Death, Taxes, and a Shotgun Wedding

by Diane Kelly

  “There have been dozens of victims,” Will said, “and over a hundred thousand dollars wrongfully taken. Of course the man we are after is only one of many people running this type of scam.”

  Trish shook her head in feigned empathy with the victims. “So the things our viewers should look out for when renting a place are unusually low rent and pressure to provide a deposit quickly?”

  “Exactly.”

  At that, she turned back to the camera. “This has been Trish LeGrande reporting from the federal courthouse in Dallas.” She held her phony smile for three seconds and then motioned for her cameraman to head back to the van, not bothering to thank me or Will for the information or our time, or even bidding us farewell. Typical. Oh well. At least we’d gotten some important words in.

  Will and I headed into the courthouse. Ross O’Donnell, an attorney from the Department of Justice who represented the IRS in many of our matters, led me through my arguments in front of Judge Alice Trumbull, a left-leaning judge who tended to be more of a thorn in our side than the wind beneath our wings. But while I sometimes wished she’d be a little more loose with her interpretation of the Fourth Amendment, I also respected her for not rubber-stamping every government request for a search warrant. She kept things in check as intended.

  Ross looked up at the heavyset, gray-haired judge. “We’re here seeking a search warrant, Your Honor.” He explained that I suspected Teacher’s Pet had cheated Uncle Sam.

  The judge turned to me, her jowls jiggling. “What makes you think the owner of this tutoring business isn’t paying the taxes owed?”

  “These, Your Honor.” I held out the teacher’s personal tax returns for the past few years as well as the ones for the corporation through which the business was run.

  The tutoring center was owned by a former high school teacher whose certificate was revoked after it was discovered she’d helped students in her class cheat on standardized tests. Private tutoring companies, however, were held to no such ethical or professional standards, and it was doubtful any of the clients realized their tutoring dollars were lining the pockets of an unscrupulous teacher who had also refused to remit any of those dollars to the U.S. Treasury as required. Rather, she’d claimed that the business had incurred a loss each year since its inception. I wasn’t buying it.

  “Her ads offer both package discounts and cash discounts. Suspiciously, any cash income she’s received has gone unreported. Only the check and credit card payments, which leave a paper trail, have been accounted for on her return. She’s also claimed inordinate supplies and repairs expenses.” These costs seemed less legitimate and more an attempt to zero out her taxable income. “She’s claimed a net loss each year.” I held up the paperwork. “You’ll notice there’s also documentation showing that the Texas Education Agency revoked the suspect’s teaching license for unethical behavior related to standardized tests.”

  “Uh-oh,” Judge Trumbull said. “This woman’s been in trouble before, has she?”

  “Yep. She also has no apparent means of support,” I told the judge. “Unless she has some source of nontaxable income, things don’t add up. She’s also failed to respond to the multiple notices we’ve sent to her, both at her place of business and her residence.”

  “All righty,” Judge Trumbull said, picking up her pen to sign the order. “You’ve got me convinced.”

  After signing the order, she handed it down to me.

  “Thanks, Your Honor.” I turned and thanked Ross for his help, too.

  “Anytime,” he said.

  On our walk back to the IRS office, I asked Will whether he’d mind if I tacked another stop or two onto our trip out to Teacher’s Pet. “I’d like to visit a couple of the rental-scam victims. See if I can glean anything from them that the detective didn’t.”

  “No problem.”

  After I phoned the victims to let them know I’d be stopping by later, Will and I headed out to Teacher’s Pet.

  Will drove while I kept a keen eye out for any killers on our tail. Several white pickups caught my eye, but none had damage on the front.

  Will cut his eyes from his side mirror to me. “See anybody coming after us?”

  “Nope. Looks like we’re in the clear.”

  “Good.”

  Will pulled into a spot directly in front of the tutoring center. The other spots were empty. No surprise there. It was early in the day and most kids were still in school. Other than homeschooled children who could attend tutoring at any time of day, kids who attended public and private schools would need tutoring later in the afternoon and early evening, after school hours.

  We climbed out of the car and approached the door. While nobody was in the waiting area that was visible through the glass window, the lights were on inside. We tried the door and found it locked, so I pushed the buzzer next to it.

  A few seconds later, a woman poked her head out of a room down a narrow hallway. I recognized her as the disgraced teacher who ran the place. She approached the door with a smile. To her, Will and I probably looked like a professional married couple seeking help for their young child who was struggling with remainders or long division. We’d let her think that. If she realized we were from the IRS, she might not unlock the door.

  She put a hand on the knob, but before she turned the lock, she spotted Will’s car. The plain four-door sedan had government vehicle written all over it. Her smile faltered. “Are you here about tutoring services?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. I’m here to learn why your numbers don’t add up. Teach me how that math works.

  Despite my words, she appeared unsure.

  Will improvised. “I noticed you looking at our car. Ugly, isn’t it? We had to take our Lexus to the shop and this was the only loaner they had available.”

  “Good one,” I whispered through unmoving lips, knowing the woman wouldn’t be able to hear me through the glass.

  His explanation seemed to satisfy the woman and she turned the knob. Click.

