by Diane Kelly
I obtained their location, plugged it into my GPS, and drove like a bat out of hell across town.
I pulled in behind the Dallas police cruiser on the side of the highway. The officer had sat Benavides in the back of his car, though he’d put no handcuffs on the guy. Since he wasn’t yet under arrest, handcuffs would have been inappropriate.
I slid into the front passenger seat of the cruiser, asking the officer to give me and Jesús some privacy. The cop shot me an annoyed look but deferred, taking his keys and exiting the vehicle. He didn’t go far, though, stopping by the front fender and leaning back against it.
“Good morning,” I said to Jesús, eyeing him through the metal mesh partition that separated the front seat from the back. He was much younger than I’d expected, hardly more than a kid, and small, only about four inches taller than me and perhaps twenty pounds heavier.
He simply stared at me, fear in his dark eyes.
“I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“English not so good,” he said, his words thickly accented.
He didn’t speak English? I could see that his Spanish could come in handy at the liquor store given that their customers were largely Latino. But if he wasn’t fluent in English, how the heck had he taught history in Houston?
I pulled out my cell phone and called Christina, asking her to translate for me. I put the phone on speaker and asked her to ask him if he could tell me about the money transfers to Honduras, who had sent them, why he hadn’t filed a Suspicious Activity Report.
He seemed hesitant to answer at first but finally looked into my eyes and said something I didn’t understand.
Christina translated. “He says he was the one who sent the money to Honduras. It took him over a year to save it up. He was sending it back home to his family.”
I looked at the terrified young man. All of a sudden everything made sense. No doubt the man was an illegal alien using a stolen identity, trying to stay off the grid and under the radar. He hadn’t helped the terrorists funnel their money overseas. He’d simply sent money back home to his family and done it in a way he thought would help him avoid detection.
But crap. This put me in a very awkward position. I mean, I felt for the kid, sure, but he was breaking the law by being here. What was I supposed to do? Report him to ICE? I’d never faced this situation before and wasn’t sure how to handle it.
My concerns immediately became a moot point. The young man looked into my eyes and must have read my thoughts. He opened the back door of the cruiser, leaped out, and took off running at warp speed, probably breaking all kinds of records. The officer and I gave chase but quickly lost sight of him when he zigzagged through an apartment complex.
I stopped running and bent over, my hands on my knees as I gasped for air. I eventually caught my breath, but I was beginning to think we’d never catch the person who’d helped the terrorists send their funds overseas. I was nearly to the end of my list of MSBs.
* * *
Mid-morning I received a call from an attorney at the Justice Department. Despite the fact that the Tax Wizard had been found wandering the halls of the jail, his cell still somehow locked tight, all charges against Winston Wisbrock had been dropped. His daughter had been contacted and planned to apply for guardianship. Apparently the Wiz was on some type of antipsychotic meds but wasn’t good about taking them consistently. When he didn’t, he lost touch with reality.
I couldn’t much blame him for resisting the meds. What was so great about reality, anyway? My reality had pretty much sucked lately.
Eddie accompanied me on my visits to the last two MSBs on my list. One was a cash-for-car-titles place, the other a precious metals dealer. Both were clean.
“What now?” I asked as we drove back to the office that afternoon. “Lu told us to come up with a new plan.”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Eddie said. “It’s frustrating. It’s like trying to track down ghosts.”
Ghosts, huh? That gave me an idea. Ghost hunters went to the source, right? They set up cameras and looked around the places where the ghosts purportedly lived.
“Why don’t we take a look at their houses and cars and workplaces? Visit their mosques? Talk to their neighbors and coworkers?”
Eddie glanced over at me. “Wang and Zardooz have already done all that.”
“I know,” I said, “but it can’t hurt to run a fresh set of eyes over things.” Sometimes a small but critical detail that didn’t seem important to one person would catch the attention of another and lead to a resolution. That’s why cold-case files were often handed over to another investigator for a second look.
Eddie’s expression was skeptical, but he shrugged. “What the heck. Give them a call. See what you can set up.”
