by Diane Kelly
What’s in the backpack?
Drugs?
Cash?
A college algebra textbook?
As I watched, the waitress slid a plate in front of him. He’d opted for scrambled eggs and hash browns all the way. The smells of onions and peppers wafted in my direction. He dug in, glancing around while he ate. In my peripheral vision, I saw him take a look my way. Instinctively, I froze in place, as if that would somehow make me invisible. Stupid instincts. Fortunately, his gaze didn’t linger long enough to notice my telltale reaction. He’d likely taken me for what I appeared to be, a nurse who’d stopped by for a meal after working the swing shift.
Phew.
Looked like I’d pulled off my disguise. Once again, someone had underestimated me. Usually it pissed me off when someone assumed a petite woman like me posed no threat. But sometimes, like tonight, being small and benign-looking worked to my advantage.
It took the cook only a minute to assemble my simple breakfast, and only a moment more for the waitress to bring it my way. I hoped it would take a little longer for the carbs to turn to cellulite on my thighs.
I gave the waitress a smile as she slid the plate in front of me. “Thanks.” Picking up my fork, I took a bite. Yum. Not as good as my mother’s homemade biscuits and gravy, of course, but not bad, either.
Headlights outside caught my attention. A dark pickup drove past and made its way to the back of the building. Shortly thereafter, a tall, thin, thirtyish white man in loose-fitting cargo pants and a green hoodie entered the restaurant. He had scraggly reddish-brown hair in need of a trim, with matching stubble on his cheeks and chin. His eyes scanned the room, taking in each of the customers as if he were assessing them. When he looked my way, I tilted my head and tapped my phone screen, pretending not to notice him or at least not to care. In reality, my heart was pitter-pattering in my chest, each of my senses on high alert.
He slid onto a stool two seats down from the man I was watching, my target’s backpack resting on the floor between them. As the recent arrival hooked his heels over the stool’s footrest, the cuffs of his pants rode up, revealing a pair of knobby ankles covered in dingy crew socks. The sock on his right leg had a suspicious bulge.
Damn.
The man’s armed.
Was he simply carrying the gun for protection? Or was he here to try to rob the place?
I was armed, too, of course, my government-issued Glock in quick reach inside my purse, which sat on the seat of the booth beside me. But if the guy tried to rob the place and I whipped out my gun to stop him, my target would realize I was law enforcement and that he’d been followed here.
Ugh.
I’d promised Nick I’d be careful.
I hoped I’d be able to keep that promise.
After a couple of minutes, my target finished his meal and stood from his stool, leaving his backpack resting on the floor while he stepped over to the register to pay his bill. I gathered my ticket from my table, preparing to follow after him. He returned to his spot to leave two singles for a tip, but failed to retrieve his backpack, instead heading toward the door without it.
Hmmm …
Something told me he’d left the backpack on purpose. Something also told me it was more important to follow the backpack now than it was to follow the Sequoia.
Though my target and Crew Socks hadn’t openly acknowledged each other, the abandoned backpack told me the two could be in cahoots. I sat back in my booth and sipped my lukewarm coffee, surreptitiously watching Crew Socks as he sopped up runny egg yolk with a biscuit and shoved it into his mouth, crumbs dropping from his lips to his hoodie. Ew. This guy could stand to learn some manners. Clearly his mother had not sent him to Miss Cecily’s Charm School as my mother had done for me.
He leaned to his right, reaching down toward his ankle. Uh-oh. I unzipped my purse and slid my hand into the inside pocket, feeling for my Glock. Fortunately, the guy merely scratched at a spot behind his ankle before returning his attention to his meal.
He ate ravenously, shoving an entire sausage patty into his mouth at once. It was a miracle he didn’t choke. Good thing since, as a purported medical professional, I might be expected to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him. He washed the meal down with five loud gulps of soda and reached down to grab the backpack.
Yep. Definitely in cahoots.
Quickly, I left a tip and stood, figuring it would be less obvious I was following the guy if I preceded him out of the restaurant.
