by Tripp Ellis
I was probably sitting on untapped millions. Perhaps I was just a few viral posts away from financial independence?
It was a pleasant thought, but probably not reality.
I moved below deck, peeled out of my suit, and took a shower. I put on a pair of sneakers, cargo shorts, and a T-shirt, then took Buddy out for a walk. On my way back, I stopped at Diver Down.
Teagan greeted me with an eager smile. "That was a quick trip!"
"Yeah, but it seems like I was gone forever."
"All good?"
"A lot of things can happen in a day," I said.
"Isn't that the truth."
"How is everything here? Did I miss anything?"
"Same ole same ole."
I dug into my pocket and pulled out my money clip. I counted off $500 and slapped the bills on the counter. "Thanks for looking after Buddy and Fluffy. Hopefully that will take care of your car troubles."
Teagan's eyes brightened, and her smile widened revealing her perfect pearly teeth. "It does indeed."
I left the bar and headed back to the Vivere. As I stepped into the salon, I got a text from Chloe. “Oh, my God. Have you seen the news?“
20
"I know better than to believe anything you read on a gossip blog," Chloe said. "I know firsthand it's all clickbait bullshit. But, do you think it's possible? All the gossip blogs are saying that Mia Sophia was murdered.”
I shrugged. "Anything is possible. Wait until the toxicology report comes back. I have a suspicion they will find more than just alcohol in her system. Do you know if she was depressed? Was she on any prescription medication?"
"I don't know. We weren't that close." She paused. "I just have this weird feeling it's going to get brushed under the rug. People are going to write it off as a misguided starlet dying of her own excesses."
"That may very well be what happened."
"I know. I guess it just hits kind of close to home." She took a deep breath. "Enough negativity. How was your trip?"
"Good. I'm home, safe and sound."
"I was thinking—and I probably shouldn't do so much thinking—but I thought it might be nice if you could fly out and meet me on one of my tour dates. Pick a place you want to visit, either in the states, or in Europe, and come out for a weekend. You'll have a free place to stay," she said, dangling it like a carrot—as if I needed a carrot.
A weekend with a gorgeous popstar was more than enough enticement.
"I believe I can work that into my schedule," I said with understated enthusiasm.
"Things can move so fast on tour, sometimes I don't even know what city I'm in. It would be nice to have someone grounded around from time to time."
"That sounds like fun."
"Okay, I'm going to stop talking and let you go. I don't want you to get the wrong impression of me. I swear I'm not the girl who falls for every guy after the first hookup."
"No judgment here."
"I do have a confession to make. I could smell you on the pillow after you left, and I may, or may not, have hugged the pillow and breathed you in."
A cocky smirk curled on my lips.
"Oh, that's it!" Chloe shrieked in a moment of epiphany. "Thank you!"
"For what?"
"Breathe You In. I'm going to write a song. The melody is already bouncing through my head. It's going to be a hit. I know it!"
"You’re going to give me credit, aren't you?"
"Absolutely. I've got to write this down before it slips away. Ciao!"
I hung up the phone and chuckled. I was starting to grow fond of the little popstar.
I called Daniels and let him know we were back in town.
"And to what do I owe the honor?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"I didn't know you would miss us so much," I said.
"I missed you two about as much as I’d miss a hemorrhoid."
"Aw, that's so touching," I said. "It's okay. We missed you too!"
Daniels grumbled.
"Has anyone showed up at the ER with a suspicious gunshot wound?" I asked.
"Not yet. The real estate agent, Eliza Blake, got the perp pretty good when she shot him. I've checked all the hospitals and the suburban emergency clinics. Hell, I even had Denise call all the veterinarians in town. The suspect is either in a world of hurt, or he found treatment off the books." Daniels paused. "You know a lot of shady characters. Anyone come to mind that might be able to offer medical services?"
"I'll ask around, see what I can find out."
"I'll call you if anything else turns up," Daniels said.
I ended the call. It was time for me to get a little shut-eye. I had napped on the plane, but I was still feeling a little thin. I crawled into bed, and Buddy joined me. We watched a little TV before dozing off.
The phone buzzed on the nightstand in the morning. I grabbed it and swiped the screen. Denise's sweet voice crackled through the speaker. "Morning, sunshine."
With a dry voice I replied, "Morning."
My fingers wiped the sleep from my eyes as I tried to recover from the shock of being awake. I felt rested, but I probably could have slept for another hour.
"The blood from the perp that Eliza shot… Brenda got a DNA match on CODIS."
That information perked me up.
"The guys name is Nathan Jackson. He has a few priors. Public intoxication, drunk and disorderly, breaking and entering, possession of a controlled substance. The list goes on."
"Sounds like a winner."
"Daniels wants you and Jack to bring him in. He says take Faulkner and Erickson with you. I'll text you the address." Then Denise added, "Be careful."
21
Nathan Jackson lived in a crappy little apartment in Jamaica Village. The long, rectangular, concrete structure was home to five units. It had a metal roof, and an awning over the porch which most of the residents used as a storage area. There were bicycles, rakes, lawn chairs, and other items cluttering the area.
