by Diane Kelly
My mother squealed and clapped her hands. “Bingo!”
Alicia handed my mother a small silver gift bag. “Here’s your prize.”
Inside was a bar of artisan lemongrass soap. Mom held it to her nose. “Mmm. This smells terrific.”
Was it wrong of me to hope she’d put it in the guest bath at their house so I could use it when I visited?
When it was time for me to open my presents, Alicia pulled a chair over to the gift table for me so the boxes and bags would be in easy reach. My friends and family had been exceedingly generous, and many of the items on my gift registry were discovered in the bags. New towels. Place settings. A wine rack that could hold a dozen bottles at once.
I opened a card from Nick’s mother to discover a gift certificate to Victoria’s Secret. My cheeks heated when I realized what it was.
Bonnie laughed. “Sorry to embarrass you, hon. But your mother and I want some grandbabies while we’re still young enough to enjoy them. I thought something from that store might speed up the process.”
It might, indeed.
When the shower was over, I thanked all of my guests.
“Thanks so much for coming!”
“It was great to see you. It’s been way too long!”
“See you at the wedding!” I called as the last of them were leaving.
I turned to find Christina and Alicia cleaning up. “I’ll help with that.”
“Absolutely not.” Alicia waved me off. “You’re the guest of honor.”
I ignored her. It had been a while since I’d had some girl time with friends and I was in no rush to put an end to our time together.
While we scurried about, collecting errant tissue paper, bingo cards, and tabletop decorations, Christina asked about work. “Have you made an arrest in that rental case?”
“Not yet.” I exhaled a sharp breath. “But it’s not for lack of trying. I’ve read over the reports, interviewed some of the victims, racked my brain to try to find a connection between the identities he’s assumed. He seems to have access to a never-ending supply of personal data to steal. He changes his alias and the credit cards he uses on a regular basis, so we haven’t been able to backtrack our way to him. I haven’t managed to peg the right properties online, and everyone I’ve picked up with Backseat Driver so far was a false lead.”
Christina balled up a sheet of wrinkled tissue paper and tossed it in the trash. “You said you have video footage of him, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to take a look? See if I spot anything you and the detective didn’t?”
“Sure. Another set of eyes can’t hurt.” It was unlikely she’d notice anything new, but we had nothing to lose, right? Luckily, I had the flash drive in my purse and Alicia’s laptop at my disposal. I slid the drive into the USB port and we gathered around the screen. Alicia joined us.
As we watched the video, I noticed once more how the man held his phone to his ear. Just like that passenger I’d picked up at the café recently, the one who’d given me an odd, familiar vibe. Hmm. Could they be one and the same?
No, I told myself. Of course not. The leasing agent is tall and beefy, but the rider was only average-sized.
Or was he?
I turned to Alicia, who knew not only makeup tricks but also fashion ones. She was always helping me pick out the best clothes to flatter my flat figure, to make me appear curvier than I really was. “This guy on the screen,” I said, gesturing at him. “You think he’s really as tall and beefy as he looks?”
My bridesmaids leaned in for a closer look.
“Maybe not.” Alicia tapped a button to pause the screen. She pointed to his shoes. “See the heel on those shoes? It’s unusually high. Add in a pair of lifts inside the shoes and the guy could make himself look three or four inches taller.”
Three or four inches could make the difference between average and tall.
My body began to buzz. Maybe I should’ve given more credence to that familiar feeling I’d had when I picked the guy up.
Alicia pointed to his suit next. “I can’t say for sure, but this jacket could have shoulder pads. That would make a man look broader. Plus, he’s wearing a tie with horizontal stripes. People wear vertical stripes to look taller and thinner, but horizontal stripes would make him look wider.”
Christina pointed to his hands and chin. “His hands don’t look meaty,” she said, “and his jawline isn’t rounded. You know, like it would probably be if he were truly heavier.”
The longer I stared at the screen, the more disproportionate the guy looked, like a businessman in a fun-house mirror. I had to give it to him, he sure knew how to put up a complete ruse.
I phoned Backseat Driver right away. “Get me a supervisor, please.” My account had been flagged so that those in managerial positions would know I was law enforcement working undercover and should be given access to information.
When the woman came on the line, I told her my name and driver ID. “I gave a guy a ride recently in Dallas. He went by the name Michael S. Can you give me the full name, address, and credit card number on the account?”
“Of course,” she said. There was a short pause as she pulled up the information. The sound of her fingers clicking on a keyboard came through the phone. “Okay. I’ve got it pulled up. The name on the card is Michael Simpson.” She went on to give me an address and account number.
As she recited the information, I wrote it down. The information wouldn’t get me anywhere immediately, unfortunately. The con artist used stolen identities and had the credit cards delivered to the rental properties rather than his own home address. He also never used the same credit cards for both renting properties and Backseat Driver services. But with this information I could get in touch with the credit card company, find out which of the many Michael Simpsons in the U.S. the con artist was purporting to be, and see if the real Michael Simpson could tell me what link he had, if any, to the Dallas area. Of course I might be able to catch the guy even sooner if he requested another ride through Backseat.