As I stepped up to the register to pay my bill, he stepped up behind me, stifling a sausage-scented belch over my shoulder. Charming.
“How was everything?” the cashier asked as I handed her my ticket along with a ten-dollar bill.
“Delicious, as usual.” Heck, I could feel the fat molecules pooling on my thighs already. Better do my glute exercises when I get back in the car.
I took my change, slid it into my wallet, and headed outside. Once I was seated again in Alicia’s Audi, I busied myself playing with the buttons on her radio, hoping I’d appear to be trying to find my favorite station. I stopped the scanner on a country station playing a song by Brazos Rivers, a superstar I’d recently busted for tax evasion. Hey, just because the singer didn’t pay his taxes didn’t mean he couldn’t belt out a catchy tune. Besides, the more royalties he earned, the quicker Uncle Sam could recoup the overdue taxes.
I was squeezing my glutes together and singing along—“baby, if you’re willing, let’s do some horizontal drilling”—as the scruffy guy came out of the diner holding the backpack by one strap. He scurried to his pickup in the back lot, opened the door, and tossed the bag inside, climbing in after it. As he drove down the other side of the building and pulled out of the parking lot, I started my car to go after him, driving slowly to the exit so he wouldn’t spot me behind him.
I hesitated briefly in the exit, giving him time to get a decent lead. As I paused, I noted a silver Dodge Avenger with tinted windows pull away from a pump at the gas station across the street. Through the windshield, I could see the driver and someone in the front passenger seat, though from this distance and with the tinted glass I could tell almost nothing about them. Judging from their size, they were either men or women tall enough to be supermodels or players in the WNBA.
The Dodge pulled out of the gas station and headed down the road after the truck, its driver following far enough behind the pickup that it seemed he didn’t want to be noticed.
Hmm. Looked like I might not be the only one tailing the pickup.
Did the Avenger belong to law enforcement? Maybe someone working for the cartel? Or was its appearance mere coincidence and not related at all to the cartel case?
I stayed a couple of blocks behind the Avenger as we headed in a loose, impromptu convoy back onto 635. Using the field glasses, I took note of the license plate numbers on both vehicles and jotted them down to give to Nick later.
I narrowed my eyes at the vehicles ahead. “What are y’all up to?”
Was the driver of the Avenger some type of backup for the guy in the pickup, making sure he and the contents of the backpack arrived safely at their destination? Or was something else going on?
I had no idea what might happen, but I had to be ready for any eventuality. Reaching over to my purse, I pulled the zipper open, pulled my Glock from the inside pocket, and slid a magazine into the gun. I positioned the gun in the cup holder for quick and easy access.
The truck exited in Mesquite, drove past Town East Mall, and turned into a well-maintained, fully fenced apartment complex. The driver punched a code into the security system and the gate slid open to let him in. After he pulled through, the gate slid shut behind him. A moment later, the Avenger rolled slowly past the entrance to the complex before picking up the pace and heading off.
My tensed muscles relaxed. Though I enjoyed a little action every now and then, the last thing I’d wanted was to get in the middle of a shootout at night with a bunch of drug runners. Looked li
ke any risk of that eventuality had now passed. Thank God.
I pulled to the curb and cut the lights and engine. Cracking the door, I eased myself out, shutting it as quietly as possible. Tiptoeing to the fence that surrounded the complex, I peered over a line of bushes. The pickup was visible parked in a row in the center. Putting the binoculars to my eyes, I noted that the truck appeared empty. The driver must have already gone inside. But which unit he’d gone into was anyone’s guess. There were five expansive three-story buildings encircling the lot and, despite the late hour, lights on in at least a dozen units.
I crept back to Alicia’s car, climbed in, and headed in the direction the Avenger had gone. I drove a full two miles down the road, glancing left and right down the side streets, but there was no sign of it.
