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

by Diane Kelly

  Eric grabbed the container from my hand and slipped into his office, closing and locking the door behind him.

  Tino chuckled, but his laughter didn’t make it to his eyes, which were still watching me intently. “Computer geeks. Odd ducks, aren’t they? He was probably afraid you’d steal his Iron Man action figures.”

  I giggled and rolled my eyes. “The only thing I want is your chocolate cannoli.”

  He reached out for the bag, the friendly twinkle back in his eyes now. “Then I better take it from you right away.”

  I handed him the bag and turned to go, calling, “Don’t work too hard!” back over my shoulder. Don’t work too hard. Don’t torch anyone’s business. Don’t shove anyone off a roof. Really, shouldn’t those things go without saying?

  chapter thirty

  Now Overhear This

  As I left the bistro at the end of my shift a couple of hours later, I noticed Eric’s Mustang was no longer in the lot at Cyber-Shield. Neither was Tino’s Alfa Romeo. Again I wondered if those two were up to something, plotting another criminal act, fabricating evidence that would implicate someone else and make them appear innocent.

  On my drive home from work Tuesday night, I made another stop at a gas station. All this running around town had emptied my tank in short order. As I waited for the gas to finish pumping, I texted Pat Nix, otherwise known as Nick Pratt, from my new phone. Got look into tech cave. Looking Good Optical on monitors. Next victim?

  Just as soon as I’d sent the text I deleted it as I’d been instructed. No sense keeping evidence of my spying and snitching on me.

  The hose stopped pumping and the automated nozzle deactivated with a clunk. I returned the nozzle to the pump and climbed back into my car. As I pulled away from the pump, a return text came in from Pat/Nick. Putting eyes on it.

  Putting eyes on an optician’s business. There’s some irony for you.

  As I continued home through relatively sparse traffic, I took note of headlights a block behind me. Was my tail back? I couldn’t tell what type of car it was, but from the fact that the headlights sat up higher than a standard car, I suspected it might be the white pickup again.

  Sure enough, as I pulled to a stop at a red light, the white pickup took a right turn into a fast-food restaurant rather than pull up behind or beside me where I could get a better look at the driver and any passengers. Clearly, whoever was behind the wheel of the truck was trying to maintain some distance in an effort to prevent me from realizing I was being followed.

  When the light turned green, I continued on. A glance in my rearview mirror told me that the pickup had pulled back onto the street behind me.

  Why had Tino put a tail on me again? Was it because he suspected me of intentionally snooping at Cyber-Shield earlier? If that was the case, and Tino was growing wary, it would only make things harder on the federal law enforcement task force. Tino might realize he and his men were under watch and abort any immediate plans to take revenge on a client who’d failed to give in to his extortion. Or he might try to off me. After all, he had a history of dispatching anyone who had the goods on him. The mere thought turned my insides to jelly. I’d become a human bomboloni.

  I continued to drive, so rigid with fear and anxiety that the muscles in my back began to ache. With any luck, I could quickly convince those spying on me that I was only a college girl trying to do well in her waitressing job. I made my way back to my apartment complex, parked, and hurried up to my unit. I assumed whoever was in the pickup—possibly Cole Kirchner or Eric Echols—intended only to keep an eye on me, visually and virtually. But there was a chance that whoever was in the pickup intended to do me harm … as in impaled-on-a-fence, nail-gun-to-the-face, bench-pressed-into-a-pancake kind of harm.

  Inside my place I glanced around, trying to figure out what I could do to make the apartment more secure. I supposed I could contact Eddie or another member of the Operation Italian Takeout team and have them keep watch over my place tonight. But that would mean taking an agent off one of Tino’s men to babysit me. If nothing happened, it would look like I was losing my edge, letting the pressure of the case overcome me. Lu might even take me off the case, put another agent in charge. I certainly didn’t want that. I’d worked too hard on this case to stop now. I’d suffered fallen arches and burned fingertips from hot plates. I needed to see this through to the end.

