Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (16 page)

As the three men huddled, talking privately, I again had to wonder if Brett was somehow involved in a scam. But how could such a charming guy be a con artist? Then I remembered most successful con artists are charming. Acting like a boor didn’t exactly entice people to open their wallets.

I glanced back at them. Brett said something and Stan chuckled, giving Brett a friendly slap on the back, a gesture that seemed oddly comfortable and familiar for two men who shared only a business acquaintance. Was there more to their relationship than that of landscape architect and client?

A sick feeling invaded my stomach when I thought about Brett possibly being involved in something illegal. I felt even sicker when I realized I’d likely be the one to bust him if he were. I’d been looking forward to slapping my handcuffs on Brett, but not for an arrest. But if he were up to something, he’d be an idiot to date an IRS agent, and Brett was no idiot. Then again, he could be like Jack Battaglia. Underestimating me. And what was that old saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer? My head began to spin. It was too much to wrap my mind around.

I watched them as discreetly as I could. The three stood close, their expressions intent now. Whatever they were discussing, it seemed serious. After a few moments, their little powwow broke up. Brett took a seat next to me, while Shelton and Gryder settled on his other side. I tried to eavesdrop on their conversation without being obvious. The two had turned their topic to their wives.

“Chelsea’s insisting I buy her a Hummer,” Gryder said. “Damn thing’s more tank than car. I asked her what the hell she needed one for and she said it would be useful for hauling things. The only thing she ever hauls is ass. She’s cost me over two grand in speeding tickets this year alone.” Gryder took a sip of his drink and glanced down at Chelsea as if mentally comparing her value to the sticker price of a Hummer. His frown said things weren’t looking good for her.

Everyone turned their attention to the game as Derek Jeter came up to bat. The Rangers’ pitcher threw a fastball that Jeter sent screaming toward the outfield. It was nothing short of a miracle when the second baseman somehow yanked the ball out of the air. Jeter was out. Without thinking, I jumped out of my seat and threw a fist in the air. “Boo-yah!”

Uh-oh. My inner redneck had reared its head.

Brett looked up at me, a grin tugging at his lips. A blush crept up my cheeks as Shelton, Gryder, and a few others in the room eyed me, too.

“Sorry,” I whispered to Brett as I sat down. “Don’t know what got into me.”

Brett chuckled, unfazed, an amused glint in his eye. He seemed to find my wild, uninhibited side attractive. Thank goodness. It wasn’t always easy keeping myself in check.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Case of Bad Bratwurst

During the seventh inning stretch when Gryder excused himself to visit the men’s room and Brett returned to the bar to get us fresh drinks, I slipped back down to the front row and slid into the seat next to Chelsea. Gryder’d been evasive, but I’d been keeping an eye on his wife. A half-dozen drinks had made their way past Chelsea’s glossy lips and they were likely to be loose.

Chelsea and Britney wore equally vacuous expressions, droopy red-rimmed eyes, and inebriated flushes. I made small talk for a few seconds to put them at ease before getting down to the nitty-gritty.

“Michael seems like a great guy. How long have you two been married?”

She glanced up, as if mentally calculating. “’Bout six months.”

Not long. Not surprising. “How’d you meet?”

“I used to work the front desk in a hotel. The La Paloma in Tucson. Michael stayed there for a few nights. Said I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. You know, love at first sight.”

Love. Right. What in the world could Chelsea and Michael have in common?

“Three weeks later, he gave me this.” She held up her hand. The rock on her ring finger was even larger than Britney’s.

“Wow,” I said. “Who could say no to that?” A woman looking for something more than a sugar daddy, perhaps? I forced a smile. “Did you two have a big wedding?”

“No.” Chelsea shook her head. “We eloped a few days later. Got married in Cancún.”

“How romantic.” How
interesting
. A convenient meeting. A short courtship. A quickie Mexican wedding ceremony, their marital status not on record in the U.S. Still, this could all mean nothing. I could simply have an overactive imagination. Then again, I’d be a fool to ignore my instincts, right? And what could it hurt for me to dig a little deeper? I leaned closer to Chelsea. “I’ve got some funds to invest and I’d love to make us both some money. Your husband’s foreign currency program sounds great. How does it work?”

