The Process Server Chronicles : Cal Brink Files

Behind the Writing: Chapter 1, Part 2 of Notice of Assignment

Chris Lengquist — Wed, 24 Jun 2026 23:07:06 GMT

Today we continue with Chapter 1 of Notice of Assignment. I’m letting you inside how my mind was working as I wrote this debut novella. Well, how I wrote, re-wrote, edited and wrote again the first chapter.

For the first half of this chapter, read last week’s edition of Behind the Writing.

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

Angie, our closer, came in a minute later and introduced herself to Shawna. Angie had the calm of somebody who had sat at that same table through a thousand combinations of excitement, divorce, death, bad wiring, earnest money disputes, nervous first-time buyers, and people trying not to show each other what they were really feeling.

She took our IDs, wrote down the license numbers in her logbook, then turned it around for us to sign.

“Cal, you know the drill,” she said. “Usually, you’re here as an agent. You want the full speech, or you want me to just answer questions as we go?”

I’d used Angie before for a reason. Sharp. Efficient. No drama. Single mom. Quick wit. Could close a deal with buyers in the room or with signatures getting chased across three states and two time zones. She had once helped me close with an investor from Dubai who purchased a house in Kansas City.

He was a referral from a DC lawyer I hadn’t spoken to in twenty years. I still needed to send him a “thank you” card.

“I’m good,” I said. “Roll ’em out.”

That’s the thing about closings. If you’ve done enough of them, they start to feel less like major life moments and more like paperwork under a watchful eye.

Receive the document. Sign. Initial. Date. Slide. Next.

Then Angie stopped one in front of me. “Cal, you need to sign your legal name.”

I looked at her. “That is my signature.”

“Legal name.” Angie didn’t blink.

I’d heard that line dozens of times in dozens of closings. Still hated it every time. Blue ink. Legal name. Today’s date. Using blue ink was easy. Angie had the pens lined up like surgical tools. The legal name part was the problem. Somewhere back in high school I’d developed a signature that looked like speed itself had signed it, mainly because I had no patience for ceremony.

I signed my name, Calvin Brink. Then I glanced at the date.

Friday, August 13, 2010.

“Well,” I said. “When we moved the closing up, I didn’t realize it was Friday the 13th.”

“I did,” Shawna said.

She didn’t believe in luck. Good luck, bad luck, none of it. She believed in decisions, consequences, character, and whether the checking account could take another hit.

Still, my mind went there for a second.

We had Davis. Sixteen, almost seventeen years old. That felt like good luck.

We’d also had a miscarriage before him and one after.

So, if luck existed, it had a mean streak.

Shawna still carried those scars underneath that personality that welcomed everyone, and everyone welcomed her. One meeting and she knew your name, your kids’ names and birthdays and more about you than I would have learned in six years.

Angie presented a sheet that showed the loan terms. “No interest. It’s like you’re buying a Ford,” she commented. “That’s highly unusual.”

“Hey. They called me. Really wanted to sell this house and get it off their books.” I was bragging just a bit and she knew it. Shawna knew it. People in KC knew I was doing well in this Great Recession. I liked that.

A few more documents went by. Affidavit of title. Settlement statement. The usual stack. I signed where she pointed and dated where she asked and thought, not for the first time, that America’s answer to everything was to create more paper and longer words. More forms weren’t going to fix the housing mess. Putting a few men in expensive suits in jail might’ve helped, but nobody had asked me.

Then Angie slid one more sheet in front of me.

“Last one. Seller sent this over this morning,” Angie mechanically said.

I gave it a quick look. Something assignment-ish. Something lawyerly. Something I hadn’t expected but didn’t think much about.

All I noticed was it said the loan was being made by Isola del Sole Finance and that for its own reasons it was assigning the servicing of the loan to a third party. And on and on.

I didn’t really care who I sent the payments to. I didn’t even read page two.

“Huh,” I said. “They really will invent a document for anything.”

I slid up page one, signed it, and then handed the two pages to Shawna.

“That’s it,” Angie said. Then she looked at Shawna. “Any questions?”

Shawna smiled, but it was that smile wives get when they are being polite in public and reserving the real conversation for later.

“No. I don’t know half of what I signed. But he better.”

Angie laughed.

I did too, but not as confidently as I wanted it to sound.

Shawna meant it. She wasn’t all the way bought in on the deal, but she was bought in on me. There’s a difference, and any married man with a pulse ought to know it. She had gone through lean with me. She had stood by me through ideas that sounded smarter leaving my mouth than they did on paper. She loved me. Believed in me. She was just ready for life to deliver a little more thick than thin for once.

Any closing usually ends with some version of celebration. Handshakes. Smiles. Congratulations. Maybe even a gift bag if the agent is feeling generous or theatrical.

This one felt different.

I was the buyer and the agent, which made the usual ritual as ridiculous as the Missouri Real Estate Commission requiring me to sign a contract with myself to represent myself. I wasn’t about to congratulate myself too hard for spending our money on a downtown Kansas City, Missouri house that still needed work. Lots of it. Any closing gift I might’ve earned was already spoken for in paint, flooring, fixtures, and whatever fresh problem waited behind the walls.

“Perfect,” I said, standing.

I leaned down and kissed Shawna on the cheek.

“I’ve got a buyer appointment across the street. I’ll see you around four-thirty, and then I’ll take you by the house. Afterwards, I made a reservation at that restaurant that you said feels like we are in a mob movie every time we eat there. It’s just around the corner from our house.”

She nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. Not angry. Just unconvinced.

There’s a difference there too, and I should’ve paid more attention to it.