“If any rides are requested on the Michael S account,” I told her, “please notify me immediately.”
“All right,” she said, the sound of her tapping her keyboard again coming over the line. “It’s all set up.”
I called the credit card company next. Of course they wanted a search warrant before they’d provide me with information about the alleged account holder, such as the social security number I’d need to determine which of the hundreds, if not thousands, of Michael Simpsons the con artist was pretending to be. I’d expected as much. But at least I was able to obtain the e-mail address for the legal department. I’d send a copy of the warrant there once I had it.
For the first time in days, I found myself feeling buoyed and hopeful. Then again, maybe what felt like hope was just a combination of mimosas and painkillers. Either way, weee!
chapter twenty-four
Policies and Procedures
The hope I’d felt after my bridal shower on Saturday grew even more as the following week progressed.
I went with Ross O’Donnell to the courthouse for a search warrant Monday morning. Judge Trumbull approved my request with little argument. “Get that guy before he hurts anyone else.”
“I’ll do my best, Your Honor.”
I’d e-mailed the order to the credit card company. A legal assistant had given me the social security number for the Michael Simpson in whose name the card had been issued. Armed with that information, I was able to determine that he lived in Las Cruces, New Mexico. I’d found his phone number right away and called him.
After explaining who I was and why I was calling, I said, “The con artist seems to have access to a database with your private information in it. Many of the other victims were also out of state. It’s possible that the guy hacked into some kind of nationwide database, but we’re exploring the possibility of whether all of you have a common Dallas connection. If so, that might tell us where the guy i
s getting your information.”
“My brother lives in Dallas,” he said. “I’ve been there to visit him once or twice. But other than that, I don’t have a connection to the city.”
Hmm. Michael Simpson had a brother living here, and Tyrone Robinson’s uncle lived in the city, too. Did the brother and the uncle have something in common? Of course I’d already spoken with the uncle and he hadn’t been able to provide any clues. Maybe Simpson’s brother could.
“Do you mind if I call your brother? See if he might be able to help me out?”
“Feel free,” Simpson said.
He gave me the number and I dialed it right away. Again, I got a voice mail. Ugh. Nobody seemed to answer their phones these days. I left a message and asked him to call me. “It’s urgent.”
In the meantime, I figured it couldn’t hurt to respond to a few more of the real estate rental listings, continue to fight the battle on multiple fronts. I found four or five listings that seemed to be unusually good deals and filled out the reply forms for more information about the properties.
Simpson’s brother returned my call late on Monday. He gave me what could be my first solid lead.
“We get fifty grand of life insurance as an employee benefit at my job,” the guy said. “I’m single and I don’t have any kids so I listed Michael as my beneficiary. I had to include his social security number on the form. I remember because my mother gave it to me. I’d planned to call Michael for it, but she happened to call me first so I just asked her while we were on the phone.”
“So Michael doesn’t even know he’s the beneficiary?”
“Probably not,” the brother said. “It didn’t seem like a big deal. I’m only thirty-two and I’m healthy. There’s not much chance he’ll ever cash in on the policy.”
“Good point. Which life insurance company is the policy with?”
“Couldn’t even tell ya,” he said. “I filled out so much paperwork when I started my job it’s all a blur. I’d have to check with human resources.”
“Could you do that and call me back?”
“Sure. It’s almost five, though. It might be tomorrow before I can get the information.”
“No problem,” I said, though actually I wanted to scream. I was getting close. I could sense it. Just like I’d sensed the guy in my car with the phone to his ear seemed familiar. “Just to make sure I’ve covered my bases, do you have any connection to A-1 Awnings, EZ Autos, or an advertising agency called Bloomfield and Associates?”
“No. Why?”
“Just ruling out some other potential leads.”
* * *
Simpson’s brother called me back early Tuesday morning. “The HR department says my life insurance policy is with Metroplex Mutual Life Insurance Company.”
I jotted the name down, as well as the name of the company he worked for, Glassen Inc. I phoned the man who worked for the awning company first. “When you worked for A-1 Awnings, were you offered life insurance as part of your benefits package?”
“I believe so,” he said. “If I recall correctly, I had a policy that would pay my wife a hundred grand if I died.” He chuckled. “Thankfully, she never got the money.”
“Do you know if the policy was with Metroplex Mutual Life Insurance Company?”
“I don’t recall the name of the company. Sorry.”
While he wasn’t able to tell me, maybe the administrative offices at A-1 Awnings could.
Yep, they could.
After I’d called, been transferred three times, each of which required me to identify myself and explain my situation, I finally reached someone who had the goods.
“We offer our employees a one-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy with Metroplex Mutual,” the woman said. “We’ve used them for years. They’re right here in town and easy to do business with.”
“Thanks for the information.”
My nerves buzzed. This lead seemed to be getting more and more solid, like pudding as it cooled. Still, it could be coincidence. A look at the insurance company’s Web site told me they aggressively targeted employers in the Dallas area and had landed a respectable market share. If Sebastian Rivera also had a link to Metroplex Mutual, I’d feel sure that the insurance company had to be the connection.
