by Diane Kelly
“You okay?”
I hadn’t realized Merle was watching me. “I’m fine,” I lied. “Just a little tired.”
We finished up in silence and I stood to go.
“See you tomorrow, Merle.” I only hoped there wouldn’t be too many tomorrows before we brought Geils and his drug and sex empire to its knees, metaphorically speaking, that is. I had a feeling some members of the empire had already been on their literal knees.
chapter fifteen
Neither a Borrower Nor a Lender Be
I phoned my mother on my way to work the following day and told her about the case I was working at Guys & Dolls.
“It’s an icky place,” I told her.
Despite the ungodly hour, I’d showered and shampooed when I arrived home last night, scrubbing my skin raw with my loofah as I tried to remove the taint of the club. I’d repeated the process this morning but I still felt dirty. Heck, I’d even stripped my bed and shoved my sheets into the washer this morning. I probably wouldn’t feel clean again until Geils and the others involved in the drugs and prostitution were behind bars.
“Can you talk to Lu?” Mom asked. “Maybe see if she can reassign you?”
As much as I’d love to hand the case over to another agent, if I failed this case my already fragile self-esteem would cease to exist. It was one thing to be too trusting and take a baseball bat to the head, but it was another thing entirely to bail on an investigation because I felt incapable of handling it. I couldn’t let Lu down that way. Heck, I couldn’t let myself down. I’d have to power through, find a way to cope. After all, the sick and sordid things that went on at Guys & Dolls would go on with or without me on the case, at least until we busted Don Geils and the others involved. What good would it do for me to wimp out?
“I’ll work it out,” I told my mother. Time for a change of subject. “How are the Thanksgiving plans coming along?”
My mother always went all out for the holiday, spending the week beforehand decorating and cooking and baking. Dad helped out, too, frying the biggest turkey he could find in his outdoor fryer.
“I’m still looking for a new stuffing recipe to try,” Mom said. She was forever in search of the perfect stuffing recipe. She tried a different recipe every Thanksgiving, having yet to find one she’d been willing to stick with.
“No oysters this time, I hope?” Last year’s venture had not been well received. My brother Trace had reminded Mom that it was called Turkey Day, not slimy amorphous blob day.
“Nope, no oysters,” Mom said. “Are you going to bring Nick?”
I’d planned to invite him the next time I saw him. “Okay if his mother comes along, too?” Nick was an only child. He wouldn’t want to leave his widowed mother home alone on the holiday.
“Why, sure, sweetie. She can have the guest room and Nick can sleep in your brothers’ old room.”
Maybe Nick could sneak across the hall to my digs for some after-dinner festivities. I briefly wondered what Brett would be doing for the holiday. Would he spend it with Fiona in Atlanta? Would he bring her here to spend it with his family? I felt a small pang of jealousy I knew I had no right to feel. Then I wondered whether Brett was wondering about me, where and with whom I’d be spending my Thanksgiving.
We ended the call when I arrived at the IRS building. I texted Eddie and he met me in the lobby. We walked the two blocks to the offices of the Realtor’s attorney, meeting up with Agent Ackerman in the foyer.
We rode the elevator up to the twelfth floor and were again forced to wait for a brief period. Eventually a twentyish law clerk rounded us up and led us to a corner office.
The Realtor, Curtis Carter, was a lanky man with thinning sandy hair, a narrow nose, and a dark tan. His attorney, Harold Needham, was round-bellied with a purplish skin tone that spoke of high blood pressure and vodka martinis.
Now that we were seated in his office, Needham wasted no time getting down to business. “Let’s put all our cards on the table and see if we can work something out.”
“Fine with me,” Ackerman said. After all, the FBI held a good hand, a full house, no pun intended. “Your client is in some pretty hot water for his part in GSM’s mortgage-relief scam. He made a tidy sum in commissions as the selling agent on the foreclosed houses.”
