by Diane Kelly
Although I was glad to have inspired this woman’s freestyle flow, I had a job to get done and no time to dally in sonnets or iambic pentameter. “So, yeah,” I said. “That poem was inspiring and all, but can you be more specific about Horst’s whereabouts?”
She hiked a thumb, indicating I should continue the way I’d been headed. “Professor Horst is in class now. Three doors down. Room Two-Seventeen.”
chapter thirty-five
You’ve Been Schooled
I walked down the hall to room 217, stopping to peek through the vertical pane of glass in the door. At the front of the class stood a man with wild salt-and-pepper hair, gesticulating flamboyantly and ranting loudly about the tyranny of big government.
I quietly opened the door and slipped inside.
There were only ten or so students in the class. Rather than sitting in neat rows, the students had arranged their desks at haphazard angles, apparently placing them wherever they chose. One student had turned his desk sideways so that he faced the window. Another student was asleep in his seat, his face slack against the fake wood fold-down desktop, a string of viscous drool hanging from his open mouth. A third student, this one a girl, had totally foregone a desk and was lying on her back on the floor, her legs stretched up the wall, earbuds in her ears.
Professor Horst stopped ranting as I entered. “What are you doing in my classroom?” he demanded, sounding quite like the tyrants he’d been condemning only seconds before. “Are you a student?”
I ignored the second question, figuring I’d wait until class was complete before approaching Horst about his overdue tax returns and payments. No sense tipping my hand now. As for the first question, wasn’t it ironic for him to be asking? Excluding me from the class would go against everything he was ranting about, wouldn’t it?
The students all turned to look at me. Well, other than the drooling guy, that is. He just continued to sleep and produce mucus.
“This is a class on anarchy, right?” I said, letting a student-like hint of sarcasm sneak into my voice. “I’m here to learn about anarchy.”
I continued on, walking with self-assurance. I’d learned long ago that if you act like you have the right to do something, few will question your actions. I snagged an empty desk at the back of the room and plunked myself down. As expected, no one questioned me further.
I looked around as Professor Horst resumed his ranting and gesticulating.
A quote attributed to Mahatma Gandhi was written on the chalkboard. The ideally non-violent state will be an ordered anarchy. That State is the best governed which is governed the least.
Gandhi advocated anarchy? Huh, I never knew that. Looked like I had learned something from going back to college. I had to admit the quote surprised me, though. It seemed pretty radical for a guy who went around wearing a bedsheet like a diaper.
The class wrapped up at thirty-seven minutes after the hour. A random time but, hey, anarchy.
The students streamed out into the hallway. Well, all but the sleeping guy, that is. He continued to doze on at his desk. I stepped out with the students, waiting by the door for Professor Horst. Unfortunately, when he walked out he was talking on his cell phone, arguing with his ex-wife about who was legally obligated to pay for their teenage son’s six-hundred-dollar speeding ticket.
“What do you mean I encourage this type of behavior?” Horst barked. “Need I remind you that you’re the one who took him to get his driver’s license!”
I followed Horst down a set of stairs and out onto the quad. He continued arguing with his ex, eventually saying, “Fine. We’ll split the cost.” He snapped his phone shut and muttered “bitch” under his breath.
By this time, we’d nearly reached the fountain at the edge of campus.
“Professor Horst!” I called. “Wait a minute!”
The man stopped, turned, and shot me an irritated look. “What do you want?” he spat. “Besides a free lesson in government.”
I pulled my badge from my purse and flashed it at him. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS. You’re under arrest for willful tax evasion. I need you to come with me.”
“As if,” he said, sounding like the eighteen-year-old students in his class. He turned and took off running. He was remarkably fast. Either he jogged on a regular basis or he had experience running from law enforcement.
I took off after him. When he neared the fountain, he was forced to turn to avoid colliding with a large group of students. I ran around the fountain from the other direction, hoping to head him off. When he saw me coming around the other side, he reversed course. For several seconds, the two of us played a ridiculous game of cat and mouse, each of us running first one way, then the other, around the fountain.
