by Diane Kelly
I went back to my office and took care of some loose ends on several of my smaller pending cases. Since there was nobody here to go to lunch with, I ordered takeout at a nearby deli and took it back to eat at my desk. As I finished up, Lu returned to my office.
She batted her false eyelashes. “Guess who’s got a hot date for Saturday night?”
It certainly wasn’t me. Come Saturday night, I’d probably be back on my couch at my apartment, watching television and window-shopping for shoes online. I was happy for Lu, of course, but I didn’t want her to put too many eggs in Jeb’s basket.
“Jeb’s a nice guy and all,” I said, “but I suspect he’s a bit of a flirt.”
Lu waved a hand dismissively. “Flirt, schmirt. Who cares? It’s not like we’re getting married. Besides, he’s taking me to Abacus.”
I’d been to the restaurant once. It was the type of place where food was presented like works of art and you were never really sure whether you were supposed to eat some of the things on your plate. “A nice meal like that,” I warned her, “he’s going to have expectations.”
Lu scoffed. “It wouldn’t be the first time I traded sex for steak.”
“Lu!”
“Want to hear what I once did for a filet mignon?”
I covered my ears with my hands. “No!”
“Just getting your goat, Tara,” she said, laughing before she turned a pointed gaze on me. “I’m a big girl, you know. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I think of you like a—”
“Big sister?”
I’d been about to say a second mother or an aunt, but no sense bursting her bubble. “Exactly.”
She took a seat in one of my chairs, and we spent a few minutes mulling over where to go from here on the Triple 7 investigation.
“That Cajun accent could be an important clue,” Lu suggested. “You could check with authorities in Louisiana, see if they’re familiar with someone running a scam like this there.”
“Not a bad idea.” I looked out my window, watching a pigeon who’d landed on the outer sill. “I suppose I could run a search on fifteen-passenger Chevy vans, too. After all, how many could there be in the Dallas area?”
chapter twenty-five
Chasing Cars
One hundred eighty-seven, as it turned out. I discovered this when I ran a search on the DMV’s site.
Of those 187 vans, 39 were listed as gray. Of course it was possible this so-called Tripp Sevin had painted the van a different color after he’d registered it, or that the van wasn’t even registered in the state of Texas, but I had to start somewhere, didn’t I?
I ruled out a dozen that were owned in the name of Winging It, Inc., which operated an airport shuttle service. I’d seen their vans around town. They were all painted with the company’s logo, white wings that stretched all the way down the side from the front fender to the back bumper. There was no way the van in the video footage from Whispering Pines could have been one of theirs.
I also ruled out seven vans registered in the name of Kiddie Corral, Ltd., a partnership that ran a chain of day cares with a ranch theme, their buildings painted red to look like barns. Another van was registered in the name of a Methodist church. That left nineteen vans in the names of individual owners or cryptic business names, such as Cargill Brothers Enterprises.
Two of the vans remaining on the list would be on my way to Benedetta’s Bistro, including the one owned by Cargill Brothers. I decided to stop by and take a look at them next time I had a spare moment.
Before heading out of the IRS office that afternoon, I ran an Internet search for travel businesses offering overnight charter trips. Four popped up, but when I tried the phone numbers listed, one was answered by a computerized voice that directed my call into an automated messaging system, one was answered by a man with only a slight Southern drawl, and two of them were answered by women, neither of whom had a Cajun accent.
“Sorry,” I told the people who’d answered my calls. “I was looking for someone named Becky. I must have misdialed.”
Next, I tried the Louisiana Attorney General’s office and spoke with their Consumer Protection Division. The investigator to whom I was transferred couldn’t tell me much.
“We’ve had hundreds of complaints against vacation outfits,” he said. “Mostly companies that sell time-shares or packages that include flights to foreign locations like Mexico or the Caribbean. ’Course we only go after the big offenders. We don’t have the staff or time to pursue them all.”
The truth of the matter was that, due to limited government resources, law enforcement couldn’t pursue every con artist, and many small-time crooks got away with their crimes. The only upside was that because of the lax enforcement, some experienced con artists became complacent and lazy after a while, and took few, if any, measures to evade identification and apprehension. I could only hope that Tripp Sevin was one of these types and that he’d slip up somehow and give us a way to nab him.
The investigator continued. “I’m not aware of any complaints against charter van companies in particular, but I can ask around and get back with you.”
“I’d appreciate that.” I gave him both my phone number and e-mail address.
When I’d finished the phone calls, I walked briskly back to the parking garage across the street from Neiman’s and retrieved my Hyundai. I drove on to Benedetta’s Bistro to start my shift.
Given that it was only four o’clock, there were only two tables occupied in the dining area. Another customer, a man in a business suit, sat at the bar, enjoying a cocktail while he reviewed e-mails on a tablet. Elena stood behind the dessert case, resting her elbows on the top and her head in her hands, a wistful look on her face as she gazed across the parking lot toward Gallery Nico.
“You okay?” I asked, turning my head to follow her gaze out the window.
“Mm-hm,” she murmured dreamily. “I met the art dealer on Saturday. His name’s Nicolas. He’s really hot.”
