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

by Diane Kelly

  Aha! As I’d suspected, his scam went beyond Triple 7 Adventures and Whispering Pines.

  “Come on,” I willed the van on the screen. “Keep backing up.” Just another foot or two and the front bumper would come into view, allowing me to get the license plate number.

  The van rocked as the driver applied the brakes. The front bumper bore a novelty plate like it had at the retirement home, though this one read LIFE’S A BEACH.

  “Dammit,” I muttered. The plate wouldn’t do me any good in trying to track the van.

  I rewound the video and watched it again, looking for any clues that might identify the vehicle. The front window of the van bore a Texas registration decal and inspection sticker. At least now I knew for certain that the van was registered in Texas. That was something. Of course the van could be registered anywhere in Texas. The state comprised nearly 269,000 square miles. There were no guarantees that it was registered to an address in north Texas, even if it had been driven around the area in recent months.

  I sat back in the chair and thought for a minute. Unlike some states, which require only a single license plate on a car, Texas law requires vehicles to have both front and back plates. Novelty plates were not permitted. If a cop had spotted the van driving around with novelty plates, there was a chance the driver had been issued a ticket.

  I pulled out my cell phone and placed a call to Detective Booth at Dallas PD.

  She sounded excited to hear from me. “Please tell me you’ve got something on Tino Fabrizio.”

  I hated to burst her bubble, but I had to be honest. “Not yet, but we’re still working on it. Any chance I can impose on you for some help in an unrelated matter?”

  “Sure.”

  I explained the situation. “Can you tell me whether any tickets have been issued to the driver of a gray fifteen-passenger Chevy van for failing to have license plates?”

  “What time frame are we looking at?”

  “Last year or so.”

  “I’ll have one of the administrative staff run a search.”

  “Thanks. I’m still working undercover at the bistro, so rather than call me with the information it would be better for you to e-mail it to me.” I gave her my e-mail address at the IRS.

  “Will do.”

  With that we ended the call. I stuck the thumb drive into the USB port and made a copy of the camera footage. Evidence in hand, I left the store, waving good-bye to the woman behind the counter. “Appreciate your help!”

  “Anytime.”

  chapter twenty-nine

  Spyghetti

  Having struck out on my search for Tripp Sevin and his van, I continued on to the bistro. On my drive, I learned a few more Italian words. A chair was la sedia. A desk was la scrivania. Tavola meant table.

  As I pulled into the parking lot at Benedetta’s, my eyes spotted a crew of men in front of the restaurant. They stood on ladders to install pull-down safety doors like those Nick planned to have installed at the gallery. Tino—il padre—stood on the sidewalk, supervising the activity.

  I walked up. “Hello, Tino. What’s going on?” Killed anyone today? Maybe revved up that nail gun?

  “Just adding some security doors,” he said. “Wanna keep everyone safe over here. I worry when Benedetta and my girls are working late. You and the rest of the crew, too. These glass windows? Anyone can see in at night.”

  Ironic how someone who was such a threat to others worried so much about his family’s safety. Perhaps that was precisely why, though. He knew just how dangerous some people—people like him—could be.

  He hiked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Gallery Nico. “The guys at the gallery wanted a set installed to protect their art. Since the installers were already out here at the gallery I figured it was a good time to have them put up a set here, too.”

  “Makes sense. It’s nice to feel safe.” As if I’d ever feel safe around that guy. I eased around him. “Enjoy the rest of your day.” Try not to kill anyone.

  It was a relatively slow night at the restaurant. Benedetta was working the kitchen again, along with Juan. Luisa and Stella had the night off. Elena was the only other server working tonight.

  I glanced out the window as often as I could, keeping an eye out for Cole Kirchner, the square-headed goon who drove patrol car number six. I knew Nick was watching for him, too. So far there’d been no sign of him.

  At half past six, the phone rang behind the bar. Elena was busy carrying salads to customers, so I answered the call. “Good evening, Benedetta’s Bistro.”

  Nick’s voice came through the phone. “Hello.”