Needham chuffed. “What scam? The program looked legitimate to me, and I’m sure it will look that way to any jury, too. It’s not Mr. Carter’s fault if homeowners made promises to GSM that they couldn’t keep.”
So much for an open, honest dialogue.
Needham folded his hands over his ample tummy and leaned back in his chair. “Look, folks. Even if we assume for the sake of argument that the houses were seized under false pretenses, Mr. Carter can’t be held accountable for the actions of the other owners. All he did was list houses for sale. He didn’t interact with the homeowners or handle their paperwork. You’ll have an awfully hard time getting a conviction given that he played no active role in the debt-relief program.”
Under the table, Eddie nudged my foot with his. After we’d met with the Nguyens, he’d called the Garland community newspaper that had run GSM’s ad. Though Featherstone had issued payment to the paper, Carter was the one who’d worked with the advertising representative on the ad’s phrasing. The rep had sent Eddie copies of e-mails transmitting mock-ups to Carter, as well as Carter’s signed response approving the deceptive ad copy. Carter’s name and signature also appeared on the transmittal letter that was sent by GSM to the homeowners along with the fraudulent lease-buyback contract. No active role, my ass.
Rather than debate the point, Ackerman moved on. “Carter also flipped a number of properties at ridiculous markups. The most egregious example is the house at 8605 Wingate.”
I pulled a stack of documents from my file and handed them to Carter, who accepted them as if I were handing him a ticking time bomb.
Needham turned to his client. “You’re familiar with the property?”
“Not off the top of my head.” Carter’s eyes darted around. Good thing this wasn’t a real game of poker. The guy couldn’t bluff to save his life. “I showed a lot of properties over the past few years. Hundreds. Maybe even thousands.”
“The Wingate property was one of your own listings, Mr. Carter,” Ackerman said. “GSM bought the house three years ago, then you went on to sell the house eleven more times in the course of three years. Red-brick Colonial? Circular driveway? Pretentious concrete lions on either side of the double front doors?”
Carter looked from Ackerman to the documents in his hand, knowing any attempt to deny the sales would only make him look guiltier than he already appeared. He turned slightly green around the edges, like an underripe potato chip. “Lions. Right. I think I remember it now.”
Ackerman’s nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath. “Five of those eleven sales were to your own mother, Mr. Carter.”
As Ackerman had earlier told me and Eddie, Carter held a power of attorney for his mother due to her early-onset Alzheimer’s disease, and had signed the sales documents on her behalf. His mother lived in a special memory care facility. She probably had no idea he’d bought the property in her name. Heck, she may not even remember what her name was. What kind of asshole would use his own mother this way?
Carter set the documents on the table and pushed them back toward me as if to distance himself from them. “The house seemed like a good investment for her,” Carter said, the details miraculously returning to him now. Despite his words, his voice lacked conviction. Probably because he knew he was going to be convicted.
I chimed in now. “I’ll agree with you there. Your mother made a pretty penny on the sales. Odd that none of those profits were reported on the tax returns you filed on her behalf.”
Carter’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “If the gains weren’t properly reported, it was an honest error.”
Yeah, right. I supposed it was also an honest error that he’d deposited his mother’s pr
ofits in GSM’s account, too. Funny how he’d made that error time and time again.
Turning from Carter to his attorney, Ackerman said, “The other purchasers were men Carter knew from the country club. Clearly straw buyers.”
Needham held up a hand. “Not so fast. Neither you nor Mr. Carter can speculate on the buyers’ motives for purchasing the home.”
The FBI agent held one card particularly close to his chest and didn’t disclose it to Needham. Ackerman had already spoken with the buyers, each of whom admitted they’d bought the Wingate property upon recommendation from Carter with no intention of hanging on to it. Only one of them had even bothered to look at the house, and all he’d done was a quick drive-by. Carter had assured each of the men he had another buyer lined up to take the house off their hands at a nice markup, ensuring them a quick return at no risk and earning himself another easy six-percent commission as both the seller’s and buyer’s agent.