And now so was I. When we’d had our powwow yesterday, Nick hadn’t mentioned that he’d interacted with Elena. Grrr.
“Did you get to talk much?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said, standing up straight. “His business partner interrupted us and they went into the back room. I didn’t want to look desperate just hanging around waiting for him so I came back here. I was hoping he’d place an order today, but he hasn’t.”
Maybe the fact that Nick hadn’t mentioned Elena stopping by the gallery meant she hadn’t made an impression on him. But, really, how could a beautiful, busty young woman not make an impression? Especially on a red-blooded American male like Nick? Even so, just because he might have noticed that she was attractive and interested in him didn’t mean he’d act on it. Nick loved me for my special kind of spunk, and few women had it.
“I’m sure you’ll get another chance to talk to him,” I said. “Be patient.”
Elena’s tone was mocking. “Be patient. Be good. Don’t let boys see your panties or you’ll go straight to hell.” She rolled her big brown eyes. “You sound just like the nuns at our Catholic school.” She stepped behind the bar, pulled two wine glasses from a rack overhead, and filled them with a generous amount of pinot grigio. “Here you go.” She held out one of the glasses to me. “Mondays are always slow. Wine makes the time go faster.”
Like mother, like daughter. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And the grape doesn’t fall far from the vine, either, apparently.
I gave her a smile and took the wine from her. “I’ve never worked somewhere where I could drink on the job.”
She took a sip from her glass and returned my smile. “Restaurant work is hard on the feet but it does have its benefits.”
A twinge of guilt puckered my gut as I turned and walked to the kitchen. Benedetta and her daughters seemed like nice people. They’d probably be devastated by Tino’s arrest—assuming, of course, that the joint FBI/IRS
team was able to amass enough evidence against him to make an arrest. What would these women think of me when they learned I’d been the one to bust their husband or father?
They’d think I betrayed them, that’s what.
I tossed the wine back in one big gulp and forced those guilty thoughts aside. Tino Fabrizio would be to blame for the consequences of his actions, not me. Even if it meant making innocent people suffer, I had a job to do. Which meant I really shouldn’t have drunk that wine …
Wobbling a little, I went to the staff lounge, dropped my purse and backpack in my locker, and tied my apron around my waist. I emerged only to stop short and gasp when I came face-to-face with Dario wielding a long knife.
He laughed at my reaction. “Take out the trash.” He pointed the knife at the overflowing bin next to his prep table. “It’s full.”
Reminding myself to start breathing again, I stepped over to the bin, grabbed the top of the plastic liner, and pulled. The bag lifted an inch or so inside the bin, but was too heavy for me to pull out.
Dario waved his knife again, offering advice but no assistance. “Turn the bin over and drag the bag out to the Dumpster.”
Again I wondered whether Dario was merely a run-of-the-mill A-hole or whether he might have anything to do with the disappearances and so-called accidental deaths surrounding Tino. I supposed I might learn more when my team powwowed again next Sunday.
I maneuvered the bin onto its side on the floor and attempted to yank the bag out of it, having to tug several times to free it from its confines. Finally, it came loose. I tied the top closed and hauled it across the floor to the back door. I turned the knob and pushed the door, banging my nose and forehead into it when momentum carried me forward but it didn’t budge. “Ow!”
I rubbed my bruised forehead. Had the door been left unlocked and I’d locked it when I turned the bolt? I turned the bolt and tried the knob again, pushing. Still the door didn’t move.
Benedetta emerged from her office dressed in chef’s clothing, and spotted me fighting the door. “Tino had the door replaced this morning. This one’s heavier and it opens outward. He said that would make it harder for someone to kick it in.”
“Oh.”
My embarrassment must have been written on my face because Benedetta patted me on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, cara. We’re all getting used to it.” She smiled and rolled her eyes jovially. “My husband is always so worried about our safety. Such a sweet man.”
Sweet would be the last word I’d use to describe Tino. Sweet people didn’t send their minions to follow college girls home or spy on them through their Webcams. A sweet person wouldn’t impale a man on a fence or crush him with a barbell or gas him to death in his own truck. And a sweet person wouldn’t launder money or evade their taxes. Nonetheless, I returned Benedetta’s smile.
I opened the door outward and half carried, half dragged the bag past the catering truck to the Dumpster. I wondered if anyone from Cyber-Shield was watching me through the cameras mounted along the back of the building. I also feared the rough asphalt would tear through the bag and cause me to leave a trail of garbage I’d have to clean up. But luck was with me. I made it to the Dumpster with the bag intact. After opening the cover to the bin and being treated to the lovely aroma of festering fettucine, I bent at the knee, grabbed the bag around the middle, and, in one burst of exertion, heaved the bag over the lid and into the huge metal bin. I even managed to do it without giving myself a hernia.
Hooray for me.
chapter twenty-six
Unbreakable
When my feet began to hurt again, I shoved a half-dozen sugar packets in each of my shoes as improvised arch supports. They were surprisingly effective. I only hoped I wouldn’t have shoes full of ants in the morning.
