by Diane Kelly
Given that it was a Friday night, the store was packed with people stocking up on beer, wine, and hard liquor for the weekend. Heck, as long as I was there I figured I’d snag a couple more bottles of wine. Alicia and I were running low on sangria supplies, and if ever I needed some sangria it was now.
I grabbed the wine and took my place in line. As I waited I glanced around, noting the store’s customer base appeared to be largely Latino. Not surprising given that it was located in a neighborhood populated primarily by emigrants from Mexico and Central and South America.
Finally, I reached the checkout counter. The woman running the cash register was a broad-shouldered black woman with high-curving eyebrows that gave her a constant look of surprise.
“That’ll be sixteen twenty-three.” She slid the wine into a plain paper bag, the glass bottles clinking against each other as she sat the bag on the counter in front of me.
I ran my debit card through the machine, typed in my PIN, and accepted the receipt she handed to me. Our transaction now complete, I flashed my badge. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with IRS Criminal Investigations. I’d like to ask you some questions about the store’s money transmissions.”
With her curved brows, the woman’s reaction was hard to gauge. She didn’t look any more surprised now than she had before I’d told her who I was.
She shrugged. “Okay.”
“Are you Dottie or Gloria?” I asked.
“I’m Dottie.”
“Do you recognize any of these men, Dottie?” I showed her the three photos. “Have they ever come in the store?”
She looked them over for a moment or two, finally shaking her head. “Hard to say,” she said. “We get so many people coming through here I couldn’t tell you for sure. Some nights we’re so busy I hardly have time to look up.”
It seemed like an honest answer.
“Have you handled any wire transfers to Honduras?” I asked.
She chewed her lip and looked down in thought before answering. “Can’t say that I have.”
“What about your coworker?” I asked, gesturing with my head to a Latino man pushing a dolly loaded with cases of beer. He stopped near the front windows to replenish the rapidly dwindling display.
“Couldn’t tell ya.” She stood on tiptoe to look over the crowd. “Israel! Come here a minute.”
When the man stepped over to the counter, I introduced myself. The two of us stepped aside so Dottie could ring up the next customer in line.
I showed Israel the photographs of the terrorists. “Do any of these men look familiar to you?”
His response was as noncommittal as Dottie’s had been. “I don’t know,” he said, his Spanish accent thick as he spoke. “We have many, many customers every night. We are very busy.”
I nodded. “I have some questions about the wire transfers to Honduras. Did you handle those?” It seemed likely. After all, this man spoke Spanish and would be able to communicate with a recipient in Honduras if need be.
“I do not remember,” he said.
In my experience, an inability to recall information could mean someone was hedging their bets, not wanting to incriminate themselves yet not wanting to be caught in a lie if the other party had clear evidence regarding the matter under discussion.
“Let’s take a look at the wire transfer records,” I said. “Maybe that will jog your memory.”
We went to the store’s tiny, dusty office. Israel retrieved the records and I pointed out the questionable transactions, including the three four-thousand-dollar cash transfers that had been performed on the same night.
Israel shook his head. “I do not believe I did those transfers, but we can look at the schedule to see who worked on those nights.”
He pulled a clipboard from a shelf under the counter and we looked it over. Israel had not been scheduled to work on any of the nights in question. Though Dottie had worked on a couple of the nights, Gloria had also worked some of them. The only staff member consistently on the schedule when the suspicious transactions took place was Jesús.
“When does Jesús work again?” I asked.
Israel consulted the schedule. “Monday.”
“Great.” I thanked Israel and Dottie for their time and left with my bottles of wine.
Had I found him? Was Jesús the man I was after?
* * *
My doorbell rang at nine thirty Saturday morning. Since I was expecting my mother to arrive soon, I was already up and mostly dressed, lacking only shoes and accessories. Still, it was a little early for Mom to have already completed the three-hour drive from Nacogdoches.
I peeked through the peephole. A young man in a FedEx uniform stood on my porch, his white delivery truck visible at the curb behind him.
Hmm. I wasn’t expecting a package. Maybe Brett had sent me more of those delicious spiced peaches the country club’s chef prepared. With all the peach sangria Alicia and I had been drinking lately, it couldn’t hurt to replenish our supply.
I opened the door.
“Tara Holloway?” the man asked.
I nodded. “That’s me.”
He held out an electronic clipboard and a stylus. “Sign here please.”
I scribbled my name with the digital pen and took the shoebox–sized package he offered next. The box was too small and too lightweight to contain mason jars of peaches.
“Enjoy.” He gave me a wide, knowing grin, an exaggerated wink, and a hearty chuckle before turning and heading back to his truck.
What was that about?
I closed the door behind me and carried the package inside. I scanned the label for the name of the sender. There it was.
Sensual Essentials, Inc.
I didn’t recognize the name of the company. What was this?
I carried the box to the kitchen and set it on the countertop while I rummaged through my junk drawer for a pair of scissors. Anne hopped onto the counter and sniffed the box, her little cream-colored head bobbing up and down as her nose made its way from one end of the box to the other.
