Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli (A Tara Holloway Novel)

by Diane Kelly

  A man wearing blue coveralls and carrying a red toolbox stepped up to us. He looked to be in his mid-fifties and had the lean, strong build of someone who makes a living with physical labor. “I’m Mickey. I was told you two were looking for me?”

  Lu and I stood. I explained the situation to him. “I’m hoping your camera out front picked up the van’s license plate.”

  “Follow me to my office,” he said. “We can review the tape there.”

  He led us to a clean, sparsely furnished office at the far end of the administrative wing. As Lu and I took seats in the padded chairs that faced his desk, he slid into the standard office chair behind it.

  “We don’t have many security problems here,” Mickey said as he typed his log-in information into his laptop and ran his index finger over the mouse pad to pull up the video camera footage. “The receptionist keeps an eye on who’s coming and going during the day. All of the side doors lock automatically once someone goes out so there’s no way to sneak inside. At night we’ve got both a receptionist and a cop on site. We hire off-duty Dallas police officers.”

  Smart decision. A cop would be a good deterrent to any would-be criminal.

  He pulled up the camera for the day in question and dragged his finger slowly across his mouse pad, leaning in to eye the screen, watching for the van. “This must be it.”

  He turned the computer to face me and Lu, then rolled his chair around the desk so that he could operate the laptop. He right-clicked the mouse to set the video in motion. As we watched, a shiny gray van pulled to a stop at the outer edge of the parking lot. On the side of the front passenger door was a removable white magnetic sign with black lettering that read TRIPLE 7 ADVENTURES. A moment later, a group of Whispering Pines residents flowed out of the lobby, passing under the security camera as they aimed for the van. Harold, Jeb, and Isaiah were among them.

  As we watched on the screen, a man exited the driver’s side of the van and came around to speak to the residents. He was too far away for us to tell much about him other than that he was a little taller than average. He wore a cowboy hat and sunglasses, not unusual in Texas though I surmised the accessories were more to shield his identity than to shield him from the sun.

  After a brief conversation with the group, he opened the van’s doors. Several residents, including Harold and Jeb, climbed inside. Not long afterward, they climbed back out. The man retrieved a clipboard from the front passenger seat and began to accept cash payments from the residents, handing them the useless receipts. In groups of twos and threes, the residents filtered back into the building, smiles on their faces as they anticipated their upcoming vacation.

  “I’m trying to get the license plate number,” I told him. “Can you zoom in?”

  “I can,” Mickey said, “but we’ll lose some clarity.”

  He zoomed in but the picture became fuzzy. “Let me play with it a minute.”

  Mickey fooled around on his computer, going back and forth in the footage to find the best angle, zooming in on the front of the van as it drove into the lot. Finally, he was able to narrow in on the plate. It was a bright blue novelty design with three glittery silver sevens.

  “Darn it!” My hands involuntarily fisted. “Those plates don’t tell us anything.”

  Mickey pointed out the cross-shaped logo. “The van’s a Chevy. Does that help?”

  “Definitely.” I jotted the information on the small notepad I carried with me. “Can you see if there’s an official plate on the back of the van?”

  Mickey spent a couple more minutes going through the footage, and zooming in on the van as it drove away. The back bore the same novelty plate as the front. Poop. The novelty plates and concealing cowboy hat told me this wasn’t the crook’s first rodeo.

  Lu and I stood and thanked Mickey for his time.

  “Happy to help,” he said. “The folks around here are like family to me. I don’t like to see them taken advantage of.”

  We shook his hand and returned to the foyer.

  “Any idea where Jeb Proctor and Harold Brinkley might be?” I asked the receptionist.

  “Water aerobics.” She pointed down the hall. “Through the door at the end.”

  God help me if these men are wearing Speedos.

  We reached the end of the hall, where a foggy glass door led to a heated pool area. Lu and I stepped into the warm, humid room, and instantly I felt my hair preparing to frizz. A dozen residents bounced in the pool, moving their arms up and down as directed by an instructor at the front. Isaiah sat in a special seat, doing his best to mimic the instructor’s movements. He might not have full control of his muscles, but he certainly had spunk.

