Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (17 page)

Looked like I wasn’t the only one who should’ve paid more attention in school. “It’s a country.” At least I thought it was anyway. Maybe it was merely a state within a country.

She shrugged and left my office, turning right to continue on her route down the hall.

A quick Internet search confirmed that, yes, Andorra was situated between Spain and France. It was a small, landlocked country with no coastline. My search also confirmed that typhoons did not occur in Europe. Rather, they were prevalent only in the Pacific and Indian Oceans.

Sheesh.
Apparently, when Mother Nature failed to wreak havoc upon her inhabitants often enough, the criminal behind the fraudulent charity invented natural disasters to keep donations rolling in. He seemed to realize that not only were people very busy these days, but they were also overloaded with information and their attention spans were very short. They took things at face value rather than questioning the information or its source. When one of their Facebook friends made a donation and posted a link suggesting their friends do likewise, who wanted to be the uncompassionate jerk who couldn’t spare a mere ten dollars for the victims of a flood, fire, earthquake, or other natural disaster?

The fact that this particular con artist preyed on people by taking advantage of their empathy and generosity seemed especially egregious. If I had to hazard a guess, the culprit had probably copied the horrific photographs from some other Web site.

I wrangled the victims’ credit card statement out of the file and placed a call to their bank. After twenty-seven minutes waiting on the phone and three transfers, during which I was cruelly subjected to three different songs by Cher, I was finally connected with an assistant in their legal department.

“What can you tell me about U.S. Red Cross?” I asked, after giving her the preliminary details.

“The organization is based in the Bahamas,” she said. “Nassau, to be precise.”

Damn.
Another con artist hiding out in the Caribbean, beyond the reach of U.S. law enforcement.

“Would you like the contact information?” she asked.

I doubted the information would be valid, but said yes anyway. As she rattled off an address and phone number I jotted them down. “Thanks.”

As soon as we ended the call, I plugged the address into a mapping program on my computer. Just as suspected, the computer told me that no such address existed. When I tried the phone number, it merely rang and rang and rang with no answer and no voice mail message.
Rrring … rrring … rrring
 …

I jabbed the button to end the call and stared at my computer screen. “Who are you, you bastard?”

Perhaps it was sexist of me to assume the con artist was a man but, hey, if the shoe fits, right? Though the occasional stiletto was involved, most of the shoes tended to be male where these types of white-collar crimes were concerned.

I knew from experience that just because a business had offshore accounts and purported to be based in the Caribbean, it was unlikely that the operators of the business actually lived or worked on the islands. While European con artists traditionally used Swiss bank accounts, those who utilized offshore accounts tended, by and large, to be American. Again, criminals staying as close as possible to their comfort zones.

I put my phone down on my desk and sat back in my chair, eyes closed, trying to think like a criminal. If I were going to run a Facebook charity scam, how would I do it?
Hmmm
 …

First, I’d set up an offshore account, just as this crook had.

Next, I’d set up a Facebook page that looked legit, just like this crook had.

Finally, I’d set up a dozen or so artificial online personas, “like” the fraudulent charity’s Facebook page, and start making connections with random people to whom I claimed some loose, difficult-to-verify relationship, perhaps that I’d briefly attended their high school and remembered them fondly.
It was so nice of you to invite me to sit with you at lunch that time!
I’d make a few friendly comments on their posts.

Your children are adorable!

I’ve never seen such a cute cat!

Wow, that dress makes you look so thin!

Once I’d gained the trust of my victims, I’d post emotional pleas on my personal pages expressing grief over the loss of life and destruction of homes in the latest natural disaster, note that I’d made a donation to my fraudulent charity, and implore my fortunate, caring, and compassionate friends to make a donation via a quick and easy link on the charity’s page. While they were there, I’d suggest, why not “like” the charity page to help spread the word? If this indirect appeal fell short, I’d send personal messages to my new cyberbesties and ask them directly to please support the cause with ten dollars or so.
Heck, that’s hardly more than a morning latte,
I’d say.
Together we can make the world a better place!

