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

by Diane Kelly

  I righted the lamp, retrieved Anne from her hiding place under the dresser, and cradled her in my arms. “It’s okay, baby. You’re free now.”

  She looked up at me, mewed, and, a moment later, began to purr. Looked like her emotional wounds were healed.

  After bidding the cats good-bye again with a kiss on the head and a scratch on the chin, I helped Mom carry her suitcase and the punch bowl out to her car, then climbed in myself. She planned to drop me near my undercover apartment so I wouldn’t have to wait for another cab.

  When she pulled to a stop two blocks away from my new place, I leaned across the car, put my hands on her shoulders, and kissed her on both cheeks. “That’s how the Italians do it.”

  “And this is how we Southerners do it.” She gave me one last, warm hug, so tight one of my vertebrae popped. “Stay safe, Tara. Someday I want to be sending your shower guests home with pralines.”

  chapter twenty-one

  Holy Fathers and Godfathers

  I spent Saturday night at home alone. I’d gone by Angelique’s place around seven to see if she wanted to come up and watch a movie, but she was getting ready for a date.

  “Some guy came by your apartment earlier today,” she said. “I saw him when I was coming back from getting my mail.”

  Uh-oh. Had it been one of Fabrizio’s men checking up on me?

  “What did he look like?” Did he have a nail gun? A barbell? A Santa hat?

  She looked up, as if trying to recall a mental picture. “Dark hair. Not tall. A little heavy, maybe.”

  Could it have been Dario? “Did you talk to him?”

  “No. By the time I got back to our building he’d come down the stairs and gone.”

  “Did you see what kind of car he drove?”

  “He didn’t get into a car,” she said. “At least not that I saw, anyway. He just walked off toward the front entrance.”

  Hmm …

  I thanked her for the information and went back to my apartment. If the man had been one of Tino’s thugs checking up on me, what conclusions had they drawn from the fact that I wasn’t home? That a friend had picked me up? That I’d gone out for a walk, maybe a swim in the pool? Of course the guy could have simply been looking for someone else and come to the wrong apartment. Or maybe he was a friend of the previous tenant or a solicitor wanting to sell me a magazine subscription.

  Regardless, I figured it couldn’t hurt to cover my ass and allay suspicions. I went up to my apartment and logged into my laptop, connecting to the Internet to make it as easy as possible for Tino’s tech guys to cyberspy on me … if they were cyberspying on me. I fooled around on my laptop, checked the decoy Gmail account the FBI had set up for me, and, while watching more kitten videos on YouTube, pretended to place a call to a friend on my new phone.

  “Hey,” I said after I pretended to dial a number. “It’s me.”

  I paused for what I hoped was an appropriate time, having a make-believe conversation with my imaginary friend in my head. Hi, Tori, said my imaginary friend. What’s up, bee-yotch? Yep, my imaginary friend was sassy. Also, a little outdated on her slang. Bee-yotch was so two years ago.

  “Not much,” I said to the phone. “Just got back from a bridal shower.” Did you hear that, Tino’s goons? I’ve been at a bridal shower. In case they’d noticed my car in the lot all day, I debated mentioning that I’d gotten a ride with someone. But that might make it too obvious that I was trying to cover my tracks, wouldn’t it? They could figure that out on their own. “She got so many gifts they wouldn’t even fit in her car.”

  Marriage, said my phony friend who, like my alter ego Tori, was only in her mid-twenties. Ew. Who wants to settle down so soon?

  “I know,” I said. “I’m not ready for all of that ‘till death do us part’ stuff, either. But maybe we’d feel differently if we met the right guy.” As long as I was—hopefully—punking Tino’s tech team, might as well have a little more fun with it, right? “I saw the cutest shoes on the Neiman’s Web site the other day.”

  You’re a student and a waitress, said my fictitious and now apparently no-fun friend. You can’t afford shoes from Neiman’s.

