by Cindy Sample
"Uh, Laurel, I've been thinking that I was sort of off base last night, you know, at the memorial service. I realize you and your friends are only trying to clear your name and since you don't know what you're doing, you can't really interfere with our investigation."
Hmmph. If this was Tom's definition of an apology, it wasn't working.
"Great. I've managed to put my size twelve in it again."
I dropped into the nearest chair. This could be a lengthy phone call. “Would you like to start over?"
"First I want to apologize for my behavior the other night. It was absolutely inexcusable.” He paused. “By the way, do you really think it's safe to go to dinner on Friday?"
"Safe for me, or my date? My mother would kill me if I cancelled."
"Okay, but try to stay out of trouble."
"Trouble? Me?” I laughed. “I don't suppose there's anything new with my case."
"One dead end after another. No pun intended. Add to that a fatal motorcycle accident off of Salmon Falls Road late last night. You didn't crash into any bikes on your way home, did you?"
"No, but something crashed into me,” I mumbled.
"What?” His shout was so loud I thought my receiver would explode.
"I was rear ended last night. I just missed colliding with a tree."
"Are you okay? Did you report it?"
"No. I mean, I'm okay but I didn't report it. The car or truck that hit me just kept on going."
"Jesus H.,” he swore. “Laurel, why didn't you call me? Where did it happen?"
"On Bass Lake Road. I was on my way home after driving by Garrett Lindstrom's house."
Uh oh. TMI. Too much information.
"You just happened to drive by Lindstrom's house last night?” His tone of voice had ventured back into frostbite territory.
"Um, kind of. I was checking to see if the house was listed For Sale."
"And?"
"It is. So Stan, my mother and I sort of looked at it today."
His voice softened, something I'd noted didn't usually bode well for me.
"So now your fingerprints are all over the house, correct?"
Fingerprints. That was dumb. Next time I'd bring latex gloves with me.
"Um, well, sure, but my mother and Stan's prints are there too."
"Your mother and Stan are not murder suspects."
Right. “We found some clues.” He'd be happy about that.
"Clues we missed.” His sigh was so forceful I felt it through my receiver. “Sure."
"Did your guys find the tax returns in the laundry hamper?"
"What?"
I spent the next five minutes explaining Stan's unusual but effective foray into Garrett's dirty laundry.
"I'll get someone over to Garrett's house right away,” he said.
"Umm, there's a strong possibility they aren't there anymore."
I held the phone away from my ear while he ranted. When the decibels diminished to a moderate level, I jumped back in.
"We were afraid the killer might come back to the house and discover them. There has to be a reason why Garrett hid the returns in the hamper. Anyway, I assumed you wouldn't want me to hang on to them since I'm your number one suspect so Stan took them home. He's going to bring them to the office tomorrow."
"Fine, just fine,” he replied.
Funny, he didn't sound fine.
"Would you like to know what we found out when we followed Dr. Radovich?” Maybe that would put him in a better mood.
"You followed Dr. Radovich? When?"
"Oh, we sort of ended up behind his car after Jeremy's memorial service,” I muttered.
The sound of garbled conversation in the background came over the phone.
"I need to go. I'll come to the bank tomorrow to pick up those tax papers. But listen to me. No more following suspects, no more attending memorial services, no more visiting dead guy's houses. My job is difficult enough without worrying about you all the time."
"But—"
"Good-bye.” The phone slammed in my ear.
Alrighty then.
[Back to Table of Contents]
TWENTY-FOUR
I had barely settled into my office routine Wednesday morning when the phone rang.
"Laurel, it's Liz. Guess what I discovered?"
"What?"
"Something dodgy is going on at Slater and Radovich's medical practice."
I closed my loan file. Detecting definitely trumped underwriting. Even though it meant putting aside the credit file of a well known Hollywood personality buying a mega mansion in Lake Tahoe. Yes, a little glamour occasionally wanders into the life of a mortgage underwriter.
