Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter

by Kelly, Diane

  I gestured to her laptop. “Can you tell me how he paid for the photos?”

  She tapped the keyboard, pulling up his account records. “Cash. The account shows he paid for digital files only. He didn’t order any print copies.”

  “Any chance he’s had other photos taken here?”

  Savannah tapped her keyboard, pulling up Smirnoff’s image files. “Looks like he’s done another shoot since the one that included the photo you showed me. I offer a twenty-five-percent discount for repeat customers.”

  Good marketing strategy. “When was the second shoot?”

  “Early May.”

  So he was a repeat customer. That could work to my advantage.

  Savannah cut her eyes my way. “Do you want to see the more recent shots?”

  I fought the urge to hug her. So many people we agents talked to were uncooperative and fearful, but Savannah was willing to share information and evidence. She was making my job easy, God bless her. “That would be great.”

  She pulled up a screen full of thumbnails, enlarging the first one.

  A-ha! Jack Smirnoff appeared on the screen, but in these photos his hair was longer, shaggier, and colored a lighter ginger brown rather than the dark brown he’d had in the photos his victims had provided to me. He wore a different pair of eyeglasses, ones with thin gray frames and boxy lenses, and his once-blue eyes were now chocolate brown. Whether blue, brown, or some other shade was his natural color was anyone’s guess. The only constant was the telltale freckle or mole on his left jawbone, near his ear.

  I raised hopeful brows at Savannah. “Any chance you can e-mail me copies of those photos?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What’s your e-mail?”

  I rattled off my IRS e-mail address and she set about sending the photos to me right then and there. If only every witness we interviewed could be so helpful!

  When she finished, we rose from the table and I extended my hand for a good-bye shake. “I really appreciate your cooperation. Will you let me know if he makes an appointment to have more photos taken?”

  “Of course.”

  With that, I gave her my business card, left the studio, and climbed into my car. The instant my butt hit the seat I whipped out my cell phone to dial the number Jack Smirnoff had given when he’d had his portraits made. It was probably another burner phone, but due diligence required I try it. While I expected an annoying three-tone sound and a recorded voice informing me that the number was no longer in service, what I got instead was a recording for a Tom Thumb grocery store.

  Huh?

  The recording instructed me to press “1” for the store hours and location, “2” for the bakery, “3” for the deli, and so on. I jabbed the button on my phone to turn on my keypad and hit the “0” button to be transferred to customer service. When a man answered, I asked to speak to Jack Smirnoff.

  “Like the rum?” the man asked.

  “Vodka,” I corrected, “but yes.”

  “Is he an employee?”

  I had no idea, but said, “Yes,” anyway. If he’d intentionally given this number, he must work there, right? But if he’d simply pulled the number out of the air—or his ass—then he’d have no traceable connection to the store and they’d be unable to help me.

  “Just a moment,” the man said, putting me on hold.

  My knee bounced up and down in excitement. Would he soon connect me with the catfisher? If so, what would I say? I certainly didn’t want to clue him in that the federal government was on his tail. He’d flee the store and disappear.

  There was no time to figure things out before the man returned to the line. “Sorry, but there’s nobody in the system by that name.”

  Darn it! “Maybe he used to work there,” I speculated. “Would he still show up if he’d quit or been fired?”

  “No,” the man said. “I’ve only got the current list. But I’d be happy to transfer you to the management office if you’d like.”

  “Please do.”

  I was put on a brief hold; then a woman came on the line. I identified myself and explained my situation.

  “Sorry,” the woman said, “but I can’t give out information on employees. Not without a subpoena or court order. I’d get fired for it.”

  Ugh. Everyone was so afraid of being sued, it’s a wonder anyone got out of bed without a court order these days. I hated to pressure this woman, but I would also hate to waste my time getting a court order requiring her to provide me the information if she didn’t actually have any information to give me. “If Jack Smirnoff’s never been an employee,” I said, “you wouldn’t be breaking any rules by simply telling me he’s never worked there, right?” Slick move, huh?

  She hesitated a moment. “I suppose not. Just a second.” There was the sound of keys being struck as she apparently ran a search of their employment records. “No,” she said a few seconds later. “We’ve never had an employee by the name Jack Smirnoff.”

  “Thanks for checking. I really appreciate it.”

  We ended the call. Rats. Looked like Jack had pulled the random phone number out of his ass, after all.

  I mulled things over for a moment. Royal Lane wasn’t far from the photography studio, so why not check out the address he’d provided? It, too, could be a dead end, but then again, maybe it wasn’t. It couldn’t hurt to check things out.

  I started my car and drove up Central Expressway to Royal Lane. Fifteen minutes later, I’d been up and down the road, passed Koreatown twice—once on my way west and a second time as I headed back east—and still hadn’t found the address I was looking for. To make matters worse, my car was running on fumes.

