Chapter 7 - The Receiver’s Ledger
Marcus Vance didn't waste time on pleasantries. Mountain cold makes everyone practical, and receivers dealing with bankrupt landscaping scams have even less patience than insurance adjusters.
"I have a court order issued out of Denver District Court yesterday morning," Vance said, holding up the leather folder. "We’re executing an asset seizure and attachment order against all real and personal property held or fraudulently transferred by Jason and Olivia Miller in the preceding ninety days."
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my flannel shirt. "You’re a little late, Mr. Vance. Or a little early, depending on how you look at it."
Vance’s gray eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean," I said, stepping back and pushing the door wide open, "that if you're here to seize this property as part of Jason’s business assets, you’re barking up the wrong pine tree. Step inside before your ears turn black."
Vance hesitated, then stepped across the threshold, his leather shoes squeaking on the pine floorboards. He looked around the cabin—the soapstone fireplace, the tiled kitchen island, the rough-hewn beams overhead—with a sharp, assessing squint.
"Nice place," he muttered, pulling off his gloves. "Valuation puts it around four-fifty minimum. More if the water rights are senior."
"They are," I said. "And the deed is in my name. Solely. Not Jason’s. Not Olivia’s. Mine."
Vance pulled a sheaf of printed documents from his folder, thumbing through them with dry, paper-cut-prone fingers. "According to the financial disclosures Jason submitted under oath last week, this property was transferred to their holding entity via a quitclaim deed signed by Diane Hart under a general power of attorney executed on November 2nd."
"A power of attorney that didn't include real estate conveyance," I countered, pulling my own plastic folder from the kitchen counter and sliding the certified warranty deed across the slate tile. "And even if it had, my mother doesn't own this property. Never has. She couldn't transfer what didn't belong to her."
Vance picked up my deed. He read it once. He read it twice. Then he pulled a pair of reading glasses from his coat pocket, adjusted them on his nose, and examined the county clerk's embossed raised seal in the bottom right corner.
A slow, humorless smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"Well," Vance said, leaning back against the kitchen island. "It appears your brother-in-law is even more of an idiot than I calculated in my preliminary report."
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"Is that a matter of public record?" I asked, pouring two mugs of black coffee from the French press on the counter and handing him one.
"It will be by Monday morning," Vance said, taking the mug gratefully and wrapping his frost-bitten hands around the ceramic warmth. "Jason tried to hide this cabin as an exempt personal asset to keep our creditors from seizing his primary residence in Cherry Hills. He figured if he put it in his wife’s name via a rushed family transfer, we couldn't touch it." He shook his head, blowing on the dark liquid. "Problem is, you can't transfer property you don't own. And when a debtor commits fraudulent conveyance using a forged or invalid power of attorney, the presiding judge doesn't just toss out the transfer—he hands the debtor over to the district attorney for criminal fraud investigation."
