by Diane Kelly
As I folded the top of the bag over, I felt both relief and apprehension. It was good that I’d been able to take charge of the delivery, but the fact that I planned to plant a recording device in Tino’s office had my insides squirming.
I was halfway through the dining room with the bag when the front door opened and Tino stepped into the bistro. It was all I could do not to hurl his bag of food at him and scream. I didn’t need him here. I needed him back in his office!
He raised his hand. Three tickets of some sort were splayed in his fingers. “Look what Daddy’s got, girls!”
Squealing, Stella, Luisa, and Elena rushed over to him. They jumped up and tried to grab the tickets from his hand, but he playfully held them up, out of reach. Not an easy feat for a short guy like him. Eventually he lowered his hand and Stella snatched the tickets from him.
“Stars on Ice!” she cried. “Woo-hoo!”
“Thanks, Dad,” Elena said, leaning in to give her father a kiss on the cheek.
Luisa did the same. “You always know just the thing to make us happy.”
Stella looked up from the tickets in her hand. “There’s only three tickets. What about Mom?”
Tino waved a hand. “Your mother hated the cold back in Chicago. She’d have no interest in sitting next to a frozen ice rink.”
Elena looked my way. “These tickets are for next Thursday night. I know you’ve got finals next week, Tori, but could you cover for us?”
“Of course,” I said. “I should ace my tests. I’ve been studying a lot.” As if. I hadn’t cracked a book since the night I’d pretended to be studying at the nail salon.
Tino glanced at the bag of food in my hand. “Is that for me?”
“It sure is.” I stepped forward to hand it to him, tempted to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine and even Rainy Daze and the Sunshine Brigade wouldn’t dare to venture. “Enjoy.”
Choke on it, you rat bastard.
* * *
On Saturday morning, I made yet another trip to check out yet another gray Chevy van. This one was registered under the name Adam Stratford. Huh. That name didn’t sound Cajun at all.
After having no luck previously, I didn’t feel so much as if I was honing in on my target as if I was launched on a wild-goose chase. Maybe the Cajun cowboy lived far out in west Texas. Pecos or El Paso, maybe. Or perhaps he lived in Marfa, famous for its mystical lights of unknown origin. Or maybe he lived down in Houston, the state’s largest city. It was an easy four-hour drive up Interstate 45 from Houston to Dallas. Not too far for a con artist to drive if he wanted to rip people off yet reduce his risks of being identified in line at the grocery store. But I wouldn’t feel like I’d done my duty if I didn’t follow up on all of these leads. On the bright side, surely I’d get a free cannoli for helping Benedetta out with the wedding later.
I pulled up to a house in Garland, a city made semifamous by Jesse Eisenberg in the movie Zombieland. To paraphrase, the character he portrayed said the city might appear as if zombies had destroyed it, but that’s just the way Garland looks. An overstatement, to be sure. Garland might not be the most exclusive area of Dallas, and it might have some older neighborhoods, but there were no eviscerated corpses lying around. At least not at the moment.
The home on west Avenue D was a wood model, beige with dark green trim, and appeared to have been built in the 1950s. The driveway, if you could call it that, was merely two wide concrete runners, one for each tire, with crabgrass growing between them. The van sat at the far end of the driveway, which proceeded from the street up along the side of the house.
I climbed out of my car and walked up to the van, keeping an eye out for rotting, brain-eating predators, just in case. The van gleamed in the sun, looking as if it had been freshly washed. There was no magnetic sign on the side, no telltale novelty license plates on the vehicle. By all accounts, it looked like this van would be another dead end.
Until I peeked in the passenger side window.
Bingo.
On the passenger floorboard lay a magnetic sign. This one read OZARKS EXPRESS. On the seat lay a stack of postcards held together with a rubber band. The postcard pictured beautiful photos of the Arkansas mountain range along with the words Let Us Take You There! and a phone number and Web site address. Given that the postcards lay flat on the seat, I couldn’t read the backside, but it didn’t much matter. It was clear I’d found my Cajun cowboy con artist.
