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I had the day off, and I wanted—no, make that needed—to do something fun. Get out into the woods or maybe drive up to that new café in Banner Elk. Rascal picked up on my energy and started following me everywhere.
First, though, there was something I wanted to check in DEEP POCKET’s latest report. I’d looked it over last night, but it wasn’t until this morning that it struck me something was off about the names. Sure enough, William James on one list became James Williams and Liam James on others. Allen David became David Allen and Nella Davis. They couldn’t even come up with fresh names? Then again, why bother? Regulatory oversight appeared to be a joke.
That led me to take another look at some strange-sounding companies—likely the LLC shell companies money launderers favored. I found a few of them on the Internet, but most either had no presence on the Web or the barest of home pages. And no answer when I called the phone numbers listed.
Same with the lists of individuals. Mostly no one answered, but when someone did, they told me they were just visiting—renting a mountain home for a few months. One even asked if I could come over and unblock the toilet. I hung up.
When I checked the clock, what had started as a quick look turned into another shot morning. This whole mess was crazy; I had to get out. I called Cleva. She was up for lunch but insisted on making it. I just had to bring wine and something from the new baker I’d told her about.
I packed the Jeep with a couple of bottles of her favorite white wine—Gruner Veltliner—and a coconut cream pie. And Rascal. She hadn’t met him yet, and I planned to ask her to spread the word among her sizeable cadre of friends and family that he needed a new home.
She’d made some of her favorite vegetable dishes—yellow squash casserole, corn pudding, ratatouille. I worried the pie might be too heavy after all that, but neither one of us complained. Afterwards we were sipping a silky brew of Arabian Mocha-Java when Cleva asked to see the documents I’d brought.
“How did you know?” I asked.
She just smiled. I had brought the lists from DEEP POCKET just in case I got the opportunity to run it by her. She scanned one, then another. I didn’t expect much since she seemed rather blasé, turning the pages quickly. Maybe that’s what happened when you turned 88.
Wrong again.
“Some of these addresses caught my eye,” she said. “I’m certain they’re all out Beaverdam way. Really nice second homes overlooking the Black Mountains. May I mark on these pages?” I gave her a pen, and she circled some addresses while she talked. “I used to wonder about whether these homes were rented out too. Does that thing say anything about that?”
She was referring to the primer I was leafing through. “Yeah, it says they can’t lose money on real estate deals and probably make a bunch more through rent and appreciation—all while laundering sizable fortunes.”
“And I’d always thought those rich folks were just treating themselves to a mountain getaway.” She handed back the papers. “I think we need a road trip.”
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We drove to Beaverdam, looking for addresses on our list. Not as easy as it sounded. Out in the country, people knew where each other lived by ancestral names or landmarks like “the old school yard” or “J. B. McCutchen’s daddy’s place.” Once 911 was introduced, the county assigned everyone an address to help EMTs and firefighters find them. But that was rarely painted on a mailbox, if you could even read the name and address through all the bullet holes. (Apparently new mailboxes made for irresistible target practice.)
These days GPS helped, though too often, way out there, it sent you to the edge of a cliff or you couldn’t even get a signal. Thanks to Cleva’s keen eyes, we managed to locate the cluster of second homes on our list and several shacks. The records showed that two of the shacks with surrounding land sold last year for more than $700,000.
This chicanery seemed so obvious to me I couldn’t believe they could get away with it. But as I kept reading, I learned there were virtually no reporting requirements for suspicious deals. Add in busy loan officers, shady lawyers, and no telling how much palm greasing, and I could almost smell the steaming pile of illegal transactions in and around our county.
“This is giving me a bad case of the jitters,” Cleva said. She reached over and patted my hand. “But I sure am enjoying the countryside—and your company. And Rascal’s.”
At the sound of his name, Rascal stretched from the backseat all the way to the console, positioning himself for some petting that Cleva generously supplied.
We weren’t ready to head home, so I drove down curvy mountain roads ‘til we came to a stunning overlook. I stopped and turned off the engine. Rascal jumped in the front seat and sat on my lap. Now we could both pet him. We sat there for the longest time, not saying much. Not needing to.
After I dropped off Cleva, I drove home under a cloud of gloom. I was long over the notion that I’d escaped D.C. for an idyllic mountain community, but this blatant fraud was a new low. Not only did it line the pockets of greedy crooks, but they forced poor and hard-working families to fork over money to pay jacked-up property taxes.
I got madder and madder on the drive back to Coburn’s. By the time I arrived, I couldn’t wait to place another ad for DEEP POCKET.