At Fault (Southern Fraud Thriller) Read online

  “There doesn’t seem to be much damage,” he said, shrugging as he stepped forward.

  Under the watchful eyes of the runners, we exchanged the false insurance information that the DOI had created with the help of our respective insurers.

  Then I spun back toward the runners.

  “You saw what happened,” I said, waving my card at them. “I guess I need to take down your names. You know, in case my insurance company needs a statement or something.”

  “Eddie Jones,” the man replied.

  “Tammy Wayland,” the woman said without missing a beat.

  I recorded their fake names, surprised that they were using even part of their true identities, and then took pictures of the accident scene with my phone’s camera, making sure to capture the runners in several shots.

  I circled the area twice, recording the entire scene once with the still camera and again with the video mode. As I worked, Tammy, Eddie, and Vincent stood by the BMW, chatting, and I tried to listen, but I only caught a word here and there: neck pain, whiplash, lawyer.

  Lawyer? Were lawyers involved too?

  Through the screen of my camera, I watched as Tammy handed Vincent a business card, and I wanted to edge closer so that I could get better audio, but I knew I couldn’t just walk up and record them. I was supposed to be making a record of the damage as per my insurance card’s instructions, not eavesdropping.

  So, trusting Vincent to handle Tammy, I stopped trying to listen and finished taking footage.

  Afterward, I returned to the front seat of the sedan to await the ambulance. This not only lent credibility to my supposed injured state but also gave the runners a chance to approach us both separately. And that’s just what happened.

  Eddie broke from the group and walked toward me, the warm smile on his face causing the opposite effect of what he intended.

  Here comes the charming con, I thought. I felt my insides constrict in disgust as I imagined all the innocent, shaken people this guy had probably swindled.

  “Damage doesn’t look so bad,” he said, gesturing at my car. “And the radiator didn’t get busted, so you can still drive it. Won’t break the bank to fix it. If you want my professional opinion.”

  I laughed, automatically thinking that Ted Insley, our boss, would probably disagree with that assessment. Ted was never in favor of the outlay of DOI funds in any amount.

  “Yeah, right,” I said, looking pointedly at his work shirt. “I’ve never had a good experience with mechanics. Seems like you guys are always trying to rip me off.”

  He smiled but held up his hands to deflect my accusation.

  “Hey now, not all of us are out to take advantage of a lady,” he said. “Not all of us will try to convince you to pay us to change the fluid in your headlights or something.”

  I laughed at his headlight fluid joke, but it fell flat to me, given that Honest Eddie here was in fact trying to bilk someone out of a goodly sum of money, and his shop had probably done the same to every unsuspecting customer—male or female—who had come through the door.

  “I guess it’s one of the hazards of being female,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic, “not knowing about engines and fluid levels and all that.”

  I don’t mind admitting my natural disinterest in all things automotive, but my sister Tricia could probably teach Eddie a thing or two about muscle cars. At least, she could when she was sober.

  Over the years, some of Tricia’s car talk had managed to sink into my non-mechanical brain and had actually come in handy when I’d taken the job at the DOI, where I was required to learn the basics of auto body and engine repair. It would certainly come in handy on this case.

  “Really, you should come to our shop,” Eddie continued as he tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, giving the appearance of a shy Southern boy. “We’ll treat you right.”

  I’ll bet you will, I thought.

  “Thanks,” I said with a quick look at the damage on my vehicle. “I may do that.”

  Eddie fished around in a pocket and offered me a grease-stained business card printed with the contact information for Allred Racing and Repair.

  “See that you do,” he said, letting the card slip from his fingers to mine. “We’ll give you a good deal. Like I said, the damage doesn’t look so bad. You may get away with some Bondo, buffing, and paint.”

  I shrugged as if I didn’t know Bondo from a brake pad, but I knew he was minimizing the repair costs. The air bag replacement alone would cost a small fortune.

  I studied his card as our conversation lapsed into silence.

