by Diane Kelly
“Look what I bought,” Mom said, reaching into her bag. “A hummingbird feeder.” She held up a red glass bong.
Alicia and I exchanged glances. Maybe my mother shouldn’t have had that third mimosa at lunch.
“That’s not a hummingbird feeder, Mom,” I said. “That’s a bong.”
“A bong?” She looked at me and looked back at the water pipe. “Is that the thing those two guys smoked in those Cheech and Chong movies back in the seventies?”
As teenagers, my brothers and I had watched edited-for-television reruns of the movies on some obscure cable channel. I nodded.
“Well, darn.” Her gaze went to a sign in the window.
ALL SALES FINAL. NO REFUNDS.
My mother shrugged. “I’m still going to use it to feed the hummingbirds.”
No doubt the birds would be happily buzzed, flying high.
After we climbed back into the car, my mother asked about my other pending cases. I told her about Richard Beauregard and his disappearing act. “It was totally humiliating. He’s made me and Eddie look like idiots.”
She frowned. “We can’t have that. Let’s go find him.”
We decided to visit a couple of the campgrounds at area lakes and state parks to see if Beauregard had set up base at one of the sites. I used my phone to search the Net and determine which campsites had water and electric hookups for trailers. We made the rounds, looking for a trailer with a Puma logo, but had no luck. This time, the closest I got to a Puma was a fluffy red chow chained to a tree. He gave us a quick bark as we drove past the pop-up camper he was guarding, but quickly realized we posed no threat to his modest estate and went back to chewing on a ratty tennis shoe.
Near sundown we stopped at a campground and removed our shoes, venturing out onto a fishing dock to dangle our toes in the water and watch the pretty orange sunset. The air was cool but tolerable. The site was secluded and, other than the rhythmic chirp of crickets and the occasional croak of a bullfrog, peacefully quiet. I’d have to remember this place. It had all sorts of romantic potential. What I wouldn’t have given to have a glass of peach sangria in my hand and Nick Pratt by my side—or vice versa.
We three women sat in silence, each of us thinking her own thoughts. I suppose it would have been impossible for us to think each other’s thoughts, though, huh?
Alicia’s thoughts were on Daniel. She’d been upset when she’d arrived at my town house Tuesday night. But as the week went on with virtually no contact from him, she’d become withdrawn. She lay back on the pier and sighed, looking up at the dark sky. “I’ve been a fool, haven’t I? Wasting years on a guy who can’t even be bothered to call and check on me.”
“Sign up at that online dating site,” I suggested for at least the tenth time. If it could find a suitable guy for the Lobo, it could surely find a match for Alicia.
“That’s not a bad idea,” my mother agreed, kicking her toes in the water as she glanced over at my friend. “A girl as pretty and smart as you would have lots of dates in no time.”
My thoughts bounced between Brett and Nick, of course. When would Brett return from Atlanta so we could have our talk? Would Nick meet someone special before I could speak to Brett? I lay back on the dock and sighed, too. “Why is fate being such a vicious bitch to me?”
Alicia turned her head my way. “Maybe she’s suffering from PMS.”
Mom was thinking of Dad, I supposed. Or maybe Randall. Or maybe Candy Cummings. Whoever she was thinking about, Mom was lucky. She and Dad had been contentedly married for nearly four decades. They’d raised three rambunctious kids, worked side by side to fix up the ancient Victorian farmhouse I grew up in, planned to grow old together. I wasn’t ready for kids, maybe not even quite ready for marriage, but eventually I’d like to have what my parents had. A fulfilling life with a person I adored, respected, and felt passionate about.
Mom gazed up at a star as if pondering a wish. “I wonder if I could lose ten pounds before the reunion.”
“I’ve heard you can order tapeworms online,” I said. “Rumor has it some of the supermodels use them.”
“Dear Lord!” Mom replied. “I’d rather be chubby than full of worms.”
