by Diane Kelly
“You’re close to your family?”
“I am,” I said. “I’m an only child and it didn’t seem right to go off and leave my parents.”
“Good girl.” She reached across the table and patted my hand before taking another sip of her wine. “Nice girls stay near their mothers. Tell me, Tori, what are your plans for the future? Surely you do not intend to work as a waitress forever.”
“No,” I said. “I’m a business major at Dallas Baptist University, but—”
“A Baptist?” She motioned to my glass. “Drinking wine?”
I leaned over the table and whispered. “Don’t tell anyone, but I sometimes go dancing, too.”
She arched a dark brow. “That red hair, too. So wild!” She raised her glass. “To sinners like us.”
I clinked my glass against hers. This seems to be going well.
“Someday,” I continued, “I hope to own my business. Maybe a restaurant like this. Or a shop of some sort. Maybe a salon or spa. I’m not sure yet.”
“Ah.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “You’re a girl with ambitions.”
“Definitely.”
She smiled knowingly. “I was once like you. A girl with big dreams and”—she lowered her voice to a whisper and cupped a hand around her mouth—“her grandmother’s secret recipes.”
We shared a laugh as she took another sip from her glass. “You’re good at business?”
“I like to think so. I’ve taken several accounting and finance classes. And I’m taking a marketing class right now.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Prove it.” She angled her head to indicate the thin woman sitting on the other side of the restaurant. “That woman comes in twice a week and only orders a salad and water,” she said, keeping her voice low. “We can’t make a living on salads and water. Sell that skinny lady a dessert.”
Uh-oh. I could take down tax evaders, sure, but I’d never been much of a salesman. Even when I’d worked at Big Bob’s Bait Bucket in high school he quickly realized I was better at stocking the shelves and manning the cash register than convincing a fisherman to add a bottle of off-brand sunscreen to his purchases. “She’s never ordered a dessert before?”
“Not once,” Benedetta replied.
chapter eleven
Using My Noodle
Ugh. This interview was going south fast, and I didn’t appreciate being manipulated. I knew Benedetta’s restaurant was making money hand over fist. A customer ordering only a salad wasn’t going to bankrupt the place. I felt an urge to tell her as much. Of course I suspected that a hefty portion of the restaurant’s reported income was Tino’s dirty extortion money, but I couldn’t tell her that, either. I had no choice but to play along.
“Anything in particular you want me to push?” I asked, trying to buy myself time to come up with a strategy.
“The cannoli,” she said, “or maybe the bomboloni. We’ve got plenty of those.”
“Bomboloni,” I said. “Is that the thing that looks like a jelly doughnut?”
“But tastes so much better,” Benedetta said. “Yes, that’s the bomboloni.”
I stood, racking my brain, trying to remember what I’d learned in my marketing classes back in college. Given that I’d been out of school for years now and hadn’t used the information, nothing came to mind. Dammit! What could I say to convince her? Hmm … I decided a few choice adjectives couldn’t hurt.
I walked over to the woman and offered a pleasant smile. “Did you enjoy your salad?”
“I did,” she said. “The dressing was fabulous, as usual.”
“Wonderful. How about a dessert to top things off?” I turned my charm up as high as it would go. “We have a delicious Italian cream cake that melts in your mouth, a decadent tiramisu that will make you close your eyes in pure bliss, a scrumptious bomboloni with fresh raspberry filling, and a chocolate cannoli so rich and creamy the pope declared it a mortal sin to eat it.” There. That ought to do it.
“Hmm. I don’t know…” The woman’s eyes went to the refrigerator case at the back of the room and I would swear she drooled. But still she resisted. How, I had no idea. If I were in her shoes I’d have chocolate and jelly all over my chin by now.
An idea popped into my head. If a picture is worth a thousand words, the real thing would be worth much more, right? It was easy enough to resist a theoretical dessert, but when one was right in front of you it was a different story. That’s why wait staff often brought a tray of the desserts to the table, to show people what they’d be missing if they didn’t order one for themselves.
