Lyle would hate it—its key selling point at the moment. “Is the pasta done?”
“Al dente.” Erin nodded.
My mother poured everyone some seltzer. While I removed the pot from the stove, the landline required for the home security system rang. Its answering machine kicked on before I finished draining the pasta.
“Hello, Amanda, it’s Stan. I got your message about more anomalies. Sorry I missed you—”
“Hi, Stan. It’s me.” I reached the phone before he hung up.
The air in the kitchen crackled with anticipation. Erin set about ladling the pasta with sauce and fixing plates while my mother stared at me.
“Oh hey, Amanda. Well, I wish I had better news, but while the deed itself is real, I can’t tie Lyle to the entity that bought that land or to that scribbled signature. The general partner of that entity is named Greg Toscano. Does that ring any bells for you?”
I shook my head, then choked out a no when I remembered he couldn’t see me.
“Well, there’s no mention of Lyle or Ebba in any of the real estate documents involved in that transaction, either.” When I didn’t reply, he asked, “You still there?”
Was I? Not really. At the moment, I felt as if I were floating outside my own body, looking down on the disaster that had become my life. I cleared my throat. “Mm-hmm.”
“I hate to pile on, but I’ve also discovered a recently formed Cayman partnership, Somniator Partners. Its general partner is another foreign entity, so I haven’t yet pinned it to Lyle, but this entity bought a used sixty-foot 1988 DeFever in Miami for close to four hundred thousand dollars right before your husband went to Abaco.”
“What’s a ‘DeFever’?”
“It’s a long-range yacht. Like I mentioned, Somniator is owned by another foreign entity—like a shell game—but the names and dates and such all fit together with the info I pulled from your home computer and other searches. My guess is that your husband washed your mom’s money through these shell companies to make it difficult to track and tie to him.”
My knees buckled, so I leaned against the counter for support. “That can’t be right. Maybe there’s another Somniator . . .” Even as the words came out, I knew they didn’t make sense. My brain couldn’t—or wouldn’t—catch up to the painful truth.
“Like I said, I’m still digging, but if I were a betting man, I’d go all in on my theory. I haven’t uncovered a single real estate transaction in Florida in Lyle’s or Ebba’s name or the names of entities tied to either of them. I also haven’t found any Maryland, Florida, or Delaware entities registered to Lyle. I just spoke with Kevin about all of this and then told him to let me talk to you while he cools down. As you know, he’s hot to involve the authorities, but that’s complicated by the fact that the promissory note to your mom doesn’t specify the use of funds.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Well, the loan itself didn’t require the funds go toward or be secured by a particular asset—the real estate. Ostensibly, he could have borrowed that money for anything according to the documents, so now you’ll have to prove fraud, which is tough. The conversations about the actual Florida deal are mostly he said, she said at this point. Absent more hard evidence and the fact Lyle hasn’t missed the first payment yet puts us in a weird sort of limbo—although the fake deed is a good start. Similarly, he can use joint assets for any reason, so that’s not a crime in and of itself, but tracing those wires—with your permission—might help us tie Lyle to these entities or their bank accounts. If I can do that, it’ll help us with fraud claims. My goal is to put together a colorable claim for wire fraud—a federal crime.”
“That letter he wrote referenced the Florida deal . . . ,” I said absently. Proof of mail fraud. In hindsight, Lyle’s deceit and manipulations seemed so obvious. I’d never been the dumb girl before. It figured my first time would be a whopper. “I’m still confused, because he might be a liar and thief, but he’s never been stupid. If all my mother’s money paid for the boat, the savings he took can only last so long. How does he plan to keep this going?”
“I suspect that’s where Ms. Nilsson comes in. Turns out she’s got family money. If he can woo her into marrying him, he’d get access to her funds, too.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I know this is hard to hear, but it’s possible she’s unaware of all the facts at this point.”
My hand gripped the base of my throat. “So now what?”
“You’d mentioned that your husband was in Abaco recently. My guess is that they’re probably cruising around the Caribbean. Boats don’t have to file travel plans like planes do, so it makes our job a little harder. Most yachts have GPS and other navigation safety equipment, though, so with the MMSI number—the maritime mobile service identity—we can track him via public apps like Boat Finder as long as he’s got his AIS turned on, which he should for safety purposes. If he docks somewhere, we will hope the authorities can pick him up.”
I let the “authorities” remark go because that conversation would send my mother over the edge. “In other words, we keep waiting?”
“You keep waiting, and I keep digging. I want to build a solid case so we can go to the FBI instead of local cops. Lyle doesn’t know you’ve hired me. The way he’s been calling, sending the deed, and such tells me he thinks he’s still a few steps ahead of you. My bet is that he’s trying to woo this woman, so he’ll be sailing around those islands as long as he thinks you aren’t chasing him.”
I closed my eyes, unable to reconcile this reckless, selfish version of my husband—the fugitive with a bosomy mistress—with the man I’d known and loved. My temple throbbed as my brain tried to keep up with Stan’s summary.
Meanwhile, he kept talking. “Boats break down all the time. He might need to wait a few days in one spot for repairs. And weather can ground him, too, so a storm at sea might keep him in one place long enough for us to grab him. We’ll catch up to him. Be patient, and if he calls, don’t let on.”
My entire body had overheated to the point where I shook feverishly. The intrigue and fodder of an international search for a felon meant we’d leapfrog ahead of the Millers and Blairs in terms of gossip-worthy conversation. It could also affect my ability to keep my preschool job, let alone any attempt to get my old job at the elementary school. Mom could lose her mind under that scrutiny.
Maybe the deal Erin had struck with Max would work for me.
“What if we don’t want to involve the authorities?” I couldn’t look at my family. “Can I offer not to press charges in exchange for him paying back the money and signing over custody and the sale of the house?”
“Well, I can’t advise you to offer that deal because, technically, that’s extortion and illegal.”
“Why is it illegal?”
“The short answer is because when the state prosecutes a crime, it does so on behalf of the people of the state—or country in federal cases—so the victim doesn’t have the right to get a bunch of benefits in exchange for the criminal not being prosecuted. That’s not to say some people don’t do this and get away with it, but it isn’t legal, especially if you’re grabbing for things like custody that go beyond simple restitution.” Yet something in his voice suggested that he wouldn’t turn me in for doing so, either.