by Diane Kelly
She had a point. In September 2012, there had been a bomb threat at my alma mater, the University of Texas at Austin. The campus had been evacuated, forcing tens of thousands of students and faculty to seek safety in the neighborhoods and shops nearby. No explosives were found. Not to be outdone, someone called in a bomb threat a month later at rival Texas A&M University. No explosives were found on that campus, either. On the other hand, a series of bombs had exploded recently in Fort Worth, which sat thirty miles east of Dallas. Although the bomber had later issued a manifesto offering his warped reasons for his actions, he’d given no specific warnings about where he planned to strike. These facts supported the detective’s conclusion. “So you think I’m worrying over nothing?”
“Probably.”
My shoulders relaxed in relief. The detective was right. Chances were nobody was really after me. The truck narrowly missing me yesterday had likely been a fluke and was totally unrelated to the card. My fears had been unfounded, paranoia. “Thanks, Detective. You’ve made me feel better. I was really worried, especially after a pickup nearly ran me over near my town house yesterday.”
“Wait.” Her face clouded and she sat up straighter. “Someone tried to run you down?”
I gave her a quick summary of what happened yesterday. “Thank goodness Nick’s dog yanked me out of the way just in time.”
Booth frowned and glanced down at the card in her hand before looking back up at me. “That changes things, Agent Holloway. This could be serious, after all.”
So much for feeling better! Good thing I’d enjoyed those few seconds of peace while they lasted.
“Any suspects?” she asked.
“I can’t think of anyone in particular. None of my current cases involve excessive amounts of money and none of the targets seem dangerous.” Of course the people who’d attacked me in the past hadn’t seemed all that dangerous, either, until they’d come after me with box cutters, guns, baseball bats, and whatnot.
“Whoever sent the card knows you’re getting married. Do any of the people you’re investigating know you’ve got a wedding coming up?”
I lifted my once again tense shoulders. “I can’t say for sure. I might have mentioned it in passing to their attorneys or CPAs. You know, if they were wanting to schedule a meeting or deposition while I’d be gone on my honeymoon.”
Hana cut a glance my way. “Don’t forget about the wedding Web site Kira made.”
Kira was a Web designer who dated our fellow agent Josh Schmidt. As our wedding gift, she’d designed a personalized wedding site for me and Nick. It included photos, links to our gift registries, and all of the details about our upcoming nuptials. Date. Time. Place. Heck, the site even noted that I’d bought my dress at Neiman Marcus. And the site was on the Web for all the world to see. I slapped a hand to my forehead and groaned.
Booth arched an inquisitive brow, sat forward, and put her fingers to her keyboard. “What’s the URL for your wedding site?”
As I rattled it off, she typed it in. After hitting the enter key, she leaned in and took a minute or two to look over the site. Her gaze moved from the screen to my face. “I’d have suggested you make the site private and require a password to view it, but that horse has left the barn.”
I was too embarrassed to tell her that Kira had suggested the same thing, that we limit access to the site. Nick and I had thought the measure unnecessary and that it would be an impediment for some of our older relatives who had a hard enough time finding their way around the Internet as it was. A password would be too much for them.
She chewed her lip while she mulled things over. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll pull the police report for the incident yesterday, put a little extra time into it, see if we can ID the truck.” She glanced at the envelope again. “This card was postmarked in Dallas. I’ll contact the manager of the postal branch and see about getting security-camera footage for the drop boxes. I’ll get in touch with the captain of your sector, too, let him know to have patrols drive by your place on a regular basis, keep an eye on things.”
“I appreciate that. Thanks.”
“In the meantime,” she said, giving me a pointed look, “watch your back.”
chapter five
Fresh Eyes, Fresh Ideas
On our way out of the Dallas Police Department headquarters, a male voice called my name. “Special Agent Holloway? Is that you?”
I turned to see a small man not much bigger than myself heading my way. Anthony Giacomo, the tiny but tough-as-steel criminal defense attorney who’d defended me months ago in an excessive-force trial after I’d shot a target multiple times in the leg. Of course I never would have done it if the target hadn’t shot at me first. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it. As stylish as he was shrewd, Anthony wore a forest green suit along with a golden-yellow tie and pocket square and an emerald stud in his ear. On anyone else, the clothing would look overdone. On him it looked perfect.
He grabbed me affectionately by the shoulders and cocked his head. “How’s my all-time favorite client?”
“I’m doing great, Anthony. How about you?”
“Never better. Just convinced a detective not to pursue a case against a guy I’m representing. Of course the evidence was all smoke and mirrors anyway.” He waved a dismissive hand, as if to wave away the metaphorical smoke. “My client wasn’t trying to rob that deli. He was only using his pocketknife to point to the pastrami.”
Riiiight …
“Whoa! What’s this?” He grabbed my wrist and held up my left hand. “Is this an engagement ring I see?”
“It is. I’m getting married in October.”
