Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli (A Tara Holloway Novel)

by Diane Kelly

  Holy ravioli. I’d expected Tony Soprano but instead I got Tony Danza.

  Elena gave her father a hug. “Dad, this is Tori Holland. She’s our new waitress.”

  “Welcome, Tori.” Before I knew what he was doing, he’d put a hand on each of my shoulders, performed a European-style double-sided cheek kiss, and stepped back, still smiling. “You’ll enjoy working here. We Fabrizios treat our employees like family.”

  Given that he’d killed a number of the men who worked for him, the sentiment gave me no warm, fuzzy feelings. In fact, the places where he’d kissed my cheeks burned as if seared with a branding iron. Even so, I was finding it hard to believe the unimposing, congenial man in front of me was a coldhearted killer.

  Could it be possible that he’d left Chicago to get away from the mob game? That the disappearances of the men here in Dallas had nothing to do with him and were mere coincidences? I knew the FBI wouldn’t have put so many resources into going after this guy and wouldn’t have pulled the IRS into the investigation, too, unless they were certain. But given that they’d been able to prove nothing, could we be barking up the wrong tree here?

  No. I forced myself not to be taken in by his looks. Looks, as I knew, could be deceiving. Heck, when it came to deceptive appearances I was exhibit A. I looked like a harmless college girl who’d gone a little crazy with the hair color, when in reality I was a badass federal agent who’d gone a little crazy with the hair color.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Fabrizio.” As if.

  “Please,” he replied. “Call me Tino.”

  Benedetta emerged from her office. “Hello, there.”

  “There’s my Bennie!” he sang, spreading his arms as he approached her. “You look like a million bucks.”

  As he grabbed her in a tight hug, she pretended to fight him off but I could tell she enjoyed every second of it. “Don’t you mean only half a million, Tino?”

  My lack of comprehension must have been written on my face.

  “That’s how much he’s insured Mom for,” Elena told me.

  Tino reached out and ruffled Elena’s hair. “What’s next, Elena? You going to give Tori the secret family recipes?”

  Despite the chuckle that followed, Tino’s words seemed to be a warning to his daughter to keep her mouth shut. Perhaps I’d been wrong and Elena did know something after all.

  I chuckled, too, hoping to give the impression that I’d taken none of the exchange seriously when, in fact, my mind was going a mile a minute, processing the information. Half a million was not an excessive sum by any stretch of the imagination, especially given that the couple had three daughters who were not yet fully independent and relied on their mother’s restaurant for their incomes. Besides, it wasn’t unusual for businesses to insure their key personnel. Yet something about it gave me pause.

  Tino gave his wife a two-cheeked kiss, too, following it up with a direct smooch on the lips. He cupped her chin with his chubby hands. “I could insure you for every penny in the world and it wouldn’t match what you’re worth.”

  “Oh, stop.” She waved a hand dismissively, but the gesture was belied by her happy grin. “Let me guess. You’re here for a chocolate cannoli.”

  Tino gave her another quick smooch and released her. “Ah, bella. You know me so well.”

  Does she? I had to wonder. Could someone be married to a mob boss and truly be in the dark about his evil misdeeds? Or did women like Benedetta choose to stick their heads in the sand?

  “You’re lucky there’s any left.” Benedetta gestured my way. “Tori knows how to move desserts. She got a woman the size of a toothpick to order a cannoli at lunch yesterday.”

  “Did you, now?” Tino turned to look at me. “I take it you’re an experienced waitress, then?”

  “No. But I worked as a nanny and had to convince two kids to eat their vegetables and to go to bed on time every night. And I’m studying business. My marketing professor says it’s a good idea to get some practical experience working in a small business.”

  “You’re a student, huh? Where do you go to school?”

  Was it a simple, friendly question, or a way to dig for information on me? “Dallas Baptist University.”

  Benedetta filled her husband in on my history. “Tori worked for a family that recently moved to the Middle East.”

  “That’s a long haul,” Tino said. “What are they doing over there?”

