by Diane Kelly
Nutty lay next to Nick in the bed, snoring softly in his sleep. The dog looked quite a bit thinner than he had only a few weeks ago. His fur had lost its luster, too. Poor thing. He clearly wasn’t long for this world. I wondered if Nick had accepted that reality yet. At least the dog had enjoyed a long and loving life, with a doting daddy who catered to his every whim.
I put Nick’s latte on the night table and gently sat down on the bed.
He opened one eye halfway and groaned in greeting. “Is it morning already?”
“Yep.” I held up the bag. “I brought coffee and cronuts.”
He frowned and sat up. “You brought what?”
“Cronuts. They’re part croissant, part donut.”
He took the bag from me, opened it, and peeked inside. “They’re an abomination is what they are. What’s next? Some type of half bacon, half sausage meat called bausage?”
When it came to food, Nick was a traditionalist. I, on the other hand, enjoyed experimenting with new things, so long as I didn’t have to cook them myself. I had mad gun skills, but I had no idea what to do with a casserole dish. “Just shut up and eat one. You’ll change your mind.”
Nutty woke, too, struggling to sit up on the bed. I reached over, helped him onto his belly, and offered him a pink frosted cronut.
“That thing’ll rot his teeth,” Nick said, fishing out a blueberry pastry for himself.
“Have you smelled Nutty’s breath?” I replied. “That ship sailed a long time ago.”
Nick reached out to stroke his dog’s back. “Don’t listen to her, boy. You’re as good-looking as ever.”
Nick was obviously in denial, but I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t want to think about Nutty’s worsening health issues, either. Despite his halitosis, I couldn’t imagine life without the sweet dog. He made Nick’s relatively spartan bachelor pad feel like a real home.
Forcing those thoughts aside, I scratched Nutty at the base of his tail and took a sip of my latte. “I’m going on a stakeout this morning. Want to come with me?”
“What’s in it for me?” Nick retorted.
“My undying gratitude.”
He tilted his head and raised a brow. “Toss in some nooky and it’s a deal.”
A half hour later, when I’d kept up my end of the bargain, so to speak, Nick took a quick shower, dressed, and headed out with me to my G-ride. He took the wheel, leaving me to navigate.
Nick glanced my way as he started the car. “So you think this Michelson’s dealing in prescription drugs?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “But that’s the only connection I can see, the only obvious reason why Burkett would be slipping cash to the guy.” Other than the secret family and the black-market kidney, of course.
I pulled out my cell phone and called Christina Marquez, my friend at the DEA. She might have some insights on the situation. She answered on the third ring.
“It’s only nine-thirty,” she said, her voice gravelly with sleep. “Somebody better be dead.”
“Nobody’s dead,” I said, “but I could use your help. Any chance I can convince you to come on a stakeout with me and Nick?”
“What’s it in for me?”
“You’re as bad as Nick. He demanded nooky before he’d agree to come with me.”
“I’ll pass on the nooky,” Christina said, “but I’m in for a mango smoothie.”
“Done.”
I directed Nick to the Jamba Juice near Christina’s apartment, bought her a smoothie, and carried it to her door. She, too, wore yoga pants and sneakers, though she’d topped hers with a long-sleeved tee and a hoodie. She’d pulled her long black hair back in some type of quick and easy twist and secured it with a plastic clip. She wore no makeup, but despite the sloppy hair and bare face still managed to look drop-dead gorgeous. She’d be an easy person to hate if she weren’t such a fun and loyal friend who was always willing to lend a hand.
While I slid in the passenger door, she climbed into the back, kicked off her shoes, and stretched her long legs out along the seat. “Who we after here?” She put the straw to her lips and took a sip of her smoothie.
I met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Respiratory therapist named Greg Michelson.” I gave her the rundown on Larry Burkett and the cash envelope he’d left at the marker last night. “Think Michelson could be dealing painkillers?”
Christina shrugged. “Could be. Or maybe he’s got some dirt on Burkett and is blackmailing him.” She paused for a moment, her brow furrowed as she appeared to think. “How would Burkett and Michelson have met?”
It was my turn to shrug now. “Maybe Burkett had a procedure at the hospital where Michelson works.”
Nick joined in now. “But Burkett lives way out in Palo Pinto. If he needed some type of specialized medical treatment, it seems like he would have gone someplace in Fort Worth rather than driving farther to Arlington.”
“True,” Christina replied. “And it’s possible that even if the envelope contained cash, it wasn’t part of the $7,500 Katie withdrew. Maybe Burkett’s got a personal issue here. Maybe the envelope didn’t even contain cash. Maybe it was the results of a paternity test or something.”
“Maybe Michelson is Burkett’s illegitimate son,” Nick suggested.
Christina arched a brow. “Or his lover.”
I was tempted to put my fingers in my ears and sing, La-la-la! The more they talked, the more convoluted and complicated this case became. The possibilities were endless, but what was it they say? The simplest answer is usually the right one.
But which answer was the simplest? That Burkett was using the cash to buy drill bits and that the envelope he’d transferred to Michelson contained something of a personal nature rather than cash?
