KCSH kept me company as I slowly made my way through the Dallas morning rush-hour traffic on Thursday morning. My car’s speedometer might as well have measured my progress in inches rather than miles. That they called the morning commute rush hour made no sense to me. Everybody might be in a hurry, but nobody was going anywhere fast. A more appropriate term would be “tush hour.” After all, we were all sitting on our asses, cursing the cars ahead of us. At least I had a mug full of hot coffee and a couple of Doo-Wop donuts to enjoy on the way.
I crawled north on Central Expressway, exiting onto Lovers Lane and heading east. Finally, I arrived at Savannah Goode’s photography studio, barely making my 8:00 appointment.
A black woman who appeared to be in her early thirties met me at the door, turning the lock with a click. Her hair hung long and straight, her big brown eyes rimmed with thick mascara. She wore a loose-fitting tunic belted at the waist and a pair of stylish leggings that would allow for easy movement as she moved around to take her camera shots. “Are you the lady from the IRS?” she asked.
I held out a hand. “I am. IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway.”
We shook hands and I thanked her for agreeing to meet with me. She waved me in and led me to a small room containing an oblong wooden table with six chairs all angled to face the screen at the front of the room. A projector sat in the middle of the table. I surmised that this was the room where she and her clients reviewed the photographs she’d taken.
She pulled out one of the chairs for me, turning it back to face the table. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” I placed my briefcase on the table and dropped into the chair.
She took a seat next to me. “You said you had some questions about a photo?”
“About the person in the photo, actually,” I replied. “He’s one of your clients.”
“A client?” She paused a moment. “I may not be able to tell you much. Most people come in, get their photos taken, look them over, and place an order. If they want digital images, I download them to a thumb drive before they leave. If they order prints, those are mailed to them later. Unless they’re a wedding client, that’s about the extent of things.”
Unwilling to have my hopes dashed just yet, I snapped open the latches on my briefcase, removed the photos of Jack Smirnoff that I’d printed out, and handed them to her. “I’m trying to locate this man.”
She glanced down at the photo. “Are you sure he had this head shot taken here? I don’t see my copyright notice.”
“I’m positive.” I explained how Josh had been able to identify the source of the images online. “Any idea who the man in the picture is?”
She looked down at the photo once more and frowned. “He looks vaguely familiar, but I photograph so many people they tend to all run together after a while.” She looked up. “Not that I’d ever tell my clients that.”
Understandable. “The man in the photo has been going by the name Jack Smirnoff,” I told her. “We suspect that’s not his real name, though. He’s wanted for questioning in connection with some financial crimes. Could you check your files and see if he gave you his real name? Maybe an address or phone number, too?”
“Give me just a minute.” She stood and left the room, returning a moment later with a laptop. It took a few seconds to boot up, but once it did she put her fingers to the keyboard. “What was that last name again?”
“Smirnoff,” I said.
“Like the vodka?” she asked.
“Exactly.”
She typed the name in, hit the “enter” key, and leaned in to look at the screen. I leaned in with her.
She pointed to the display. “Looks like he provided that same name when he had his photos taken here.”
Damn! So much for finding out his real identity.
She ran her finger down the screen, stopping an inch or two lower. “He provided an address on Royal Lane.”
Royal Lane was a major east–west thoroughfare that ran just south of, and roughly perpendicular to, the northern stretch of the 635 freeway. I jotted the information down. 12705 Royal Lane, # 256, in Dallas. Hm-m. I made note of the phone number and e-mail addresses he’d provided, too, flipping back a few pages in my notes to compare them to the phone number and e-mail address he’d given Julia, Nataya, and Leslie. While the e-mail account was the same, the phone number didn’t match. The phone number he’d given to Savannah Goode was a local number, while the one he’d given to the Big D Dating Service and the women he’d victimized began with 303, one of the area codes for Denver and surrounding communities.
I looked over at Savannah. “Do you know if this address and phone number are valid?”
She shrugged. “No idea. I only use the address for mailing printed photos. I don’t recall any photos being returned for an incorrect address. I rarely need to call or e-mail a client other than for appointment reminders. I don’t bother sending a reminder if the appointment was made within a day or two preceding the shoot since people usually remember to show up when they schedule so close in time.”
In other words, even though the name he’d given was false, the contact information could be legit. My nerves began to buzz. The phone number he’d used with the three victims I’d met had since been disconnected, but maybe the local address and phone number would prove to be viable leads. After all, the guy seemed to think that cropping out the copyright that referenced Goode Photography was enough to cover his tracks. He probably wasn’t aware that the photo could be digitally traced. I mentally crossed my fingers that the address or phone number would pan out.
I gestured to her laptop. “Can you tell me how he paid for the photos?”
She tapped the keyboard, pulling up his account records. “Cash. The account shows he paid for digital files only. He didn’t order any print copies.”
“Any chance he’s had other photos taken here?”