  “The father works for an oil company,” I said. “He got promoted so they moved the family over there.”

  “And you didn’t want to go with them?” Tino asked.

  “I’ll miss the kids,” I said. “Tessa and—” Oh, crap! My mind had gone blank. What was the boy’s name? Nigel? Marcus? Oh, yeah. Miles! “Miles were little angels. Well, most of the time anyway. Every kid has their moments.”

  “Tell me about it!” Benedetta stage-whispered from behind a cupped hand as she hiked a thumb at her girls. The statement earned her a cry of “Ma!” from all three of her daughters, but the soft smiles on their faces told me none of them were serious.

  I went on. “I didn’t want to leave my own family or friends, and I’m hoping to finish my degree in the next year or two, so it seemed best to stay here.”

  “You from around here?” Tino asked.

  “I live close,” I said. “On Bennett Avenue.”

  “What I meant,” Tino clarified, “is did you grow up in Dallas?”

  I nodded. “Born and raised here.”

  Benedetta nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “Tori’s a waitress, not a chicken. Quit grilling her.”

  Tino raised his palms. “Sorry. Can’t blame a guy for wanting to know something about the people who will be working with his wife and daughters.”

  Benedetta chuckled again. “Look at her, caro. The girl wouldn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. She couldn’t hurt a fly. You worry too much.”

  Part of me was glad I didn’t look like a threat, but another part of me was insulted. I might not look like much, but I’d shot and killed a man and skewered another with a samurai sword. I might not weigh much, but I wasn’t a woman to be taken lightly. On the other hand, the more they thought of me as a little mousy nanny, the better. If they were off their guard, they were more likely to slip up, maybe feed me some information that would nail Tino.

  Tino said something to Benedetta in Italian and she replied with a curt response I didn’t understand. Hmm. Too bad I didn’t know the language. Maybe I should do something about that.

  “Nice meeting you, Tori,” Tino said.

  Benedetta and her husband exited through the swinging door and Elena got back to business. “Let me show you how to work the register.”

  Now you’re talking.

  She led me back to the dining area, circling behind the bar. There was just one register in the place, the one I’d noticed yesterday on my way in. The device was positioned on the back counter of the bar, near the dessert case, where it could be easily accessed by both the wait staff and the bartender. The register was a touch-screen model with a cash drawer below. A magnetic card reader sat to the left, with the miniature receipt printer to the right. And, of course, the device was under constant surveillance by the video camera lording over it from the wall above.

  I made a mental note of the make and model number imprinted on the register’s cash drawer. Salespoint 2600.

  “You’ll need to create your own unique PIN,” Elena said. “It has to be entered before each transaction.”

  Damn. That meant any of my activity on the machine would be linked to me, including any printouts of sales data. I could only hope that nobody would have reason to examine the register entries with close scrutiny or to watch the video feed from the camera aimed at the register.

  She pulled up a keyboard on the screen, typed in the name TORI HOLLAND, then gestured to the screen. “Go ahead and pick a four-digit PIN.”

  I touched the screen, typing in the last four digits of the fake Social
Security number that had been assigned to Tori Holland, and tapped the enter key. The screen popped up with preprogrammed icons for each of the menu items.

  “Okay.” Elena stepped up closer to me. “To enter an order, all you have to do is tap the items the customer orders.” She continued, showing me which buttons to push if a table ordered more than one of the same item, and how to void an incorrect entry. She showed me how to print out a copy of the order to take to the kitchen. “If customers want split checks, you just ring them up separately.” She finished by showing me how to make change for cash customers, and how to run a credit card for those who wanted to charge their meal. “Got it?”

  “I think so.” Seemed easy enough.

  “If you have any problems, my sisters and I can help you.”

  She led me back through the kitchen and into an employee lounge. She opened a cabinet, and pulled out a black apron with three front pockets, handing it to me. “Wear this over your clothes when you come to work. Dress all in black for your shifts.”

  “Can I at least wear my favorite shoes?” I asked, holding up one of my red Dr. Martens. “They’re really comfortable.” And steel-toed in case I need to kick your father’s ass.

