Chapter 3 - The Notary's Backdoor Deal
David’s home office smelled of cedar shavings, blueprint paper, and the stale tobacco of the pipe he occasionally smoked while working late on bridge load calculations.
Nothing had been moved since June. His drafting table still held a set of plans for the Poudre Canyon culvert replacement. His collection of vintage levels hung in straight, perfect lines along the pine wall.
Behind the desk sat the heavy steel fireproof filing cabinet that Karen had claimed she was looking through for "printer paper" two weeks ago.
Tom stood in the doorway, gloved hands on his hips. “Did Rick have the key to this?”
“David kept the master key on his ring,” I said, pulling the brass key from my pocket. “I took it off his chain at the funeral home. It hasn't left my sight.”
I unlocked the bottom drawer. Inside were rows of green Pendaflex folders, organized by year and project. Near the back was a thick red accordion file labeled *VANCE / PERSONAL*.
I pulled it out and set it on the drafting table. Tom leaned in as I untied the cloth string.
Inside were bank receipts, photocopies of driver’s licenses, and three handwritten letters dated over the past four years. But what caught Tom’s eye was a manila envelope stuffed beneath the receipts, labeled in David’s precise block lettering: *DALE PUIT / GREELEY / INVESTIGATION.*
“David hired a private investigator?” Tom asked, his eyebrows shooting up.
“He didn't tell me,” I whispered, pulling out the contents. “David never wanted me to worry about his family. He thought he could handle everything himself.”
The documents told a horrifying story.
Six months before his death, David had discovered that his corporate identity had been used to co-sign a sixty-thousand-dollar equipment lease in Weld County for a fictional hauling company called Vance Logistics. David had tracked the fraudulent notary seal to Dale R. Puit’s office on 8th Avenue in Greeley.
Attached to the file was an audio cassette tape with a handwritten sticky note: *Dale’s confession re: Rick Vance forging my signature. Keep in safe.*
Tom let out a low whistle. “David didn't just suspect Rick. He had him dead to rights. Why didn't he bring this to me?”
“Because of Karen,” Ruth’s voice came from the doorway.
She stood there, leaning on her cane, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow.
“David came to my house in May,” Ruth said softly. “He sat at my kitchen table and told me Rick was doing things that could send him to prison. David told me he was going to give Rick one chance to pay the equipment lease off before he went to the district attorney. He said he didn't want Mia to grow up visiting her father through a glass window.”
“And instead of paying it off,” I said, cold fury rising in my throat, “Rick waited for David to die. And then he came for everything else.”
Tom pulled out his radio and keyed the mic. “Alvarez, this is Miller. Call the on-duty magistrate in Weld County. Tell them I need a telephonic search warrant for a business address on 8th Avenue in Greeley. Name on the lease is Dale R. Puit. Charges are felony forgery, identity theft, and conspiracy to commit grand larceny.”
“On it, Sheriff,” Alvarez’s voice crackled back.
“We’re going to Greeley right now,” Tom said, turning to me. “Sarah, you stay here with Ruth and Lily.”
“No,” I said, meeting his eyes without blinking. “I’m coming with you.”
“Sarah, this is an active criminal operation—”
“That is my signature on that fraudulent deed, Tom. That man stamped a document that stole my home while I was grieving my husband. Lily has marks on her skin from what this conspiracy led to. I am not sitting in this kitchen waiting for updates. Ruth can watch Lily. Lily is asleep, and Ruth needs to face what she’s been excusing for ten years.”
Ruth flinched, but she nodded slowly. “She's right, Tom. I’ll sit outside Lily’s door. I won't leave her. Go get that man.”
Forty-five minutes later, Tom’s unmarked Ford Explorer pulled into the cracked asphalt lot of the Prairie View Plaza in south Greeley. It was a miserable strip mall sandwiched between a laundromat and a defunct tax-prep service.
A neon sign in the window of Suite 104 read: *PUIT FINANCIAL SERVICES — NOTARY — TAXES — BAIL ADVICE.*
Tom parked fifty yards away, out of line-of-sight from the dirty front windows. A rusted Chevy Impala was parked near the rear exit.
