Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
She was looking at a man that oozed confidence, poise, health and wealth. His tattooed hand was on his hip as he stood in front of a grand desk. She wanted to know more, so she poured another glass of wine and dug away, deep into the journalistic trenches. Article after article featured positive reviews about this guy and his company. He came across as a hardworking, regular ol’ Joe.
But why do you have a bunch of alcohol at your warehouse, James? You’re supposed to be selling boxes and fucking peanuts. Not Jack Daniels.
She ran another photo of him—in this one, he was shirtless, standing by a pool with some other guys. Mmmm… tatted up to the gods. Muscles and abs for days. Clean shaven. Gorgeous gray eyes…
She saved that photo on her desktop, biting on her bottom lip. He may make good fodder for me and my vibrator later on…
Anyway, let’s see… I know something isn’t right. Big ass men standing around in the dark. Guns. No lights on, hardly any on in the warehouse. I have a feeling it’s like that even when there are no power outages. Out in the middle of nowhere. Boxes full of liquor… yeah, this motherfucker is involved in some illegal shit.
She reviewed more pictures, focusing on the trucks that were parked to the side and in the back. She zoomed in on one of them and saw cases upon cases of what looked to be tequila…
OH. MY. GOD. The sight filled her with excitement. I knew it! My hunches are never wrong. I could break this shit wide open! This is news! She forced herself to calm down, took a deep breath and focused. Check out his past… I bet this isn’t his first rodeo. She pulled up a few websites she knew by heart to search for criminal records and typed in her requests.
James Wilde. Where are you, buddy? Let’s see… I don’t know his age. He looks to be about, I don’t know, thirty-two or thirty-three. Thirty-five max.
She searched other websites to try and get a birth date. BINGO.
On Instagram, some woman—her bio stated she was a model—had him tagged with a message saying, ‘Happy 32nd birthday, James. I miss you. Come back to Venezuela soon!’ That was two years ago. So yeah, he’s thirty-four. However, he had no page of his own and the nametag went to a link that said the page had been deleted.
She ran his name through various court databases, finding several James Wildes of Denver, Colorado. Once she corralled them by age, she was able to get it down to about twenty. She found photos for the majority of them, which also helped her rule them out. The blondes. The short guys. Guys that were too young, too old, deceased, and so on and so forth. After a bit more digging, she found a treasure trove. There he was—Mr. James Wilde himself.
You’ve been a bad, busy boy…
Second degree murder
Aggravated assault
Wire fraud
Manslaughter
Bribery
Money laundering
Disorderly conduct
…The list went on for miles.
She filled with more and more excitement as she read on. When she pressed for more details, most of the records were redacted or partially sealed. She had people she could call to get the full 411 but for now, this was enough.
This could be my way back in! Teresa, screw you! Ain’t no way they’ll turn down this story. This is huge! YES! She pumped her fist in excitement. He’s either selling the alcohol to someone important or smuggling that shit somewhere else for others to sell. Probably to get around taxes.
I’ve heard of smuggling rings all over the country. Bars, restaurants, all sorts of people and customers will buy illegally gained alcohol in order to avoid high taxes and sharing with Uncle Sam. On top of that, there are still some places in the country where it’s illegal to sell alcohol or bring it in the community. He’s got to be making a killing off of this with all of the booze I saw on that truck. Some of the larger operations make billions of dollars. I knew it. There were far too many booze bottles for him not to be doing something crooked. That shit wasn’t for a tea party…
She looked at his picture she’d kept up on her computer screen. Shirtless. Gorgeous. Corrupt.
This man is an entire demon… criminal ass. She sucked her teeth as she glared at his photo, shaking her head in dismay. What a beautiful waste. Leave it to me, on my time off, to happen upon serious criminal activity—and a lot of it. That place is just a coverup. If he is actually selling boxes, the business is probably barely profitable.
She searched to see the company’s net worth, and was astounded.
Okay… well, I stand corrected. Net worth is five million annually. Now, of course he has to pay employees, benefits, and things like that, but he makes more money than I thought he did. So it looks like he’s getting that income as a cherry on top because the real deal is this smuggling. Incredible.