deemed it the best he’d ever had, better even than his own mother’s, a proclamation punishable by death here in Texas. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Frankly, I’d had better luck with an external organ located a few inches lower. I also bought vanilla ice cream and sundae toppings, including chocolate sprinkles.
I rarely cooked, didn’t own a meat mallet, and had a hammer that had gone AWOL, so I was pounding the round steaks with a monkey wrench I’d found in my garage when my best friend, Alicia, walked in the front door. Alicia and I had met back in college, at the University of Texas in Austin. We’d survived the rigorous accounting program together, graduated with honors, and both taken jobs with the same CPA firm in Dallas when we’d graduated. While I’d enjoyed many of my projects at Martin and McGee, the cubicle world proved much too confining for me and I’d left the firm to join the IRS. Alicia, however, loved her job and had worked her way up to a junior management position. Different strokes for different folks, right?
Alicia dropped her briefcase and purse on the kitchen table and tugged the designer scarf from her neck. She watched me pound the steaks. “Since when is a wrench a kitchen tool?”
“Since now.” My cat Annie sat on one of the kitchen chairs, her creamy head tilted as she watched me give the meat another solid whack. Bam! The round steak was nearly flat. “I’m making chicken-fried steak for Nick tonight.”
Alicia’s eyes brightened. “Your mother’s recipe?”
“Yep.”
“Making one for me?”
“Nope.”
She frowned. “Some best friend you are.”
“Aren’t the free rent and utilities I’m providing you friendly enough?”
Alicia and her boyfriend, Daniel, had had a spat a few weeks ago after she’d pressured him about marriage. When he’d freaked out, she’d moved out. My door was always open for her and she’d moved into my guest room while they sorted things through. Daniel had eventually come to his senses, bought an enormous and outrageously priced ring at Tiffany, and proposed to Alicia on Halloween.
Though the two were now engaged, Alicia had decided to continue living with me until they officially tied the knot. I didn’t mind covering the bills. She more than made up for the increased electric and water use by vacuuming and dusting the place. Besides, it was fun having her around again. Sort of like a prolonged, low-key slumber party. All the fun girl talk without the frozen bras, prank phone calls, and ghost stories.
I held the wrench aloft. “Nick’s coming over in an hour. Mind making yourself scarce tonight?”
“Give me half your steak and I’m out of here.”
“Deal.”
Alicia turned and headed upstairs to change out of her business suit.
I’d just set to work mashing the potatoes when a text came in on my cell phone. It was from Nick.
Hired. Start now. Wrking til midnite. Rain check on dinner?
I jammed the masher into the potatoes. “Damn!”
Looked liked there’d be no more kisses for me today.
I texted Nick Ugh before stepping to the bottom of my staircase and calling up to Alicia. �
�Nick canceled.”
She poked her head out of the guest room door, her brows raised hopefully. “Does that mean I get his steak?”
“Yep. His meat is all yours.”
chapter five
House Thieves
Nick was out of the office working on another investigation when I arrived at nine the next morning. There went my hopes for a kiss to kick off the day. I had to settle for texting him. Thinking of u.
A few seconds later I received his reply. Beat u 2 it.
Awww …
After releasing a long, wistful sigh, I headed to the office of Eddie Bardin, one of the senior agents whom I partnered with on the majority of my cases. Eddie was tall, lean, black, and conservative, more Eddie Bauer than Eddie Murphy. He was married with young twin daughters. Though he and I had been partners for only a matter of months, we’d been through a lot together. An attack with a box cutter. A shootout. Death threats. Explosives. If I’d stuck with my former accounting job at Martin and McGee I would’ve missed all the fun, huh?
I rapped on Eddie’s door frame. “Time to go, buddy.”
The two of us were due shortly at the FBI field office to meet with an agent about a pending mortgage-fraud case. The trial was scheduled to commence in Judge Alice Trumbull’s court in a matter of days. Although enough evidence had already been collected to file charges against the men involved, the FBI suspected they’d only scratched the surface and needed our help digging deeper. With the trial looming, we’d have to dig fast. Yep, everyone in federal law enforcement was overworked. So many sleazebags, so little time. With any luck, the Lobo would be granted approval to hire a new special agent or two. We could definitely use some help around here.
Eddie grabbed his jacket and briefcase and the two of us headed over to the FBI’s regional office northwest of downtown on Justice Way, not far from the Love Field airport. We waited in the lobby for FBI Agent Steven Ackerman, the lead investigator in the case. Eddie and I had talked to the guy previously on the phone, but this would be the first time we’d meet him in person.
The elevator doors opened and Ackerman poked his head out, holding the door open with his forearm. He was a barrel-chested guy with thick hair of equal parts white, gray, and brown, like a calico cat. His head turned our way. “Agents Bardin and Holloway?”
“That’s us,” I said.
He waved us into the car with his free hand, and we rode up to his office on the third floor, shaking hands on the way. After we took our seats in his office, Ackerman gave us some general details about mortgage fraud and the bloody aftermath that had ensued when the housing bubble burst.
“The FBI’s mortgage-fraud caseload has tripled in the last five years,” he said. “We filed six hundred new cases last year alone. We’re up to our eyeballs in this stuff.”
And no doubt up to their other balls with other types of investigations.
“You have any idea how much mortgage fraud costs this country each year?” Ackerman asked.
Eddie and I exchanged glances and shrugged.
“Ten billion dollars,” Ackerman said. “That’s billion. With a capital b.”
Whoa. Not exactly chump change. I knew mortgage fraud had become a big problem, I just hadn’t realized how big. Big with a capital b.
“The men charged in this case play in a tennis league together at Lakewood Country Club,” Ackerman continued. “They’re out on bail for the time being.”