  I scanned the faces, locating Jeb and Harold not far from their friend. Harold wore his thick glasses, which sported water droplets. Jeb stood near the edge of the pool, one hand on a rail to steady himself. He wasn’t wearing his hearing aids. The steam and water probably weren’t good for them.

  Three women flanked Jeb. He extended his outer leg through the water and played footsie with the one closest to him. She looked his way, her shoulders scrunching as she giggled.

  Jeb was quite the flirt. He was also was the first to notice us. He nudged Harold and leaned over to speak into his friend’s ear. “That good-lookin’ broad from the IRS is here,” he bellowed, probably unaware of how loudly he was speaking.

  As the woman he’d just been toe-wrangling with scowled, Lu and I each raised a hand in greeting. The two men eased themselves through the water and up the steps, holding carefully to the handrail. Harold helped Jeb to his walker. Thankfully, both men were wearing swimsuits that came down to their knees. Harold’s suit was printed with cartoon sharks, while Jeb’s featured dark-haired hula dancers. We followed as Harold walked and Jeb thumped over to a bench where they’d placed their towels. Jeb dug in the pocket of his gym bag for his hearing aids and put them on.

  “Sorry to interrupt your class,” I told them, “but we need your signatures on affidavits for court.”

  Jeb wagged his brows at Lu. “Pretty ladies like you are welcome anytime.”

  Harold notified the instructor’s assistant, who operated the winch to lift Isaiah out of the water. She helped dry him off, wrapped him in a plush robe, and guided him to his wheelchair.

  While I retrieved the paperwork from my briefcase, Harold and Jeb dried themselves off and sat down on the bench. Using my briefcase as an improvised lap desk, they read over the affidavits and signed them. I moved my briefcase to Isaiah’s lap, and offered him the pen.

  He took it and signed a slow, shaky X on his form. When he finished, he gave me his lopsided smile. “Get … that … Cajun … weasel.”

  Harold squealed. “That’s the first words he’s said since his stroke!”

  With any luck, they’d be the first of many.

  I bent down and looked Isaiah in the eye. “Did you say ‘Cajun’?”

  He moved his head in a barely perceptible nod.

  “That’s right!” Jeb said. “I’d forgotten, but the man from Triple Seven had a Cajun accent.”

  “He sure did,” Harold added. “Will that help you find him?”

  “Maybe.” I stood. “Maybe not.” Texas had quite a few residents who’d come from Louisiana and vice versa. Not unusual for states that bordered each other.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Lu said. “As soon as Tara solves the case.”

  “If I solve the case.” No sense giving these people false hope. Con artists were like cockroaches. There were multitudes of them, and they knew how to hide themselves. They tended to stay out of the open. Besides, the Fabrizio investigation took priority. The crook who’d ripped off the good people of Whispering Pines might have taken their money, but Tino Fabrizio had taken people’s lives.

  Lu waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll figure it out.”

  I wished I could be as confident as she was.

  Jeb and Harold walked us out to the car. Jeb even held out a hand to help Lu in.

>   As we drove away I said, “Jeb’s quite the charmer.”

  “Yes, he is,” Lu said wistfully. “But he’s no Carl.”

  chapter thirteen

  My First Shift

  Wednesday marked another night of fitful sleep. I felt lonely without Anne curled up by my side, and I wasn’t yet used to the new bed and the different sounds at the apartment complex. I hoped my insomnia would soon pass. My mind needed to be sharp for the Fabrizio investigation. A sleep-deprived agent could overlook evidence or make mistakes. This case was too critical. I couldn’t risk doing either.

