“Are you absolutely positive there is not a white Aventador parked anywhere on your lot? Maybe somebody forgot to enter in the computer or something?”
“We are absolutely positive, Caish. Would you like me to call Lamborghini North Los Angeles and check with them? Maybe Jamie Lowell took it to that dealership?”
“No thanks, I’ll call them myself.” And I do, frantically. They say the same thing as Beverly Hills and Newport Beach: “Sorry, Caish, your vehicle is not here, and we don’t have any record of your Aventador having been brought in.”
I call Jamie. It rings once then a recording tells me, “We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.” Oh God oh God oh God. Not good. What the hell. I call Green Mountain’s main line. Same message. Disconnected. Fuck. I jog up to my office and look up the number I have for Green Mountain to make sure it’s right. It is. Oh God no. I pull up the website and instead of seeing the Green Mountain homepage with scrolling green numbers, escalating green lines, and green triangles, I see:
This site can’t be reached
www.greenmountainfinancefirm.com’s server DNS address could not be found.
Search Google for greenmountainfinancefirm
ERR_NAME_NOT_RESOLVED
No no no. I snatch my phone and check the app. Every time I try to open the app the screen just flickers and closes immediately. I call Jamie again. “We’re sorry; you have reached a—” this can’t be happening. I text Jamie just in case texts somehow still get through: “Jamie, what the fuck is going on? Your number is disconnected? Call me ASAP!” Shit shit shit. What the hell is going on? Why would Jamie change numbers without telling me? And where the fuck is my Lamborghini? Okay. Let’s see... Oh, Penn! She’s friends with Jamie. I call Penn.
“We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer—” no. I call again. “We’re sorry; you have—” again, “We’re sorry; you have—.” Tears well up. I can’t breathe, my chest is in a vice. I refresh the website and get the same message.
I have to get to Green Mountain. I’m going downtown. Now.
For the first time in my life, I fall down the stairs. Not all the stairs, just the bottom eight or nine. And it’s not so much a fall as it is a slide into second base. My hip is throbbing as I scramble to my feet and peel out across the tile toward the garage. Never wear socks when you’re in a hurry. At the garage door I pull on my Manolo Blahniks and pull the first key out of the key drawer that my hand touches. It’s the Porsche 930 key. Good thing, the Porsche 930 is a 911 with a turbo that turns an already fast car into a ludicrously dangerous and almost uncontrollably fast car, which is exactly what I need. At this time of day it will take me nearly two hours to get to downtown LA, but with the 930 and an ample use of shoulder lanes, I might be able to get there in an hour. Yet, I still need to let the 930 warm up. I feather the throttle as it burbles to life and search Facebook, then Instagram, then Twitter, then Google for Jamie T. Lowell. Nothing. Penelope Perez? Nothing.
I leave my garage with a bit more gusto than usual and can’t keep the car on the driveway. My perfect lawn now has Porsche 930 tracks. I accelerate toward the opening gate with rooster tails of grass and dirt coming out from behind the Porsche. When I get the car back onto the concrete the rubber bites in and sends me back in my seat. I let off the gas enough to make the turn out of my driveway and onto the road then lay into it when I get onto PCH. My hands are so shaky that I can’t get a cigarette lit. Usually I don’t smoke in the cars, but I need smoke in my lungs now more than ever. Every car I pass on the shoulder blasts their horn in a futile attempt to scold me. No time for these little people. A red light in the Parker Canyon area forces me to settle down for a few seconds. Finally I get the fucking cigarette lit. Again, not a good habit to get into—smoking in the car—but I don’t have a choice. Ah shit, I forgot about my sushi delivery.
“Yes? This is Ichiban Sushi.”
“Hi, this is Caish Calloway, I placed a delivery order a little while ago and I need to cancel it, an emergency came up.”
“Okay, sorry we have already sent it to your house.”
“I need to cancel the order.”
“It will make your emergency better to have sushi.”
“Yeah I appreciate that but I had to leave, nobody will be home to take the order, I need to cancel it.”
