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

by Diane Kelly

  I dug my keys from my purse and went inside, flipping on the lights. Without a roommate or pet, the place seemed empty and quiet and lonely. I picked up the remote and turned on the television. At least the characters from my favorite sitcoms could keep me company.

  I set the bag of food on my countertop and took the to-go containers out one by one, peeking inside each of them to see what delectable treats they contained. The one on top contained a chocolate cannoli. Woo-hoo! After nearly two hours in my car, the filling had become runny, but a minor matter like that wouldn’t stop me from enjoying it. I stuck the dessert in the fridge, hoping the cold air might revive it a little. The next container housed a trio of buttery garlic knots. The final container was filled with ziti marinara. The only thing that would have made the meal more perfect was if a salad had been included. But I supposed I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, huh?

  The thought that the food might be poisoned briefly crossed my mind, but I realized I was being paranoid. The chances of Benedetta’s daughters or the kitchen staff adding something deadly to the food were slim to none. They’d been nothing but nice to me today, and it was questionable whether Tino’s wife and daughters knew of his shady history. Besides, if Tino had figured out I was a federal agent and planned to off me, he wouldn’t do it here in this apartment. He’d have me kidnapped and dragged off somewhere, make it look like an accident. Or maybe he’d just make me disappear, like those other missing men. I wondered where they were now. Were their bodies buried in the west Texas desert? At the bottom of Lake Texoma? Had they been chopped up and fed to coyotes?

  chapter sixteen

  If They Could See Me Now …

  I washed up, fixed myself a plate of ziti and garlic knots, and plunked my butt down on the sofa. I found myself wondering what Nick was doing now. Was he still at his new gallery, setting things up? Or was he “home” at his new apartment, too, feeling as lonely and isolated as I felt here? At least he’d have Josh to keep him company. This isolation was definitely going to take some getting used to.

  When I finished my meal, I rinsed my dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher. I was tempted to peek out the window to see if the white pickup was in the lot, but if anyone caught me looking I might raise their suspicions. I carried my purse into the bedroom and set it in easy reach on top of the dresser next to my bed. Better keep my Cobra in quick reach in case I needed it.

  I changed out of my clothes and into my pajamas, and went into the bathroom to wash my face. While I’d been advised not to perform any IRS-related work on my new laptop and knew the FBI was tapped into it, I figured it couldn’t hurt for me to play around on it a little. I opened the laptop on my bed and pushed the power button so it could boot up while I went to the kitchen and retrieved the cannoli. I slid it onto a plate, grabbed a fork, and sampled a bite. Dear Lord, this stuff is delicious! Elena was right. I should definitely buy bigger pants. I might even need to go two sizes up just in case this investigation ran long.

  I moseyed back into the bedroom, turning on the bedside lamp and switching off the overhead light. I plopped down on the bed, setting my plate on the spread and positioning a pillow against the wall behind me so I could sit up to surf the Internet. I climbed into bed, pulled the computer onto my lap, and logged in with my new password. NannyT1!

  I picked up the plate and shoveled a huge bite of chocolate cannoli into my mouth, moaning with pleasure. After wiping my mouth on my pajama sleeve—I’d forgotten to get a napkin—I logged into a bookstore site, checking for upcoming releases from my favorite authors. A new romance would be out next week, with a mystery the week after that. Good to know. I’d forgo nail-biting thrillers for the time being. With the Fabrizio case, I was involved in my own real thriller. Besides, I didn’t want to mess up my cute new manicure.

  A notice popped up on my screen, alerting me that an update was available for one of the common programs on my computer. I clicked on the link, allowing it to update.

