The Straw Buyer

The Straw Buyer

by Philip Mongeau

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Philip Mongeau

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Chapter twenty-four

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the author

Prologue

Sarasota, Florida – April, 2006

It’s simple, really. All you have to do is sign for the mortgage, I take it over from you and hand you ten grand. Then you walk away with the cash. That’s it. End of story. Derek Friedman leaned forward with both arms on the table, pushing his Scotch aside.

If it’s that simple, why don’t you do it yourself? asked Jeff Ames, as he defensively drew his beer closer towards his chest.

Because I’m a broker. I’d need a hundred percent mortgage on this place and the bank won’t give it to a broker. You act as the buyer, that’s all. I do this all the time.

Well, I dunno, said Ames, shaking his head slowly, shifting his massive frame in the booth and tugging at the visor of his faded red Black & Decker cap with dirty finger stains on its brim. He picked up his beer and took a sip, staring into Friedman’s dark eyes that appeared to absorb all the light in the bar.

Friedman returned the stare, shifting his look at Ames from one eye to the other, like a panther might assess its prey. With the way property values are going up, the banks are tripping over themselves to lend people money. You’ve got a job – hell, they’ll beg you to take their money.

What’s in it for you?

I’ll rent the place for enough to cover the mortgage and by this time next year the place ’ll be worth an extra fifty grand. All the baby boomers want to come down here and retire. There’s a huge market for this kind of property. I’ll sell it next year and stick forty G’s in my pocket.

Is this legal?

Legal, schmegal. No one really cares. Friedman raised both hands for emphasis and scowled. He wore a black shirt that matched his hair, with the sleeves rolled up enough to reveal gold bracelets on his wrists that glittered in the dull light of the bar and grill. The bank isn’t even on the hook for the money. They sell the damned mortgages to someone else.

Ames thought about the Ram Charger he had seen at Sarasota Motors. That big black beast gave him a hard-on. Ten grand would go a long way towards the down payment. Hell, he’d get it with leather seats. He squirmed in his seat and said, What do I gotta do?

It’s easy. I set everything up, do the paperwork, pay for the appraisal, the works. All you do is sign the papers at the bank. When we close the deal, I take over the mortgage and you’re free and clear.

The waitress suddenly appeared at their booth and asked, You fellows want anything else, something to eat?

Friedman waved her away without breaking eye contact with Ames.

Ames looked up at the waitress, appraising her short black skirt that was a size too small, Yeah, hang on a sec. I’ll have a couple of cheeseburgers and some fries. You got onion rings?

We’ve got them. She noted the order on her pad without looking at Ames.

Get me another beer, too.

You, sir? she looked at Friedman.

No, no. Go on. We’re talking business here.

She turned and walked away. Ames watched her from behind. Nice ass, he said.

Yeah, well, what do you think about my deal?

Lemme sleep on it, okay?

Don’t sleep too long. This deal won’t last. This is a really hot property and someone else is going to come along and snatch it up. I’ve been in this business twenty years and deals like this don’t come along every day.

I’ll let you know by tomorrow.

Okay, no later. Friedman finished his Scotch in one gulp and put the glass back down on the table, clinking the remaining ice cubes. I’ve got to run now. You got my cell number. He stood and removed a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it onto the table. Enjoy your burgers. He turned and left the restaurant without another word.

Ames sat alone, thinking about the money. He tried to calculate how many hours of overtime he’d have to do at Toolsville by renting tools to assholes who brought them back with pieces missing. He gave up trying to calculate when he realized he couldn’t do it in a lifetime with the lousy pay he got.

When the waitress returned with his burgers and onion rings, he pictured her slipping into the leather seat beside him in his new pickup truck. He smirked when she set the food down. She ignored his look.

As she walked away, he watched her ass, trying to figure out if she was wearing a thong or if she was butt naked under that tight skirt she wore.

Yeah, babe, he muttered to himself. I could treat you just fine.

He thought a little longer about the Dodge Ram he wanted and made his decision to go for the deal that Friedman had just offered him. His concerns about the legality of the deal had vanished. He figured that as long as it didn’t kill anybody, it would be all right. He would wait to call Friedman so he wouldn’t seem too anxious.

Chapter one

By the time Judy Prior got to work on Monday morning, her gun was cutting into her right kidney. It was going to be another unusually hot day for April and she would have preferred not to have to wear the damned blazer to cover the gun. Stepping out of the car, she adjusted her belt to relieve the discomfort and felt for the badge clipped to her belt. It was a reflex to make sure it was still there. She then pulled her blonde hair back off her shoulders and secured it with an elastic band. With her hair in a ponytail, Judy figured she looked more like one of her fellow officers.

Though not very tall, Judy was perfectly proportioned, a fact not well hidden by her blue blazer. She wore a white blouse like a man’s shirt, tucked into khaki pants that weren’t too snug but still outlined a very feminine shape. She had freckles on her nose that gave her a friendly appearance but she was tough enough to pull down most men twice her size.

