Death, Taxes, and a Shotgun Wedding

by Diane Kelly

  He held up his taco. “I should’ve known this food was a bribe.” He proceeded to implicitly accept my bribe by taking a big, crunchy bite.

  “You’re about to become codirector of Criminal Investigations,” I reminded him. “You should feel lucky you have an agent under you who works hard and is so dedicated to her job.”

  A wicked grin tugged at his lips. “Oh, I feel lucky to have you under me, all right, especially when you’re working hard.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I should file a sexual harassment complaint against you.”

  “You started it,” he said. “Coming in here, offering me your taco.”

  Sheesh.

  Having secured Nick’s promise of assistance, as well as endured his sexual innuendo, I took my tacos back to my office to eat while perusing the online rental listings. Five minutes in, I realized what a daunting task it would be. Given that Dallas was one of the largest metropolitan areas in the United States, including the sprawling suburbs, there were thousands of properties listed for rent. But I could narrow it down a little based on the scammer’s typical MO.

  First, the con artist never provided an address online, offering only the name of the neighborhood or area. Oak Cliff. Inwood. Ridgewood Park. He provided a specific address to the victims only after he scheduled their appointment, and he never scheduled the appointments far in advance. Most were within a mere day or two of his response, probably to keep the victim from having time to do research on the property. Given this practice, I knew not to respond to any listings that provided an address for the property.

  Second, the guy only rented properties in desirable areas. I bypassed all rentals in the sketchier parts of the city.

  Third, the rental rate would be below market for the area. Unfortunately, not being a real estate expert, I wasn’t familiar with the going rates in the various neighborhoods and could not immediately tell whether a rental price was exceptionally low. I decided to respond only to those listings that specifically mentioned that the rental price was a good deal. Although not all of the con artist’s ads had pointed out what a deal the tenants would be getting, many of them had.

  I crunched my way through a couple of tacos as I scrolled my way through the listings. An hour later, I had a salsa stain on my shirt. Mild salsa. Unlike Nick, I preferred not to set my insides on fire when I ate. But I’d also responded to fifteen rental ads using my alias Sara Galloway. Now, I just had to wait for the responses and hope that one of them would lead me to the con artist.

  chapter eleven

  Happily Never After

  I spent the first part of Tuesday afternoon working on my other cases.

  Detective Booth called at two-thirty. “I checked with the post office. They’ve sent me the footage from their security cameras. I’ll send you a link. Take a run through it. See if you recognize any people or vehicles.”

  “Will do.” With any luck, one of the cameras would have gotten a clear picture of the person who mailed the card to me and we could put this case to rest right away.

  “I also got a response from the profiler on your death threats.”

  “And?”

  “She can’t be sure given what little we have to go on, but she thinks the timing could be significant, that your upcoming wedding might have been what made whoever is after you come out of the woodwork now. The person targeting you may be trying to screw up your romantic relationship because you did the same to them.”

  So much for happily ever after. Whoever was after me might want me to live happily never after.

  Booth continued. “She also thinks the suspect is likely to be female.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because the suspect sent a card. How many men do you know who send greeting cards?”

  She had a point.

  “Men are more likely to vandalize property or ambush their targets. And if they’re going to contact a victim, they tend to use the phone or go online.”

  My mind instantly went back to the list of potential suspects I’d come up with last night. If what the profiler said was correct, the most likely candidates were Chelsea Gryder, Britney Shelton, Marissa Fischer, Fischer’s pole dancer girlfriend, or Chloe Aberdeen-Jennings. I supposed Amber Hansen, the parishioner who was raising Fischer’s love child, could also be a suspect, but I had my doubts. After we’d sent her anonymous photos of the pastor coming out of the pole dancer’s apartment, she’d gone on TV and spilled the beans about their relationship. She seemed more than happy to take the cheating creep down.

  I told Booth about these potential suspects, mentioning Marcos Mendoza as well. “He’s in prison. His wife lives in Mexico.”