Then Angie gathered the stack, Shawna picked up her purse, and just like that the room emptied out.

A few signatures. A kiss on the cheek. One more house.

At the time, that’s all it felt like.

To get the first four chapters of Notice of Assignment, visit CalBrink.com.

Behind the Writing: Part 2 of Chapter 1

She took our IDs, wrote down the license numbers in her logbook, then turned it around for us to sign.

If you have ever bought a house, you’ve seen the closer. These are some of the most underappreciated players in real estate. You see them at the last minute. But behind the scenes for at least the last month they’ve been making sure you have the right to buy the house and they’ve been the chief liaison between the lender, buyer’s agent, seller’s agent and their own title people.

And they’ve seen every emotion possible. Sellers crying because they are leaving a home they raised four children in over the last three decades. Buyer’s crying because at the last minute they’ve been informed they should have listened to their lender and agent when they cautioned, “Don’t buy anything between now and closing! Nothing. No cars. No jewelry. Don’t use your credit…”

And then they do it anyway.

Then tears are in order for everyone who spent the last sixty days of working with them only to see all that work not reward a dime because the buyer believed the car salesman when he said, “Oh, don’t worry. We won’t run your credit until after you close.”

And, of course, they’ve seen joy. So much joy. A first generation home buyer. A move across country sale by the seller to take a dream job half a continent away.

Real estate closers, or title closers in many parts of the country deserve your respect. They have mine. They are the unsung heroes of real estate transactions.

Lastly, they know more than most buyers and sellers realize. It’s just that it isn’t really their place to say out loud what, maybe, should be said.

“Cal, you know the drill,” she said. “Usually, you’re here as an agent. You want the full speech, or you want me to just answer questions as we go?”

He was a referral from a DC lawyer I hadn’t spoken to in twenty years. I still needed to send him a “thank you” card.

“I’m good,” I said. “Roll ’em out.”

That’s the thing about closings. If you’ve done enough of them, they start to feel less like major life moments and more like paperwork under a watchful eye.

Receive the document. Sign. Initial. Date. Slide. Next.

That line about the DC lawyer? I planted it twelve hundred words into this book. I won't tell you why yet. But when you finish Notice of Assignment, come back and read this paragraph again.

And, have you ever been so confident in yourself that you overlooked something that should have been an obvious warning? Yeah. Me, too.

Then Angie stopped one in front of me. “Cal, you need to sign your legal name.”

I looked at her. “That is my signature.”

“Legal name.” Angie didn’t blink.

I signed my name, Calvin Brink. Then I glanced at the date.

This has been a pet peeve of mine forever. Doesn’t matter who the closer or company is. I’ll just leave this alone.

Friday, August 13, 2010.

“Well,” I said. “When we moved the closing up, I didn’t realize it was Friday the 13th.”

“I did,” Shawna said.

In real life, this would be my wife and I. When I’m focused on something, I don’t see the details. My wife absolutely would have noticed this. She even said so.

She didn’t believe in luck. Good luck, bad luck, none of it. She believed in decisions, consequences, character, and whether the checking account could take another hit.

Still, my mind went there for a second.

We had Davis. Sixteen, almost seventeen years old. That felt like good luck.

We’d also had a miscarriage before him and one after.

So, if luck existed, it had a mean streak.

I’m going to be very personal here. This section was hard to write. In real life, we have four children; two were natural and two were adopted from the foster care system.

How many children do I write into this book? All four? One?

In the end, I decided to write in one child to keep a reader focused and, frankly, to simplify myself from having too many moving parts. But for the record, and let’s be extremely clear about this, each and every one of our children have made me who I am today. In some form or fashion, they contributed to my learned skills and behaviors. Human behaviors.

There is much more to that story that one day I will share. But not now.

Just know I would be nothing without them all.

And the non-viable pregnancies? Painful.

If you ever do meet my wife, she will be truly interested in you. She’s a special woman.

Angie presented a sheet that showed the loan terms. “No interest. It’s like you’re buying a Ford,” she commented. “That’s highly unusual.”

In the Great Recession, all sorts of financing was going on. Banks were desperate to work with people that had cash and good credit. In real life, I did help some of my buyers get deals that could never happen today. The banks won. The buyers won. I won by selling another house.

It’s one of the good things that came out of the Great Recession, for some of us. But make no mistake, it did feel a lot like picking through the bones of someone’s dreams.

When I wrote “Putting a few men in expensive suits in jail…” I meant, and mean, every word of it.

America, we got fleeced.

Then Angie slid one more sheet in front of me.

“Last one. Seller sent this over this morning,” Angie mechanically said.

I gave it a quick look. Something assignment-ish. Something lawyerly. Something I hadn’t expected but didn’t think much about.

All I noticed was it said the loan was being made by Isola del Sole Finance and that for its own reasons it was assigning the servicing of the loan to a third party. And on and on.

I didn’t really care who I sent the payments to. I didn’t even read page two.

“Huh,” I said. “They really will invent a document for anything.”

I slid up page one, signed it, and then handed the two pages to Shawna.

“That’s it,” Angie said. Then she looked at Shawna. “Any questions?”

Uh, you may wish to dog-ear this page.

Shawna smiled, but it was that smile wives get when they are being polite in public and reserving the real conversation for later.

“No. I don’t know half of what I signed. But he better.”

Angie laughed.

I did too, but not as confidently as I wanted it to sound.

Any closing usually ends with some version of celebration. Handshakes. Smiles. Congratulations. Maybe even a gift bag if the agent is feeling generous or theatrical.

This one felt different.

Marriage is buried in this section. Tell me I’m wrong.

