“True identities?” I cut in.
“They’re names. We need to find out who they are. If we can lift a print, we’ll run it in the FBI’s database and see if we can learn their real names.”
The realization that Jamie had given me a fake name hurt almost more than learning that Jamie had disappeared with $35,000,000 of my money.
“Anyway,” Detective Black continues, “we’ll also want to examine your phone and computers for any information relating to this matter. We’re after any crumbs of data that might lead us to Jamie. We’ll send over a forensic team to your house, if you don’t mind, to collect those devices. We will only need them for a week or so. Also, you should know, although we will do everything in our power to keep this case, we may reach a point where the FBI wants to take it from us. If Jamie actually took thirty-five million from you, I bet the FBI will find some bullshit excuse to take it from us as soon as they sniff this investigation. With an amount that large, it is highly likely that Jamie has transferred your money across state and national borders. Probably several times by now. And that’s where the FBI’s jurisdiction kicks in. What will probably happen is that we will work with the FBI on it, but the feds are territorial, so don’t be surprised if they take over the investigation entirely. In fact I’m going to call my contact with the FBI in just a few minutes. Anyway, none of that really matters to you. What matters is that we will dedicate all of our available department resources to getting your money back.”
“Okay.” I say.
“Okay.” Detective O’Brien echoes. “What time is best for you that we send that team over to your place?”
“Tomorrow morning?” Truth is, if the LAPD and possibly the FBI are going to be digging through my phone and computers, I need a night to scrub them of anything that might make them think I’m not an upstanding citizen. Nothing too serious, just the usual drug and sex transactions that get law enforcement worked up. On top of that, I would feel better about having law enforcement in my home after I’ve had a chance to off-load a few pounds of cocaine I have laying around. I’ll give Riley however much Riley wants, then flush the rest. Just to be on the safe side.
“Great, let’s get your address and we’ll send a team by around 8:00 a.m.”
“Would eleven work? Eight is too early.”
With the time nailed down, the detectives take my address and ask a few more questions. Then they give me an outline of how the investigation will proceed. First, as mentioned, they’re going to get a warrant for all the records the Aon Center has and comb the forty-fifth floor for any evidence. Then, they will analyze my computers and electronic devices. They will run everything they find through their databases and “keep me posted.”
“We’re going to be honest with you, though, Caish. People like this—these professional conners—are pretty tough to track down. They cover their tracks well and move fast. You mentioned that you haven’t seen Jamie since Friday, well that gives Jamie a three day head start on disappearing. Money these days is easy to transfer and hide if you know a good hacker that can move it through the system in ones and zeros.”
“Okay. So... What? You’re not going to get my money back?” I’m starting to feel dizzy.
“We’re not saying that,” Detective Black interjects, “we just want you to know that you need to consider arranging your finances in a way that doesn’t necessarily count on getting this money back in the next few weeks. Or months. Hey, Caish, you’re not lookin’ too good, you feelin’ alright?”
I don’t have time to answer, I’m about to hurl and I need to get to a bathroom. I take four steps to my left and throw up a slop of stomach muck onto the carpet.
“Okay okay take it easy,” Detective Black says. “Take a seat, here, come on back.” The detective leads me back to the couch and sits me down. “Take it easy, Caish, here,” Detective O’Brien sets a garbage can down at my side and jogs over to reception, says something and points toward me. The receptionist peaks up over the desk and has a perfectly normal reaction to seeing a puddle of vomit on carpet. The receptionist picks up a phone and probably says, “Hey, some asshole just puked all over the floor down here, you better send somebody to clean it up.” The detective returns with a paper cup full of water.
“Here ya go, just try and relax. You’re alright. Everything is gonna be fine.”
“Detective O’Brien, I have just learned that I probably lost all of my money. All thirty-five million dollars of it, and you two just told me I might not get it back for months. I. Am. Not. Alright.”
Detective O’Brien glances at Detective Black, then says, “You’re right, the situation is not looking good. But I mean right now. You’re okay right now. This seems like a big deal now, but, like my father always used to tell me, what seems like a big deal now, won’t... well, forget it. Look, just take it easy. Baby steps for the next few days.”
“And what about my car?” I ask.
“Oh yeah, let’s get your license plate number and vehicle information and we’ll check Long Beach to see if it shows up on any of the shipping manifests. We’ll also flag it as a stolen vehicle so if these jackasses are dumb enough to drive it around, LAPD will pick ‘em up. But, again, Caish, don’t get your hopes up too high. If these people are professionals, that thing was inside a crate headed for China yesterday listed on the ship’s manifest as ‘strawberries.’”
7
Tuesday. Tomorrow I am not going to Tahiti with Jamie. In fact, I’m not sure I will ever see Jamie again.
They aren’t wearing blue blazers with yellow “FBI” lettering on the back, so I have to examine their badges to make sure they aren’t imposters. Apparently the FBI took over the investigation sooner than expected. The new point man on the operation introduces himself as Agent Palmer, a tall, middle-aged, well-built sculpture of brawn and grit. At 11:00 a.m. sharp a team of four agents arrive and begin dismantling my office. They take my iMac, both my laptops, my phone, and my tablets. They don’t say much. Just ask where my devices are and then if I have any more devices. They say they’ll get my phone back to me in the next couple of days, and the rest of my computers within the next couple of weeks.