A chubby campus police officer on a golf cart saw the commotion and headed over at full speed, which was approximately three miles an hour. He braked to a stop. “Are you the IRS agent?” he called out to me.
“Yes!” I shouted. “Horst is resisting arrest!”
“I’m not resisting!” Horst hollered. “How can I be resisting you when you aren’t even touching me?”
By this time, a large group of students had noticed the cop arrive and gathered around to watch the antics taking place. Fortunately for me, the crowd served as an effective fence, preventing Horst from escaping.
The officer joined in my chase, though he stayed in his golf cart, driving forward and back in the tiny vehicle like a dog herding a maverick steer. Eventually I was able to grab Horst in a bear hug from behind.
He wrapped his fingers around my wrists and tried to wrench my hands off him. “Now I’m resisting arrest!”
We wrangled next to the fountain for several seconds before Horst lost his balance and toppled over sideways into the water, taking me with him.
Splash!
Damn. I’d expected this case to be a slam dunk. Instead, it was just a dunk.
Both of us came up sputtering.
Horst hoisted himself over the side and back to the pavement. The campus cop was waiting for him, Taser at the ready.
Zzzap!
The taser delivered fifty thousand volts of electricity into Horst. His wet clothing no doubt aided in effective conductivity of the electrical charge. Horst stood, rigidly convulsing for a few seconds like a monster being animated in one of those cheesy old horror flicks. When the cop released the charge, Horst crumpled to the ground.
I pulled myself out of the fountain, scooping up a handful of coins as I did so, aiming for the quarters. After this debacle, I deserved a cherry limeade from Sonic. Hey, I’d earned it.
As I shoved the coins into the pocket of my jacket, a student nearby raised his fist in the air and shouted, “Surf’s up!”
The next thing we knew, students were throwing themselves into the fountain, laughing and shouting and splashing. The cop blew his whistle but still didn’t stand from his golf cart. The kids ignored him and continued their romp.
The poetry professor walked by, took one look at my wet, dripping clothing, and improvised a verse on the spot. “The droplets sparkle with prisms of color, millions of tiny rainbows, bringing beauty to us all.”
A half hour later, Horst had been hauled off to jail by a marshal and I was dressed in an oversized pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved Dallas County Community College T-shirt I’d purchased at the campus bookstore. Though I’d ditched my hopelessly soaked padded bra in a trash can, I’d been able to dry my Monday panties under the air dryer in the ladies’ room, so at least I wasn’t forced to go full-on commando.
A barrage of thoughts assaulted my mind as I headed back to my car.
How angry was Nick? Should I try to talk to him again before I spoke with Brett? How would Brett react when I gave him the news?
How fast had Horst’s son been driving to get a six-hundred-dollar speeding ticket? Sheesh!
Could that orange speck on Nasser’s treadmill have been the remains of a price sticker from Strike-it-Rich Pawn?
chapte
r thirty-six
Roses Are Red. So Is Blood.
Brett’s flight wouldn’t arrive until eight o’clock. By the time he had claimed his bags, retrieved his car from the long-term parking lot, and driven home, it would be nine thirty or so. In other words, no need for me to rush home.
I stopped at a Sonic and ordered an extra-large cherry limeade. It wasn’t nearly as good as the peach sangria I’d become addicted to, but it wasn’t a bad substitute and would pose no risk of a DUI conviction.
I handed the carhop all of the coins I’d collected from the fountain at the college. “Keep the change.”
Her face lit up when she glanced down at the heavy pile in her hand and realized her tip would be at least three dollars.
I sat in the stall for a moment, sipping my drink and using my phone to log onto the Internet. Once I was connected to the Web, I accessed the MSB registrations and searched for one in the name of Strike-it-Rich Pawn.
