by Diane Kelly
I turned to Eddie. “Did you unlock them?”
His eyes went wide. “No. You?”
I shook my head.
Wisbrock just looked up at us and grinned a chocolate-coated grin.
A half hour later, the marshals had taken the Wiz away and Eddie and I gathered up the boxes to leave.
Madam Magnolia helped us carry the boxes out. “Thanks for going easy on the Wizard. He’s got a few screws loose, but he doesn’t mean any harm.”
Despite filing dozens of bogus returns, he hadn’t actually caused much harm, either. The returns he’d filed contained such outlandish data they’d been immediately flagged for review before refunds were issued. On one return he’d listed over fifty dependents. On another he’d reported a deduction for postage expenses in the amount of $7 million. People generally trusted their preparers and tended to take only a quick glance at their tax returns. They really needed to look the returns over more carefully.
We slammed the trunk closed.
“Thanks for your help,” I told Madam Magnolia.
“No problem,” she replied. “By the way, if you want to catch the man with one eyebrow, he’s at a campground on Lake Lewisville. But you better hurry. He’s planning to move out soon.”
Eddie and I exchanged glances. How the heck did this woman know we were after Beauregard? Had we discussed his case while we were inside?
I racked my brain, reviewing our conversation. I didn’t remember either of us mentioning Beauregard, and especially not his unibrow. Weird.
“Uh … thanks,” I said, feeling a little freaked out but trying not to show it.
“My pleasure. Oh, and one more thing.” She cast me a knowing smile. “Neener-neener.”
* * *
I was glad Eddie was driving as we pulled away from the curb, because I felt totally dazed and confused.
“How?” I demanded. “How did she know we were after Beau?” And how did she know we’d show up today? And how did she know my catchphrase? And why was I asking Eddie these questions when the only one who knew the answers was Madam Magnolia?
“I don’t know, Tara,” Eddie said. “But there has to be a logical explanation.”
Could Beauregard actually be at a campground at Lake Lewisville? It was possible. After all, his camp trailer had to be parked somewhere, right? He hadn’t used his credit cards anywhere since we’d tried to arrest him, so we hadn’t been able to track him to a hotel. I wasn’t sure he’d even be able to use his credit cards. Most were maxed out and all were delinquent. Of course he could be staying at one of those sleazy cash-only motels that rented rooms by the hour.
I glanced out the window, then looked back at Eddie. “You think we should try the campground?”
Eddie shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”
“A-ha! So you do think Madam Magnolia could be on to something.”
Eddie shot me an exasperated look. “No,” he insisted. “I just think it would be nice to take a drive out to the lake.”
“Bullshit.”
As if to prove he didn’t believe in Madam Magnolia’s purported gift of prophecy, Eddie stopped to fill the car with gas, then took a detour through a coffeehouse drive-through. He ordered his usual black coffee while I opted for a caramel-drizzled extra-whip latte. Hey, winter was coming. I could hide any extra fat under sweaters and coats for the next few months, right?
We made our way out to Lake Lewisville and drove through the campgrounds, paying careful attention to the spaces with electrical and water hookups for campers. According to the DMV’s vehicle registration records, Beauregard’s trailer was a Palomino fifth-wheel-style travel camper, the Puma model. Unfortunately, none of the trailers on-site bore the Puma logo. Beau was nowhere to be found.
“See?” Eddie said as we drove toward the exit. “Madam Magnolia is just as bonkers as the Tax Wizard.”
I pointed to the park ranger’s shack. “Pull over. I want to talk to them.”
Eddie emitted a snort of derision but nonetheless eased to a stop by the small structure.
A ranger slid the glass window open and tipped his pith helmet in greeting. “Howdy, folks.”
We explained who we were, flashed our badges, and asked whether they’d had a camper by the name of Richard Beauregard.
The ranger consulted a sheet of paper on his clipboard. “Looks like he checked out of here a half hour ago. You just missed him.”
