by Diane Kelly
“Speak English, Josh,” I spat, “and speak it fast.” I’d already been over here long enough to leave the food and collect the payment. I needed to get back to the bistro ASAP before Benedetta began to wonder why I was taking so long.
“Technical surveillance countermeasures,” Josh said. “You know, bug sweepers? Virtually all bugs transmit radio waves or a magnetic field or heat that a bug sweeper or thermal camera can detect.”
He went on to say that there were some ways to lower the chance of detection, with burst transmissions, for instance. I had no idea what a burst transmission was and was about to ask, when he said, “I think the safest bet here is to place some type of recorder in his office. We won’t be able to listen in real time, but we can listen after we retrieve it.”
Kira pulled the lid off her takeout container, releasing the enticing scent of pesto. “How will you get the recorder into his office?”
Josh’s eyes met mine. It was clear to us how it would have to be done. I would have to place it there. I was the only one who had access to Tino’s office.
“I’ll sneak it in when I make a food delivery,” I said, nearly trembling at the thought. If Tino caught me trying to eavesdrop on him, he’d probably drop me from the roof.
“I’ll get you a recorder that looks harmless,” Josh said. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” I let loose a snort. “You just pointed out that Fabrizio’s business is security. Won’t he be familiar with these types of recorders?”
“Maybe,” Josh said, “but commercial security companies don’t use these types of devices. Besides, with any luck he won’t even spot it, right?”
Better hide it good, huh?
“I’ll talk to Agent Hohenwald,” Josh added. “Before we do this, we need to make sure the warrant allows it.”
“It’s a plan,” I said, switching from federal agent to waitress mode. I held out my hand. “That’ll be forty bucks for the food. Plus tip.”
chapter thirty-two
Safecracker
As I left Benedetta’s later that day, I spotted a plain white sedan pulling up in front of Cyber-Shield. The driver’s door opened and out came Detective Veronica Booth.
Holy crap! Clearly something had gone down that the rest of us didn’t know about yet.
She glanced my way, but showed no signs of recognizing me. Either the red hair had thrown her for a loop or she was intentionally pretending not to know me. The safest option was to assume the latter and to pretend not to recognize her, either. I continued on to my car and drove back to my apartment.
Two hours later, a text came in from Hayden Beale, the alter ego in my contacts list for Agent Hohenwald. Meet me at On the Border on Knox. We can sit in our favorite Booth.
Given the capitalization of the b, I realized the word referred to the detective. Clever. I replied with On my way. Looked like I might get some guacamole, after all.
I deleted the text, left my apartment, and drove to the restaurant, taking a roundabout route and using evasive maneuvers in case I was being followed. I was alternately excited and fearful. Had Booth found evidence that would put Tino away once and for all? Or had he struck again, murdering one of his henchmen or a Cyber-Shield client who dared to defy his demands?
I parked and began to make my way to the restaurant’s door, when a “psst” caught my attention. I turned to see Agent Hohenwald sitting in his unmarked car. Detective Booth, who sat in the passenger seat, lifted her chin in acknowledgment. I scurried to the car and climbed into the back, scooting over on the seat until I was centered. So much for that guacamole. Waah.
Booth told me why we were meeting at the restaurant. “After I stopped by Cyber-Shield today, Tino had me followed back to police headquarters. I think he’s got eyes on the place, at least for the time being. I was able to sneak out in the trunk of a squad car. I’ve got two men making sure we’re not spotted here.”
My eyes scanned the vicinity, spying a Dallas PD cruiser in the parking lot of Restoration Hardware across the street. That must be our lookouts.
Booth leaned in, speaking quietly. “Tino struck again. One of his clients was robbed Monday night.”
Hohenwald exhaled a sharp breath. “Which one?”
“The Magic Genie Hookah Lounge.”
I’d heard of it. Along with the hookah pipes, it provided its patrons with specialty coffee and tea drinks with an Arab flair. The place was popular with college kids and hipsters.