Chelsea’s face contorted in confusion, as if I’d just spoken Swahili. “Hell-if-I-know.” It came out as one word. She tossed back the remaining white wine in her glass. Her head lolled slightly, like a bobblehead doll’s.

“Does he have an office here in Dallas?”

She shook her head.

“Somewhere else, then?”

“Look,” she said, an ironic choice of words since she was having trouble focusing on my face. “All I know is that he spends all day at the bank or on his cell phone.” She shrugged, telling me that was all she knew about his business. Somehow that didn’t surprise me.

Neither did the Rangers’ twelve-to-two loss.

*   *   *

As Brett and I were on our way home in his car, I decided as long as I was fishing for information, I might as well figure out what Brett knew. Or at least what he was willing to tell me.

“Gryder’s investment program sounds like a potential moneymaker.” I watched his face. His expression didn’t change. “I don’t know much about foreign currency exchange, though. How are the transfers handled?”

“I have no idea.”

Hard to tell if he was being sincere since his eyes were locked on the road in front of us.

“You’ve never asked him about it?”

“No. I’m not interested in that kind of thing.” Brett made a quick check of the outside mirror as he took the exit for my neighborhood. “I stick to traditional investments. Blue-chip stocks. An occasional bond. Besides, Stan made it clear he doesn’t want Michael soliciting any of his contacts.”

Hmm. That was a juicy tidbit of info. “Why not?”

Brett shrugged. “I guess because it would compete with the investments the bank offers.”

Or because Shelton was trying to fly under the radar, keep his involvement to a minimum in case the shit ever hit the fan.

Was Brett telling me the truth? Or was he feigning ignorance? I couldn’t tell. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to believe him. “What were you talking to Stan and Michael about by the bar?”

Brett shot me a pointed look. “Nothing you’d want to hear. Trust me.”

Trust him? Could I?

Brett changed the radio station when a commercial came on, changing the subject, too. “Britney and Chelsea sure can put away the liquor.”

As the former high priestess of beer-chugging, I could put away the liquor, too, but at least I could handle it without falling all over myself. Britney had tripped on the steps on her way to the ladies’ room during the eighth inning, falling back on her ass, flashing her crotch to everyone in the seats. No wonder she didn’t have panty lines in that tight skirt. No panties. Not a natural blonde, either.

“Want to try that new Thai fusion restaurant in the West End this weekend?” Brett asked. “It’s gotten rave reviews.”

“No can do. I promised my parents I’d come home for a visit this weekend.” I didn’t mention that Dad and I planned to go to a gun show. I hadn’t yet told Brett I carried a gun on the job. If he knew I had a personal collection, too, who knows how he’d feel. No sense adding fuel to the fire, right? Not at this point anyway. Once I was absolutely certain he was innocent, I’d come clean about the guns, my suspicions about Shelton and Gryder.

“Darn.” He sighed, glancing over at me. “I’ll miss you.”

“Me, too.” It was both the truth and a lie. I would miss him, but frankly I was glad to have an excuse to put things off a bit. I needed more time to investigate, to think things through, to figure out what was going on with the Forex program and if Brett was involved in it.

As we neared my house, Brett reached over and put a warm hand on my thigh, casting me a dark, steamy glance that let me know what was on his mind. My heart began to whirl in my chest. We’d come close to making love at the resort, and we’d be even less inhibited with each other now. Tonight could be a chance to become closer to Brett, to take this last big step toward solidifying our relationship.

If only I could set aside my doubts.

Brett eased his Navigator around the curve onto my street and pulled into the driveway, cutting the engine. He turned to me and our gazes locked. “Can I come in?”

I saw nothing in his eyes but a man wanting to be close to a woman. Nothing suspicious, nothing deceitful. I’d been wrong to doubt him. Right?

Of course.

Sure.

Probably.

Maybe.

Ugh. Maybe wasn’t good enough. I put a hand on my stomach. “I’m not feeling too well, Brett. I think that bratwurst may have been bad.”

Icky, I know. But a digestive issue was the best excuse I could think of on short notice, and one he wasn’t likely to argue with. Besides, it wasn’t a total lie. With the fears and doubts gnawing at my stomach, I really did feel a little sick.

Brett groaned in frustration. “Sure it’s the bratwurst?” he asked, cocking his head as his eyes searched mine. “Not something else?”

