by Diane Kelly
chapter thirteen
Bargain Hunting
Frustrated by my lack of success, I phoned Eddie to see if he’d had any more luck at the money transmitters than I had. He hadn’t. And we still had a slew of MSBs left to visit. It could take weeks to hit them all. Working our way down a list seemed horribly inefficient. There had to be a better approach, didn’t there?
Eddie exhaled sharply into his phone. “We could spend weeks spinning our wheels.”
It had happened before and it was frustrating as hell. Eddie and I didn’t mind working hard, but we didn’t want our efforts to be in vain. Our time was too important.
“Think there’s any point in paying a visit to the men who were arrested?” I asked. “See if they’ll open up?”
Eddie and I knew their attorneys had instructed them to remain silent. Hell, Homsi, the one who’d originally offered to turn state’s witness in return for leniency, couldn’t talk now even if he wanted to. Can’t form words without a tongue. I supposed he could write, though. I wondered how he managed to eat in prison. Maybe they brought him jars of baby food. I imagined him eating that pinkish-gray guck that purported to be some type of meat.
Urk.
Yeah, visiting the jail would likely be another waste of our time. Still, it wasn’t unheard of for someone who’d been arrested to have a change of heart after spending some time in the slammer. Using the toilet with an audience couldn’t be fun, and once a man had suffered a few dozen lousy meals, spent restless nights on a painfully thin mattress, and fought off repeated amorous advances from a big and burly guy named Crazy Al, he could sometimes be more easily convinced to cooperate in order to whittle time off his sentence.
“You never know,” Eddie said. “Sometimes a person who won’t open up to one agent will spill their guts to another.”
“Let’s give it a shot then,” I said. “What have we got to lose?”
I phoned the terrorists’ attorneys and arranged meetings at the jail. All of them told me they’d instructed their clients not to talk unless a very generous plea deal was offered. Heck, it would probably be malpractice if the lawyers had done otherwise. But I suspected each attorney secretly hoped his client would decide to cop a plea. Better to collect their legal fees and move on to the next case than spend precious time preparing for a trial they were sure to lose.
At five thirty, I was headed home when I drove past a pawnshop. The store was called Strike-it-Rich Pawn and featured a rusty fifteen-foot oil derrick atop the roof. A large sign in the window caught my eye.
Gun Sale
I braked and made an illegal U-turn. It’s not like a cop would give me a ticket. I was on official federal government business.
Sort of.
Many women collected teacups or figurines or rare books. I, however, owned a sizable handgun collection. To each her own, right?
I’d been worrying about Nick all day, whether he’d fall for one of the women from the dating site before I had a chance to break up with Brett. I needed something to lift my spirits. A new gun would be just the thing. Besides, Dallas rush-hour traffic was a bitch. Might as well go check out the guns and let the gridlock ease up a bit.
I pulled into the drive. The only vehicles in the lot were a Harley with high-arching handlebars parked near the door and an ancient wood-paneled station wagon parked at the end. I took a spot next to the motorcycle.
Metal burglar bars covered the front windows and glass door, which bore a sign that read: “FAMILY OWNED AND OPERATED SINCE 1952.” A string of bells hung from the inside door rail, giving off a tinny tinkle as I entered. The place smelled like dust and rose petals. Dust because the place was dusty, rose petals because of the large glass bowl of potpourri perched on a pedestal near the door.
The place contained the usual amalgamation of odds and ends sacrificed by desperate owners needing quick cash. Guitars in both acoustic and electric varieties lined one wall, along with amplifiers and an electronic keyboard. Televisions of all sizes took up at least a quarter of the room, followed by stereo and computer equipment.
I wandered farther into the store. Toward the back of the space was a wide selection of exercise equipment, most of it nearly new, abandoned by owners who’d long since given up on their New Year’s resolutions to get in shape. Treadmills, exercise bikes, stair steppers, elliptical machines. Heck, there was even a first-generation NordicTrack with the pull ropes.