Eddie and I had looked over the buyers’ tax returns. All of the men who’d bought the property had reported and paid tax on their gains. All of them had also agreed to testify against Carter if needed. They realized that refusing to cooperate with authorities could make them a target, too.
If Carter’s attorney wasn’t aware the buyers had agreed to testify on behalf of law enforcement, he hadn’t done his homework. Though he was an experienced attorney, he’d made a rookie mistake and trusted his client. Perhaps those vodka martinis had clouded his judgment.
Ackerman addressed Carter directly. “You recruited those men to purchase the house, didn’t you?”
Needham sat bolt upright and flung his arm across his client, like a mother protecting a child in a car that had come to a sudden stop. “Don’t answer that question.”
Eddie chuckled. “What happened to putting all our cards on the table?”
Needham lowered his arm. “Mr. Carter is a Realtor. It’s his job to find buyers for properties. Besides, it’s not against the law to flip houses at a profit. Mr. Carter found some houses he thought might be undervalued and made good investments, that’s all. He and the buyers relied on the appraiser to determine what the houses were actually worth. You and I both know who’s really to blame if the properties were overvalued. The appraiser, Darren Williams.”
And thus the buck was passed once again.
“You’re right,” Ackerman said. “This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if not for those ridiculous appraisals. No sense taking up more of your time.”
Or ours. These guys were obviously counting on a gullible jury. While it could be difficult for some to understand the intricacies of complicated financial schemes, this case was relatively simple. I had faith a jury would see Carter and his cohorts for what they were. Con artists.
I scooped the documents up from the table and arranged them into a neat stack before putting them back into my briefcase.
When we three agents stood to go, Carter cut an anxious glance at his attorney.
Needham rose from his seat. “Hold on just a minute. Let’s hammer out that plea bargain and get this thing settled.”
Ackerman exchanged glances with me and Eddie before turning his attention back to the attorney. “What do you have in mind?”
“Mr. Carter will agree to six months’ probation and a five-thousand-dollar fine.”
Eddie snorted, covering it with a cough. I fought the urge to snort, too. Probation and a nominal fine? The paltry punishment would be a joke, an injustice to all of GSM’s victims, not to mention an insult to us investigators. We’d put quite a few man hours—and woman hours—into this case.
Ackerman offered a smile I knew was insincere. “Let me sleep on it.”
chapter sixteen
Magic Mustache
Nick, Eric, Christina, and I were all scheduled to work the Friday-night shift. With so many of us on duty, we’d be able to keep a close eye on activities in the club tonight.
As I entered the dressing room to stow my purse, I spotted Bernice sitting at the counter. In front of her was a tall clear glass with something pink and white inside.
“Tropical drink?” I asked.
She shook her head and dipped her hand into the glass, pulling out the pink and white objects which I now recognized as an upper and lower denture. She picked up a small tube, applied a strip of adhesive to each, and fitted them to her gums. “My teeth.” She offered me a perfect smile.
“Oh. They look nice.” Holy crap, this place is a freak show.
As I shoved my purse into my locker, two dancers wandered into the room.
“You see the new guy working security?” one of them asked.
“He sure was fine,” the other woman said, giggling. “I think I’ll ask him for a mustache ride.”
I slammed my locker. Bang!
The would-be mustache rider frowned at me. “What’s your problem?”
You’re my problem, bitch. “I’m…” Trying real hard not to scratch your eyes out. “Having a bad day.”
She cocked her head. “Maybe you’re the one who needs a mustache ride.”
I glanced to my left as I exited the dressing room. Tonight, the VIP door was being monitored by two particularly unsavory members of Geils’s security team. One guy had very dark skin and was built like an earth mover. His earlobes had been stretched wide by ear gauges and now bore dime-sized holes rimmed with red plastic ear tunnels. The dark, rounded ears made him look like a warped Mickey Mouse. The second bouncer was a pale guy with similarly pierced ears. This one also bore a barbell through the cartilage that separated his nostrils and a trio of hoops through both eyebrows. With so many holes in his pasty flesh, I dubbed him Swiss Cheese.