Damn! We might have caught him if we hadn’t stopped for gas and coffee.
I raised a brow at Eddie. “Think we should go ask Madam Magnolia where Beauregard’s headed off to?”
“Hell, no,” Eddie said. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
I could probably have gotten away with it. People at the office already thought I was a little kooky. Shooting a man in the nuts tends to earn one some notoriety. Still, I didn’t want to put Eddie’s good name at risk. I’d check in with Madam Magnolia later on my own.
chapter twelve
Looking for the Money Trail
I retrieved my G-ride and spent the rest of the afternoon visiting money transmitters, hoping for a lead in the terrorism case.
According to the data in the file Agent Wang had given me, the men who’d been arrested here in Dallas had maintained accounts in a number of banks and credit unions, keeping their balances relatively low to avoid catching the attention of bank personnel. They had a standard MO. Just prior to transferring funds overseas, they’d make a series of cash withdrawals from their accounts, each in the two-thousand- to three-thousand-dollar range. They probably thought that by spreading the funds among several banks they’d enable their multiple withdrawals to go unnoticed and unreported.
About a year ago, one of the banks had bought one of the others, though the terrorists were apparently unaware of the pending consolidation. During the merger process, a keen teller clued in to the fact that one of the men had made significant cash withdrawals from both banks within a half hour of each other. A Suspicious Activity Report was filed and an investigation ensued, though at first nothing came of it. It wasn’t until agents in Syria received information from an informant there that the government put two and two together and realized the man who’d made the suspicious withdrawals here in Dallas was financing the terrorists overseas. Although surveillance helped federal agents identify the man and most of his cohorts, they never could determine who had helped them transfer the funds.
My first stop was Zippy’s Liquor, a small, grubby place in dire need of a thorough scrubbing. As I reviewed the store’s wire transfer records, I found several errors and discrepancies. While most were minor transgressions that appeared unintentional, the records included several large transfers to Honduras, including three made on a single night to the same party, each in the amount of four thousand dollars.
It was obvious the transactions had been intentionally structured to keep each transfer under the ten-thousand-dollar cash-transaction reporting threshold. Still, banking regulations required MSBs to observe not only the letter of the law but also the spirit. If an MSB suspected a client of manipulating their transactions to avoid the cash-transaction reporting requirements, the MSB was supposed to file a Suspicious Activity Report. In this case, no such report had been filed.
Hmm …
Was it possible that the terrorists had filtered their money through someone in Honduras who had then forwarded the funds to Syria? Having their funds sent to a straw man in a seemingly innocuous country would be a good way to avoid detection.
I showed the staff on duty the photographs of the men who’d been arrested, but none of them claimed to recognize Algafari, Nasser, or Homsi. Hard to say whether they were telling me the truth. Perhaps I should hire Madam Magnolia as a consultant to read their minds. Then again, there was no way in hell the tight asses in the IRS accounting department would reimburse the cost of a psychic consultant.
I pulled the manager aside and asked who had handled the transfers to Honduras. He glanced at the records
. Though he could not tell for certain who had handled the transfers, he noted they’d been performed in the evenings by the staff who worked the 6:00 to 10:00 PM shift.
“How many people work in the evenings?” I asked.
“Four,” he said. “Two per shift.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Dottie, Israel, Jesús, and Gloria.”
I jotted down their full names and Social Security numbers and informed the manager I’d come back at a later time to speak with them.
On my way to my next MSB, I spotted a sign up ahead.
PARADISE TRAILER PARK—STAY FOR A DAY OR STAY FOR A LIFETIME.
Might as well check it out, huh? Beau had to move his camper somewhere after he left the lake. Perhaps he’d driven it to Paradise.
I pulled into the park, driving slowly down each row, searching for his camper. I eyed the trailers, looking for the telltale Puma logo. One had a hawk on the side; another featured a deer. But nope, no big cats here. The closest I got was a stray orange tom popping a squat in a kid’s sandbox. There’d be an unpleasant surprise in Little Johnny’s sand castle tomorrow.