"What did you find out?” I asked.
"I stopped at their office yesterday to drop off some brochures for Tara. That kid may dress like a bimbo, but she's a brainy bimbo. After we chatted at the service, she decided to do a little investigating herself. Neither she nor Carol have anything to do with the books, so she had to wade through a ton of clutter in Radovich's office before she found something."
Liz paused for effect. Why did my detectives have to be so dramatic?
"Tara eventually found the checkbook for the practice in his miscellaneous file. She has no idea how much money they normally keep in the account but Dr. Radovich has been writing checks to himself every week for several months. For thousands of dollars."
"Wow. That ties in to the losses Stan noticed at the casino Monday night. I wonder if Jeremy realized what Radovich was doing."
"Should we follow him again?"
"No, I think we're supposed to leave that to the sheriff's department. When I spoke with Tom last night he was adamant that we stay away from the doctor."
"Any new developments I should know about?” She giggled. “Either from a criminal or a sexual perspective?"
"Very funny. Most of our conversation consisted of him yelling. Although he did say he was worried about me."
"Worried about you getting hurt? Or worried he might have to arrest you?"
"Thanks, Liz. You really know how to boost a girl's spirits. Oh dear. Stan Spade just appeared with our latest evidence. Call you later."
I hung up to greet my assistant. Clad in a belted beige trench coat and plaid fedora, Stan looked more like a pervert than a detective.
"Nice duds,” I remarked.
He tipped his hat to me before he plunked it down on my desk. The tax returns were clasped to his chest. “I swear I couldn't sleep a wink last night worrying someone might break in and steal these. I made an extra copy just to be on the safe side.” He thrust the originals and the copies into my waiting arms.
"Did you look at them?” I asked.
"Nah. I figured my job was to discover the evidence. Your job is to evaluate it.” The sound of approaching footsteps got our attention. Stan grabbed his hat and slunk away while I quickly stashed the purloined papers in a drawer.
Carl King, manager of the loan-servicing department, paused in front of my desk. He was dressed in his standard navy blue suit, crisp white shirt and red and navy striped tie. He handed two fat manila files to me. “Laurel, I'd like you to review these delinquent loans. They're ready to go into foreclosure."
I grabbed the files and blinked at him in surprise. Despite other banks’ issues, conservative Hangtown Bank hadn't foreclosed on a property in over twenty-five years.
"Did I approve them?"
"No. Mary Lou underwrote both of them and Earl countersigned since both loans are over a million. That's why I want you to examine them. Just to make sure...” he hesitated, obviously not wanting to cast aspersions on my co-workers. “Let's just say I'd like another set of eyes to check over the paperwork."
"Sure. I'll get right on it."
Carl smiled in appreciation. “Then I'll leave them in your capable hands."
I appreciated Carl's confidence and opened up the first file. The Carters, a wealthy couple, had purchased a two million dollar house. The six thousand square foot Tuscan style home was s
ituated on a two-acre lot with magnificent views of Folsom Lake. Based on their assets, income and credit scores, the underwriter had approved a loan for $1.4 million, 70 percent of the sale price. According to the notes from the loan-servicing clerk, the borrowers had not returned any phone calls.
I flipped through the file. Just because our bank hadn't previously encountered any fraud didn't mean it was impossible. Technology had provided even more creative tools for those with a criminal bent. It didn't take that much brainpower to produce false documentation.
The monthly bank statements appeared authentic. Our funding clerk had verbally verified with their banks that their assets existed. The Carters’ tax return, which showed sufficient dividends, interest and pension income to make the house payment looked legit. I compared the borrowers’ signatures on the tax return to the loan documents. Everything looked okay.
Wait a minute. Whose signature was in the spot reserved for the tax preparer?
Garrett Lindstrom, CPA.
Interesting. But not particularly relevant. Garrett had owned his CPA practice for almost ten years. He probably did taxes for tons of our bank customers. Was the Carters’ return included in the group we had taken from Garrett's house last night?