  I arrived at the bistro on Thursday morning at ten, ready to begin my new job. Benedetta took me back to her office and had me fill out the requisite employment paperwork. As I completed the forms, I glanced around the room. There was no security camera in the space, at least not a visible one anyway. I knew businesses sometimes used hidden cameras, but wasn’t that more for stores where the management hoped to catch employees pocketing merchandise? Perhaps there was no security camera in here because my suspicions were correct and this was where the money laundering took place. No sense in the Fabrizios recording themselves committing a federal crime. They’d risk the footage being seized by law enforcement and used against them in court. Tino had evaded arrest so far. He was obviously too smart to put a nail in his own coffin. Eek. There’s that word again. Nail.

  Benedetta’s home screen was pulled up, and I recognized an icon for QuickBooks, a popular bookkeeping software for small businesses. I wondered what clicking on that icon could lead me to. Evidence of tax evasion or money laundering? Or merely the bona fide records of a family-owned Italian bistro?

  Could I be sitting within arm’s reach of the evidence the government needed to bust Tino Fabrizio?

  The question had me nearly squirming in my seat. Things would be much simpler if we could just issue the guy an audit notice. But given that we didn’t want to alert him that he was under scrutiny, we had to hold off on that, at least for now. If nothing else panned out, we could audit him as a last resort. But I had a feeling the guy had done as good a job covering his financial tracks as he had covering his murder tracks.

  I gestured to the screen. “I see you use QuickBooks. I’m familiar with that program if you ever need help with the bookkeeping.”

  Okay, so it was a ploy to try to get Benedetta to let me into her accounting records. Sue me. It was my job to try to get into those records.

  Benedetta laughed. “I just hired you as a waitress and already you’re asking for a promotion.”

  I returned the laugh and shrugged. “Just trying to be as helpful as I can.” And trying to bust anyone around here engaging in tax fraud.

  When I finished filling out the work forms, Benedetta and I worked out my schedule for the next two weeks. Our tasks complete, she turned me over to her daughters. Over the next two hours, her daughters taught me everything there was to know about the restaurant.

  Stella, the youngest, showed me where to take the dirty dishes and soiled napkins and tablecloths for washing. Luisa, the middle daughter, showed me where the clean silverware, plates, and linens were kept, and how to properly set the tables. Of course I’d learned how to set a proper table at Miss Cecily’s Charm School, but that had been years ago and a refresher course couldn’t hurt.

  Elena, the oldest, explained the shorthand used in their orders. She showed me where to turn in the orders for the cooks and where to pick up the food when it was ready. She even showed me where the three fire extinguishers were located, one behind the bar in the dining area and one mounted on the wall at each end of the kitchen. She explained how to operate them in case of a fire. “Just aim and squeeze.”

  I gave her a smile. “I think I can handle that.” After all, I could aim a gun, squeeze a trigger, and hit a target at fifty yards with no problem. Compared to a firearm, a fire extinguisher would be easy peasy.

  Elena took me on a tour of the warm, steamy kitchen and introduced me to the small kitchen staff currently on duty. All wore white chef jackets and all were men.

  An attractive twentyish Latino named Juan stood on the other side of the counter, using a small knife to chop a green pepper into tiny pieces. Chop-chop-chop. He lifted his chin in greeting, never breaking stride. “Hey.”

  The pasta and desserts were in the hands of Brian, a white man who looked to be in his middle thirties. He wore thick padded oven mitts as he removed a pan of delicious-smelling garlic knots from the oven. He pulled off his mitt and stuck out his hand for a shake. “Good to know you, Tori.”

  The last man, Dario, took care of the meat. Dario was a swarthy, beefy guy wearing a blood-spattered apron. He handled the large serrated knife like a pro, slicing through a thick slab of raw meat as if it were butter. He tossed the bone into a bin full of fat and blood and bones. When I became woozy and reached a hand to a counter to steady myself, his lip curled up in what looked more like a sneer than a smile. “This is how the sausage is made, sweetheart. Better get used to it.”

  At the back of the kitchen sat one of those large, open brick ovens used for baking pizzas. Flames flickered inside the oven. I felt a sudden urge to make s’mores.

  Our kitchen tour complete, Elena took me to a door at the back of the room. The door had a peephole drilled into it. “The kitchen staff enters here,” she said. “Never let anyone in without checking the peephole first. My dad says robbers sometimes try to sneak in restaurants the back way.”