  The underside of my left boob itched where my underwire bra had been rubbing up against it all day. As my computer updated, I gave my boob a two-fingered scratch through my pajamas and took another bite of the cannoli. One of the chocolate chips fell off the fork and dropped to the floor beside the bed. Ugh! It was only a tiny morsel, but this stuff was so good it would be a shame to waste even an atom of it. Besides, there was nobody around. No one would know I’d eaten food off the floor. And what about the five-second rule? Didn’t germs need at least five seconds to migrate from the floor to something that was dropped on it? I was pretty sure it was a sound scientific principle. Maybe even a physical law. Thus convinced, I leaned over, snatched the chocolate chip from the carpet, and tossed it into my mouth, willing my immune system to kill any germs that might have attached to it.

  As long as I was just sitting around with nothing critical to do, I figured I might as well clear my pores and remove the peach fuzz from my upper lip. I laid my computer aside, went to the bathroom, and applied an adhesive pore strip to my nose and a wax strip to my upper lip. While they worked their magic, I returned to my bed, picked my computer back up, and continued to venture around the Internet.

  As the heavy Italian meal settled in my stomach, it forced air to the surface. A big gas bubble burbled up and sat painfully at the top of my esophagus, begging to be released. I’d been taught in Miss Cecily’s Charm School to stifle my burps behind my fingers or a napkin, but Miss Cecily wasn’t here now, was she? No sense fighting it. And no sense adhering to decorum when the only person here to be offended was myself. I released the air with a long and loud bruuuppp that would have made a drunk frat boy proud.

  Relieved, I turned my attention back to my computer. With Henry and Anne back at my real home, I was suffering a case of miss-my-kitties. But if I couldn’t cuddle up with one of my own, I could at least watch videos of funny felines online, right? I took another bite of cannoli and ventured into YouTube to search for new cat clips.

  Brrrring.

  The landline phone in the kitchen rang, the shrill ring tone nearly yanking me from my skin in my quiet apartment. I set the computer aside, slid out of bed, and went to answer it.

  “Hello?” I said.

  Agent Hohenwald’s voice came over the line. He spoke in a hushed voice. “My tech tells me there’s two people logged into your wireless system, you and another user. Someone’s hacked into your computer. It’s gotta be one of Tino’s men. Be careful. They’re spying to see what you’re doing online. They could even be watching you through your Webcam. That’s why I phoned you rather than texting. If someone is watching through your computer’s camera, he might have been able to read your cell phone screen through the feed.”

  My mouth, which had just been watering in anticipation of more chocolate cannoli, went instantly dry. It was one thing to know a spy might be sitting outside in a truck keeping an eye on my place. It was another entirely for someone to be watching me through my computer inside my own apartment. Oh, God. I’d wiped my mouth on my sleeve, scratched my boob, eaten floor food, performed embarrassing beauty rituals, and belched. I felt humiliated and violated and terrified that they could get so close without me knowing. Of course anyone watching through my computer camera was probably disgusted by me, so I supposed the score was even.

  Through the phone, Hohenwald said, “They might even send you a fake update notice that will plant spyware on your laptop. The spyware will allow them to look back over your browser history without having to be actively online with you.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “They already sent it, didn’t they?”

  I wasn’t sure if whoever was cyberspying on me could only watch through my Webcam or also listen through my laptop’s microphone, so I decided it was best to speak cryptically. “Mm-hm.”

  “And you downloaded it?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “Our tech team added a history to the computer. The fact that you downloaded the fake updat
e is probably good. That’s what an unsuspecting college kid would do, and we want you to look like an unsuspecting college kid.”

  For once my lack of tech skills had actually paid off.

  “Now,” Hohenwald said, “just in case they can hear through your computer mic, tell me you’re happy with your current cable provider and hang up on me.”

  “I’m not interested,” I said into the receiver. “I’m happy with my current cable provider. Good-bye.” I hung up the phone.

  Knowing I was likely being watched made me horribly self-conscious, but I had to act as normal as possible. After ripping both strips from my face, I returned to my bedroom, fuzzless and with clean pores. I turned my cell phone facedown on the dresser to block any incoming texts from view, even though I knew any of the team members would be smart enough to make any message sound innocuous and cryptic. I climbed back into bed and forced myself not to look at the little round hole at the top of the screen that housed my Webcam.

