Free Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers by Diane Kelly

development called Craig Ranch. The development included several sections distinguished by the size and price of the homes. The spec home in question was in a luxury section known as the Estate, where houses ranged in price from $1 million up.
    We drove past a number of newly finished homes, enormous and beautiful designs, situated among empty lots and partially constructed residences.
    Agent Ackerman kept an eye on the addresses. “5801. 5803. Here it is, 5805.” He directed Eddie to pull to a stop at an empty lot between two homes under construction.
    I gestured to the two adjacent houses. “Which one is GSM’s?”
    Ackerman hiked a thumb at the empty lot. “That one.”
    My brow scrunched in confusion. I hated to tell him the emporer had no clothes, but he didn’t. Or, in this case, he had no house. “But there’s nothing there.”
    Ackerman’s eyes flared with rage. “Those bastards got an air loan.” He climbed out of the car.
    Eddie and I climbed out, too.
    “What’s an air loan?” Eddie asked as Ackerman pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the empty lot.
    “It’s when someone takes out a mortgage on a house that doesn’t actually exist.”
    A loan without collateral? Uh-oh. The bank would be none too happy to learn about this development.
    We made the rounds of several more alleged construction sites, finding no evidence of construction at any of them. No concrete foundations. No lumber. No pipes. No stacks of shingles. Not even a Porta Potti.
    Only air, air, and more air.
    The final property we inspected had not yet been razed. An assortment of scraggly trees and brush covered the property. Among them we found a small structure, though clearly it had not been professionally designed. The flimsy plywood clubhouse had been painted pink and decorated with hearts and flowers drawn in colorful Magic Marker. A hand-lettered sign attached to the outside read GIRLS ONLY! NO BOYS ALOUD !
    The Freudian slip caused me a slight titter.
    Inside the makeshift shack were a bunch of naked Barbie and Ken dolls. Looked like some plastic porn had been acted out in the clubhouse.
    Been there, done that.
    We stopped for lunch at a neighborhood sandwich shop. When we finished, Ackerman balled up his napkin and hurled it into the trash can. “As long as we’re out, let’s take a look at some of the houses they flipped.”
    GSM’s owners had not only sold the houses they’d swiped through their fraudulent mortgage-relief scheme, including the houses they’d stolen from the Nguyens and Marisol Otiz, they’d also dealt in other parcels of real estate. Per the documentation, several of the properties had been bought and sold on multiple occasions, each time at a significant markup. One in particular had caught both my eye and Ackerman’s.
    The house had changed ownership no less than a dozen times over the course of three years, the final sales price of $600,000 more than twenty times the initial purchase price of $29,000. Though some of the price increase might reflect improvements such as the addition of granite countertops or a swimming pool, unless a solid gold bidet had been installed I had a hard time believing a house could appreciate so much given current market conditions. I suggested we start with that particular house.
    Eddie drove to the site, located in South Dallas near the intersection of Interstate 45 and U.S. 175, otherwise known as S. M. Wright Freeway. The area was an older section of Dallas, with many of the homes having been built a full century ago. Given the neighborhood’s age and deteriorating condition, the area was a target for urban renewal. The Texas Department of Transportation had proposed tearing down the old and potentially unsafe elevated section of 175 and replacing it with a broad boulevard.
    The street on which the house was located was an amalgamation of residences and business properties. We eased past a number of buildings that appeared on the verge of