I scampered to the case and snatched a bomboloni and a cannoli. If I had to force-feed this woman like a factory-farm turkey she was going to eat a dessert. I returned to the table and held the plates in front of her face where she could see and smell how yummy they were. “Does this help you make up your mind?”
She eyed the desserts and I could see her resolve melting a little.
Just pick one! I mentally willed her. I won’t get the waitress job unless you do! Unfortunately, my attempts at mental telepathy failed and she held strong.
“I can’t,” she said, pulling her eyes from the desserts. “I’ll go over my lunch budget.”
Aha! She wasn’t watching her waistline as much as her wallet. That was something I could work with.
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I was told you’re a regular here. I’m interviewing for a waitress position and the boss said she’ll give me the job if I can convince you to buy a dessert. Order one today and your next lunch will be on me.”
She smiled. “Well, I can’t turn an offer like that down, can I? I’ll have the cannoli.”
I’d have to pay for the woman’s next meal out of my own pocket, but I couldn’t risk not getting this job. It would be much easier for me to keep an eye on the cash flowing in and out of the restaurant if I were actually in the restaurant.
I turned to find Benedetta standing behind the refrigerator case. I walked over, looked her in the eye, and lied through my teeth. “Told you I was good at marketing. I convinced her to try the chocolate cannoli.”
“And you,” Benedetta said, a coy smile playing about her lips, “have convinced me to hire you.”
* * *
I’d landed the job. Thank God. We arranged for me to start the following day.
When I was done at the bistro, I returned to my apartment, heeding Hohenwald’s warning and watching carefully for a tail. Nope. Nobody was following me. Good.
I packed the spirals and the textbooks in the backpack, and drove to Dallas Baptist University. Better familiarize myself with the school I purportedly attended, right?
With just over five thousand students, DBU was a small university by Texas standards, but nonetheless offered a good range of majors. The campus was situated on nearly three hundred acres in southwest Dallas, overlooking Mountain Creek Lake. The beautiful campus, which was made up primarily of traditional red-brick buildings, was lorded over by the enormous, white Pilgrim Chapel, its tall steeple visible from all over the space.
I parked in a designated student spot and consulted the campus map that had been included in the packet sent over by the FBI office. The agent had circled the buildings in which my classes were held so that I could find them easily.
Given that it was early May already, there were only a few classes left before finals. Students streamed into the student center, either heading in for an early lunch or to hook up with study partners. I found my classrooms and turned to head back to my car. A cute guy with black hair and green eyes did a double take and continued to look my way, offering me a flirtatious smile when my eyes met his. I found myself smiling back, a giddy feeling bubbling up in me.
Jeez, Tara, I told myself. Chill. You’re here to work, not chase boys. Besides, he’s no Nick. It was true. The kid who’d looked my way was a cute college boy, but Nick was a man. My man. And I had no intention of trading him in for a different model. Still, it was nice to know I could hold my
own with all of these pretty young women around. Then again, maybe Joe College was simply intrigued by my fiery red hair, wondering if the rumors about redheads were true. There’s fires in hell, boy, I thought. And lust is a sin that can take you there.
I’d done all I could on the Fabrizio case for now, so I decided to do some digging into Triple 7 Adventures. On my way to the IRS office, I drove through a fast-food Chinese takeout and ordered a couple of vegetable egg rolls with sweet and sour sauce. I ate them on the way, situating the plastic sauce container in the cup holder for easy dipping. When I finished the egg rolls, I cracked open the fortune cookie as I sat at a stoplight downtown. I took a quick peek at the fortune.
A trapped cat becomes a lion.
Hmm. The fortune cookie was food for thought. Literally. I shoved the cookie into my mouth and chewed. Crunch-crunch-crunch.
When I arrived on my floor, Lu looked up from her desk and called me into her office. As I stepped in, she gestured to my chest. “What’s that on your shirt?”