I finally found the scissors at the back of the drawer, lodged behind some type of wrench, a flashlight, and a Phillips-head screwdriver. Ten seconds later, I had the box open.
Holy crap!
Lying inside the box were two vibrators, one in my signature red, the other in purple, along with instruction manuals printed in English, French, and, for some reason, Icelandic. I supposed the device could keep someone warm on those frigid winter nights in Reykjavik.
The box also contained a gift card that read: Men, who needs them? XO, Christina.
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. But heck, with the way things had been going for me lately I could definitely use a laugh. I let loose with a giggle.
I pulled one of the instruction manuals from the box and perused it over a cup of coffee. Christina had spared no expense in her little gag, ordering us the deluxe model that promised “whisper quiet” sound and came with three speed settings, an oscillating feature, and a “jackhammer” button. The manual also came with warnings, advising those with latex allergies not to use the device and reminding owners that any improper use would void the warranty. Ironic for a device intended for improper uses, huh?
I returned to my junk drawer, dug out a package of AA batteries, and inserted them into the gadgets, giggling once again when I activated the jackhammer button. If nothing else, maybe I could use the thing to pound nails.
Alicia wandered into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “What’s so funny? I heard you laughing.”
I switched the button on the purple device to “oscillate” and handed it to her. The gadget gave off a soft whirring sound and the tip spun around at an angle.
Alicia blinked drowsily at the thing a few times while Anne swatted at it with her paw. “Is this what I think it is?”
“That depends,” I said. “What do you think it is?”
She tossed it back into the box. “I think it’s way too early for this, that’
s what I think it is.”
I filled out the two warranty cards that came with the contraptions, listing the owner as Trish LeGrande and using the TV station’s address. With any luck, she’d be added to their mailing list or maybe there’d be some type of recall and she’d receive an embarrassing notice at her office.
Neener-neener.
chapter eighteen
Retail Therapy
Alicia was sprawled on the couch, still wearing her blue satin pajamas and nursing her third cup of hazelnut coffee, when I heard Mom pull into the driveway an hour later.
I scurried outside and gave my mother a hug as soon as she climbed out of her car.
Mom was dressed in her best country couture, a straight skirt, riding boots, and a long-sleeved blouse. She took one look at my face and knew in an instant something was wrong. “What’s the matter, honey?”
I told her about the preceding day’s events, about opening my heart to Nick, about Brett and the Japanese beetles. It was enough to make a person consider hari-kari.
Mom gave my hand a squeeze. “It’ll all work out eventually,” she said, trying to reassure me. Mom was usually right, but nobody had 100 percent accuracy. Sometimes things didn’t work out. Sometimes things fell apart instead.
“Let me get that for you.” I took her suitcase from her and ushered her inside.
Alicia pulled herself up off the couch and came over to give my mother a hug, too. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Holloway.”
My mother hugged my friend warmly and stepped back, a hand on each of Alicia’s shoulders. “Now don’t you fret, either, young lady,” Mom said. “That boy will come crawling back to you. He just needs some time to sort things out. Trust me. I’ve been there myself.”
Alicia shrugged. “I don’t know. Daniel hasn’t even called. He texted me once to find out where we keep the ironing board, but that’s it.”
Mom tsked. “Well, sitting around here moping isn’t going to do you any good.” She dropped her arms from Alicia’s shoulders and pointed up the staircase. “March on up those stairs and get dressed,” she ordered. “We’re going to Neiman Marcus for some retail therapy. Let’s do lunch, too. My treat.”
Alicia’s eyes brightened and she scampered up the stairs. Mothers. They know just the thing to cheer a person up, huh?
My mother set course for the kitchen, probably thirsty after the long drive.
Oh, God! The vibrators were still on the table!
“Let me fix you a drink!” I cried, rushing after her and cutting her off at the doorway. I snatched up the devices and dropped them into the bottomless pit that was my purse. I’d recently upgraded to one of those enormous, shapeless bags when my previous purse could no longer contain all the junk I’d accumulated. Buying a bigger bag seemed quicker and easier than cleaning out my stuff. Before long I’d probably have to upgrade again, maybe to a suitcase or an army trunk.
I moved my purse aside and shoved the box into the bottom of my trash can, pretending that my actions were intended to accommodate my mother. “Here you go,” I said, pulling out a kitchen chair for her. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She gave me a smile and dropped into the seat. “Thanks, hon.”
I snatched a glass from the cabinet, filled it with ice and tap water, and set it on the table in front of her. “So, what’s up back in Nacogdoches?” I asked, sliding into the chair across from her.
Mom filled me in on the latest hometown news and gossip. A new boutique had opened downtown. Clara Humphreys, a fellow member of the town’s historical society, was recovering from surgery on an ingrown toenail. “The way she was carrying on,” Mom said, “you’d have thought she’d lost a limb.”
My high school’s football team was doing well this season. Rumor had it the quarterback, a senior, was being courted by the coach at the University of Oklahoma, the chief rival to my college.
“Say it isn’t so.” A graduate from my high school thinking about becoming a Sooner? How could he?
Mom shook her head. “He must’ve lost his mind.”