I walk them out then stand in my entryway. I stare at the back of the door for a spell, then turn and look at my Pollock painting. In hindsight, maybe it tried to warn me with its splotchy foreboding doom. It had once looked like a pond full of tadpoles, and now it looks like a tornado of chaos and killing. Of course Jamie liked it. I want nothing to do with it. I’ll sell it right now. But, I realize I don’t have my phone, so I hang up the idea. Not having a phone is as crippling as not having vocal cords. Not having computers is... well... like not having hands? Whatever. The point of the matter is that I can’t get anything done. I decide to go for a drive to clear my head.
My garage is the biggest room in my house. At 5,000 square feet, my garage is almost as big as my house. Squeaky clean white epoxy floor, white limestone tiled walls, with a ten foot ceiling holding 130 can lights. Several parking spaces are vacant as a result of my recent sales and the theft of my Aston Martin and Lamborghini. My fleet has been gutted. I’m down to six cars. But, as bad as things may get, I’ll always have my cars. These are paid off. Well, most of these are paid off. And car insurance isn’t a problem. It would cost thousands a month, but I bought a $50,000 surety bond with the DMV a few years back, and they count that as insurance.
For today’s drive, I opt for the Porsche 930. The only good part about yesterday was driving the 930, might as well brighten today with the same machine. This 1986 Porsche 930 cost me about $182,500—higher than most 930s go for in today’s market, but it’s because this one has an RWB body kit. Its satin black paint and black wheels give it a sinister look. The engine and suspension are from a 2015 911 Turbo. I still owe money on this car, but I’ll pay it off. I can’t part with it. I’ll use my earnings from the Pollock to pay it off.
I drive for hours. I take PCH up to Santa Barbara, then get lost on side roads c
oming back through the valley. I know it’s a bad habit, but I smoke through a pack of cigarettes on my drive. I make it a point to tell kids never to smoke in the car, but cigarettes help with this crushing anxiety. Without the income from my Green Mountain accounts, I’m not sure how I’m going to keep my realm from eroding. Until I get that thirty-five million back, I’m going to need to get creative. With my 5.92 percent interest rate, the mortgage payment on my fifteen-year, twenty-million dollar mortgage comes to just under $170,000. A month. And that’s not my only expense. $1,200 a month for my landscapers, $900 for my utility bills, another $600 in maintenance and heating for the pool, and $1,500 for the cleaning crew for my house. $8,500 a month for my private jet charter membership. $1,600 a month for chauffeur services. $1,000 a month on car detailing. $150 to $200 on eating out every day (all three meals (I don’t like cooking)), so that’s another $5,000 a month. Depending on the market, cocaine costs around $70 a gram, and I go through roughly ten grams a day, so I guess that’s another $20,000 a month. The little things add up too. Cigarettes (at a couple packs a day) cost me close to $500 a month, and gas is probably $300 to $500 (some of my cars only take race fuel). Clothes, a few thousand, clubs, maybe a couple thousand, and “escort services” range between five and ten thousand a month. Obviously I need a steady income. I have two million in the bank. That will keep me afloat for now, but I’m not blind; I’m basically broke. Time to circle the wagons, as my brother would say.
On Thursday, still phone-less and having not flown to Tahiti yesterday, I drive to the bank to discuss my mortgage with Mr. Aaron D. Valentini, the largest banker in town. Mr. Valentini invites me into his wood-paneled office and I brief him on my situation. When I get to the part about having a $170,000 monthly mortgage bill, two million in the bank, and no source of income, I slow down to give Mr. Valentini plenty of opportunities to jump into the conversation offering solutions. Instead, Mr. Valentini sits with his elbows on his desk and his interlocked fingers under his nose. His eyebrows have been furrowed since we sat down, and, aside from the pleasantries when I first walked in, he hasn’t said a word. Then, mercifully, he interrupts.
“Let me stop you right there, Caish. What can we do for you?”
“That’s what I came here to ask, what can you do for me?”
“Hm.” And then he was back to brow furrowing.
“Maybe I could refinance?”
“Already? You financed just a couple months ago.”
“Or, maybe just change it to a thirty-year loan to make the payments smaller?”
“That would be refinancing.” Mr. Valentini takes his elbows off his desk and leans back in his chair. Do people who weigh four to five hundred pounds always worry that their chairs, beds, cars, floors, etc. are going to just give up and collapse? How much can Mr. Valentini’s chair possibly take?
“So, is that an option?”
“I’m afraid not.” Mr. Valentini says, looking more bored than afraid.
“Surely there is something you can do. Maybe we can push back the due date on my next payment?”
“Suspending payments is not a wise practice. Typically deferring repayment only compounds the problem by foregoing for another day what should be done today. At this juncture I suggest making your scheduled payments punctually. I am sure the FBI will apprehend this confidence artist and return your money to you with due haste.” Mr. Valentini rotates in his chair and heaves his massive body onto his feet. “If the FBI has not made any progress in six-months’ time, let’s reconvene.”