Savannah tapped her keyboard, pulling up Smirnoff’s image files. “Looks like he’s done another shoot since the one that included the photo you showed me. I offer a twenty-five-percent discount for repeat customers.”
Good marketing strategy. “When was the second shoot?”
“Early May.”
So he was a repeat customer. That could work to my advantage.
Savannah cut her eyes my way. “Do you want to see the more recent shots?”
I fought the urge to hug her. So many people we agents talked to were uncooperative and fearful, but Savannah was willing to share information and evidence. She was making my job easy, God bless her. “That would be great.”
She pulled up a screen full of thumbnails, enlarging the first one.
A-ha! Jack Smirnoff appeared on the screen, but in these photos his hair was longer, shaggier, and colored a lighter ginger brown rather than the dark brown he’d had in the photos his victims had provided to me. He wore a different pair of eyeglasses, ones with thin gray frames and boxy lenses, and his once-blue eyes were now chocolate brown. Whether blue, brown, or some other shade was his natural color was anyone’s guess. The only constant was the telltale freckle or mole on his left jawbone, near his ear.
I raised hopeful brows at Savannah. “Any chance you can e-mail me copies of those photos?”
“Sure,” she said. “What’s your e-mail?”
I rattled off my IRS e-mail address and she set about sending the photos to me right then and there. If only every witness we interviewed could be so helpful!
When she finished, we rose from the table and I extended my hand for a good-bye shake. “I really appreciate your cooperation. Will you let me know if he makes an appointment to have more photos taken?”
“Of course.”
With that, I gave her my business card, left the studio, and climbed into my car. The instant my butt hit the seat I whipped out my cell phone to dial the number Jack Smirnoff had given when he’d had his portraits made. It was probably another burner phone, but due diligence required I try it. While I expected an annoying three-tone sound and a recorded voice informing me that the number was no longer in service, what I got instead was a recording for a Tom Thumb grocery store.
Huh?
The recording instructed me to press “1” for the store hours and location, “2” for the bakery, “3” for the deli, and so on. I jabbed the button on my phone to turn on my keypad and hit the “0” button to be transferred to customer service. When a man answered, I asked to speak to Jack Smirnoff.
“Like the rum?” the man asked.
“Vodka,” I corrected, “but yes.”
“Is he an employee?”
I had no idea, but said, “Yes,” anyway. If he’d intentionally given this number, he must work there, right? But if he’d simply pulled the number out of the air—or his ass—then he’d have no traceable connection to the store and they’d be unable to help me.
“Just a moment,” the man said, putting me on hold.
My knee bounced up and down in excitement. Would he soon connect me with the catfisher? If so, what would I say? I certainly didn’t want to clue him in that the federal government was on his tail. He’d flee the store and disappear.
There was no time to figure things out before the man returned to the line. “Sorry, but there’s nobody in the system by that name.”
Darn it! “Maybe he used to work there,” I speculated. “Would he still show up if he’d quit or been fired?”
“No,” the man said. “I’ve only got the current list. But I’d be happy to transfer you to the management office if you’d like.”
“Please do.”
I was put on a brief hold; then a woman came on the line. I identified myself and explained my situation.
“Sorry,” the woman said, “but I can’t give out information on employees. Not without a subpoena or court order. I’d get fired for it.”
Ugh. Everyone was so afraid of being sued, it’s a wonder anyone got out of bed without a court order these days. I hated to pressure this woman, but I would also hate to waste my time getting a court order requiring her to provide me the information if she didn’t actually have any information to give me. “If Jack Smirnoff’s never been an employee,” I said, “you wouldn’t be breaking any rules by simply telling me he’s never worked there, right?” Slick move, huh?
She hesitated a moment. “I suppose not. Just a second.” There was the sound of keys being struck as she apparently ran a search of their employment records. “No,” she said a few seconds later. “We’ve never had an employee by the name Jack Smirnoff.”
“Thanks for checking. I really appreciate it.”
We ended the call. Rats. Looked like Jack had pulled the random phone number out of his ass, after all.
I mulled things over for a moment. Royal Lane wasn’t far from the photography studio, so why not check out the address he’d provided? It, too, could be a dead end, but then again, maybe it wasn’t. It couldn’t hurt to check things out.
I started my car and drove up Central Expressway to Royal Lane. Fifteen minutes later, I’d been up and down the road, passed Koreatown twice—once on my way west and a second time as I headed back east—and still hadn’t found the address I was looking for. To make matters worse, my car was running on fumes.
I pulled into a gas station and, while the pump was filling the tank, searched for the address online. Nothing came up. A visit to the Dallas Central Appraisal District Web site told me that the highest address on Royal Lane was 10805. Looked like Jack Smirnoff had pulled his supposed home address out of his ass, too. His colon was evidently filled with all kinds of fictitious information. I wonder if he had any truth up there, too. I’d like to give the jerk an enema and find out.