Yep, it wasn’t hard for me to delve into the criminal mind. I’d concocted many a sordid scheme myself back in high school when I’d been grounded for one infraction or another yet didn’t want to miss some kegger being held in a barn or pasture somewhere.
You’ve got to let me out of the house, Mom. My English teacher is giving us extra credit if we go see the drama department’s performance of
Macbeth
tonight.

As if.

Turning my attention back to my computer screen, I scanned the photos of those who had commented on the U.S. Red Cross page. The vast majority of them were women, though there were a few men in the mix, too. It didn’t surprise me that the con artist had targeted women, who were more likely to be drawn in emotionally by the photographs. While it took only a child’s sad face to get a woman’s attention, when it came to men it generally took a beer bottle or a set of oversized boobs.

I leaned closer in toward my screen.
Who of these people are real and who are mere illusions?

I clicked on a photo of a smiling blonde wearing a pink cowgirl hat. Her page indicated that she lived in Tucson, Arizona, and contained photos of cactus flowers, the Painted Desert, and the woman and three friends in a Mexican restaurant with margarita glasses lifted. She’d made everything on her page public. At least a dozen recent posts told me she was legit. Criminals worked only as hard as necessary to keep up their ruse. I doubted this perpetrator would take the time to make so many posts.

The second photo I clicked on was an Asian woman in a black turtleneck. All I could tell about her was that she lived in Manchester, New Hampshire, and worked as a sommelier at some fancy-schmancy restaurant.

I maneuvered my mouse to click on a third photo. The Facebook photo for “Laurel Brandeis” showed a woman with curly dark hair hovering airborne over a trampoline, her legs extended out to each side and her fingers touching her toes in a jump the cheerleaders at my high school had called a Texas T.

Something about this photo seemed familiar.
Do I know Laurel Brandeis?
It was hard to believe. The odds of me being personally acquainted with one of the scammer’s victims had to be very low. My gaze shifted to her personal data. She lived in Boise, Idaho, and had attended Brigham Young University. The likelihood of our having met seemed infinitesimally small. Yet the woman seemed very familiar somehow …

Dang.

Try as I might I just couldn’t place her. The lack of REM sleep was seriously hampering my work performance.

Given that I had no way of determining which of the people were real and which were fictitious, I decided not to waste any more time reviewing the pages. Even if I could tell the made-up people from the real ones, there’d be no way to identify who had created the pages for the nonexistent people. I figured my best bet was to beat this scammer at his or her own game. I’d worm my way in, earn the culprit’s trust, and see if I could get the con artist to willingly or inadvertently give me clues to his identity.

In an earlier case, I’d pretended to be a freelance bookkeeper and used the alias Sara Galloway. I’d made an authentic-looking Facebook page for her in case anyone suspected I wasn’t who I said I was and went snooping online to see if Sara G was legit.

I pulled up the page, finding myself face-to-face with a simple headshot of myself taken a couple of years ago at my desk at the CPA firm. “Oh, Sara,” I told myself. “You were so young and na
ï
ve then.” And so free of worry wrinkles.

I hadn’t updated the page in a few months, but no problem there. I thumbed through the photos on my cell phone until I found a picture of me taken last summer in my parents’ backyard. I wore cutoff shorts, a wrinkled T-shirt, and sneakers, and was feeding peanuts to one of the family goats. I uploaded the photo to my computer and posted it to my Sara Galloway Facebook page along with text that read
I’m finally back from my missionary trip to Africa. Here’s me with one of the village goats. I’m so glad I had a chance to give back to the less fortunate. I am truly blessed! I only wish I could do more for those in need!

My fake photo and story now online for the world to see, I ventured forth and clicked the “like” button on the pages of several legitimate charities before proceeding to the page for the U.S. Red Cross and “liking” that one, too.

