by Diane Kelly
I swung by the address Robin Beck had given to the staff of Eternal Summer when she’d signed her contract. It was an apartment complex in Irving, a building that was neither old nor new, neither fancy nor rundown. Just a typical run-of-the-mill complex, one of many that sat behind the strip centers flanking Interstate 30.
Spotting a sign on Building D, I parked between two pickups and climbed the stairs to the third floor, stopping before the door bearing black metal letters identifying it as apartment 323. The sounds of a sitcom rerun came from inside, the typical program run in the six o’clock time slot by stations without a newscast.
Rap-rap-rap.
A few seconds later, the door opened a few inches, and a young woman with dark hair and eyes peered out.
“Hi,” I told her. “I’m looking for Robin Beck.”
The eyes narrowed and the mouth pursed. “Well, she’s not here, that’s for sure!”
With that, she slammed the door.
I knocked again, but she didn’t open the door. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say Robin had bled this roommate dry, too. “Ma’am?” I called. “I’m with law enforcement.”
She jerked the door open, apparently having remained standing behind it, probably watching me through the peephole. “Why aren’t you wearing a uniform? Are you a detective or something?”
“Yes.” No sense going through the whole rigmarole. Even after I explained that I was a criminal investigator for the IRS, many people didn’t get it. They thought only FBI, CIA, DEA, and ATF had agents with guns. Might as well keep things simple. “I’m trying to track down Robin Beck. I believe she has some information on a case I’m working. A moment ago, you said Robin’s not here. Did you only mean she’s not here at the moment?”
“No. I meant that she doesn’t live here anymore. I kicked her out.”
“May I ask why?”
“’Cause she was just using me. She asked to move in for a few weeks when she and her boyfriend broke up. I thought it wouldn’t be any big deal. But then she ate all my groceries and used all of my laundry detergent and watched a bunch of movies on pay per view and never chipped in for anything. She kept telling me she’d pay me back when she got her next paycheck, but next thing I knew she’d be coming home with new clothes and stuff. She only cared about herself.”
“When did you kick her out?”
“Last week.”
Dang! If only I’d had this case then. Maybe I could’ve caught up with Robin here.
“Any idea where she’s living now?”
“No, and I don’t give a—” She caught herself. “Robin can be living in her car for all I care.”
“What kind of car is she driving now?”
The girl shrugged. “Some piece of sh—” She caught herself again.
“Shit?” I said, letting her know she didn’t need to use a filter. I was more interested in getting information than whether this girl had a potty mouth. Besides, I’d been known to use a choice word or two on occasion. I considered curse words part of my repertoire of expression.
“Yeah,” the girl said.
“What make is it? A Ford? Toyota? Dodge?”
“I have no idea. Just a little boxy beat-up thing. It was silver. Does that help?”
Little, but I’d take it. “Yes. That helps. Any chance you know the license plate?”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t really pay attention to it.”
Even if the girl knew the plate number, it wasn’t likely to help. Robin didn’t exactly seem to keep her records up to date.
“How did you two know each other?” I asked.
“From work.”
Aha! Maybe I could corner Robin there. “Where do y’all work?”
“At Irving Mall,” she said. “I mean, at least I do. Robin got fired for stealing merchandise from the store. I don’t know where she’s working now.”
“Did the store manager have her arrested?”
“No. Robin started bawling and offered to pay for the stuff and was making such a scene the manager just wanted her to go. It was scaring off the customers.”
I had my doubts whether Robin’s tears were real. She’d probably just manipulated her boss to avoid another arrest and conviction. “What store do you work at?”
She mentioned the name of a trendy women’s clothing store that was popular with both the twenty-something nightclub crowd and older women who wanted to show off a recent tummy tuck or weight loss by wearing something skimpy. She also gave me the manager’s name.
“Does Robin have family in the area? Maybe another friend she’d move in with?”
“Nobody I can think of,” the girl said. “She sort of gloms on to one person at a time and then moves on. At least that’s the impression I got. She’s from Houston, but I think she got too many people down there mad at her so she moved up here to start over. I guess she could have gone back to Houston. I don’t really know.”
Having gotten as much information as I could from the young woman, I pulled out one of my business cards and handed it to her. “If you happen to hear from Robin, see if you can find out where she’s living or working now and give me a call. But don’t let her know I’m looking for her, okay?”
“All right.”
“Thanks.”
Feeling defeated, I tromped down the two flights of stairs and returned to my car. I promptly looked up the phone number for the store and asked whether the manager was in. I got lucky. She was working the evening shift tonight and hadn’t left yet.
I identified myself and told her I was with law enforcement and trying to track down Robin Beck. “I understand she was fired for stealing merchandise.”
“That’s right. I caught her stuffing a dress into her purse.”
Must’ve been a tiny dress. “Did she provide you with an address to mail her final paycheck to?”
“No,” the woman said. “I didn’t ask her for one, either. If she wants that check, she’ll have to come by and get it. Given what she did, that would take a lot of nerve.”
Robin didn’t seem to be low on nerve. Common sense, maybe.
“If she comes by, would you mind telling her you’ll have to mail her last paycheck? If you can get a current address for her it sure would help me out.”