Though the Sarasota Police Headquarters was air conditioned, she removed her blazer upon entering the building. She strode past the duty sergeant at the front desk, giving him a small wave as she breezed by. He looked up from his newspaper and gave her a quick faux salute and went back to his paper. She continued through the glass door that opened into the Criminal Investigations Division and entered the department that was already buzzing with activity. Her desk was piled with paper. She pulled back her chair and dropped her jacket over the back of it before sitting down and looking across at her partner, seated at the facing desk.

Hey, Alexis, what’s up today? She smiled, lighting up her bright blue eyes.

He returned her smile, revealing brilliant white teeth. He had dark brown skin that looked like highly burnished oak.

You’re late, he said, leaning his tall frame forward, folding his massive hands together on the desk.

Alexis Kinyara was a Rwandan immigrant who had acted as an interpreter for the UN security forces during the worse period of genocide in Rwanda that followed years after its independence from Belgium. He was allowed into the States in 1996 as a political refugee. Through extremely hard work, he had become a police officer, earned a gold shield and was now an American citizen at thirty-two years old.

Yeah, well I gotta drive all the way up from Osprey, ‘cause I can’t afford to live in Sarasota, she answered, pushing some of the files aside.

I live right here in Sarasota, he responded, flashing another smile.

In a rooming house.

It’s not a rooming house. I’ve got my own place with a bathroom and a kitchen.

No offense Alexis, but the way I’ve heard you describe it, it sounds like a shoebox. I want to live in a real home and I can’t do that here. Prices are too crazy for us working stiffs to afford to live here.

Alexis made a dismissive gesture with one hand and raised his eyebrows. Compared to Rwanda, he was living in luxury.

She pulled back the papers she had shoved aside and looked down at them without really reading anything and asked Alexis, So, what have we got on today?

Captain wants us to have a look at some mortgages that have gone bad.

Mortgages? Is that all he can come up with? Isn’t there anything more exciting happening in this town?

There seems to be some kind of unusual financing going on and some of the new condos are having more than their share of foreclosures. The captain wants us to have a talk with one of the banks that has been affected.

Judy thought that maybe this could turn out to be personally interesting. She wondered if she could find a better rate for her own mortgage. By the time she finished paying her mortgage every month, along with the car payment and the credit card bills, there wasn’t much left for anything else. Little did she realize that she was about to walk into a case of murder that would threaten her own security.

We’re supposed to be over at Sarasota National by 10:00. Alexis stood up and bent down to remove his jacket from the back of his chair. He was nearly six foot five and had the proud bearing of a Tutsi warrior.

Judy looked up at him as she stood and slipped on her jacket then adjusted the small silver cross she always wore on a thin chain around her neck. The cross was the remaining link to her late grandmother, who had always acted as her protector when she was growing up. It was Nana who had guided her through the awkward years of puberty, with whom she could ask questions that she would never share with her own mother. Now that she had passed away, Judy thought of her as a guardian angel.

As they walked out to their car, Judy asked, So, what’s the story with these mortgages?

Someone at Sarasota National called it in. This woman inside says that there has been an unusually high rate of mortgages in arrears that were issued by the same loans officer and that no one seems worried about it. Apparently, this guy making the loans is quite senior and reports directly to the bank’s president. This woman said their bank isn’t the only one holding more than its share of bad paper.

Has she spoken to anyone else?

She spoke to her own boss who told her not to worry about it because the bank wasn’t liable.

How’s that work?

I have no idea. That’s what we’re going to find out. I called her back and she’s expecting us.

They arrived at their black Crown Victoria in the parking lot behind the precinct. It looked hot standing there with the sun reflecting off its hood.

You got the keys? Judy asked, holding a hand out. I’ll drive.

He took the keys out of his pocket and handed them to her with a smile. You always want to drive.

That’s because you scare me when you drive. You go through town like you were dodging bullets in Rwanda.

He looked at her and said nothing.

I’m sorry, she said. That was inappropriate. I can’t believe I said that.

That’s okay, he replied quietly.

Judy rolled down the windows and turned the air on high as soon as she started the engine. They were hit by a blast of hot air. She directed the vents towards her face.

Aren’t you ever hot? she demanded in an accusing tone, looking at his cool demeanor.

I like it like this.

She shook her head and backed out of their space. The air conditioner started to kick in after they had driven down the first block. Alexis turned his own vents away from himself.

They drove five blocks to Sarasota National Bank and found a parking spot right in front. By mid-April all the snowbirds had fled north, leaving welcome parking spaces for year-round Floridians.

When Judy got out of the car, she flapped the sides of her blazer to try to force air under her arms. Alexis buttoned his jacket.

They entered the bank and walked directly to the information kiosk in the main entrance. Alexis spoke to the girl behind the counter, Hello. We’re here to see Joan Newton. Could you tell us where we can find her?