Near the register was an assortment of sports equipment. Golf clubs, hockey sticks, tennis rackets. A wooden rack displayed both snow skis and water skis. Whether you wanted to ski on frozen or melted H2O, this place could trick you out.
Each of the items bore a round orange price sticker with the store’s oil derrick logo printed on it in black. The prices were handwritten below the derricks.
I approached the register. Behind it was a short woman who appeared to be in her mid- to late fifties, around my mother’s age. Her soft brown curls were tinged with streaks of gray. She had the roundish figure of a woman who’d borne several children. She wore a loose cotton shirt untucked over a pair of well-worn corduroy pants. White canvas sneakers graced her small feet.
When the woman looked down at a stack of paperwork on the counter, her pink plastic-framed reading glasses threatened to slide off the end of her nose. She put her index finger on the nosepiece to push the glasses back into place. She appeared flustered as she rifled through the documents. No wonder. A man wearing a black leather vest with no shirt, dirty blue jeans, biker boots, and a bandana wrapped around his shaved head stood at the counter, staring her down. His arms, adorned with sleeve tattoos, were crossed over his chest, his underarm hair fluffed out around his pits as if his upper arms were wearing brown tutus.
The man’s language was as colorful as his tattooed arms. “I’ve paid off my fucking loan. I want my goddamn guitar back.”
The woman’s eyes shone with fear as she looked up at the man. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to put my hands on your paperwork. But it’s got to be here somewhere if you’ll just bear with me.” She set aside the stack she’d been sorting through and pulled a box out from under the counter. “Maybe it’s in here.” She dumped the contents of the box onto the counter and began sifting through the stack.
The pawnshop still used old-fashioned paper records? A bit surprising in these days of computerized data storage. The outdated record-keeping method had probably been in place since the store opened in 1952.
The man waited a couple more minutes, though his tapping boot made it clear his patience was growing thin. “Look, lady. You’re wasting my time and screwing me over. I’ve paid back every cent I owe you.” He pointed to a shiny black electric guitar on display. “That’s my guitar right there. I want it back. Now.”
The woman’s glasses slid down her nose again and once again she pushed them back. The man appeared to have a legitimate beef, but at the same time this poor woman seemed to be in over her head.
I stepped up to the counter, noting that the man smelled faintly, though undoubtedly, of marijuana. You’d think a stoner would be a bit more mellow, huh?
I pulled back my blazer to reveal the gun holstered at my waist in case the biker had any thoughts of getting violent. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS. Can I be of help here?”
Now the man’s eyes bore a slight tinge of fear. Unreported income from pot sales, perhaps? He backed away a step or two, as if wanting to put some distance between us. “We’re good,” he said, probably hoping I’d step away.
He didn’t know me very well, did he?
I stayed at the counter, looking around. On a shelf behind the register was an official Major League Baseball bat autographed by Texas Rangers star Josh Hamilton. Next to it was an autographed baseball signed by Rangers legend Nolan Ryan. My father would love the ball and Christmas was coming in a couple of months. I squinted to read the price sticker on the plastic box. One hundred and fifty bucks. That was doable.
“Phew!” the wo
man said, her tense features softening in relief as she pulled a loan agreement from the pile. “Found it.” She stamped each page of the man’s triplicate form with a rubber stamp that read: “PAID IN FULL” and handed him the yellow copy. He snatched the paper out of her hand and turned to leave, grabbing his guitar from the wall as he left.
“Thanks for your help with that man.” The woman gave me a grateful look as she restacked the paperwork. “He got me all flustered.”
“Glad to help.”
The woman scooped up the papers and plopped them back into the box. “Can I help you with something, hon?”
“I saw the sign in the window. I’m interested in seeing the guns you’ve got on sale.”
The woman gestured for me to walk down to a glass display case at the other end of the counter. Several guns in the case caught my eye.