I reached into my drawer and removed the stashed returns. Herman and Glenda Carter. Hmmm. Would I find the other delinquent borrowers’ return in there as well?
Bingo. Darren and Margie Andrews. Their return was also in the pile. I flipped open their loan file with increased interest. Another well-to-do retired couple buying a $2.2 million dollar home, this time with a $1.5 million loan.
Two delinquent borrowers who used the same CPA.
A clue? Or a coincidence?
My deductive processes needed a caffeine infusion. I headed toward the break room, stopping at Stan's cube on the way. I was relieved to see he'd hung up his trench coat and fedora.
"Any luck with the returns?” he asked.
"I'm not sure, come grab a cup of coffee with me.” The smell of scorched popcorn filtered into the hallway. “Hey who burnt the...” My voice faltered when I saw Earl removing a blackened bag of popcorn from the microwave. He turned around with a sheepish look.
"Guess I stunk up the office, huh? I can never get the hang of this microwave popcorn. I thought I would have time to take a phone call but ...” His voice trailed off as he ruefully looked at the charred mess in his hand.
My brain did a quick calculation. Four, maybe five minutes to microwave one of the large bags of popcorn I store in the cupboard. That would occupy Earl while I checked out his office. As the manager of the mortgage division with full signing authority, Earl could have been involved in some type of scam. It was a lot easier to commit fraud when you have an inside source.
"You know, that popcorn is really unreliable so I use this brand.” I bent down and grabbed some of the stash I'd hidden in the back of the cupboard. When I straightened up I noticed Earl's eyes glued to the back of my thighs. He had a hungry look on his face but I couldn't tell if it was directed at the popcorn or me.
I handed the canary yellow bag to my boss. “Make sure you don't leave the break-room while it's cooking or you'll burn it. Stan, while he waits, tell Earl about that problem file we were working on."
Stan started to protest but I stared him down. If anyone could drag out five minutes with useless chatter, Stan could. I strode down the hallway to Earl's office, checking out the other cubicles to make sure a gallery full of viewers wasn't watching. Most of the staff appeared to be out to lunch. Or rather, out at lunch. Only a few of them were really out to lunch.
I slipped into Earl's office and plunked down in his chair, keeping an eye out for any employees passing by the door. I peeked through the mess on the desk. A few candy wrappers. A bowl of dried up instant oatmeal and a half eaten granola bar. A stack of loan files with familiar borrower names waiting for his review. As an underwriter I had the authority to approve or reject a loan, but all rejected loans were given a second review by management, which in this office, was Earl.
I opened the top drawer. Messy, messy boy. Earl's desk made my cubicle look like Martha Stewart's by comparison. Napkins dotted with multicolored stains of dubious origin were interspersed with the usual office supplies. A trillion paper clips in every shade of the rainbow were scattered everywhere. I poked through the debris with a pencil—no telling what viral germs lurked in his desk.
My attention shifted to Earl's credenza. I squatted with my knees locked together, slid open the doors and shuffled through the folders. I glanced through a couple of files before I struck gold—Slater, Jeremy, typed on the label.
Male voices reverberated from outside the office. I thrust the files back in the credenza and ducked down. I peeked over the desk. Stan was attempting to block Earl from entering the office. I lowered my head just as a muffled crash sounded, followed by a loud expletive.
I couldn't resist looking. Stan must have run out of stalling tactics and decided to knock over the bowl of popcorn. White kernels mixed with shards of blue ceramic covered the floor. Both guys had disappeared.
I grabbed the Slater file, stood up and stretched, both knees creaking in harmony. I definitely needed to get to the gym. A tiny scrap of paper the size of a fortune from a cookie flipped out of the folder. I shoved it in my jacket pocket and streaked through the door, seconds before the guys returned, a broom and dustpan in Stan's hands.
"Hey guys, do you want me to clean that up for you?” Normally I balk at performing the menial tasks assigned to women for the past couple of hundred years, but in this case, it would provide an excellent distraction.