  “Hmm. Let’s focus on the others, then. They seem to be the more likely suspects. Do any of them have a history of violence?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I said. “Chloe and I had a wrestling match in a vat of melted chocolate, but that was more of an impulse thing.” In other words, it was unlike a premeditated assault with a motor vehicle.

  “If you don’t find anything on the security tape,” she said, “let’s pay the four locals a visit. We’ve got nothing to lose. I’m swamped tomorrow, but how’s your Thursday morning look?”

  Though I had a heavy workload, I had no meetings or appointments scheduled for Thursday. “I’m open.”

  “Good.”

  We arranged to meet up then to visit the suspects and ended our call. I logged into my e-mail, pulled up the link Booth had sent, and clicked on the arrow to start the show. A date and time stamp in the bottom corner told me the recording had started at 5:03 on the date before the card had been postmarked.

  The footage began with a male postal employee emptying the contents of the outdoor mailbox. Three cars backed up in the lane as they waited for the man to finish loading the various-sized envelopes into a rolling canvas bag that was open on top. Unfortunately, the footage was recorded by a camera mounted on the building and the mailbox was positioned so that the passenger side of the vehicles faced the building as patrons drove through. This meant I would neither see the drivers’ faces as they rolled down their windows to drop their mail nor the particular piece of mail they placed in the bin. Ugh.

  When the postal worker was done unloading the mailbox, he stepped back next to it and positioned the bag so the waiting patrons could drop their outgoing mail into it. Once the three cars had moved on, the postal employee did the same, rolling the box toward the building and out of camera range.

  Presumably, anyone who mailed something from this point until the mailbox was emptied the final time the next day could potentially be the person who’d sent the death threat. My eyes remained glued to my screen for the next hour. It seemed to be feast or famine as far as the mail drop was concerned. No cars would appear for minutes at a time, allowing me to forward quickly through the footage. Then a line of cars would back up in the lane, several customers arriving in quick succession.

  I slowed the tape each time a vehicle pulled into the lane and gave the car a quick once-over to see if the vehicle struck a chord. A red BMW caught my eye, but that was because it was similar to my personal vehicle. Same with a truck that looked similar to Nick’s. The rest was a parade of sedans, coupes, minivans, SUVs, pickups, and motorcycles, with one guy wheeling through the mail-drop lane on a skateboard. None of them gave me pause. I tried to take a look at the drivers, too, but given the resolution of the footage, the frequent glare from the sun reflecting off the windshields, and the fact that most cars had tinted glass, it was difficult to see who was inside them. The first driver through had short dark hair, but the gender was impossible to determine. The second was a bushy-bearded man in sunglasses. Or was the beard actually a scarf instead? Hard to say. The third was either Big Bird or a woman with lots of feathered, golden-blond hair. Identifying the drivers appeared to be a hopeless pursuit.

  When the footage switched to the camera mounted over the mail drop in the lobby of the post office, I performed the same routine, slow
ing the video down as patrons approached the box, speeding it up when there was no action, such as in the wee hours of the night. Unfortunately, nobody who dropped mail in the box looked familiar and, as far as I could tell, the only one who’d dropped off a pink envelope was a blond woman about my age. She didn’t look familiar.

  The footage from the retail area was likewise unhelpful. A few people bought postage and three of them applied stamps to pink envelopes at the counter, handing the mail over to the clerk. But none raised my suspicions. The first was an elderly woman. The second was a teenaged girl. I knew neither of them. The third was a thirtyish woman who also mailed a couple of small packages. She paid for her postage with a traceable debit card. Whoever threatened me would likely have been smart enough to pay in cash to avoid leaving a paper trail.

  When I reached the end of the tape, I sighed in frustration and replied via e-mail to the detective. Thanks for sending the footage. Nothing stood out but I’ll run the license plates and see if that gets me anywhere. Of course I’d have to run the plates later. It was already after five and Nick had turned off the lights in his office and come to my door. “Ready to head out?”

