“I like it, but Hermie’ll go nuts at the mention of private tuition.”
“It’s just a ploy to get out of town. Who knows? You might like Rhodes.”
“It’s too close. I’m talking serious distance, Mack.”
“So it’s a lunch date?”
“I’ll try.” She glanced at her watch and reached for her purse. “Need to go. I’m running errands for Mom.”
“Is she suspicious?”
“I don’t think so. For a few days you were breaking news as they panicked, but things have died down. No one has seen you around here, Mack.”
“That’s good. And I’m tired of meeting here. This town gives me the creeps.”
“Makes two of us.”
（28）
The new district attorney for the Twenty-Second Judicial District was Lowell Dyer, of the small town of Gretna, in Tyler County. If the FBI had little interest in Ford County, it had even less in Tyler, and Dyer was rather excited to welcome the Feds into his office in the county courthouse. On the phone, Special Agent Nick Lenzini gave no clue as to the reason for his visit. He came alone and was welcomed in the conference room with pastries and coffee. Dyer and his assistant, D. R. Musgrove, were at his complete disposal.
Lenzini began by announcing that he was investigating the disappearance of Mack Stafford, and wanted to know how much Dyer knew about the case. They were surprised to learn that someone was looking for Mack. They had known him back in the day and assumed that he was gone for good. As far as they knew, there had never been an investigation. So, they had nothing.
Lenzini accepted this with an exaggerated smugness, as if they had sat idly by and missed obvious criminal wrongdoing. Now it was up to the FBI to ride in and get to the bottom of things. He began his narrative about the Tinzo chain saws, the four cases signed up by Mack, his pitiful neglect of them, and so on. He made much of the fact that he had flown to New York City and met with the FBI there, and together they had tracked down the source of the settlements and the paperwork. He began pulling files from his briefcase.
The first was the settlement agreement signed by Odell Grove. The signature was legit, the notarization was forged. The contract for legal services signed by Odell gave Mack 40 percent of any recovery. Instead of receiving $25,000, Odell was due $60,000.
The second was Jerrol Baker, now serving time in prison. Lenzini had visited him there and taken his statement. The signature was his—such as it was, because he was missing most of his left hand and couldn’t write that well, thanks to the chain saw—but, again, the notarization by Freda Wilson was forged. Jerrol got $25,000 in cash, not $60,000.
The third was Travis Johnson, whereabouts unknown. Forged signature, forged notarization. The fourth was Doug Jumper, deceased. An FBI handwriting analyst studied the signatures and was certain that Mack Stafford had forged all the signatures on the Johnson and Jumper settlement agreements. There was little doubt he had kept the entire $200,000.
All in all, it appeared as though Mack’s haul from his fraudulent scheme totaled $400,000, not the $200,000 he was entitled to—40 percent of the half a million dollars wired down by Mr. Marty Rosenberg.
Lenzini said, “Call it what you want—embezzlement, larceny, or grand theft, not to mention the forgeries. It’s a two-hundred-thousand-dollar crime. And it’s state, not federal. In other words, guys, it’s all yours.”
“What’s your game?” Dyer asked.
“Bankruptcy fraud is federal. The documents speak for themselves, gentlemen. The cases are open-and-shut, no way he can wiggle out. He forged the sigs, paid off Odell Grove and Jerrol Baker, and kept the rest for himself.”
Dyer studied some papers and Musgrove asked, “And you think he’s back in the country?”
“Well, we haven’t seen him. You got any sources around town?”
“Not really, just the local gossip. I know Jake Brigance pretty well, bumped into him in court last week, but he’s not talking.”
Lenzini lifted another sheet of paper and frowned at it. “We’ve checked with the airlines, and no one of that name has entered the country in the past month. I’m sure he’s using another name.” He laid down the papers, took a sip of coffee, and said, gravely, “Gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you how delicate this is. When you convene your grand jury—”
“You mean ‘if’ we convene,” Dyer interrupted.
“Well, surely—”
“I’m in charge of our grand jury, Mr. Lenzini. I decide if and when it’s called, without direction from the FBI. I’m sure the U.S. Attorney in Oxford would not want me meddling with his grand jury.”