“It is already sent to your house, you cannot cancel it.”
“Okay that’s fine, charge me for it, but just call your driver and tell him to eat the sushi.”
“Our drivers cannot talk while they’re driving. Neither should you.”
I really don’t have time for this shit.
“Look fine, I won’t be there, do whatever.”
More horns, more weaving, more turbo. When the shoulder is too small to pass on, or it’s full of parked cars, I try honking and flashing my lights (the international signal for “this is a goddamn emergency, get the hell out of the way”), but in true California fashion, nobody gives a shit. Just middle fingers and honking back. So I wait. Hands shaking. Teeth tingling. Vision sparkling. Completely surrounded by cheap Toyotas and BMWs creeping down the highway. I feel like a sealed can of beer that has been shaken violently then set down, a flick away from explosion. This excruciating crawl lasts until I get to I-10, where I can take the shoulder again. After nearly two hours of molasses traffic I pull into Green Mountain’s parking garage.
The elevator takes its time getting to the forty-fifth floor. When the doors finally slide open I step out into an empty lobby. The lights in the elevator lobby are on, but the rest of the lights on this floor are off. The glass door that leads into Green Mountain’s office is locked. I call Jamie again. “We’re sorry, you have reached—.” I cup my hands on the glass wall and look into the reception area. No furniture, no Green Mountain brushed steel logo on the wall, no receptionist. Nothing. I bang on the glass and yell at a Jamie I know isn’t there. I rattle the door and try to pull it off its hinges.
Nothing happens. The walls look on in silent embarrassment.
I turn and rest my back against the glass then crumple to the ground. I stare at my phone and think what to do next. My stomach and chest tense up, my eyes well, and I cry. Not a trickle, a full on shoulders-bobbing sob.
When my exhaustion overcomes my emotions, I try to collect myself and take stock of the situation. What is happening? What do I do? Where is my Lamborghini? Where is Jamie? Oh God. Where is my thirty-five million dollars? Who can I call? Mia. Mia doesn’t answer. Oh! Gabby! Duh. Calling my lawyer should have been my first move.
“Good afternoon, thank you for calling Morely, Black, and Associates, how may I direct your call?”
“To Gabriella.”
“Transferring you now, please hold.”
“Gabriella speaking.”
“Gabby this is Caish, do you remember Jamie Lowell and all that Green Mountain shit? Well I don’t know what’s going on but it’s really bad Jamie’s phone is disconnected and I don’t know where my Lamborghini is and the app won’t work and the website is down and Penn has gone ghost too and I’m scared and I drove down to the Green Mountain office and there’s nobody here it’s all empty and dark and—”
“Caish, calm down.” Gabby’s tone is sharp. “If you fear for your safety or think that you are the victim of a crime, you should hang up and call the police immediately.”
“Just tell me what to do Gabby, I don’t know what to do.”
“I just told you what to do. Can you call the police? Do you want me to call them for you?”
“No, I can call them, okay I’ll call them. What else should I do?”
“I’m an attorney Caish, not a police officer or detective. The first thing you need to do is find Jamie Lowell. We have some private investigators that work for the firm, but you need to be on the phone with the police righ
t now.”
“Okay I’ll call them.”
“Caish, pull yourself together. You need your wits. Call me after you’ve spoken with the police and let me know what I can do to help.” As usual, Gabby hangs up halfway through my last word. I dial 9-1-1.
“Nine one one, what is your location?”
“Um, I can’t remember the address. I’m in the big black building downtown.”
“The Aon Center?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“Is the building on Wilshire?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s on Wilshire. I’m on the forty-fifth floor.”
“Okay 707 Wilshire, we’ve got a unit on the way. What is your emergency?”
“I think I may have been robbed.”
“Are you in immediate danger?”
“No.”
“Are you injured?”
Financially? Probably. Emotionally, yes. Physically? “No.”
“Are you safe where you’re at on the forty-fifth floor?”
“I don’t know, yes?”
“Can you get down to the lobby?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Okay, take the elevator down to the lobby, police officers will be there in just a few minutes. Is there anybody around you?”