Perfect,” I said, standing.

I leaned down and kissed Shawna on the cheek.

She nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. Not angry. Just unconvinced.

There’s a difference there too, and I should’ve paid more attention to it.

Then Angie gathered the stack, Shawna picked up her purse, and just like that the room emptied out.

A few signatures. A kiss on the cheek. One more house.

I’m going to confess. This is me. Done. Next.

In fact, it’s one of the reasons I don’t stay mad too long. It’s over. Move on. But it’s also one of the reasons I can be a bit transactional. If you are into the DISC profile system, I’m high D and C.

Have some fun. Investigate the behavioral types.

Sure, I can adapt. For a while… but then I always come back to being direct and wanting things the way I want them.

And that mob reference? You might want to file that away. Or, look into Kansas City’s history.

At the time, that’s all it felt like.

Ask anyone that works with or for me. I have a saying.

Everything is fine. Until it’s not.

Your comments are fun. What do you think of my writing process. What questions do you have about the way I write?

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Behind the Writing: Chapter 1, Notice of Assignment

Chris Lengquist — Wed, 17 Jun 2026 23:08:00 GMT

Today I’m going to let you inside how my mind was working as I wrote the first eleven-hundred and twenty-four words of Notice of Assignment. Well, how I wrote, re-wrote, edited and wrote again the first chapter. Please note: this is not the entire first chapter.

Get the first four chapters at CalBrink.com

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

Chapter 1 (first two-thirds)

Friday, August 13, 2010
“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? We’re just about to sign on a house as an investment. That’s a big deal.”

That was Shawna. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady. Which was usually worse.

She had every right to ask.

For the first time in a long time, life had quit leaning on us with its full weight. The collection calls had stopped. She wasn’t standing in the kitchen doing math out loud, trying to figure out whether we had enough for groceries and gas in the same week. We had a little cushion. Not real wealth. Not security that could survive stupidity. But enough to exhale a little.

And there I was about to put some of it at risk.

Shawna had always been drawn to the part of me that liked motion. Adventure if you were being generous. Recklessness if you weren’t. She married a man who believed the next deal might fix everything. After a few rounds of real life, that quality probably looked less romantic than it had at the beginning.

I glanced over at her and thought, not for the first time, how strange it is that lust can turn into loyalty if you give it enough years. Her auburn hair got me first. Then her laugh. Then the smile. Then the way she looked at me like I might actually become the guy I kept saying I was going to be.

She came from southern Missouri. Ozark fringe. I came from suburbia. Planned, scrubbed, tidy suburbia. The kind of place Walt Disney later built as a theme park. I started mowing yards when I was ten.

My first lesson in capitalism. Push a mower for an hour in the Kansas heat, get paid, bike down to Bear’s Records, and turn sweat into vinyl. That seemed like a fair system to me. Still does, mostly.

The title company office had all the usual local-pride décor on the walls. Kansas City history in safe frames for safe people. Pendergast. Brush Creek. The radio tower. George Brett in Yankee Stadium, frozen forever in that clean swing of his. Even Walt was there, done up in black and white like he’d personally invented Midwestern respectability.

I studied the photos while the minute hand on the oversized clock inched forward.

They were good pictures. Crafted. Intentional. The kind made by people who cared about light and composition.

Not like the pictures I used to take.

Mine had usually been quick and grainy and taken for a reason nobody enjoyed. My photos accused people.

“Brett hit .305 for his career,” I said. “Failed plenty and still made the Hall of Fame.”

Shawna didn’t even look at the wall. “You’re not playing baseball. This is our money. The little money we have.”

That was Shawna in one sentence. No wasted motion. She could also see possible consequences that I would never consider. I guessed it had something to do with the harder upbringing. Being out there in the middle of nowhere, a fifty-minute bus ride to a school in another county.

She wasn’t wrong. We’d been married for twenty-four years and only recently gotten to where a bad month didn’t automatically become a crisis. I saw leverage. She saw exposure. I saw a chance to move up. She saw a chance to slide backward.

That’s marriage. Same facts. Different blood pressure.

To get the first four chapters of Notice of Assignment, visit CalBrink.com.

Behind the Writing

“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? We’re just about to sign on a house as an investment. That’s a big deal.”

That was Shawna. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady. Which was usually worse.

I made a conscious decision to not start with our protagonist, Cal Brink. I started with his conscious, his compass, his wife, Shawna Brink. Throughout the novella, we will learn how Cal thinks.

But Shawna is his compass. She will have great influence and insight.

She had every right to ask.

And there I was about to put some of it at risk.

Throughout this debut novella you will find a gray area where truth meets fiction. I’m not shy about saying that our story, my wife and me, is written throughout this book. The Great Recession caused a lot of financial stress across our nation. Couples broke up. We got closer. Maybe it’s because for the type of real estate I was specializing in, real estate investing and property management, the Great Recession turned into a boon.

Well, at least after an initial, painful drop of real estate sales income to the tune of 30%, more or less.

That’s it. That’s the origin story for my wife and me. I met her in my house. I came home and there was a party going on. It was college. This wasn’t unusual. She was dancing with some guy. I was smitten.

When I met her she was attending a university about fifteen miles from where I was attending the University of Kansas. Or, at least I was enrolled. Her home was down in the Ozarks area, about and hour’s drive east of Springfield, MO.

I grew up in Overland Park, KS. Curated. Manicured.

“…how strange it is that lust can turn into loyalty if you give it enough years.”

I want to be clear that this is our marriage. The physicality of love is real and a very good thing. It’s also true that the chemical attraction needs something more. A glue, if you will. Respect, common interests and two people feeling a personal responsibility are the ingredients that form that glue.