On the top shelf was a nice Beretta 3032 Tomcat. I’d shot one before. Great accuracy. Next to it sat a Ruger Super Redhawk revolver. The gun’s disproportionately long skinny barrel gave it a comical look, as if a white flag reading: “BANG!” would pop out when the gun was fired.
“Could you show me the Cobra?” The Cobra CA380 pistol was cherry red, my signature color. It was also lightweight and compact, the perfect gun for a woman.
The woman pulled a stretchy coiled key chain from her wrist. The plastic bracelet seemed like a good way to keep her keys handy. Maybe I should get a key chain like that for when I went jogging.
Oh, who the hell was I kidding? I never actually went jogging.
The woman reached into the case, retrieved the weapon, and held it out to me. “Here you go.”
Like the other items in the store, it bore an orange label with the oil derrick logo. I took it in my right hand, gripping it and pretending to take aim at the clock mounted on the wall behind the counter, testing its feel. Hmm. Not bad. The piece would cost about eighty bucks brand-new. According to the price tag on this secondhand model, it was on sale for thirty dollars.
While I was examining the gun, the bells on the door tinkled behind me. A UPS courier in a brown uniform headed toward us, a large cardboard box in his hand.
“Got a package for you, Margie,” he said, holding the box out to her.
She pushed her glasses back once again and glanced at the return address, a smile spreading across her face. “Oh, good. That’s the toy train I ordered for my grandson’s birthday. He’s going to love it.” She took the box and thanked the man, calling, “Take care!” as he headed back out the door to the large brown truck parked out front.
After she stashed the box under the counter, the woman I now knew as Margie returned her attention to me and the gun in my hand. “What do you think?”
I engaged in a brief mental debate. I already owned a .38, a pretty pearl-handled model. But thirty bucks was an awfully good deal. What the hell, I decided. Between Nick dating other women, Beauregard escaping out his window, and me striking out at the money transmitter offices, it had been a frustrating week. Why not treat myself to a little pick-me-up? “I’ll take it.”
“Okeydokey,” Margie said, stepping back to look under the counter. “I’ll need you to fill out a form first.” She pulled out a manila file folder and peeked inside. “Nope. That’s not it.”
This woman was friendly enough, but she really needed some help in here, someone with good organization skills. After five minutes of searching, she finally found the required Form 4473 Firearms Transactions Record in a two-drawer filing cabinet pushed up against the back wall. “Here you go.” She handed me the form and a ballpoint pen.
We chatted as I filled out the form. She told me she had five grandchildren, two boys and three girls, all under the age of ten. The grandson who would be the happy recipient of the toy train was turning seven on Saturday. She showed me his most recent school photo, which she carried in her wallet. He was an endearing kid, all freckles, with a gap-toothed grin.
I pronounced him a “cutie-pie.”
She gazed lovingly at the photograph. “He’s growing like a weed.”
My mother said the exact same thing about my nieces and nephews.
“What’s it like working for the IRS?” Margie asked as she put her wallet away.
“Never a dull moment,” I lied. Actually, there were lots of dull moments. Like all afternoon when I’d been looking through transaction records at the money transmitter offices. Urk. Talk about tedious. Still, among my job’s many dull moments were some interesting ones, too. Some thrilling, some even terrifying. I’d been attacked with a box cutter and shot at several times during my short tenure with the IRS. But, hey, I’d lived to tell about it. All’s well that ends well, right?
“I can’t imagine all the paperwork you have to deal with,” she said.
“Luckily, most things are computerized these days.” I cocked my head. “Have you considered updating your record-keeping systems here? It might make things easier to find if you kept your records on a computer.”
“Oh, honey, I’m a hopeless case. My son once hooked up a computer in here, but it was a complete disaster.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes in a self-deprecating manner. “I tried and tried, but I couldn’t get the hang of it. Like they say, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
“You’re not such an old dog.” I offered her a smile.
She offered me one right back. “That’s kind of you to say. Me and technology, though, we simply don’t get along. Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong century.”
