After the women left, I returned to my office. Unfortunately, as much as I wanted to help these women and see justice done, I also knew that if Jack Smirnoff were captured today he’d likely get a mere slap on the wrist. While six grand was nothing to sneeze at, it was a paltry sum compared to many theft by deception cases. Moreover, he’d hadn’t preyed on anyone who couldn’t withstand the loss. Judges tended to go harder on con artists who preyed on the elderly or poor. Leslie, Julia, and Nataya were all successful women on solid financial footing. In order to put this guy behind bars, I’d have to show that there were more victims and a significant sum of money involved.
I spent a little more time digging into this so-called Jack Smirnoff. While I suspected there was little or no chance Jack Smirnoff was the guy’s real name—after all, what idiot would pull a stunt like this and give his victims his real name?—I figured the con artist must have gotten the name somewhere. Maybe from a coworker or neighbor or acquaintance. Hell, for all I knew, Jack Smirnoff could be the name of his childhood soccer coach or scout leader. Or maybe it was simply his favorite brand of vodka.
I searched online to find men named Jack Smirnoff. While several popped up, neither of the two who turned up in Colorado was the right age to be the suspect. One was seventy-six, the other a mere twenty-four. Despite the Colorado license plates on the Mercedes he drove, it was possible the suspect was actually a local man, so I searched in the North Texas area as well. I found three Jack Smirnoffs in the Dallas–Fort Worth metropolitan area, only one of whom was in the right age range. A quick look at his driver’s license photo told me it wasn’t the same guy. The Jack Smirnoff in the photo was black. “Nope,” I told the screen. “You’re not the man I’m looking for.”
Next, I phoned the restaurants where the women had gone on their dates with the catfisher. While three had exterior cameras, none retained their footage for more than thirty days.
“If there’s a problem,” one of the managers told me, “we usually know about it pretty quick. You know, someone running out on their bill, or a fight in the parking lot, or maybe one customer backs into another’s car. That kind of thing. I’ve worked here for years and you’re the first person who’s asked for older footage.”
Darn. “Thanks for your time.”
I contacted the Big D Dating Service next. “May I speak to the manager, please?”
“You got him.” The manager, who identified himself only as J.B., refused to give me any information by phone. “I’ll tell you this much,” he said. “When a client makes a complaint, the Big D policy is to contact the person they’ve complained about and give that person a chance to refute the story. If the response isn’t satisfactory, or if the person fails to respond within five business days, that person is removed from the site and banned from rejoining.”
“Who at Big D makes this contact?”
“I do.”
“So you communicated with Jack Smirnoff?” I said. “What was his response?”
“Hold up just a minute here,” J.B. said. “You say a man on our site wasn’t who he claimed to be. But how do I know that you really are who you say you are? How can I be sure that you actually work for the federal government? For all I know, you’re this Smirnoff guy’s wife or girlfriend and you’re just trying to catch him stepping out on you.”
Ugh. I’m going to have to go see this J.B. in person, aren’t I? “I’ll come to you, then. Prove I am who I say I am.”
“But that means I’ll have to put on pants.”
Sheesh. “Would you rather I issue a summons for you to appear at our office?”
“No,” he said. “That would require socks and shoes, too.”
“So we’re in agreement. I’m coming over. What’s your address?”
He growled in protest but rattled off a number and a street in the Greenville area. “Unit Fifty-Six.”
I plugged the address in my phone’s GPS app. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll start looking for some pants.”
The address turned out to be a condominium complex, four modern three-story buildings of gray stucco with glass-enclosed balconies centered around a pool, hot tub, and small lawn area. Unit Fifty-Six was in the third building. This is the home of Big D Dating Service?
I rapped on the door and J.B. answered a moment later. The guy appeared to be in his late twenties, like me. He sported a slightly scraggly dark-blond beard and hair, a T-shirt, and hopelessly wrinkled cargo shorts. He was barefoot and held a bottle of hard cider in his hand.
He tipped the bottle toward me. “You the IRS investigator?”
“That’s me.” I flashed my badge before offering him a business card. “Special Agent Tara Holloway.” I glanced into the unit. To the left was a kitchen and breakfast bar, to the right a living area with a couch, recliner, and big-screen television. A laptop computer sat open on the coffee table next to a large bag of potato chips. “This is the Big D Dating Service headquarters?”
“Sweet, isn’t it? My morning commute is ten steps from my bedroom to my chair. Less if I fell asleep on the couch.”
He stepped back in a manner that seemed to be an invitation for me to come inside, so I did.
He raised his bottle. “Want a beer?”
“Thanks, but I’m on the job.”
“So am I.”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to fire yourself. My boss wouldn’t look too kindly on me drinking while on duty.”
He flopped down on the recliner and pulled the lever to raise the leg support.
I perched on his couch. “How long have you managed the Big D site?”
“Since I launched it three years ago. It started on a whim. I used to work as a programmer. Busted my ass for fifty hours a week in a cubicle in a windowless room. When my girlfriend and I broke up, I signed up on some of the national dating sites. I realized pretty quick that I could offer a locally focused site for a third the price the larger sites were charging and still break even. Nobody else had a site targeted for people in Dallas. I figured what the hell, you know? Nothing to lose. Now I’m pulling down six figures and I work only twenty, thirty hours a week tops, from home, in my underwear. Plus, I get first shot at the new girls who sign up.”
