Final Deposit (5 page)

Lindsey blinked. “I don't understand.”

“That—” he pointed to the letter “—is how the scam starts. The criminal convinces the target that his help is urgently needed to complete a transaction that will make them both extremely rich.”

He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest, wishing there were an easy way to tell her about this. Last year alone these scams cost Americans an estimated two hundred million dollars—and there was no way to measure the emotional cost. George Taylor was only one of thousands of victims.

“Go on,” she said, her voice tight.

“It's called an advance fee fraud or a 419 scam. The victim, in this case your father, believes he's been chosen to share a huge fortune in exchange for doing pretty much nothing. When the deal is threatened, he willingly contributes money to ensure the venture succeeds. The only problem is that in the end, there is no money, and he's lost thousands.”

Lindsey shook her head, then glanced down at the cat who cried at her feet. “Sammy's not used to being ignored.” She dropped the letter onto the bar before stalking into the kitchen. “Just because my father received a letter like that doesn't mean he responded. He'd never fall for such a setup.”

“Lindsey, there are dozens of e-mails between your father and Omah.”

Lindsey dug for something in the cupboard. “Would you like some coffee?”

It was already almost ninety degrees outside and not much cooler inside—Mr. Taylor probably tried to save a few bucks by keeping the air turned down. But he'd have a cup. For her.

“One sugar, a little milk.”

The refrigerator door clicked shut. She slammed the milk down on the counter and caught his gaze. “I want to know exactly how this works.”

Kyle smiled. This was the woman he remembered. The one who faced problems head-on.

“Okay, I'll tell you.” While she put two mugs of water into the microwave, he opened one of the file-cabinet drawers and began to look for any printed documents relating to the scam. “The intended victim receives an e-mail from an alleged official who represents a foreign government or some agency. In your father's case, the man's name appears to be Abraham Omah, though of course that isn't his real name.”

“Then what happens?”

“The fake official offers to transfer millions of dollars into the victim's bank account. Reasons are as varied as the scam, but normally, the idea is to move hidden assets somewhere accessible. Assets, for example, of dead government workers, or maybe from overinvoiced contracts. The scammers promise a twenty-percent take on the deal and request things like bank-account information and telephone numbers, for starters.”

The microwave dinged. “And you're telling me that my father fell for this?”

He found what he was looking for near the back—eight months' worth of correspondence with Abraham Omah—including receipts from Western Union showing money transferred overseas—all filed by date. Kyle stood up with one of the signed papers and went to the counter. “Your father would have been sent numerous documents through the mail with official authentic-looking stamps, seals and logos. Over a period of weeks and months, he would have been asked to provide money for various taxes, attorney bills, transaction fees or even bribes. These scammers are sharp—Omah would have waited to ask for money until he could tell your father trusted him.”

“Trusted him? No way.” Lindsey dumped a spoonful of sugar into each mug.

“The evidence suggests otherwise, Lindsey. It's all here—I've seen it all before.” He set the paper on the counter and reached for the mug she offered him. “It all boils down to the fact that your father was told that for a small amount of money up front, he'd receive a fortune, and he believed it. For some people, it's a scenario too good to pass up.”

Lindsey stared at her coffee. “How much do you think he lost?”

Kyle pressed his lips together. There was no way of knowing at this point. He'd had clients who'd lost anywhere from a couple hundred to over two hundred thousand. “I don't know.”

She grabbed the letter he'd laid on the counter and started ripping it into pieces.

“What are you doing, Lindsey?” He reached out to stop her.

She swung away from him and her elbow hit her coffee mug. It smashed against the kitchen floor.

“Lindsey.” Kyle grabbed her wrists, leading her around the broken shards and out of the kitchen.

“How could he do something like this?” she yelled, angry tears spilling down her face.

Kyle pulled her into his arms, holding her against his chest. “I'm so sorry, Lindsey.”

Sobs shook her body but she didn't fight to get away.

He held her tightly and waited. When she'd stopped crying, she looked up at him.

“He's lost everything, hasn't he?”

“No, Lindsey,” he said, brushing her hair back from her face. “He hasn't lost you.”

L
indsey fingered the torn pieces of paper and tried to still the pounding of her heart. What had triggered her father's insane acceptance of someone he'd never even met into his personal life? Why would he throw away thousands of dollars, hoping to win a million-dollar jackpot?

She crossed the floor and stopped at her mother's curio cabinet. Outlines of the porcelain figures in the dust on the glass were the only evidence of where they once sat. She squeezed her eyes shut. She could see them all. The dancing ballerina her father had found in a tiny shop in Switzerland. The swan her mother picked out for her fiftieth birthday. The figure of a mother and child.

A wave of fortitude swept through her. Kyle was right. There was no use denying what had happened. The evidence lay scattered in tangible piles across the living-room floor.