The building was painted teal blue, and wall-unit air conditioners hummed. The grounds were well maintained, but the structure had seen better days. It wasn't the greatest part of Coconut Key. Jack and I were decked out in full tactical gear—helmets, bullet-resistant vests, assault rifles.
Nobody was taking any chances.
Faulkner and Erickson covered the back entrance, while JD and I took the front. I banged on the door and shouted. "Sheriff's Department! We have a warrant for your arrest!"
It all seemed like déjà vu, and there was no doubt that McTaggart was on the forefront of everyone's mind.
The muffled sound of the television filtered through the door. I didn't hear any other commotion.
I motioned to Wilford and Henley. They rammed the door with a battering ram, busting it from the hinges, splintering wood.
JD tossed in a flash-bang grenade.
POP!
Haze filled the air as we stormed into the shitty apartment. The carpet was dirty and stained. There were empty beer bottles and drug paraphernalia on the coffee table.
A pungent odor lingered in the air.
The dishes in the sink were piled high, and cockroaches scurried for cover. We advanced through the living room and down the corridor to the bedroom.
Another closed door.
Another opportunity for surprise.
The tactical team readied, and I kicked the door open. We burst into the room, clearing the corners, but the threat was already neutralized.
Nathan Jackson lay in his bed with an abdominal wound.
The sheets were soaked with blood that was brown and crusty. A few flies buzzed around Nathan's body. His skin was pale, and his lifeless, glazed eyes stared at the ceiling. The odor of death hit my nose and made me wince.
We searched the home and found a .22-caliber pistol. I called Brenda, and the forensics team arrived shortly after she did. JD and I got out of the way and let them do their thing.
We stood on the front lawn, taking in the fresh air. I didn
't want to spend any more time in that dump than need be. It looked like we had our perpetrator. But I still didn't feel a sense of satisfaction. Nathan Jackson owned a .22-caliber pistol and was ripping off real estate agents at showings. He had priors and fit the profile. But we didn't find any gasoline cans in his apartment or in his car. Arson didn't seem to be part of his MO. Something didn't quite fit, and I'd find out shortly.
Denise called. "Have you guys served the warrant on Nathan Jackson yet?"
"Well, he's dead, so we really didn't serve anything," I said, flatly.
"He's not your guy," Denise said. "I mean, not totally. The attempted robberies, yes. But he didn't kill Chelsea Jones."
"What makes you so sure?"
"He was in jail in Dade County at the time. Soliciting prostitution. Sorry, I just found out."
"I knew I didn't like something about this lead," I muttered to myself.
We were back to square one. Harold Royce was our only suspect, and I honestly didn't think he was capable of the murder.
I thanked Denise for the info and ended the call.
JD and I went back to the station to fill out an after-action report. The department finally sprang for iPads, and we entered the reports digitally, hunting and pecking across the keyboard that attached to the leather folio case.
I finished my report and asked JD if he wanted a cup of coffee. I didn't really need to ask. I left the conference room and made my way through the office, poured two cups of stale coffee and mixed in cream and sugar.
The hustle and bustle of the department filled the air. Phones rang, keyboards clacked.
Denise strolled up to me.
I tried not to notice how good she looked.
"Are you still avoiding me?" she asked.
"I'm not avoiding you. I talk to you all the time."
She gave me a sour look. "You know what I mean."
"I figured you're too busy with your new boyfriend to hang out with me and JD."
"He's not my boyfriend. We're dating."
"Nick seems like a really nice guy," I said, forcing a smile, hiding my disdain.
"I didn't really come over here to talk about my dating life."
"Then what do you want to talk about?"
"I've got a woman at my desk and she's complaining about a fraudulent title transfer." Denise nodded across the room.
A woman in her mid-40s with short blonde hair sat at her desk. "Her name is Helen Morris. At first, I didn't think much about it. Then she gave me the address of the property, and it all connected. I think you might want to talk to her."
My curiosity was piqued.
I made my way to Denise's desk and introduced myself to Helen. I sat on the edge of the desk and asked her a few questions.
Helen proceeded to tell me her story. "I live out of state, in Oklahoma. My mother and I weren't particularly close. She had named one of her bridge club friends executor of her will. She left a lot of things to charity, and various items to her friends, but she left the house to me. I was really surprised about that, because we hadn't spoken in years. Long story, but she didn't like some of my lifestyle choices, and there were some things we just couldn't get past. That's neither here nor there. As you know, these things take a while to get through probate. The problem is, I came down here to see the property. That's when I found out that it had burned to the ground. I contacted the insurance company and discovered that shortly before my mother's death, someone had filed a warranty deed, took fraudulent ownership, then re-sold the property. The new owner took out multiple mortgages on the home. Since it's not titled in my name, the insurance company won't pay for the damage sustained during the fire."
My brow lifted with surprise. "How can something like that happen?"
"Florida has the highest amount of mortgage fraud in the country," Denise said. "And the way the law is structured, the county register is prohibited by law from investigating suspicious deed transfers. Anyone can file a deed transfer with a couple signatures and a notary."