When we arrived in Arlington, we drove slowly down Michelson’s street, eyeing his house as we drove past. The residence was a single-story brown brick home, a traditional ranch model with white shutters and a two-car garage. The driveway was empty, the garage doors closed. Was the Toyota parked inside the garage? The garage had no windows. There was no way to tell.
We parked a block down where we could keep an eye on Michelson’s house without being spotted. Then we sat and waited.
And waited …
And waited …
Luckily, the day was warmer than usual, in the low sixties, so at least we weren’t freezing to death out here. We entertained ourselves by playing games on our phones and catching up on our favorite television shows online.
Around noon, the front door of Michelson’s house swung open. A man dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt came outside. He had curly gray hair, along with the hard leg muscle and gaunt build of a marathon runner. He stopped halfway down the driveway to set a timer on his watch and took off running in the opposite direction.
“Is that Michelson?” Nick asked.
“I think so.” The man looked like the photo Eddie had found online.
“Let’s follow him,” Christina said.
“Might as well,” I agreed, though it seemed doubtful he’d be doing anything more than going on a simple run. After all, there were no telltale bulges under his tee or shorts to indicate he’d stashed the cash—or whatever had been in the envelope—on himself.
Nick started the car and we followed the man, careful to hang back and hug the curb lest he spot us. He didn’t once look back, oblivious to the fact that three armed federal agents had set their sights on him.
A half hour later he circled back to his house and went inside. He remained there for the rest of the afternoon.
When five o’clock rolled around we decided to call it a day. My ass had already grown numb. Much longer and my glutes would begin to atrophy.
“For what it’s worth,” Christina said as we pulled away from the curb, “I don’t think Michelson’s dealing drugs himself, at least not on a big scale. Nobody came to his house today. Drug houses normally get lots of traffic.”
More food for thought. My brain was ha
ving a virtual feast.
* * *
Sunday morning I repeated the routine, going down to Nick’s with breakfast in an attempt to recruit him for another day of staking out Michelson’s house. Unfortunately, I found his bed empty. Nutty was nowhere to be seen, either. I texted Nick to find out that his mother had beat me to the punch, inviting him over to attend church and have lunch. I wanted to be mad, but how could I begrudge a widow some time with her only son?
Christina had mentioned that she and Ajay had planned to see a movie today, so I headed over to Arlington alone, this time parking four houses down on the opposite side of the street just to shake things up a bit. I checked my e-mails. I painted my fingernails. I Skyped with my parents back home in Nacogdoches. Per my mother, everyone back home was doing fine, though my favorite niece, Jesse, had skinned both her knees chasing after one of the barn cats. By mid-afternoon I was going nuts cooped up in this car.
No one came to Michelson’s house today, either. I wondered if Christina was right. That he wasn’t dealing drugs. But if that were the case, then where did that leave me? With nothing to go on, that’s where.
I climbed out and took a walk down the block to get my stagnant blood moving. When I turned the corner, I spotted two young girls in green uniforms up ahead, accompanied by a woman who was likely their mother. The girls pulled a red Radio Flyer wagon stacked with cardboard cases.
Girl Scouts!
Cookies!
“Hey!” I ran after them, pulling my wallet from my purse and waving it in the air. “Wait for me!”
The girls turned and waited as I ran the rest of the way.
“Got any Thin Mints left?” I asked.
The older girl rummaged around in the wagon and came up with a carton. “We’ve got one case left. How many boxes would you like?”
“I’ll take the whole case.” Sheesh. I was as bad as a crack addict, huh? But I figured if I froze the cookies and paced myself, I could eat one box a month and be fully supplied until next cookie season. How’s that for thinking ahead?
The girls seemed to think nothing of my purchase. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who bought Girl Scout cookies by the gross.
“Thanks!” I paid for my cookies, tucked the carton under my arm, and returned to my car and my stakeout. Three hours later, I’d eaten nearly through to my August supply of cookies, ingested enough calories to fuel an army regiment, and seen no movement at the Michelson house. What were they, a family of hermits?
Just when I thought my stomach would explode, the garage door began to roll up. I sat bolt upright in my seat. The back tires of a vehicle became visible, then a bumper. But when the door ascended fully it revealed only a silver Mitsubishi Outlander parked in the garage. The black Toyota was nowhere to be seen.
Fed up—and overfed—I climbed out of my car. As I walked toward the house, a lanky teenager in knee-length basketball shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt emerged from the garage with a plastic tub of recyclables. Aluminum cans. Glass bottles. Newspapers and ad circulars. A few plastic bottles that had once held juice, shampoo, and cleaning products, but no small plastic pill bottles. Hmm …
The kid rounded the side of the house, opened the larger rolling recycling can, and upended the tub. Cans, glass, and paper clinked, clanked, and fluttered into the can.
“Hey,” I called to the boy as I approached.
He looked up.
I stopped. No sense getting too close and making him feel wary. “Does your family have a black Toyota?”
“Used to,” he spat, slamming the lid to the can.
“Used to? What do you mean?”
