I decided to call some of the dating sites and see where that might get me.
After identifying myself to a female executive at one of the major sites, I explained the situation. “We’d like to search your database and see if this man has approached women through your site.”
“What name did you say he was using?”
“Jack Smirnoff.”
“Like the vodka?”
“Exactly.”
“Hold on a moment. I’ll see if we’ve got a listing for him.”
So far, so good.
She paused for a moment as she apparently ran a search. “No. Nothing comes up under the last name Smirnoff. Could he be using a different name?”
“It’s possible,” I said, “maybe even probable. Unfortunately, I don’t know what his other aliases might be. But we have his head shot. Our tech specialist has told me that if he has access to your site he can run a search for the pictures and see if they show up in one of your clients’ profiles.”
The woman exhaled sharply. “I can understand your conundrum, and honestly I’d like to help. The problem is that our privacy statement assures our clients that their identities will be kept confidential. We don’t put a client in touch with another client unless and until both parties express interest. Even then we provide only screen names and an internal messaging system that clients can use until they decide whether they want to share their true identities and contact information. They have to jump through a lot of hoops before they get any real information. These levels are put in place to give our clients a sense of safety and security. I don’t see how we can willingly violate that trust without risking our reputation.”
Ugh. “Isn’t it just as risky to your reputation to let a predator use your site to troll for victims?”
“That’s certainly a concern,” she conceded, “though we take measures to warn our clients of the risks they assume by using any online service.”
“So you won’t let us access your database without a judge’s order?”
“Sorry, but no.”
“I figured as much.” I decided to take a similar approach to the one I’d take with J.B. at Big D Dating Service. I’d much prefer to keep the investigation in the hands of the IRS, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Especially when her chances of getting a court order were minuscule. “What if I sent you the photograph we have of Jack Smirnoff? You could have someone on your tech team run a search and see if it matches any profile pics in your system. If that were the case, you could determine whether he’d contacted any women through your site, get in touch with them, and ask them to call me.”
“That could work,” the woman said. “I’ll have to check with the tech department and see if they have the capability to search by picture. But assuming they do, this plan is a go.”
“Wonderful! What e-mail address should I send the photo to?”
She gave me an address and within ten seconds of my ending the call Smirnoff’s head shot was on its way to her. Over the next hour, I had the same discussion with staff at a dozen other dating sites. With any luck, one of them would soon be in touch to tell me that they’d found Smirnoff in their system and identified more victims.
I spent what remained of the afternoon listening to KCSH while working up some numbers in a tax evasion case against a window-washing service and discussing a potential plea bargain with Ross O’Donnell, an attorney at the Justice Department who handled many of the IRS cases.
Today, excluding the professionally produced commercials, Flo mentioned no fewer than twenty-nine local and regional businesses. She’d mentioned Doo-Wop Donuts at least three times. “Try a cruller and cappuccino,” Flo said. “There’s no better way to start your day.”
On my drive home, I decided to make a detour by Doo-Wop Donuts. A cruller might be a good way to start a day, but it wasn’t a bad way to end one, either.
The donut shop was housed in a fifties-style drive-in. The circular windows on the sides of the building appeared to be the holes in the sprinkled donuts painted on the walls around them. White Christmas lights were strung along the edges of the aluminum roof that overhung the parking spots, as well as along the poles that supported the menu boards and speaker systems. Two teenage girls wearing pink coveralls and roller skates carried bags and boxes of donuts out to the cars, making change from the money belts at their waists.
I pulled into an open bay next to a tired-looking young mother with three kids in a minivan. The kids were out of their car seats, high on sugar, screaming and hopping up and down and making the car bounce. “Stop that jumping!” the mother hollered. “You’ll wear out the shocks!”
I climbed out of my car and walked to the building, ignoring the sign on the glass door that read: “EMPLOYEES ONLY” and opening it to go inside.
Inside I found a blond woman wearing the same pink coveralls as the carhops but tennis shoes rather than skates. She glanced up from a table loaded with tray after tray of glazed donuts. “Bathrooms are around back.”