“He’s inside,” Tom said, unsnapping the holster of his Glock. “Stay behind me, Sarah. If this goes sideways, you get back in the truck and lock the doors.”
We walked up the slush-covered sidewalk. Tom didn't knock. He turned the brass knob, found it unlocked, and pushed the door open. A cheap bell chimed overhead.
The office was cramped, reeking of stale cigars and damp carpet. A balding man in his late fifties sat behind a faux-wood desk, wearing a stained cardigan and squinting at a desktop computer. On the wall behind him hung a framed Colorado Notary certificate and several fading posters of classic cars.
The man looked up, annoyed. “We’re closed for the holidays. Sign on the door says—”
He stopped dead when he saw Tom’s uniform and gold badge. His eyes flicked to me, then back to the badge. The color drained from his jowly face.
“Dale Puit?” Tom asked, stepping into the center of the room.
The man swallowed hard. “Who’s asking?”
“Sheriff Miller, Harlo County. And this is Sarah Holloway.”
Dale’s eyes went completely wide. He actually backed his rolling chair up until it hit the metal filing cabinet behind him with a loud clang.
“I... I don't know any Holloways,” Dale stammered, his right hand twitching toward an open ledger on his desk.
Tom moved with terrifying speed. He crossed the room in two strides, slammed his palm down on the ledger before Dale could touch it, and leaned in close.
“Dale, you’re about three seconds away from being dragged out of here in federal custody for interstate wire fraud,” Tom said in a low, vicious murmur. “On December nineteenth, you executed a notarial acknowledgment on a quitclaim deed for parcel 44-B in Harlo County. The purported grantors were David Holloway and Sarah Holloway.”
Dale’s breath began coming in short, wheezing gasps. “I... people present IDs. I just verify the signatures against the licenses presented. If someone has a fake ID, I’m not a forensic expert—”
Tom reached into his pocket and dropped David’s death certificate onto the desk.
It landed right beside the notary log.
“David Holloway was cremated on June seventeenth, Dale,” Tom said. “The deed you stamped claims he stood before you in this office on March fourteenth, but the stamp was applied five days ago using your current seal number—a seal that wasn't issued until August.”
Dale stared at the death certificate. Sweat began beading along his receding hairline, dripping down into his bushy gray eyebrows.
“Rick told me... Rick said David had pre-signed the forms before he got sick,” Dale whispered, his voice cracking. “He said Sarah was on board. He said it was an estate planning technique to avoid probate!”
“Did Rick tell you he was stealing ninety thousand dollars from an old woman, too?” I demanded, stepping forward until I was standing right at the edge of the desk.
Dale looked up at me, his eyes full of terror. “Mrs. Holloway, I didn't know—I swear to God, Rick owed me eight thousand from an old sports-betting account. He said if I stamped the deed, he’d pay me ten grand as soon as Ridgeline disbursed the equity loan!”
“Where is the logbook, Dale?” Tom asked, pressing down harder on the desk.
Dale’s trembling hands reached into the lower right drawer. He pulled out a black hardbound legal register—the official Colorado notary logbook that the state requires by law.
Tom flipped it open to December nineteenth.
There it was. Entry #842.
Under *Signer’s Name*, Rick Vance had signed for David Holloway. Beside it, in Karen Vance’s neat, looped handwriting, was my name.
And beneath the signatures, Dale had written the false date: *March 14.*
“You just signed your own ticket to the Cañon City state penitentiary, Dale,” Tom said coldly, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around.”
“Wait! Wait!” Dale cried, dropping to his knees behind the desk. “I can help you! Rick isn't just taking the Ridgeline loan!”
Tom paused, one cuff dangling from his fingers. “What are you talking about?”
May you like
Dale looked up, gasping for air. “Karen has a second bail bondsman coming to the Harlo County jail right now. She’s using Ruth Holloway’s house in Loveland as collateral for Rick’s Carver County bail. They’re getting him out tonight!”
***
