Authors: Cindy Sample
Dying for a Date (26 page)
"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 situated 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.
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?"
Hey, that was my line. Did I detect a hint of sarcasm?
"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?
Time to use my detecting skills for my job. I went on the Internet and within seconds I was searching an El Dorado County Assessor's website. All I had to do was type in Jeremy's last name, and it listed all of the properties owned by a Jeremy Slater in the county. According to the tax rolls, he owned two properties, both in El Dorado Hills.
The first property was the residence he listed on his loan application. The other property had an assessed value of $1.8 million sold to Jeremy Slater on June 22. That meant that the $1.2 million dollar loan must be on this property.
Big house. Big loan. Big problem if he couldn't make the payments. Was he delinquent because Dr. Radovich had cleaned out the funds in their business account?
With the parcel number, I was able to retrieve the street address from another web site, 124 Via del Lago. Builders in El Dorado Hills are big on using Italian names for their subdivisions. I had to admit Via del Lago sounded way better than Street by the Lake.
Much as I hated to put a halt to my investigation, it would have to wait until tomorrow. Time for this detective to turn back into a mom. Since the school district had scheduled teacher meetings for the Friday before the Veterans weekend, Hank informed me he would take the kids to Tahoe for all four days. The weather in November could be iffy, meaning two feet of snow was as likely as sixty degree temps.
The odds of Hank planning ahead for inclement weather were as likely as the Easter Bunny showing up on Thanksgiving. That meant I needed to make sure Ben had snow gear that fit.
Supposedly they were staying at some big fancy resort. Knowing Hank's ability to wheel and deal, he probably lined up a free stay that would involve sitting through a ninety-minute timeshare presentation. Jenna was excited about using her empirical skills to calculate the most likely candidates to win horse races. With her assistance Hank could clean up at the casino Sports Book. Why couldn't I have a normal daughter who wanted to shop and hang out at the spa?
I picked up Ben from soccer practice then drove down to Budget Mart, the area big box store. Two hours and one hundred dollars later, Ben had the latest in waterproof snow gear in a mottled green and brown camouflage pattern. The good news was that it was affordable. Hopefully by the time he grew out of it, his taste in clothing would have improved.
The phone rang seconds after we walked into the house. My arms were loaded with parcels so Ben raced into the kitchen to answer it. I plopped the packages on a chair and waited for him to hand the receiver to me.
Strange. He wandered into the living room chatting away. Must be his father on the line. A few minutes later he ambled into the kitchen, his rounded cheeks as rosy as if he had been playing in the snow.
He handed the phone to me. “It's for you."
"What do you want?” I asked Hank, annoyed that I was a hundred dollars poorer due to his winter expedition.
"I want to talk to the most beautiful murder suspect in the county,” said my favorite baritone.
I flushed. “Oh, I thought Ben was talking to his dad. How did you get on the line?"
"Kristy called Ben so I thought I'd touch base with you after they were finished."
So that was the reason for my son's inflamed cheeks. I hoped he was more successful with his budding romance than I'd been so far.
"I'm trying to decide if being called the most beautiful murder suspect in the county is a compliment. Although I suppose it's better than being known as the hottie in the Hangtown hoosegaw.” My attempt at frontier humor ended in a whimper.