I take the long way home and stop by Riley’s place. I don’t remember the last time I knocked on a door. Riley answers with a look of confusion.
“Did you just knock on my door?” Riley opens the door wider and I walk into the entryway. Riley’s apartment has high ceilings and white walls. Dark slate tile and modern furniture. Riley doesn’t walk into the apartment and sit down. Instead, Riley keeps us in the entryway.
“Yeah, sorry, you busy?” I ask.
“Sort of, yeah. Why did you knock on my door? No text? You knock on doors now? Are you alright, Caish?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Well, sort of. Actually I guess things are a little up in the air right now. Anyway, I don’t have my phone right now and I was in the neighborhood so I figured I’d swing by and see what you were doing. Wanna grab a bite to eat?”
“You’re asking me on a date?”
“No, no, not a date. We’ll just go get food, maybe get some drinks afterward, do some coke, and maybe round off the night with sex. But not a date, no.”
“Sounds fun, Caish, but I have a photoshoot early tomorrow and I can’t be hung over.”
“Just dinner then?”
“Sorry, I can’t. I have other stuff going on tonight.” Riley’s eyes look left and Riley nods down the hall. I lean around the corner, look down the hall, and hear the shower running.
“Are you with somebody right now?” I ask.
“Yeah. Sorry,” Riley says, “you don’t mind do you?”
“Oh no, no, not at all, you know me, I’m way chill about that kind of stuff. All good. Okay have a great night.” Get me out of here.
“Caish, really, this doesn’t change anything.”
“I know. It doesn’t, Riley. Really, I’m good. There’s just a lot going on right now. I’ll call first next time.”
“Well, text.”
“Right, yeah, I’ll text first next time. Like usual.”
I always figured Riley had other relationships, but witnessing it isn’t easy. It doesn’t feel good. Who is Riley with? And is that person as attractive as me? Doubt it. As rich? Not likely. So what is Riley doing? Is it retaliation for something I did? Whatever, Riley is young and replaceable. There are hundreds of models that are just as hot that would kill to be with me. They’re all down for anything as long as coke is available. Riley’s loss.
The FBI returns my phone two weeks later. Two weeks without a phone or computer is Gulag-level isolation. I spent most of the time going on drives, floating in my pool, watching movies, and trying new restaurants. I was also very productive, I paid off the loan on my Porsche, and lined up a couple cars for consignment. At this point, my bank account was down to $1,682,004.27.
A few weeks later the FBI returns the rest of my electronics and gives me an update on the investigation. We meet in my office. Agent Palmer and I stand behind one of the FBI’s computer people as she hooks up my computer.
They had not found any clues by reviewing surveillance video and rental records from Green Mountain’s office building (“we suspect somebody at the building allowed them to rent space on a vacant floor using false names and taking payment off the books, we’re still looking into that”). The forensics team that examined Green Mountain’s floor didn’t find so much as a hair. I told Agent Palmer that Jamie had played my piano, so maybe there were some fingerprints. His team dusted the keys, but they had been wiped clean. We tried a few other places that I was sure Jamie had touched, but again, wiped clean.
Agent Palmer also tells me that the computer forensics team couldn’t find a trace of Jamie anywhere. He also tells me that what I was doing online wasn’t technically illegal, and there was no reason to delete all that. He must have read the confusion on my face, because he gave me a short lesson on how nothing is ever actually deleted. But, either way, Jamie had apparently been successful in deleting Jamie from existence. The trails on the app and website ownership winded through several sham corporations with fake operating members. The way Agent Palmer tells it, all sorts of people who never existed set up corporations which then created other companies to build and host a website for a company that was created with the sole purpose of taking my money. After my money had been transferred, it was immediately divided into smaller denominations and transferred to at least fourteen thousand corporations that don’t actually exist. They’re just bits of information in server towers around the world. From there, the money—which was just zeros and ones flying through fiber o
ptic cables under the ocean—went to thousands of offshore accounts to which the FBI cannot get access, or even find.
“Essentially, this person we’ve been referring to as Jamie scrambled your money and made it disappear using sophisticated computer hacking techniques,” Agent Palmer told me. “But, we’ll keep working the case from every angle we can.”
“And what about my Lamborghini? Anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it normal that there isn’t even a ransom note or anything?” I asked.
“You mean for your car?” Agent Palmer seemed to stuff down a laugh.
“I don’t know, yeah?”
“No Caish. These types aren’t interested in ransoms, they took everything they wanted. No negotiation.”
“So, when do you think you’ll have my money back?”
“Well, that’s the tough thing. At this point I can’t really give you an estimate. You may want to adjust your lifestyle so that you can live comfortably with what you have left. We can’t make any guarantees that we will be successful in recovering your money.”
“What do you mean? Are you saying I might not get my money back?” I ask.
“Yes, that is exactly what I have been trying to tell you.”
My face goes numb and I start to see little sparkles.
“Woah, Caish, you better have a seat, you’re looking a little pale,” Agent Palmer took my arm and guided me onto my Eames chair. “Can I get you something to drink, Caish? Let’s open a window.”
Malibu Motel Page 11