  So instead I grabbed one of the stools from the breakfast bar and pulled it over to the door. It was too tall for me to lodge it under the knob like I’d seen people do in movies and television shows. Dang. I decided to lay the barstool down on its side three feet in from the door. If someone quietly jimmied the lock, they’d trip over the stool on their way in to murder me, waking me and giving me time to get to my gun. I placed the other stool on its side two feet farther into the room. If they somehow managed to avoid the first stool, surely the second one would get them.

  In the bedroom, I pulled some lightweight garments from the rack in the closet and hung them from the curtain rod over the window. If someone tried to sneak in that way, they’d have to fight through several layers of cotton and polyester and spandex to get to me. I’d shoot them before they made their way through.

  When I finished my preparations, I sat on the bed to think. I was terrified that Tino might now see me as a threat and feel the need to eliminate me. I didn’t like feeling scared, and my terror soon morphed into anger at the man who’d made me feel this way. He had no right to do the things he did, to make people fear for their lives. Bastard. I logged into my laptop, careful to aim the Webcam away from my reinforced clothes curtains, and bent over next to my bed so that the first thing anyone cyberspying on me would see was my ass.

  Kiss this, Tino Fabrizio.

  Thanks to his wife’s chocolate cannoli, I had more kissable ass than I’d had last week.

  My buttocks having made their statement, I spent a minute or two checking my fake e-mail account for the benefit of anyone snooping on my computer. I sent responses to my fictional friends and family.

  Studying for finals. Ugh! Hoping for a B in Linguistics.

  My new job is great! I like my boss. She works us hard but she’s nice and gives me free desserts.

  I logged back into the Neiman Marcus Web site and pulled up the Sarah Jessica Parker slingbacks. My hacker could stare at those for a few minutes while I took a quick shower and shampooed the smell of garlic out of my hair. Of course I took my gun with me to the bathroom, placing it in easy reach on the toilet seat while I showered.

  I went to bed, sleeping restlessly, waking Wednesday morning alive but still tired. I righted the stools and returned them to the breakfast bar, feeling a little foolish in the light of day. It was only smart to have a healthy fear of Tino Fabrizio, but I couldn’t let it overpower me and prevent me from thinking straight. I needed all of my faculties at full capacity to deal with this case.

  I attended my morning class at DBU, noting no tail today as I drove to and from the campus. Had I satisfied Tino again that I was simply the young college girl I was pretending to be? Was he thinking himself paranoid for siccing a tail on me when all I’d done was push open a cracked door to look for an employee who was expecting a meal delivery? Really, that wasn’t so unusual, was it?

  Since I didn’t have access to my IRS-issued laptop and didn’t want to run a search on Looking Good Optical on the unsecured laptop the FBI had given me, I swung by the DBU library to use one of their shared computers. Before typing the name in the search bar, I quickly scanned my surroundings. All I saw were college students studying, researching, and flirting. Well, one guy was dozing in a chair, but everyone else seemed to be occupied. Nobody seemed to be paying any mind to the redhead at the computer.

  I typed the name of the business in the space and hit enter. Up popped a Web site for Looking Good. I clicked on the About Us link.

  The page featured a photo of the optician with his wife and adorable young son, whose mouth hung wide open in a natural,
gleeful smile. The optician was a sandy-haired man who wore wire-rimmed glasses himself. His wife was pretty, with hair the golden-brown color of maple syrup. They looked like a happy young family. The thought that Tino Fabrizio could put a quick end to that happiness made me feel both furious and queasy. The only thing that made me feel better was knowing that multiple sets of eyes were on both the optical business and Tino’s men. With a little luck, they’d be able to catch any bad guys in the act before they could cause too much damage to the optician’s business or to the optician himself. And, if they were able to connect any would-be criminals to Tino, we’d be able to search Cyber-Shield and Tino’s home and get the evidence we needed to nail him for his tax crimes. I still wasn’t sure whether he was laundering the extorted funds or completely failing to report them, but it had to be one or the other. Either way, he’d be looking at several years in federal prison on top of whatever the other charges might bring.