  She shrugged. “The shoes don’t matter so long as the rest of your clothes are black. You might want to buy some new clothes in the next size up.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked as she led me back to the kitchen.

  “Nobody stays thin working here.” She handed me a white bag filled with takeout containers. “My mother won’t let anyone go home without food.”

  Yum. This job would definitely have its benefits.

  As I left the restaurant, I raised a hand to Benedetta and Tino, who stood behind the bar, their fingers intertwined and their heads ducked toward each other like young lovebirds. “Thanks for dinner!” I called, holding up my bag. “Have a good evening!”

  Tino put his wife’s hand to his cheek as she called back, “Ciao, Tori! See you tomorrow morning.”

  chapter fifteen

  Will Work for Food

  As I walked out to my Hyundai at seven that evening, I spotted Emily Raggio in front of Gallery Nico. Emily was one of the artists I’d spoken with on my recent investigation into the Unic Art Space. Emily, whose husband was a physician, had an unusual medium—medical supplies. Some of her pieces had been made from tongue depressors, expired pills, and hospital dressing gowns.

  She probably wouldn’t recognize me with the new reddish hair, but better to play it safe. I quickly slipped into my car so she wouldn’t spot me. As I watched, Emily opened the back hatch of her SUV and removed a white piece of art the approximate size of a two-drawer filing cabinet. It was shaped like a head and formed from surgical masks she’d turned into papier-mâché. Intriguing. I didn’t have an artistic bone in my body, though I had been known to use some creative methods when taking down a suspect. A trip-and-shove maneuver. An improvised flamethrower. Tickle torture. Hey, it works on adults just as well as children.

  I started my engine and turned out of the lot, heading to my new apartment rather than my real home. A block up north Fitzhugh, I noticed a white pickup truck pulled to a curb on a side street not far from the intersection. As I drove past, the truck eased away from the curb and turned onto Fitzhugh behind me.

  Hmm …

  It could be coincidence. Or it could be a tail.

  Agent Hohenwald had warned me that Tino Fabrizio trusted no one. Maybe the guy in the truck was one of his goons checking up on me. At any rate, I had to play it cool. A college student/waitress would have no reason to suspect someone of following her. I had to pretend that I hadn’t noticed and do what a college girl would normally do. Still, the badass federal agent in me wanted to make this guy earn his pay. Besides, it would be fun to give him the runaround, screw with him a little.

  Up ahead sat a nail salon. It had been a while since I’d had a professional mani-pedi. And given that I’d just landed a new job, why shouldn’t I treat myself?

  I turned into the salon’s parking lot and went inside, laughing to myself when I saw that the waiting room had quite a crowd.

  “Do you have an appointment?” asked a technician giving a leg massage to a woman nearby.

  “Nope.”

  “It’ll be forty-five minutes to an hour,” she said. “Would you like to wait or should I make you an appointment for another time?”

  “I’ll wait.” My tail and I had all the time in the world. Ha!

  She lifted her chin to indicate a pad of paper on the countertop at the front of the shop. “Put your name on the list.”

  I jotted the name Tori on the pad, dotting the i with a star just for kicks, and informed the woman I’d be right back. I returned to my car outside, forcing my eyes from the pickup at the far end of the lot, and grabbed my backpack. Better use the downtime to study for those upcoming finals, right?

  I went back inside and took a seat along the side wall. I knew from experience just how boring it could be to run surveillance on someone, especially when the target was merely going about everyday business. I hoped Tino’s goon found every second of watching me to be painfully dull. And so long as I was hoping, why not also wish him a burning case of hemorrhoids and an irritable bowel?

  I knew Will and Hana were on duty tonight, working somewhere in the vicinity of Cyber-Shield to follow Tino’s patrolmen. I sent the two of them a quick text. A new friend came with me to the nail salon on Fitzhugh. Want to meet us here for mani-pedis? My phrasing was intentionally cryptic, but they’d understand. As soon as the text went through, I deleted it.