  “Yep.” I logged out of my computer, gathered my things, and flipped the light switch off.

  After another workout at the Y, we aimed for his mother’s house, stopping for gas on the way. As Nick filled our tanks, I glanced around, keeping an eye out for would-be assassins. A silver coupe with tinted windows had pulled into the frozen yogurt shop on the other side of the divided, four-lane street. I’d been keeping a close eye on my side and rearview mirrors on the drive to the gas station, and I was pretty sure this was the same car that had been a few lengths behind us on the freeway. A little niggle in my mind told me this car might have been one I’d seen in the security-camera footage I’d watched earlier. Then again, like the white truck that had nearly run me down, two-door silver cars were quite common.

  As the digits on the pump counted up and the gasoline flowed through the hose, I continued to watch the car. Oddly, nobody climbed out of the vehicle after it parked. Looked like they might not truly be after a frozen treat, after all. Looked like they might be after me, instead.

  Uh-oh.

  I rolled down my passenger window to speak to Nick, the acrid odor of gasoline drifting in on the breeze. “Hey!” I called to get his attention. When he stepped up to the window, I said, “We might have a tail.” I discreetly gestured to the car across the road. “See that silver car?”

  He didn’t turn his head, but cut his eyes in that direction, trying to discern what he could in his peripheral vision. “Yeah. I see it.”

  “It pulled in a couple of minutes ago, but nobody has gotten out. It’s just sitting there.”

  “That’s odd. Glad you noticed.”

  “How should we handle this?” As much as I wanted to go over there and confront the person myself, why should I make myself such an easy target? As far as I was concerned, if someone wanted me dead, they should have to put in the effort to come after me.

  “Call 911,” Nick said. “Let’s get Dallas PD out here to question them.”

  “Good idea.” While he returned to the pump to finish the transaction, I whipped out my phone and spoke with dispatch. “I’m a federal agent,” I told the woman. “I’ve received multiple death threats and was nearly run down by a pickup. I’m virtually certain someone just tailed me to a gas station.” I provided her with the closest intersection so that the responding officer would be able to find us.

  “Got a make, model, and plate number for the car?” the dispatcher asked.

  “No, but I can get it.” I reached under my seat and pulled out the enormous field glasses my father had given me. They’d come in handy on several occasions. I held them to my eyes and peered at the car. Holy shit! I saw two pairs of binoculars looking right back at me. “Oh, my gosh!”

  “You okay?” the dispatcher asked.

  Before I could explain or catch the license-plate number, white reverse lights came on at the back of the vehicle and it rocketed out of the lot. With a screech of tires, it took off, turning left out of the far end of the parking lot and roaring out of sight.

  “They’re taking off!” I told the dispatcher the direction they’d headed in.

  “I’ll get an officer en route.”

  Nick stepped back up to the window. “Hurry!” I told him. “Get in!”

  Leaving his car at the other pump, he hopped into mine. I, too, screeched my tires as I took off after the silver coupe. Unfortunately, a red light caught me at the turn. I would’ve run it if not for the fact that there was another car in front of me and one blocking me in to the side. Swerving into the oncoming lanes to get around the cars would have been too risky.

  By the time I was able to turn a minute later, there was no sign of the silver coupe. We drove down the road for a couple of miles, passing a Dallas PD cruiser coming from the other direction. Evidently the female officer at the wheel hadn’t spotted the car, either. Dammit!

  We returned to the gas station, rounded up Nick’s truck, and headed to Bonnie’s place. He’d called ahead and she’d already backed her car into the street so that we could easily and quickly pull into her garage and out of sight.

  As I zipped into the driveway, I noticed a moving truck next door and a crew carrying furniture out of the house Nick and I planned to buy. I wonder if they’d let us move our stuff in early? I hadn’t yet made arrangements for a storage facility, and it would be much easier to move my furniture just one time rather than moving it into storage only to have to move it again a few weeks from now.