“I don’t need to use the bathroom,” I said.
She held up the pastry bag she’d been using to apply chocolate frosting to the donuts and used it to point outside. “You can order from your car. The girls will bring the donuts out to you.”
“I’m not here to pick up donuts, either,” I said. “I need to speak with the owner.”
Her face clouding in concern, she set down the pastry bag, wiped her hands on a dishcloth, and stepped over to the counter, giving me a once-over. “I’m the owner. How can I help you?”
I handed her one of my business cards, which only made her face cloud over more. Yeah, people aren’t so happy when an IRS agent shows up on their doorstep. We ranked right up there with magazine salesmen and purveyors of religions.
“Internal Revenue Service.” She looked from the card to me. “Is there a problem?”
“No, not a problem,” I assured her. “I just need some information. I noticed that you advertise on KCSH Radio. I’m wondering if you can tell me how much you pay the station for your ads. I believe you paid cash, correct?”
According to the financial records Flo had provided to the auditor, KCSH had received no payments from Doo-Wop Donuts. The business wasn’t listed among the paid advertisers. Still, I’d bet dollars to these chocolate-frosted donuts that this shop had made some sort of under-the-table deal with Flo.
The woman was silent for a moment, her darting eyes telling me that a lot of thoughts were zinging through the brain behind them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally, returning her gaze not to my face but to a spot over my shoulder. “We don’t pay to advertise on the radio.”
I moved my head slightly, forcing her to look me in the eye. “You don’t?”
She swallowed hard. “No.”
I call “bullshit.” “I heard the radio announcer mention Doo-Wop Donuts no less than three times today. She even mentioned that you’re running an early-bird buy-one-get-one-free promotion for customers who come in before seven in the morning this week. How would Flo Cash know about your special if she hadn’t discussed it with you?”
The woman hesitated a moment, then gestured out the glass front doors. “Maybe she saw our sign.”
I turned to look. Sure enough, the letters on the roadside marquee sign read: “EARLY BIRDS—BUY 1 GET 1 FREE B4 7 AM THIS WEEK ONLY.” Still, the donut shop wasn’t located between Flo’s house and the station. If Flo wanted a donut, why would she drive out of her way to come here when surely there were plenty of other donut shops located conveniently along her route?
I eyed the woman intently. “You are familiar with Flo Cash, aren’t you?”
As before, the woman hesitated. “I’m not sure. We get so many customers in here I don’t remember them all.”
There were as many holes in her story as there were in her donuts. But there didn’t seem to be much use in pushing her, at least not at the moment. She might change her tune once she had time to think things over. Then again, I could be totally off base here. Maybe Flo was telling me the truth, that she simply liked the donuts and that’s why she mentioned Doo-Wop on her show. This woman could seem hesitant simply because she was nervous. Having a federal law enforcement agent appear unexpectedly on your doorstep didn’t exactly give people the warm fuzzies.
“All righty then,” I said. “As long as I’m here, I might as well get a mixed dozen. Can you throw one together for me?”
The woman glanced out at my car and at the young girls in their coveralls milling about. It was clear she’d prefer I follow their normal ordering procedure, but I just as clearly didn’t want spit in my donuts. I’d take them right here where I could keep an eye on things.
The woman seemed to sense that I wasn’t going anywhere, and set about packing me a box of mixed donuts, even throwing in an extra blueberry. “I’ve made it a baker’s dozen.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure if the extra donut was standard procedure or an attempt for her to get on my good side, but it would take more than flour and sugar and vanilla to ease my suspicions.
She set the box on the countertop. “That’ll be nine dollars.”
I handed her my debit card and she ran it through a machine. I typed in my four-digit PIN, took the receipt and box of donuts from her, and headed back toward the door. Just before exiting, I glanced back her way. “If you happen to remember anything,” I said, “give me a call. It could be in your best interests.” Unlike eating a thousand calories of pure sugar, carbs, and custard, which was definitely not in my thighs’ best interests. Still, that fact didn’t stop me from shoving a Boston cream into my mouth on the walk back to my car.