Uh-oh. Was he on to me? “What else would it be?”

He didn’t answer, just eyed me skeptically for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. He climbed out of the car and walked me to the door.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Numbers Don’t Lie

Friday morning, I stopped by Eddie’s office to drop off the paperwork I’d reviewed for the steakhouse. I set my briefcase on his credenza and unsnapped the locks. “Any new developments?” I hadn’t been by the office in a few days and was feeling a little out of the loop.

He turned around in his swivel chair. “The Lobo’s been riding me all week, wanting to know how much I can seize from Chisholm’s.”

“How’s it looking?”

“Real good. Yesterday I found two hundred grand in cash in a safe-deposit box.” Eddie leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and grinned. “I just may be Lu’s golden boy.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Maybe
I’m
going to be her golden
girl
.”

Eddie snorted. “Yeah, right. You’ll be lucky to collect five bucks from that ice-cream man.”

Eddie was probably right. If Joe had any money he’d get a better haircut and visit a dermatologist. Still, if I couldn’t be the one to get the Lobo to her hundred mil, I just hoped it wasn’t that sniveling weenie Josh.

I removed the paperwork from my briefcase and held it out to Eddie.

“Thanks, Tara.” Eddie stood to take the stack of documents from me. “Let me know when I can return the favor.”

“How about now?” I jotted the name Stan Shelton on a yellow sticky note, tore the page off the pad, and handed it to Eddie.

Eddie glanced down at the note. “Who’s this?”

“One of Brett’s clients.” I told Eddie about the Forex flyers I’d seen, about Gryder and his evasiveness at the ballgame, that Gryder and Shelton could be in cahoots. I didn’t mention that Brett had shuttled a sizable deposit between the two. No sense further implicating Brett when he might very well be innocent. Or maybe I was just refusing to face facts.

Eddie raised a brow. “You may be on to something.”

“Mind running a search on Shelton? I’ll look into Gryder.”

He cocked his head. “You’ll cut me in?”

“Only if you cut me in on Chisholm’s.” I drive a hard bargain.

He narrowed his eyes for a moment, considering. “What the hell. If either of these cases takes Lu to a hundred mil, we’ll split the bonus.”

“Deal.” Five grand would still buy a lot of manicures.

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” Eddie said.

I returned to my office and settled at my desk with a mug of coffee. First, I ran a search on the IRS database, pulling up Brett’s tax filings. He hadn’t yet filed his return due this year, but I couldn’t fault him for procrastinating when I hadn’t filed yet, either. His tax records for the previous year showed an impressive salary, but no reported gain or loss from international currency exchanges. He’d indicated that he owned no foreign bank accounts. He’d also claimed no foreign tax credits.

Was that the truth? Or was it a bunch of lies?

Then again, if Brett had only recently become involved, there would have been no transactions to report yet anyway. I didn’t know what to think. But my heart felt warm and full when I noted his charitable contributions amounted to more than many people earn in a year. He’d given substantial amounts to a local homeless shelter, the Humane Society, an assortment of environmental groups, and, not surprisingly, the Arbor Day Foundation. Surely a generous guy like him wouldn’t be involved in an investment scam or tax fraud. Then again, the contributions could be falsified. According to the records, he’d never been audited. Ugh.

The data showed Brett had filed a Schedule C last year, the form for taxpayers who operated a business as a sole proprietorship. Strange, given that the architecture firm he worked for paid him as an employee and issued a W-2 at the end of the year. What’s more, he’d reported no revenue, claiming only a few thousand in business expenses, including real estate taxes.

What was that about? Odd he’d never mentioned that he ran a business on the side, especially since my job involved financial matters, and the only property he’d ever mentioned owning was his house. Brett was keeping secrets. But what was he holding back? And why?

Next, I ran a full-scale search on Michael and Chelsea Gryder. They hadn’t yet filed a return for the preceding year, either. Seemed everyone was putting off filing until the last minute. Because they’d been married only six months, they wouldn’t have filed together in earlier years. I pulled up Michael’s transcripts for the last decade. He’d reported income in the low six figures each year, enough to support a high-class lifestyle without raising red flags. Still, I bet there was a lot of income going unreported. Chelsea may be cheap, but that rock on her finger wasn’t.

