by Diane Kelly
The front door and windows were intact. The thugs likely realized that breaking the glass would’ve drawn attention from people at nearby businesses. Three crime scene technicians were still on the scene. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front of the store.
We rapped gently on the window and displayed our badges. The tech in charge, a short brunette, came to the door and pulled it open.
We could see inside now.
“My God,” Eddie said. “It looks like a bomb went off in here.”
The newly purchased display cases were cracked, crushed pastries strewn about the floor, a smear of chocolate a foot long indicating where someone had slipped on the mess. The framed recipes and photos of the Prague landmarks were broken, some in shards on the tabletops and booths, others hanging at odd angles on the wall, the glass smashed to smithereens. The frame containing the first dollar the Pokornys had earned was shattered, too, the bill they’d been so proud of now gone. The cash register lay on its side on the floor, the cash drawer hanging open like the tongue lolling out of a dead animal. Other than loose change scattered about the floor, all of the money was gone.
Eddie and I identified ourselves to the tech.
The woman scrunched her nose. “IRS? Why is the IRS interested in this?”
Eddie and I exchanged glances. The fewer people who knew we were investigating Mendoza the better. We had no intention of telling anyone with the Dallas PD about our investigation.
“The bakery was under audit,” I offered. It wasn’t entirely a lie. The Pokornys had been audited. In fact, the audit was what had led us here in the first place.
She still looked confused but fortunately she didn’t press us for more information.
“Any luck here?” Eddie asked the technician.
“We’ve lifted quite a few fingerprints,” the woman said. “Most probably belong to the bakery’s customers, though. We won’t know anything until we run them. And even then, we’ll only get a match if the thugs have a record and their prints are on file.”
Such an optimist. Then again, she was probably right to keep her hopes in check. Surely Mendoza had covered his tracks. Chances were the guys who’d assaulted the Pokornys and created this mess were hired muscle.
I passed on the information Darina had given me about the robber who’d removed his glove to clear the till, the one wearing the Bubba belt.
The supervisor nodded. “Good to know. We’ll pay special attention to the prints we lift from the register.”
“Any camera footage?” Eddie asked.
“Nope. There’s no security camera on site and none anywhere close by that we could locate.”
I turned and glanced around at the neighboring buildings. Although a couple of the shops had security company stickers on their windows, none had a visible exterior camera. Too expensive for a small business owner to justify. They were likely more concerned about what went on inside their stores rather than what took place outside on the sidewalks.
Eddie and I took a couple of steps into the bakery and glanced around the place, noting nothing that would tie this crime to Mendoza. Not that we’d expected him to leave a calling card, but we’d felt compelled to stop by anyway. Chalk it up to our type A personalities.
A tech kneeling by one of the smashed refrigerator cases used tweezers to remove something from one of the sharp edges of broken glass remaining. “Hair,” he said, holding up the tweezers and eyeing the matter he’d removed. “Part of a scalp, too. They must’ve used Mr. Pokorny’s head as a battering ram to smash the case.”
Oh God. My head felt light and my stomach roiled at the violent mental image. I had to swallow hard to keep from losing the drive-thru burrito I’d scarfed down earlier on my way to see Ajay.
Eddie handed his business card to the lead tech. “Can you let us know what you find out?”
She took the card and tucked it into the breast pocket of her shirt. “Will do.”
I suppose we could’ve pulled rank, told the Dallas PD to hand the matter over to the FBI. But given how little progress the FBI had made with Andrew Sheffield’s murder investigation, I knew that Eddie and I were the only ones with any real chance of linking these crimes to Mendoza. Might as well let Dallas PD take a crack at it.
Eddie and I walked to his minivan and took seats inside. We simply sat there for a moment, doing nothing, saying nothing, just staring through the windshield at the side of the bakery. Finally, Eddie exhaled, long and loud. I echoed both the sound and the sentiment. Without words, we’d communicated that we felt the same way.