My throat felt tight, but I somehow managed to squeeze the words out. “Do we have another body on our hands?”
“Thankfully, no,” the detective said.
My body relaxed of its own accord, making me realize just how much tension my muscles had been holding. If this case didn’t wrap up soon, I’d need to get a massage or visit a chiropractor.
Booth continued. “When the assistant manager arrived at the lounge Tuesday morning, he discovered that all of the cash had been removed from the safe sometime during the night. The door of the safe was left hanging open. He immediately called the police. Officers reviewed the video footage from the security camera feed and it showed the assistant manager himself, a man named Sadiki, taking the cash out of the safe. Sadiki denied it, of course, but the owner fired the guy on the spot and officers brought Sadiki in. Since the case involved a Cyber-Shield client, it was referred to me. I went out to the lounge and watched the video, made a copy of it.”
She held up a thumb drive and inserted it into her computer, which sat on her lap. She turned the device so Hohenwald and I could see the screen. The images showed exactly what she’d described, a young man going to the safe, opening it, and removing the cash, placing it inside a zippered bank bag. But he did so without making any apparent attempt to disable the camera or hide his face.
Booth turned the computer back toward her when the footage ended, carefully closing it and returning it to its bag.
Hohenwald cocked his head. “So I’m guessing the lounge has traditional locks rather than a coded keypad.”
“Right,” Booth said. “Other than the security camera footage, there’s no way to tell when someone enters or leaves the building and who it is. When I spoke to Sadiki at the station, he insisted he was innocent, of course. I showed him the video and he claimed the footage could not have been from the preceding night because he didn’t have his tattoo in the video. He has one of those Egyptian ankh symbols on the back of his left hand. He told me he got the tattoo three weeks ago. He even pulled up his bank records on his computer to show me the date of the debit card transaction when he paid for it. I phoned the tattoo parlor and it checked out.”
“He could’ve covered the tattoo with makeup,” I pointed out.
“That’s possible,” Booth agreed, “and that’s why I went ahead and processed the guy. Also so Fabrizio would think he’d thrown us off, if he was involved. But I gotta say, I’m pretty sure this Sadiki fellow is telling the truth. He’s worked at the lounge for three years. He said the owner had him make deposits two or three times when the owner was away on vacation, but that the owner always changed the combination to the safe when he returned. Sadiki claims he doesn’t even know the current combination. The owner confirmed that he hadn’t given Sadiki the current combination, but he said that Sadiki is often in the office when the owner removes the money from the safe and possibly could have figured it out if he watched closely.”
The hump was becoming uncomfortable. I shifted in the seat. “But you’re not buying the owner’s version of events, are you?”
She shook her head. “Sadiki’s got no record. He’s a single guy, lives modestly. Doesn’t have much but doesn’t seem to want much, either. He’s had no unusual financial setbacks or demands that I can see. Why would he suddenly decide to rob his employer? Besides, the security camera is in plain sight. Who would openly rob a safe if they know they’re being recorded?”
She was right. It didn’t make sense.
“So the video you just showed
us was probably doctored,” I said. “Someone at Cyber-Shield spliced in old footage of Sadiki when he emptied the safe at the owner’s request.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
Hohenwald asked, “What happened at Cyber-Shield?”
Booth scoffed. “I met with Fabrizio, told him that, thanks to their cameras, I’d nabbed an employee stealing from his employer’s safe. I said we had concerns whether the employee might have stolen smaller amounts that might have gone unnoticed on earlier occasions and asked if Cyber-Shield could provide us with copies of camera footage for the past year. He claimed they only keep the footage for ninety days and then it’s automatically deleted unless the client requests otherwise.”
“What about the client?” I asked. “Does the client record the footage?” Maybe older footage would be on the lounge’s computers.
“No,” Booth replied. “Even with the low resolution and frame rate, video files take up a lot of space. Most clients don’t want to use up their storage with old video files when most incidents are discovered right away.”
