by Diane Kelly
“Thanks, Elena,” I said after she’d set my tea in front of me.
Once she’d gone, so did Benedetta’s smile. She resumed her tirade against the girls’ father. “Awful, horrible, disgusting stronzo!”
I wasn’t sure of the exact translation of that last word, but I could hazard a guess. “Do you think he could be still running his mob network from prison? I’ve heard he’s in jail in Chicago now. Maybe that cousin of his that you didn’t like has been helping him out.”
She bit her lip and slowly lifted her shoulders. “It’s possible,” she said. “That side of the family was no good. But last I heard they were trying to distance themselves from Tino. They don’t like snitches, and when one of them gets arrested, they’re treated like a snitch. They assume that whoever got picked up might turn on them. At the very least, the person who gets taken in makes the organization vulnerable. Mobsters don’t like feeling vulnerable.” She gave me a pointed look. “If you ask me, Tino’s days on earth are numbered. The guys in Chicago? They got other guys on the inside, ones who didn’t roll over, ones they still trust. They could have someone shank Tino in the shower. Uno, due, tre.” She picked up a knife in one hand and raised the other, snapping her fingers once, but unlike Trish LeGrande’s earlier snaps, this one was meant for emphasis and thus didn’t offend me.
Luisa ventured over to the table, apparently responding to the snap. “Did you need me, Mom?”
Rather than telling her daughter the real reason she’d snapped her fingers, Benedetta said, “Bring Tara and her friend a couple bottles of the new Lambrusco to take home with them.”
“Thanks,” I told her. “But I’m not allowed to accept anything of value from a taxpayer.”
She laughed. “How many free meals did you eat when you were working here?”
“Too many,” I said, laughing in return. “But that was different. I was undercover.”
“Do what she says, Ma,” Luisa said with a smile. “She has a gun.”
I nodded and smiled back. “You’re a smart girl.”
As Luisa topped off my tea glass, she noticed my hand. “You have a ring on your finger! You’re getting married? To Nico?”
Nico had been Nick’s alias. He and Josh had opened an art gallery in the same strip center as the restaurant so that they could keep a close eye on both me and Tino’s security business.
“Yep,” I said. “Nico and I are getting married in October.”
Benedetta clapped her hands three times in glee. “I’m so happy for you! Will the ceremony be here in Dallas?”
“No. We’re getting married in my hometown in east Texas. Nacogdoches.”
“Ah,” she said. “It’s beautiful there. So many trees.”
“Would you and the girls like to come?”
“Of course!” She tossed her hands in the air. “We’d love to!”
“And we’d love to have you.” I realized the party bus could be getting awfully crowded. We might have to arrange for a second bus to ensure everyone got a seat. “I’ll get an invitation in the mail to you.”
“Grazie,” she said. “I am so happy for you. I know your marriage will be much better than mine.” She rolled her eyes and waved her daughter away. “Bring them each a chocolate cannoli, too.” She turned to Booth. “It’s to die for.”
Given the recent threats on my life, I preferred to think of the cannoli as worth living for.
Our meals arrived and we dug in, topping the pasta off with the delicious chocolate cannoli.
When we returned to the cruiser, we both unbuttoned our pants to let our full stomachs have more room.
“You weren’t kidding about that food,” Booth said as she started the car. “It was delicious.”
chapter sixteen
House Hunting
Amber Hansen hadn’t returned Detective Booth’s call by the end of the workday. The property owners hadn’t returned my call, either. Darn. Looked like I’d have to go out to the house, after all.
Eddie was on duty to be my backup tonight. I felt bad that I was taking his time away from his wife and daughters, so I treated him to an early dinner, his choice of places. He picked a Mexican restaurant called El Loro Loco, which translated as the Crazy Parrot. We’d picked up breakfast tacos there while working a recent human smuggling case.
As we walked in the door, we were greeted by the irritating screech of a mechanical parrot. “SQUAWK! Welcome to El Loro Loco!”
