Page 42 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)
Did I try to get more than that from him?
Of course.
Didn’t succeed. As I said, James is a good lawyer.
But at least I got something.
Even if it was the tiniest fragment of a thread to follow up on regarding Frank Jardos’ last days— No. I should not slip into a groove of assumption.
The last days before his cabin burned down and a dead body was found there.
* * * *
This time I made it all the way to inside my SUV, still parked behind the courthouse.
Preliminary research on my phone gave me three basics and another reminder about being an artifact with poor thumb-typing skills. Who knew being a touch typist would be a drawback.
Every company registered in Wyoming must have a physical address in the state.
Registered agents can provide that address for out-of-state entities.
Many such entities, including those not only out-of-state, but also out-of-country, choose to register here because Wyoming’s less than stringent laws and regulations favor privacy. That’s important to companies that prefer privacy for, let’s call them, particular reasons.
The Cowboy Cocktail.
That’s what tickled my memory in James’ office.
I sat back, still looking at my phone’s screen.
For deep dives into details, I am significantly more effective with the full keyboard of a laptop or desktop computer.
Returning to the station to research risked being roped into something else, especially if Orson was still there asking Audrey questions.
Better to go home.
Turning to grasp my seatbelt, I spotted a familiar, upright figure sitting on a bench in the grassy area near the back corner of the courthouse.
I’m a pretty good online researcher. Not to the level of Jennifer, but pretty good.
Good enough to know that many times it was more efficient to talk to a person who knew enough about the topic to tell you the things you don’t know to ask.
I hurried across the grass to that upright figure.
* * * *
“Hello, Elizabeth,” Mrs. P said without turning. She had that teacher eyes-in-the-back-of-her-head trick mastered.
“What brings you here?” I asked with friendly casualness as I sat beside her.
“I am awaiting Gisella, who is conducting business in the courthouse. She kindly brought me to Sherman this morning for a series of meetings only now concluded—” In addition to the museum, she was on at least as many boards and committees as Tom. “—and will drive me home.”
Mrs. P didn’t drive. Gee never let the rivalry between them, stand in the way of being of service to her neighbor and Mrs. P never took it for granted.
No segue to my questions occurred to me and if Aunt Gee returned while I was still here, she’d try to feed me, raising wedding dress issues, so I opted to jump in, segue-less.
“Mrs. Parens, what do you know about the Cowboy Cocktail?”
It was far too cutesy a nickname for what it stood for.
Using Wyoming’s trusts and discretion-centric approach to financial disclosure, entities with those particular reasons to desire privacy crafted a protective tax haven. The combination of tactics employed to achieve that was known as the Cowboy Cocktail.
One ingredient was a registered agent.
Envision entities like Russian oligarchs, South American money launderers, and African dictators. I’d wager far more geographic regions were also represented, but they haven’t been brought to light — yet.
Yes, that made the back of my scalp tingle with journalistic desire to be the light-bringer.
It’s one of the frustrations of journalism. So many wrongdoers, so little time.
The first time I’d seen the term Cowboy Cocktail was in an article based on millions of records acquired by the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists.
Millions of records. By an international consortium.
As amazing as Jennifer’s skills are, expanding on that research would be asking a lot.
Especially since that article was several years old and as far as I could tell there’d been no Part 2 produced.
“If by Cowboy Cocktail you refer to the Prohibition-era cocktail that contains scotch and cream,” Mrs. P said, “I can say only that I know those are the primary ingredients, as well as that I cannot speculate as to how anyone of that era or any other concluded that cowboys would favor cream in an alcoholic drink. I cannot further enlighten you on the making of that cocktail, nor would I wish to if I possessed that knowledge.”
Mrs. P being acerbic about cocktail ingredients made me fight a grin, which surely would not have encouraged her to share further.
I was rewarded for that restraint when she continued.
“Nor can I elucidate on the entirety of the financial stratagems now sometimes included in the would-be jocular term Cowboy Cocktail, since my knowledge in that capacity is limited to one specific element, which is not only an element of this Cowboy Cocktail, but on its own is also used and abused by a much wider portion of the population of malefactors.”
I unwound all that, coming to the conclusion that I probably knew the answer, but asking anyway. “What is that element?”
“Registered agents, beyond which, I do not have the expertise to elucidate the complications of that system for you, Elizabeth.”
Didn’t have the expertise or didn’t want to tell me?
Did she know why Frank Jardos asked James about registered agents?
Did this touch on the negotiations between the veterans and the museum?
Did she view not telling me as loyalty to the museum’s best interests?
Or . . . I suppose it was possible she truly didn’t have the expertise. From what James said, it seemed an area unlikely to impinge on Mrs. P’s life.
Either way, I better move on. Mrs. P would not be swayed and I was running out of time before Aunt Gee arrived and tried to feed me.
“Thanks for your time. Tell Gee I said hello.”
James had ruled himself out.
Now Mrs. P was out.
One more human option remained, however, before I went home to try my luck on the Internet.