Gryder had reported a different address for each tax year, never remaining in one place for long, almost as if he were hoping that by keeping on the move nobody would catch up to him. The notations in the filing status column also caught my eye. Gryder’s status had cycled from married joint, to married separate, then back to single three times during the last decade, chronicling a series of short, unsuccessful marriages. Before Chelsea, there’d been a Matilda Gryder, an Amber Gryder, and a Lindsey Gryder. Given the birth dates of his latter two wives, Gryder had a history of shacking up with barely legal young women. Matilda Gryder, on the other hand, was fifteen years older than Michael, presumably either a sugar mama or a trailblazing cougar. My money was on sugar mama.

No returns had been filed in the name of XChange Investments. It took quite a bit of digging to confirm the company wasn’t incorporated in the U.S., nor was it registered as a foreign corporation in any state.

Josh walked past my open office door then, backtracking when he realized I was at my desk. He stood in my doorway, a smug look on his face as he waited for me to acknowledge him. After ten seconds of being ignored, he couldn’t take it anymore. “Guess who I’ve been assigned to investigate?”

Should’ve known he’d only stop by to gloat. I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in my chair. “Hmm. Could it be the tooth fairy? After all, she passes out all that money to children and has never reported any income.”

Josh rolled his eyes.

“Santa, then? He’s got all those elves working for him but never once filed a W-2.”

Another eye roll.

“The Easter Bun—”

“No! It’s Nathan Broadhurst.” Josh did a little victory dance in my doorway, including some pelvic thrusts. I could’ve gone my entire life without seeing that.

The name Nathan Broadhurst meant nothing to me. I raised my palms.

The eye roll was now replaced by a derisive snort. “He’s on TV all the time? Plays for the Mavericks?”

A sports figure, sure to be a high-profile, high-dollar case. Still, I wasn’t jealous. A wealthy athlete was sure to have a team of attorneys on retainer, ready and willing to make the investigation as painful as possible for the special agent assigned to work it.

“Broadhurst was paid like a gazillion yen for endorsing some type of Japanese washing machine,” Josh continued. “Didn’t report a dime of it.”

I swung my fist in an upward motion. “Go get ’em, tiger.” Or just
go.
Fortunately, Josh left, though I heard him stop at the office next door to brag to another special agent.

I turned back to my computer. I hadn’t had the forethought to ask for Chelsea’s maiden name at the game last night, but I was able to track it down by accessing the W-2s filed by the La Paloma hotel, where Chelsea had been working when she’d met Michael. The only employee by that name was a Chelsea Nicole Reynolds who’d earned a whopping eighteen grand last year. I jotted down the address listed on the W-2 and ran a search of the Tucson real property records. The home at the given address was a tiny three-bedroom model owned by a Fred and Patricia Reynolds. The house had been built in the 1960s and had a current market value of only $52,000. Chelsea’d had a modest upbringing and still lived with her parents when she’d met Michael. No wonder she’d been swept off her feet so easily.

I took a sip of the now-lukewarm coffee I’d picked up on my way in and logged in to NCIC, the National Crime Information Center, the federal law enforcement database of criminal records. My search showed no weapons registered in Michael’s or Chelsea’s names. That fact provided only small assurance. Not all states required that guns be registered, and firearms could be purchased through various means that left no record. Though Chelsea had a public intoxication charge in her files, neither she nor Michael had a violent criminal record. Good. I’d seen enough violence to last me a lifetime. Jack Battaglia and his box cutter had been more than enough for me.

I continued my investigation into Gryder, running a simple Internet search next. Gryder’d been a busy guy. The Net first turned up a negotiated settlement with the Louisiana State Securities Board relating to a horizontal drilling venture that hadn’t been on the up-and-up. According to the report, Gryder paid some restitution but served no jail time, instead turning state’s witness and fingering two other men involved in the scam while himself enjoying immunity. A trust company he’d founded in Boise had ended up in receivership, bailed out by the Idaho banking department and, indirectly, Idaho taxpayers. Gryder’d been charged with criminal fraud in the state of Florida in relation to a questionable real estate venture. Thanks to a plea deal his attorney had negotiated, Gryder avoided jail time on that charge, too, though he’d served a year’s probation. A newspaper account noted the swindled investors were outraged by the plea deal, but the prosecutor cited a lack of hard evidence needed to nail Gryder in court.