I started young. My first income came from delivering the Overland Park Sun newspaper. The system went that I delivered the paper on the doorsteps of my neighborhood for free. Then I’d go door-to-door once a month and try to collect. I got to keep a portion of what I collected.

Then, at about ten, I’d use our family’s lawnmower, and my dad’s gas, and went door to door asking if I could mow their lawn for whatever they’d pay. Turns out five dollars was the usual amount.

Then I’d make my way to a record store at 95th and Antioch using my bicycle. When I returned, I’d have a new record album by whatever band caught my attention: The Beach Boys, REO Speedwagon, Rolling Stones.

The record shop also had all these really pretty glass pipes and cylindrical gadgets. At ten to twelve years old I didn’t really understand. I was there for the records that were sold below value. I’d learn more about this later.

I studied the photos while the minute hand on the oversized clock inched forward.

They were good pictures. Crafted. Intentional. The kind made by people who cared about light and composition.

Not like the pictures I used to take.

Mine had usually been quick and grainy and taken for a reason nobody enjoyed. My photos accused people.

Title companies have closing offices that celebrate the local community. That’s their deal. They are facilitating the people getting their slice of the American dream. The pictures are less personal and more like marketing for the city you are about to spend your life in.

In truth, my life as an investigator included learning how to take pictures of people doing things they maybe shouldn’t be doing, from long distance and often in low light. I got pretty good at it. Even made a photography business out of it for a while.

Selling pictures of athletic accomplishments or families with smiles was more emotionally rewarding than photographing cheaters, either insurance or marriage infidelity.

“Brett hit .305 for his career,” I said. “Failed plenty and still made the Hall of Fame.”

Yes, I still think what George Brett did, in Kansas City, is vastly underappreciated in the baseball world. And he stayed one of us. Try that in the modern game of baseball.

Money, sex and power are the vices that destroy businesses, marriages and now our enjoyment of sports. The modern day story of sports is its own crime fiction novella waiting for the right author. The ingredients are all there.

Shawna didn’t even look at the wall. “You’re not playing baseball. This is our money. The little money we have.”

They say opposites attract. In my real life, my wife is more safety oriented. She likes security. I have mostly been more adventurous. Or reckless. You decide.

If something caught my fancy, professionally speaking, I would chase it down. Especially in my younger days. My wife said it was because I couldn’t hold a job. I framed it as I’m too young to sit in a cube my whole life.

That wasn’t going to work.

I would always count on me. Sometimes that didn’t work. Mostly for the first half of our marriage it didn’t work. My wife stood by me.

That’s a special lady.

That’s marriage. Same facts. Different blood pressure.

If you’ve been married for more than a day, I don’t need to explain this sentence.

Next Wednesday

Next Wednesday I'll feature another micro-story from the manuscript. These Behind the Writing pieces will be mixed in until October when Notice of Assignment releases. I'd love to know what landed for you this week.

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To get the first four chapters of Notice of Assignment, visit CalBrink.com.

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I Sent My First Book to My Editor

Chris Lengquist — Wed, 10 Jun 2026 23:07:29 GMT

This week’s Cal Brink Files is really more of a milestone announcement. Please allow me the room to be a little human.

Notice of Assignment

Click to Play This Video

Play the video by clicking the photo above.

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

Great Accomplishments of My Life

My relationship with Marie, my wife of forty years.
Each and every one of my kids.
Learning how to fly an airplane.
Writing a complete book.

In January, I set off to start The Process Server Chronicles. And that has been fun. But then in February, I realized I had a book inside me, combining all of my life’s experiences in a fun, crime fiction sort of way.

So, I set off to write the book. As the video above says, I sent the finished book off to my editor on Saturday evening. Nervously.

It’s a weird feeling to put yourself out there.

What if she hates it? What if she says I should really just concentrate on real estate? This is an editor who has worked with Marti Green, Chad Zunker, Avery Duff, Jenny Milchman, and Karen McQuestion. She knows her stuff.

Oh, sure, there will be re-writes to do when she’s through with me. But, I did it.

Thank you for allowing me the brag.

Next Week

I will feature a micro-story taken directly from the book and then go into depth on the behind-the-scenes of what caused me to include it in the book.

I hope you’ll join me as we march toward October, when the book will be released.

Thank you,

Chris Lengquist

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The Art of the Invisible Car

Chris Lengquist — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 23:07:16 GMT

The Cal Brink Files live at the intersection of truth and fiction.

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1994

I had test-driven the car, sat through the credit application and negotiated the price. This wasn’t the car of my dreams, but it was a step up. The car? A used 1992 white Ford Taurus. Yes, I’m partial to Fords.

Since 1987 I had been driving a black Ford Escort, two-door. At 234,000 miles it was still a solid car but it leaked like a sieve. Every single morning before driving I had to add transmission fluid, brake fluid and radiator fluid. If it was liquid, it was mostly gone from the day before.

Besides, in September of 1992, Davis was born. Having more room in my car, and four doors, had finally become important since I was hauling Davis around as much as Shawna was.

The beauty of the Ford Taurus? Like the Escort, it was a best seller in its day. The streets and highways of the DMV (DC, Maryland and Virginia) were full of them. If you saw a black Escort or a white Taurus, you didn’t even bat an eye. Even if it seemed like it had been following you.

That was the point. As a private investigator I was expected to follow people. As a process server, I’d sit on streets and alleys for hours at a time hoping to not be noticed. These cars? Nobody cared. Well, generally.