  After watching a couple of cute cat videos, I decided that, like my tail in the pickup, anyone cyberspying on me deserved to suffer a little. Knowing it was most likely a man, I planned to make the next hour a living hell for him. I Googled “natural ways to relieve menstrual cramps,” “Ryan Gosling shirtless photos,” and spent forty-five minutes on the Neiman Marcus site looking at shoes and purses.

  Take that, mobsters.

  chapter seventeen

  A Shift with Shifty

  Friday morning, I woke early and downed some leftover ziti for breakfast. Hey, pasta is made of grain just like cereal. Don’t judge me.

  My tummy full, I showered and dressed in a pair of black slacks, a black blouse with tuxedo-style pleats down the front, and my Dr. Martens. Not the sexiest shoes by any stretch of the imagination, but if I was going to be on my feet all day slinging linguine, at least the shoes would be comfortable. Today, I planned to take my new laptop to work and ask about logging into Benedetta’s Wi-Fi system. If I could get the password, it would make it easier for Josh to hack into her system and gain access to her financial records. I knew the task would be a challenge, what with Tino’s specialty being cybersecurity and his having a computer expert on his payroll. But Josh was no slouch, either, when it came to technology. Me, though? I was a technological Neanderthal. I could use electronics, but I had no idea how they worked. It was like magic to me.

  I was due to appear in court at nine this morning to present the affidavits in the Triple 7 Adventures case. I crossed my fingers as I left my apartment, hoping none of Tino’s goons were watching me.

  No such luck.

  Damn.

  My tail this morning was no longer a white pickup but a silver sedan. Looked like I’d have to keep up my charade and go to school. I wondered if my follower was as annoyed as I was about this eight o’clock class. Couldn’t the FBI have signed me up for a later class and let me sleep in? What’s more, I had to commute to school in the middle of bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic. Ugh. On the bright side, maybe Benedetta would send me home with another chocolate cannoli today.

  The driver followed me all the way from my apartment to the DBU campus, staying far enough back that I couldn’t make out his license plate number. Fortunately, as I turned into the campus, he continued on, apparently satisfied that nobody who wasn’t truly a college student would have put herself through the hassle of waking early and fighting rush-hour traffic to drive all the way out here.

  To put some distance between us, I parked on the campus and waited for ten minutes before heading back out. Carefully watching my rearview mirror in case a new tail appeared, I drove a circuitous route to the courthouse to meet up with Assistant U.S. Attorney Ross O’Donnell, praying I’d make it in time for the hearing. I came in just under the wire, rushing into the room and looking for Ross among the assorted suits. There he is. I squeezed through the crowd of attorneys and witnesses until I stood beside him.

  Ross was a calm, methodical guy in his thirties, with a squat build and dark hair that had begun to recede backward on either side of his forehead. He represented the IRS on a regular basis, prosecuting the tax evaders we special agents arrested. With our exceptional investigation skills, near-obsessive levels of documentation, and expert responses on the witness stand, we liked to think we made his job easy. But with our type-A personalities and constant demands on his time, he might beg to differ.

  He read over each of the documents. “Good job here. All the pertinent information is covered.” When he got to Isaiah’s form, his brows angled in confusion. He held it up and pointed to the signature block. “What’s with the X?”

  “Stroke victim,” I explained. “That’s the best he could do.”

  The bailiff ordered us to stand as Judge Alice Trumbull barreled through the door that led from her chambers and ascended to her bench. Trumbull was known as the bulldog, and for good reason. She had the same loose jowls and determined demeanor the dogs were known for.

  Wasting none of her precious time, she plopped her oversized butt down into her chair, picked up the file on top of her stack, and called our case. “IRS versus Triple Seven Adventures.”

  Ross and I were on our feet and in front of her bench in a heartbeat.

  “Good morning, Judge Trumbull,” he said. “Special Agent Holloway here needs to get some information on a credit card.”