“No problem.”
“I appreciate your help.” I gave the woman my cell phone number and e-mail address.
On my way home, I picked up a couple of bean burritos at a drive-through and ate them on the couch at my town house while looking over the information Bethany, Amelia, and Gwen had e-mailed to me today. I leaned into the computer on my lap, hoping to see some information repeated, some common source that would tell me where the person who filed the fraudulent 1099s had obtained their social security numbers. While I saw no connection, I did see a dollop of salsa that had dripped from my burrito onto the screen. Fortunately, a quick swipe with a napkin took care of that problem.
When switching back and forth between the three e-mails proved too cumbersome, I stuffed the last of the burrito into my mouth, plugged my laptop into my printer, and printed out the communications. I laid them side by side on my coffee table, where Anne hopped up to help me. I scooped her onto my lap. “Sit here, girl. Mommy’s working.”
While both Bethany and Gwen had memberships at the same gym chain, they’d signed up and worked out at different locations. While Bethany, like Hoffmeyer, attended a Baptist church, it wasn’t the same congregation. Amelia and Hoffmeyer had checking accounts at the same large national bank, but banked regularly at different branches given that they lived miles apart. Gwen and Amelia were patients of the same dental practice, not surprising since they lived within two miles of each other, but the four victims had no other doctors in common. Nobody had bought vehicles at the same dealership, nor did anyone have a landlord, realtor, or mortgage company in common. In other words, there was no clear link between all of these victims and the last half hour I’d spent going over the information had been a total waste of m
y time.
My only remaining leads were Laura/Lauren/Laurel and Phillip Gentry. The barnyard barber seemed like the longer shot, so I decided to start with the young woman who’d worked in Snippy’s accounting department. It didn’t take long for me to identify her. Laurie Murphy was the only person with a name similar to Laura, Lauren, or Laurel who’d received a W-2 from Snippy’s two years ago.
To learn a little more about her, I pulled up her Facebook page. According to her data, she’d been working at the Small Business Administration since leaving Snippy’s. So she was now a fed, like me. Interesting. Unfortunately, the SBA’s district office was located in Fort Worth, also known as Cowtown given that it had been a major hub on the cattle trails back in the day. Fort Worth sat thirty miles, and approximately nine million construction zones, to the west of Dallas. Going to see Laurie would take a good chunk of a workday, and I wasn’t sure I had that much time to spare. Between the Hidalgo case I was working for Border Patrol and this investigation, I’d hardly had time to glance at my other files.
A quick look over her Facebook friends list told me that Bethany Flagler, Amelia Yeo, Gwen Rosenthal, and Robin Beck were not among them. When I checked her work and education entries, I saw no overlap among her workplaces and schools and those of the other victims. I did note, however, that she had not included Snippy’s Barber Shops among her places of employment. Couldn’t much blame her, though. It didn’t sound as if her time there had been a positive experience.
While I wasn’t sure if driving to Fort Worth to visit Laurie Murphy would be an efficient use of my time, I knew for certain that driving four times as far out to Longview definitely was not. Phillip Gentry would get a phone call, not a visit.
It took a few minutes of digging online to determine that Gentry owned a barber shop/beauty salon called the Cutting Corral. A cute photo on his Web site showed a young boy sitting on a saddle while Gentry, who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, gave the kid a traditional buzz cut. Another showed Gentry using what appeared to be the same clippers to trim a gray horse’s whiskers. The site indicated the shop’s hours were from ten a.m. “’til the cows come home.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what time cows came home. I supposed it depended on their curfew. But it couldn’t hurt to give the number a try and see if Gentry was still around.
I got lucky. When I dialed his number, a man’s voice came over the wire. “May I speak to Phillip Gentry, please?”
“You got ’im, ma’am.”
I identified myself and told him I was calling to discuss his relationship with Snippy’s and Thomas Hoffmeyer.
“There is no relationship,” he said. “I applied for a franchise a while back but they turned me down. End of story.”
Was it truly the end of the story? Or was he only giving me the condensed version of the tale? “Mr. Hoffmeyer told me you sent him several e-mails expressing your disappointment.”
“Ah, hell. That’s all water under the bridge. I got my nose out of joint when they turned me down, sure. They said I’d have to move locations, rent a space in town. I saw no good reason why I should pay someone else rent on a space when I had a perfectly good, paid-up barn to operate out of. But I’m not holding a grudge, if that’s what you’re thinking. In fact, things worked out for the best. I’ve got a new guy working for me now. Goes by Jax. Fresh out of barber school. He’s covered in tattoos and leather, wears his hair in a Mohawk. Drives a motorcycle with a sidecar, too. The teenagers love ’im. Got lines out the door, everybody wanting the sides of their head shaved. It’s like the eighties all over again. He’d never come to work for me if my shop was in some suburban strip mall. He’s said as much.”