Pulling into a convenience store, I parked and used my phone to log in to the DMV records. Per my search, the pickup was registered to a man named Terrence Motley at a south Dallas address six miles or so from the apartment complex where he was now. The Avenger belonged to a Carlos Uvalde who purportedly lived in San Antonio, a large city located roughly halfway between Dallas and the Mexican border. The Sequoia was registered to a Lorenzo Vargas at an address in Del Rio, a small Texas town located west of San Antonio in the Rio Grande Valley, near the international border.
I checked the driver’s license records next. The address on each license matched that on the vehicle registrations. Motley’s photo proved he and Crew Socks were one and the same. Ditto for Vargas and the Latino James Franco. Because I hadn’t gotten a good look at the men in the Avenger, I couldn’t confirm whether the photo of Carlos Uvalde in the driver’s license records matched either of the men. And, of course, I had no idea who the second person in the Avenger might be.
Assuming the information was current, Motley didn’t live here at the complex. But who did, then? Another member of the cartel? A distributor? A dealer?
I ran a quick background check on the men. Vargas had no record. Motley had two convictions for possession of marijuana, but both were in small amounts, enough for personal consumption but not enough to indicate he was dealing in the stuff. Uvalde, on the other hand, had served seven years for dealing heroin and assaulting a police officer. Not exactly a Boy Scout.
I let out a long breath. I supposed I’d done all I could for the moment.
Making an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, I headed back home.
chapter fourteen
Pinch Hitter
Bzzzz. My alarm went off much too early the next morning. Having lost three hours’ sleep to my late-night mission, I had to fight the urge to yank the plug out of the wall. Still, though I might be exhausted, I had a job to do. Uncle Sam didn’t pay me to loll about in bed. I only hoped he’d reimburse my gluttonous late-night snack.
On my drive into work, I stopped at a gas station and bought a large Dallas map. When I arrived at the office, I aimed straight for the supply room. My eyes scanned the shelves. Manila folders. Legal pads. Nine-by-twelve mailing envelopes. Boxes of ballpoint pens.
Viola, Lu’s eagle-eyed secretary, stepped into the doorway. “Finding what you need?”
“No.” I pushed aside small boxes of binder clips to search behind them. “I’m looking for thumbtacks. I don’t see any.”
“Thumbtacks?” Viola cocked her head. “I don’t get much call for those. Can’t even remember the last time I ordered any.”
“Darn.”
“What do you need ’em for?”
I held up my map. “I need them to mark points on this map.”
Viola reached out and snagged a package of colorful Post-it strips which read SIGN HERE. “Can you make do with these?”
They weren’t at all what I was looking for, but they’d have to do. I took them from her. “Sure. Thanks.”
When I reached my office, Nick’s roses greeted me with their soft, sweet smell and gorgeous blooms. My heart contracted in a painful squeeze as I reached out to finger a petal. El Cuchillo better not hurt the man I loved or there’d be a photo of me on the Internet, licking El Cuchillo’s blood from the bullet I’d put in his brain. Yeah! Take that, El Cuchillo! The thought first made me feel tough, then nauseated as the reality of it hit me. Ew. I guess I’d settle for a photo of me standing over the thug’s bullet-riddled corpse.
I tossed my purse into my desk drawer and taped the Dallas map to the wall next to my window. Consulting the information in the phishing scam file, I used my cell phone map feature to locate the bank branches where the crook had made the bogus withdrawals. Using the SIGN HERE slips, I marked each of them on the map. After applying the last sticker, I stood back to admire my handiwork. Pretty cool. I’d always wanted to make an evidence board like they do on those detective shows on TV.
The fact that all of the victims were local and the withdrawals were all made at banks in the Dallas area meant that whoever did this likely lived around here somewhere. Most criminals tended to operate within their comfort zone, where they were familiar with the streets and could make an easy getaway. Besides, with the price of gas being what it was, it wouldn’t be cost-effective for the thief to drive a long distance to make the transactions.
Eddie’s voice came from behind me. “What’re you doing?”