The hungry mosquitoes eventually became unbearable and we were forced to abandon our refuge lest we be eaten alive. We slid out of our thoughts, into our shoes, and headed home.
* * *
Saturday evening, Mom, Alicia, and I lazed around my living room in our pajamas, eating boxed pasta I’d whipped up and drinking peach sangria.
Although a romantic comedy played on the TV screen, none of us paid much attention to the movie. Mom worked her Bedazzler, applying a line of pink sequins around the hem of a tiny pair of jeans that belonged to my five-year-old niece, Jesse. Alicia read through a self-help book that offered advice on rebuilding your life after a breakup. I went through the terrorist file yet again, looking over each item of information carefully, trying to determine if there were any hidden clues we might have missed. Nothing caught my eye.
My cell phone rang. It was Brett calling. I excused myself and took the phone into the kitchen to speak with him.
Our conversation was brief. The weather in Atlanta was unseasonably warm and humid, making his work outdoors nearly unbearable. Fortunately, the club’s chef had taken pity on Brett and his crew and brought fresh-squeezed lemonade outside to them. The chef also served them special dinners each night in the club’s private dining room, the most recent of which included honey-glazed salmon. Brett might die of heatstroke in Atlanta, but he sure wouldn’t die of hunger. The chef had even asked Brett’s input on the dishes, using him as a taste tester for new recipes.
“How’s everything going back there?” Brett asked.
“Same old same old,” I said. “Working my butt off and getting nowhere.”
Brett and I used to talk on the phone for hours, about everything and nothing at all. But now I had trouble thinking of anything to say to him and the only thing he seemed to want to discuss was the club’s food. Our conversation felt strained and awkward, which didn’t go unnoticed by Brett.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
No. Everything was not okay. Not at all. But I didn’t want to get into it on the phone. “I’m just not in a talkative mood, I guess.”
He was quiet for a moment, but he didn’t press me for further explanation. Could he sense that things had gone awry? That I was no longer 100 percent invested in our relationship?
“I’ll let you go, then,” he said. “Stay safe, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
My phone call completed, I turned back to the file. Would we ever find out who had helped the terrorists funnel money overseas? Like my attempts to talk things out with Brett, the case was beginning to feel like a lost cause.
* * *
Mom left early Sunday morning so she could arrive back home in Nacogdoches in time to make lunch for the family after church. I dragged Alicia out of bed and to the firing range with me, hoping that putting a few bullets in a man-shaped target would lift her spirits.
“Check out my new gun.” I removed the red Cobra .38 from its case and handed it to Alicia.
“Nice,” she said, turning it over. She scratched at the bright-orange price sticker with the Strike-it-Rich oil derrick logo, loosening the adhesive and pulling the tag off. She tossed the sticker in a nearby trash can. “Can I try it?”
“Of course,” I said. “You’re my best friend. Mi casa es su casa.” Okay, so that literally translated as “my house is your house.” But I didn’t know the Spanish word for “gun” and the sentiment was the same.
I offered Alicia some quick pointers and clipped a paper target to the pulley. Once the target was in place, she assumed a shooting stance, narrowed her eyes, and took aim. She emptied the entire clip, her shots hitting the target low, in the general area of the target’s crotch.
“Not bad for a beginner,” I said. “Your aim was
a little low, though.”
She gave me the stink eye. “I was going for the gonads.”
“Oh. In that case, good shots, then.”
I took up residence in the lane beside her, spending several minutes practicing with my Glock. Each of my shots hit the target right in the heart. Yep, the Annie Oakley of the IRS was still in business. Good thing, too. When you were dealing with terrorists, weapon skills could come in handy.
chapter nineteen
Jailhouse Rocks
When I arrived at the office Monday morning, Nick stared at me from across the hall, a look of disgust on his face. He’d expected me to call him over the weekend, to tell him I’d put Brett on hold. No doubt Nick felt deceived and betrayed. I tried to explain, but he simply held up his hand.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he said.