Frustrated. Incompetent. Powerless.
And it sucked.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
All Bets Are Off
It was four in the morning by the time I returned home. After changing into my nightclothes, I went to the kitchen and retrieved the mayonnaise from the fridge. Hanging my head in the sink, I slathered the white glop over my hair, making sure every strand was fully coated. I wrapped my hair in Saran Wrap for good measure. I had no idea how long I’d need to leave the stuff on my hair, but figured I’d rather err on the side of caution.
I climbed into bed wearing my plastic wrap turban. Despite the late hour and my exhaustion, I could hardly sleep. I prayed that Darina and Jakub Porkorny would make a complete recovery, that the criminals who had so brutally attacked them would be found and brought to justice.
Annie curled up by my side, licking my hand with her rough, moist tongue and purring a loud, rapturous purr that caused her entire body to vibrate. The poor thing had clearly missed me. Even Henry seemed lonely. Normally, he ventured upstairs only to use the litter box, but tonight he lay at the foot of my bed, swishing his tail angrily back and forth, letting me know he was none too happy I’d been ignoring him lately. Of course the snobby cat ignored me all the time. But he didn’t like the shoe being on the other foot. Or should I say the other paw?
I slept fitfully and woke early, stirred by the cats licking mayonnaise from my face. The stuff had oozed out of the plastic wrap during the night, soaking my pillow. Guess it didn’t much matter since I’d planned to throw the thing out anyway.
I felt physically and emotionally drained. I was worried sick about the Pokornys, about the Mendoza case, about his next potential victim.
I climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Fingers crossed, I stepped onto my digital scale. The six extra pounds I’d gained courtesy of the extra-whip heavy-drizzle caramel lattes hadn’t budged. I flipped the bird at the scale and used my foot to shove it back under the cabinet.
I took a shower and shampooed, twice, afterward doing my best to style my still-gooey hair. As I dressed, I tried desperately to put on a fresh attitude, too. I couldn’t let this case get to me. I had to be professional. Stay objective. Learn to compartmentalize.
If I couldn’t, this case would eat me alive.
* * *
I ran through the coffeehouse drive-thru on the way to work and picked up a skinny no-whip latte. I took a sip. The drink was a poor substitute for the deliciously sweet, creamy concoctions I was used to. Still, I needed to get back in shape. In this line of work, you never knew when you might have to run after someone.
Or from someone.
A head shot with a hunting rifle was looking better all the time, though a quick death was more than Mendoza deserved. He should be tortured first, forced to review an inventory ledger or compute a hard asset depreciation schedule. Nothing was worse than a depreciation schedule.
I kept hoping Nick Pratt would call again. I wanted to confront him. Figure out what the hell was going on.
I glanced at the clock on my dashboard. Eight-fifteen. Mom would have just left for the Nacogdoches Historical Society’s weekly meeting, just like she had every Friday morning for the last twenty years. Dad would be home alone. Perfect. I dialed my parents’ phone number.
Dad answered, sounding a bit surprised to hear from me. “Your mother’s at her club meeting.”
“I know. I nee
d to talk to you, Dad.”
“Problem with your car? Plumbing?”
“No. Nothing like that. I was wondering about your hunting rifles. What do you have that’s unregistered?”
“Long range or short?”
“Long.” No sense getting any closer to Mendoza than I had to. He might be carrying a weapon himself. Besides, a long-range rifle would make getting away undetected that much easier for me.
“I’ve got a Remington 7400 and a .308 Winchester I traded for at the swap meet last year.”
I’d always been more of a Winchester girl. “Does the Winchester have an adjustable scope?”
“Wouldn’t settle for nothin’ less.” Dad hesitated a moment. “You in some trouble, hon?”
“I’m working a difficult case. Let’s just say I’m keeping my options open.”
“Need me to take care of someone for you?”
I found myself smiling. “Nice of you to offer, Dad. But I’m the federal agent. Not you.”