I tried the door of the van but found it locked. I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a picture of the evidence through the window. It was a little on the dark side, but it would have to do.
Now it was time to make an arrest.
After retrieving my Glock, handcuffs, and badge from the locked glove compartment of my car, I went to the door and knocked, my heart bouncing up and down in my chest in anxious anticipation. Knock-knock-knock. I waited thirty seconds or so, but nobody came to the door.
I knocked again, louder and longer this time. Knock-knock-KNOCK-KNOCK-knock.
The place had no doorbell, so knocking again was my only option. I put some extra muscle into it this time. KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!
A voice came from the yard next door. “Adam left earlier in his car,” said a fortyish woman who’d wandered out to water her petunias with a garden hose.
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Nope,” she repeated. “Met him when he moved in and occasionally he’ll come over and ask to borrow a tool from my husband, but that’s about it.”
Typical neighbor relationship these days, when people valued privacy over idle conversation at the fence.
“I’ll check back later,” I said.
She didn’t ask who I was or why I’d come by. Also fairly typical of people these days. Rather than sticking their noses where they might not be welcome, they minded their own business.
I got back in my car and drove to Whispering Pines to give the residents my good news. I found Harold out front, pushing Isaiah in his wheelchair, making their way toward the rose garden. There was no sign of Jeb. He was probably hitting on women in a knitting class or over cards again.
I pulled my car to a stop at the curb and rolled my window down. “Hi, Harold and Isaiah!” I called, raising a hand. “Got some good news for you!”
I climbed out of my car and walked over to the men. Harold’s huge eyes blinked at me from behind his thick glasses, making me feel like I was a specimen under a microscope.
“I found the con artist who ripped y’all off.”
Harold’s mouth fell open. Isaiah’s already hung open so it was hard to tell if he was surprised, too, but the glimmer in his eyes told me he was happy to hear the news.
“I knew it!” Harold cried, clapping his hands. “I knew the girl who killed a drug dealer could find our bad guy, too!”
Back to that, were we? Ugh.
“Did you arrest him?” Harold asked. “Is he in jail? Can we go visit him and poke him with a stick through the bars?”
“No, no, and I don’t think you’re allowed to do that.”
He frowned. “Well, if he’s not in jail, what did you go getting us all excited for?”
No pleasing some people, huh? “I know who he is, and I know where he lives,” I told them. “Problem was, he wasn’t home. I could go back and arrest him, but it would be more fun to beat him at his own game, wouldn’t it?”
Harold’s eyes flashed with mischief behind his glasses. “You mean con the con artist?”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
Isaiah lifted his head. “Count … me … in.”
chapter thirty-six
My Big Fat Italian Wedding
I slipped the fitness tracker around my wrist and pushed it up under the hem of my sleeve. It was doubtful I’d have a chance to plant the thing today, but better to have it with me just in case.
I arrived at th
e bistro at four as Benedetta had requested. Tino’s car wasn’t at his office. Looked like he was off today.
Across the parking lot, things were bustling at the gallery. Through the window I could see five or six patrons milling about the space. Looked like Nick might have done too good a job with his cover. Gallery Nico was doing a brisk business. A reporter from the Dallas Morning News had even come by earlier in the week to do a piece on the place.
I entered the bistro and stashed my things in my locker. While Elena handled the relatively quiet dining room, Luisa and Stella and I lugged pot after heavy pot of pasta out to the catering truck. It was a wonder none of us suffered a hernia. The garlic knots were much easier to carry, as were the coolers holding the salad. Given that wedding cake would be served at the reception, no desserts had been ordered.
While the girls and I carried the food, Dario stacked cases of wine and assorted liquor onto a dolly and rolled them out to the catering truck, setting them side by side on the floor. He returned to the restaurant two more times, reloaded the dolly, and came back to the truck with yet more cases of liquor. My gosh! There was enough liquor here to throw an entire year’s worth of frat parties.