She’s not here, the dark haired girl said to Alexis, then turned to look back and forth at both of them.

Oh. We had an appointment with her at 10:00, he said, looking up at one of the numerous clocks on display.

Well, I mean she doesn’t work here anymore.

Since when? asked Judy, moving in beside Alexis.

Well, this morning. The girl didn’t look comfortable with her own response.

Alexis removed his gold shield from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it up to the girl. Could you tell us the circumstances? When I spoke to her yesterday, there was no talk about leaving the bank.

The young girl’s eyes darted around, not focusing on anything and said, You’ll have to talk to Mr. Kennedy about that.

She picked up the phone on her desk and dialed four digits. After a brief pause, she spoke quietly into the phone, with one hand covering her mouth. Excuse me, Mr. Kennedy. There are some people with the police who said they were supposed to meet Joan.

She nodded into the phone without looking up and said, Yes sir. I’ll tell them that.

Alexis and Judy exchanged glances. They both stood very straight to their full heights.

The girl replaced the phone in its cradle and looked up at both of them. Mr. Kennedy asked you to have a seat over there, she said, pointing towards a row of chairs next to some offices. He’ll come and see you in a few minutes.

They both relaxed and Judy said, Thank you.

She turned towards the proffered seats and Alexis followed, towering over her. Neither of them sat down. She turned to Alexis, Maybe she really did have something to say to us.

That’s what I would guess, he replied, looking around the bank at the posters that mostly promoted mortgages.

There were also three portraits of stern-looking men hanging on the wall in front of them. Brass plaques at the bottom of each identified them as current and past presidents of the bank, each named Hastings. Judy remarked, I don’t see any pictures of ‘Employee of the Month’. I guess at this bank it’s more about who is boss.

It looks that way, replied Alexis, looking at the portraits.

After standing for a few minutes, they were approached by a short, balding man who had stepped out of one of the offices, taking short tentative steps as he buttoned his jacket over his ample belly. He wore a pale gray suit that he had either outgrown or purchased two sizes too small. He looked up at Alexis and turned towards Judy with his hand outstretched.

Hello, I’m Thomas Kennedy. I am the senior loans officer here. What can I do for you? He returned his hand to his jacket pocket and looked quizzically at them both through eyes shielded by bushy eyebrows that looked pasted on to his nearly bald head.

Judy replied, I’m Detective Prior and this is my partner, Detective Kinyara. She gestured towards Alexis. Kennedy made no move to offer his hand. Alexis stood impassively staring at him.

Judy continued, We had an appointment with Joan Newton. We’ve been told that she’s not here anymore and that we should speak to you.

Kennedy’s cheeks flushed. What were you seeing her about?

This is something we would have liked to discuss with her. When my partner spoke to her yesterday, there was no indication that she wouldn’t be here today. Could you please tell us what happened? Why she’s not here?

Well, Kennedy replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and scratching his nose, we had to let her go.

Alexis spoke for the first time, Why was that?

Kennedy continued to look at Judy and said, That’s an internal matter, having to do with company policy.

Alexis ignored the rebuff, Could you please give us her address and phone number?

That would be against company policy.

Judy put both hands on her hips and leaned into Kennedy’s face, Being uncooperative with the police can end up being a lot more serious than overriding your company policy, Mr. Kennedy.

He backed away from her and used both hands to check the button that held his jacket closed. His expression turned from nervousness to a pig-like meanness. He looked up and said, There is nothing about Ms. Newton’s relationship with this bank that warrants any interest from the police. We simply do not give out employee or former employees’ information to anyone without a warrant. Period.

Judy stepped closer to him and said, Well, Mr. Kennedy, it doesn’t work that way. This is an official police investigation and you are obliged to provide that information or you can come right into headquarters with us now. Am I clear?

His mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water. He backed off and simply said, Wait here.

He returned after a few moments and handed Judy a slip of paper that she glanced at then nodded at Alexis. Without saying anything to Kennedy, she turned in unison with Alexis and they walked out of the bank into the sunshine.

As they stepped outside, Judy said, What a little prick.

Alexis smiled at the American expression and remarked, I would guess that’s what he’s got.

She blushed as she looked away from her partner. Sometimes she wondered about how Alexis might be endowed and felt embarrassed for even thinking about it now.

Alexis unlocked the car, turned on the engine and turned up the air conditioning, in deference to his partner. Judy stood outside the car and flipped open her phone to dial the number on the slip of paper Kennedy had handed her.

After a pause she got into the car and said, "There’s no answer. Not even a machine. Why don’t we go by there anyway? It’s really not very far from here. It’s not like we have to be anywhere right now. Turn right at the next light and go down to forty-one and take that south. It’s just a couple of miles from here.

I felt like kicking that little asshole at the bank. What a jerk.

Alexis looked across at her and said, "What I don’t understand about that kind of person is what they think they are proving by acting that way. He’s got to know that