As I took orders from a couple seated at a table near the window, I saw Kira exit Gallery Nico across the parking lot and head toward the bistro. Though she owned her own Web site design firm, Kira looked more like a singer in a punk band than a tech specialist. Her white-blond hair was shaved short on one side of her head, while the other side hung in dreadlocklike clumps. She’d encircled her wide blue eyes with her usual black smudges. Her lipstick today was a ghastly black. Kira was as thin as a heroin addict, though I knew that, despite her appearance, she was too smart and too dedicated to her Web site business to touch the life-ruining stuff.
Today she wore a lightweight green cardigan over a white shirt, along with a plaid miniskirt and saddle oxfords. It was simultaneously cute, like a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, yet slightly disturbing, like a Catholic schoolgirl uniform.
She came into the bistro and our eyes met across the space. I walked over to her, forcing myself to maintain a normal pace when all I wanted to do was rush over and find out how things were going. Had they been able to hack into Cyber-Shield’s computer system? Had they found any evidence of tax evasion, maybe a second set of books or some unreported income run through an offshore account? What about the bistro’s catering clients? Anything suspicious there?
Instead, I said, “Hi. Can I help you?”
“I need a chocolate cannoli,” she said, “to go.” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the gallery. “The guys I’m working with over there said it’s to die for.”
I couldn’t imagine Nick or Josh using that term. When Nick liked food he’d merely grunt or moan in appreciation, and the boyish Josh was more of the type to cry “Yummy!”
“I’ll get you one from the case,” I said.
Kira followed me to the refrigerated display case, waiting on the customer side while I made my way around to the back.
I slid open the back door and snatched a cannoli, placing it in a to-go box which I set on top of the case. “How’s it going?” I whispered to Kira. “Any luck?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I’m tearing my hair out over there.”
Or tearing out what hair wasn’t shaved anyway.
“Why don’t you just shoot the guy,” she added under her breath, “and be done with it?”
If only it were that easy. But there was a little thing standing in our way—the U.S. Constitution and its requirement of due process. If the Founding Fathers had met a guy like Tino Fabrizio, surely they would have inserted an exception into the text. Maybe something that read These rights and privileges do not apply to cruel, coldhearted mobsters.
My body tensed in frustration. If Josh and Kira couldn’t hack into Cyber-Shield’s system, nobody could. That left us with nothing else to do but continue to spy on Tino and his men and try not to raise suspicions. Not easy to do. Men trained in security techniques were more likely to realize they were being followed or watched. The longer this case went on, the more likely it was that Tino would be on to us.
Kira handed me a ten-dollar bill and I made change. “Enjoy your cannoli!” I called after her as she left.
At eight-fifteen, as the dinner crowd dispersed and the nine o’clock closing time loomed on the horizon, I ventured back into the kitchen with a handful of dirty dishes. Benedetta stood at the stove, ladling her marinara sauce into a smaller container that would fit inside the refrigerator.
I placed the dishes in the sink and walked over to Benedetta. “I’ve moved three tiramisu, two cream cakes, two bomboloni, and five chocolate cannoli.” Funny, but even though this wasn’t a real job for me, I was proud of my performance.
“Good girl.” She pointed the ladle at me. “I knew you were the right choice the second you walked through the door.”
“How?” I asked, curious.
“Your eyes,” she said, watching me intently. “They’re smart. They see things.”
Uh-oh. That wasn’t her way of telling me she knew I had my eyes on her husband, was it? Surely not. After all, if she’d figured out I was trying to nail him for extortion and tax fraud, she would’ve fired me on the spot, right? Or would she have kept me around, instead? What’s that saying about keeping your friends close but your enemies clos
er? Maybe Benedetta knew exactly what I was up to and gave me the job so that she could keep an eye on me. Maybe Tino was watching me right now through that video camera mounted in the corner. Eeek! Or maybe I was just becoming paranoid. When you spend all day looking over your shoulder, it can happen.
She handled me the ladle. “Put that in the sink, would you?”
“Can I lick it clean first?”
She chuckled. “As long as the health inspector doesn’t see you.”
I carried the ladle to the sink, then returned for the now-empty pot. “You ever consider bottling your sauces and selling them at grocery stores? I bet you’d make a killing.” Ooh. Bad choice of words, huh?
Benedetta tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “You could be on to something, Tori. We’ve already got a commercial kitchen here, and it’s not being used in the early mornings before we have to start getting ready for lunch.”
“In business terms,” I told her, “that’s called ‘excess capacity.’”
She put a hand to my cheek. “You’re going to be a great businesswoman someday.”
If she only knew.
“You just need a commercial bottling system and a distributor,” I said.
Her head bobbed. “I could hire a driver,” she said, thinking out loud. “The driver could use the catering truck to deliver the bottled sauces. It’s just sitting out back most of the time, anyway.” She picked up a large to-go bag. “I’m going to look into it. For now, you take this food next door to my husband. He’s working late.”
Excitement bubbled up in me, but I tried not to show it. An IRS agent might get excited about getting closer to a target, but a regular old waitress wouldn’t get all worked up over making a delivery.
“Burning the midnight oil, huh?” I said. “Something special going on?” Like maybe Tino planning another robbery or murder?
Benedetta shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