  Knowing now on whose behalf I was likely working, my resolve was renewed. Nobody would take that cute smile off that little boy’s face if I had anything to say about it.

  I deleted the browser history and headed out to my car.

  I was scheduled for an early ten A.M. to two P.M. lunch shift today at the bistro. On the drive over, my language CD taught me the Italian words for many occupations. Nurse—infermiera. Architect—architetto. I wondered what the Italian word was for extortionist. Extortolini, maybe? The CD continued. Lawyer—avvocato. Mmm. That last one put me in the mood for guacamole.

  Bendetta stood in front of the bistro, her Italy-shaped key chain in her hand, unlocking the pull-down doors that had been installed the day before. They rattled as she slid them upward, the noise loud enough to penetrate the closed windows of my car. Waitress—cameriera.

  “Buon giorno, Benedetta.”

  She offered her usual warm smile. “Buon giorno, cara.”

  I noticed she had the zippered bank bag tucked into the outside pocket of her purse. I knew she went to the bank early each morning to deposit the preceding day’s cash intake, but I found myself wondering this morning whether any of the money she’d deposited was the cash Tino had extorted from his clients. It would be easy enough for Cole Kirchner to bring the funds back to Cyber-Shield, and for Tino to then take them home to Benedetta.

  I entered the bistro on Benedetta’s heels. Elena was off today, but Luisa was working with me. We prepared the tables, stocked the glasses and plates, and carried desserts to the refrigerated display to entice the takeout customers. I was becoming very efficient at the restaurant routine. Maybe I really could open my own eatery someday. If I did, I’d call it Mom’s Southern Cooking and put my mother in charge of the kitchen.

  After as the restaurant opened at eleven, Nick called in with an order. “Any chance you can deliver it?” he asked. “We’ve got a customer in the gallery looking at pieces and we don’t want to leave while he’s here.”

  “Of course.” I rang up his total on the register. “It’ll be thirty-nine sixty-seven.”

  I went to the kitchen and turned in his order. Dario was back today, sliding a Margherita pizza into the brick oven. I held up the ticket. “Got a to-go order for you.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment as I placed it in the queue.

  As I continued to wait on the tables, I kept an eye on the movement at Cyber-Shield. As usual, there was only minimal activity. I found myself wishing for Superman’s X-ray vision so I could see through the wall separating Benedetta’s Bistro from Cyber-Shield. By my best guess, Eric’s cybercave would sit just on the other side of the wall from the last booth, and would continue down the hallway to the kitchen door. Hmm. Was there an air duct that connected the two spaces? Maybe a pipe? An electrical socket even?

  I rang up two takeout orders, bidding the customers good-bye with “Ciao.” Using my newly acquired Italian language skills, I was feeling quite worldly for a person who’d been born, raised, and lived her entire life in the state of Texas.

  When Nick’s food was ready, I grabbed the bag. As Luisa came into the kitchen with dirty plates, I said, “I’m running this across to the gallery. I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait!” called Benedetta from behind me. “Take this, too.” She handed me another container.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tiramisu,” she said. “Those boys at the gallery are becoming some of our most loyal customers. Might as well thank them with free dessert, right?” She leaned it to whisper to me. “It’s leftover from yesterday. But you won’t tell them, will you?”

  I pretended to lock my lip and throw away the key. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  I could only wonder what other secrets Benedetta might be keeping …

  chapter thirty-one

  A Fresh Tactic

  I left the restaurant and walked through the lot. A silver Mercedes sat in front of Gallery Nico. Could it belong to the customer Nick had referenced?

  I went inside to find Nick speaking with a fortyish man whose dark hair was pulled back into a man bun, a small lock on one side left free, probably on purpose to create an artsy, asymmetrical effect. The man stood bent, his hands on his knees, as he peered into the hourglass Mallory Sisko had filled.

  “Such originality,” the man said.

  Nick pointed me to the door that led to the office. I carried the bag back to the door and knocked. Kira answered and waved me in, and I left the door halfway open behind me.