  Before either of us could speak again, I heard the approach of sirens, which signaled that the Sprig County sheriff’s deputies and paramedics had arrived on the scene. Though we had no information hinting that the fraud ring might have a man inside the local constabulary, we had elected not to alert them to our undercover operation. Just in case. And we were far enough from Mercer that I didn’t anticipate meeting any officers Vincent and I would know.

  I hoped.

  As the paramedics filed out of the ambulance and the deputies began to assess the scene, I took a quick peek at Vincent and found him sitting on the edge of his driver’s seat with his legs planted on the ground on either side of Tammy, who knelt before him. She reached up and patted him on the knee, and I felt an absurd moment of intense dislike for her. Mercifully, I didn’t have time to consider my emotions further because the paramedics swarmed me, asking a barrage of questions while simultaneously prodding at my sore ribs and shining penlights in my eyes to check for concussion.

  A female paramedic handed me an ice pack. I squinted my thanks up at her as I took the pack, glancing casually at her name tag and reading the surname “Kitto.”

  With real gratitude, I placed the cold compress to my eye.

  “At this point,” Kitto said, “you aren’t presenting with symptoms consistent with head trauma, such as concussion, but it would be best for you to exercise caution tonight and follow up with your own physician as soon as possible.”

  “Really?” I asked, letting a hint of disbelief seep into my tone. “All that for a black eye?”

  “It’s best to be safe. Head injuries could show themselves at any time,” Kitto said. “Do you have a general practitioner?”

  I shook my head slightly, careful not to cause myself undue pain.

  “No,” I lied.

  “Your license plate says Mercer County,” she said. “I could recommend a clinic in town.”

  “I guess that would be good,” I said. “But I would like to avoid another examination. I’m not big on doctors. No offense.”

  “Don’t worry. No one likes doctors, but better safe than sorry, right?” Kitto glanced around. “I’m really not supposed to do this, but I have a friend who nurses at the Accident Care Clinic in Mercer. I know for a fact that they do great work for crash victims like you. A quick exam and you’re done. They take care of your insurance paperwork, and you can forget all about it.”

  I wanted to pummel Kitto with questions, but I didn’t want to make her suspicious. Instead, I asked only one. “Should I ask for your friend?”

  “Oh, sure,” Kitto said, after a moment’s consideration. “Her name’s Mary Fallsworthy. She’s a nurse practitioner there. Great gal. Tell her I sent you.”

  I nodded, mentally noting the name in case it became important later.

  Interesting, I thought. Paramedic Kitto was directing me to the Accident Care Clinic, the same medical facility that belonged to our tipster Dr. Keller. We’d expected to be directed there sometime in the course of our undercover work, but the source of the direction surprised me. I had expected the runners to make the suggestion, but they hadn’t, which meant that they must be here for a completely different reason. Maybe another fraud. But what kind?

  Three

  I didn’t have time to consider what that meant for our investigation because after the ambulance departed, the female deputy
finished her assessment of the scene and approached me with a serious set to her angular jaw. Her dark hair was tucked fastidiously under her crisp eight-point police hat, and she did not smile at me as she pulled a pen from the front pocket of her uniform and produced a clipboard complete with accident report form.

  “I’m Deputy Sheriff Bleakley,” she said as she planted herself before me, legs spread to form a solid base. She went stone silent and looked purposefully at the form, which, as a former cop myself, I knew she had probably memorized by now. She was going for intimidation.

  This would be fun.

  “License and registration,” she said finally, never looking up from the papers she didn’t need to read.

  I leaned into the sedan to retrieve the requested information, feeling Deputy Bleakley’s beady eyes on me. Handing her the documents, I felt confident that Janet Aliff’s ID and registration would pass the deputy’s inspection and checks, and my alias would remain intact, even under her intense scrutiny.

  Bleakley took her time before finally looking up to study my face.

