Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (24 page)

I sat down on the edge of my bed. Should I tell him? At least tell him as much of the story as I could without giving everything away? “It was a … tough day.” My voice quavered.

Brett was quiet for a moment, waiting for me to say more. When I didn’t, he said, “What happened, Tara?”

I desperately wanted to talk about it. I wanted Brett to hold me in his arms again, make me feel safe and feminine and protected, make the bad guys, and their bad hair, melt away. But that couldn’t happen until I could be totally honest with him. And I couldn’t be totally honest with him until I knew whether he was willingly involved in the Forex scheme.

“Tara? What’s wrong?” His voice was firm now, insistent. “Tell me. I want to know what’s going on.”

“I’d rather discuss it in person.”

“Okay, then. I’m on my way.”

“No,” I said. “Not tonight. We can talk about it on Thursday.”

“Tara, please,” Brett’s tone was pleading now. “I’m worried about you. I’m your boyfriend, for Christ’s sake. Talk to me.”

“I will,” I said. “I promise. I’ll tell you everything. On Thursday.”

I wondered how that would go. Because despite the emotional breakdown I was experiencing at the moment, there was no way in hell I’d leave my job. Every job had a downside, and an occasional crying jag was a small price to pay.

I ended the call, sighed, and snuggled up in my soft bed for some well-deserved rest. But rest didn’t come. Instead came fears of losing my life. And fears of losing Brett.

I wasn’t sure which scared me more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Scammed

Wednesday morning, I arrived at the office dressed in a silky gray tank and basic black linen pantsuit, one that would fit in with the crowd at the hotel’s bar where I planned to hang out while Christina attended the XChange Investments seminar.

The Lobo walked up then, today sporting a one-piece melon-hued jumpsuit intersected by a shiny white belt. Her eyes locked on mine. “Eddie told me about the shotgun.” She grabbed me in a tight, menthol-scented hug. “Glad you’re okay, Holloway.”

So the Lobo had a soft side. Who knew?

She released me and took a few steps toward her office before she turned back around. “By the way, Eddie’s located another hundred and fifty grand we can collect from Chisholm’s owners. Just a million left to go and I’m out of here.” She flashed a pleased grin.

I headed straight for Eddie’s office. “The Lobo says you’ll bring in another one-fifty from Chisholm’s?”

Eddie grinned. “Froze the accounts this morning.”

I gave him a thumbs-up. “Way to go.”

“I couldn’t have done it without your help. I’d still be going through that paperwork if you hadn’t taken some of that on.”

“True,” I said. “And you still owe me. What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?”

He picked up his leather-bound planner and flipped through it. “No appointments. Why?”

“Pack a lunch,” I said. “And your water wings. We’re going to the lake.”

*   *   *

At five-thirty, Christina arrived at the Treasury Department in her Volvo, Pinky having been returned to the DEA’s impound lot. She wore tight, low-slung blue jeans, high-heeled black sandals, and a low-cut black satin blouse, dressed to play the part of the ditzy nail technician–heiress she’d purported to be when she filled out Gryder’s online seminar registration form. She’d layered on the makeup, the bruise and scrapes on her face visible only on very close inspection. She’d applied concealer over the bags under her eyes. Apparently she hadn’t slept well last night, either. Despite these minor shortcomings, she still managed to look gorgeous. I might hate her if I didn’t know what a good person she was at heart. Few supermodels would risk their lives to clean up the streets.

On the drive to the hotel, I jotted down a list of questions for Christina to ask Gryder during the seminar, inquiries that would pin him down and prove his investment scheme was nothing more than an elaborate scam.

Ironically, the Adolphus Hotel was located on Commerce Street, only two blocks from the federal building that housed the Treasury offices. The fact that Gryder had chosen to host his seminar in a location so close to the Treasury’s turf rankled me. Clearly, he had no fear that he’d be caught. I knew I shouldn’t take it personally, but it felt as if he were thumbing his nose at me.

Christina pulled into the parking garage, circling around and around as we descended to the lowest level. Other than a few vehicles parked in the designated employee section, the bottom floor was empty. Good. We wouldn’t be spotted together.

Christina pulled out her cell phone and dialed mine. I slipped on my earbud, turning up the volume as loud as possible, sliding the phone into the inside pocket of my jacket. Christina slipped her phone into the outer pocket of her purse, where the seminar would be transmitted to me. I muted my phone so I wouldn’t transmit any noise, then handed Christina a tiny digital tape recorder, giving her a quick lesson in how to use it.