I shook my head, chastising myself. Shame on me. It was ridiculous to think a sweet grandmother like Margie Bainbridge could be involved in a terror plot. Right?
Then again, I’d been up to my eyeballs in crazies for the past two weeks. Hell, I hardly knew what normal behavior was anymore.
The circle at the top of the screen spun while the phone accessed the data. After a few seconds it stopped spinning and displayed the information I’d sought.
There was no current registration listed.
I experienced an odd feeling then, part frustration, part relief. I’d been hoping this could be a lead in the case. At the same time, I’d hate for the information to lead me to a seemingly nice person like Margie. I liked my bad guys to be, well, bad.
To make sure I’d done a thorough job, I tried several variations of spelling for Strike-it-Rich Pawn, leaving out the hyphens, spelling it as one word, removing “Pawn” afterward.
Still nothing.
Hmm. If the store only made short-term pawn loans and didn’t transmit funds, engage in significant cash-for-gold transactions, or sell money orders, traveler’s checks, or stored-value cards, it would need only a state license and wouldn’t have to be registered with the Treasury Department. Given that there was no current registration, maybe the store did none of those things and I was barking up the wrong tree here.
Then again, Margie had seemed overwhelmed by record keeping at the store and was far from computer savvy. It was possible she’d failed to register as required or perhaps had inadvertently let the store’s registration lapse.
I searched the records for lapsed registrations, holding my breath as the data processed. The circle spun again for a moment or two before the information flashed up on the screen.
Bingo.
Strike-it-Rich had been registered decades ago by Margie’s husband, Ronald Bainbridge, and had maintained its registration until last year, when no renewal had been received. Because her husband had registered electronically, any renewal notice would have been sent to the e-mail address on file. Margie probably didn’t have access to her husband’s e-mail account and therefore would not have received the notice. Or even if she did have access to his e-mail account, she probably hadn’t bothered to check it since he’d run off with the floozy.
I was beginning to feel that little buzz of anticipation, the one that said maybe I was on to something here. I tried not to pay too much attention to it. Just because the pawnshop had been registered as a money transmitter at one time didn’t mean it had continued to provide money transmission services. Heck, it was doubtful Margie would even be able to handle a wire transfer. The transactions could be complicated. Besides, even if the place had continued to wire funds, it didn’t necessarily mean she’d helped Algafari, Nasser, and Homsi move their money. Still, it couldn’t hurt to check things out. Like I said before, leave no stone unturned, even if Lu had ordered me to stop overturning stones. She couldn’t very well complain if I continued the investigation on my own time, though, could she?
I dialed Eddie’s cell phone to let him know of my plans. The phone rang several times and, when Eddie didn’t pick up, put me into voice mail. I couldn’t blame him for not answering. It was Friday night, after work hours, and he was probably enjoying some long overdue family time with his wife and daughters.
“Yo, bro,” I said. “I know this is a total long shot, but I noticed an orange sticker on Nasser’s treadmill yesterday. I went gun shopping at a place called Strike-it-Rich Pawn a few days ago and they use orange price stickers. They carry a lot of used exercise equipment. They were also previously registered as a money transmitter, but their license lapsed a while back. Anyway, I’ll call you later tonight, let you know what I find out.”
I dropped my phone into my purse, backed out of the stall, and set out to Strike-it-Rich.
* * *
Other than Margie’s ancient station wagon, the only car in the Strike-it-Rich lot was a Jeep Grand Cherokee outfitted with headlamps and gun racks, obviously a hunter’s vehicle. I parked near the door of the shop and stepped inside, once again greeted by the scent of roses from the bowl of dusty potpourri by the door.
I made my way past the guitars and televisions and treadmills to the back of the store, where Margie was assisting a customer with a Smith &Wesson rifle. She looked up and offered a smile when she saw me approach the counter. “Be with you in just a bit.”
While I waited, I looked around. I noticed the official Major League Baseball bat signed by Josh Hamilton was still available.