  “Ms. Aliff, I assume you’re properly insured.”

  Her tone bordered on accusatory, and a crease of annoyance formed between my eyes.

  “Yes, I’m insured,” I said, keeping the ice on my eye to disguise my burgeoning aggravation at Bleakley’s tone as I handed her my insurance card.

  “I’ll need to verify this,” she said before executing a quick turn and striding to her cruiser.

  I waited as she checked the validity of my alias’s insurance and feigned disinterest as she returned to pepper me with questions.

  “What is your version of the events that transpired here?” Bleakley asked, her voice skeptical already.

  “That guy,” I said, pointing to Vincent.

  “Mr. Caffrey,” she supplied.

  “Yes. Mr. Caffrey came flying up out of nowhere in the BMW, passed me, and then slowed down for no reason before he slammed on the brakes at a yellow light. He had plenty of time to make it safely through the intersection before the light turned red.”

  I was describing the classic swoop-and-squat scam, which Vincent and I had tried to replicate as closely as possible. Bleakley obviously wasn’t picking up on—or was blatantly ignoring—the clues that I had been set up. She looked at the light over her shoulder and then back at me with pointed disbelief.

  “Braking at a yellow light is legal,” she said with the imperious tone of a traffic cop on the scent of an offender.

  “Yes, but slamming on the brakes isn’t exactly safe,” I replied, feeling testy.

  “I see,” she said. “So you expected him to run the light?”

  “No,” I said. “He wouldn’t have ‘run’ the light. He would have coasted safely through.”

  “Mmm,” she said.

  I did not like the skepticism in her tone, but rather than argue with her about it, I held my peace until she spoke again.

  “And you say the other vehicle approached at a high rate of speed and stopped suddenly?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed, “and he was driving at erratic speeds. Once the guy—Mr. Caffrey—passed me, he let off on the gas and then slammed on the brakes. Given the random slowdown, I was already fighting to keep my car from getting too close, but when he slammed on the brakes, there was nothing I could do.”

  I gestured at the vehicles’ positions on the road.

  “You can see that I attempted to avoid him by swerving to the right, but there wasn’t enough room.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bleakley said, making notes on her pad.

  I glared at the top of her hat, but again decided not to speak. Bleakley finished writing and then looked at my sedan, ostensibly to record the damage.

  I took the opportunity to scan the area quickly. The other deputy was in the process of taking witness statements from Eddie and Tammy—that ought to be interesting—and Vincent leaned against the BMW.

  Even though I’d made it clear that Vincent had driven erratically and then slammed on his brakes, I knew I was going to be considered the at-fault party in this accident. Rear-end collisions are always considered the fault of the driver in the back, who is responsible for maintaining an adequate stopping distance at all times. That’s why this little swoop-and-squat scam worked so well.

  I eyed Tammy and Eddie. Given the fact that they had likely arranged many such swoop-and-squats themselves, I wondered if they would be clever enough to identify ours as a setup too. In fact, we planned the accident to resemble those that had recently occurred on this road, so it should be obvious to them and to the LEOs as well. But people saw what they wanted to see, and when they looked at Vincent and me, apparently they saw dollar signs.

  The other deputy finished with Tammy and Eddie and dismissed them from the scene before walking over to survey the damage to the vehicles again.

  Deputy Bleakley, who seemed to have decided my fate before she ever spoke to me, ordered me to stay where I was and marched over to compare notes with her partner. The two of them made a great pretense of walking around the accident scene again, still discussing.

  Finally, they rendered their verdict to Vincent first, and he accepted some paperwork from them and got into his car.

  I sat in my spot and cringed outwardly as the corners of the two DOI vehicles separated with another crunch of metal and the clatter of falling debris from the busted lights.

  Ted will be displeased, I thought, before turning my gaze back to the deputies and away from Vincent’s disappearing taillights. I was alone with Bleakley and her partner, who introduced himself to me as South.