  It took everything in me not to react. It was good to hear his voice. It had only been two days since I’d last seen him, but when an agent worked a case like this and was separated not only from her usual, comforting surroundings but also from all of the people she loved, the time slowed to an excruciating crawl.

  “This is Nicolas Brandt, from the gallery,” Nick said. “I’d like to place a dinner order.”

  I stepped over to the register to enter his order. “What can we get you?”

  He asked for an order each of vegetable lasagna, linguini formaggio, and spinach ravioli, along with garlic knots.

  “No meal is complete without one of Benedetta’s signature desserts,” I said, smiling at Benedetta, who’d stepped behind the bar to retrieve a bottle of wine. “How about a tiramisu or a slice of Italian cream cake?”

  “I hear the chocolate cannoli is delicious,” Nick said.

  Of course he’d heard that from me. He added three cannoli to the order.

  I ripped the order from the register’s printer. “It’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

  “I got it.” Benedetta took the order from me and returned to the kitchen.

  I hung up the phone and grabbed a pitcher of iced tea, passing Elena as I walked through the dining room toward one of my tables, where the customers’ drinks were running low.

  “Who was that on the phone?” Elena asked.

  “The guy from the art gallery. Nicolas.”

  She looked out the window and across the parking lot toward Gallery Nico. “I’ll deliver the food when it’s ready.”

  “Fine by me.” It was not fine by me. Only I should be ogling my boyfriend. I forced my eyes away from a knife on a nearby table. No sense committing murder over petty jealousy.

  I refilled the customers’ tea glasses and offered them dessert. They declined, requesting only their check.

  Not long afterward, Elena emerged from the kitchen, two bags in her hand. She looked excited yet nervous. Cold, too. Her nipples were evident through her dress and she appeared to be shivering. She glanced around the dining room, noting that the only customers in the place had just been served their entrées and were happily digging in. “Come with me, Tori. I don’t want to look like I’m hitting on him. I can say I brought you over so you could see the art.”

  “Won’t your mother be mad if we both abandon our posts?”

  “It’ll just be for a minute.”

  I acquiesced, but not until I’d told the customers that I’d be stepping out for just a moment but would return very shortly.

  Elena and I walked briskly across the parking lot. She had her hands full with the food, so I opened the door of the gallery and held it for her.

  Nick glanced up from where he sat behind a desk situated along the side wall where he could keep an eye on the comings and goings at Cyber-Shield. Tonight he wore a western shirt with my scarf tied around his neck, along with some type of chunky gold bracelet he’d picked up God knows where. Knowing Nick as well as I did, it was clear to me he was in costume. Fortunately, having never met him before seeing him at the gallery, Elena didn’t know any different.

  Nick stood, looking from Elena to me and back again. “Hello, ladies.”

  “Hi, Nicolas,” Elena gushed, holding out the bags as she made her way toward him. “We’re slow at the restaurant so we decided to bring your food to yo
u and save you the trip.”

  He took the food from her and set it on his desk. “Well, you’ve certainly earned your tip tonight, haven’t you?”

  He reached into his back pocket for his wallet, removed three twenties, and held them out to Elena. “Keep the change.”

  Elena blushed. “That’s very generous. Thanks.” Seeming to remember that she’d dragged me along on this escapade, she wiggled her fingers in my direction. “This is our new waitress. Her name’s Tori.”

  Nick’s eyes flicked to my vivid red hair. “Not a Fabrizio, is she?”

  Elena laughed. “No. But we consider her an honorary family member.”

  Please don’t. The last name was the equivalent of murderer to me. Though I had to admit having a mother like Benedetta and three sisters like Stella, Luisa, and Elena wouldn’t be bad. They were witty and cheerful, friendly and warm.

  I waved my hand in a small arc. “Nice to meet you, Nicolas. Interesting art you’ve got here.”

  Nick cocked his head. “We’re quite proud of our collection.”