So there I was, sitting at the F&I guy’s desk (Finance and Insurance) ready to discover the payment and sign the papers so that I could get out of there. I knew I wouldn’t be getting prime interest.

“Mr. Brink, since Calvin is your legal name, that is how we will submit the title to Maryland. Would you prefer I call you Cal for today?” asked the gentleman on the other side of the desk. He was in his late fifties, had a smoker’s voice, stained fingertips and a body built by sitting all day, every day. He had told me his name like we were friends, but I knew that we were friends only for the next three to four minutes, before I declined the undercoating, extended warranty and weatherproofing, whatever that would be.

He would ask, I would decline. Since I’d heard my, admittedly deserved, interest rate I wasn’t really in the mood to spend any more money.

“Cal, before we’re done and you sign the contracts and the back of the title, I would like to point out one thing,” the shark grinned. “You have a very unique car. Something to tell your friends.”

He leaned forward, placed the title face up showing the vehicle’s full information, including current ownership: The Russian Federation with an address of 2650 Wisconsin Ave., NW.

I laughed out loud. Not thirty days ago I had walked through those gates, checked in with security and waited in the most plain, boring waiting area I had ever experienced for a low-level lackey to come accept a legal document I had been hired to deliver. The document was in a sealed envelope.

Immediately my mind ran with the possibilities of entertaining my wife and friends with tales of what this particular white Ford Taurus had experienced. But when I told Shawna, she was unimpressed.

Still, me and that Taurus had a few more stories to experience.

Author’s Note

The Cal Brink Files live at the intersection of truth and fiction. This micro-story is a perfect example. The truth is most of this story is true. The fiction, in this case, is Cal Brink, Shawna and Davis. But the Russian Federation, the Ford Taurus and the dealership? That’s all true.

And the stories still yet to be experienced? Those are upcoming here on the Cal Brink Files. Or, The Process Server Chronicles. Depends on which versions I write.

As always, The Process Server Chronicles are true(ish) stories with names, dates and places altered to protect privacy and help with liability. The Cal Brink Files are fiction, though my life experiences as an investigator, process server, photographer and real estate agent all bleed in.

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Cal Brink vs. The Appraiser

Chris Lengquist — Wed, 27 May 2026 23:07:47 GMT

Real estate fraud affects us all. No harm you say? Appraisals like this story contributed to the real estate collapse of 2008 and The Great Recession. Millions lost their homes. The architects of that fraud largely walked away clean.

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

1992

The banks think he’s a criminal. Financial fraud, they call it. His ‘special’ clients, the real estate investors? They think of him as a facilitator.

Me, I’m Cal Brink. And I’m about to get my first taste of real estate.

I was hired to get evidence that an appraiser was cooking the books on his appraisals. I discovered a pattern when they sent over the files.

So, I took a class, read a book and got my real estate license and joined the local board of real estate agents. That way I could do my own comparison of houses sold. Comps the agents called them.

Most of the people I talked to in that classroom were seeking their fame and fortunes. I was there to secure the data. Little did I know where it would lead me later in life.

I asked one of the biggest agents in Maryland and DC if she would teach me how to comp a house if I promised not to be her competition. Everyone knew her because of the big Easter-style hats she would wear anytime she was selling houses. “It’s my trademark.”

She was fascinated with my job as a private investigator.

“Young’un, you call me if you have any trouble.” She was happy to rid her industry of the malcontents.

It didn’t take me long to see that the appraiser in question, let’s call him George, was a pretty good appraiser. I brought a few of his appraisals to the lady with the hats and she felt he was right on the nose.

Except when the buyer or refinancer was a real estate investor. The investors would often hide their identities behind LLC’s and straw buyers. But, real estate investors they were. The crooked kind.

I followed George through three of his routine days. He’d be at his POE (place of employment) early. About 10:00 or so, he’d venture out to knock out a house visit or two before a late lunch and another appraisal right after. Then back to the office.

Without fail, he’d leave for home at 4:30.

On that Thursday, I followed him as he pulled up to an appraisal in a part of DC begging for gentrification. The listed buyer was an LLC.

George pulled up to the northeast DC townhouse, got out of his car and took a picture of the front of the house. That was how he started all appraisals.

Then he got back in his car and appeared to just sit there and wait. This was a deviation of George’s routine.

At precisely 2:15 pm, a blacked-out Chevy Suburban pulled in right behind George.

I picked up my camera from the passenger seat and readied it in my lap.

George sat up and took notice while looking in his rearview mirror. A stocky man with a baseball cap, standing about six feet and holding a white, thick envelope in his right hand walked up to George’s car as George rolled his window down.

The stocky man leaned down, and a few words were exchanged before the envelope changed hands and George secured it in his glove compartment.

A couple of minutes later, they both went on their way.

From my black Ford Escort I photographed the highlights and documented the rest. Including the Suburban’s license plate number and the fact that George never stepped foot in the house.

When I returned to my office, I made a phone call and asked for a favor. The license plate came back to a man that was a registered agent of the LLC securing the mortgage.

When the bank sent me over a copy of the appraisal that George had submitted, it came in about thirty-percent high. My lady-in-the-hat confirmed it.

From there, I let the lawyers handle the matter.

What I’ve Learned

Homebuyers think appraisals on their home purchases are there to protect them. Or set the home’s value. Nothing is further from the truth.

Appraisals are there to protect the banks. If your credit score is pristine and you’re putting twenty-five percent towards the purchase price, almost anything will be appraised within the parameters of the contract.

If you are scraping by, maybe had a missed payment a couple years back and your credit score shows a lot of credit usage, you are inviting a full financial colonoscopy. Especially if you are buying a home with only 5% down, or less.

