“Tapping my phone? You mean like listening to my calls?”
“Or tracking your location...retrieving your voice mails. Things like that.”
She took my phone and rubbed her finger along the back. “Your battery is really hot, which it shouldn’t be, because you haven’t been using it. Plus, I powered it down last night because it rang a couple of times and I figured you’d want those to go to voice mail. But then it turned itself back on. I noticed the backlight kept coming on and it would stay on for several minutes. That happens sometimes with a software download, but not ten times in one night. It was like someone was using it and if it wasn’t you…”
I couldn’t imagine anyone would find my phone messages interesting enough to hack. “That is weird. My life’s about as exciting as the US tax code. It had to have been software upgrades.”
“Just thought I’d mention it.”
“I appreciate it. And I really appreciate you finding it and bringing it back.”
I hugged her again, and when she was gone, sat down to savor my messages. I had missed Mari’s offer to stop by on her way home last night, but it would have been right in the middle of the chaos so it was probably for the best. I was especially touched by her message from earlier this morning, in which she wondered if I was okay and even raised the fear that I might be mad at her for something. I’d entertained those same doubts about her before realizing I’d lost my phone.
She answered on the first ring. “There you are! I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost my number.”
“No, just my phone.” I told her all about my misadventures from the day before—the fuel pump, the repair bill, the fire and the phone. “But today’s a new day and it’s off to a great start already. Except Rosa, our IT person, says there’s something weird going on with my phone. They must be doing upgrades or something.”
“What do you mean weird?”
I told her about the battery heating up and the backlights coming on when I wasn’t using it.
“Mine’s been doing the same thing lately, so it must be like you said, software upgrades.”
“Do I get to see you tonight?”
“I’d say that all depends on whether or not you can get the blindfold off.”
***
I pulled into the garage of the Plaza at Brickell, embarrassed at driving my ancient Sally among the residents’ expensive cars. Mari would say that’s my hang-up, and that no one cares what I drive as long as I drive it fast enough. Then she’d encourage me to trade it in on something new that would last me through a bankruptcy.
To my great annoyance, a car was already parked next to Mari’s Porsche in her guest space, a silver Mercedes SLK. Mari had warned me about this. Some visitors park wherever they want, she said, knowing full well a tow truck can’t navigate the sharp turns and concrete pillars. I managed to find an unmarked visitor space at the far end of the garage, and resisted the urge to accidentally write something obscene in lipstick on the windshield of the SLK.
As I rode the elevator to the forty-ninth floor, I thought about Mari’s exercise regimen of climbing these stairs three times a week. I’d almost passed out last night climbing a third as high, but then I’d been carrying a fifteen-pound sack of purring fur. After feeling firsthand what stair climbing had done for Mari’s butt muscles, there was no denying its merits and I was tempted to make it part of my routine.
Since I hadn’t seen Mari last night, I was ready to jump her bones the second she opened the door. Instead she met me in the hallway, pulling the door behind her so it was open only a crack.
“I have company...Delores is here.”
Not something I wanted to hear. Ever.
“She stopped by out of the blue. I kind of had a feeling she would because I haven’t returned any of her calls.”
Didn’t want to hear that either, since it meant Mari had practically baited her into showing up instead of just calling her back and telling her to piss up a rope.
“What does she want?” I distinctly remembered her saying one of her friends from the Wallcast thought Delores wanted to go out with her again.
“Just to talk, she says. Apparently she got a conscience all of a sudden and feels bad about what she did.”
I felt bad about what she was doing now, and regretted my restraint with the lipstick. “I should go then.”
“I’m sorry, Daphne, but I need to get this over with so she’ll leave me alone.” She had the decency to look as though she felt guilty. “I asked her to walk over to Truluck’s for dinner because I don’t want her here. I promise I’ll tell her not to come back again.”
“You don’t have to promise me anything. We’re all adults.” The words were mature but the tone left a lot to be desired. I was irritated and not very good at hiding it. Especially since she’d apparently made dinner plans with Delores without even asking me if she could break our date. Surely it had occurred to her that pulling me into the room and dipping me for a passionate kiss would send Delores an unmistakable message to get lost.
Unless that wasn’t the message she wanted to send.
Until now, I’d never realized I had a jealous streak. Emily’s tryst had left me so hurt and angry that I never even considered trying to win her back. But Mari…I wanted Mari. I didn’t want her wrestling with nostalgic memories of nights she’d shared with Delores, or second-guessing how easily she’d given up their dreams when she dumped all her junk on the Jet Ski.
“Look, Daphne. I haven’t even spoken to her once since I kicked her out. There could be a lot at stake for me here. I know for a fact she downloaded files on at least a dozen of my clients, and if we can just have one civil conversation, I might be able to convince her to come clean. I feel like it’s my only chance. I have to try.”
Either it was true or she was the best actor in the world, because her plaintive voice left me no choice but to believe her. That didn’t mean I had to like it.
“Fine,” I grunted. “I’m sure I can find something else to do tonight.”