Her shallow breathing deepened. She'd fix this. Somehow. She would figure out a way to rescue her father. She went back into the kitchen, grabbed the dustpan and broom and started sweeping. Reaching down to pick up a large shard, she winced as one of the sharp edges grazed her finger. Blood pooled at the tip.

“Hey. Slow down.” Kyle snatched a paper towel from the roll and gently grasped her hand, letting the paper absorb the red stain.

She stared up at him as he took care of her hand, gazing at his handsome face. His eyes met hers, and he pulled her into his arms again. She could feel his heart beat against her cheek and for a moment, she felt warm and safe. If only she could stay here for a while and forget all about everything.

But there wasn't time.

She took a step back, burying dizzying emotions that would have to be explored on another day. Right now, she had to find a way to get her father out of this mess.

Kyle cleared his throat and handed her his untouched mug of coffee. The moment between them had vanished. “I want you to sit down and drink this. I'll clean up the mess.”

She fumbled with the handle. “I couldn't let you—”

“Yes, you can.” He smiled and turned away.

Obeying orders, she pulled out one of the stools and sat down at the bar that separated the kitchen from the dining room, and brought the mug to her lips. She breathed in the rich aroma, and her stomach growled. Loudly.

“You haven't eaten yet today, have you?” He glanced up at her as he swept the shards into the dustpan.

“I had a few sips of OJ at the hospital.”

“I'm admittedly a horrible cook—I live on frozen dinners and takeout most the time—but I can make a killer omelet if your dad has a few basics in the fridge.”

“You're offering to make me breakfast?” Her eyes widened. “I'm starting to wish I hadn't lost track of you.” She felt a blush rush up her cheeks. Did she have to be quite so obvious? She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I'm sorry. I—”

“I've always believed that life is too short to beat around the bush.” He shot her a grin, then dumped the broken glass into the trash can. “Omelet?”

“Yeah. That would be great.” She took a sip of the coffee. “What if last night's break-in had something to do with all of this?”

“I've been thinking about that myself.”

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on his hips. “First things first. Frying pan?”

“Bottom right-hand cupboard.”

“Oil?”

“Cabinet next to the fridge.”

“Salt and pepper?”

Lindsey slid off the bar stool, then stopped at his questioning gaze.

“Where do you think you're going? Sit back down there, young lady, and relax.”

She grinned, amazed that he'd managed to make her smile again on a day like this. “Yes, sir.”

Kyle proceeded to gather the items he needed. She watched his smooth, fluid movements. He might not be brilliant in the kitchen, but he still looked good in his khaki T-shirt that lay taut against his broad chest.

“Okay. Back to your question.” He set the pan on the stove, turned on the burner and started chopping onions. “In the cases I've dealt with, there have been times when the victims ran out of money after maxing out credit cards and using up every available line of cash. The next step is often to borrow from friends or family. They might say they have a surefire business opportunity but are short on capital, or that they've come into a large amount of money but need funds to access it. Your father may have borrowed money intending to pay it back once he received his share of the fortune.”

“So the guy gets mad because my father can't pay back the loan. But why the break-in?” she asked. “There's nothing to steal.”

“It's possible that the break-in was merely intended as a form of ‘encouragement' to pay up.”

Goose bumps ran up her arms despite the warmth of the coffee she was drinking. “I don't want my father to know about the break-in.”

“Lindsey.” Kyle set his hands on the counter across from her while the onions sizzled, filling the room with their pungent smell. “How is that possible?”

“I don't know.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I'll replace the fish tank. The carpet people should be here any minute. I'll find someone to fix the window—”

“Don't you think your father should know about this?” He found a bowl and started whipping the eggs. “I think there have been enough secrets. He needs to know what's happened as a result of his actions.”

“But the break-in might have nothing to do with Abraham Omah.” Lindsey bit back the unexpected anger that swelled, feeling the need to defend her father despite his actions. “And even if it is connected, my father's not capable of dealing with this. But I am.”

A smile registered on his profile. “You always were like that.”

Her anger deflated like a collapsing balloon. “This still isn't your problem.”

“You're determined to do this on your own, aren't you?” He folded his arms across his chest while the omelet cooked. “A man whose intentions were far from noble broke into this house last night. Your father's up to his ears in debt because this Omah guy is trying to take him for everything he's got. There are pending lawsuits against him. Shall I continue?”

She stared at the mug. She'd always taken on battles on her own. It allowed her to be in control. Giving situations over to God came hard enough. Trusting another person to help was almost impossible.

“You don't have to be a superwoman, Lindsey.”

Why did his words always seem to pierce straight through her heart?

She held up her hand. “Okay. I hear you loud and clear. I'm not a superwoman. But I still want to fix this.”

 

Kyle knew she was hurt. Confused. Angry. He knew because he'd been there before.

He decided to tell her the whole truth. “I didn't start my own securities business just because I saw a void in the market,” he said, sliding half the omelet onto a plate and handing it to her.

She stabbed at her plate but didn't take a bite. “What do you mean?”