I clutched the manila file folder to my chest and eyed the space around the cash register, looking for a sticker or placard indicating the shop provided wire transfer services. I saw colorful stickers affixed to the register, indicating the store accepted Visa, MasterCard, and American Express.
And I also saw one in brown and yellow.
Western Union.
That little buzz I’d been feeling increased from one errant bee to an entire swarm. Could this seemingly innocuous store be the place where Algafari, Nasser, and Homsi had wired their funds to the terror groups abroad? Had the seemingly sweet grandmother behind the counter played a role in the deaths of thousands of people, including children?
The customer stood at the counter for a moment, his fingers rubbing his chin as he considered the Smith & Wesson. Finally, he stepped back. “Let me sleep on it.”
“Okay,” Margie said, “but you know what they say. If you snooze, you lose.” She gave him a smile to let him know her words were intended primarily in jest, not as a high-pressure sales tactic.
Margie returned the gun to the case as the man left the store. She pulled the stretchy coiled key ring from her wrist and used it to lock the case back up.
“Hi, there,” she said as she made her way toward me. She was wearing her pink plastic reading glasses again, and again they kept sliding down her nose. She put a finger to them and pushed them back into place. “You’re the gal who bought the Cobra, right? Back for something else? I’ll make you a great deal.”
“Actually,” I said, setting the file down on the counter, “I’m here on official IRS business this time.”
“Uh-oh.” Margie tilted her head. “Is there some kind of tax problem? I’m not sure how much help I’d be with that. I turn everything over to my CPA.”
I narrowed my eyes at her as if trying to see into her soul, determine whether this woman was a bloodthirsty, evil bitch. But, God help me, I just didn’t see it.
She stared back at me with friendly, innocent eyes, blinking as she waited for me to respond.
“I’m not here about a tax problem per se,” I said. “It’s about your money services business registration.”
“My money business … my … what was that you said, dear?”
The woman seemed to have no idea what I was talking about.
I pointed to the Western Union logo. “I see you offer wire transfer services here.”
She nodded. “We do. Have for years. Not many takers anymore, though. With online banking it�
�s easy for people to transfer funds themselves these days.”
“Did you realize that your business is supposed to be registered with the Treasury Department? That the registration for Strike-it-Rich lapsed last year?”
She looked taken aback and instinctively put a hand to her chest. “I had no idea. My husband always took care of those things.” Her brows drew together and she began to look worried. “I always read through the mail. I know I sent in the forms to register our shop with the state, but I don’t recall receiving any forms from the Treasury Department. I suppose it’s possible I could have missed them somehow.”
“Your husband registered electronically in the past,” I told her. “The renewal notice would have been sent to his e-mail address.”
Now the woman appeared equal parts worried and angry. “That darn man. He’s caused me no end of grief, running out on me like he did, leaving me to try to run this shop on my own. Now I’m the one left holding the bag, aren’t I?”
I held up a palm, hoping to calm her. “The registration can be sorted out,” I said, “but what I really need to know is whether you recognize any of these men.”
I removed the photos of Algafari, Nasser, and Homsi from the file and laid them on the glass countertop.
Margie pushed her glasses back again and looked down at the photos. “Well, sure,” she said, picking up Nasser’s photo. “I know this man.”
My heart began to pound in my chest, so loud I could barely hear. I felt warm as the increased blood supply raced through my veins. “You do?”
“If I recall correctly, his name’s Nassau. No, wait. That’s the place in the Bahamas, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s something that sounds like ‘Nassau.’ Nasher, maybe? At any rate, he’s come in here several times. He’s one of the few people I mentioned who have used our Western Union service.” She set the photo back down on the glass. “Nice man. Did you know his family runs an orphanage overseas? He’s sent thousands of dollars over to help out, sometimes fifteen or twenty thousand at a time. Isn’t it wonderful? He’s like that man, what’s his name, the Three Cups of Cocoa guy who started the schools for girls?”