  I looked around. On a pedestal to my left was the papier-mâché head I’d seen Emily Raggio carrying into the gallery. It was, indeed, made from surgical masks. Next to the piece stood a small tented card that identified the artist and the piece. WE ALL WEAR MASKS—EMILY RAGGIO. Another, smaller card revealed the price of the piece, $3,750.

  Mallory Sisko, an emerging artist I’d also met while investigating the Unic Art Space, had a piece for sale, too. It was a large hourglass filled with a variety of small things, including a lift ticket from a ski resort in Santa Fe, a couple of chess pieces, the crumpled cover of a romance novel, a blue square of pool cue chalk, and ticket stubs from movies, theater performances, and music concerts. Time Well Spent boasted a price tag of $1,100.

  Another artist had made a large heart-shaped picture out of small pieces of raggedly torn red tissue paper. The piece was titled You Ripped Out My Heart and was offered at $385.

  The gallery boasted numerous other pieces, too, including a series of black-and-white photos of people’s bare feet, a charcoal drawing of the Dallas skyline, and an abstract stone sculpture that looked like a sunrise over a craggy mountain from one vantage point and a roaring brontosaurus from another.

  A door in the back wall opened and Josh and Kira emerged. It was all I could do not to burst into guffaws. Like Nick, Josh had attempted to dress his part as an art aficionado. I had the distinct feeling Kira had offered her assistance, perhaps even her clothing, too. Josh wore what I could only call a skinny suit—a pair of tight, ankle-length gray pants along with a matching jacket that looked two sizes too small, even for an undersized guy like him. Under the suit he wore a silky white shirt, open at the collar, no tie. His shoes were unusual navy blue loafers with silver zippers up the sides. To top off the look, he’d plunked a gray bowler hat on his head.

  Kira was dressed in her usual unusual style, today sporting a pair of polka-dotted leggings, white ankle boots, and a white baby doll top.

  “Did we smell dinner?” Josh called.

  Nick waved them forward. “It’s here. These lovely ladies from the bistro were nice enough to bring it over.”

  Kira’s eyes seemed to darken when she spotted Elena standing at the desk. Like me, she was probably feeling a little threatened by the beautiful Italian woman and her big bombolonis.

  “Hi.” She stepped up between Nick and Josh. “I’m Kiki.” She extended a thin hand with a silver ring on each finger, including the thumb.

  Elena shook her hand. “You work here, too?”

  “Just consulting for a day or two.” Kira crossed her arms in front of herself, pointing her opposite index fingers at Nick and Josh. “These two bitches needed a little help curating their collection.”

  “Oh.” Elena’s face scrunched in confusion for a moment before she turned to go. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  I followed her out the door and back through the parking lot.

  She cast me a befuddled glance. “What do you think Kiki meant when she called Nicolas a ‘bitch’?”

  “I hate to burst your bubble,” I said, “but I think Nicolas and that other guy are more than just business partners. I think they’re partner partners.”

  “Ugh!” Elena threw up her arms, imploring the sky. “Why are all of the good ones married or gay? I can’t believe I stood in the freezer for two whole minutes before we went over there.”

  No wonder she’d been shivering and perky.

  “No sense getting hypothermia just to get a man’s attention,” I told her. “You’ve got more to offer than your body, Elena.”

  She turned to me, angst on her face. “Do I, Tori? I feel like I’m in a rut. I don’t even know what I’d talk about if a guy asked me out. All I ever do is work at the restaurant. It’s all I’ve ever done and it’s what I’ll be doing until the day I die.”

  Whoa. I hadn’t realized Elena was unhappy. She did a good job of hiding it. “What would you rather do?”

  “I don’t know.” She raised a noncommittal shoulder. “Maybe work in television?”

  “If you can spend two minutes in a freezer with no coat, you’d make a great weather reporter.”

  Her face relaxed and she laughed. “Do you think it would break my mother’s heart if I told her I didn’t want to run the restaurant with her anymore?”