  “Maybe not now,” I snapped back. “But when I graduate in a couple of years and get a full-time job I could afford to shop there.” Some friend, trying to quash my dreams. I logged into the Neiman Marcus site again. “Get on their site and search for Sarah Jessica Parker.”

  Pause.

  “No, I don’t know when she got her own shoe line.”

  Another pause.

  “You on the site now? Okay, good. It’s the metallic sling-backs near the bottom of the first page.”

  Another pause.

  “They do not look like stripper shoes.”

  Another pause.

  “All right,” I said, pretending she’d gotten another incoming call. “Tell him I said hi. Later.” I pretended to thumb a button to end the call and tossed the phone onto my bed.

  My ass now covered, I spent the evening parked in front of the TV, watching movies on HBO. I might be stuck here, bored and lonely, but at least the apartment came with the premium cable package. Thank heaven for small favors.

  When I went to bed, I slept poorly again, wondering if someone were outside keeping an eye on my apartment or listening to me snore through my laptop’s microphone. It was unsettling and scary and I didn’t like it one bit. This case better move along fast. I wasn’t sure I could endure this type of life on a long-term basis. When Socrates said “the unexamined life is not worth living,” he should have qualified his statement. A life should be examined only by the person living it. When someone else was examining your life, especially through a Webcam or by following your car, it actually made your life miserable.

  On Sunday morning, I attended an eleven o’clock service at a nearby Baptist church. I went to church for several reasons. One, it was what a Dallas Baptist University student could be expected to do and would maintain my cover if Tino still had me under surveillance. Two, I was a little lonely, a little scared, and wanted to be around people, even if they were total strangers. And three, I figured it couldn’t hurt to put in a prayer or two, ask the Big Man to keep our team safe and to help us catch Tino in the act before anyone else got hurt.

  Hallelujah and amen.

  Midway through the service, my cell phone vibrated in my purse. Though I had the ringer turned off, the buzz was nonetheless audible to those sitting nearby, several of whom cast me irritated looks for interrupting their weekly spiritual fix. Hey, how about some of that forgiveness the minister was preaching?

  I fished the phone out of my purse to find a text from Agent Hohenwald, whom I’d identified as Heidi Brown in my phone. All it said was Call me, but I knew he wouldn’t have contacted me unless it was something critical, so I read an implied NOW! at the end of the text.

  I stood, though I kept myself hunched over so as not to block the view of the pastor from everyone behind me. “Excuse me,” I said to the woman sitting in the pew next to me. She turned her legs to the side so I could squeeze by. This process continued as I made my way past eight other people, tripping over one man’s large feet and nearly falling headfirst into the center aisle. That was the last time I’d sit in the middle of a row.

  I hurried to the doors, opening and closing them as quietly as possible. As I bounded down the front steps of the church, I jabbed the button on my phone to dial Agent Hohenwald.

  When he answered, he offered no greeting, instead getting right down to business. “We’ve got a body.”

  My head went airy and my hand went out, instinctively seeking the railing to steady myself. Grabbing the handrail in a death grip, I lowered myself to a sitting position on the steps. “Whose?”

  “The locksmith’s.”

  “Where?”

  “A farmer outside Van Alstyne found the locksmith’s work truck in his back forty. A hose was run from the exhaust pipe into the window.”

  Had guilt over the mugging or
fear of apprehension led the man to take his own life? “It was a suicide?”

  Hohenwald scoffed. “Assisted suicide, maybe, if you know what I mean.”

  I feared I knew exactly what he meant. That the scene had been set up to make it appear as if the locksmith had taken his own life, when in reality his life had been ended by someone else.

  By Tino Fabrizio.

  “The farmer called the sheriff’s department, and when the sheriff’s department ran the plates on the truck they noted we’d flagged the truck’s owner as a person of interest in a pending investigation. They turned the scene over to the FBI. I’ve got a crew out here now going over the truck. No definitive word yet, but I noted marks and residue on the victim’s mouth and wrists that would be consistent with duct tape.”