The banks are going to ask the appraiser to value that house with a fine-toothed comb. Check everything.

Because the truth is, appraisals are there to protect the bank’s interest in the loan. If you were to default and you have twenty to thirty percent equity, the bank will be made whole. If you default and you don’t have much into the house, as far as equity is concerned, the bank could take a hit.

Banks don’t like that.

The rules of finance favor the well off, or downright rich.

Same as it ever was.

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Charlie Had a Dinosaur (continued)

Chris Lengquist — Wed, 20 May 2026 23:07:44 GMT

Crime fiction.
Case files. Real estate fraud. Trouble keeps finding Cal. He lives at the intersection of fact & fiction.

Charlie Had a Dinosaur Table of Contents

Chapters 1 and 2

Chapter 3 , 4 and 5

Private investigator and process server fiction stories.

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

Chapter 3

“That sounds scary. Why didn’t you call the cops?” Shawna demanded, more than asked.

Shawna hadn’t been happy with me delivering pizzas, four nights a week since I started. But we really had no choice. Since moving to Suburban Maryland for the excitement and culture all we had really done is scramble, like any young couple who were twenty-one and twenty when they got married. DC was certainly more expensive than Lawrence, Kansas.

“Not much I could tell them. I didn’t have much of a description. Besides, I’m not sure that guy will want to try again, based on what I saw.” I didn’t really know if that would be true.

“Look. It’s over,” I continued. “What I learned is to be more aware.”

A hug. A kiss. I was ready to move on.

“I wonder what he did after knowing the kid was in the house?” Shawna asked out loud before turning off the bedroom light.

The next morning there was another day of service advising at the Ford dealership. Oil changes were scheduled. I successfully earned a few spiffs by up selling the promoted service of the day: wiper blades. And, of course, an argument or two on how long a seven-year-old car should go without any care or mechanical failure.

The usual.

I was eager to get out the door at 6:00 sharp when we closed so that I could deliver more pizzas. Tips were always good on a Thursday night. However, men and women eager to pick up their cars after missing them for the day would trail in, some showing up at 6:02 and acting like they didn’t know we closed at 6:00.

By 6:10, I was out the door. After pulling my key from the door of my Escort, I reached for the handle and was about to get in when I heard Tommy’s voice from behind me.

“More deliveries tonight, Calvin?” Tommy asked.

How is it I never see this guy until he wants me to, I thought.

Tommy was relaxing, leaning on the hood of his gold Volvo 760. These cars were like flies in Montgomery County. They signaled, “I have some money and don’t want to be caught in an American car.”

“What can I do for you?” is what I asked. What I thought was something else.

“You were a star last night, Kid. I even told my boss.” With that he stood straight and leaned in. “You like working here? You like delivering pizzas while Shawna sits at home? You’ve only been married about six months.”

Then he smiled a friendly smile.

We had not discussed any of this: not where I work during the day, not my name, not my marriage.

And who are you calling my wife by her name? I yelled, loudly, in my head.

“Relax, kid.” Tommy let a beat or two go by as I sized him up. I assumed the gun was still in the small of his back. He had a way of making me guess and feel secure at the same time. Whoever he was, he was good.

He also showed himself to be a master of parking lots.

Tommy took three steps towards me and held out a card he pulled from his right pants pocket.

Rockland & Associates. Private Investigators. Tommy Larsen.

I glanced up, “I guess that explains why you always appear suddenly.”

Tommy laughed. “Not intentional. I need you to come and have a drink with me. Place called The Underground, right down off Cherry. I have an offer for you.”

“I’m working. More people ordering pizza tonight. But you probably already know that.” That is what I said. Again, what I thought was something else.

“When we get to the bar, you can call them and tell them you’re not coming,” he said as he handed me a quarter. Then he turned back to his car and opened the door.

After pausing he said, “Unless you love it here, love working fifteen hour days, missing your new bride and …” he paused again, looked back at the entrance to the dealership, “love coming to the same place day after day.”

This guy is good, damn good. I continued staring at him.

“I hope I’ll see you there.” He got in his car and drove off to the north, towards Cherry Street.

Chapter 4

When I opened the door to The Underground I immediately felt at home. One step in gave me the entire layout, even though I had never been to the place. Like Louise’s back in Lawrence. I had spent too much time there. It may be the reason I don’t have a college degree.

Or maybe it was my own unwillingness to sit in a class day after day, listening to professors talk theory. As much as I tried, it just wasn’t for me.

Booths on the left. A long bar on the right. Pool table in back with more booths. That’s where I found Tommy facing the front door.

Two beers were sitting on the table. One was already a couple ounces down.

The bar had an older crowd and a Vietnam P.O.W.s flag hanging above the bar. When I was walking to the back I could hear “Fall on Me” by R.E.M. pouring from the speakers.

“You made the right choice,” Tommy said as he nodded me to sit.

I sat down and took a sip of my beer as Tommy waited.

“You didn’t hesitate last night. Not when that kid tried to rob you. Not when I asked you to go into an apartment and verify the presence of a three-year-old. With very little instruction you walked right up the stairs and got it done. Cool as Kojak. That’s not common.” Tommy leaned back and waited for my reply.

I sat quietly, looking him straight in the eye.

“Why?”

“Why what?” I replied.

“Why did you do it?” Tommy asked with a smile.

“$50.”

“No. $50 got your attention. You didn’t know me. You didn’t know what I was doing there. You looked at a complete stranger and took on a mission that was not your business. Why?”