Cyclops was stationed at the entrance to the executive offices. I shot him a warning look, turned around, and put my hands up against the wall, ready to crack one or two of his ribs if he groped me again. Without a word, he gave me only a cursory pat down and jabbed the buttons on the keypad to unlock the door.
I greeted Merle, settled in at my desk, and got right to work.
The night was relatively uneventful. A bachelor party grew a little rowdy and Nick had to toss the best man out of the club, but that was it. Bernice came into the cash office for her daily foot rub and proposal from Merle, topless girls twirled shamelessly around the poles onstage, and I counted stacks of sweaty, glittery bills, including over eight hundred dollars in so-called tips earned by a petite, pouty-lipped Asian dancer working the VIP room.
Geils called Christina into his office after she dropped off her tips, but he only kept her a moment or two. She was back schlepping drinks in less than five minutes.
A text came in on my cell as I left the club at the end of the night. It was from Lieutenant Menger. Powwow at HQ.
Damn. I knew we needed to discuss this case, but hell. After working two jobs for the past few days I was dead on my feet, a regular zombie. Soon I’d begin to crave human brains.
A half hour later I was waiting for the others in the conference room at the Dallas police station when Nick walked in. He looked me over. “How you holding up?”
I pointed at two glitter smudges on his SECURITY tee. “The bigger question is, who were you holding up?”
Nick glanced down at his shirt. “Oops. Busted.”
I crossed my arms and glared at him.
He slid into a chair across from me, probably afraid I’d punch him in the nose if he sat any closer. “Heather.”
“The one with the white angel wings?” She’d ripped off the theme from the Victoria’s Secret commercials. As if angels were supposed to be sexy. God had to be pretty pissed about that.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “She tripped in her heels.”
“And just happened to fall against you?” I rolled my eyes. “That’s awfully convenient.”
“It’s this magic mustache. Women can’t resist it.” He ran a finger over his upper lip and shot me a wink. “Besides, Tarzan’s still talking about your ‘fine little caboose.’”
“R
eally?”
“Yeah.”
Okay. I felt a little better knowing Nick was suffering some jealousy, too.
Aaron Menger walked into the room, putting an end to our private conversation. “Hello, gang.”
Christina followed him in.
Once we were all seated around the table, Menger asked everyone for an update. He gestured to Christina to go first.
“I’ve approached some of the dancers and waitresses I suspect might be drug users and asked them if they knew where I could score some meth. They played dumb, but I’ll keep working on them. Maybe they’ll open up once they get to know me better.”
“Why did Geils call you into his office?” I asked.
She waved a hand dismissively. “It was nothing, really. He tried to talk me into dancing, told me I could make a lot more money. He said one of the customers had come to him and requested a private lap dance.”
“The guy from Iowa?” I asked. “Mr. Windmill? The big tipper?”
“Could be,” Christina said. “A lot of the customers flirt with me, so I’m not sure. But if I had to guess I’d say it was probably him.”
Aaron’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head, his expression thoughtful. “Geils may be trying to talk you into dancing with the hopes of eventually working you in the VIP room. What did you tell him?”
“What do you think I told him?” Christina’s face scrunched in disgust. “‘No, thanks.’”
“If it was the guy from Iowa who spoke with Geils,” Menger said, “I’m guessing he wants more from you than just a lap dance. Last night he took all three of those girls in the blue-jean shorts back to the VIP room.”
I still wondered how the four had managed the choreography. It was difficult enough sometimes with just two people in the mix. Heck, Brett and I had accidentally rolled off the bed once.
Menger pulled a laptop from his bag and booted it up. “I had an officer cruise the lot tonight and take down numbers on all of the license plates from out of state. Let’s see if we can identify your admirer.” Menger logged in to his e-mail system, found the list the other officer had sent to him, and scanned it. “We’ve got Arkansas, Louisiana, Oklahoma. Ah, here it is. The only plate from Iowa.”