“No, I think this entire floor is empty.” I push the elevator call button.
“Can you describe the person who robbed you?”
“Well, I mean I wasn’t robbed at gunpoint or anything, I think that somebody tricked me into transferring my money to them and then disappeared. Oh and my car was stolen too.” The elevator bings and the doors open to three young people in business casual staring at me.
“Okay I’m getting onto the elevator, I’ll have to call you back.”
“Let’s stay on the line until you see the officers.”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll call you back if I don’t see them.” Then I hang up. I realize it may have been impolite to the dispatcher, but it’s so annoying to be on the elevator with somebody who is talking on their phone. Probably doubly so when the person is a hot mess talking to the police.
When I get to the lobby, people are bustling about as you’d expect at the end of a workday in one of these hives of industry. The lobby is huge, maybe I should have stayed on the phone with the dispatcher. I’ll call her back... Oh, never mind, looks like those are the officers right over there. I wave and make my way toward them. There are two of them, both in black uniforms (including black ties), but neither of them have mustaches even though one of them is a male.
“Afternoon, you were the one who called?”
“Yeah, I think I’ve been robbed.”
“Wha’d’ya mean ya think? Were ya robbed or not?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I think I’ve been scammed or something. I invested a bunch of money with Green Mountain and—well, have you heard of Green Mountain?”
“No, neva heard of it.”
“Okay well I invested millions of dollars with them, over thirty million, and now they’re gone. Phones off, website down, and their office on the forty-fifth floor is empty. I also think they stole my car. I mean I left it in the parking garage here and now it’s gone.”
“Have ya checked the parking garage?”
“Not yet, but I gave them the keys so they could take it back to my house, and now they won’t answer my calls or anything.”
“Ya gave ‘em the keys to yur car?”
“Yeah, but not as a gift, just to get it back to my house.”
“So ya think ya been conned?”
“Yeah, I guess, whatever you want to call it. But I need help. I have to get my car back. And my money.”
“Okay, well are ya hurt or anything? How d’ya feel?”
“I’m not hurt. A little nauseous, but I’m not bleeding or anything.”
“Okay good. Least yur not bleedin’. Well I’ll tell ya right now this is gonna to be above our pay grade. We’re beat cops, if ya was bein’ robbed by some scumbag in a hoodie, we’d be able to cut that bastard down and get yur belongings back to ya. But this is a con, and cons are investigated by the Commercial Crimes Division of the LAPD. Martinez, ya wanna call this in and get somebody from CCD down here?” The younger officer nods, pulls a walkie-talkie the size of a brick out of her belt and steps away while speaking into the black brick. Officer no-mustache turned back toward me, “While we wait for them to get here, hows about we go check with building management and get all the records for the tenants of... a... what floor did ya say this Green Mountain outfit was on?”
“Forty-five.”
“Yeah, we’ll go get records of the tenants on the forty-fifth floor. CCD is gonna need those anyway. We’ll get the ball rollin’ on that and stick with ya until those detectives arrive.”
We walk to the building reception area and the officer asks to speak with somebody from building management. Within a minute or two, an older man that looks like he’s spent most of his life being a residential landlord in a rough neighborhood gets off the elevator and introduces himself as the building manager. He then steps behind the reception desk and scoots the receptionist out of the way to get to one of the computers. The officer tells him I am likely the victim of a crime and that he will need to review the tenant information for the forty-fifth floor, “Actually, let’s make it the whole buildin’, just to be thorough.”
The building manager gave a look like he’d love to help but, alas, powers greater than he would not permit it. “I am sorry officer, as I am sure you are aware, tenant information is private, and I cannot release that information without a warrant.”
“Oh come on,” the officer says, “we both know we can and will get a warrant, just save us all some time and print out some records for us.”
“Really officer, I am sorry. I cannot do that without a warrant.”
“Jesus Christ. Can’t get anything done these days. Okay, we’ll get ya goddamn warrant. In the meantime, we need to check ya garage for a vehicle. It was stolen from your garage...” then, turning to me, “‘scuse me, when di’j’ya say ya car was stolen?”