That fact didn’t surprise me. Judge Alice Trumbull was a bleeding-heart liberal with a diehard belief in individual rights and limited government. Besides, I could tell from the preliminary paperwork I’d reviewed that all of the men were married with children and therefore not likely to pose a flight risk.
“Any idea what their defense strategy might be?” I asked.
“That’s anyone’s guess at this point,” Ackerman said. “The documents make it clear these guys were up to no good. So far all of them have hung together and kept their mouths closed, but it’s clear they’re getting nervous. I’ve received calls from each of their attorneys. They want to meet and talk plea bargains.”
So far, the group had only been charged with fraud and violations of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, otherwise known as RICO. The statute was designed to bring down mob and mafia groups, but just because these guys didn’t have Italian names or dress anyone in concrete shoes didn’t mean they hadn’t violated the law. Of course, we expected to add tax evasion charges, too. Any time a defendant was engaged in financial shenanigans, it was a pretty sure bet they’d fudged their taxes, too.
The men, dubbed the Tennis Racketeers by the Dallas Morning News, included a real estate broker, a mortgage loan officer, an appraiser, and a custom homebuilder. The four were equal shareholders in Game Set Match, Inc., also known as GSM, a corporation they’d formed six years ago. They’d been accused of conspiring to rip off desperate homeowners through a predatory mortgage-relief program.
When their house of cards began to fall several months ago, the men had had the gall to file bankruptcy on behalf of their corporation for relief from mortgage loans GSM had obtained on houses they’d essentially stolen. A bankruptcy trustee had been appointed to manage the corporation’s assets. When the trustee realized GSM had been involved in a deceptive bailout scheme, he’d referred the case to the FBI’s mortgage-fraud unit. Adding insult to injury, the Tennis Racketeers had also sought forgiveness for the corporation’s past-due federal income taxes. We suspected those taxes had been significantly understated on GSM’s tax returns.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” Eddie asked.
Ackerman slugged back the remains of coffee from a paper cup. “Visiting the victims. We need to figure out which ones would make the best witnesses.”
Eddie dipped his head in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”
Ackerman snapped the clasps on his briefcase and opened it, sliding a legal pad and pen inside before shutting it again. He picked up two thick files and handed one to me, the other to Eddie. “Here’s a complete copy of the file for each of you. I’ve marked a few items of interest, but you two are the financial experts on the case. Take a second look, see what catches your eye, then work up the numbers.”
“Will do.” I tucked the file under my arm to peruse on the drive.
We made our way downstairs and back to the car.
“What kind of penalty are these guys looking at?” I asked as I slid into the backseat.
Ackerman took a seat in front and eyed me in the rearview mirror. “Mortgage fraud carries potential penalties of up to thirty years in prison and a one-million-dollar fine.”
Thirty years seemed appropriate given the term was the length of the typical home mortgage. Of course, tax evasion charges would add a few more years to their sentences.
As Ackerman navigated and Eddie drove, I pulled out copies of the contracts between GSM and the homeowners and skimmed the pages. Each contract was identical. The document was a wordy and convoluted agreement filled with excessive jargon and fine print that required large up-front payments for insurance and taxes. If the homeowner failed to pay these expenses, the contract allowed GSM to snatch the properties away despite the relatively small amounts the corporation had paid to satisfy the homeowner’s outstanding mortgage balance and the significant equity the homeowner had accumulated prior to signing the agreement.
How were homeowners who couldn’t afford their modest monthly mortgage payments supposed to come up with thousands of dollars in one fell swoop? The arrangement was doomed by design, a thinly veiled ploy to allow GSM to yank deeds away from unwitting homeowners and to buy out their equity at a fraction of the cost. Houston wasn’t the only city in Texas that had a problem. And, in this case, failure wasn’t only an option, it was the plan.
chapter six
This Case Sucks
I stuck the contracts at the bottom of the stack and continued to riffle through the documents. The file not only contained business
and financial data, but it included personal information about the Tennis Racketeers, as well. Curious, I scanned the paperwork. The records indicated the men had bought enormous luxury homes for themselves in the exclusive Lakewood neighborhood in Dallas. They’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars for season tickets together on the fifty-yard line at the Dallas Cowboys’ new stadium. One of the men had purchased a Ferrari, while another, not to be outdone by either his friend or the teen heartthrob Justin Bieber, had purchased a Fisker.
Greedy bastards, one and all.
“This is the place,” Ackerman said, pointing to a one-story gray brick home.
Eddie pulled to the curb and cut the engine.
Immediately, the front door of the house flew open and a tiny, gray-haired Asian woman in a pink track suit ran out onto the front porch, waving her arms. “No, no, no!” she shrieked. “No parking by the mailbox!”
Eddie muttered something about Thumbelina getting her teeny-weeny panties in a wad, but he restarted the car and backed up a few feet.
As a thirtyish couple followed the woman out onto the front lawn, she scurried over and looked down at the tires. “You’re too far from the curb.”
“What is this woman’s problem?” Eddie muttered again as he repositioned the car.
Ackerman rolled his window down, stuck his head out, and took a quick glance at the tires before looking back at the woman. “How’s that, lady? Happy now?”
She angled her hand in a so-so motion but at least she shut up and backed away.
We climbed out of the car and the young couple walked over to introduce themselves.
The woman wore black yoga pants and a lightweight long-sleeved tee, the uniform of a modern stay-at-home mother. “I’m Lien Nguyen.” She extended a graceful hand to each of us before turning to the man next to her. “This is my husband, Trang.”
Trang was a clean-cut, attractive guy dressed in business-casual attire. We shook his hand, as well.
