Most of the money, which had been accumulated in Mexico, passed through a U.S.-based Edward Jones investment account before it was transferred to Naz. Manriquez's actual son, Mario de la Fuente Mix, was co-signer on the account.
When funds were not sent through the bank electronically, Manriquez usually would have a check sent via FedEx. Sometimes, Exotic sales manager Doug Allen would be forced to drive from Scottsdale to Manriquez's Tucson home to pick up money.
Jamie Peachy
Ray Stern
A police flowchart shows the alleged “criminal enterprise.” Almost all charges later were dropped.
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The runs to Tucson were "the most ridiculous thing ever," Allen later told a Phoenix police detective. "[Manriquez] would walk out in his bathrobe like Hugh Hefner, and he would hand me an envelope and say, 'Give this to Naz. Bye-bye.'"
Allen recalled holding the envelope up to the light a "couple of times" and seeing $200,000 or more.
As the years passed, Manriquez used his investments to refine his aging-hipster lifestyle, sometimes driving several kinds of luxury cars that he'd borrow from the dealership each week. He also stopped by the club from time to time.
Manriquez's money paid for Scorch Bar in 2004, and Upton was listed as owner. Scorch became a hit, with its giant lava lamps, glowing bar tops, a small dance floor, and adjacent bathrooms connected by windows in which partiers could watch members of the opposite sex primp at sinks.
Manriquez also funded a 49 percent ownership in a luxury-car showroom that opened in 2005 at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Casino patrons could pay $10 to see sparkling Bentleys, top-end Ford Mustangs, and low-slung Italian sports cars.
"Mario . . . saw his empire growing," Upton tells New Times.
But the venture couldn't last. Las Vegas police, in checking out the group's dealership application, found the arrangement so sketchy that they denied the majority owner, Richard Weisman, a license to continue operating unless he ditched his Arizona partners. The Vegas showroom folded a couple of years later.
Problems kept arising. In March, CBNC suffered a serious loss of clientele after the parking-lot shooting of former Arizona State University football player Brandon Falkner by ASU gridiron star Loren Wade.
Then, Naz and Jodi split — mostly, anyway — as a couple.
One big reason: Naz was cheating on Jodi with Katie Marie Peters, who enjoyed hanging out at the club.
Naz kicked Jodi out of the Troon home. She then bought a house in Phoenix with money she had earned from the sale of a classic 1933 Ford her father had given her, she says.
In late August 2005, Naz fired Upton's brothers, who had worked for CBNC for three years. Naz complained to Scottsdale police that they had threatened him. Jimmy Upton had called him to say, "Watch your back" and "I'm going to kill you," Naz told police. The pair had been implicated, but never charged, in a previous assault of a bar employee in the CBNC parking lot.
Naz told police he felt the men, whom he called "steroid monkeys," would burglarize his home and "burn his dealership down."
At some point that year, Naz asked Jodi to draw up papers that would transfer everything out of her name. She refused.
It was into this hornet's nest that Carol and Phaedra Boyce stepped in late 2005.
Carol Boyce is an accountant for several Valley businesses and partner at a virtual-office company. Her daughter, Phaedra, a fitness trainer and former bar manager, met Ara Derboghossian, Naz's brother, through her boyfriend. After the "personable" Derboghossian brothers found out that Carol and Phaedra had some money they wanted to invest in a nightclub, there were free stays in a VIP suite at the Hard Rock Café in Las Vegas. Phaedra even got to meet Swizz Beatz.
Naz urged the women to invest in the club, Carol Boyce says, promising that it would make $1 million profit in a year.
The Boyces made an offer in early 2006: They would pay Naz a $150,000 down payment on a planned total investment of $750,000, which would grant them 50 percent ownership in the club. After a year, they would have the option to do the same thing with Scorch.
Ara Derboghossian called the Boyces to let them know that Naz had agreed. He told them to meet him at the Mobil station at Tatum and Thunderbird on February 16 with $25,000 in cash and a $25,000 check.
Weird as it was, the Boyces played along. Ara showed up, took the money, then came back 40 minutes later with a contract signed by Naz.
"I didn't really know what to think," says Phaedra Boyce. "We knew nightclubs were a cash business . . . We were trusting."
A week later, Naz introduced the women to Jodi Upton, who informed them that she was the actual owner of CBNC. But more worrisome than the appearance of an unplanned partner was the club's nearly nonexistent accounting practices. Some employees were paid strictly in cash, Carol Boyce says, while others clearly were stealing from the bar. Cash registers stayed broken for unusually long periods. The club should have been making money. Instead, it was losing funds every month.
The silent partner the Boyces would never meet, Manriquez, apparently made no payments to CBNC at this time.