“You may be a federal agent, Tara,” he said, “but you’re my little girl first.”
Daddy’s little girl. I probably should’ve felt insulted, but instead I felt warm and fuzzy inside. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Should I bring the rifle to you?”
Fast, free delivery? Tempting. But no, not yet. Not until I’d exhausted all of my nonlethal options. “Just keep it clean for now, and make sure you’ve got plenty of ammunition.”
“Will do.”
“Don’t tell Mom, okay? She’ll just worry.”
He gave a mirthless chuckle. “You got that right.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“Right back at ya. Stay safe, you hear?”
* * *
By the time I pulled into the parking lot at work, I’d finished most of the latte and the caffeine had kicked in, giving me the artificial energy I needed to face the day. Life is good, I told myself, as I walked to the building. Look at all of these people who aren’t beat up. Think about Brett, what a great guy he is.
The thoughts of Brett backfired on me. Today was the day the two of us had planned to leave for Florida. Instead, he’d be traveling to a virtual paradise all alone and I’d be stuck here working myself to death. All thanks to that asshole Marcos Mendoza.
I rode the elevator up with a male agent who’d been with the IRS for several years and played on the IRS softball team. Had he played back when Nick served as team captain? Was he Nick’s inside contact?
I ran into Eddie as I stepped off the elevator. He jerked his head toward my office, indicating he wanted to speak with me alone.
We reached my office and ducked inside. Eddie shut the door behind us. I dropped my purse into my desk drawer and plunked down in my wobbly rolling chair, while Eddie perched on the corner of my desk.
“What’s up with your hair?” he asked.
Turns out it’s really difficult to rinse out mayonnaise. My greasy hair was glued to my head. “Lice treatment.”
His upper lip curled back in disgust.
“Don’t give me any shit today,” I ordered. “I’m not in the mood.”
“All right. I’ve got good news and bad news,” he said. “Which do you want first?”
“Give me the bad news first.” Might as well get it out of the way, right? I pulled Nick Pratt’s stress ball from my drawer and began working it.
“The agent from Laredo called this morning. A young guy came in yesterday to pick up the mail at the post office box. His car had Mexican plates. He took the mail and drove right back over the border. The agent tried to follow him but he lost the car at the border crossing.”
A fresh surge of frustration flooded me. “Dammit!” We couldn’t catch a break.
“Lu allowed me to call one of our agents in Mexico, see what he could dig up. So I put in a call to Hector Gutierrez.” Eddie went on to tell me that Gutierrez was stationed in Nuevo Laredo, the city where Torres lived just south of the border in Mexico, essentially a sister city to the American city of Laredo.
Besides the contingent of agents in the U.S., the IRS maintained a permanent staff of agents in several foreign countries, including Mexico, Colombia, Canada, Hong Kong, Germany, and even at Interpol in France. Unfortunately, although agents were stationed in these foreign countries, their investigative powers were much more limited than in the U.S. The countries had to balance the rights of its citizens against the interests of a foreign government and, in many cases, their citizens won out.
Still, evidence could sometimes be obtained through direct surveillance or by convincing the governments of these countries that its interests would also be served by allowing our agents to investigate. Often, if someone was cheating the IRS out of tax dollars, they were cheating the other government out of its due as well. Problem was, most countries, Mexico included, preferred to assign one of their own to lead the investigations.
There was no way we could let the Mexican authorities know we were investigating Mendoza. We couldn’t trust there wouldn’t be a leak or that Mendoza wouldn’t buy off another agent. But at least our guy in Mexico could trace the Mexican license plate, follow the driver to see where he went.
I chose to be hopeful. I wanted this investigation over. Now. I was sick of this case hanging over me. “How much did you have to tell Gutierrez?”
“Fortunately, very little,” Eddie said. “He’s been an agent a long time. He understands the details of this case are on a need-to-know basis only.”
Looked like we were finished with the bad news, at least for now. “So what’s the good news?”
