Over the next couple of weeks, while Derek was temporarily suspended without pay, Detective Jackson and I wrapped up loose ends in the two cases.
I discovered through some additional digging that, decades ago, James Thomas Perkins had worked in the Midwest as a salesman for a propane company, tasked with bringing in new residential accounts. Before extending credit, the company required its salesmen to obtain the Social Security numbers of prospective clients so that a credit check could be run. Perkins had kept a database of those names and numbers, and had later used that information to open business accounts with online banks in the names of the shell companies he’d established, also using fictitious names.
The various vehicles he’d driven were rentals he’d swapped out as needed to stay one step ahead of law enforcement and the irate customers he’d ripped off. The wedding ring, too, was a farce. While he’d been married three times as a younger man, he’d been single since his forties, when his last wife had called it quits.
Fortunately, the Stormchaser Roofing bank account still had a sizable balance when Perkins was apprehended and the account had been frozen. His victims in Fort Worth wouldn’t get all of their money back, but they’d see seventy cents on the dollar. I’d call that a victory. In light of his repeated criminal activity, and the fact that his total take added up to hundreds of thousands of dollars, the prosecutor didn’t go easy on the guy. He’d offered Perkins a plea deal of five years in the state penitentiary. Last I heard, the attorneys for each side were still haggling, and Perkins’s lawyer had threatened to let the matter go to court. Perkins would be an idiot to go to trial, though. Every potential juror and judge in the state had lost a roof to hail at one point or another. It was an arduous enough process without some scam artist swooping in to rip you off. A jury was likely to lock the guy away for life.
The boys who’d attacked Greg would spend several weeks in juvenile detention. They were still young enough to turn themselves around, and I hoped the stint would set them straight. A life of crime and violence would be no life at all.
Shelby and Greg were being held in separate women’s and men’s facilities, though they were able to communicate fairly regularly through their attorneys. Making false statements to law enforcement was only a Class B misdemeanor, punishable by a fine of up to two grand and 180 days in jail. The Olsens had lied to me and Detective Jackson, costing us time and energy that could have been applied to other investigations, yet they’d receive a mere slap on the wrist for it. Fortunately, insurance fraud in the amount of $300,000 or more was a first-degree felony. Such felonies were punishable by fines of up to ten grand, as well as five to ninety-nine years in prison. Greg was looking at an additional charge for taking Derek’s weapon. The defense attorneys and the DA were working out a plea deal for the couple to pay the maximum fine and serve several years in prison. Greg wouldn’t enjoy his time in the clink, but it would provide him an opportunity to work on his screenplays. Meanwhile, Marseille adjusted well to her new life with Regina, who had happily agreed to keep the bulldog and posted a dozen pictures of her adorable adopted beast each day on her Facebook page.
It was a bittersweet day when Frankie moved out of our house and Seth and Blast officially moved in. Frankie and Zach had rented a moving truck, and the four of us spent the morning loading it with Frankie’s furniture and boxes of her personal items. I felt no small sense of satisfaction when the men carried out the television I’d rescued from the clutches of Frankie’s former boyfriend the day she and I had met.
Frankie and I had enjoyed lots of girl time together in the house, but we were both moving forward with our lives, going on to the next natural phase. Besides, her new place was only a ten-minute drive away, and I’d see her at the fire station. Even so, we parted with hugs and tears. “I’m going to miss you,” I told her.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
She’d given Brigit a hug goodbye, too. I’d kissed the top of Zoe’s head, her fur sticking to my lip gloss, and reached out to ruffle the cat’s ears. “Behave, you little stinker.”
But now, Seth and I were at the florist, speaking with a woman about my bridal bouquet and the other flowers for our wedding. Brigit and Blast had come with us. Brigit had sniffed a few of the flowers before flopping over on the floor and putting her feet in the air, as if succumbing to a scent overdose. Drama queen.
After looking over the options and working out the pricing, we decided to go with champagne-colored roses. They’d be a nice complement to my dress, without competing with it. They’d smell nice, too.
We returned to Seth’s Nova and, after loading the dogs in the back, he opened my door for me. “Our wedding day will be here before we know it.”
I stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. “I can hardly wait!”