"Here.” Stan handed the broom to me. I grabbed it, tucking the pilfered file under my arm.
"Thanks, Laurel.” Earl smiled slyly. “Like I said, I don't know what I would do without you. You don't mind if I have some more of that popcorn, do you?” Without waiting for an affirmative from me, he ambled in the direction of the break-room.
"What were you doing in there?” Stan said.
"I wanted to go through Earl's files and I figured this might be my only opportunity. Guess what? I found one with ‘Slater’ written on the label. Unfortunately you guys showed up and I didn't get to finish going through the stuff in his credenza."
Out of frustration, I walloped one of Stan's Ferragamo loafers with the broom then shoved it into his more than capable hands. I headed back to my cubicle to review my purloined file.
Mary Lou popped her head over our adjoining wall. Today she was attired in a lime green suede jacket, matching turtleneck, and black leather miniskirt. It didn't take much analysis to deduce that another meet and greet with a member of the opposite sex must be on her schedule.
"Did you go out to lunch?” she asked.
"Nope. Just the break room. Why?"
"Some big guy stopped by your cubicle. I told him you were probably at lunch.” She giggled nervously. “He was kind of scary looking."
So was she, in her glow in the dark outfit, but who was I to hand out fashion tips?
Hmmm. Was he one of those goons who visited Dr. Radovich's office? Or worse. Detective Bradford coming to arrest me. That man could frighten the Sopranos into becoming model citizens.
Her eyes veered in the direction of the reception area. “He's back. Good luck.” She ducked back down.
I took a sip of cold coffee and turned to meet the big scary looking guy.
[Back to Table of Contents]
TWENTY-FIVE
With an expression so stern he could scare the panties off a suspect, an angry Tom towered over my desk. “Hand them over."
I didn't waste time pretending I didn't know what he was talking about. I grabbed the original returns and handed them to him.
"Is this all of them? Did you make any copies?"
Did I personally make any copies? I chose to go with a literal translation and shook my head.
He thumped the pages against his hand. “Anything new in your investigation?"
"Nope. No investigating. Just underwriting.” The fact that two of the six sets of tax returns found in Garrett's laundry hamper belonged to two of the bank's delinquent borrowers was curious, but at this point it was a foreclosure problem for the bank, not a homicide issue.
"Good. I'll call you at home tonight. I expect you to be there."
He strode down the hallway leaving me alone with his ultimatum. This detective was starting to tick me off. It's a good thing we hadn't become involved. He was bossier than my mother.
Time to review the Jeremy Slater file I'd grabbed from Earl's credenza before he noticed its absence. The property was located on Ski Run Boulevard in South Lake Tahoe. Since the sales contract I'd discovered on Radovich's desk was for a condo on Ski Run this must be the same purchase. His application indicated he owned only one piece of property, his residence in El Dorado Hills, valued at $700,000 with a mortgage of $300,000. He had several substantial bank accounts and made several hundred thousand a year from his medical practice.
I glanced at his credit report. Two credit cards with balances under a thousand dollars on each. He had a mortgage with our bank with a balance just under $300,000 and another mortgage with Worldwide Bank for $1.2 million.
Huh? Where did that come from?
I went through his file again. His application clearly stated he owned only one piece of property, his home. So why did the credit report show an additional loan in the amount of $1.2 million? That's not a dollar amount someone forgets to mention.
According to the credit report, the jumbo mortgage was originated in June, only five months earlier so there wouldn't be a record of it on his tax return. And it was ninety days delinquent. Jeremy was the last person I would expect to be behind on his mortgage payments. Just out of curiosity I looked to see if he did his own taxes.
Son of a CPA. Garrett Lindstrom had prepared the return.
We had a dead accountant who stored tax returns in his dirty laundry, and a dead doctor with a delinquent loan. If I were Columbo I'd be in detecting heaven.
Me. I was just confused. Why was this file in Earl's credenza?