He promptly logged onto the Big D Dating Service site, scrolled through the dozens of new responses, and called one of the women, unabashedly flirting and making a dinner date as I sat within earshot in my office, trying not to burst into tears or hurl my calculator at him.
Josh passed by my office door on his way back from the men’s room.
“Hey, Josh!” I hollered. “Get back here.”
Josh retreated and poked his head in the door. “What?”
“I need your help,” I said.
“I’m busy,” he said.
I skewered him with a look. “I helped you land a date with Kira,” I reminded him. “You owe me.”
He frowned but gave in. “All right. What is it?”
If I told him the specifics, he’d refuse. I strategically kept my words vague. “I need your special skills on a field investigation.”
Josh would assume I was referring to his computer skills. What I was actually referring to was his ability to pee standing up. Yep, I needed a man. Why? Because I was heading out to a men’s prison. I’d seen what happened to Clarice Starling when she’d gone alone to visit Hannibal Lecter in prison in The Silence of the Lambs. I hoped that my being accompanied by a male agent would discourage the inmates from tossing any icky stuff at me.
I would have much preferred Nick’s help, but the guy wasn’t speaking to me at the moment. Eddie was out on his own rounds of MSBs. That left me with Josh. He wasn’t much of a man, but he would have to do.
We piled in a fleet car and drove to Venus, a tiny town of three thousand people located southwest of Dallas. Though named after a planet, the place contained no extraterrestrials, though it was home to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice Sanders Estes Unit. The unit, in turn, was home to approximately one thousand inmates.
Because family members and prisoners needed a safe and secure system for exchanging funds, the unit offered wire transfer services and both sold and cashed traveler’s checks and money orders. As a result, the state prison was required to register with the U.S. Treasury Department as an MSB. It was kind of like Big Brother keeping an eye on Little Brother, huh?
As I turned down the road to approach the unit, Josh noticed the high fences and razor wire that harbored groups of men in bright orange jumpsuits. “Wait a minute. We’re not going to a prison, are we?”
“Yep,” I replied.
“No,” Josh said. “No way! I am not going in that place.”
I glanced over at him. “I’ll tell Kira you’re a wuss.”
He frowned again. “That’s not fair.”
“Tough.” I was probably being mean to the guy, but fate hadn’t shown me much mercy lately and I was only paying it forward.
I parked the car in the visitors’ section and climbed out, donning the cheap plastic poncho I’d purchased at the dollar store on my drive in this morning.
“What’s that for?” Josh asked.
“Let’s just call it a protective measure.”
“Do you have one for me?”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
We headed inside to the thwump-thwump-thwump of a basketball being dribbled on the court on the other side of the fence. The sound ceased momentarily when the tall, muscular inmate with the ball wandered over to the fence.
“Hey, baby!” the man called. “You coming for our conjugal visit?” He put a hand under his nards and lifted them. “I’m ready for you.”
“Aren’t you going to tell him off?” Josh whispered.
“Nope,” I said.
“Why not?” Josh asked. I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t like me to let a slight pass unaddressed.
I shot Josh a pointed look. “Because he was talking to you.”
When Josh glanced back at the fence, the man puckered his lips and made a kissing sound. Josh emitted his usual puppy whimper and scampered ahead of me into the building.
We checked in with Security and a warden led us to the administrative offices. He chuckled at my poncho. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We ain’t going to let any of these men within spitting distance of you.”
“Thanks,” I said, not bothering to mention it wasn’t spit I was worried about.
Josh and I settled in at a desk in the jail’s financial office. The man currently tasked with the job of maintaining the records was more than happy to let us use his digs in favor of his taking an extended coffee break.
We spent a couple of hours searching through the files. The records were less than ideal, resulting no doubt from the constant employee turnover evident in the files. Seemed nobody stayed at the job for more than a few weeks at a time. Still, though the information was somewhat spotty and incomplete, the data told us enough. All of the transactions were in relatively small amounts and all were to and from other people located within the United States. Nobody who worked here at the jail had helped the terrorists transfer funds to Syria.