I glanced down. An orange blob sat atop my left boob. Oops. “Sweet and sour sauce.” I swiped it with my finger and, having nowhere to dispose of the blob, licked it off.
Lu made a face but said nothing. I’d once seen her stir a diet shake with a Slim Jim. Who was she to cast aspersions?
She sat back in her seat. “What have you found out about that vacation scam?”
Sheesh. What a slave driver. Wasn’t it enough that I’d spent all last night packing and had both moved to my new apartment and interviewed for a job this morning to move the mobster case forward?
“Nothing yet. I’ve been busting my butt getting ready for the Fabrizio investigation.” Well, busting my butt and cupping Nick’s. But hadn’t I deserved a final boink before going indefinitely undercover? “But I’m planning to take a look right now.”
“Let me know what you find out. I’ll call Harold back with your report. Might as well let the taxpayers know the IRS is on their side.”
I fought a smile. I lost.
Lu scowled at me. “What are you grinning at?”
“Someone’s got a crush,” I said in a singsong voice.
She turned and looked away, a sure sign I’d hit the nail on the head. Eek. Nails. Why did my mind keep going there?
She turned back to me. “I don’t have a crush,” she snapped. “It was just nice to get some attention, that’s all.”
I couldn’t fault her, especially when I’d gotten all warm and fuzzy this morning as that green-eyed guy had looked my way.
She flapped her hand, shooing me out of her office. “Get busy.”
I grabbed a quick mug of coffee in the office kitchen and took it to my office.
First, I tried the phone number listed for Triple 7 on the postcard and receipt. All my efforts got me was a recorded voice telling me the number was not in service. No surprise there. More digging told me the number had belonged to a prepaid cell phone.
Unfortunately, the provider’s service representative would give me no information. She was, however, generous with the attitude. “People buy prepaid phones for a reason, you know. They don’t want the government listening in on their phone calls.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine. How do I get in touch with your legal department?”
She gave me the legal department’s phone number and I jotted it on my pad. I didn’t bother thanking her. If she was going to dish it out, she’d have to take, it, too. “Later, dude.”
Her snotty voice came through the line one last time. “You’re wel—”
Click.
I phoned the legal department. While the representative there was pleasant, she was just as tight-lipped. “We’ll need a court order before we can release private information.”
I’d gone as far as I could with Triple 7’s phone number at the moment. Next, I tried the Web site. Still down. My “Who Is” search showed the domain was registered in the name of Tripp Sevin, clearly a play on the business name. The address was also clearly fictional: 333 Anystreet, Somewhere, SD 12345. Urgh. This guy wasn’t making things easy. He also wasn’t fooling me with the alleged South Dakota address. Given that he’d targeted a local retirement home and offered trips to casinos in the neighboring states of Oklahoma and Louisiana, he was likely based somewhere in north Texas. For now, at least. Con artists often hit hard in a particular area, moving on to a new region once they’d milked a location dry or to avoid apprehension by law enforcement.
Though I was fairly sure the name Tripp Sevin was made up, due diligence required me to run a search to be certain. My query for a driver’s license in the name of Tripp Sevin came up with only two licenses issued in the United States with that combination. The first belonged to a seventeen-year-old boy in Salem, Oregon. The other belonged to a thirty-six-year-old Asian man in Oakland, California.
Searches of business filings got me nowhere, too. While there were several businesses with the words Triple Seven or the combination word/numeric Triple 7 in their name, none included the word Adventure and none listed an owner or director named Tripp Sevin.
I phoned the domain registry and explained the situation to an assistant in the legal department.
She offered me a few pertinent details. “The customer who bought the domain name also purchased a month-to-month do-it-yourself Web site package. Looks like the site was only up for four months.”
“How were the fees paid?”
“By credit card.”
Finally! Someone was giving me something to move on. “What was the name and number on the card?”