  Yikes.

  “Was there any cash in the van?” I asked. “Maybe a bank deposit slip or something?”

  “Nothing.”

  Part of me was disappointed. Finding a money trail could help my part of the investigation. Another part of me was glad I wouldn’t have to go out to the crime scene. Coming face-to-face with a dead man wasn’t my idea of fun.

  “I’ll get back to you when I know more,” Hohenwald said. “In the meantime, warn your team to be extra vigilant. If this is how Tino treats guys who’ve done him a favor, no telling what he might do to a federal agent if he got one alone.”

  Gulp.

  chapter twenty-two

  Progress Reports

  At three, I aimed my Elantra for the Galleria mall in north Dallas. I didn’t notice anyone following me, but I knew that didn’t guarantee I didn’t have a tail. There could be more than one car and driver involved. The last thing I wanted was to end up in some farmer’s field sucking exhaust, so I had to watch carefully.

  On the drive over, my Italian CD taught me the words for common clothing items. I pantaloni. Il cappotto. La camicia.

  I parked near Nordstrom, which sat at the end farthest from the route to Hana’s apartment, and entered the mall. I ducked into several stores as I made my way down the main walkway, but purchased no pataloni, cappotto, or camicia. Still I noticed no one trailing me, no one who looked suspicious. Though I normally stopped to watch the ice skaters on the rink near Macy’s, today I simply hurried into the store. I circled around the perimeter and darted out the doors that led to the parking lot.

  Keeping an eye on my surroundings, I power-walked the mile to Hana’s condominium, impressed that I made it in just over fourteen minutes. That Italian food and cannoli hadn’t slowed me down yet. I’d just raised my hand to knock when Hana peeked out from the curtain covering the narrow window next to the door. As I lowered my hand, she opened the door.

  “Come on in,” she said. “There’s drinks in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  After learning about the body Hohenwald had found, I could really go for some alcohol. But I knew that would be a mistake. Alcohol dulls a person’s senses and slows down response time. And if ever I needed to be alert and quick it was now, while I was working this difficult, risky case.

  I went in to find Eddie and Will already seated on a contemporary mauve and chrome sofa inside. Each of them held a can of soda.

  I lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey, guys.”

  “Hey,” they said in unison.

  I went to Hana’s fridge, admiring her granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. My town house had been built some time ago, and had standard Formica counters and traditional white appliances. Ridiculous of me to have kitchen envy given that the only thing I did in the room was make coffee and feed my cats, but I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed a Dr Pepper and returned to her living room, admiring the colorful rug. I took a seat on a modern gray chair. “Nice place, Hana.”

  She continued to watch out the window for Josh and Nick. “I can’t take any credit. My girlfriend did all the decorating.”

  I’d just opened my soda—pop!—when Hana said, “Here they come.”

  She opened the door and in came Nick and Josh. It was all I could do not to jump to my feet, run over to Nick, and envelop him in a bear hug, but I knew doing so would look unprofessional. I forced myself to stay cool.

  He turned his whiskey-colored eyes on me and in an instant they brightened. His upper lip curled in a tight smile. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey.”

  Hana directed him and Josh to her fridge, and a moment later we were all seated in a circle around Hana’s living room. Nick had chosen the chair closest to me.

  “As the team leader,” I said, “I guess I’ll start. The big news is that they found the locksmith who’s suspected in the mugging at the barbecue place.”

  Eddie sat up. “Is he talking?”

  I shook my head. “He’s not even breathing.”

  He sat back again. “Oh.”

  The room was silent for a moment as the news sank in. The horror of it only confirmed that we needed to make fast progress on this case before someone else met a similar fate.

  “Tino came into the restaurant the day I interviewed,” I told the group. “He was nothing but cordial. One of the chefs seems a little sketchy, but it could be he just has a crappy personality. He did make an odd comment, though. He said that he could never be fired because he ‘knew too much.’” My fingers formed air quotes for emphasis.