He combed his fingers through his hair. “We were talking last night about Michael.”

“Yes.”

“I didn't tell you everything,” he admitted. “About six and a half years ago, he got involved in an Internet scam.”

Kyle slid in beside her on one of the bar stools and took a bite of his omelet. He'd only told one other person—his business partner, Matt—the truth behind what had happened to his brother. Matt had been the one who'd told him flat-out to quit wallowing and get up and do something. Together they'd jumped into the financial-security arena headfirst, and Kyle had never looked back. Saving others from these disasters honored Michael's memory and helped ease the sting of his death.

“What happened?” Lindsey asked.

He pushed his breakfast toward the middle of the plate. “Michael was always special. You remember—he was a bit of a recluse and lacked social skills. He even struggled with depression once he started college. The demands were often too much for him. Still, everyone loved him.”

“Yes, they did,” she remembered.

“Six and a half years ago, he met a woman online. She was from Ukraine. Within a short time, he showed us photos of a beautiful woman and told us he was going to marry her. About three months into their online relationship, she asked him for three hundred and fifty dollars to pay for a visa to the States. The request seemed innocent at the time. She wanted to meet him in person. He was ecstatic. Next came the plea for an airline ticket. Michael was making pretty good money as a graphic designer so he agreed.”

He noticed that Lindsey seemed to have forgotten her breakfast as she listened to him intently.

“Anya was due to arrive the day before Thanksgiving. I remember being genuinely happy that my brother had found someone. My mom went to so much trouble preparing all of Michael's favorite holiday dishes in honor of Anya's arrival. Yeast rolls, pecan pie and sweet-potato casserole. Michael had loved the holidays, and all the lights, music and food that went along with them. Dad even pulled out the Christmas decorations so we could decorate the house on the weekend. None of us had a clue what was about to happen.”

“She didn't show up, did she,” Lindsey said.

He shook his head. “Michael got a desperate e-mail saying that there had been an emergency. Her mother had fallen ill and had been rushed to the hospital with severe abdominal pain. Anya had no insurance and no money, and she needed twenty thousand dollars for an operation. Without the surgery her mother would be dead in a matter of days.

“Michael still lived at home and had saved quite a bit. I don't think he ever questioned whether everything she was telling him was legitimate. For him there was no other option. He loved her. He trusted her. Of course she was telling the truth.”

By now their eggs were cold, but he didn't care. Dredging up these memories had doused his appetite.

“I remember asking Michael at one point how well he really knew her. But he wouldn't listen. He had photos. They'd chatted for hours online. He planned to marry her. How could I even suggest not helping her family? I backed off.”

Guilt resurfaced. What would have happened if he'd done a background check on the woman? But he hadn't. Even after he began to suspect that Anya cared more about the Western Union deposits than his brother.

“Michael ended up wiring over forty-five thousand dollars to the woman over the course of six months for hospital bills and physical therapy. Anya promised that as soon as her mother recovered, she'd come to America so they could be together. None of us knew what my brother had done until it was too late. His savings were wiped out, his credit cards were at their limit and he'd borrowed five thousand from a friend.”

“And when the money ran out?”

“He never heard from her again.” Kyle fought against anger that would never completely dissipate. Anger toward Anya, his brother's trusting nature and of course at himself for not recognizing just how deep Michael's depression had gone. “He overdosed on a bottle of prescription drugs. When we found him we rushed to the emergency room, but by then it was too late.”

Lindsey reached out and squeezed his hand. “I can't imagine what that must have been like.”

He stood up to reheat their eggs in the microwave. “I started doing research online and couldn't believe what I found. The statistics are terrifying and the scams endless. I discovered lottery scams, phishing and vishing scams, pump and dump scams. The truth is, if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”

“Did the authorities ever find her?”

“She was just a faceless identity hiding behind a computer screen. We found a place to blacklist her name, but it's far too easy to come up with another identity before hitting up the next victim.”

Lindsey's face paled. “Is it possible that we might never find the person who did this to my father?”

“We can notify the authorities but more than likely, they won't be able to do anything. It's extremely hard to track these criminals, even with good records and a lot of luck.”

She took the reheated eggs from him. “There has to be a way.”

“I do have a few tricks up my sleeve. I'll get a tech to scour your dad's computer for any electronic signatures that might help locate the perpetrator. But to be honest, Lindsey, in most cases victims never get their money back. What we have to concentrate on is keeping you and your father safe. Especially if last night's break-in was related.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I'd say I'm pretty lucky you walked back into my life when you did.”

“I don't believe in luck or coincidences.” He smiled. “I'm taking you on as my first Dallas client. Pro bono.”

“Kyle, no,” she said, holding up a hand in protest. “You have a business to run. You'll go broke taking on pro bono cases.”

“I'm not taking on a bunch of pro bono cases, I'm taking on one,” he countered. “Besides, you won't find a better bargain this side of the Mississippi.”