Twenty minutes later, I sat on a paper-covered examination table in a room at a minor emergency clinic. Dr. Ajay Maju had treated me for a variety of injuries over the years, including burns, accidental exposure to pepper spray, and a puncture wound inflicted during a cockfight. That’s a story for another time. But suffice it to say that my job as a special agent had taken quite a toll on me physically.
What had begun as a doctor-patient relationship between me and Ajay quickly evolved into a more personal connection when I’d brought DEA Agent Christina Marquez with me to the clinic after inadvertently scorching my skin and hair. Christina and I had been working together to bust a drug-dealing ice-cream man. Ajay had taken one look at my partner and scheduled a personal appointment with her for dinner. The two had been dating ever since and, just recently, he’d put a ring on her finger. Yep, my friends were dropping like flies, saying sayonara to the single life. Pretty soon, I’d be the last one standing, a spinster. At least I’d be able to say neener-neener when my friends complained about their boring sex lives or their husbands leaving their dirty socks on the floor.
Ajay felt around the back of my skull and shined a small beam of intense light into my eyes. “Why were you hitting yourself?”
It was the same stupid question my brothers had asked when, as kids, they’d grab my arm and manipulate it so I’d end up repeatedly slapping myself in the face.
“I didn’t hit myself on purpose,” I snapped. “A woman at the mixed martial arts studio punched the pad I was holding really hard.” Too hard, given that I was a novice. She’d been out to prove herself. If she was trying to prove what a nasty bitch she could be, she’d done a good job.
Ajay turned off the light and looked to Nick. “So Tara and this other woman were going at it?”
“Yep,” Nick replied. “Major catfight.”
“Was it as hot as it sounds?” Ajay asked.
“You know it.”
Nick might be joking now, but I’d seen the look of concern in his eyes as we’d left the studio. He’d been worried.
Ajay slid the light into the pocket of his white lab coat and returned his attention to me. “Your pupils look normal, so I don’t think the head injury caused any real damage. I can feel a lump coming up, though. I’ll have the nurse get you an ice pack for it.”
“What about her lip?” Nick asked. “I can’t survive too long without a kiss.” He shot me a wink.
Ajay put a gloved finger to my tender lip. “That’s a pretty nasty split, but it’s not jagged and it doesn’t extend to the surrounding flesh. No need for stitches. Those types of injuries tend to heal up on their own. But ice can help ease the pain and swelling there, too.”
He reached over to the intercom and buzzed the nurse. “Bring a couple of ice packs to exam room three, please.”
Her voice came back over the speaker. “On my way.”
While we waited for the ice packs, he instructed me to open my mouth so he could check my teeth. “None of them feel loose.”
Thank goodness. I was much too old for a visit from the tooth fairy.
There was a quick knock at the door and the nurse entered, carrying the ice packs. Ajay used medical tape to secure one in place on the back of my head, while I simply held the other to my lip.
When the doctor finished, he pronounced me, “Good to go.” As I stood, the paper crinkling with my movements, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pineapple Dum Dum. “A sucker for a sucker punch.”
“Gee, thanks.” I snatched the candy from his hand.
“See you at the wedding!” he called after me. “Save me a dance!”
* * *
Friday morning, I woke bruised and sore. The knot on the back of my head was now the size of a walnut and my lip, though no longer bleeding, continuing to throb. But the pain wouldn’t slow me down. If anything, it solidified my resolve to nail Jack Smirnoff. It was his fault my head was misshapen and my lip was puffy. His fault my elbows were black-and-blue. I’m going to get that jackass if it’s the last thing I do.
When I arrived at the office, I headed straight to Josh’s office. “Got any news for me? Did you find Jack Smirnoff’s new head shots online?”
He reached over to a paper on his desk and pushed it toward me. “His photo popped up on a site that’s offering one of those free preview weeks.”
I grabbed the page from the desk and flopped down in a chair to look it over. The document was a printout from the dating site PerfectCouple.com. Included in the profile was the more recent head shot taken at Goode Photographic Arts, as well as a teaser snippet of details from his profile, which identified him only by his alleged initials, M.W. The excerpt noted that he was “a health-care professional looking to make a fresh start.” These limited details were intended to be enough to pique the interest of potential subscribers, without providing enough information for them to identify the guy and locate him elsewhere online for free. To get full details about him or anyone else listed at PerfectCouple.com, the Web site advised that a paid subscription would be necessary.