“Sorry,” she said. “We can’t disclose that information without a court order.”
Gee, that sounds familiar. “I’ll get you one.”
As soon as we were off the phone, I dialed Ross O’Donnell, an attorney at the Department of Justice who represented the IRS on a regular basis.
“I’d be happy to help,” he said. “But I’ll need affidavits from the men to show to Judge Trumbull. You know how she is.”
I knew all too well how Judge Alice Trumbull was. She was a rare left-winger in a state that leaned so far right it was a wonder Texas didn’t topple over on top of Louisiana and sink into its swamps. Still, I respected the judge. She didn’t issue search warrants willy-nilly. She made us government agents prove our cases, do our jobs right. She kept us honest. Not that we needed anyone to keep us honest, but she made sure we never even thought about doing otherwise.
“Thanks, Ross. I’ll get the affidavits to you ASAP.”
chapter twelve
Sign Here
I pulled out the notes I’d taken during yesterday morning’s discussion with Harold, Jeb, and Isaiah and typed up an affidavit for each of them. When I finished, I printed them out and headed back down the hall to Lu’s office. I held up the documents. “I’m going out to Whispering Pines to get these signed.”
She grabbed her purse. “I’ll come with you.”
Lu pulled up the address to the retirement community on her phone and navigated as I drove. The place sat just south of the Richardson city limits, a mile east of Central Expressway. The grounds were surrounded by a five-foot brick wall sporting an overgrowth of ivy. The entrance was a wide driveway divided by a median of pink and white petunias.
I drove on past, looking for somewhere to pull in across the street. The last thing I needed was to blow my cover on the Fabrizio investigation by showing up with my badge and gun on the security videos of one of their clients. I turned into a pharmacy, hooked a quick right, and drove to the end of the parking lot, pulling into a spot that faced Whispering Pines. Leaving the engine running, I reached under the seat and pulled out my father’s old high-powered field glasses. I scanned the front of the building for a sticker or sign featuring the Cyber-Shield trademark green logo. I saw none. As Harold had noted, there was a security camera mounted over the front door, but it was black and bore no security company logo.
Good.
We drove across the stre
et to Whispering Pines. Though the development appeared to have been constructed a few decades earlier and bore a few telltale rust stains under the outdoor faucets, for the most part it had been well maintained. The place comprised three separate five-story wings anchored by a central, one-story section that, according to the signage, contained the administrative offices, dining facilities, and recreation rooms. A large fountain greeted visitors from the center of a colorful and fragrant rose garden. The rest of the grounds were groomed as well, park benches and picnic tables placed here and there for residents to enjoy the outdoors.
We parked in a designated visitors’ spot and passed under the security camera as we entered through the automated front door. Though I’d seen nothing to indicate Cyber-Shield provided security to the home, I averted my face in an abundance of caution. It never hurt to be too careful, right?
The foyer floor was tiled in a red and black checkerboard pattern. When Lu and I had made it across the space to the receptionist, I was tempted to holler King me!
“I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway,” I told the woman at the desk, handing her my business card. I held out a hand to indicate Lu. “This is my boss, Luella Lobozinski. We need to speak with the person who handles your on-site security.”
“That would be Mickey.” She retrieved a walkie-talkie from her desk and pushed a button to activate the mic. “Hey, Mickey. There’s some people here from the gov’ment want to speak with you.”
A male voice came back. “Give me five minutes to finish this sink.”
She returned the radio to the desk. “Mickey’s in charge of maintenance, too. He’s kind of a jack-of-all-trades around here.” The woman pointed to a seating area nearby. “Y’all can take a seat if you’d like.”
Lu and I sat down on a black vinyl love seat and looked up at the television mounted on the wall. Steve Harvey filled the screen, hosting Family Feud in one of his pimp-style suits. A family had been challenged to name five things you might lose on vacation. After getting on the board with cell phone and camera, they earned their first strike with virginity.