  We stepped inside and I handed her the search warrant. “I’m IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway.” I held out a hand to indicate my partner for the day. “This is Special Agent William Dorsey. We’re here to seize your computers and records.”

  “What?!?” She looked from the two of us, down to the document in her hand, and back again. “Why?”

  Why do guilty people always feign innocence? Just for once, I’d like a suspect to say, “You’re here to collect some of that money I didn’t report, ain’t ya?”

  “Why?” I repeated. “Because you failed to voluntarily respond to our requests for information.” Never a wise thing to do. Ignoring us only pissed us off and made us more determined to nail a tax cheat.

  “But I-I…” she stammered. “I never got any notices!”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. Multiple notices had been sent to both her business and personal addresses. “Be that as it may,” I said, knowing there was no point in arguing the issue, “we’re authorized to do a search and seizure. Where are your computers and hard-copy files?”

  Her initial shock over now, her face hardened. “I don’t have to tell you where anything is.”

  “Okeydokey,” I replied. “We’ll just find it ourselves. Of course that will take longer. We could be here all day. Heck, it might take us until your students arrive this afternoon. I’m sure their parents will wonder who we are. It would be rude for us not to introduce ourselves and tell them why we’re here.”

  Her face remained hardened, but her eyes told me she realized she was in big trouble here and that she would be a fool to make things worse for herself. The bad publicity could ruin her business and put the other educators who moonlighted for her out of business. If she had any hope of coming out of this situation with her business and what little remained of her dignity intact, she’d be best off cooperating.

  She waved a hand, motioning for us to follow her. “The administrative office is back here.”

  An hour later, Will and I l
eft Teacher’s Pet lugging a couple of desktop computers and a slew of paperwork with us.

  The woman fumed as we carried the stuff out the door. “I don’t know how you expect me to run my business without my computers!”

  “We left your backup drive,” I retorted. “All your data is on it. Go buy yourself a new computer and you’ll be up and running again in no time.”

  With that we placed the computers on the back floorboards, climbed into the car, and took off. Neener-neener.

  chapter ten

  Homeless

  I plugged the address for one of the rental-scam victims into my phone and the voice guided us to an apartment complex. It was in Farmers Branch, a suburb to the north and slightly west of Dallas. We pulled into the development and circled until we saw a building marked with the letter K.

  We parked, walked up two flights of stairs to the third-floor apartment, and knocked. A few seconds later a woman in her mid-twenties answered the door, a tiny baby strapped to her chest like it was wearing its mother as a gargantuan backpack.

  “I’m IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway,” I told her. I angled my head to indicate Will. “My partner, Agent Dorsey.”

  While its mother greeted us, the baby drooled and babbled, flailing its arms and legs and burping a green-bean-scented belch in our general direction. Brrup. Despite the drool and belching, the baby managed to be absolutely adorable. My uterus sat up and took notice. “Your baby’s a cutie.”

  “She’s my whole world,” the young mother said, gazing lovingly down at the baby’s bald head for a moment before stepping back to allow us inside.

  We followed her into the apartment. It was much too small for their oversized contemporary furniture, leaving little walking space. But it would make a fun and easy maze for the kid once she started pulling herself up and along the furniture.

  Will dropped onto the first chair he came to, while I perched on the love seat. The woman sat down on the couch, taking her baby’s hands in her own, the baby wrapping its tiny fists around her index fingers and gurgling. Seriously, this kid made an excess of saliva somehow look adorable. Is that my biological clock I hear ticking? Or maybe the death threats had caused my subconscious to put things in perspective. As much as I loved my job, I didn’t want to die for it, especially when I had so many exciting things ahead of me. Becoming Nick’s wife. Becoming a mother. PTA meetings and family camping trips and evenings on the couch snuggled up with my husband and kids, a bucket of popcorn, and a movie. I’ll be damned if I’d let some angry tax cheat take that away from me.

  But for now, I needed to deal with the matter at hand. I turned to the woman. “I know you gave a complete statement to Detective Booth, but I’m hoping maybe there’s something new we can glean, something that might help us track down the guy who’s running the scam.”

  “I hope you lock him up,” she snapped, “and throw away the key. My husband and I gave him a four-thousand-dollar deposit on a three-bedroom house. We were so excited that we’d have more space and a room for the baby and a yard for her to play in. Now, thanks to him, we’re crammed into this one tiny bedroom. It’s half the size of the place we moved out of, and I’ve got to lug my baby stroller and groceries and laundry up two flights of stairs. This was the only place we could find that was available on short notice.”

  “I’m sorry for all you’ve gone through.”

  “It sucks,” she said. “Big-time.”

  I pulled a legal pad and pen from my briefcase to take notes and turned my attention back to her. “Can you run through everything again for us? Start at the beginning, when you first saw the ad.”

  “Okay.”

  She proceeded to tell us the same story she’d told the detective, provided the same information that was in the written statement she’d given the police. Nothing new popped out at me. I hadn’t taken a single note. I glanced over at Will. His expression told me he hadn’t gleaned anything new, either. Darn.