Yep, sleazeballs like Gryder were masters at hiding evidence. They played financial shell games, destroyed documents, transferred money around and commingled it with legitimate or laundered income, making it difficult if not impossible for prosecutors to track funds. The heavy caseloads imposed on local prosecutors and the state attorney general offices also discouraged them from pursuing con artists. Overwhelming numbers of man-hours were involved in researching these scams, hunting for proof, preparing for trial. What’s more, given the complexity of the scams, the scarcity of hard evidence, and the technical intricacy of applicable laws, explaining a convoluted scam to a jury and convincing them to convict proved a daunting task for government attorneys.

As a result, white-collar criminals like Gryder had a tendency to resurface, like buoyant turds, undeterred by the government’s slap on the wrist and the fines they paid with other people’s money. These penalties did little to dissuade them from setting up shop again once the regulators were distracted by some other creep running a scam.

Still, the tides were beginning to change. With so many people affected by the Enron, WorldCom, and Adelphia scandals, the public was beginning to pay attention. Bernie Madoff had received a 150-year sentence for his crimes. Even Martha Stewart, with her infinite resources, hadn’t been able to avoid a short stint in prison for her financial crimes.

At any rate, learning Gryder had been involved in financial shenanigans several times before only strengthened my resolve to bring him down. For good.

Per the property records, Gryder’d registered both a new Lexus and a Camaro with the Arizona DMV several months ago. He had yet to transfer the registrations to Texas, a sign that he didn’t intend to stick around the Lone Star State for long. No real property was held in his or Chelsea’s name. Not surprising, since real estate was one of the easiest assets for the government to seize. Con artists normally sent their funds to offshore accounts beyond the reach of the American government.

Despite an extensive search, no phone numbers turned up in either Michael’s or Chelsea’s name. Probably the two used prepaid cell phones, which were difficult, if not impossible, for law enforcement to trace and tap.

Gryder’s credit report indicated he’d filed bankruptcy twice—once in the nineties, the other just before the recent change in bankruptcy law made it more difficult to get debts discharged. I took personal offense when I noted that an accrued tax debt of over three hundred grand had been discharged in the bankruptcy.

He’d screwed his creditors, the IRS, and honest taxpayers.

Time to screw him back.

I printed out the information and stuck it in my briefcase. It would come in handy later when we’d ask Judge Trumbull to issue a search warrant.

I’d just finished looking at Gryder’s records when Eddie rapped on my door frame. He stepped into my office bearing a small stack of documents. “Far as I can tell, this Stan Shelton is squeaky clean. No arrests, not involved in any lawsuits. Registered Republican. Serves as a deacon in a Methodist church.” He handed me the computer printouts. “One divorce two years ago. Remarried now.”

I looked over the papers. Copies of car registrations. Stan’s voter registration information. His divorce decree, citing irreconcilable differences. Property tax information on his house in the city. Nothing particularly unusual or useful. “Has he filed all of his tax returns?”

Eddie nodded. “He’s current. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.”

I stuck the papers in my briefcase. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Anytime.”

After Eddie left, I ran a search on XChange Investments. A Web site popped up. After logging on to the site, I played around for a few minutes, going through the various pages. The site detailed Gryder’s investment scheme for “qualified high-net-worth individuals interested in a complex yet risk-free investment program in foreign currency promising a guaranteed annual thirty percent return.”

As if. No legitimate investment guaranteed a return that high.

Yep, I’d seen it before. This alleged investment was nothing more than an elaborate pyramid scheme, the stated qualifications and complimentary language used to stroke the egos of the financially unsophisticated. Unfortunately, there were plenty of people naïve enough to fall for this type of scam.

I knew for certain now that Gryder was indeed running a scam. But I still didn’t know whether Brett was involved.

I paged through the site, stopping on a full-color photo of Michael Gryder complete with his overly gelled hair and shit-eating grin. He wore a gray pin-striped power suit, an elegant navy silk hankie tucked into the breast pocket. The matching tie bore a clip embellished with an American flag. His hands were folded at his waist, his left hand on top, displaying his thick gold wedding band. The photo was clearly intended to portray him as a classy, patriotic family man. He even made reference to his “loving wife of twenty-two years,” failing to clarify that she was twenty-two years old, not that the two had been married for twenty-two years.