Hohenwald let out a long breath. “I’m guessing you asked the owner whether he’d been threatened recently? Whether anyone demanded protection money?”
“Of course,” Booth replied, “and of course he denied it.”
I chimed in again. “And, of course, you think he’s lying about that and that Tino had one of his men try to shake the guy down.”
“That’s his standard MO,” Booth said. “Besides, the owner went all jittery when I asked about threats. He nearly climbed out of his skin. If he’d found the safe first, I doubt he would’ve reported it.”
“The good news,” Hohenwald said, “is that nobody got killed and this incident will make it easier to secure the search warrant you’ll need to place the recorder in Tino’s office.”
Looked like Josh hadn’t wasted any time getting our ducks in a row. Apparently he’d already contacted Hohenwald to make sure we’d be legally authorized to go ahead with our plan. The last thing we needed was to bust Fabrizio and have the evidence thrown out on a technicality.
“My team has probably already informed your team about this,” I said, turning to Hohenwald, “but I got a peek into Eric Echols’s lair at Cyber-Shield last night. He had an image up on his screen that I suspect he might have been playing with, manipulating.”
“Looking Good Optical?” Hohenwald asked.
“That’s it.”
“They let us know,” he said. “We’ve got agents keeping tabs on the place.”
“I hope you get something,” Booth said. “Because we still don’t have enough evidence to prosecute Tino.”
“Not yet,” I said, “but we will.”
Hohenwald chuckled mirthlessly and cut his eyes my way. “You young agents. So hopeful and idealistic.” He turned his gaze to Detective Booth. “Remember when we were like that?”
“Yeah.” She issued a loud sigh. “It was a dozen cold cases ago.”
chapter thirty-three
Send in the Clowns
“By the way,” Detective Booth added, “my staff finished that search you asked us to run for tickets issued to drivers of Chevy vans with novelty plates.”
I leaned forward, hopefully. “Any luck?”
“None at all.”
Dang it. Tripp Sevin, whoever he was, sure was an elusive SOB.
After meeting with Agent Hohenwald and Detective Booth, I went into the restaurant and ordered enchiladas and a large guacamole to go. Though the Italian food from Benedetta’s was both free and delicious, my taste buds were begging for a little variety. They’d never tire of her chocolate cannoli, though. Heck, I could easily live on a strict diet of cannoli if I had to.
Thursday morning, I spotted no tail as I headed to DBU, so I played hooky from my class and decided to use my time checking out a couple more gray Chevy vans.
The first van was registered in the name of Blake Birdwell at a residential address. I pulled up to the house, which sat in an older, low-rent area of homes in desperate need of some TLC. As I climbed out of my car, I heard the sounds of drums, an electric guitar, and a bass coming from the closed garage. I didn’t recognize the rock song being played. Must be an original. I fought the urge to holler “Freebird!”
I walked up to the porch, knocked twice on the front door and rang the bell, but no one responded. Probably everyone was in the garage and hadn’t heard me at the door. I stepped over to the garage door and knocked on that. “Federal law enforcement!” I called. “Open up.”
The instruments came to an uneven stop, the bass emitted a final, elongated bohhhm before becoming silent. Murmuring came from behind the door. A moment later, the door rolled up with a tinny rattle to reveal three guys in their twenties, all wearing jeans and dark T-shirts. The drummer remained at his set and the bass player was perched on a stool.
“Hi.” I flashed my badge. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway. I’m looking for Blake Birdwell.”
“That’s me,” said the drummer. He spun his sticks in his hands and set them aside before standing.
His voice bore no Cajun accent, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t involved in the Triple 7 scam. He might have faked the accent when he went to Whispering Pines, or he might have lent his van to a friend who’d ripped off Harold, Jeb, Isaiah, and their friends.
“I’d like to see your Chevy van,” I said.
His eyes narrowed in skepticism. “Why?”