I phoned Zardooz. He was tied up today but said he could take us on the grand tour tomorrow. We arranged to meet at one of the mosques early the next morning when the members would be on-site for their Fajr, or predawn prayer time.
Eddie and I returned to the office. I took advantage of the short lull to catch up on a few things, including my e-mails. As I backed my way through them, I stumbled upon the e-mails I’d forwarded to myself from Richard Beauregard’s computer when we’d raided his office. I hadn’t bothered to go through them in detail since we didn’t have him in custody yet and the terrorism case had taken precedence.
The e-mail from Southwest Airlines confirming his flight to Las Vegas caught my eye. I opened the communication and looked over his electronic ticket. The flight was scheduled to leave in two hours.
Surely Beauregard had abandoned his plans to make this trip, right? I mean, heck, the guy was living out of his car. He had no available credit and little, if any, cash. What kind of vacation could a guy who was totally broke have in Vegas?
Then again, the ticket to Vegas had already been paid for. If he was going to be penniless and sleeping in parking lots, he could do that just as well in Vegas as he could in Dallas, right? At least it would be a change of scenery, and he might be able to finagle his way to a free buffet.
I picked up my phone and dialed Eddie’s office. “Beau’s flight to Vegas leaves in two hours. Want to see if he’s on it?”
Eddie agreed. We met at the elevators, snagged my car from the parking lot, and hurried onto the freeway, trying to beat the looming rush-hour traffic. As we neared the airport, several planes were visible in the sky, many of them circling in a holding pattern, waiting for their chance to land at the busy airport. I supposed that’s what I planned to do with Brett, put him in a holding pattern until I decided whether to let him land or divert him to another airport. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best metaphor ever, but it was how I felt. And I felt damn guilty about it, too.
Eddie pulled up the Southwest Airlines Web site on his phone, keyed in Beau’s flight information, and learned the flight was running on time and was scheduled to take off from gate 14 in Terminal C. We exited the freeway, pulled through the tollbooth at the entrance to the DFW airport, and continued on to the short-term parking garage, picking a spot near the doors that led to the C terminal.
Rather than go through the hassle of obtaining permission to carry our guns into the airport, we locked them up in the glove compartment. Ditto for our metal handcuffs and pepper spray. We’d use pliable plastic FlexiCuffs to restrain Beauregard instead. I’d ordered some a while back figuring they’d come in handy someday. Looked like today was someday.
We went inside the terminal and walked through the baggage claim area. People encircled the machines like the Whos in Whoville when they formed their circle on Christmas morning and sang that sweet, sappy song. “Christmas day is in our grasp, so long as we have hands to clasp.” However, unlike the Whos, who maintained their spiritual centers despite the Grinch having absconded with their floo-floobers, surely those surrounding the baggage carousel hoped their stuff would arrive intact and stood ready to tear an airline employee a new jing-tingler if it didn’t.
One of the machines blasted an o
bnoxious eert-eert sound and, with a lurch, the baggage claim kicked into motion, the metal plates sliding across each other like an oversized meat slicer awaiting a two-ton ham. The luggage began to slide down the chute and clunked onto the carousel. A set of golf clubs in a hard-sided travel case clinked down the chute, followed by a pink polka-dotted suitcase. Someone had been having some fun. It sure as hell wasn’t me.
Lord, I needed a vacation.
Eddie and I made our way to the escalators and rode up to the second floor. We checked in with airport police to let them know we were on-site and what we were up to. In case Beauregard resisted arrest and we had to use force to bring him down, we wanted the cops to know we were the good guys. It wasn’t always easy to tell when officers came upon a tangle of tussling bodies and, since we were dressed in street clothes rather than law enforcement uniforms, we didn’t want to take any chances of being misidentified. The last thing Eddie and I needed was a cop smacking us with a baton or treating us to a faceful of pepper spray. The tear gas at Bulls-Eye had been more than enough for me.
