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Three hours later, Lucas’s plane touched down at Los Angeles International Airport.
He walked off the jet bridge smiling, casually pulling up his mobile banking app to check if his multi-hundred-thousand-dollar transfer had processed so he could complete the final payment on the Palm Springs luxury condo.
Instead, the screen flashed crimson: ACCOUNT FROZEN. CONTACT FRAUD PREVENTION.
Panicked, he tried his corporate credit card to rent a car. Declined. He tried his personal card. Declined.
Sensing the walls closing in, he ducked into an airport lounge and frantically dialed my number. I answered on the first ring, sitting comfortably on my porch back in Denver, sipping a warm cup of tea.
“Clara!” he panicked, his voice laced with sweat and desperation. “Something is wrong with the bank accounts! The cards aren’t working, and my transfer didn’t go through! Did you talk to the bank? Where is the money?!”
“Hello, Lucas,” I said, my voice smooth and ice-cold. “How’s Zurich?”
Silence stretched over the line. A long, agonizing silence.
“What… what are you talking about?” he stammered, his bravado instantly evaporating.
“I hope you enjoyed first class,” I said softly. “Because it’s the last luxury seat you will ever sit in. Victoria says hello, by the way. And so does the LAPD officer standing right behind you.”