  When we came inside, we noticed that Bonnie had a pile of security items from Home Depot in the living room. Interior security bars for the windows. Bars for the doors that slid up under the door handles to prevent someone from opening them from the outside. Reflective window film that would allow those inside the house to see out, but would prevent anyone on the outside from seeing in. My gut twisted. She’d had to go through all of this trouble and expense because of me. I’d reimburse her every penny.

  Before I could raise the issue, Bonnie took one look at us and said, “You two look frazzled. What happened?”

  Nick and I exchanged glances, knowing we’d only worry her with the news. But while we didn’t want to upset her, we didn’t want to lie to her, either.

  “Someone followed us to a gas station,” I said. “When they realized we’d spotted them, they drove off. We called the police and looked for them ourselves, too, but we had no luck.”

  She closed her eyes as if in silent prayer before opening them again. “You’re both wearing your bulletproof vests, right?”

  “Yes.” Not that the vest would do much good if the people who were after me decided to go for a headshot. But no sense in pointing that fact out to Bonnie and making her worry more. “I noticed the neighbors are moving out next door. Think they’d let us move my furniture in this weekend?”

  “Let’s find out.” She picked up her phone and dialed. When the phone began to ring on the other end, she handed the receiver to me.

  “Hi,” I said when a woman answered. “It’s Tara Holloway.”

  “Hello, Tara,” the woman said. “How are you?”

  Nervous? Anxious? Wondering whether I’ll live until my wedding day? “Fine,” I lied. I was in no mood to rehash the worry gnawing at my gut. “How are you?”

  After exchanging pleasantries with the wife, I said, “We noticed you were already moving your things out.” I explained that I’d have to vacate my town house on short notice. “My Realtor thinks it will sell faster if it’s vacant.” And free of my bloodstains and gore. “Any chance Nick and I could move our furniture in this Saturday?” As long as my brothers were driving all this way, I figured we might as well move Nick’s stuff, too.

  “Of course!” the woman said. “Anything we can do to make things easier is fine with us. We’re tickled to death that Bonnie’s son will be moving in next door to her.
”

  Tickled to death. That might not be such a bad way to go. Unfortunately, I doubted tickling is what my would-be killers had in store for me.

  “Bonnie missed Nick terribly when he was stuck down in Mexico,” the woman added. “I can’t tell you how many times I peeked over the fence and saw her sitting on the rocking chair on her back porch with tears streaming down her face. Thank goodness he made it back. I heard you had something to do with that?”

  “I did what I could.” I’d smuggled a wrongly accused fugitive over the border without informing my boss about my plans. It was a good thing it had all worked out or I could have ended up in deep doo-doo—or, if I’d been apprehended south of the border, deep caca.

  The woman’s comments made me wonder, once again, whether Marcos Mendoza could be behind the threats. After all, it was my pursuit of the cold case that had led to his downfall. Or maybe he harbored fury at Nick and knew the best way to get to him was to threaten the thing Nick loved most. Me. That was an angle I hadn’t considered before. Hmm.

  “We were planning to have a cleaning service come out and give the place a thorough once-over before you two moved in,” she said. “I’ll get that scheduled right away. I’ll have the carpets shampooed, too.”

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “I hope the two of you have as much fun raising a family here as we did.”

  I hoped we would, too.

  An hour later, as Nick was installing the new security bars and I was helping Bonnie clean up the dinner dishes, Detective Booth called me. “The officers on patrol haven’t seen a silver coupe with two occupants in the vicinity of the yogurt shop. I ran out there myself to see if I could get anything from security tapes. A camera at the yogurt place picked up a license plate.”

  My spirits lifted and I reflexively stood taller. We have a plate number! We can get them now! It would be so nice to be able to relax again.