Eddie and I made our way past the row of check-in counters to see if Beauregard might be there, checking a bag. Nope. No sign of the guy at the counters or in the line of people snaking through the belted lanes. No sign of him at those annoying do-it-yourself stations, either.
We walked to the nearest security checkpoint. The man checking tickets had expected us. We showed him our identification and he let us through and into the line awaiting screening. Apparently being a federal agent only got you so far. You could get through Security without a ticket, but you were still required to be screened. Probably not a bad policy given the history of disgruntled postal workers who’d gone on shooting rampages. Being a government employee didn’t necessarily mean you weren’t a threat.
We waited in line for ten minutes before reaching the pile of rectangular plastic tubs stacked near the belt for the X-ray machine. A young woman in front of me grabbed one of the small jewelry bowls, lifted her tank top, and yanked a silver ring out of her belly button. She dropped the ring into the bowl, set it down on the table, then reached up higher under her top, lifting her bra and wriggling loose a nipple ring. If she put her hand down her pants next, I was changing lines. Fortunately, she seemed to be metal free now and moved forward.
Eddie and I grabbed several tubs, lined them up on the aluminum table, and began preparing for the elaborate screening process. While Eddie unbuckled his belt and slid out of his loafers, I removed my earrings and shoes and stuck them in a tub. My blazer and cell phone went into a second tub.
Ugh. Time to deal with the fifteen-pound portable storage unit I called a purse. I really needed to clean the darn thing out. Carrying the heavy thing around made my shoulder and back ache.
I plopped my purse down on the table and began to sort through the mishmash inside, removing the items that would require special screening. A tiny tube of toothpaste. A small bottle of liquid hand sanitizer. My nephew’s metal orthodontic retainer. How the hell did that end up in my purse? I hadn’t seen him in weeks. His teeth must be all out of whack by now.
As I pulled my small zippered makeup pouch from the bag, the leather wallet holding my badge fell to the floor. I picked it up and slipped it into the front pocket of my pants so I could continue to empty my purse. Would they want me to remove my solar-powered calculator? It seemed harmless enough, but it did have a battery. Hmm. Better to err on the side of caution. Into the tub it went.
I continued to rummage in the purse, my hand wrapping itself around something long and cylindrical shaped and made of latex.
Oh, crap! The vibrators!
I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I take them out and put them in a tub? God, that would be so embarrassing! But it would be even more embarrassing to have them discovered by the security screeners.
I looked around for a trash can, hoping I could discreetly ditch the contraptions. No such luck. The closest trash can was way back by the guy checking IDs and tickets.
I decided to leave them in my purse and hope for the best.
Eddie and I glanced around as we inched forward toward the metal detection machines. Still no sign of Beauregard. Maybe he’d decided to forego his vacation and cashed in his ticket. Maybe we were squandering our time here. I decided if Beau didn’t show I’d buy a pretzel at the place by the gates for dinner. Wouldn’t want the trip out here to be a total waste, and they smelled damn good.
A man two people ahead of me was pulled aside for further screening. The TSA agent ran a wand up and down his legs, torso, and arms before deeming him worthy of air travel.
I glanced over at the X-ray machine. My purse had made it down the belt and through the screening process. It was sitting on the other side of the machine, waiting for me to pick it up.
What a relief.
The woman in the tank top went right through the metal detector, no problems. I waited for the agent to wave me forward and stepped through the device, expecting smooth sailing, too.
No such luck.
Beep.
“Maybe it’s your nipple ring,” Eddie teased from behind me.
Had I worn an underwire bra today? I put my hands to my rib cage. Nope, no wire. But I did realize then I was still wearing a silver bangle bracelet.
I pulled the bracelet off and handed it to the attendant. “Sorry.”
She gave me an irritated look as she took the bracelet from me. Sheesh. Cut me some slack, will ya? I didn’t travel much. Besides, the rules seemed to constantly change. Quart bags? Four ounces? Two ounces? The regulations for air travel were nearly as complicated as the Internal Revenue Code. Who could keep up?