I continued to sit in silence. This time, Tommy was waiting me out as I considered my answer. “I knew what you were doing. I’ve seen The Rockford Files,” I responded with an unhidden trace of irony in my voice.

Tommy laughed out loud. Loud enough that the couple shooting pool looked over. Then he drew a sip from his beer.

I followed suit. Then I stood up, walked over to the pay phone and dropped the quarter in.

When I returned, I sat down, took a drink of my beer and waited.

“I want to offer you a job. But I suspect you’ve figured that out.” Tommy again leaned in that way I had now seen twice before. “You have a gift. But I don’t think you know it.”

“What’s the offer?” is all I said.

“Before we go further, you need to know this isn’t The Rockford Files. That kid you saw last night. He was taken by an ex-boyfriend. Cops weren’t doing anything about it up in Cumberland. You confirming he was there gave the local cops all the reason they needed to knock on the door this morning and get him back to his mother.”

He stopped again and waited. I didn’t say anything, but inside I knew the story fit based on what I saw.

Tommy continued, “There’s also a dark side. You will see people at their worst. You’ll encounter people under a great deal of stress. That can make them unpredictable. You will have a lot of learning to do. This business isn’t a game. And it is certainly not entertainment.”

I considered before responding. “Is it worth it? Do you make a difference?”

“Sometimes. But not often. Often times, we document infidelity or fraud. It’s a win-lose game. I let the lawyers and judges sort things out. I observe and report.”

“Is it dangerous?” I said.

“Apparently, no more so than delivering pizzas.” I could see Tommy was proud of his response.

As we finished our beers, he gave me a further run-down of what would be expected of me. Mostly he talked about what I’d have to learn and that tomorrow I was to show up at the office on the card he had given me and ask for Christine. She would do the employment paperwork and get the licensing process started. Then she would assign me a few subpoenas and summonses to serve to get me started while we waited on the State of Maryland for the formal private investigator’s license.

“I’ve never served a subpoena before. What’s the training?” I asked.

Tommy reached into his jacket’s left breast pocket, and pulled out folded papers, about three, stapled in the top left corner. He laid them on the table for me to pick up.

Subpoena was written right up at the top. The plaintiff was listed as was the defendant. So was the person being required to show up at the Circuit Court for Montgomery County (6th Judicial Circuit) in ten days. The subject and the defendant were the same. First glance told me it was a divorce case.

When I looked back at Tommy, I noticed there was another $50 bill on the table. “Go ahead and pick it up. When you do, it’s an employment contract.” Tommy finished his beer and nodded at the front bar. “The bartender is David Miller.” Tommy slid to his right, stood up and said, “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. 9:30 sharp.”

“I go by Cal, by the way,” I pointed out.

“I know. That was Christine calling about the 1973 Pinto.”

Then I turned to watch him walk out the front door.

I looked back at the subpoena. The subject to be served was David Miller.

Chapter 5

“You’re home early,” Shawna said as she met me as the door closed. I loved when she did that. She threw her arms around my neck, gave me a first year-of-marriage kiss and asked, “What’s up?”

We sat on the couch discussing some of the details I had not revealed earlier about the previous night, and this evening’s conversations with Tommy.

“You quit your delivery job? Just like that?” Shawna asked. Her voice had an edge to it. “I mean, I’m happy to see you tonight. But…”

I interrupted, “I made almost as much in that five minutes as I would have made working the three hours.” That was my response. Factual. “I’ll also be at the Rockland office at 9:30 tomorrow morning. I’ll go into Ford at 6:00 like always, wait till the rush is over, and hand everything over to Mike.”

Shawna sat quietly for a moment. I could see her body tense. “Cal.” Then silence.

I waited.

“I can’t tell you what to do. But I can tell you this should be discussed with me before you make a decision, not after.” The earlier romance of the kiss had now been set aside. “We are a couple. We make these decisions as a couple.”

Shame wasn’t what I was feeling. I’m not even sure what is was. I did know I had let her down. “I’m sorry.”

I stood and walked across our tiny basement level apartment to the kitchenette, opened the fridge and brought back two Budweiser beers. Maybe the King could help.

I pleaded my case again. “Tommy said I have a gift. I’m intrigued. More than that, I’m excited. So, I made a decision.”

Shawna looked me dead in the eye and said, “You still should have talked with me first.” With that, she stood up and walked to the bedroom.

I stayed on the couch.

To learn more about Cal Brink and to follow along with other snippets about his investigations and real estate fraud searches, join us over at Behavioral Detective.

Charlie Had a Dinosaur

Chris Lengquist — Wed, 13 May 2026 23:08:12 GMT

Crime fiction.
Case files. Real estate fraud. Trouble keeps finding Cal. He lives at the intersection of fact & fiction.

Charlie Had a Dinosaur Table of Contents
Chapters 1 and 2
Chapter 3, 4 and 5

Listen on Spotify or Apple or Amazon

Chapter 1

He was on me before I realized what was going on. The lighting in the parking lot of these shaky apartments was dubious. Every pizza driver knew it. Having that ridiculous, illuminated “Generic Pizza Company” sign on the top of my car to earn an extra dollar per delivery wasn’t smart, but I could use the money.

Why else would I be delivering pizzas at 10:00 pm on a Wednesday night?

“Just hand me the bag, get in your car and go. You don’t need to get hurt,” said the man excitedly.

In the dark I could see his face where his hoodie wasn’t covering. Eighteen, maybe twenty years old, about four inches taller than me and, by the way his eyes darted, I got the impression that this may be his first robbery.

His body was twitchy. Unsure.

I really didn’t have time for this. I was tired after working all day and I wanted to be home with my new wife.