He released me and stepped back, his eyes narrowed. “I fight for your freedom only to have you throw it away?” He punctuated his jest with a harrumph, but negated it an instant later by leaning in and whispering, “Please tell me you’re marrying that big, brawny Nick. No one else would be man enough for you.”
“Yep. It’s Nick. There’s an invitation on its way to you.”
Anthony had not only successfully defended me in court, he’d also later sprung me from the local lockup after I’d been swept up in a mass arrest at a frat party on a university campus. If not for him, I could be in prison right now and this wedding might not be taking place—at least not for another three to five years, with time off for good behavior. Given this fact, I hoped he’d be able to join in the festivities.
“The wedding’s going to be held in Nacogdoches,” I added. “That’s my hometown. We’ve made arrangements for a party bus to drive out there from Dallas if you’re interested.”
“Party bus? How fun! Save me a seat.” He angled his head to indicate Hana, who’d been standing quietly during the exchange. “Is she one of your people?” he said in a stage whisper, as if she couldn’t overhear.
“She is.” I introduced the two of them.
As Hana shook Anthony’s hand, she said, “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Giacomo.”
“You do flatter me so.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to her. “If you ever find yourself in trouble, give me a call.”
With that, he waggled his fingers in good-bye and headed off. While his reputation might precede him, his cologne lingered behind, making the air smell spicy and crisp.
Our business there finished, Hana and I returned to the IRS office, parting ways at the elevators.
“Thanks for coming with me!” I called after her.
She spun around, raised her right hand to offer a two-finger salute, and spun back around to continue in the way she’d been going.
Back in my office, I plunked my butt down in my rolling chair and opened the rental-scam file Detective Booth had given me. In a small plastic sleeve affixed to the inside cover was the flash drive that contained the security-camera clips. Though I was anxious to take a look, it would be best to read the paperwork first, to see if there was a clue in there somewhere that might tell me something to look for
as I watched the video.
A variety of documents occupied the file.
First were printouts of the fraudulent rental listings with photos of spacious kitchens, cozy fireplaces, ample closets, and sparkling swimming pools, all offered at rates significantly below market. In fact, some of the ads touted this fact.
Motivated landlord does not want vacancy. Offered at $200 per month less than comparable units in same complex.
Below-market rent. Hurry! Won’t last long!
Exceptional deal on a beautiful home.
Next were the actual listings for the properties on Airbnb and other rental sites. I noted that the con artist did not use the same photos of the properties that had appeared on the legitimate sites. Too bad. In a previous case against a criminal who’d lured women via online dating sites, our office tech guru had been able to track the guy down by searching for the culprit’s headshots on the Net. But this method only worked when the pictures were identical, or at least shot with the same camera. In this case, the bad guy had taken snapshots of his own to post, probably in an attempt to prevent tech-savvy tenants from realizing he wasn’t on the up-and-up.
Underneath the Web site printouts were receipts for money orders made out to various aliases and in varying amounts. As Detective Booth had noted, most of them were in the $3,000 to $4,000 range. Judging from the dates written on the money orders, the guy had hit hard and fast. In fact, he had received five money orders for $3,600 each in a single day, all relating to the purported rental of the same condominium. He must’ve spaced out the appointments with the prospective tenants so that they wouldn’t cross paths with each other. Or perhaps he’d stacked them one after the other so that they would, in fact, cross paths, and realize others were interested in the property as well. Seeing other potential tenants at the property would only increase the sense of urgency to seal a deal.
The next thing in the file were the initial reports filed by the victims, as well as reports prepared by Detective Booth once she’d interviewed them. Each of the reports contained a copy of the e-mail the victim had received from the purported leasing agent after expressing interest in seeing the property. The leasing agent used both Gmail and Yahoo accounts in various names. LeaseDFW. NewHomeNow. PrimePropertyAgent.
A quick glance at the victims’ data told me that nearly all of them were relatively young, in their early to mid-twenties. While many con artists specifically targeted the elderly, who tended to be more flush with cash and also more trusting, this guy had realized there was another vulnerable group of potential victims. Young professionals looking for nice places to live, able to scrape together a few thousand dollars yet too inexperienced to have learned that if a deal sounds too good to be true, it probably is. While I certainly felt for these naïve victims, at least they’d have years of employment and earnings ahead of them to make up for this loss. Elderly folks who lost significant sums of money didn’t have that option. Their working years behind them, they often ended up destitute, living in a government-subsidized facility or on their children’s couches.