I phoned him and explained what I’d found so far. “I’m thinking the insurance company could be the key.” I mentally crossed my fingers. “Does the name Metroplex Mutual Life Insurance Company mean anything to you?”
“I’ve never heard of the company,” he said.
Dang it! But then I realized he, like Michael Simpson’s brother, might be linked to the company but not even know it. Maybe Rivera’s sister, the one who’d worked at the ad agency, had listed Sebastian as a beneficiary on her policy.
“I suppose it’s possible,” he said when I posited the idea. “She’s married now, but she was single when she worked there and our parents had already passed on. But I don’t know for sure.”
He gave me his sister’s number to call. Once again I got a voice mail. UGH! But although I’d left her a message, I wasn’t going to just sit and wait for her to call me back. I grabbed my keyboard and mouse, pulled up the Bloomfield & Associates Web site, and dialed the phone number for their HR department, crossing my fingers someone would answer the phone. It was straight up 5:00 p.m., quitting time.
The phone rang once.
Come on, my mind pleaded. Please, somebody, answer.
The phone rang again.
Somebody! my mind willed. Anybody!
The phone rang a third time.
Answer the damn phone right now! my mind screamed.
Luckily for me, Bloomfield & Associates’ clocks must run slow and someone was still in the office. “Human Resources Department,” said a male voice.
“This is Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS. I’m working a fraud case. Your company isn’t implicated in any way, but I suspect one of the victims might have been a beneficiary under a life insurance policy provided to an employee. Can you tell me whether Bloomfield and Associates offers life insurance for its staff?”
“We do,” the man said. “The amount of the policy varies depending on what job the person has and what their salary is.”
“What company are the policies with?”
“Metroplex Mutual Life.”
My buzzing nerves buzzed even more. Bzzzzzz!
“Thanks.” As soon as I was done with the man from the ad agency, I phoned Tyrone Robinson’s uncle. “Any chance you’ve got a life insurance policy with Metroplex Mutual Life that lists Tyrone as a beneficiary?”
“I sure do,” he said. “How in the world did you know that?”
Ding-ding-ding! We have a winner!
I leaped out of my seat and threw a happy fist in the air. This is it! This is the key! Metroplex Mutual was the link I’d been looking for, the connection that could take me to the con artist. After my impromptu celebration, I sat back down. “All of the other identity-theft victims were beneficiaries of policies with the company. I figured Tyrone might be, too.”
“Well, don’t that beat all,” the man said. “You can’t trust anybody these days, can you?”
“Not hardly.” Seemed everyone was out to get everyone else. Then again, maybe I had a skewed view of the world given my job and the constant frauds I dealt with.
As soon as I ended the call with Tyrone’s uncle, I called Metroplex Mutual’s legal department. A recorded voice told me I’d reached them after business hours. Dammit! Lawyers worked long hours, too, didn’t they? Probably someone was in the office, listening to the phone ring and ring and ring, but refusing to answer it. I’d have to wait until the following morning to speak with someone there. But at least the wheels of justice seemed to be in motion.
Finally!
* * *
When I phoned Metroplex Mutual Life Insurance Company’s legal department back first thing Wednesday morning, the attorney I spoke with took umbrage with me. “You’r
e insinuating that someone within the company might have misused private information.”
I wasn’t just insinuating it, I was flat-out accusing an employee of identity theft. But better to play nice or he could make things more difficult for me. “It’s just a theory I’m working,” I said. “It would be an unusual and amazing coincidence for all of the victims to be associated with Metroplex Mutual.” In other words, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And this fire was a four-alarm inferno.
“As I’m sure you’re aware,” he said, “any breach of our company’s security protocols could have devastating consequences to our reputation. Any employee with access to sensitive data goes through intensive background screening and training. We have had no reason to distrust our employees or believe any such breach has taken place.”
“All I want to know,” I said, “is whether you can identify one or more employees who would have had access to the policy information for employees of A-1 Awnings, Bloomfield and Associates, and Glassen Incorporated.”
“I could,” he said, “but I won’t. Not without a warrant.”
In other words, if I wanted information about their policies, I’d have to go through the proper procedures. While I could understand his defensive posture, I knew it meant another trip to the courthouse, another delay. The wheels of justice might finally be in motion, but it was slow motion. Couldn’t someone just cut me some slack and do what I wanted them to do without requiring an act of Congress?
“All right,” I acquiesced. “I’ll get the warrant and get back to you. In the meantime, can you take a look at some security-camera recordings and tell me if you recognize the man in the footage?”
He acquiesced, though the tone of his voice told me he considered me a pain in the ass. That was nothing new for me. “Okay,” he said on a huff.
I e-mailed the file to the Metroplex Mutual Life legal department. Maybe the guy running the rental scam really was as big as he looked. If so, it seemed he’d be easier to identify. Maybe they’d take one look, peg him right away, and I could put an end to this seemingly endless investigation.
No such luck.