Eddie cringed. “I’d forgotten about that damn bird.”
I hadn’t. That’s why I’d put my fingers in my ears when we’d walked through the door.
A young Latina woman stepped up to the hostess stand. “Table for two?”
When Eddie answered in the affirmative, she led us to a booth. We passed several customers enjoying frozen margaritas. Too bad I was still technically on the job, even though it was after normal working hours. A margarita sounded pretty darn good about then.
We enjoyed a nice meal of enchiladas and headed out to the property. On the drive over, I silently implored the Almighty to let Johnny Brewster be the guy we were seeking. I wanted the crook caught before some other young person got duped out of their hard-earned dollars.
We pulled up to the house. It was a modest brown brick ranch-style home, with minimal landscaping. It sat on a busy, relatively noisy street. That could explain why the rent was below market for the neighborhood. With real estate, whether buying or renting, it was all about location, location, location.
A sleek and sporty blue Honda Civic sat in the drive. Hmm. When the con man had shown the other victims the various properties, none had seen a car. He’d presumably taken a Backseat Driver to and from the property. Had he grown lax now? Had he gotten away with the scheme for months now and was no longer being as cautious? Or did this car belong to someone else he was showing the property to?
As we climbed out of our car, a man climbed out of the Civic. I recognized him from his driver’s license photo as John Everett Brewster, the guy who worked for the building contractor. He wore khaki pants and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. No business suit. Hmm. This guy was tall, which matched the description of the suspect we sought, but he was not what I’d consider beefy. Just average. But maybe he’d dropped a few pounds since the security footage I’d seen.
At that point, taking everything into account, I was ninety percent sure he wasn’t the guy we were after. While his physical features loosely fit the description, he wasn’t wearing a suit. Plus, the other guy used fake names, not his real one. Still, maybe he’d changed his MO, decided to go legit. If anything, criminals could be unpredictable.
Brewster met us on the driveway. “Hi, Sara.” He extended his hand for a shake before turning to Eddie. “Are you her husband?”
“I am,” Eddie said. “God help me.”
I elbowed him in the ribs.
“Follow me,” the guy said, turning and leading us up to the porch. “I’ll show you around.” He put a key in the lock, turned it, and opened what had to be the portal to hell.
“My God!” I cried, reflexively taking a step back and covering my nose and mouth. “What’s that smell?” It was as if every tomcat who’d ever lived had raised his tail and doused the place with all the spray they could muster.
Eddie turned his head away and coughed, fanning his watering eyes. “Did a skunk get trapped inside?”
Brewster grimaced. “Sorry. The former tenants used this place as a meth lab until they were arrested last month. The owners are planning to replace the carpets and repaint the walls before a new tenant moves in. They’re going to have the ductwork cleaned, too.” He scurried inside and began throwing windows open. “Come on in and take a look around,” he choked out.
Eddie took three more steps back and shook his head. “I’m not going in there without a hazmat suit.”
I blinked back involuntary tears and stepped away, too. “I’m with you, buddy.”
My doubt that the guy inside was our suspect had increase
d from ninety to ninety-five percent. I wanted to get this farce over with so I could go home to Bonnie’s and relax in front of the television with Nick and a big, cold glass of peach sangria.
Brewster came back to the door and wheezed out, “Aren’t you coming in?”
“We’ll pass,” I said.
He nodded in acquiescence, stepped back out onto the porch, and closed the door behind him. “I probably shouldn’t show this place again until we get the work done.”
You think? “That would be a wise decision.”
“Y’all could come back then,” he suggested, hope in his voice. “Take another look?”
No way, José. “Maybe.”
“Do you have any questions?” he asked, looking from me to Eddie and back again.
The only question I had pertained to him rather than to the house. I was curious why the money he made as a leasing agent hadn’t been reported on his tax return. Was he paid in cash that he neglected to report? “How long have you been doing this?” I asked. “Leasing houses?”