When I finished reading over the paperwork, I looked up at my coworker. “Thanks for tracking him down, Josh. You are a tech god.”
“Feel free to leave sacrifices on my altar.”
I fished through my purse until I found half a roll of fruit-flavored Life Savers and placed them on his desk. Not exactly a slaughtered lamb, but sufficient for my purposes. Besides, the coating of lint the candy had accumulated while in the bottom of my purse resembled wool.
I left Josh’s digs and headed straight down the hall to the office of Hana Kim, a Korean-American agent who ranked second only to Nick when it came to batting averages on the Tax Maniacs. I put my knuckles to her door frame. Rap-rap.
Hana looked up from her desk, where she’d been transferring numbers from a stack of invoices to a spreadsheet. “Tara. Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” I replied, stepping inside. “You busy?”
She cut her eyes to the stack of files towering on her desk. “Little bit.”
I supposed it had been a dumb question. The IRS Criminal Investigations office ran lean and mean. Good thing we agents were hard workers. Still, as busy as each of us was, we tried to help one another out when we could. We knew the shoe could be on the other foot at any time. “Want to help me hook a catfisher?”
“A catfisher?” She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on her well-toned stomach. “You’ve got my attention.”
I perched on the edge of a wing chair and gave her a quick rundown. “This guy ripped off at least three women for a couple grand each. Found them on dating sites, took them out for dinner, and fed them a bunch of BS about a dead wife, a deadbeat stepson, and an estate tied up in probate court. He gave his victims bogus checks to cash. They all thought their banks wouldn’t cash them if they weren’t legitimate.”
Hana sighed. “Another thug exploiting a common misconception. Someone should do a public service announcement.”
Too bad Flo Cash and I weren’t on good terms. Her financial show would be the perfect venue to inform the public about how to avoid theses types of scams.
“Josh helped me track him down,” I continued. “The guy’s got a new alias, but he’s up to his old tricks. I figured if you and I both try to land dates with him, that could speed things up, maybe help us get more evidence.” I handed her the printout. “This is him. What do you think?”
She ran her gaze over the page. “So this guy will take me out for a free dinner and I get to bust him afterward? Sounds fun. Sign me up.”
“Great. Thanks, Hana.” I took the printouts back from her. “Can you shoot me a photo of yourself? I’ll need it to set up your online profile.”
She pulled out her phone and thumbed through her photos. “What do you think of this one? It was taken at my cousin’s baby shower.”
She held out her phone and I eyed the screen. Hana appeared in a pale-blue blouse, her black hair tossed back, a broad smile on her face. She looked cute, approachable, and easygoing. Totally unlike the homicidal hellion who stepped up to bat at our softball games.
“It’s perfect,” I said. “Now I just need to know what name you’d like to go by and what job and interests you’d like your alter ego to have.”
She looked up in thought before frowning. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine myself as anyone else. I’m not exactly creative.”
Good thing. Creativity and an accounting degree could be a felonious combination. Just ask those guys from Enron.
She lifted a shoulder. “Surprise me.”
“Okeydoke.” I stood. “I’ll let you know when I hear something back.”
I returned to my office and set about entering a profile for myself on PerfectCouple.com. I resurrected an alias I’d used twice before, first when I’d gone undercover in a strip club and later to lure in a crook running a charity scam on Facebook. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Sara Galloway.”
I scrolled through my phone, searching for a pic that would make me look naïve and trusting, someone the catfisher would immediately peg as an easy victim. Bingo. A recent candid photo Nick had taken of me with my cat Anne cradled in my arms would fit the bill perfectly.
Next, I filled in the boxes for my alter ego’s personal information, making her three years older than I really was so that I’d fall into the acceptable age range for Morgan Walker, which he’d listed as thirty to fifty. I had to give the guy a little credit. At least he wasn’t going after the barely legal crowd. Of course his tactic probably said less about his appreciation for mature women and more about the fact that women in their early twenties were less likely to be able to cash a check for two grand without raising eyebrows at their bank. He was probably trying to avoid scrutiny or the bank holding the funds until they were certain the check had cleared. A bank was more likely to give immediate credit to an older and financially proven long-term client.
My alias ran her own independent bookkeeping business to mild success. I noted this detail in the profile, as well as the fact that Sara Galloway, like me, was a big fan of sushi, cats, mystery novels, and romantic comedies.