With Christina’s help, I disguised myself behind a pair of plastic reading glasses and my black pashmina, wrapped strategically over my head and around my neck.

She reached out, tucking a stray strand of my hair under the fabric. “Heck, I don’t even recognize you now.”

Good. The disguise worked.

“You look like a nerdy grim reaper.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

I slipped out of the car and rode the elevator up to the lobby.

The ostentatious, baroque-style Adolphus Hotel had been built nearly a century ago by Missouri beer baron Adolphus Busch, who’d found none of the other accommodations in Dallas acceptable to his elegant taste. The hotel’s tapestries were imported, the banisters gilded, the European furniture hand-carved. Such snobbery from a man who made his fortune selling alcohol to beer-bellied, butt-scratching rednecks. Go figure.

I crossed the marble foyer, thankful the interior lighting was dim, and quickly took a table at the back of the bar, situated in an open atrium across from the Sam Houston Salon where the seminar was to be held. A leafy, ornamental ficus tree obscured any view Gryder might have of me.

A young waiter stepped up to my table, subtly eyeing my getup, not sure if I was a poor imitation of Jackie O or if the head scarf were a religious statement. “What can I get you?”

“Latte, please.”

Once he’d gone for my drink, I pulled my tax return out of my briefcase, figuring I could finish it while I waited for the seminar to start. I’d made my way down to line twenty-two on my Form 1040 before accidentally spilling my drink on my W-2. I gave up and stuffed the paperwork back into my briefcase. I should probably just take the damn return to H & R Block.

A half hour before the seminar was scheduled to begin, a hotel employee pushed a beverage cart loaded with water pitchers, a large metal coffee urn, glasses, and mugs into the meeting room. No appetizers, finger sandwiches, or petit fours. Gryder had cheaped out, too chintzy to even treat his victims to a snack before he stole their money.

Not long after, the hotel’s double glass doors slid open and Gryder walked through rolling a luggage cart loaded with three cardboard boxes. Along with his hair gel, he wore a light gray double-breasted suit, a stiff white shirt, and a shiny black tie, looking every bit the sophisticated, successful financial genius he purported to be. He stopped and pulled a folding display easel out of the top box on his cart, placing a large sign that read
XCHANGE INVESTMENTS—CHANGE YOUR LIFE SEMINAR
just outside the door to the Sam Houston Salon. He took hold of the cart again and disappeared into the room.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and temporarily disabled the mute feature. “The eagle has landed,” I whispered.

“Could you be any more melodramatic?” Christina asked.

I huffed. “Just get your ass in here.”

A minute later, Christina wandered through the revolving door, looking around the expansive lobby for the meeting room. After she spotted the sign for the seminar, she stopped and pulled a compact and lipstick out of her purse. “That you behind the potted plant?” she asked as she gazed into her mirrored compact, applying the lipstick.

I grabbed a leafy branch and waved it in reply.

Christina dropped her makeup back in her purse and walked into the seminar room.

“Hi,” Christina’s voice cooed through my earbud a few seconds later. “I’m Chrissie.”

“Michael Gryder,” he said. “I’m so pleased you’re here.”

Amazing. I could
hear
his shit-eating grin.

“Guess I’m a little early,” Christina said.

“Glad you are,” Gryder said. “It’ll give us a chance to speak one-on-one.” He paused a moment and a rustling noise came through the phone. “Your online application says you’ve recently come into some money and you’re looking for income potential.”

“Right,” Christina said. “It would be great if I could earn enough return on my inheritance so I could attend school full-time. I’m studying to become a massage therapist.”

“Massage therapy?” Gryder said. “Bet you’d be great at it. You have beautiful hands.”

Through my earbud, Christina giggled. “Maybe you can be my first client.”

“Count on it.”

I gagged on my latte.

“What’s this painted on your thumb?” he asked. “An ice-cream cone?”

An elderly couple in clothes two decades out of date shuffled up to the door, the woman holding on to the man’s arm to keep him steady the same way my grandmother had supported my grandfather as he neared the end of his life. These people had fixed income written all over them. Gryder would no doubt be more than happy to relieve them of their paltry Social Security checks. Luckily for them, Tara Holloway was on the case now.

Others began to trickle in. A pudgy middle-aged man. A young clean-cut techie type. A few more older couples. I had no idea what I’d do if Brett showed up here tonight. I’d probably shoot him, then turn the gun on myself for being stupid enough to fall in love with a con artist.