  I knew Benedetta enjoyed having her children around, but she wasn’t a control freak and seemed to value her girls’ individuality. Besides, I had some experience with this situation myself. As much as I knew my mother wished I’d remained at my safe job at Martin & McGee, she was glad I’d found my purpose in life as a special agent. “Honestly, Elena? I think it would break her heart if you didn’t pursue your dreams.”

  Elena’s face brightened. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  We returned to the bistro and immediately checked on our tables. One of mine needed more garlic knots. Apparently, the half dozen I’d brought the two diners had not been enough. Could someone overdose on carbs? Guess I’d find out. “I’ll be right back with more.”

  I grabbed their bread basket, went to the kitchen, and filled it with warm garlic knots, straight from the oven. As I began to leave the kitchen, Benedetta called for me to wait.

  She handed me a bag of food. “Take this to Tino and Eric next door. The tortellini is Tino’s. The penne is Eric’s.”

  “Your husband’s working late again?”

  “He tells me they’re trying to land a large client,” she said. “He’s working on a bid.”

  Maybe. Or maybe he was over there in his office, plotting how to extort money from one of his existing clients.

  I dropped the basket of bread at the table and asked Elena to cover for me while I ran the bag of food next door. I entered Benedetta’s code in the keypad next to the front door. Two-three-six-three. The door buzzed again as I stepped inside.

  The interior lights were turned off in the main foyer tonight. As I rounded the empty reception desk, I noted several things in quick succession. One, there was light under the men’s room door, indicating someone occupied it. Two, the door to Eric’s room had not been pulled fully shut. Eric probably intended to take only a quick potty break and had left the door this way so he wouldn’t have to suffer the nuisance of reentering his number in the keypad. Third, Tino’s door was open only an inch or so, not wide enough for him to spot me if I took a quick look-see into Eric’s cybercave. Of course, the camera would catch my movements, but with any luck nobody was monitoring it at the moment.

  As quickly and quietly as I could, I went to the door, pushed it open, and peeked my head inside. The windowless room contained a built-in modular desk with a wide work surface. A video camera mounted directly over the door was aimed at the desk.

  Affixed to the wall over the desk were six large screens, each of which was divided into smaller squares of varying numbers, probably depending on how many cameras were at each client’s location. Each square
showed a live feed from a video camera. The name and account number of each client appeared across the bottom of the screen. Tommy’s Tire Town—34762, Wexler’s Furniture—79085, South Dallas Liquor—15393, and so on. Two more flat-screen monitors sat on the desk, along with a half-empty bottle of pink Vitaminwater. On the flat-screens were static images of what appeared to be the back door of a business with a man reaching for the knob. While no name appeared on the door, per information at the bottom of the screen, the image depicted was of Looking Good Optical—55629.

  Why weren’t these images moving like the others? Had something gone wrong with the camera feed? Or had Eric purposely frozen the image for some reason? Was he doctoring this video like we suspected him of doing with the others?

  Had Operation Italian Takeout caught its first big break?

  A-hem.

  The sound of someone clearing his throat sent my heart into my esophagus and drew my eyes to Tino’s door. Uh-oh. The man stood there, staring me down, his normally friendly eyes steely and cold. “What are you doing, Tori?”

  Despite the fact that my brain was spinning in terror, I knew I had to play it cool. I raised the bag and forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look like the grimace it felt like. “Just delivering Eric’s penne and your tortellini. Hope you’re hungry. It looks like your wife sent over extra garlic knots and a cannoli, too.”

  I watched Tino’s face. Had I fooled him? Or had the cheer in my voice sounded as false to him as it had to me?

  The door to the men’s room opened and Eric stepped out. His eyes met mine, but immediately looked away. When he spotted the door to his room standing open, his buggy eyes nearly popped out of his head. His voice sounded squeaky and panicked when he spoke. “Did you go into my office?”

  Tino held up a palm, but it seemed more of a warning to Eric than a true attempt to calm him. “She’s just brought your dinner.”

  I circled the bag with my left arm and opened it with my right, retrieving the container marked PENNE. I pulled it out of the bag and held it out to Eric. “Here you go. Mangia.”