“Only a few weeks,” he said. “I work for a general contractor who does a lot of remodels on older homes and rental properties. I prepare estimates for the clients, none of the actual labor. I’m not that handy with a hammer.” He offered a self-deprecating smile. “A lot of the homeowners complain about what a hassle it is to deal with their properties. One of them actually asked whether he could hire me to manage it. I realized it would be a great side job, a chance to make some extra money. The whole thing happened organically. I’ve always wanted to own my own business. I’m hoping this will take off so I can quit the contracting job and manage properties full-time.”
My meter of doubt had now reached one hundred percent. I knew with full certainty he wasn’t the man running the real estate scam. Plus, the fact that he’d only recently started this side business explained why there’d been no income reported for it on his return the year before.
I stuck out my hand again. “Thanks for your time.”
With that, Eddie and I left and returned to the office to round up his car. He followed me down the highway until I took the exit that led to the Village. I needed to put in some time with Backseat Driver tonight. With any luck, maybe I’d find the con artist tonight and put the case to rest once and for all.
I parked in a visitor spot of one of the apartment complexes and activated my app to accept notifications from Backseat. A few minutes later, my phone pinged with a message from Backseat Driver. A passenger needed a ride from the Tom Thumb grocery store near Lovers Lane and Greenville Avenue.
Could this be the guy? It sure would be great if it were. It would make up for striking out earlier.
I quickly pulled up the information about the rider on the app. He was an infrequent passenger, only using the service once every couple of months. I checked the reviews to see how other Backseat Drivers had described him. Polite. Doesn’t annoy you with small talk. One even said, The man sure knows how to wear a suit!
Bingo! Or at least the possibility of bingo.
I jabbed the icon to accept the ride. A minute or so later, I pulled up in front of the grocery store, Eddie trailing behind. A man in a business suit with a cart of groceries in front of him waved to get my attention. While he was dressed like the con man we were after, his skin color didn’t match. This guy was dark-skinned. This trip had been a waste of my time. Still, I owed it to this guy to see it through. It would be rude to leave him stranded.
I got out and helped the guy load his groceries into the trunk. When we finished, he climbed into the backseat. I closed the trunk and turned around. Holy shit! Two men in Halloween masks were only ten feet away and headed directly toward me. One was Darth Vader, the other a Storm Trooper. Are they going to kill me?
My heart and mind reeled. My gun was in my purse in my car. So was my pepper spray. Dammit! I did the only thing I could think of. I crouched and assumed a karate stance. Or at least what I assumed was a karate stance.
Darth Vader stopped walking and slid his mask up, exposing his face.
I didn’t recognize him. Nor did I recognize the Storm Trooper when he did the same. “You okay?” he asked.
Jeez. I’d totally overreacted, hadn’t I? These were just two guys who’d bought costumes at the pop-up Halloween store next to the supermarket. I could see the store’s big orange banner behind them. GET YOUR COSTUMES HERE!
“Ha-ha,” I said, my laugh sounding as forced as it was. “Just joking.”
“Ohhh-kay,” Darth Vader said, exchanging a look with his friend. The look said This chick’s unstable. Let’s get out of here. And get out of there they did, hurrying off at twice the pace they’d been walking earlier.
From his car down the curb, Eddie raised his hands from the wheel as if to ask What the hell? Apparently he’d seen them come out of the store and realized they hadn’t posed a threat. Easy for him. He hadn’t had his back turned.
I climbed into the driver’s seat, fastened my seat belt, and started the engine.
“Thanks for the ride,” my passenger said. “My car’s been in the shop all week. The alternator went out.”
I groaned in sympathy. “That’s going to cost you.”
“Tell me about it.”
I held up a bottle of water. “Water?”
“No, thanks.”
I decided to open it for myself, unscrewing the top and taking a swig. With the hot temperatures we’d had lately, it couldn’t hurt to stay hydrated.
We rode in companionable silence while I drove the short distance to his apartment, only a mile away.
