Chapter 5 - THE EMPTY GARAGE
I read the document three times.
The mechanic shop. The very foundation of my father's life, the place I had swept floors in as a kid. He hadn't just leased it out; Arthur had somehow manipulated him into signing away the commercial deed to Eleanor, shielding it from his own bankruptcy proceedings.
They hadn't just bled my father. They had skinned him alive.
I shoved the papers into my jacket, walked out the back door, and got into my truck. The tires tore up the driveway as I sped toward the downtown district.
The old shop sat on the corner of 4th and Elm. It was a massive, two-bay brick building. But as I pulled up, my heart sank.
The garage doors were wide open. The current tenant’s toolboxes were gone.
A massive red and white sign was pounded into the front lawn: SOLD. LUXURY CONDOS COMING SOON.
I parked the truck and walked into the cavernous, empty space. It smelled of old oil and concrete dust. It smelled like my childhood.
A man in a sharp gray suit was standing near the back office, measuring the wall with a laser tape. He looked up as my boots echoed on the floor.
“Can I help you, buddy? Site’s closed.”
“Who bought this property?” I demanded.
He smirked. “Horizon Development. We close on Monday. Now clear out.”
“Horizon?” I walked closer. “Who brokered the deal?”
“Arthur Pierce,” the man said, looking me up and down. “He’s the seller's representative. A brilliant move, honestly. He bought it for pennies from some old grease monkey and flipped it to us for two point five million. Now, I told you to leave.”
Two point five million.
Arthur was going to walk away with millions, leaving my father destitute and my name forged on a fraudulent mortgage.
I turned around and walked out. I didn't go to the police. The police would take months. Arthur would take the money and vanish offshore.
I needed a different kind of leverage.
I drove to the west side of town, to a small, dusty law office tucked between a dry cleaner and a diner. Frank Miller was seventy years old, smoked two packs a day, and had been my father’s attorney since 1985.
I walked in without knocking and dropped the manila folder on his desk.
“Frank. I need you to look at this.”
Frank adjusted his glasses. He read through the pages. His jaw tightened.
“Rick… this is a masterclass in fraud. Arthur used a shell company to absorb the title, claiming it was payment for a debt your father supposedly owed him.”
“How did he get my dad to sign it?”
Frank flipped to the last page. He sighed heavily. “He didn't. This isn't your father's signature, Rick. And look here.”
Frank pointed a stained finger at the bottom of the page.
There was a notary stamp.
Notary Public: Karen Dalton.
My wife hadn't just forged my name on a mortgage. She had notarized the forged signature of my father to steal his multi-million dollar property.
“She committed a federal crime,” Frank said quietly. “If this goes to court, she’s looking at ten years. But Arthur walks away clean. He kept his name off the transfer documents.”
“There has to be a way to tie him to it,” I said.
Frank leaned back. “There is. The developer’s payout on Monday. If Arthur physically accepts that check, he commits wire fraud. But he won’t do it himself. He’s too smart.”
I looked out Frank’s window.
May you like
“Then I’ll just have to make him panic,” I said.
I grabbed the folder. I knew exactly where Arthur Pierce was spending his Friday evening.