I pulled a pen and notepad out of my purse to take notes. Through my earpiece, I heard Gryder ask everyone to take a seat so he could begin his presentation. He started by introducing himself and detailing his investment experience, telling his potential clients he had decades of experience in the investment arena, working with both public and private investments ranging from stocks and bonds to venture capitalism.

“Those few of you who qualify to participate in the unique opportunity offered by XChange Investments will enjoy a thirty percent annual return on your investment, guaranteed.” He went on to explain their invested funds would be used in Forex transactions involving the purchase and sale of foreign currency. Gryder told the attendees that the old adage about risk being inversely proportional to reward was merely an old wives’ tale, that in today’s modern financial world a substantial return could be achieved absolutely risk free if an investor only knew how. And, of course, he knew how.

Then the fast-talking began, Gryder tossing out confusing concepts in rapid-fire motion as he shot through a slide-show presentation. He shoveled bullshit like the cleanup crew at a rodeo, perplexing the potential investors with terms like “corporate loan guarantees,” “interbank transfers,” and “timing differentials.”

“Yes, Chrissie?” Gryder said.

“I’m not sure I understand. How is this guaranteed?” Christina asked, the first on my list of questions.

Gryder offered a convoluted response in which he claimed that because the value of any particular foreign currency fluctuates relative to other currencies, some currencies are always up while others are down, enabling an investor to take advantage of relative price differentials. He claimed there was no way to lose money as long as the investment is spread among counterbalancing currencies.

What a load of crap.

Although money could be made, a crystal ball would be required to know which currencies would increase in relative value and, if an investor had diversified, his portfolio would also contain currency that had decreased in relative value. Moreover, Gryder never explained how a full thirty-percent return could be generated with his proposed investment method.

The waiter stepped up to my table and took my empty cup. “Another latte?”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“Where is XChange Investment’s headquarters located?” I heard Christina ask through the phone.

“As you’ll note from our brochure,” Gryder said, “we’re based in Belize. Fantastic business climate there. The expansive international banking market and low tax rates make Belize the perfect place to base a Forex business. If you perform some research, you’ll learn that many companies involved in Forex transactions are located in South America.”

A young male voice, most likely the techie’s, asked the next question. “Is XChange Investments registered in the U.S.?”

“Smart question. Because we are a private investment club domiciled in a foreign country and because all transactions take place outside of the U.S., XChange Investments is not required to register here. The good news is that none of your profits will be subject to reporting or taxation in the U.S.”

Bald-faced lies.

Virtually every investment company doing business with American investors was required to register with either the SEC or a state securities board and, with very limited exceptions, the IRS taxes all the income of a U.S. resident, no matter if it’s earned in Kalamazoo or Timbuktu. I looked forward to bringing this lying, cheating son of a bitch down.

When the seminar wrapped up, Gryder said he would contact the attendees individually to let them know if they qualified for the program. Each attendee was encouraged to write out a check—now—for the amount they wanted to invest, which he would deposit only if they passed muster. Gryder promised that those deemed unqualified would have their checks returned.

Yeah, right. The guy was simply playing on their emotions, going for the snob appeal. I had no doubt he’d cash every one of those checks.

I heard Gryder thank several attendees for their checks, telling them to let their friends and relatives in on this great, secure investment opportunity. It was all I could do not to run across the lobby, grab the trusting suckers, and try to shake some sense into them. Didn’t they realize his investment scheme was too good to be true? Didn’t they watch the news? Hadn’t they heard of Bernie Madoff and his Ponzi scheme?

With any luck, I’d have Gryder in handcuffs before he could transfer their funds out of the country. Of course I’d have to get a search warrant first and collect enough evidence to sustain a case against him. But it wouldn’t be too hard to get a preliminary order freezing his accounts, not with the evidence currently being collected on that little chip inside the tape recorder.

One man said he wanted to consult his financial adviser first.

“Don’t blame you one bit,” Gryder said. “But be aware that this type of investment is not your run-of-the mill, everyday investment vehicle. This is an extremely sophisticated arrangement that only a very experienced adviser would be able to fully comprehend. Don’t be surprised if your adviser doesn’t understand it or tries to steer you into stocks or bonds so he can generate a commission. A small initial setup fee is all that investing with me will cost you.”

As if.

I’d instructed Christina to request a copy of anything she signed, but when she asked Gryder for a copy of her new account form he sidestepped.

“There’s no public copy machine available here. But I’d be happy to mail a copy to you.”

“How about you give me another form and I’ll just fill it out like I did the first one?”