When the truck was ready, Benedetta came outside carrying a metal cash box. She handed the cash box to me and climbed into the driver’s seat. I sat in the middle with the box on my lap, while Juan sat on the right.
I cast a glance back at the liquor. “Who’s going to tend the bar?”
Benedetta said that one of the bistro’s bartenders planned to meet us at the event to work the bar. “I’ll back him when things get busy.”
“You know how to mix drinks?” I asked.
“I know how to do everything, cara,” she said with a coy smile.
Tonight’s event could be a chance for me to figure out whether cash was being laundered through the liquor account. If I could count the funds in the cash box at the end of the night, I’d be able to compare them to the figure she’d put into her bookkeeping system later.
“I’d be happy to help at the bar,” I said. “I don’t know how to mix drinks, but I’d love to learn. And I can pour wine or champagne.” Merely filling a glass required no bartending skills.
“I’ll need you to handle the food tonight,” she said. “Besides, you’re not certified to sell liquor.”
Ugh!
“But if you are interested in learning,” she added, “I can schedule you a shift as a bar back so you can get your feet wet.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’d like that.”
She chuckled and cut a glance my way. “One of these days you are going to take over my restaurant.”
I gave her a smile. “I just might.” But probably not in the way you think.
Benedetta headed onto Central Expressway, exiting on Mockingbird, just as Agent Hohenwald had done only days ago when we went to visit with Alex Harris at Dallas Country Club. Instead of turning left on Mockingbird, however, Benedetta turned right. In minutes we arrived at the beautiful St. Thomas Aquinas church on Kenwood. As we pulled up, I found myself admiring the arched entry and beautiful stained-glass windows. I also found myself wondering whether Tino Fabrizio had ever confessed his sins to a priest. Clergy were bound to confidentiality, but whoa. What a burden those secrets would be to bear, huh? And what penance could possibly make up for what Tino had done?
I realized that my idle speculations were ridiculous. Tino had probably never confessed his sins because he probably never felt sorry for the things he’d done. If he had, he wouldn’t keep doing them, right?
Benedetta drove around to the parish hall and parked. Juan and I spent the next half hour unloading the catering tables, linens, and food from the truck, while Benedetta supervised and arranged the tables and bar. Finally, we were done setting up. None too soon, either. The doors to the reception hall opened and wedding guests streamed into the room, making a beeline for our Italian buffet.
It was a happy, lively crowd of olive-skinned, dark-haired people. While Juan, with his Latino coloring, fit right in, I stuck out like a sore thumb with my pale skin and bright red hair. I tried to compensate by offering buon giornos to several of the guests, but quickly realized it was a mistake as they’d then begin to address me in Italian.
“Sorry,” I told them. “I haven’t gotten to verbs yet on my language CD.”
I served the salad and bread, while Juan handled the pasta and side dishes. Coffee, tea and antipasti were self-service. Benedetta and the bartender passed glass after glass of wine across the bar, exchanging them for cash. When the guests had finished their dinner, the champagne came out and the usual toasts were made. As the dinner turned to dancing, the crowd switched from wine to hard liquor, keeping Benedetta and the bartender busy nonstop.
Seeing how active the bar was, I wondered if the liquor account was accurate, after all. Perhaps our speculation that it was being used to launder funds was wrong.
“Time to clean up,” Juan said finally, handing me a rag to wipe down the buffet table.
The two of us spent the next few minutes cleaning up the area. Our jobs here now done, Juan and I quietly packed up the serving pieces, tables, and tablecloths. When we were ready to go, Benedetta bade the bartender farewell. Fortunately, things had slowed down as the night went on and it looked like he’d be able to manage the bar by himself from here on out.