  I pulled into a gas station and, while the pump was filling the tank, searched for the address online. Nothing came up. A visit to the Dallas Central Appraisal District Web site told me that the highest address on Royal Lane was 10805. Looked like Jack Smirnoff had pulled his supposed home address out of his ass, too. His colon was evidently filled with all kinds of fictitious information. I wonder if he had any truth up there, too. I’d like to give the jerk an enema and find out.

  chapter nine

  Misfortune Cookie

  When I returned to my office, I had several voice mails and e-mails from the dating services. All of them said the same thing. The head shot Jack Smirnoff used in his Big D Dating Service profile had appeared on none of the other sites.

  What did this mean? Had he only listed a profile on the Big D site? Or had he used different head shots on other sites? If he used different head shots, had he taken photos at another photography studio in addition to Savannah’s? My lack of luck in the catfishing case was causing me no end of frustration.

  I logged into my e-mail and sent copies of the new head shots to the dating sites, along with a message that read: The catfisher had additional head shots taken. Please search your site for these new pics. Thank you!

  I also forwarded Smirnoff’s new head shots to Josh and dialed his office from my desk phone. “Hey, buddy,” I said when he picked up. “I just sent you some new photos.” I asked if he could mine them for data like he’d done with the earlier pic and send me the resulting links.

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  The only way I knew to try to find the guy was to see if he’d posted the new head shots on a public dating site somewhere, dropping the bait for his next catfishing victim. I crossed my fingers something would turn up, though I doubted it would. The free, public sites didn’t seem like places a con artist would look for financially stable victims. Anyone who couldn’t afford a membership fee at a more reputable dating site probably wouldn’t be able to successfully cash his bogus checks.

  Nataya had sent me her credit card bill that showed the fraudulent charges made at The Galleria. Whoever had used her card clearly had good taste. He—or she, since it wasn’t certain Jack was the culprit—had spent hefty sums at the Armani store, Michael Kors, and the St. Croix Shop. I decided to make a trip to The Galleria and see what Security c
ould tell me.

  Twenty minutes later, I entered the mall, window-shopping as I made my way to the administrative offices. Luckily for me, the security supervisor was in his office, his round, shiny forehead reflecting the fluorescent lights above like a miner’s headlamp. Appropriate, since I was here to mine for information, hoping to hit the mother lode.

  “Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to a boxy vinyl chair in front of his desk.

  I jumped right in. “I’m working a check fraud case,” I told him. “One of the victims believes the man who passed the bad check also stole her credit card. It was used at a half-dozen stores here a few months ago.”

  I pulled out the copy of Nataya Lawan’s MasterCard bill and laid it on his desk.

  He looked it over, his eyes narrowing. “This name sounds familiar.” He raised a finger. “Give me just a second.” He logged on to his computer, tapped a few keys, and read over the screen before turning his focus back to me. “I’ve got a file on this.” He gestured toward his screen. “It says she called Security several days after the card was used here and reported the thefts. One of my men spoke with the staff at the stores and checked the security camera footage. He was able to determine which customer used the card.” He glanced at his screen again. “Says here it was a Caucasian male estimated to be around forty. Brown hair. No distinguishing characteristics of note. The outdoor feeds caught him exiting the mall but lost him at the edge of the parking lot.”

  Damn.

  He shook his head. “I hate to tell you this, but this is pretty typical. These credit card thieves know they’ve got a limited window to use the stolen cards, and they rack up as many charges as they can before the card gets canceled. They also know to park off-site so they can’t be identified by their license plates.”

  I, too, was all too familiar with this kind of fraud. I supposed it had been too much to hope the guy would have slipped up.

  I stood to go. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Anytime,” he said.

  I returned to my car feeling frustrated. Sometimes it seemed that my work was futile, a vain attempt to put out financial fires. While I was busting my ass trying to nab one crook, ten new crooks cropped up to take his place, taking advantage of more victims. Would it never end?

  Probably not, I told myself. But that’s no excuse to stop trying. Quit your whining.

  While I was out of the office, I figured I might as well follow up with some of the other businesses Flo Cash had mentioned on KCSH. The owner of Doo-Wop Donuts might have claimed she’d paid nothing in return for Flo promoting her business on the radio, but I wasn’t buying that she hadn’t bought the ads. It was doubtful Flo would take up valuable airtime extolling the virtues of a business if she weren’t being paid. Flo might not charge top advertising rates for the casual shout-outs she gave some of the businesses, but surely she wasn’t simply mentioning them out of the goodness of her heart. Somewhere, somehow, she was getting compensation. I was sure of it.

  I pulled out the list of businesses Flo had mentioned yesterday and looked for ones that were in the general area of where I was now, north of downtown. I decided to spend the rest of Thursday morning visiting two of the businesses—a hair salon and a children’s consignment shop.

  The salon, Hair to Dye For, sat on Walnut Hill Lane, near the Dallas North Tollway, and appeared to cater to the well-heeled clientele who lived in the upscale neighborhoods nearby, including Preston Hollow, home to former president George W. Bush. A string of silver bells hung from the front door, announcing my entry with a tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. The smells of fruit-scented shampoo and styling products danced in my nose.

  The receptionist sat on a stool behind an elevated counter. “Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” I said. “No appointment.”

  She turned and called back over her shoulder at the four stylists working on clients at their stations, “Can anyone take a walk-in?”

  I raised a palm. “I’m not in need of services.”