“Got another lead for us.”
“Fantastic.” I clapped my hands. “What is it?”
“Taxpayer named Carson McNabb. He was audited recently. Reported forty grand in gambling winnings over the past few years. A small part of the winnings were from bets McNabb placed at a racetrack in Hot Springs, Arkansas, that’s owned by AmeriMex. The rest of the winnings were from a company called Double Down that takes bets by telephone. Double Down didn’t report McNabb’s winnings.”
Assuming Double Down was located in the U.S., failing to report the payout would be a violation of the Internal Revenue Code’s filing requirements. Suspicious. And precisely why the audit department had referred the information to Criminal Investigations.
“You think there’s a link between the racetrack and Double Down?”
Eddie raised his hands, palms up. “You never know until you ask.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Life’s a Gamble
I’d been summoned to give a deposition that morning in a relatively small case against a barely legal self-employed personal trainer who’d underreported her earnings by over twenty grand last year. The cash deposited into her bank account far exceeded the earnings she’d reported on her tax return. Although she’d claimed a large portion of the deposits were gifts from various friends and relatives, not a single one of them substantiated her story. What’s more, the gym where she’d provided her training services supplied us with logs detailing the appointments she’d had with their members. The logs indicated she’d been a far busier girl than she’d led us to believe.
It was an open-and-shut case. If she’d hired an attorney better versed in accounting and tax law, he would’ve realized right off he had a losing case and not wasted our time. Instead, she’d hired a local defense attorney who advertised on television, called himself “the Jail Breaker,” and primarily represented defendants in DWI and drug possession cases. He was way out of his league here. But anything for a buck, right?
Ross O’Donnell was already at the attorney’s office when I arrived. I nodded to Ross and turned to shake the Jail Breaker’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” As if.
“Likewise.” Yeah, right.
We made our way to his small conference room and got down to business. An hour into my deposition, after I’d detailed how I’d verified the woman’s earnings through bank records and the health club’s training logs, the attorney seemed
to realize that not only was his client in deep doo-doo but that he also lacked the proper shovel to dig her out. “Any chance my client can avoid jail time if she agrees to pay all taxes, interest, and penalties assessed?”
Ross asked my opinion on the matter. The girl looked terrified, realizing she’d sorely underestimated the ability of the IRS to detect fraud and nip it in its firm little twenty-year-old butt. I decided to show a little mercy. Payment arrangements were made, the trainer was admonished to be a good little girl from now on, and the case was closed.
If only the Mendoza case could be wrapped up so easily.
I stopped the girl on her way out the door. She might be a tax cheat, but she had the firmest biceps and glutes I’d ever seen. “I’ve gained a little weight recently,” I told her. “Any suggestions on how to get rid of it quick?”
She looked me up and down. “Ten sets of squats every day,” she said. “Same with lunges.”
My muscles hurt just thinking about it.
* * *
That afternoon, Eddie and I drove out to Carson McNabb’s property, a hundred-acre spread outside the town of Bonham, an hour’s drive northeast of Dallas. Eddie climbed out of the car to open the rusty gate. I cringed as I pulled into the gravel drive, the rocks plink-plinking against the undercarriage of my precious Beamer. I hoped none would chip my paint.
The McNabbs’ house was set back a quarter mile from the road in a stand of scrubby cedars. The rest of the land had been cleared, horses of different sizes and colors dotting the pasture. Fortunately, the area immediately surrounding the house was fenced off, so at least we wouldn’t have to worry about stepping in horse droppings. A lone donkey stood at the barbed-wire fence, watching us like a small, big-eared sentry. He pulled back his upper lip and treated us to a hearty hee-haw.
The McNabbs’ home was a sprawling single-story ranch, white stone with a sloped tin roof and expansive front porch. I parked next to a late-model Ford pickup on the side of the house. A warm, dust-scented breeze greeted us as we climbed out of the car and up the stone steps to knock on the door.