We thanked the staff for their assistance and made our way back outside. Josh ran from the door to the car, ducking behind it amid laughter from not only the inmates but also the guards sitting atop a nearby tower.
The same man who’d propositioned Josh earlier stepped up to the fence, lifting his stones once again. “Last chance for love!” he called.
Josh whimpered again.
As I pushed the button on the remote to open the door, a drop of rain fell from the sky. Whaddya know? The poncho had come in handy after all.
chapter twenty
Get Out of Here!
I dropped Josh back at the office, trading him for Eddie and heading to the federal prison located thirty miles west in Fort Worth. Though the federal prison was a low-security facility, the building had a small wing in which violent offenders could be segregated as they awaited trial. Once convicted, these offenders were sent to a high-security prison out of state to serve their sentences.
We checked in at the gate and were directed to park in a designated area. We stepped through a metal detector and endured a thorough pat down before being allowed inside. The staff also searched our briefcases and my purse. Once we’d passed muster, a male warden with a thick neck and thick southern accent led us to the visiting area. The prisoners’ three attorneys were already seated in a waiting area outside a private visitation room.
Eddie requested that we be permitted to speak with Karam Homsi first. Homsi was the man who’d earlier offered to talk, the man whose tongue had been later cut out. The warden nodded, pushed a button on his shoulder mic, and turned his head to bark an order into the device. “Bring me Karam Homsi.”
A couple of seconds later a male voice responded. “Homsi. Got it. On my way.”
Homsi’s attorney stood and followed me and Eddie into the small room. While Eddie and I took seats on the near side of the table, the attorney took a seat on the other. I noticed he slid his chair farther away from the empty one, as if he didn’t want to get too close to his client. I couldn’t blame the guy. Who knew what these men were capable of?
We sat quietly, listening to the hum from the fluorescent lights overhead as we waited. A few minutes later, a door on the back wall opened and a warden led Homsi inside.
Ho
msi stood around five feet, ten inches, and wore khaki pants and a khaki shirt, the standard federal prison uniform. His hands were cuffed in front of him. He glanced at me and Eddie, then turned his head down as he took his seat. He didn’t look up as his attorney identified us and told him why we were there.
Eddie eyed the top of Homsi’s downturned head. “We’d like to ask you some questions about how the money was moved overseas.”
Homsi didn’t respond. He simply sat immobile in his seat, staring at the tabletop.
Eddie and I looked to Homsi’s attorney. He merely shrugged as if to say, I told you he wouldn’t talk.
I figured I might as well take a crack at the guy. Maybe he’d react differently to a woman. “Look, Mr. Homsi. I know you don’t want to help the government out and I know the plea deal fell through. But if you give us a break here, share some information, the judge will take it into consideration in your sentencing.” I couldn’t make any promises, of course, but judges tended to go easier on cooperative inmates.
Homsi raised his head then, looking at me with sheer terror in his eyes. Ironic for a terrorist, huh? He tried to say something, but without benefit of a tongue it came out only as garbled gibberish. “Ay lah my ung lass ime ay awk. Ex ime iss my lie.”
Huh?
I slid my legal pad and pen across the table. He snatched up the pen, scribbled on the pad, and slid it back across the table. Eddie leaned over to read the words with me.
I lost my tongue last time I talked. Next time it’s my life.
In other words, he’d give us nothing.
The warden led Homsi away and his attorney left, quickly replaced by Algafari’s lawyer. A few minutes later, the same warden led Algafari into the room. Unlike Homsi, who’d averted his eyes, Algafari stared straight at me and Eddie, his gaze gleaming with raw rage and hate. He looked like he’d enjoy ripping out our hearts. I was grateful for the shackles on his wrists.
Like his predecessor, Algafari refused to tell us anything. He merely sat there, glaring at us while we all but begged for answers.