“Sweet gig,” I told him. “And thanks for putting on pants.” Might as well show some appreciation, huh? “Like I said on the phone, one of your clients used the Big D Web site to prey on three women who have contacted the IRS for help. Your client took these women out on several dates, then asked each of them to cash a check for him. The women cashed the checks and turned the cash over to him but later learned the checks were fakes. Their banks recouped the losses from the women’s accounts.”
“I get complaints all the time,” J.B. said, waving his cider. “‘She didn’t look at all like her picture.’ ‘He’s been sleeping on my couch for two months and won’t leave.’ ‘She borrowed my car and disappeared with it.’ I’ll tell you the same thing I tell them. That’s not on me. My attorney made sure my ass is covered. The Big D client contract clearly states that the service merely provides an online venue to meet other people. We are up front about the fact that we don’t run background checks and make no guarantees about anyone’s behavior. Clients are warned to take precautions. They agree to hold us harmless for any losses. It’s right there on page one of our contract in bold print.”
“These women don’t want to sue your company,” I told the man. “They just want this guy to be stopped. I’ve run searches on the name Jack Smirnoff and nobody by that name matches your client’s description. It’s obviously an alias. You can help by providing me with all of the information you have on the guy and contact information for the women he was matched with.”
“That contract I mentioned?” the guy said, taking a swig of his cider. “It’s got a privacy clause in it. If I hand over information about the women he met through the site I’ll be in violation of the terms. The clients could sue me.”
“What about that ‘hold harmless’ clause?” I said, noting the provision he’d been so happy to hide behind only a moment ago. “Wouldn’t that protect you?”
He mulled things over, his nose wriggling as he did so.
“I’ve got affidavits from the victims,” I added, “signed under penalty of perjury. How about that?”
He sat up a bit, which I took as a good sign.
“See?” I whipped out copies of the affidavits and reached across the coffee table to hand them to him. “Official legal affidavits. They’re notarized and everything.”
I pointed to the notary seal. Many people thought that having paperwork notarized proved the veracity of the information contained therein. Actually, all it meant was that the notary had verified the identification of the person signing the document and thus prevented later legal challenges by signatories who might attempt to claim forgery. I wasn’t sure whether J.B. knew any of this, but I had to use whatever means of persuasion were available to me.
He looked the affidavits over and let out a long, loud breath that let me know his resolve was dissipating. I could be fairly stubborn and insistent, but it was an effective way of wearing people down.
“Look,” I pressed. “I understand you need to comply with your contract. But this kind of thing can give your site a bad name, even put you out of business. You don’t want to end up back in that cubicle, do you? Having to put on pants every day?” Oh, the tyranny of outer garments!
He squirmed in his recliner, a sure sign his resolve was melting.
I continued to hammer at him. “The women who complained to the government are determined to have this guy tracked down and punished, and if I can’t nip this case in the bud they might take things to the media.” None of the three women I’d spoken with had threatened to do any such thing, but this guy didn’t need to know that. Besides, it was possible they’d contact the newspapers or TV stations, right?
“I’m more concerned about a bad review on Yelp.”
“Good point,” I agreed. “And if I have to tell these women that you refused to help me, they might post a bad review of your service. So how about you tell me everything you know about Jack Smirnoff, since he’s clearly not legit, and then you can contact the other women he met through your site and pass my name and phone number on to them? That way, you’re not violating your contract’s privacy clause. Besides, they’d surely appreciate you giving them a heads-up. You might save them from being ripped off, too. Heck, you’d be a hero!” Given his dislike of lower body garments, being a superhero would be a good job for this guy. Superheroes didn’t wear pants, either.
He hesitated briefly but finally agreed. “All right. I suppose there’s no harm in that.” He picked his computer up from the coffee table, situated it on his lap, and tapped a few keys. “Here he is. Jack Smirnoff. His profile was taken down several weeks ago.”
“After Nataya Lawan, Leslie Gleason, and Julia Valenzuela complained to you about him?”
“I suppose that cat’s out of the bag,” J.B. said, “so yes. My notes indicate that I tried to call the guy, but his phone had been disconnected. I sent him three e-mails, too, but he never responded. He listed a Denver address in his account information, but in his profile paragraph he says he’s in the process of relocating to Dallas.”
I asked him to read the Denver address, e-mail address, and phone number aloud and jotted them down as he recited them. The phone number was the same one Smirnoff had given to Leslie, Nataya, and Julia. They had reported the number being disconnected when they’d tried to call Jack Smironoff after learning the checks he’d given them were fraudulent.
“What about his credit card information?” I asked.
J.B. ran a finger over the mouse pad and clicked a few more keys. “He used a Visa.”
Though I was fairly certain the Visa would prove to be one of those prepaid cards, I requested the number and wrote it down anyway. If I could determine where and when it was purchased, I might be able to nail the guy.
I looked over at J.B. “I realize you don’t want to give me the names of the female clients he contacted, but can you at least tell me how many there were and when he got in touch with them?”
He played around on his laptop for a minute or so. “Other than the ones you know about, there were only two. One of them replied to his wink by saying she appreciated his interest, but she’d decided to get back with her old boyfriend. The other never responded to him. Guess she wasn’t interested.”
This news was both good and bad. While I was glad no other women seemed to have been duped by Smirnoff, without more victims I had less chance of getting a clue that would help me track the guy down. There was also less chance he’d receive a meaningful punishment. Still, I wasn’t leaving here totally empty-handed. I had a phone number, address, and credit card information. Maybe that would get me somewhere.
I stood. “Thanks, J.B. I appreciate your help.” I raised a palm. “I’ll show myself out. Don’t get up.”
Not that he’d made any move to escort me to the door. But at least he sent me off with well wishes.
“Good luck catching the guy.”