I stopped at the management office and left my business card with the woman who ran the place, asking her to give me a call if Richard Beauregard happened to show his face.
My last official stop for the day was a bus station. As I approached the place, I noticed that the parking lot was virtually empty of cars. Not surprising, I supposed. People who owned cars didn’t need bus service, right?
I pulled into the lot. The darn thing looked like a minefield, potholes all over the place. I drove slowly to avoid hitting one and damaging a tire. I parked near the front glass doors and climbed out of my car.
Two young men in hoodies and ripped jeans leaned against the exterior wall, smoking cigarettes. They eyed my car and exchanged glances. I could virtually see their minds computing how much cash they could get at a chop shop for my hubcaps and engine parts.
I whipped my badge from my purse and held it up. “I’m a federal agent. You lay one finger on my car, boys, and you will be sorry.”
They glared at me, not even bothering to pretend they’d simply been admiring my car for its power or appearance.
I pulled open one of the glass doors and stepped inside. Sheesh, the place was depressing. The lobby smelled of urine, stale cigarettes, and coffee left too long on a burner.
A few people sat in the cheap plastic chairs, waiting until it was time to load their buses. A Latina woman was on her cell phone, having a heated argument with someone in Spanish while her two young girls chased each other in circles around the bank of chairs. A twentysomething black man stared droopy eyed into space, slowly bobbing his head to music playing through his earbuds. A stoop-shouldered elderly white man mumbled to himself while eating a ham-and-cheese sandwich he’d bought from the refrigerated vending machine. Some dinner.
A blonde in a frayed denim miniskirt stood near the doors, strumming a guitar and singing a horribly botched version of a Taylor Swift song. A quick glance into the open guitar case at her feet showed her efforts had earned her a whopping twenty-three cents so far. I was tempted to offer her a dollar to stop her off-key caterwauling, but who was I to kill a young girl’s dream of stardom? I dropped the bill into her guitar case anyway, hoping she’d apply the money toward voice lessons.
I made my way across the mismatched tile floor to the booth. A large bald black man sat behind a pane of thick glass I suspected was bulletproof. He appeared to be in his mid- to late fifties, his expansive forehead wrinkled with age, making him resemble a shar-pei. He was reading a Tom Clancy novel.
“Hi,” I said, flipping my badge open. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS. I need to take a look at the records for wire transfers, money orders, and traveler’s checks.”
The man lifted his chin in acknowledgment, extended his hand through the small window at the bottom of the glass panel, and pointed to a door a few feet away. I stepped over to the door and he opened it to let me in, locking it behind me.
He introduced himself only as Mack. Given his size, his last name might as well have been Truck.
Mack walked with the confident gait of a man who knew how to handle himself. I followed him back to the ticket booth, which turned out to be merely a small nook in what was otherwise a fairly large administrative area. Four built-in desks ran along the walls. Two of them were occupied by older women wearing headsets connected to multiline telephones, while a young man in a mechanic’s uniform sat at another, surfing the Web with grease-stained fingers.
Mack directed me to the empty desk and showed me how to log into their system and access the information I sought. I thanked him and he returned to his nook and his book.
I was immersed in data a half hour later when I heard a commotion at the ticket booth. I looked up to see a young kid standing on the other side of the glass, aiming a pistol at the ticket booth attendant. The boy had bright orange hair, braces on his buck teeth, and looked all of twelve years old. He held the gun on its side, gangster-style.
“Give me all your money,” the kid said, his voice cracking with puberty hormones. “Or else.” His hand shook uncontrollably, telling me this was likely his first stickup.
Mack barely glanced up from his novel. “Or else what?”
The kid looked confused. Apparently he hadn’t expected questions.