A commotion at the X-ray machine caught my eye. A tub had come through after my purse had slammed against it. The impact had apparently activated the vibrator’s jackhammer button. My purse gyrated back and forth on the table. A male security screener lifted my purse off the table and began to sift through the contents.
Damn!
“Ma’am!” the woman manning the metal detector demanded. “I told you to step forward.”
“Sorry.” I felt the heat of humiliation burn my face as I turned back to her. “I was distracted.”
I took a step back then moved forward again.
Beep.
What the heck?
The man with the wand motioned for me to step his way. Just as I did, Richard Beauregard sauntered by in the terminal ahead.
The guy had evaded us twice before. There was no way I’d let him get away this time.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Beauregard!” I shouted.
On hearing his name, Beau turned toward me. When his gaze met mine, I saw his lips form the words, Oh, shit!
He turned back in the direction he’d been headed and took off running. I took off running after him. The distance between us quickly increased. Not only did he have much longer legs than I did; he also had the benefit of rubber-soled shoes. The only things I had on my feet were a thin pair of trouser socks that not only failed to provide traction but were actually quite slippery.
I heard a whistle blow behind me and felt someone shove my shoulders. The next thing I knew, I was flying through the air. But what goes up must come down, right? And I did. Hard. I made a full-on face-plant on the unforgiving tile floor.
Smack!
My teeth snapped shut and my chin felt as if it shattered. Damn, that hurt! The impact split my lip, too. And what was the hard, sharp thing in my mouth? Was that a tooth fragment?
Oh!
My!
God!
My teeth would be all out of whack right along with my nephew’s. And while Nick’s slightly chipped tooth made him all the more sexy, I knew it would never have the same effect on me.
An enormous knee threatened to snap my spine and held me pinned to the floor while my hands were yanked up behind me by a person I couldn’t see. The impact of the fall had knocked the wind out of me and the pressure from the knee kept me from taking in en
ough air to voice a protest. As handcuffs were slapped on my wrists, I turned my head to the side to see Eddie dash past me, pursuing Beauregard.
As soon as the person who’d cuffed my wrists climbed off me, I rolled onto my back. I kicked my legs, trying to gain some leverage so I could sit. “Release me right now! I’m a fed—”
Psssh.
I never got to finish my sentence. Instead, I got a faceful of pepper spray and a swift kick in the thigh. Damn, that burned! It was like the tear gas all over again. And shit! The spray made my split lip feel like it was on fire.
How the hell did this happen? Hadn’t the airport police informed the screeners that Eddie and I were on location?
Lest I be beaten to death, I lay still on the floor, hoping that whatever germs had traveled through the airport on people’s shoes weren’t crawling into my ear canal with plans to eat my brain.
I heard shouting and several pairs of feet run past me. I hoped Eddie wouldn’t suffer my same fate. And I hoped he’d nabbed Beauregard. If that moron escaped again, Lu would probably make us turn in our badges.
My badge! I’d slipped it into the front pocket of my pants when I’d been clearing out my purse. That’s what had set off the metal detector.
Ugh. Maybe Beau wasn’t the moron. Maybe I was.
chapter thirty
Princess Charming
A half hour later we sat in the office of airport police. My cuffs had been removed, though I had yet to receive an apology for my rough treatment. Clearly the 240-pound TSA officer who’d manhandled me felt justified in his actions. I just as clearly thought I should be given a crack at his balls to even the score.
Eddie didn’t have a scratch on him. Once he’d cleared Security, he’d rushed past me and grabbed Beauregard when he tripped over a rolling carry-on bag being pulled behind a flight attendant. All Eddie’d had to do was cuff him. Lucky duck. Why couldn’t things ever go that easily for me?
My purse, blazer, shoes, calculator, and sex toys had been brought to me along with my nephew’s retainer, though my jewelry had disappeared. My tooth fragment was also nowhere to be found. I feared I’d swallowed it during the aftermath of the TSA agent decorating my face with pepper spray. I’d probably be the first person in the history of the world to bite herself in the ass. Then again, with my luck, the thing was probably lodged in my gallbladder or appendix and would require emergency surgery.
