Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit by Paul Goldman (surface ebook reader txt) 📗

doubts about Audrey'sexplanation of why she needed more money, I did write the check,but this time I wrote it out to FloridaHealth Company and mailed it out thatFriday.

The next day, Saturday, Iwas having lunch with the kids when Audrey returned from thegrocery store with her arms full of bags and her face full ofannoyance. When I stood up to help unload the groceries, Audrey letout a sigh and pulled open the fridge.

“Paul, I just heard fromthe insurance company and they won't process your check.” Audreybegan to shelve the perishables in the refrigerator, and I openedthe pantry door, while balancing an armful of snacks.

“What do you mean theywon’t process the check? I just mailed it yesterday. How would theyhave gotten it and put it through underwriting in such a shorttime? Besides, it’s Saturday,” I responded, curious to hear how shewould explain it all, my skepticism confirmed.

“I don’tknow. That’s what they told me.” Her back was still turned to mewhile she organized the milk, the butter, the cheese, and the eggs.“They can’t process the check because it has to be made outto FLHC.”

“That’s impossible. You’retelling me that Florida Health Company will not accept a check madeout to Florida Health Company?” I was now certain Audrey was lying,though I had no idea why or what she was up to.

“I’m telling you what theysaid.”

“Tell them to send me backmy check. I’m not going to have two checks floating around outthere,” I instructed, wishing I could see her face.

“Fine.” She slammed therefrigerator door and walked out of the room, never once turning toface me. I was left standing in the middle of the kitchen,surrounded by bags of partially unpacked groceries, beginning torealize the reality of my future with Audrey.

Aside from a few passing words, Audrey and Ididn’t speak much for the rest of the day. We moved about the houselike ships passing in the night. I was determined to pursue myquestions about her insurance, and hoped my suspicions were wrong.If they were, which I doubted, then that would once again open thedoors to communication.

The next day, Audreyhanded the check to me, now torn and without any envelope or otherpapers. Remarking on how quickly she had gotten it back, I soughtto show how ridiculous her ruse was becoming. It was Sunday.Knowing the banks were closed so she couldn't deposit it, I wroteher another check, made out to FLHCas Audrey had instructed, and gave it to her.Then, I made my plan. Tomorrow I would visit her insurance agent,and ask him why he couldn't accept my first check.

Monday morning, using the address Audreyprovided, 23511 N. Main St., #23, and with the help of MapQuest, Ibegan the thirty minute drive to the insurance agency, located inthe city of Stuart. A straightforward route, I spent the time alonethinking about what might be waiting for me at the insuranceagency. Clearly Audrey was motivated by money and my formerlawyer’s reference to her as a “gold digger” was now echoing in myear. But what I couldn’t figure out was what she needed the moneyfor and what scheme she had worked up with the insurance agency.Was she working with someone on the inside to fraudulently cashclient checks? Was it some kind of claim scam? I couldn’t begin toimagine what it might be, having no idea that the answer truly wasunimaginable.

As I passed Concord, the street before Main,I began to look around for the address, 23511. Much to my surprise,there was no office complex or any commercial looking buildingsanywhere in sight. In fact, the area was fairly depressed and notexactly an attractive thoroughfare for a professional office.Eventually passing what would have been the address, I began theprocess of making a U-turn when my eyes caught sight of the addresson a sign, a sign that also read “Stuart Trailer Park.” Laughingaloud at what had to be a joke, I slowly turned my car into thepark, being careful not to run over any of the stray garbage cans,the broken folding chairs, or the random pieces of clothinglittering the front entrance. I slowly eased my car through a rowof trailers, and squinted to make out the worn, dangling numbersidentifying each lot. By the time I got to the second row, Imanaged to find #23 and pulled up to the front door. Then I stoppedlaughing.

Slowly stepping out of my car, not knowingwhat or who might be around, I was immediately overwhelmed by thereek of urine and garbage, as well as the sign in #23's window.There, taped onto the glass of a cracked window, was a “For Sale byOwner” sign with a phone number. Audrey’s cell phone number.Confused and disgusted, I quickly got back into my car and headedfor the park manager’s office, which proved to be another nightmarefor my senses.

The office door creaked as I entered slowly,only to be confronted by the stench of stale cigarettes and theblaring of a television show. Sitting at a centrally located desk,there was a middle aged woman who was wearing a stained housecoat,curlers, and a scowl on her face that didn’t change, despite theconstant puffing on her cigarette.

“Hi, how are you?” Iventured, feeling certain this is where the daily talk shows camefor material.

“Yeah, waddya want?” shesnapped, without taking her eyes off the TV, and stamped out hercigarette. How thoughtful.

“I was wondering if youcould tell me who lives in trailer #23?” I asked.

Assuming she wouldn't release the informationwithout some kind of excuse, I began to brainstorm a believableone. Luckily, one wasn't needed.

“That’s Audrey Munson andher family.”

“Oh,” I responded,surprised to find her so forthcoming. “Would you know how longthey’ve lived there?” The woman sighed, clearly annoyed that shewas wasting breath on me and not another cigarette.

“About two years. She'sgot it for sale now, but there's no way she's going to get $20,000for it. Not in this neighborhood. Why're you asking?”

Thanks,” was all I offeredand made a fast exit, needing to seek out fresh air. I heard thedoor slam behind me followed by a few choice profanities. Nomatter, I was out of that trailer park and on my way back home withone objective in mind: stopping