  I had no idea what to ask, but it couldn’t hurt to spitball. “Did it surprise you that the leasing agent didn’t provide a phone number when he responded to you?”

  “No,” she said. “Nobody talks on the phone anymore.”

  It was true. Most communication these days was electronic or in person.

  “Did you see him use a phone?” Maybe she’d have noticed a clue among his apps, one for his bank for instance. Yep, I’m definitely grasping at straws here.

  “No. He claimed he called the owner of the house while my husband and I had gone to get the money order, but I never actually saw him use a phone.”

  So much for that. “Did he say or do anything that would give you any clue as to his identity? Maybe have an unusual accent?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did you notice a class ring, maybe, or did he make small talk about sports with you or your husband, maybe mention where he’d gone to college or high school?”

  She shook her head again. “He only talked about the house. Showed us around, pointed out some of the good things about it and the neighborhood, and then mentioned that two other couples had applied to lease it already. He said that since we had a baby he could see that the house would be a good move for us. We had told him we were really wanting to get out of an apartment. He said if we got him a money order he’d work on the landlord and suggest she rent to us instead of the others.”

  “When you left, did you notice if he got into a car?”

  “No,” she said. “He just gave us a date and time when he was supposed to meet us there again to give us the keys, and then he went back into the house. He said he was going to make sure everything was turned off and locked up before he left.”

  Nothing she’d said had been helpful, but knowing the rat had caused new, young parents so much inconvenience and grief only strengthened my resolve to nab the guy. This should be one of the happiest times of their lives, and he’d screwed it up.

  I stood and extended my hand to shake hers. She wriggled her finger out of her baby’s grasp and shook my hand first, then Will’s.

  She looked into my eyes, her face cautiously hopeful. “You think you’ll be able to find the guy? Get our money back so we can get another house?”

  “I’ll do my best,” I told her. “And if we find him, you’ll be the first to know.”

  I hated to mislead the woman, get her hopes up. Even if we found the guy, he’d likely spent the funds he’d duped his victims out of. But I had been honest when I’d told her I’d do my best. And given that the guy seemed to have a day job, maybe he had some savings or assets we could snatch to repay his victims at least part of their losses.

  We climbed back into Will’s car and drove to the office-supply store where the other victim worked as an assistant manager. After checking in at the customer service desk, we were directed to the office-furniture display at the back of the store, where Cory was overseeing the assembly of a cushy, high-back reclining desk chair.

  “I could use one of those,” Will said.

  “You and me both.”

  The furniture Uncle Sam had provided for us might be economical, but it was far from ergonomic. Mine wobbled, having seen much better days and too many bureaucratic butts over the years.

  “Cory?” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS.”

  “Agent Will Dorsey,” my partner said, extending his hand, too.

  He shook my hand and Will’s.

  Our introductions complete, I asked him to tell me about his experience with the bogus leasing agent.

  “He seemed like a good guy,” Cory said after he’d run through the facts. “I didn’t get a single bad vibe. He made me feel like he was on my side, you know? That he was looking out for me.”

  “Con artists are great pretenders.” They knew all kinds of tricks to gain a person’s confidence and throw off suspicion. They excelled at reading people, figuring out their desires and weaknesses and pretending to empathize with them.

  “I
was really bummed not to get the condo,” Cory said. “I’ve been wanting to get a dog. Saw one at the shelter I fell in love with. A border collie.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and showed us a photo of a furry, black-and-white dog with a hopeful expression on its face as if asking Will you please take me home with you? “I was going to name him Chaplin. You know, since he’s black-and-white and Charlie Chaplin starred in all those black-and-white movies? The place I thought I was getting had a small patio and a patch of grass out back that would have been perfect.”

  “So you didn’t get the dog?”

  “Couldn’t,” he said. “The apartment I’m in now doesn’t allow pets.”

  My resolve renewed itself. Not only had the con artist cost Cory a new home, he’d cost a homeless dog one as well. Still, while I appreciated Cory speaking with me and Will, again I had learned nothing new. Looked like I’d wasted everyone’s time here.

  “Thanks,” I said, holding out my hand. “If we find this guy, we’ll be in touch.”

  After driving to a taco stand to pick up lunch, Will and I returned to the office. I carried my bag of food into Nick’s office, set it down on his desk, and plunked down in one of his chairs.

  “Are those tacos I smell?”

  “Sí, señor.” I gestured to the bag. “Help yourself. I bought extra.”

  “Did you get the extraspicy salsa?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s my chica.”

  While we ate, I told Nick more about the case, about my fruitless visits to the victims that morning, about Chaplin, too. “Cory showed me a picture of the dog. He was really cute.” Yep, the dog gave the adorable baby we’d seen earlier a run for her money.

  Nick poured salsa over the top of his taco. “Maybe the Backseat Driver thing will work out,” he said to encourage me. “Maybe you’ll catch the guy when he goes for a ride.”

  “Or maybe you could come with me to look at some properties,” I suggested back, raising hopeful brows. After all, the culprit only seemed to show properties in the evenings and weekends. I wouldn’t mind putting in some overtime if it would help me catch the guy, but I didn’t want it cutting into my personal time with Nick.