“Please don’t be mad.” She tugged both of my wrists until I was in a full embrace. “I thought I made it pretty clear the other night that I’m crazy about you.”
No fair. “Can I help it if I want you to prove it every night?”
She covered my pouty lips with her smug ones and pressed her hips into mine. Funny how arousal trumps irritation. Every time.
“Do you want me to call you later?” she asked when we came up for air.
I could show a little understanding given the circumstances, but I was too proud to let her think I’d be waiting by the phone all night. “No, that’s all right. I’d rather have you on a night when I can get your undivided attention.”
“I promise to give it to you.”
She kissed me again and I left feeling like I’d made the best of a bad situation. I even managed to walk past the SLK without kicking out one of the headlights.
By the time I reached my building my mood had mildly improved. The sight of Edith’s caved-in front bumper cracked me up as I pulled into my marked space. It wasn’t until I got out that I noticed the vehicle next to hers—a black Chevy Suburban like the one I’d been seeing all over Miami. Paranoia or not, that was an incredible coincidence.
A woman’s hand caught the elevator door as it started to close, a strong hand with a sure grip. The rest of her looked equally confident—obviously Hispanic, tall and straight with smart black slacks, a crisp blue shirt and a gray blazer—the whole of which set off my gaydar like a four-alarm fire. The moment I realized that, I recalled where I’d seen her before…at LIV, where she’d been watching Mari and me dance, and where she’d gotten into the black SUV.
My floor was already lit up and she pressed sixteen, which had me wracking my brain to figure out which one of my neighbors up there entertained lesbian friends at night.
But then she got off when I did and all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“Daphne Maddox?”
&n
bsp; “Who’s asking?”
She unbuttoned her blazer—revealing a badge and gun that were clipped to her waist. “Special Agent Elena Diaz, of the United States Internal Revenue Service.”
Chapter Seventeen
Emily Jenko was behind this. I’d bet a whole paycheck on it.
I took every imaginable tax deduction allowed but I could justify each one and I’d even saved the damn receipts! I had to, because my father was a CPA and he’d done my taxes since I was sixteen, when I’d started working summers at the recreation center. I didn’t have any income other than my salary at the foundation, though Dad had gifted me the maximum contribution to a Roth IRA for the last few years. That couldn’t have been illegal or he wouldn’t have done it.
“May I come in?”
“What’s this about?”
“I’d rather talk inside if you don’t mind.”
It wasn’t as if I had a whole lot of choice. Screwing around with the IRS is in the same category of Stupid as joking about a bomb in your underpants on your way through airport security.
That didn’t mean I had to fix her tea. I closed the door and stood my ground in the entryway. “Okay, now tell me what this is about.”
It’s pretty hard to intimidate someone who’s carrying a gun. She walked right past me into the living room, looking around as if she intended to buy the place.
Not that I have anything against selling.
“How well do you know Maribel Tirado León?”
Color me shocked. “Why do you ask?”
She continued to look around, never once making eye contact. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
Cooperate with the IRS…cooperate with the IRS…cooperate with the IRS.
I was tempted to fill the glass directly from the tap because Miami water was absolutely undrinkable, but hearing my father’s mantra in my head, I fetched a bottle from the refrigerator. “Mari Tirado is a personal friend.”
“Does she manage any of your personal investments?”
“If she did, wouldn’t you already know that?” Cooperate with the IRS. “I don’t really make enough to invest in the market…other than a small Roth IRA.”
“Has she given you any gifts of significant value?” Her tone was deceptively casual, as though her interest was only curiosity, not investigative.
I knew better. “No.”
“You recently applied for federal mortgage relief. Your home is very nice, by the way.”
My refinance package! That’s what this was about. No, why would she be asking about Mari?
“What does my mortgage have to do with anything? Why are you here?” I’d cooperated so far, and it was high time she answered a question or two. “Are you allowed to come into my house and just ask me all these questions? Don’t you need a warrant or something?”
I wanted to swallow my whole head when she pulled a folded blue document from inside her jacket.
“I have one, an arrest warrant issued this afternoon by the US District Court. But I’d rather not have to execute it, Ms. Maddox. It might be possible for me to clear this up without taking you into custody and that would certainly be my preference. I assume it would be yours as well.”
My mouth was quite dry, which made it difficult to gulp. I was hers and she knew it. “Yes, I applied to refinance, but that was over a year ago. Every time I call, they tell me it’s still being processed. I finally heard from somebody today, but she just wanted to verify the information.”
She stood there nodding along, which made it seem like she wanted to hear more, so I gave her the B-version of how I’d gotten over my head with the mortgage. The A-version, which I share only with people I know well, includes the part about Emily being a deadbeat cheat, but I saw no reason to communicate my personal woes to the IRS.
“According to the bank’s latest filings with the Treasury Department, your package has been expedited by Banco Primero. It seems they’ve approved not only a reduced interest rate, but thanks to a special provision of the TARP funds, they’ve forgiven more than a hundred thousand dollars off the principal. Was that something you expected?”