  I unpacked their food, setting it on the desk, and lowered my voice to a whisper. “What have you found out about the catering? Does it look like money’s being laundered through the account?”

  “See for yourself.” Josh grabbed a file folder and handed it to me.

  I quickly paged through the paperwork inside. The file included catering invoices dating back three years. The invoices appeared to be primarily for one-time events. Weddings. Family reunions. Office parties. Nothing immediately stood out. One company had been a repeat customer, but given the regularly scheduled dates of the luncheons the catering appeared to be for some kind of quarterly staff meeting. Plus, the amounts that the company spent weren’t excessive, adding up to around forty thousand dollars per year. Surely Tino’s extortion brought him more than forty grand a year. If not, why bother?

  I closed the file. “I don’t see any obvious red flags. I assume you checked things out?”

  “Of course,” Josh said, taking the file from me. “Most of the weddings were announced in the newspaper, and there were photos of the bride and groom all over their Facebook pages. Some of them even included photos of the food.” He went on to tell me that he’d called the companies listed on the invoices and posed as a new caterer soliciting business. “I asked them who normally provided their catering services. Some told me it was Benedetta’s. A few of them wouldn’t give me the information, but I sensed it was because they either didn’t know or didn’t want to bother looking it up.”

  Or they figured it was none of his business. “So the catering account is a dead end?”

  “Looks that way,” he said, “but take a look at this.”

  He handed me another file. Inside were separate invoices for liquor sales to catering clients. It was not unusual for food and liquor to be invoiced separately. After all, special taxes applied to alcohol sales, so it was important that revenues from liquor be separately accounted for. In addition, the file contained records for events where a cash bar was offered. In these instances, rather than the host being charged for the liquor consumed, the drinks were paid for by the individuals who ordered them. And those individuals paid in cash.

  Josh gestured to the paperwork. “There are several weddings and holiday parties where the liquor bill seemed excessive or the cash bar brought in three or four times the amount of the catering bill.”

  Kira looked up from where she worked at her computer. “You’re dealing with Italians, right? They love their vino.”

  She had a point. Of course, Americans loved their wine, too
, as did the French. Really, who didn’t like wine?

  “This could be something,” I said, looking over the reports, “then again, it could be nothing.”

  My mind went back to the April fifteenth parties Martin & McGee threw when I worked at the firm. They’d always treated the staff to a nice buffet of food but, rather than risk bankrupting the firm, they’d provided only a cash bar. After three months of twelve-hour workdays seven days a week, we CPAs tended to tie one on. I could only imagine how much the bar took in on those crazy nights.

  “It’s definitely something for us to keep an eye on.” I handed the file back to him. “Have you had any luck hacking into Cyber-Shield?”

  Josh grabbed his blond curls with frustrated fingers. “We’re screwed. Kira can’t get into their system, either.”

  Kira huffed a frustrated breath. “I’ve tried every trick in the book. I’m out of ideas.”

  “If you two can’t do it,” I said, “no one can.” I racked my brain, trying to figure out what our next step should be. “If we can’t get into Cyber-Shield virtually, what if we planted a bug or something?” Maybe we’d overhear something that could help us bust Fabrizio.

  Josh sat up straighter and his gaze narrowed as he appeared to be thinking things over. Josh loved gadgets. In earlier cases, he’d supplied me with a GPS tracking device that had helped me keep tabs on an errant minister, as well as a ballpoint pen loaded with a spy camera. Surely he’d have some type of listening device we could plant at Cyber-Shield.

  I pulled the napkins and plasticware out of the bag. “Got something I can hide in a cannoli? Maybe a bug that looks like a chocolate chip?” I knew how those chips could get away from a person and fall to the floor. Instead of eating the chocolate bug, though, I’d kick it under Tino’s desk where it could transmit his conversations to us.

  “I’ve got all sorts of bugs,” Josh said. “Most of which would work on the usual targets. The problem here is that we’re dealing with experts in security. Surely they use TSCM technology.”