It was after nine by the time Benedetta pulled the catering van into the parking lot of the restaurant. The pull-down safety doors were already in place at both Gallery Nico and the bistro, enclosing both businesses in an aluminum cocoon. I noted Tino’s car in the parking lot at Cyber-Shield, along with three of the patrol cars, including the one marked with the number six. Hmm. I wondered if Tino and Cole Kirchner were inside strategizing how to best extort money from Looking Good Optical or punish the optician for refusing to pay their unreasonable demands.
Benedetta circled around to the back of the building, reversing the truck carefully toward the building so that we could more easily unpack the pots, pans, and coolers from the back and take them into the kitchen. She unlocked the back door and swung it outward, using her foot to push the doorstop down to hold it open.
We were halfway through unloading the cargo bay when Tino emerged from the back door of Cyber-Shield. “Would you like some help?”
“Sure,” Benedetta said. “Many hands make light work.”
Tino grabbed a warming pot with a red streak of dried marinara sauce down the side. After he carried it inside, I noticed him duck into Benedetta’s office. He motioned for her to join him. Once she was inside, he closed the door. A minute later, the door opened and the two emerged. I had no idea what had transpired in the office, but I was left to wonder, once again, whether my seemingly sweet boss was aiding and abetting her mobster husband.
No opportunity to slip the recorder into Tino’s office presented itself that night. I went home with the device still on my wrist and a bagged cannoli in my hand.
chapter thirty-seven
Duty Calls Before Booty Calls
On Sunday afternoon, just like the week before, I parked at one end of the Galleria and slipped through various stores before exiting elsewhere. I’d dressed in workout clothes, and today jogged the distance to Hana’s condo. I’d been unable to do my usual workouts while hiding at the new apartment and was out of breath in mere seconds. No more cannoli for me!
That was a vow made to be broken, huh?
Nick was watching out the window this time, opening Hana’s front door to let me in when he spotted me approaching. The instant I was in the door he grabbed me and pulled me to him, mashing our bodies together so tight it was almost uncomfortable. But I knew exactly why he was doing this and, even though it wasn’t exactly the soft, warm welcome either of us would have liked, it reflected exactly how we felt. Desperate to have this case over so that we could be together again. Tired of being worried and scared and wondering if the mobster or his thugs were on to us and meant us harm. Sick of p
retending to be someone else and the exhausting mental energy it took to keep up the façade 24/7.
He leaned down and gave me a kiss. Unlike the hug, which was really more of a death grip, his kiss was soft and warm and wonderful. I’d take Nick’s kisses over chocolate cannoli any day.
“I miss the hell out of you,” he said softly.
“Right back at ya.”
“Let’s spend some time together after this meeting,” he suggested. “Get a hotel room for a few hours.”
He wouldn’t have to ask me twice. “Perfect.”
When everyone had arrived, the Operation Italian Takeout team took seats in Hana’s living room to update each other on the progress we’d made since our meeting last Sunday.
Eddie spoke first. “I’ve followed Dario. Nothing he’s done has seemed unusual or suspicious, though it’s clear he’s looking for a new job.”
“Really?” I said. “What makes you say that?”
“I’ve seen him go into two other restaurants this week. Both times it was before business hours.”
And before he’d be due to start work at Benedetta’s. Hmm. I wondered why Dario wanted to leave. Did he know there was shady business going on and wanted to get out before the ship went down? Or maybe he realized he knew too much and, like me, feared he’d end up in the pizza oven. Then again, maybe he was merely looking to move up to a larger restaurant with more upward potential. As a family-owned restaurant, Benedetta’s Bistro didn’t offer much room for advancement. Benedetta would always be top chef.
Hana leaned forward in her chair, her arms propped on her knees, one of her legs pumping in excitement. “Kirchner’s been doing his same widespread routes, but he also made a couple stops at Looking Good Optical.”
“After hours?” I asked. “Or while it was open?”
“Shortly after they closed up shop for the evening,” Hana said. “After the employees left but before the owner went home.”
“He’s talked to the owner, then. Maybe made some threats?”