He pointed out the window. “That’s my reserved spot there. You can pull into it.”
I parked and helped him carry his groceries to his door. He gave me a smile, a “thanks,” and a three-dollar cash tip before closing it. Though I appreciated his generosity, it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to retain the cash. Federal employee rules and whatnot. I’d contribute it to the coffee fund at work tomorrow.
Eddie followed me as I drove to Bonnie’s. Once I’d pulled into the garage, he lowered the window of his car on the street and raised a hand in good-bye. I raised one in return.
When I climbed out of my car, I heard the telltale sounds of Nick’s truck engine cooling off. Looked like he’d put in a late night, too.
He met me at the door, a full glass of his mom’s sangria in his hand.
“For me?”
“You know it.”
I gave him a smile and accepted the glass. “You sure know how to greet a lady.”
He cut me a mischievous grin. “That’s not all I know how to do to a lady.”
Unfortunately, he couldn’t show me any of those other things while we were living under his mother’s roof. Ugh.
I changed out of my suit and into my pajamas, sighing as I flopped down on the couch next to my fiancé. Somewhere out there was both a con artist and my aspiring killer. But for now, I was going to relax and enjoy me some Nick time.
chapter seventeen
Moving Day
Friday passed without incident. Nobody tried to run me over, stab me, or otherwise put an end to my life. I supposed I should be happy about that. But it was hard to be happy knowing that someone might be holed up somewhere, plotting to run me over, stab me, or otherwise put an end to my life at some later point. The uncertainty, the constantly looking over my shoulder, was eating away at me.
But in addition to those awful feelings, I felt something else as well. Curiosity. My visit to the prison and Booth’s subsequent question about Marissa Fischer’s involvement in the financial indiscretions at the Ark church had me wondering. Was Marissa staying on a straight-and-narrow path now? Had she learned from her experience that honesty was the best policy?
I typed her name into my search browser. While a multitude of articles detailing the downfall of Noah Fischer mentioned Marissa, all of that was old news to me. There were several articles from celebrity gossip sites detailing her marriage to Darryl Lundgren, th
e guy who ran the chain of tractor dealerships, as well as some photos of the two cheek to cheek, looking as happy as two people could be. But her fifteen minutes of fame had run out last year, and the gossip columnists seemed to have lost interest in her.
I logged into the social media sites to see if she had active accounts. Boy, did she ever. Her Facebook page contained numerous photos, mostly pictures of herself, either alone or with her new husband. Marissa was on the tall side, her brown hair, highlighted with copper and bronze streaks, hanging down to her chest. Her most recent pics featured the two standing on what appeared to be the deck of a cruise ship. According to her posts, she and Darryl had left over a week ago to embark on a four-week grand Mediterranean cruise. The ship would make stops at no less than twenty-six ports, among them Barcelona, Naples, Venice, Malta, Athens, and Monte Carlo. She’d posted the same pics on her Instagram, Twitter, and Pinterest accounts.
Though I’d searched the sites primarily out of curiosity, the pics also told me that I could cross Marissa off my list of suspects. She couldn’t very well come after me when she was halfway around the world having the time of her life, could she? But maybe Fischer’s pole-dancer girlfriend could.
I logged onto Leah Dodd’s Facebook page. Like Marissa and the parishioner Fischer had knocked up, Leah had long, reddish hair. Pastor Fischer certainly had a type. Both Leah’s last name and her chest sported double-Ds. Her lip bore a small mole, à la Cindy Crawford. While Leah had thousands of male “friends” when I’d checked her Facebook page last year, she had even more now. Heck, she’d even started her own fan page. She had over ten thousand likes. No wonder, given the suggestive pics she posted of herself on the page. One showed her riding her pole, her auburn hair tossed back. Another depicted her crawling toward the camera, her cleavage dangling below her. A third photo showed her on a beach wearing only a pair of bikini bottoms, her hands covering her breasts, her mouth spread in a playfully naughty smile.
