Page 17 of Scammed

“This is fucking shitty,” growled Angel. “They’re stealing money from non-profits, corporations, and individuals. Hardworking people. How do we stop this?”

“We have to find out who they are and where they are,” said Code. “That’s what the team is trying to do now. I would suspect that Amy isn’t the first person who has taken the fall for funds transferred or misused. This isn’t like what happened with Shelby and the dating apps. That was stealing someone’s identity and credit card theft and fraud. This is much more sophisticated.”

“She’s the fifty-third,” said Monroe. Code turned to stare at the little boy, Angel slowly looking toward the little man in the chair in front of the computer. “Oh. Was I not supposed to talk?”

“No, Monroe,” smiled Code. “I told you. You can always speak up here and tell us what’s on your mind.”

“Okay, cool. Anyway, she’s the fifty-third person to be a victim of this scam. The last one was a man by the name of Harold Winger. He worked for the Children’s Medical Relief Fund in Tallahassee, Florida. More than seventeen million dollars was moved to an account with his name on it, then transferred again to an untraceable account.”

“Is it really untraceable?” Angel asked Monroe.

“Oh, definitely not. I can trace it everywhere. I just have to find where it stops.” Angel smirked at the kid, shaking his head.

“Alright, when do you think it will reach its end?”

“Beats me,” he shrugged, turning back to his computer.

“Angel, why don’t you and Jean go visit Mr. Winger and see if you can find any other information for us,” said Code, taking the information sheet from Monroe.

“Sure. Do you have an address?”

“Yep. Florida State Penitentiary.”

“We’re here to see Harold Winger,” said Jean to the guard.

“Sign in.” He pushed the book toward the two men, not even bothering to ask for identification. He led them to a small alcove with glass in the front of them. They were the only ones that day to request visitation for some reason.

“Can you tell us anything about Mr. Winger?” asked Angel. The guard shrugged.

“He’s in jail. Says he didn’t do it, but that doesn’t matter. He was found guilty. End of story.”

“End of story. So, you don’t believe him?” asked Jean.

“Dude, if I believed every man who said he didn’t do it, I’d have no one to watch over. Courts found him guilty. He’s guilty.”

“Very enlightened of you,” frowned Jean.

They waited for nearly fifteen minutes before Winger sat on the other side of the glass. He was probably mid-fifties, his paunchy middle and thinning hair telling them he wasn’t a man who spent time or money on himself.

“Do I know you? Are you with my new lawyer’s office?” he asked.

“No, sir. We are not, but we believe another young woman was placed in the same predicament as you. Funds were stolen from the non-profit she worked at, transferred to an account with her name on it, and then transferred again to a ghost account.”

“Did they put her in jail?” he asked in a whisper.

“No, sir. We were able to prove that it was not her. However, they did ask her to resign. It was a job she loved.”

“I know the feeling,” he said, looking forlorn. “I worked at CMRF for more than twenty years. I lost a wife over my dedication to them, and this is what they did to me.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” asked Jean.

“Sure. I came into work, and my boss asked to see me. When I went into his office, there were two other men. They were with the FBI. They asked me a number of questions about my finances, how much was in my savings account, all sorts of strange things.

“Then, one of the agents pushed forward a confirmation of the transfer of funds from the CMRF to my checking account. When they said that they did see it was transferred again and couldn’t find it, they started drilling me about where the money was.”

“What did you do?” asked Jean.

“I asked to call a lawyer, and they obliged. He was a shitty lawyer. He said the paper trail was clear despite the fact that I had no money. Everyone believed that I’d placed it in some account in the Caymans under a false identity. Next thing I knew, I was given a ten-year sentence since it was my first offense.

---