If I’d heard her correctly, it was raining Glory Hallelujahs. “I remember checking the box on the application to request a reassessment, but from what I’ve been reading, they don’t usually do that for people who have full-time jobs and keep up with their payments.” I’d looked for every loophole I could find to qualify for assistance, but nothing I’d said or done had been illegal. “I still don’t see why you’re—”
“Did you ask anyone for assistance in negotiating these new terms?”
I didn’t know for sure that Juan had intervened on my behalf, so I didn’t want to say anything that might get him in trouble.
“I got help last year from one of the banks I work with to fill out the forms.” I described my job as a volunteer coordinator, and how it brought me into contact with several banks in Miami. “But I haven’t been to see anyone else since I sent them in. Did I do something wrong?”
I suddenly realized we’d both sat down at my dining table.
“Are you saying you weren’t aware of actions by anyone advocating for new terms?”
“No.”
“Did you ever mention your mortgage situation to Maribel Tirado?”
Why did she keep coming back to Mari? I felt like I was marching deeper and deeper into some sort of trap she would spring the second I admitted something, and I had no idea what she was fishing for. However, I’d seen enough TV shows to know I should stop helping her hang me. “What exactly does your warrant allege that I did?”
She unfolded the document and spun it around on the table so I could see it. With a hand that sported an enormous class ring from Georgetown, she pointed to a line just below my name.
“Conspiracy to commit securities fraud? What does that even mean?” I’d already told her I didn’t have any investments.
“The moment your mortgage terms were submitted to the US Treasury for approval, you became the beneficiary of a suspected criminal enterprise involving securities fraud.”
“But all I did was—” Never the brightest bulb in the pack when it came to finances, I tried putting the pieces together. “I don’t get what any of this has to do with Mari Tirado. I didn’t even know her when I filled out those refinance papers.”
Up until that point, the agent had been all business, showing no discernible emotion, but the look on her face now was almost apologetic, like she really hated having to break bad news. “We have reason to believe she and her uncle, Marco Padilla, facilitated your recent mortgage action.”
So that was it. Mari talked to Pepe, and Pepe talked to Juan. Suddenly my application got transferred to Banco Primero.
“I don’t know anything about that.” Actually, I know what everyone else knows, that peddling influence is the Cuban way of doing business. Everyone on the outside grouses about the ethics of their favoritism, but the IRS does more than grouse. Apparently it’s illegal when it involves Treasury funds. I’d had a few dreamy thoughts of spending the rest of my life with Mari, but not behind bars. “Look, Agent…”
“Diaz.”
“Agent Diaz, I don’t have any idea what’s going on, but I can promise you I haven’t done anything wrong, and I haven’t asked anyone else to do it for me. I talked to Mari a long time ago about how hard it was to make payments, but all she told me was to walk away from my loan, just to let the bank foreclose. I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. She might have asked around for information, but she never would have asked anyone to do something illegal.”
In fact, despite being part of a prominent, wealthy Cuban family, Mari had never struck me as the kind of person who would pull strings behind the scenes. I’d seen her business ethics up close with people like Saraphine and Michael, and the fact she didn’t press her friends for business made her one of the most principled money handlers I knew. There’s no way she’d use her influence like that, if she even had it to use
.
“You indicated earlier you didn’t have any investments other than your IRA. Are you aware Ms. Tirado’s firm has established an account in your name in the Cayman Islands, an account that holds over six million dollars?”
Holy Mother of Maddoff! “Why would they even…? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“We think they’re using you to hide profits from their investors.”
“No, there’s some mistake.” Mari wasn’t like that, and neither was Pepe. They were decent, hardworking people who appreciated American values.
“I’m sorry, Daphne. There’s no mistake. The account is registered in your name with this address, and they provided a photocopy of your passport, which they needed for the Cayman bank authorities. We assume they got that from your mortgage application.”
If it wasn’t a mistake…it meant Mari wasn’t in love with me. She was using me to hide assets from the IRS.
The realization crawled over me like the jaws of a python. I was torn between wanting to cry and wanting to throw furniture off the balcony. Instead I managed to keep my cool in front of the IRS agent so she wouldn’t know how humiliated I was.
“I have no knowledge of an account like that. If someone opened it in my name, it’s a fraud.”
She tucked the warrant back into her jacket and stood as if ready to leave. “I believe you. We were pretty sure you weren’t directly involved, but I needed to know for certain. I apologize for the heavy hand.”
How about an apology for the pounding in my head or the searing lump in the back of my throat?
“So what do I do now? Sign an affidavit or something that says the money isn’t mine?” I doubt she’d endorse what I had in mind, which was to go back over to Mari’s with Edith’s gun and wave it in her face until she peed in her pants.
The possibility of emptying that offshore account also had a lot of appeal.
Agent Diaz folded her arms and took a couple of measured steps toward the balcony. “I was hoping you’d be willing to do a bit more.”
“Like what?”
She dragged her chair around to my side of the table and sat facing me, her legs apart and her elbows on her knees. I used to strike that same pose knowing it would prompt my mother to yell at me to sit like a lady.
Playing With Fuego Page 16