Now that I’d paid my fee and input my profile, I had unfettered access to all the men on the site. But I was only after one.
M.W.
It took a few moments for me to read over the instructions and familiarize myself with the site’s functions. It offered a variety of search options. I could peruse the listings by interests, age range, location, keywords, or a combination of these factors. Okay. I think I’ve got it.
First, I narrowed my search to men looking for women within Dallas and a thirty-mile radius of the city. I wasn’t sure how far out M.W. might have expanded his search, but I figured thirty miles should cover it. I also narrowed the listings by my preferred date’s age range, inputting forty to fifty for my target range, though I’d listed myself as thirty-three. I also limited my search to include the key words “health care.”
I clicked the “search” button and waited for a moment until a list of photos and names popped up.
An Asian physical therapist. Nope. Not the man I was looking for.
A gray-haired hospital administrator. Nope. Not him, either.
A black-haired insurance salesman. Nope.
A-ha! There he was in his newer head shot, his thieving face smiling at me from the reaches of cyberspace. Per the profile, Jack Smirnoff was now going by the name Morgan Walker. Odd. Most criminals who used aliases tended to use ones that were somewhat similar. But “Morgan Walker” and “Jack Smirnoff” sounded nothing alike. Where is he getting these names?
Once again, he claimed to be relocating to the area, allegedly transitioning from Oklahoma City this time around. Rather than claiming to be a psychologist, he now touted himself as a substance abuse counselor for high-profile clients, another occupation that would require him to keep a low profile and would explain the lack of a well-developed online presence. I had to hand it to this guy. He was a smart cookie. Unfortunately for him, I liked to eat cookies.
Morgan had kept his list of interests broad and vague, probably on purpose so that he could appeal to a wide range of potential victims. According to his profile, he was a man who enjoyed the variety entertainment options Dallas had to offer and loved to try new things. I’d give him a new thing to try. My foot in his ass.
I ran a quick Internet search for obituaries that included the name Morgan Walker. Sure enough, there was one in the Oklahoman newspaper online edition dated a few months back for a Michelle Walker. Per the obituary, she was survived by her husband of nine years, Morgan Walker, and her son, Shane.
I grabbed my mouse and maneuvered it to an icon at the bottom of the page. “Prepare to meet your dating doom, Morgan Walker.” Okay, so busting criminals made me a little melodramatic on occasion. ’Scuse me for that.
With a click of my mouse, Sara Galloway gave Morgan Walker a “wink,” engaging in a little cyberforeplay. I added a note that said: Hope to hear from you soon! I crossed my fingers that Morgan would respond, and quick. I wanted this guy behind bars before he could rip off another unsuspecting, trusting woman.
Finished with myself, I moved on to set up an account for Hana. Like me, she, too, needed a name enough like her own that she’d respond to it. Given that her last name, Kim, could also serve as a first name, I decided to go with Kimberly, or “Kim” for short. Huang would be a good surname, right? Sure. Thus, Hana Kim became Kim Huang.
Her make-believe profile took a little more thought. What should Kim Huang do for a living? It would have to be a type of job that Hana would know enough about that she could fake it. Hm-m … Hana had once mentioned in passing that she’d attended Texas State University in San Marcos on a full-ride softball scholarship. Good for her. Heck, I’d been lucky for the fifty bucks the PTA had tossed my way, and that was only because my mother had been the historian all four years I’d attended high school. That woman could crop the shit out of a scrapbook. But that was neither here nor there. Right now, I needed to give Hana a new occupation. Why not make her an independent college softball scout?
“Good thinking, Tara,” I told myself as I entered the data into her profile. Sometimes you have to be your own cheerleader.
Choosing Kim Han’s interests was easy. I chose ones Hana had in real life. Thriller novels and horror movies, the grislier the better. Microbrewed beers. And softball, of course. Just for kicks I tossed in the fictitious fact that she liked bluegrass music and collected vintage harmonicas. Hey, she’d said to surprise her.
When I finished, I searched under her profile for Morgan Walker. There you are, freckle and all. A few keystrokes later and Kim Huang had given him a wink, too. She’d also passed him a cybernote that read: You’re cute! Game for some fun?
With that, I logged off the site. I’d check back later to see if my foreplay had gotten me anywhere. With any luck, I’d soon have a hot date with a hot-check writer.