“Not yet,” I said again. “I want him to play his hand all the way out. I want him to show up at my door thinking he has already won. Because when I go to the police, I want to walk in with an open-and-shut case.”
Sierra studied me for a long moment.
“You’re going to let him think it worked.”
“For a little while.”
She leaned back in her chair, and for the first time, she almost smiled.
“Don’t wait too long.”
“I won’t.”
I went home. I made coffee. Then I started building the file.
Over the next three months, while Cody and Caitlyn lived in their rented condo in Brickell, and I played the part of the unsuspecting sixty-three-year-old widower in his paid-off house, I assembled the most complete document package of my life.
Morgan helped me trace Cody’s LLCs.
Two were shell companies with no real assets, no real business activity, and addresses that led to storefront mailboxes. One had been used as the alleged buyer in two previous property deals that had gone bad, including one in Hialeah where an elderly woman nearly lost her home before her grandson hired a lawyer who caught the fraud in time.
That woman’s name was in public court records.
Morgan found her.
Her grandson found me.
What mattered was that he had documentation of the same pattern: forged quitclaim deed, suspended notary, fake LLC structure, different house, same Cody Jenkins.
I added everything to the file.
Sierra’s office also looked into the man who had stamped my forged deed. By the time they finished, we had a copy of a sworn statement from a separate case in which someone admitted to personally handing Cody cash in exchange for fraudulent notary work.