Alicia came to the kitchen doorway and declared herself “ready to go.”
A half hour later, the three of us arrived at Neiman Marcus and headed directly to the cosmetics counter. Both Alicia and I needed under-eye cream to hide the dark, puffy circles we’d accumulated from nights of restless sleep.
When we arrived the clerk took one look at us and cringed. “Might I suggest full makeovers?”
Alicia and I readily agreed. We could both use some attention, even if it was only from a salesclerk looking for a nice commission.
When the makeup artist finished, we eyed ourselves in hand mirrors.
“We might feel awful,” I told Alicia, tilting my head to look at the other side of my face, “but we look awesome.”
In addition to the eye cream, I stocked up on foundation, blush, and mascara while Alicia purchased eyeliner and shadow.
Properly made up now, we spent two hours browsing the women’s, shoe, and lingerie departments. Mom found a cute, clingy dress in a muted pastel print that would be perfect for her upcoming high-school reunion. She firmed, flattened, and rearranged her figure with a strategic pair of Spanx, slid her feet into a pair of shiny gray sling-backs, and stood in front of the three-way mirror.
“Wow, Mrs. H.” Alicia stepped up behind my mother as she turned to and fro. “You’ve still got it.”
Alicia was right. My mother looked fantastic. “Dad’s going to love it.” Maybe Randall would, too. Candy Cummings could eat her heart out.
We meandered over to the jewelry department and found the perfect pair of earrings and a necklace to complete Mom’s outfit. After a light lunch of salads and mimosas at Neiman’s café, we headed back to my BMW, shopping bags in hand.
“As long as we’re out, do you two mind if I make a quick stop?” One of the MSBs on my list was only a few miles away.
Mom and Alicia said they didn’t mind coming along for the ride. None of us had anything better to do that afternoon and it would give us a chance to chat some more on the drive.
The place was a head shop called Huff-N-Puff, located on the back side of a strip center in a seedy part of town. A run-down apartment complex flanked the property, its parking lot filled with beater cars, its Dumpster overloaded and spilling garbage onto the parking lot. Crows pecked at something that had spilled from an open bag.
I pulled into a spot and cut my engine.
Alicia glanced around and crinkled her nose in distaste. “This looks like a questionable neighborhood.”
The question being “Why the hell would anyone want to live here?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m armed.”
We climbed out of the car and headed inside. Thanks to the eighty-six varieties of tobacco the store carried in stock, the space smelled earthy and herby, not unlike the warehouse at Brett’s nursery where he stored compost and potting soil.
Alicia waved a hand in front of her face. “It smells like a petting zoo in here.”
Mom turned to me. “Remember that petting zoo Dad and I took you and your brothers to when you were little?”
“How could I forget? A goat bit me in the butt.” I’d been five years old and traumatized, at least until my dad bought me a grape snow cone. But I’d learned an important lesson. Don’t put a box of Cracker Jacks in your back pocket.
I left Alicia and my mother to take a look around while I made my way past a display of colorful glass hookah pipes and down an aisle of natural supplements, including one called Horny Goat Weed that claimed to support sexual vitality. Not for use by pregnant women, according to the label. Hmm. Maybe I should snag a bottle for Josh.
“Can I help you?” A woman with stringy brown hair that hung past her butt swished up the aisle in her long, loose peasant skirt.
I identified myself and showed her my badge. “I need to look at your records for the prepaid Visa cards.”
She gave me a long-suffering look. No doubt she received pl
enty of hassles from The Man, local cops, and whatnot.
I raised a hand to placate her. “I’m not here to give you a hard time. I’m just trying to find out who might have helped some men move funds overseas.”
A perplexed look flickered over her face, but she gestured for me to follow her. “This way.” She led me past a display of “Legal Highs” to the stockroom. A computer sat on a desk in the corner. Cheap shelves were mounted on the wall over the desk. A series of blue notebooks sat on the shelves, white labels on their spines identifying their contents. Tobacco Inventory. Pipe Inventory. Miscellaneous.
She showed me how to access their online sales records and retrieved the Miscellaneous notebook, flipping to the section that documented their orders of prepaid Visa cards. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
I spent half an hour looking through the data. Everything appeared to be in order. Darn! The lack of progress was eating away at me. Every day that passed without us finding the person who’d moved the funds meant more people might die, more families might be torn apart, more bright yellow school buses might drive over an improvised explosive device.
I returned the notebook to the shelf and wandered back into the store, waiting until the manager had finished assisting a black man with a Jamaican accent who was buying what appeared to be a lifetime supply of rolling papers. I envied how relaxed he looked. A little ganja each day keeps the worries away, huh?
“The records looked fine,” I told her once the man had left. “Just one more thing before I go.” I pulled the photos of Algafari, Nasser, and Homsi from my purse. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
The woman took the photos, squinting her eyes at them before sliding on a pair of outdated eyeglasses with large, round frames. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t think so. We get quite a few Indians who shop here for their hookah supplies, but I don’t think any of our shoppers were these men.”
I thanked the woman for her time and walked outside, finding Alicia and my mother standing on the sidewalk.