“A gray Chevy van was used in a financial crime recently and I’m just making the rounds, checking out the vans that fit the description, trying to rule some of them out.”
Blake glanced at his friends.
The bass player said, “Don’t do it, man. Not without a search warrant.”
The electric guitar player, who’d opened the garage door, raised his palms and shrugged. “Don’t look at me, man. I’m not a lawyer.”
Blake turned his attention back to me. “What department are you from?”
“Internal Revenue Service.”
The guitar player launched into his own rendition of the Beatles’ classic “Taxman.”
“Good one.” I offered him a forced smile. “Look,” I said, “I’m not trying to hassle you. I’m just trying to figure out if someone used your van in a scam. I could come back with a search warrant, but do you really want me interrupting your rehearsal again?”
Blake frowned but after a few seconds’ thought he acquiesced. “It’s parked out back. Follow me.”
He led me around to the side of the house. I noticed tire marks on the grass leading up to the gate. He opened the gate and pointed to the van, which sat in the grass a few yards away.
Stepping up to the van, I cupped my hands around my eyes to block the sun and took a quick peek inside. The last three rows of seats had been removed. “What’s the van for?”
Blake stepped up next to me. “We use it to move our equipment to our gigs.”
“Have you let anyone borrow it?”
“Hell, no!” he said. “Last time I lent a car to a friend he wrapped it around a tree. Nobody drives this van but me.”
Clearly this was not the van I was looking for.
“Thanks for your time,” I told him. “Sorry for the interruption.”
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a folded flyer and handed it to me. “We’re playing this weekend at a bar near Fair Park. Tell your friends.”
The flyer identified their band as the Rok Godz and noted that they were warming up for another band who called themselves the Bass-tards.
Miss Cecily’s Charm School hadn’t covered the proper sentiment to express good luck at a music event. Was it break a finger? Break a drumstick? Watch out for groupies with STDs? I settled for “Have a good gig.”
This lead having gotten me nowhere, I drove on to investigate another fifteen-passenger Chevy van. As I cruised slowly up the street, looking for the address, I saw the van back out of a driveway a block ahead. It turned t
o head in the same direction I was going. As it turned right onto a more major road, I sped up and fell in behind it.
The back of the van was packed to the ceiling with what appeared to be a stack of trunks. Unfortunately, the trunks blocked my view into the van. Though I eased across the center stripe of the parkway to try to peer into the van, the tinted windows hampered my vision and oncoming traffic forced me back into my lane.
We continued on for three miles, the van proceeding normally, the driver seemingly unaware that federal law enforcement was in pursuit. I caught a glimpse of the driver’s face in the side mirror as we stopped at a traffic light, but all I saw were bright blue sunglasses and bangs in a shade of bright orange that rivaled my own locks.
A minute later, the van pulled into the parking lot of an elementary school and took a spot in the visitors’ section. I pulled up to the curb to see who might emerge. As I waited, the words posted on the marquee in front of the school caught my eye. WELCOME RAINY DAZE AND THE SUNSHINE BRIGADE!
The driver’s door of the van swung open and out came a leg clad in baggy purple polka-dot pants that tapered down to wide-toed purple shoes in a size I estimated to be a twenty-three, if there even was such a thing. The driver hopped down and I got a full view now. He was a man dressed as a clown, complete with a bright orange wig, colorful clothes, and the too big shoes. He pulled a bright orange ruffled parasol out of the van behind him and opened it. Strings of clear beads hung down from the inside, as if it were raining under the umbrella.
The other doors opened now and out hopped four women, all dressed in bright-colored unitards and colorful curly wigs, the Sunshine Brigade, for sure. They circled around to the back of the van and opened it, working together to lower trunks of what I assumed to be props to the ground.
Looked like this van belonged to Rainy Daze, not Tripp Sevin. Frustrated, I heaved a sigh. Would I ever find the man who’d ripped off the nice folks at Whispering Pines? What were the odds? I was beginning to think they were as low as the odds of actually spinning a triple seven.