My eyes traveled down to a pistol in his left hand. With that shake, he couldn’t shoot straight. He didn’t even have a firm grasp on the weapon as it moved easily in his grip.

As I turned slightly to lay the pizza warming bag on the roof of my car, transferring the cash bag from my right hand to my left at the same time, I said, “I don’t want any trouble.”

He didn’t react to my movement other than to look to his left. I took a chance.

I impulsively swung back to my right, pizza warmer and cash bag in my left hand and my right hand free. The pizza bag hit him on the head while my right hand grabbed at the cold pistol and knocked it to the ground. The cash bag skipped across the parking lot to about ten feet away.

The impact knocked the man back a step; I stepped on the gun and prepared for a fight.

There was none.

He ran off.

He never even glanced at the cash bag.

I bent down, picked up the pistol and saw there wasn’t a single bullet in the revolver.

Movement from my left caught my eye. Another man, taller, older and well dressed with a gun in his right hand pointed to the ground, was walking calmly toward me.

Before I could do much, he said, “You know how to handle yourself.”

Chapter 2

The way the lanky man casually walked toward me told me he wasn’t a threat.

Except for the gun in his right hand.

He was older, probably forty, and he exuded confidence.

“It’s not loaded,” I said as I flipped the gun in my hand showing him it could not be used.

The man stopped by the money bag, reached his right hand behind him, made a tucking motion and returned his hand, empty, to his side. “My name is Tommy. I could use your help.”

I leaned against the rear of my black Ford Escort, pizza light still illuminated. Tommy looked comfortable in this atmosphere. I was still checking the shadows every few seconds. “Relax. He’s not coming back,” Tommy said. “What’s your name? How long have you been delivering pizzas?”

“Depends on how far back you want to go. College for sure. About a month here.” Where was this going, I wondered.

“Any more pizzas in that front passenger seat?” Tommy inquired, moving his left hand up to rub his chin as he stooped to see what he could see in the car.

“Why? You hungry?”

Tommy laughed.

“I need to go. One more delivery to make. It’s already late.” And it was. The customers who ordered the pizza were definitely on the phone right now berating the poor assistant manager. That’s how it goes.

“Want to make a quick $50? Cash,” Tommy said.

In 1986 I was making about $23,500 a year in my day job. An extra $50 would always be useful.

“What is it you want me to do?” I asked.

I walked one building over, up three flights of stairs and walked to the second apartment on the left: 3B.

Knock. Knock. Knock. “Pizza.”

A few seconds passed. The peep hole light went dark. The door swung open, “We didn’t order any pizza.” The man wasn’t mad. Just stating a fact. He was young, but older than me. Maybe twenty-five, six feet two and skinny as could be. He had a cigarette in his right hand with a trail of smoke looking for heaven.

“This is building one-twenty-one-thirteen, apartment 3B?” I confirmed.

“Yes. But we didn’t order any pizza,” the man repeated.

“Who is it?” came a shrill voice from the interior. A woman with tattoo covered white skin, and hair that hadn’t seen a comb in quite some time stepped into view behind the guard at the door.

“Look. I have a pizza for this address. If you didn’t order it, well, would you let me use your phone to call it in? It’ll only take a minute,” I said while making my best begging face. “Besides, if they can’t confirm the address, I may be able to leave you the pie.”

The man hesitated, then asked “What kind of pizza?” The woman stood silent. A third voice, deep and gravelly in that long time smoker sort of way said, “Let him in. Maybe we’ll get free pizza.”

The guard at the door backed up a step, widened the door and waved me through. “Phone is on the kitchen wall to your left.”

On my way to the kitchen, I tipped my KU hat at the woman with my right hand while balancing the pizza bag with my left hand. The room was smoke filled. The third voice was a white man about forty, cigarette in one hand and IC Light in his left. Running in from a back bedroom was a three-year-old child with mussed, deep brown hair, brown eyes and dirty clothes. He had a dinosaur clutched in his left hand. And a dirty face.

Hello Charlie, I thought privately.

Setting the pizza bag on the counter I called the seven-digit number the man in the parking lot had given me to memorize.

After two rings Tommy answered. “Hey, this pizza over at Fox Stream, seems I have a bad address.” Silence. “Yes. Are you sure?” Silence, with my head nodding up and down as I untangled the phone cord. “Well, if you’re sure. Leave the pizza?”

After hanging up, I reached into the pizza bag and made the big, happy announcement as I walked the pizza over to a coffee table in front of the grimy, well-used couch and set the box down.

The room was full of smiles.

I leaned down to the child as I reached out my hand. “My name is Cal. What’s yours?”

Without hesitation, the boy said, “Charlie. Do you want to play with my dinosaur?”

“No,” I said. “But do you like pizza?”

A smile, a nod of affirmation and “Yes” happened all at once.

A few more happy greetings were given, then I showed myself out. In my left hand was the pizza bag now dangling by my side. My right hand was busy wiping off whatever was on that door handle as I went down the steps to ground level, two steps at a time.

As I approached my car, Tommy appeared from the shadows. “Any trouble?”

“Nope,” I replied. “Charlie is there. Even told me so himself.”

Tommy turned forty-five degrees and leaned against my car, legs out and arms crossed. With a smirk he asked, “How did you pull that off?”

“I just knelt down and introduced myself. He even wanted to play dinosaurs.”

“Huh. What do you know.” With that Tommy reached into his left pants pocket and pulled out a money clip. He leafed through it and found a crisp $50 bill. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said, handing the money over.

“I didn’t offer it.”

That’s all I replied.

READ CHAPTERS 3, 4 and 5