  “Your dad?” I feigned ignorance, an act I performed quite easily and believably. Better not to consider the implications. “Does your father work here at the restaurant, too?”

  She shook her head. “Did you see all those green cars next door? They belong to his security company.”

  “He runs, what’s it called? Cyber…?”

  “Cyber-Shield. He’s owned that company since I was little. He started out selling and installing cameras all by himself, and now he’s got a whole staff to do all of that.”

  Pride was evident in her voice. I realized then that even if Benedetta was helping her husband launder his funds, their daughters seemed to be in the dark. Or perhaps they had a blind spot where their father was concerned. It wasn’t unusual for parents to idealize their children and vice versa. I wondered how proud Elena would feel about her father if she knew he was an extortionist and a cold-blooded killer.

  I realized then that while a successful resolution of this case would take Tino Fabrizio off the streets, it would also take a father and husband away from his family. But I also realized that Tino would be to blame for that, not me. When a criminal was put behind bars, collateral damage was inevitable. Still, I felt a small twinge of guilt. My dad meant the world to me. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if he were no longer a part of my life.

  Elena unlocked the door and pulled it toward herself to open it. We stepped out behind the building. After the carnage in the kitchen, I was thankful for the fresh air. A catering truck was parked out back. The side was embellished with the words BENEDETTA’S BISTRO—EATING WELL IS THE BEST REVENGE.

  “Great slogan,” I said.

  “Our father came up with it,” she said.

  Huh. At least he’d leave them with a good slogan when he went off to the slammer.

  She walked around to the back of the truck and unlocked it with the keys her mother had given her, which hung from a key chain in the bootlike shape of Italy. She showed me where different food items would be stored for safe transport to offsite locations.

  “Does the restaurant do a lot of catering?” I asked. The last thing I wanted was to end up at other places off-site when I needed to be here, keeping a close eye on Tino Fabrizio.

  “Once or twice a month,” Elena said. “Mostly big Italian weddings, but we sometimes do business meetings or family reunions, things like that.”

  She pointed off to the back of the lot, to a large green Dumpster with black plastic flaps covering the top of the bin. “That’s where the garbage goes.”


  Our outside tour complete, she led me back inside and showed me to the automated time clock on the wall. “When you arrive for your shift and when you leave, you’ll punch in the last four digits of your social security number. The machine will keep track of your time automatically. You’ll also need to punch in and out when you take a lunch or dinner break.”

  “Got it.” I’d have to remember to use my new fake Social Security number. Sheesh. Going undercover required a lot of focus.

  Elena’s eyes brightened as she looked past me, sending a smile over my shoulder. “Hi, Dad.”

  Dad?

  Gulp.

  chapter fourteen

  Like a Crime Boss

  The already-warm kitchen where I stood suddenly felt hotter, the flames from the pizza oven burning like the fires of hell. Giustino Fabrizio, notorious mob enforcer, extortionist, and killer, stood so close behind me I could see the toes of his white tennis shoes on the floor just to the right of my own feet.

  I forced myself to turn and face the guy, praying I wouldn’t piddle like a puppy.

  Wait.

  This was the infamous crime boss?

  He’d looked like Humpty Dumpty when I’d seen him from afar earlier in the week, but I’d expected him to appear far more intimidating up close. I’d been wrong. Before me stood a man who had three inches on me at best, topping out at only five-feet-five inches, a relative peewee. His face was round with a pronounced forehead leading up to his bald head. Up close like this, he resembled a beluga whale, endangered but not at all dangerous. He wasn’t dressed like a mobster, either. He wore no gold chain around his neck, no fancy watch, no diamond-studded pinky ring. Instead, he was dressed casually in sneakers, chinos, and a neon-green short-sleeved golf shirt with the Cyber-Shield logo imprinted on the chest. His brown eyes took me in, bearing no hint of malice. His mouth was spread in a wide, almost goofy smile. “Greetings, girlies!”