I turned to find him walking into my office, his gaze roaming over my Dallas map. As he stepped up beside me, I pointed to each of the strips and explained myself. “These are the locations where a target in one of my cases made fraudulent withdrawals.”
Eddie snorted. “You’ve been watching too much Homeland.”
I stuck my tongue out at him, which he took as his cue to leave. I returned my attention to the map and stepped forward, using another SIGN HERE sticker to mark the center of the relevant area. In theory, the center should be the criminal’s residence or workplace. The sticker ended up smack-dab in the middle of the Daniel Cemetery, an old family plot situated just north of Southern Methodist University.
A quick Internet search informed me that the cemetery had been in existence for over 160 years. The cemetery contained the remains of a number of Daniel family members, and even the bodies of former family slaves. Most recently, local real estate tycoon Trammel Crow, who had married into the Daniel family, had been interred there.
I stared at the map. What could I glean from this information? That the person who’d sent the e-mails was a ghost who’d sent the communications from the hereafter? That they were eeeee-mails?
After thinking things over, the only information I gleaned was that law enforcement was a very inexact science. I also realized that maybe I was going about the phishing case the wrong way. I’d been trying to collect evidence and clues that could help me move forward, when maybe the direction I needed to go was backward. Maybe the key to solving this case wasn’t trying to chase after the person who’d made the withdrawals at the bank, but rather to see whether the e-mails could be traced back to their source. I wasn’t sure whether the person who’d made the withdrawals was the same one who’d sent the e-mails, or whether the two (if there were two) were simply working together. But if there was more than one person involved, finding one of them would likely lead me to any others.
File in hand, I did an about-face and headed straight to the office of my fellow special agent Josh Schmidt. I stopped in his doorway and rapped on the frame.
Josh looked up from his computer screen. With his cherubic blond curls, baby-blue eyes, and slight stature, Josh was hardly the most intimidating agent on the IRS payroll. He looked more like a hobbit in search of an all-powerful ring than a federal law enforcement officer tracking down criminals. No matter, though. He hadn’t been hired for his physical prowess. Rather, it was his mental acuity and cybersleuthing skills that had landed him the job as the department’s high-tech specialist. It was precisely those skills that had led me to his office this morning.
After he waved me in, I stepped inside and plopped down in one of this chairs. “I need your help.”
; Though Josh and I got along fine now, that had not always been the case. When I first met him, he’d been a sniveling, whiny little weasel, competitive with his coworkers and definitely not a team player. He’d done a 180 once Nick and I had sufficiently stroked his fragile ego and requested his assistance. Of course the fact that he’d since met a woman through an online dating service and finally gotten laid hadn’t hurt, either. Perhaps his earlier demeanor had been the result of pent-up sexual frustration. At any rate, he was our go-to guy anytime we needed help cracking a computer.
“Help?” he asked. “With what?”
I situated my briefcase on my lap, clicked open the latches, and pulled out my file on the phishing case. I held the file out to him. “With this.”
He took the file, set it on his desk, and opened it. He spent a minute or two perusing the contents before looking up at me. “You want me to figure out where these e-mails came from?”
“Exactly.” I explained that none of the victims I’d interviewed had provided any leads, and that my attempts to identify the thief or thieves from the bank surveillance videos had likewise been futile.
“I’ll need the victims’ e-mail account passwords.”
“All of them?”
“Let’s start with four or five. That should be a big enough sample.”
“I’ll give them a call right away,” I said.
Josh closed the file and set it aside. “I’ve got some work on my own cases I need to get out of the way first, but I should be able to take a look at this in the next day or two.”
“Thanks, Josh.”
With that, I headed back to my office. My eyes noted Will Dorsey coming up the hall. “How did last night’s softball game go?” I called.
“We lost,” he said as he approached. “Seventeen to zero, to those pencil-pushing dweebs at the Census Office. It was humiliating.”
I cringed. “Better luck next time.”
He put an arm out to stop me. “I can’t seem to get a direct answer out of Lu. Any idea when Nick’s coming back? We’re getting our asses kicked without him.”