While Phillip might have convinced me he harbored no ill will now against Thomas Hoffmeyer, he hadn’t quite convinced me that he hadn’t been angry enough two years ago to give the guy a little hell. Even so, while Phillip had motive to want to get back at Hoffmeyer for rejecting his franchise application, he didn’t seem to have the means to accomplish vengeance via a fake 1099. In other words, I still didn’t see how he’d have obtained Hoffmeyer’s social security number. What’s more, it seemed unlikely a middle-aged barber out in east Texas would have crossed paths with Bethany, Amelia, Gwen, and Jocelyn, four young women working in the big city of Dallas. Yep, barring any fresh revelations, I was going to cross Mr. Gentry off my list of potential suspects.
“Thanks for taking my call, Mr. Gentry.”
“We good, then?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re good.”
Frustrated, I tossed my phone on the couch and went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. Returning to the living room, I plopped back down in front of my TV, hoping to take my mind off my work for a little while. You can probably guess what I was watching. Yep, another episode of Amor y Vengaza.
In this episode, Isidora caught her flirtatious barista turning his charms on another customer, one less beautiful and several years older than her, one who also worked in Isidora’s husband’s business. The barista, however, was unaware of Isidora lurking in the shadows, spying on him as he prepared a drink for the woman and fed her the same line he’d given Isidora. “Just the way it should be. Hot, steamy, and only for you.”
Isidora’s dark eyes flashed with betrayal and fury. She escaped, unseen, onto the sidewalk, where she dropped to a bench and whipped out her journal and fancy pen to immortalize her feelings in purple prose. Has he only been playing with me? Treating my heart as a toy for his entertainment? Were his compliments and flattery only offered in the hopes of receiving bigger tips? It’s clear. My young lover has made a fool of me! I’ll show him.
And show him she did.
She flounced back to her husband’s office, told him she needed something to do and wanted to run her own business. He tossed her a generous allowance, clearly designed more to shut her up than because he thought she could run a successful enterprise. But to hell with her husband. Isidora’s sights were set on a certain unfaithful barista and her scheme for vengaza.
Isidora contacted the coffee shop’s owner and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. After buying the place, she promptly slipped inside the coffeehouse through the back door and issued the barista an unsigned notice via e-mail that his hourly pay had been reduced to the legal minimum due to his inappropriate behavior on the job. If he wished to discuss said behavior, he could come to the back office to discuss the matter with his as-yet-unidentified new boss personally.
The episode ended with her door down the back hall of the coffee shop being flung open by the enraged young man, whose shirt was, for inexplicable reasons, halfway unbuttoned, exposing his muscled, freshly waxed chest. “Isidora?” he cried, his expression incredulous. “You are my new boss?”
A smile spread across her face. “Indeed I am.”
“But what we had was so special! Why do you treat me so poorly? Do you love me no longer?”
The episode ended there, leaving viewers to wonder whether things were over between Isidora and the latte-slinging Lothario. I was just about to start the next episode when my cell phone rang. The caller ID indicated it was my mother calling. As much as I hate to admit it, I was tempted to ignore her call and return it later. What is Isidora going to say to her deceitful lover? I couldn’t wait to find out!
But I couldn’t in good conscience turn my back on my mom, especially when she was no doubt calling about the wedding plans. What kind of person would that make me? Not much better than that conniving coffee Casanova or the violent and vengeful Isidora. Okay, now I’m the one being dramatic.
I jabbed the button to take the call. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hey, hon. Just wanted to let you know that, once we’ve got a date, I plan to reserve a block of rooms for the wedding guests at the Holiday Inn. That’s about as fancy as it gets out here.”
My hometown wasn’t large, and the mid-priced chains were all that was offered in the way of accommodations. Still, I didn’t run with snobs. The hotel
would be fine. “Sounds good, Mom. Thanks.”
“Bonnie and I have been discussing the welcome baskets. We want to make sure the out-of-town guests are comfortable and have a few treats. We’re thinking we’d put a bottle of wine and a personalized corkscrew in each basket.”
“Personalized corkscrews?”
“That’s right,” she replied. “We found some online. We can have your and Nick’s names put on them along with the date of your wedding. We thought it would make a nice souvenir.”
“It will. Great idea.” I should’ve known my mother would come up with something inventive and useful. I’d been smart to turn the planning over to her. Lazy, too, but mostly smart.
“Okeydoke,” she replied. “So my next question is, should the wine be red or white?”
My creamy cat Anne hopped up on the couch next to me, her light-colored fur providing my answer. “Let’s go with white.”
“Imported or domestic?”
Again, my domestic short-haired cat provided the answer. “Domestic,” I said, scratching my kitty under the chin. She responded with a vibrating purr of appreciation.
“What kind of white wine?” Mom asked. “Sauvignon blanc? Chardonnay? Riesling? Pinot grigio?”
“Chardonnay.” That seemed to be the most popular among the choices.
“Perfect,” she said. I got the impression she was making notes as we spoke, crossing items off a list. “My next question is, what else should we put in the basket? Bonnie and I were thinking nuts, pretzels, and a piece of fresh fruit. Maybe an orange or an apple. Or, if you don’t like that idea, we could go with cheese and crackers. Or cookies, maybe?”
“I’m fine with the fruit and nuts. Let’s go with that.” As long as the guests didn’t starve, I didn’t think they’d care much one way or another. Most of the people we knew weren’t difficult to please.