Helen looked distraught. "What am I supposed to do? That property belongs to me."
"Do you have a good attorney?" I asked. "We'll track this down, but an attorney will be able to advise you about how to go about getting the title back in your name."
Rage boiled under her skin. "This is insane. You're telling me you can't do anything?"
"That's not what I'm saying, ma'am. But there is a legal process that needs to be followed to get this sorted out."
"It doesn't seem like there was much of a legal process when these people stole the property!" Helen griped.
"I can assure you, ma'am, we will do everything we can to sort this out. It's not just about the title. A real estate agent was murdered on the property."
Helen's eyes widened with surprise.
“Let’s see if we can find out who notarized the warranty deed," I said to Denise.
“I’m on it.”
My suspicions were growing. "Brynn is the listing agent, and I bet I can guess who the mortgage broker is," I said.
22
Denise did some digging after Helen left. What she found was quite interesting. "Charles Hudson is the one who filed the original fraudulent warranty deed. The property was then sold to Isaac Thomas. He currently has four mortgages on the same property!"
"That's mortgage fraud," I said.
"Want to take a guess who the mortgage broker was?"
"Xavier King?"
"Bingo."
"Do you think Brynn is involved in this?"
Denise shrugged.
"I know she works closely with Xavier King. I met him at her office."
"Just wait, it gets better," Denise said. "I did a check on Charles Hudson and Isaac Thomas."
I lifted an expectant brow, eager to hear what she had to say.
"Neither one of them exist."
My face crinkled. "What do you mean?"
"Both of those individuals have Social Security numbers that belong to newborns. The numbers don't match the names. I seriously doubt a two-year-old has a credit history and can qualify for a mortgage. My guess is the social security numbers are fake, probably obtained with a fake birth certificate. I've seen this kind of thing before."
I was beginning to realize how deep this scam went.
"It will take some time, but I'll do a search for all the transactions that Xavier King was involved with. Something tells me this isn't going to be the only instance of mortgage fraud we find."
"I agree."
With the evidence Denise uncovered, it didn't take long to get an arrest warrant for Xavier King.
We grabbed Erickson, Faulkner, Wilford, and Henley and raided Xavier King's office. It was in the strip center, a few doors down from Brynn Douglas & Associates.
We stormed into the place, guns drawn. Menacing assault rifles swept through the office, focusing on Xavier King.
The mortgage broker was going over an application with a client. She shrieked in terror, and King looked stunned.
"Down on the ground! Now!" I shouted.
King slipped out from behind his desk and lay on the ground. Erickson cuffed him behind his back, slapping the cold steel around his wrists. Erickson ratcheted the cuffs tight, then pulled Xavier to his feet.
"What the hell is going on?"
"You're under arrest for mortgage fraud," I said. "You have the right to remain silent…"
"What are you talking about?"
Erickson and Faulkner carted him out of the office and stuffed him into the back of the patrol car as he protested.
I apologized to his client. "Sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am."
She trembled, terrified.
We strolled out of the office, and Marley Bruce, Brynn's associate, stood on the walkway under the awning, watching the whole thing. She glared at me.
I stepped to her. "I'd like to speak with Brynn. Is she in the office?"
I wasn't sure what Brynn's involvement was in all of this. Maybe she didn't know? Bu
t I was highly suspicious.
Marley's scowl deepened as I approached. "What the hell are you doing?"
My brow crinkled. It wasn't exactly the reaction I expected from her.
"You are fucking everything up!"
“Excuse me?"
23
"Agent Shelby Sullivan," Marley said. She displayed her Federal ID.
I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"You know how long I've been working on this case?"
"No, but I think you're about to tell me."
Erickson and Faulkner had already left with Xavier King in the back of the patrol car. The commotion was over, and the strip center had returned to normal.
The muscles in Shelby's jaw flexed, and rage boiled under her skin.
"I don't see why you're upset," I said. "We've got this guy dead to rights on mortgage fraud. I don't know about Brynn, but they work closely together. What have you been able to find out?"
"This is much bigger than mortgage fraud," Shelby said.
She glanced around, cautiously. "Let's talk about this at the station."
Shelby locked up the office and we left the strip center. She followed us down to the station. We chatted in the conference room. Sheriff Daniels sat in on the conversation.
"Does somebody want to tell me what's actually going on?" Daniels asked.
"Are you familiar with Serpent Syndicate?" Shelby asked.
"Russian mafia," JD said. "They move a lot of drugs and a lot of guns."
"Yes, they do," Shelby said. "They also launder their money through shell corporations and real estate purchases."
A lightbulb went off in my brain. "And you think Brynn and Xavier were facilitating that process?"
"You catch on quick, Deputy Wild. I've been trying to gather enough evidence to bring the Syndicate down. Now that opportunity has evaporated because of your raid today. When Brynn finds out about Xavier's arrest, she's as good as gone. The Syndicate will walk away. I've been trying to track these shell companies back to them. But we're talking multiple layers of anonymity, and it always ends up in a dead end. The head of the Syndicate is Vasily Kozlov. He's ruthless and clever. He doesn't make mistakes, and he leaves nothing to chance."
