“The state of California and the IRS do not care about that, Matt. They will get their money one way or the other.”
“Will they let me make payments?” he asked.
“They won’t just let you make payments, they will force you to,” Brimm told him. “It’s called garnishment of wages. They’ll get a judge to sign off on taking up to half of each royalty check that you receive.”
“That shit ain’t right!” he complained.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Brimm said. “The feds and the state don’t care about what’s right and what’s wrong. They just want their money, and they’ll do anything to get it.”
A hearing for the matter was scheduled for June 11 but had to be postponed because Hopple was still among the missing. The staff at the Hopple and Hopple offices were just as perplexed as everyone else about his disappearance. They claimed they had heard nothing from him, not a phone call, not a fax, not an email. He had failed to meet with multiple important clients and the junior accountants and partners in the firm were left leaderless. Police were sent to his house to make sure he hadn’t died but they found nothing there but his furniture. Both of his cars were still in the garage.
Finally, one of the franchise tax board auditors dug up Andrew Hopple I’s Florida phone number and gave him a call. The elder Hopple, now living the good life at a beachfront house just north of Miami, was quite surprised and alarmed to hear that his son was missing but was able to provide a small piece of information: His son had called him on the morning of June 1 to let him know that he would be taking a little vacation to South America.
“Did he say where in South America?” Hopple I was asked.
“Brazil,” was the answer. “Rio de Janeiro to be exact.”
“Did he say where he would be staying?”
“He did not. And I didn’t ask.”
“Very good, sir,” the auditor told him. “If you hear from him, please have him give me a call.”
“I will,” Hopple I said. “And if you hear from him, please let me know.”
The auditor promised to do so.
Three days later, on June 15, the California Franchise Tax Board obtained a legal order from a superior court judge to freeze all bank accounts belonging to Matthew Norman Tisdale in order to keep him from suddenly wiring all of his money overseas where they could not get to it. It was when the banks moved to enforce this order that they made yet another discovery.
Sixteen million dollars from Matt’s account had already been wired to a numbered bank account in Panama. That wire transfer had taken place the morning of June 1. It had been authorized by Matt’s primary accountant, one Andrew Hopple II. Further digging revealed that Hopple II had wired an additional twenty-one million dollars combined out of the accounts of sixteen other wealthy Hopple and Hopple clients on the same day. This brought the FBI into the case.
“Can I get my fuckin’ money back?” Matt asked the special agent in charge of the case when he was interviewed by phone from his hotel suite in Bremen, Germany.
“I’m afraid that is extremely unlikely, even if we do manage to get our hands on Mr. Hopple,” the agent told him. “We’ve traced the wire transactions to Panama, but the funds were immediately transferred from there to a series of accounts in the Grand Caymans and then to other accounts back in Panama again, though we cannot determine just where. God only knows where that money eventually ended up.”
“That’s a fuckin’ rip, dude,” Matt said.
“Indeed, it is,” the agent agreed.
“Does him ripping me off get me off the hook for all those taxes I owe?” he asked next.
“No,” the agent said simply. “You will still be required to pay your back taxes. My understanding is that the IRS is already opening up their own audit on this situation.”
“That sucks rocks,” Matt said sourly.
“Indeed, it does,” the agent agreed once again.
And so, on June 16th, after returning from the second show in Bremen, Matt made a phone call to a number in southern California. It was time to swallow a little more pride.
“Matt?” asked a used-car salesman voice when Matt finally managed to get him on the line.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Matt told Jerry Stillson of Music Alive Incorporated. “I’m calling about the fuckin’ Tsunami Sound Festival.”
“Have you changed your mind?” Stillson asked plainly. “Because we are still committed to having Jake Kingsley be the second-to-last act on both dates.”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “I’ve changed my fuckin’ mind. I’ll be there.”
“I’m really glad to hear that, Matt!” Stillson gushed. “I mean that most sincere.”
“Just keep fuckin’ Kingsley away from me, both at the venue and the hotel. You understand?”
“I understand,” Stillson said. “We’ll do everything in our power.”
Chapter 6: I Just Wanna Fly
Bogota, Colombia
July 1, 1996
“There’s our ride,” Jake told Laura as they stepped out of the international terminal of El Dorado International Airport after their five-hour flight from DFW. The loading and unloading area was very crowded, with taxicabs, a few limousines, and large SUV vehicles all vying for the limited parking spaces. Skycaps, passengers, and family and friends were everywhere, mostly speaking Spanish, but some speaking English or Portuguese.
Laura looked where he was pointing and saw a man in dress slacks and a white shirt holding up a sign with their names on it. He was standing next to a black SUV. “No limousine?” she asked, a little breathless from the elevation, which was actually three hundred feet higher than the aircraft they had flown on had been pressurized to.
“I learned a thing or two the last time I was here,” Jake said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well ... uh ... it was suggested to me by the hotel staff and by Mr. Gomez himself that riding around in a limousine in Bogota is not a real good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Uh ... well ... Bogota is known for being the ... uh ... the kidnapping capital of the world.”
“Kidnapping?” she asked, her eyes widening.
“Yeah, you know, for ransom. Apparently, it’s a very lucrative business model that contributes considerably to the local economy. Anyway, riding around in a shiny-ass limo is apparently the equivalent of holding up a sign that says: ‘I’m a rich motherfucker, please kidnap me for ransom.’”
This information did not serve to comfort his wife. “Sweetie, are we safe here?”
He shrugged. “Almost as safe as we would be in Detroit or Baltimore,” he said.
“That does not make me feel better,” she said. She had been to both of those places, after all.
“We’ll be fine,” he assured her. “The guy picking us up works for the hotel and we’ll use him anytime we need to go anywhere. Besides, we’re not going to be here very long.”
Their driver’s English was heavily accented, but at least he spoke it. His name was Jorge, pronounced ‘Hore-hey’. He loaded their luggage into the back of the SUV and then held the doors open for them to climb into the back.
“Would you like to go to the hotel, Señor Kingsley?” he asked once he was behind the wheel.
He and Laura had talked about this on the plane. They were here to take possession of their new aircraft, which had closed escrow as of the opening of business hours Bogota time today. Though they did not plan to actually start the long journey home until tomorrow, both wanted to lay their eyes and hands on the plane as soon as possible.
“Actually,” Jake told the driver, “can you take us to Guaymaral Airport? Just for a few minutes?”
“As you wish, Señor,” he replied politely.
The ride to Guaymaral took about forty-five minutes, which brought them there just before sunset. Jorge said little during the trip, just drove and listened to a pop music station. All of the songs they played were in Spanish except for one: Celia Valdez’s latest release, Wounded Love, a moderately hard rocker that had a lot of Jake Kingsley on the distorted electric. Jorge made no mention of the tune, though he did sing along with the choruses.