We need to secure the venue by the end of the week.
My planner says we’re going to lose the date if we don’t put down the deposit.
I can’t believe your father is making this so difficult. Doesn’t he want you to be happy?
And then the one that made me smile.
Fine. Let’s meet with the wedding coordinator together. Bring your father if he needs proof. Elite Wedding Designs, Thursday at 2 p.m. Address to follow.
Kevin forwarded me the text.
I called Edward immediately.
“She took the bait,” I said. “Meeting scheduled for Thursday.”
“You sure you want to do this? We could just file a police report with what we have.”
“I want them to know. I want them to see it coming and realize there’s nothing they can do to stop it.”
I paused.
“Call it professional satisfaction.”
Edward chuckled. “You missed the courtroom more than I care to admit.”
The address came through the next day. A building in the Design District. Street-level office suite. I had Gerald run it. The space had been vacant for three months, listed for lease at $2,800 a month.
No business named Elite Wedding Designs had ever been registered at that address.
Perfect.
On Thursday morning, I dressed in my old courtroom suit, charcoal gray, pressed until the creases could cut glass. Kevin met me at my house looking nervous.
“You ready for this?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Part of me still hopes this is all a mistake.”
“It’s not. But after today, you’ll have certainty. Sometimes that’s better than hope.”
Edward arrived at 1:30. We drove to the Design District together, arriving fifteen minutes early. The building was exactly as described—modern, sleek, mostly empty. Suite 140 had a temporary ELITE WEDDING DESIGNS placard taped to the door. Someone had put effort into the staging.
“Classy,” Edward muttered, photographing the obviously fake sign.
We waited in the parking lot. At exactly 2:00, Vanessa’s Mercedes pulled up.
She emerged first, wearing an outfit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. Patricia followed, her expression already defensive. They didn’t see us immediately. I watched Vanessa check her phone, touch up her lipstick, arrange her face into what she probably thought was a warm smile. The transformation was remarkable, from calculating to charming in under thirty seconds.
Then she spotted us getting out of Edward’s car, and her smile faltered for just a moment before reasserting itself.
“Kevin, darling,” she called, walking toward us with arms outstretched. “I’m so glad you’re here. And you brought your father. How thorough.”
I said nothing. Just watched.
Patricia’s eyes narrowed when she saw Edward.
“Who’s this?”
“Edward Grant,” he said pleasantly. “I’m Mr. Porter’s attorney.”
The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Attorney?” Vanessa’s voice climbed half an octave. “Why on earth would we need an attorney at a wedding planning meeting?”
“Shall we go inside?” I suggested. “I’m curious to meet your coordinator.”
The suite was empty.
Completely, utterly empty. No furniture, no decoration, nothing but beige carpet and white walls. A card table had been set up in the center with four folding chairs around it, the kind you can buy at any hardware store for fifteen dollars each.
Vanessa’s face went through several expressions in rapid succession. Surprise. Then calculation. Then a forced smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Oh,” she said brightly, brittle as glass. “Michelle must be running late. She texted me this morning that she was moving some furniture to her new office space. This is just temporary while she relocates.”
“Michelle?” I repeated. “That would be Michelle Lawson, your wedding coordinator?”
“Yes, exactly. She’s very in demand. Books out months in advance.”
“Interesting.”
I opened my briefcase. I’d brought my old leather one, the same one I used to carry into federal court, and pulled out a folder.
“Because according to the Texas Secretary of State business registry, no business named Elite Wedding Designs exists. And no wedding planner named Michelle Lawson is licensed in Dallas County.”
Vanessa’s smile froze. Patricia took a half-step backward.
“There must be a mistake in the records,” Vanessa stammered. “Michelle works independently. She might not be officially registered.”
“Let’s table that for a moment,” I interrupted, placing the folder on the card table. “I want to talk about your budget. The $2.1 million estimate you sent Kevin.”
I opened the folder. Twenty-three pages of vendor analysis, each one marked up in red. Thomas had done exceptional work. Every fake company highlighted. Every inconsistency noted. Every red flag circled.
“Twenty-three vendors,” I said, my voice conversational. “Eleven of them don’t exist. The bank accounts you provided route to shell companies registered to various names, all of which, interestingly, share mailing addresses with your mother.”
Patricia’s face had gone the color of old paper.
“This is ridiculous. We don’t have to listen to these accusations.”
“The other twelve vendors are real,” I continued, ignoring her. “I called each one personally. Not a single one has a contract with anyone named Vanessa Morales. Several had never even heard of you.”
Vanessa’s hands were trembling. She clasped them together, trying to hide it, but I saw. I’d seen that gesture a thousand times in interrogation rooms. The moment when a suspect realizes the evidence is airtight.
“You’re invading my privacy,” she managed. “This is harassment.”
“This is due diligence.”
I pulled out another document. Gerald’s report condensed to the essential facts.
“Let’s talk about Marcus Webb. Houston tech entrepreneur. Lost $340,000 to a wedding that never happened. Ring any bells?”
Vanessa’s pupils dilated. She shot a look at Patricia, who looked like she wanted to bolt for the door.
“Or Daniel Crawford. Austin. Real estate developer. $275,000.”
I flipped a page.
“Or Steven Richards. Now he’s interesting. San Antonio investment banker. $410,000. He actually hired a lawyer, started uncovering the shell companies. You two left town pretty quickly after that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vanessa said, but her voice had lost all its confidence. “Those are just coincidences.”
“Three previous engagements that ended weeks before the wedding, all with substantial deposits paid and never returned, all with the same pattern of fake vendors and shell companies.”