  Just as charming as Bleakley, South began without preamble, “I’m sorry to inform you that we will have to cite you for this accident, Ms. Aliff.”

  I lowered my ice pack in order to narrow my eyes at him. As a cop, I’d been involved in enough traffic accidents to know that at this point, people either accept responsibility or go batshit crazy. Given the fact that Bleakley had been none too pleasant to work with, I chose a mild form of the latter to inflict upon them.

  Plus, it would be a lark.

  “Me? You’re saying this is my fault?” I repeated, letting my voice rise half an octave in pitch.

  “Yes, ma’am,” South said. “It is the responsibility of all drivers to maintain a reasonable distance between their vehicle and the one ahead of it to prevent accidents like this.”

  My eyes narrowed further, and with the bruising on my face, I was sure I presented an interesting picture.

  Bleakley’s eyes met mine and narrowed too.

  “At least tell me Mr. Whatshisname was cited for erratic driving or something,” I demanded, acting as if I were about to lose the tight leash I’d been keeping on my frustration level.

  South’s eyes bored into mine as if I were a common criminal, and he said, “Look, ma’am, everything about this scene—not to mention all the witness statements—tells me that you were following too closely. You hit Mr. Caffrey’s vehicle for that reason.”

  I sneered at him.

  God, what fun!

  “As I said,” he drawled while tearing a carbon copy of the report off his clipboard and handing it to me along with a citation, “the witnesses corroborate our findings, and in our view, you are at fault here.”

  “Wait,” I began as I quickly scanned the paperwork I’d been given. “It says here that I was ‘driving erratically’ and ‘too fast for conditions.’ Driving erratically? Me?”

  Now I didn’t have to feign crazy. I felt it. I’d expected to be ticketed just because I’d been driving the rear vehicle, but I hadn’t counted on these nifty little additions.

  “The witnesses state that you were swerving out of your lane at the time you struck the car.”

  Truly frustrated now that I suspected these deputies were padding my citation in order to shorten their day’s work, I ground my teeth.

  “Yes, I swerved out of my lane and onto the shoulder to try not to hit him.”

  I spoke the last wor
ds slowly, as if I were talking to a pair of children, but Bleakley and South only stared at me.

  “And ‘too fast for conditions’?” I added, my voice rising dangerously.

  “Yes,” South confirmed.

  “I thought you could only use that on rainy or icy days, but it’s dry and”—I made a great pretense of looking at the bright, winter sky—“sunny.”

  “Exactly,” Bleakley said. “You were driving too fast given the unseasonable brightness of the day. You can’t see properly if you’re squinting.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked, my voice sounding strangled.

  Given their stony expressions, they weren’t kidding. Feeling twitchy, I stood and began pacing.

  “Have a seat, ma’am,” South said, “and we’ll explain the citation to you.”

  I complied, albeit unhappily.

  “It’s a bright day,” Bleakley said, “and you weren’t wearing sunglasses.”

  “What?” I asked, my head snapping between the two obviously unprincipled, if not outright dirty, cops. In essence, they were citing me for driving without sunglasses, which was ridiculous. At the very least, these yahoos were working their department’s quota system, or maybe they were in cahoots with the fraudsters operating on this road.

  After reading their ticket, the latter wouldn’t surprise me.

  There had been an inordinate number of collisions here. Perhaps they had gotten in on the action.

  “This is absurd. You can’t cite me for not wearing sunglasses.”

  “Take it up with the judge, ma’am,” South said, his jaw set.

  I stood again, this time angling for a confrontation. I wanted to verbally hand these two their asses, but thank the Lord, I remembered myself and clamped my lips shut before I said something that might compromise the DOI’s fraud investigation by, oh, say, getting me an additional citation for resisting an officer.

  Instead, I gave one brisk nod.

  Believing themselves the winners in the situation, Bleakley and South both propped their hands on their gun belts and regarded me the way a turkey vulture eyes fresh roadkill.