According to the reports, all of the rental-scam victims told the same story. They’d seen a listing for a surprisingly affordable rental house or apartment online, went to view the property, and were met there by the man in the suit. He took them on a tour of the property but acted nonchalant, not doing a hard sell at first. Of course he didn’t have to, given that the low price for the property already had the victim ready to sign on the bottom line. As Booth had stated during our discussion, when the victim expressed interest, he informed them that he’d received several applications already and that the other tenants appeared to be better qualified financially. But if this particular victim were the first to provide him with the deposit and first and last months’ rent, he thought he could convince the landlord to award them the lease because the landlord was eager to get things finalized before leaving on his Caribbean vacation, Hawaiian island tour, or European holiday. The alleged leasing agent suggested that the prospective tenant quickly secure a money order in a specified amount to cover a security deposit plus the first and last months’ rent. When the victim returned with the money order, he had them sign a purported one-year lease to begin three to four weeks in the future and arranged a time for him to meet them at the property and turn over the keys once the current tenants moved out.
Much to the victims’ surprise, the man never showed up as promised, and the door at the unit was answered either by the property owner or another party who had rented the place on a temporary basis through Airbnb or another short-term rental site, just as the crook had done earlier. When the victims attempted to contact the man at the phone number on the business card he’d given them, they received a prerecorded error message telling them that no such number existed. A glance at the business cards told me the guy had listed a number with a 241 area code. The primary Dallas area code was 214. He’d likely used the same combination of numbers so that people only taking a glance at the card wouldn’t immediately spot the discrepancy. A quick Internet search told me that 241 was not in use in the United States. Rather, it was the country code for Gabon, which was located on the central western coast of Africa. A person wouldn’t get too far calling there, not unless he or she could speak French, Fang, or Bandjabi.
The victims, who’d given up their leases on their previous residences and had packed all of their belongings into a U-Haul or hired a moving company, found themselves temporarily homeless and in a rush to find somewhere, anywhere to live. Of course they also found themselves short on funds given that the payment they’d made to the con artist had been a significant chunk of change. I felt a kinship to these victims. It hadn’t been that long ago that I’d been a fresh-faced young professional, venturing out on my own, learning how the world worked. Of course my job with IRS Criminal Investigations had quickly taught me that not everyone could be trusted and to be extremely careful when it came to financial matters.
I looked over the leases. Other than the address for the rental unit, they were identical, typical leases, containing nothing—other than the low rental prices—that would have raised any red flags.
At the bottom of the file was a document provided by Backseat Driver that listed the times and locations where the con man had been picked up and dropped off. Of course it only listed the locations for rides that had been paid for by the particular credit card Booth had been able to trace after obtaining the Backseat Driver’s license plate from the security camera. We had no way of knowing what other accounts he might have opened under other stolen identities.
Booth’s handwritten notes next to each entry told me more about the locations where our target had been picked up and dropped off by the rider service. A sandwich shop. A restaurant. A sports bar. Many of the locations were within walking distance of the condominiums and houses he’d rented online, then purportedly leased to the victims of his scam. The guy must’ve thought that being dropped at places nearby rather than directly at the properties would help cover his tracks. Of course he’d been right. It would have been much easier to backtrack and find out what other credit cards he might be using if he’d been picked up or dropped off directly at the property addresses. The guy we were after was smart, much smarter than many of the tax cheats we dealt with.
I noticed that the addresses that were not located close to the subject properties seemed to loosely cluster around a neighborhood known as the Village, which sat north of downtown and was bordered on the south by Lovers Lane, on the north by Loop 12, on the west by Greenville Avenue, and on the east by Skillman Street. The area contained numerous large apartment complexes with multiple buildings, making it one of the most densely populated neighborhoods in the city. Tens of thousands of people made homes there. I was familiar with the place. My best friend Alicia and I had shared an apartment there when we’d first moved to Dallas after graduating from the University of Texas. It was an enclave for mostly single twenty and thirtysomethings who worked white-collar jobs,
many of them downtown, an easy drive or train ride away.
Interestingly, the information from Backseat Driver indicated that the guy had used the ride service only on evenings and weekends. This data coincided with the victims’ reports, all of whom had met with the alleged leasing agent after six on weekdays or on the weekends. This fact told me that the man we sought was gainfully employed elsewhere in a regular nine-to-five job during the workweek. While it might surprise some that a person who essentially robs others has a regular day job too, such was typical for white-collar criminals, who tended to look clean-cut and respectable and legitimate. The problem was, they were never satisfied with what they earned on their day jobs. They were selfish and greedy, always wanting more, not caring who they hurt in the process.
Having looked over all of the paperwork in the file, I inserted the flash drive into my laptop and started up the video. There were a series of security-camera videos from check-cashing places, post offices, and grocery-store customer service desks that offered bill payment and check-cashing services. The clips were spliced together into a long stream. Each showed a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a business suit entering the buildings and approaching the counters. He wore eyeglasses with thick frames and had his head ducked, a cell phone pressed against the side of his face. Though his lips were moving, I’d bet my left ovary that he was only pretending to be engaged in conversation, using the ploy as a means of hiding his face and avoiding in-depth discussions with the person at the counter. In more than one clip, he shifted the phone to his other ear to better hide his face after spotting the security camera aimed at him from the other direction.