“My dad got rid of it.” He followed this revelation by muttering, “Asshole.”
I had an accounting degree. I could put two and two together. These people no longer owned the car Eddie and I had seen at the historical marker, and I’d just wasted two days of my life. Ugh! “It was your car, huh?”
The kid jerked his chin up once in affirmation. “Dad sold it after I flunked algebra and history.”
“When was that?”
The kid squinted at me, as if trying to determine whether he knew me. “Who are you, anyway?”
Looked like I’d asked one question too many.
“I’m Tara Holloway. I work for the government.” I pulled my badge out of my purse and held it up for a moment before slipping it back into the inside pocket. “Is your father home?”
Rather than answer me, the kid gestured to my face. “You’ve got something all over your mouth.”
When I stuck my hand in my purse this time it was to retrieve my compact. I whipped it open to take a look in the mirror. Sure enough, remnants of chocolate covered my lips.
“Girl Scout cookies,” I explained, adding, “Thin Mints,” as if that excused my gluttonous behavior. I quickly licked off what I could and used a finger to wipe off the rest.
“Got any more?” the boy asked. “If you give me a box I’ll go get my dad.”
Seriously? This kid had no respect for authority. “I’m a federal agent,” I reminded him. “I carry a gun.”
“So?” He snorted. “You’re not gonna shoot me.”
“Don’t count on it. I’ve shot people before.”
A brow went up. “Really?”
“Really.” I’d shot the left nut off one guy and shot a set of twins and a strip club owner in the legs. Set someone on fire once, too. But I probably sound like I’m bragging now, huh?
The boy considered my words for a moment before crossing him arms over his chest. “My dad never answers the door. We get too many solicitors. Either you give me some cookies or I won’t tell him you’re out here.”
Jeez. First the nooky, then the smoothie, and now the cookies. Did nobody do anything out of the goodness of their heart anymore? “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
He cast me a smirk. “It’s the one thing I’m good at.”
I went to my car and retrieved a box of cookies. I held them out, but whipped them back out of his reach as he extended his hand. “No cookies until you bring me your father.”
“Done.” He trotted into the garage, opened the door leading into the house, and hollered at the top of his lungs. “Dad! There’s some chick from the government outside who wants to talk to you!”
When Greg Michelson stepped outside, I tossed the box of cookies to the boy. Michelson was dressed in a pair of sweats and a tight-fitting workout shirt that was the same gray color as his hair. I introduced myself, passing him one of my business cards and offering him a hand to shake.
He held the card in his left hand, looking it over while shaking my hand with his right. “What can I do for you, Agent Holloway?”
“I have some questions about the Toyota you sold.”
He cocked his head. “Is there a problem?”
“The title is still showing up in your name,” I noted. “When did you sell it?”
He closed his eyes, apparently thinking back.
“It was on a Sunday at the end of October,” the boy said testily, answering for his father. “The day I became a dork who has to ride the school bus with all the other dorks.”
His father cut a glance his way. “You had fair warning, son. You’re the one who chose to spend all your time playing video games rather than hitting the books.”
“Hitting the books?” the boy parroted back as he opened the box of cookies and tore open the foil sleeve. “The school doesn’t give us books anymore. Everything’s online. You want me to hit my iPad?” He shoved three cookies in his mouth at the same time. Crude, but at least it shut him up.
Mr. Michelson turned to me. “You got kids?”
“No.”
He hiked a thumb at his son. “You want one?”
I looked over at the kid, who was wiping his hands on his tee, leaving a chocolate smudge. “I’ll stick with cats for now, thanks.” I forced a smile before getting back to the business at hand. “Who did you sell the car to?”
“Heck,” he
said, shrugging. “I’ve got no idea. I put an ad in the paper and a sign on the car in the driveway. A guy called, came by to take a look, and paid me cash on the spot. I signed over the title and that was that.”
Texas law required people who purchased used cars from private parties to pay sales tax. They were also required to change the title into their own name within thirty days of the sale. Whoever had bought the car from Michelson had done neither. I suspected the buyer may have purposely neglected to put the car in his own name to avoid being identified.
“The man who bought the car,” I said, “what did he look like?”
“A skinny elephant,” the boy said before shoving another three cookies into his mouth.
“You’re right.” Michelson turned back to me. “The guy had big ears and a long, narrow nose. He was friendly, but a little odd looking.”
“What kind of car was the man driving?”
“He was on foot,” Michelson said.
Arlington was the largest city in the U.S. without a regular public transportation system. Instead, the city had put its tax dollars into building a stadium for the Texas Rangers baseball team. Although a few buses had recently been put into operation for a trial run, the routes were limited. To my knowledge none ran close to the residential area in which Michelson lived. A hunch told me that the buyer had had another person drop him off to buy the car, or maybe he’d taken a taxi.
“Anything else you can tell me about him? Dress? Height? Distinguishing characteristics?”
Michelson shrugged. “Seemed like he was just wearing jeans and some kind of everyday, casual shirt. He was medium height, if I remember right. That’s really all I can recall. It’s been a while.”