Rather than overplay my hand, I did nothing else for now. But over the next few days, I planned to edge closer and closer to my prey. I had no idea how things might play out, or exactly where I would go with this, I simply knew it was the only way of nailing this virtual villain.

chapter sixteen

G
et Your Head in the Game

At four-thirty that afternoon, I went into Nick’s office and grabbed his baseball bat, hoping it might bring me luck in tonight’s game. I left his sports bag alone, having no need for an extra-large T-shirt, men’s tennis shoes, or a protective cup.

I tucked the bat under my arm and snuck out of the office. Not that I had to try too hard to be inconspicuous. Lu had an unwritten rule that anyone playing on the IRS softball team could cut out a little early to get ready.

I drove home, changed out of my suit and into a pair of shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt. I tied a lightweight hoodie around my waist and pulled my hair up into a ponytail. After feeding my cats an early dinner, I grabbed my old baseball glove and a bottled water from my fridge, and headed back out to drive to Exall Park, which sat slightly northwest of downtown, on the east side of Central Expressway.

On the drive over, my thoughts returned to El Cuchillo and his knife, making me feel scared, helpless, and frustrated once again. Not exactly the best mood for facing down the ironically hard-hitting team from the local Peace Corps office.

“There she is!” Will Dorsey called as I approached the open field next to the softball diamond where the Tax Maniacs milled about, beginning to warm up.

I held up the bat. “I brought Nick’s lucky bat.”

“Well, then,” Will said. “I’ll be expecting you to hit a home run.”

Gee, no pressure, huh?
I was a decent enough athlete. I’d played on my high school volleyball team, even earned the title of MVP on a couple of occasions. In college, I’d played intramural softball with a group of accounting majors. We called ourselves the Bean Counters. We’d had some skill, but even more luck, winning the season championship with a score of 9 to 8 when we’d vanquished the Irresistible Force, a team of surprisingly agile nerds from the physics department. I even worked out regularly to keep in shape. But it had been a while since I’d played softball on any regular basis. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d swung a bat. I’d sort of hoped Will would just have me warming the bench.

The Peace Corps team, a group comprised primarily of middle-aged hippies sporting tie-dyed shirts in an assortment of colors, were on the diamond, warming up with some batting practice.

“Tara! Over here!” One of the other IRS team members, a fortyish auditor with prematurely gray hair and a lean runner’s build, waved me over to warm up with him.

I put on my glove and we tossed the ball back and forth a few times. His powerful throws impacted my glove with a resounding smack that caused my hand to sting. The balls I threw landed softly in his glove with a soft, unimpressive
plup.

Damn.
I was definitely not on my game tonight.

When it was time for the game to begin, we headed to our dugout. The Peace Corps team likewise headed to theirs.

“Here’s the lineup,” Will said, holding up a clipboard.

He passed the list to the first guy on the bench, who handed it down for us all to take a look. Hana Kim’s name, in the third slot, was scratched out, my name scribbled in beside it.

Will and the captain of the Peace Corps team met up with the umpire, who tossed a coin to see which team would bat first. When the coin landed, the umpire swung his arm, pointing our way.

As the rest of us chanted, “IRS! We’re the best!”, my warm-up partner headed to home plate.

The Peace Corps’ pitcher, a tall, skinny guy with a brown braid hanging down his back, sent a fastball streaming toward my teammate.
Crack!
The ball sailed between the second and third basemen. My teammate ran full speed to first and slid into second.

Will cupped his hands around his mouth. “Nice job! Way to start the game!”

The second batter missed the first pitch, but bunted the second, making an easy run to first base while our other team member advanced to third.

As I stood, Nick’s bat gripped tightly in my hand, my team shouted words of encouragement.

“Go get ’em, Tara!”

“You can do it!”

“Show those hippies who’s boss!”

I hoped I wouldn’t let them down. But, as I stepped into place at home plate, I feared I would. Nervous sweat broke out on my back and upper lip, my hands growing moist, as well.

The pitcher wound up and released the ball, which came screaming at me. Rather than swing, I stepped back and away.