  She ran her gaze over my locks. “Are you sure about that?”

  Okay, so maybe I’d skimped on my usual morning routine to make sure I got to the portrait studio on time. Sheesh. “I’m from the federal government,” I said. “I need to speak to the owner.”

  She looked just as incredulous that I could be a federal agent as she was about my professed lack of need for styling services. Really, how many asses would I have to kick before people would start taking me seriously?

  The woman stood from her seat. “Mitzi’s the owner. Give me a second.” She walked over to an attractive sixtyish blonde who was putting the finishing touches on a raven-haired thirtysomething. The receptionist pulled the stylist aside to whisper in her ear.

  Mitzi’s gaze snapped from the floor to me, her posture stiffening. Once more I felt like the unwelcome magazine salesman. She said something to the receptionist, then stepped back to her client to apply a final coating of hair spray.

  The receptionist returned to me. “Let me show you to the office.”

  “Thanks.”

  She led me to an open door at the end of a short hallway at the back of the space and gestured to a leopard-print chair inside the room. “Have a seat. Mitzi will be back as soon as she’s finished.”

  My butt had barely hit the chair when Mitzi entered the room, closing the door behind her. “How can I help you?” she asked as she circled the small antique desk to take a seat behind it.

  I laid my business card on the desk and nudged it toward her. “I’m with the Internal Revenue Service. I’m investigating a company that your salon advertises with.”

  “D Magazine?” she asked, referencing a ritzy local rag.

  “No.”

  “The Dallas Morning News?” she inquired. “We buy ads in their FD magazine insert.”

  The insert was a luxury lifestyle mag, a glossy supplement published ten times a year. Surely those ads cost a pretty penny.

  “No,” I replied. “Not that, either.”

  Parallel lines formed between her perfectly waxed brows as they drew inward. “The only other ads we run are discount coupons for first-time clients in the Dollar Deals mailers. Is that what you’re referring to?”

  The mailers arrived once a month in a thick envelope that included coupons for neighborhood businesses offering anything from carpet cleaning to shoe repair. I routinely used the coupons for my dry cleaning.

  “I’m not referring to print ads,” I told the woman.

  “Print ads are all we do,” Mitzi replied. “Commercials on television or the radio are too expensive and not well targeted. There’s no point in paying for that type of advertising when our primary clientele are higher-income people who live within a two- or three-mile radius of the salon.”

  Hm-m. Not only did this woman know Brazilian blowouts; she also knew business.

  “I’m talking about your ads on KCSH Radio.”

  “Like I said,” Mitzi replied with a shrug, “we don’t do radio ads.”

  I eyed her closely. “Flo Cash has mentioned your salon multiple times on the air.”

  “Ms. Cash is a client,” Mitzi said. “If she’s mentioned the salon on air it must mean she’s happy with our services.”

  “So you’re not paying her cash for the ads?”

  “Absolutely not. I need tax deductions as well as the next business. If I were paying for ads I’d want a paper trail in case my business was audited. Surely you, as an IRS agent, can understand that.”

  I could. Was I off base here, or was this woman not giving me the full story? Either way, it seemed I’d get no further with her. She’d risen from her seat, clearly dismissing me.

  “All right, then.” I, too, stood to go. “Thank you for your time.”

  She reached over to a basket on her desk, fished out a sample of conditioner, and held it out to me. “Try this. It’ll do wonders to fight your frizz.”

  Frizz? The nerve of this woman! “We can’t accept anything fro
m taxpayers.” Other than insults, that is. Those were generously and frequently tossed our way.

  As I walked back through the salon, one of the stylists shook her head at something her client had just said. “What was he thinking, talking to you like that?” She pointed her scissors at her client’s reflection in the mirror. “Next time he says something so stupid, you send him my way. I’ll take care of him.” She made a snip-snip motion with her scissors, and she and her client shared a raucous laugh.

  I returned to my car and headed to Hand-Me-Down Town, the children’s resale shop. I found the store’s owner wrangling a secondhand portable crib in the back corner.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with IRS Criminal Investigations.” I held out my business card.

  Rather than taking it, she continued to wrestle with the crib but lifted her chin to indicate a high chair nearby. “Put it on the tray.”

  I laid my card on the plastic tray attached to the chair. “I’d like to ask you about your advertising,” I said. “Specifically about payments to KCSH for radio time.”

  She hardly bothered to look up as she snapped the legs into place. “I don’t pay KCSH for ads.”

  Ugh-h-h-h.… “You must compensate the station somehow,” I said. After all, this was America, land of capitalists. You don’t get something for nothing here. “Airtime is valuable. They wouldn’t give it away for free.”

  She put a hand on the upper rail of the crib and jiggled it to test its stability. Satisfied, she finally focused her attention on me. “Look. I already told you I don’t pay KCSH. I’m not giving you any further financial information. How do I know you’re not some scam artist trying to steal my bank account number? How do I even know you’re from the IRS?”

  I gestured to my card on the high chair and pulled out my badge, holding it out to her. “Does this convince you?”

  “No,” she scoffed. “I’ve got no idea what an IRS badge is supposed to look like. How do I know it’s for real?”