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think he meant by that?”

  “I wish I knew.” Had Dario simply been joking? Or had the reference meant something sinister?

  “We’ll follow him, too,” Eddie volunteered. “See if he might be up to something.”

  “Thanks, buddy. The good news,” I added, “is that I got Benedetta’s Wi-Fi password and passed it on to Josh.” I turned to our tech expert. “Were you able to hack into the restaurant’s records?”

  “Of course,” Josh said proudly.

  Frankly, despite Josh’s superb skills, I was a little surprised he’d gotten in so quickly. With Tino being in the cybersecurity business, I figured the man would have outfitted his wife’s bistro with all types of technical bells and whistles to keep hackers out. I wasn’t sure whether Josh’s easily infiltration was a testament to my coworker’s hacking skills or an indication that Tino didn’t think the bistro’s data needed protection. Perhaps I was barking up the wrong tree and the funds weren’t being laundered through the restaurant.

  Josh pulled a manila folder from his briefcase and handed each of us a printout that included reports downloaded from the bistro’s bookkeeping system. The paperwork also included copies of relevant portions of the restaurant’s tax returns. The rest of us flipped through the pages while Josh explained his findings.

  “The revenue and expenses reported on the returns coincide with the figures in their internal records,” he said.

  “Which begs the question,” Hana replied, looking up from her copy, “are those numbers accurate or have they been inflated?”

  I pulled the cash register sales printouts from my purse. “I snagged some data from the cash register. Let’s see if it matches up.”

  I called out the figures, while Josh compared them to the entries in the bookkeeping system. “They all match.”

  Eddie raised his palms. “But that doesn’t necessarily prove anything, does it? Benedetta or her daughters could be ringing up false sales to inflate the numbers. That would be an easy way to launder funds.”

  “True,” I agreed, “but they’d have to ring up a lot of fake sales for it to amount to anything.”

  The Cyber-Shield salesman had attempted to extort two grand a month from Alex Harris, the former bar owner. I had no idea whether the amount was typical, or how many clients might be involved, but it would take a significant number of falsified cash sales transactions to add up to tens of thousands of dollars per month. Besides, the register printout broke down the sales between credit and cash. The percentage of cash sales didn’t appear to be unusually high.

  Hana took another look at the financials. “Maybe the money�
��s being laundered through the catering account.”

  I looked at the data. Hana had a point. The catering revenue was substantial, over $300,000 last year.

  Will cocked his head. “Wouldn’t that be a bad strategy for laundering funds? It would be much easier to verify a few large catering sales than it would smaller cash transactions by anonymous customers. Besides, big catering events would likely be paid for by credit card or check, which would leave a paper trail.”

  In today’s world paper trail was a bit of a misnomer. Electronic trail would be more appropriate given that most financial transactions were processed electronically. But Will had a point, too. Money was typically laundered via some type of untraceable cash transaction. Cash didn’t leave a trail.

  Nick posed another possibility. “Tino might be transferring cash to a straw man posing as a catering client, and in return the straw man could pay for bogus catering services via credit card.”

  “Good point,” Josh said. “I’ll see if I can find catering invoices on Benedetta’s system. If I can figure out who the clients were, I might be able to do some discreet digging and see if things look legit.”

  “Any luck hacking into Cyber-Shield?” I asked him.

  “None.” Josh’s jaw clenched in frustration. “I’ve never seen a system as well protected as theirs.”

  “So Cyber-Shield’s system is totally separate from the restaurant’s?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Different servers. Different routers.”

  Darn. I’d hoped the restaurant’s system might somehow be a back door into Cyber-Shield’s. I looked down at the floor and thought for a moment. “What about Kira? You think she could help?”

  Kira was both Josh’s girlfriend and an expert hacker, the only person I knew whose technical skills rivaled Josh’s. I’d once seen her remotely open the CD drive on an unsuspecting person’s laptop at a coffeehouse. It had been both impressive and creepy at the same time.