  I opened the accounting textbook I’d been provided as part of my cover, but surreptitiously slipped a copy of People magazine inside it. Though I had graduated with honors from the University of Texas down in Austin, my new alter ego Tori Holland had earned only an average GPA and was out of the running for the dean’s list. Tori might need to study, but I already knew accounting backward, forward, and upside down, and had no interest in relearning debits and credits and double-entry bookkeeping. While Tori would appear to be hitting the books, Tara would be finding out what Bradley Cooper and Taylor Swift had been up to lately.

  An hour later, my celebrity gossip was fully up-to-date and my name was finally called. “Tori?”

  “That’s me.” I returned the magazine to the table, slid my book back into my backpack, and stood.

  “Anything special?” the technician asked as I took a seat at her table.

  “Any chance you can paint my nails to look like little Italian flags?”

  She cocked her head. “What’s their flag look like?”

  “A green, white, and red vertical stripe,” I said. “Like the Mexican flag only without the snake-eating bird on the cactus in the middle.”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  She put my fingertips in a bowl to soak before reaching over to her nail polish display and selecting bottles in green, white, and red. We chatted as she took care of my cuticles, then shaped my nails with a file.

  “Why Italian flags?” she asked as she applied the first green stripe to my left thumb.

  “I got a new job,” I told her. “I’ll be a waitress at Benedetta’s Bistro down the street.”

  The woman looked at me. “Is that the place with the incredible chocolate cannoli?”

  “That’s it.” So far I’d only seen the cannoli, not tasted it, but if it was even half as good as it looked I’d be in for a treat.

  “Tell you what,” the woman said. “Next time you need a manicure, bring me a couple of those chocolate cannoli and it’ll be on the house.”

  “Consider it done.” Looked like I’d made another bargain involving Italian food. Cannoli had apparently become a type of currency for me.

  I emerged from the nail salon a half hour later with adorable Italian flags on my toes and fingertips. The pickup truck still sat at the far end of the lot. If I’d had any doubt the driver was following me before, I had no doubt now. N
obody would sit in a parking lot for that long without a good reason. It was ironic, really. Fabrizio was tailing me, while federal agents were tailing his men. It was a warped game of cat and mouse. Unfortunately, the truck was parked in the shadows cast by the setting sun and I couldn’t make out the license plate. With any luck, Will or Hana had been able to swing by and obtain the plate number so that we could identify who the truck belonged to.

  As I continued on, my eyes spotted a bookstore. I stopped and went inside, catching them just before they closed for the evening. I picked up an Italian language book that came with a companion CD. Becoming fluent in the language in short order wouldn’t be possible, but it couldn’t hurt for me to at least become more familiar with it so I could recognize words like cash and money and nail gun.

  I slipped back into my little car and headed a half block down the road, pulling into a gas station. The pickup drove past, but as I topped off my tank, being careful not to chip my fresh manicure, it circled the block and came back up Fitzhugh, ready to trail after me again. I dawdled, pretending to be checking e-mails on my phone, forcing the truck to circle the block again. Neener-neener. Maybe I should stand there all night until the guy had circled the block so many times he became dizzy and crashed into a tree.

  At that point, I decided I’d had enough fun and that it was best to head on to my apartment. After all, a college student would need to get home and continue studying, right? Especially one who wanted to improve her GPA? Seriously, couldn’t the FBI have given me an alter ego with a better academic track record?

  The pickup followed me, hanging back a little farther now, allowing a couple of cars to sneak in between us. I took a right onto Live Oak, and he took a right ten seconds later. He followed me by a few seconds when I turned left on Bennett. When I turned into my apartment complex, the pickup drove on past. I wasn’t sure whether he’d be going on his merry way now or whether he’d circle back to make sure I actually went into my apartment, but I drove on into the lot, parked in a spot near my place, and climbed the stairs to my apartment, my backpack slung over one shoulder, my purse hanging across my body, and my bag of food in my hand. I forced myself to look straight ahead and not check over my shoulder for the truck.