  “Agent Holloway?” She looked down at me. “I hardly recognize you with that orange hair.”

  “I’m working undercover.”

  “As what, a cage dancer?”

  Being a cage dancer sounded like much more fun than an ex-nanny-college-student-wannabe-waitress. But I said, “Not exactly.” I explained the situation with Triple 7 to her. “The credit card is the only remaining lead we have, and the domain registry won’t turn over the information without a court order.”

  She nodded and skimmed the copies of the postcard and cash receipts, as well as the affidavits. She held up the one signed with an X. “Is this signer illiterate?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s had a stroke. But we read the affidavit to him and he seemed to understand. And he was able to communicate to me that the suspect has a Cajun accent.” That fact showed that, despite the stroke, Isaiah still had his mental faculties.

  “How’d you find out about this con artist?” the judge asked.

  “The men who signed the affidavits came to the IRS office looking for me,” I said. “They asked me to help them.”

  She cocked her head. “Heard about you on TV, I’m guessing, hmm?”

  I nodded.

  She chuckled. “The minute I heard that an IRS agent had shot a drug dealer from long range, the first thing I thought was ‘That has to be Special Agent Holloway.’”

  I offered her a meager smile. Sure, I was glad that I’d saved the lives of an informant, Nick, and Christina Marquez, a DEA agent who’d become my good friend after we’d worked some cases together. I also knew that I’d had no choice but to make that deadly shot. The man I’d killed had just put a bullet in another man’s head, then pointed his gun at Nick, ready to shoot again. Despite my desperate attempts to forget that fateful night, the horrifying image was seared into my memory like a brand. I could still feel the pressure of my finger on the trigger, hear the blam of my rifle releasing the deadly bullet. Still, after seeing those horrifying photographs in Tino Fabrizio’s file, I realized the mobster and I had something in common. We were both killers. The thought made me feel sick to my stomach. I didn’t want to be anything like him.

  Judge Trumbull signed the order with a flourish and handed it down to me. “Keep up the good work.”

  All I could do was nod.

  As Ross and I left the courtroom, he put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me to a stop. “Are you okay, Tara?”

  My lip quivered and my eyes blinked rapidly, attempting to keep tears at bay. I looked down, hoping Ross wouldn’t notice. “I’m … fine.”

  He stepped to the side, shielding me from the view of passer
sby, God bless him. “I don’t think you are.”

  I took a deep breath, held it for a count of ten, and finally got myself under control enough to look back up at him. “It kinda sucks being identified as a killer, you know?”

  Ross’s face was pensive, thoughtful. “If it’s any consolation,” he said finally, gesturing down to my red steel-toed footwear, “I’ve always thought of you as the agent with the really ugly shoes.”

  A laugh burst from my lips and they ceased to quiver. “Thanks, Ross. That’s just what I needed to hear.”

  I returned to the IRS office and sent the affidavit to the domain registry’s legal department via e-mail. I also sent a copy to the cell phone service provider. I knew it would take them a few business days to get back with me, but in the meantime I would keep my fingers crossed. If this con artist had ripped off the folks at Whispering Pines, chances were he’d pulled the same shenanigans on untold numbers of other victims. I’d love to track him down and put his sorry ass behind bars where it belonged. Of course there was a much bigger, sorrier ass I hoped to bust ASAP. Tino Fabrizio’s.

  While I was on the computer, I quickly searched for instructions on how to print out sales data from the computerized cash register system at Benedetta’s, the Salespoint 2600. Clicking on the link, I read the instructions over three times, committing them to memory. My work here done, I headed to my second job at the bistro.

  It was half past ten—or, as the Italians say, dieci—when I parked in the second row of the parking lot at the bistro. A glance at Cyber-Shield told me only that three of the neon-green patrol cars were parked there today. I knew Will had coordinated with the team from the FBI to follow Fabrizio and his salesmen, installers, and security patrols yesterday and last night. I wondered whether they’d had any success figuring out who Tino might be planning to extort money from next.