“I’m not sure, I left them the keys on Friday night. It could have been anytime over the weekend.”
“Okay so it was stolen from this building’s garage sometime over the weekend. We’re gonna go have a look around down there. Ya got surveillance cameras down there in the garage?”
The building manager looks up from the computer and nods with the same look of helplessness.
“Lemme guess,” the officer says, “ya gonna need to see a warrant for that too?”
“I do apologize, but that is the law, so, yes.”
The officer, under his breath, says, “everybody’s a fuckin’ lawyer these days. Okay, let’s go check out the garage, maybe we’ll get lucky and find yur car is still there.”
We aren’t lucky. My Lamborghini is gone.
When we get back to the building lobby, Officer Martinez is speaking with two business-casual young men, one of which has a mustache, so at least now I know I’m dealing with real cops.
“Hello, my name is Detective Aaron Black, and this is Detective Paul O’Brien. We’re with the Commercial Crimes Division of the Los Angeles Police Department. We’ve been told you believe that you are the victim of a financial crime, is that correct?”
“It is.”
“And what is your name?”
“Caish Calloway.”
“Caish?”
“Yeah, Caish.”
“We have some questions to ask you, Caish, why don’t we sit down?” Detective Black motions toward the lobby’s couches and coffee tables. “Well if you two are on the case we’ll leave ya to it,” the beat cop says, then, to me, “good luck with all this, sorry to hear about ya loss.”
Detective O’Brien tells me he’ll be recording this conversation and places a small plastic device on the coffee table. Both of them pull small notepads from their jacket pockets and click open their pens in unison.
“Okay Caish, le
t’s start from the beginning. Who took your money?”
“I think it was Jamie T. Lowell.”
The officers ask for a detailed physical description. Not just height, weight, skin color, and all those basic attributes, but details about eyebrows, earlobes, teeth, jaw line, and on and on.
Detective Black then asks me to, “Explain in your own words what happened.” As if I could explain it with anybody else’s words. I start by telling them about Penn, and they stop me there. “Penelope Perez.” Another detailed description. They explain to me that Penn was likely a shill and briefed me on how these con operations sometimes work. Apparently a shill is somebody who acts impartial and uninterested in the con. They give the impression that the whole thing is on the up and up (like a magician asking for a volunteer from the audience and the “volunteer” being an accomplice of the magician). While I tell the detectives about how Penn and I met, and how Penn presented Green Mountain, they exchange glances like they’ve heard this story before. I tell them about Green Mountain and its website and app. I tell them about Jamie, but leave out the details of our personal relationship (I don’t really see how that is going to help with their investigation). I also tell them everything I can remember about Green Mountain, including the office, receptionist, and construction. I give them specific numbers on how much I invested. When I say thirty-five million dollars both detectives stop scribbling and look up with open mouths and raised eyebrows.
“Caish, did you say thirty-five million dollars?”
“Yes, thirty-five million. Well it’s like thirty-five million six hundred thousand or something.”
“Caish, we need you to be completely truthful with us right now. You are telling us that you gave Jamie Lowell thirty-five million dollars?”
“Well, I guess. At the time I thought I was investing it in Green Mountain. Which, yeah, now I see where you might think that it’s akin to just giving it to Jamie, but it was an honest, well-thought-out, well-researched investment in Green Mountain.”
The officers stare at me for a few seconds, examining me, then look at each other, then back at me.
“Okay, Caish, we’re going to get moving on this right away.” Detective Black stood up and Detective O’Brien and I followed his lead. “We’re going to get a warrant for all the records this place has of every tenant that has rented space in this building in the last couple years. Sometimes these people do things off the books, and we have our ways of looking into that as well. We are going to check surveillance footage and see what we can learn from that; both regarding your stolen vehicle and Jamie’s physical appearance, license plate number, and any other information we can glean. We’ll dust the forty-fifth floor for prints and see if we can learn the true identity of Jamie Lowell and Penelope Perez. Then—”
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