“I’m not interested in playing cops and robbers.” Mack waved his open book at the boy, shooing him. “Buzz off, squirt.”
The boy stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. He pulled out a cell phone, dialed a number, and told the person on the other end of the line what had taken place. The kid listened intently, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and banged his adolescent fist on the glass. “Give me your money or I’ll shoot you and everyone else, too!”
His raised voice caught the attention of those in the lobby. The woman with the guitar fled out the door, the old man on her heels. The Latina woman gathered up her girls and followed the others, rolling her bags behind her. Only the man listening to music through his earbuds didn’t move. He probably hadn’t heard a thing.
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying, you little carrot-topped shit.” Mack banged his fist on the inside of the glass, imitating the little twerp, laughing when the boy flinched. “I bet you don’t even have bullets in that gun.”
I glanced around me. Back here, behind the glass, everyone was nonplussed. The women on the phone continued to take calls, answering questions about bus schedules and taking seat reservations. The mechanic didn’t bother to look up from his computer.
I put in a quick call to 911, rose from my seat, and made my way to the ticket booth. As I did, the kid said, “Last chance, futhermucker.”
“Futhermucker?” The ticket seller threw his head back and laughed. “Kid, you got no business pulling a stunt like this. Go back home to your scooter and your G.I. Joe.”
The kid’s face clouded with anger. He raised the gun level with the man’s face and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The bullet hit the glass and was absorbed into it, thin cracks spreading like a spiderweb over the surface. The kid shrieked, but the ticket seller didn’t even blink. Forget buns of steel. This guy had titanium testicles.
Mack’s arm shot out, reached through the small opening for passing cash and tickets back and forth, and grabbed the front of the kid’s jacket. He yanked the boy forward, slamming the kid’s face against the glass. The gun clattered to the floor at the boy’s feet as he now used both hands to resist having his face smashed to bits.
Knowing I was useless on this side of the glass, I ran down the hall, out the door, and into the lobby. The attendant continued to yank forcibly on the boy’s jacket, give the kid just enough slack for him to back up a few inches, then yank the kid forward again. The boy’s face repeatedly hit the glass.
Bam!
Bam!
Bam!
I got the distinct feeling this wasn
’t the first time Mack had used this particular technique to subdue a would-be bandit.
I snatched the boy’s gun from the floor and shoved it into my pocket. I pulled out my cuffs and clicked them onto the boy’s wrists while his hands were stretched up against the glass in his futile resistance effort. His puny preteen muscles were no match for the man on the other side of the glass.
Mack let go of the boy’s jacket and I shoved the kid to the floor. “Don’t move!”
The kid struggled to a sitting position and looked up at me, terror and desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t know the gun was loaded!”
“Really. Then why did you pull the trigger?”
“’Cause he made fun of me!”
I crossed my arms over my chest and rolled my eyes. “Tell it to the judge, kid.”
“If you let me go,” the boy said, tears welling up in his eyes, “my dad will pay for the window.”
I looked down at him and shook my head. “Kid, that window is the least of your problems right now.”
The boy began to cry. “I want my mommy!”
If I’d pulled something like this as a child, my mother would be the last person I’d want. She’d tan my hide.
I looked up, my gaze meeting Mack’s through the cracked glass. “Nice moves,” I said. “Former military?”
He shook his head. “Former Black Panther.”
Twenty minutes later, Dallas PD had hauled the boy off to the juvenile detention facility. They’d also sent officers out to arrest the boy’s eighteen-year-old brother, who’d needed quick funds to replace beer he’d snitched from the family fridge and put the kid up to the stunt rather than risk adding to his own rap sheet. With any luck, the boy would learn his lesson and wouldn’t follow in his brother’s dirty footsteps.
I returned to my review of the bus station’s records, but just like the kid’s attempt to rob the place, my search was futile. I thanked the attendant for his time and headed out, hoping Eddie or Agent Wang had more luck than I’d had today.