Once I’d completed the form, she pulled a telephone out from under the counter. Holy moly, the old-timey thing had a rotary dial. Coming into this shop was like stepping back in time.
The woman dialed into the National Instant Criminal Background Check System, otherwise known as NICS, as required by the Brady Bill. The law required her to verify that I was not a convicted felon, drug addict, or adjudicated psychiatric risk, and thus eligible to purchase a gun.
The Brady Bill came into being after Jim Brady, President Reagan’s press secretary, was shot along with the president and two others in an assassination attempt. The shooter, John Hinckley, Jr., bought the revolver he used in the shooting at a pawnshop right here in Dallas. Weird how the city had so many links to presidential assassinations, huh? Something in the water here must make people want to kill government officials. Hinckley had given a false home address and used an old Texas driver’s license as proof he lived in the state.
The guy had been arrested four days prior to the shooting at an airport in Nashville when he’d attempted to board an American Airlines flight bound for New York with three handguns and ammunition in his carry-on bag. Hinckley had also been under psychiatric care before he’d bought the gun.
Though many people believed a three-day waiting period was required to purchase a gun, such was not actually the case. After intense lobbying by the NRA, lawmakers had caved and replaced the proposed waiting period with the instant background check system. Thus I could take my gun home with me today. The gun nut in me was happy about that. The law enforcement agent in me thought that perhaps a waiting period wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
Margie and I chatted while she was on hold with NICS.
“I noticed the sign on the door,” I said. “This place has been in your family for over sixty years?”
She nodded. “My grandpappy started the business back in the day; then my father took over. I’m an only child, so when Daddy got too old to take care of the store he turned it over to me and my husband to run.”
I wondered if Nick and I would get tired of each other if we not only worked together but also dated. “Does it get tiresome?” I asked. “Working with your husband?”
“I never thought so,” she said wryly. “He must’ve felt differently, though. He took off two years ago with some floozy he met right here in the store. She came in to look at our jewelry selection and the next day he left me a note on the cash register telling me he needed to go ‘find himself.’”
“Let me guess. He ‘found himself’ between the floozy’s thighs?”
“Exactly.”
We laughed together about her man troubles. Maybe someday I’d be able to laugh about mine. Right now? Not so much.
The woman raised a finger to let me know an NICS agent had finally picked up the line. She identified herself as Margie Bainbridge, the owner of Strike-it-Rich, then read my information into the phone, rattling off my name, gender, and date and place of birth. She was silent for a moment as she waited for a response. A few seconds later she jotted down a transaction number and hung up the phone. “Good news,” she said. “You’re approved.”
Goody, goody gumdrops.
I paid for my gun in cash.
“Nice chatting with you,” she said as she handed me a plastic bag with my gun in it.
“You, too. Have fun at your grandson’s birthday party.” I bade the woman a fond farewell.
chapter fourteen
Second Chances
Thursday evening, Alicia and I headed out in her sleek black Audi, once again tracking Nick. Tonight he’d be taking out his ex-fiancée, Natalie. Nick had once loved the woman enough to propose to her. I had to do what I could to make sure he didn’t fall in love with her again.
I filled a thermos with peach sangria and brought it with me, sipping it as I pulled up the GPS app on my phone. The dot on the map led us to a neighborhood of starter homes in Irving. Nick’s truck was parked at the curb in front of Natalie’s house, a one-story model with salmon-colored brick. White picket fencing outlined the flower beds underneath her front windows. A whitewashed rocking chair sat on her front porch next to a terra-cotta pot filled with yellow pansies. The front door bore a wreath of autumn-colored silk leaves adorned with plastic pumpkins and wooden letters that spelled: “HAPPY FALL, Y’ALL!”
Everything about the place indicated that Natalie was the Suzy Q Homemaker type. In other words, my complete opposite.
Alicia and I drove by the house, circled the block, and drove by it again.
