by Diane Kelly
A pleasant-looking older woman answered. She wore a loose-fitting pumpkin-colored blouse and long matching skirt along with a pair of expensive riding boots. “Hello there. I’m Mary Lynn McNabb.” Her eyes flickered to my oily hair as she held out her hand. “You must be Agents Holloway and Bardin?”
Eddie gave a quick nod. “That’s us.”
We shook hands and she invited us in, seating us at a rough-hewn pine table in their formal dining room. A delicious smell wafted from the adjacent kitchen. My guess was chicken and dumplings.
Mary Lynn left to round up her husband, returning with two large glasses of iced tea and Carson, who was a tall drink of water himself. We stood and shook hands with Mr. McNabb.
Carson McNabb was a good ol’ boy if ever there was one. Wrangler jeans, old-fashioned pointy-toed cowboy boots, western-cut shirt with pearl buttons, and a straw Stetson.
After Mrs. McNabb set a glass of tea in front of me and another in front of Eddie, she took a seat next to her husband.
Eddie held up a palm. “Before we get started here, we want to make it clear that we’ve got no plans to bring you in on gambling charges. We’re more interested in finding out who’s running the operation so we can collect any taxes they might owe.”
Carson nodded, removing his hat and placing it upside down on the table. “Didn’t realize it was against the law to place bets by phone,” he said, his drawl one hundred percent pure Texan. He ran a weathered hand over his close-cropped white hair. “Surely didn’t mean to break the law.”
His confession would have made a defense attorney cringe but, lucky for us, he hadn’t employed one. Good thing, too. Didn’t need any more people involved than absolutely necessary, especially people who could impede our ability to collect information.
A jingling sound came from down the hall, and a sizable brown-and-white birddog wearing a leather collar and tags trotted into the room. He lifted his pink snout into the air, sniffing, and turned his brown eyes on me.
The mayonnaise. Uh-oh.
The dog lunged full force at me, knocking me backward in my chair. When I hit the floor, he pounced on me, straddling my face and gripping my head between his legs like those creepy creatures from the Alien movie. His boy parts stared me in the face as he ran his long tongue over my hair, snuffling and slurping the greasy substance from my head.
That was the last time I’d try one of my mother’s home remedies.
I wriggled on the floor, trying to push the dog off me, but didn’t have much luck. I couldn’t get much leverage and this pooch was persistent.
“Toby!” Mary Lynn cried, grabbing his collar and yanking him away. “Bad boy!”
“Sorry ’bout that,” Carson said.
I sat up on the floor and raised a palm. “No problem. An IRS agent gets used to that kind of reception.”
My partner held out a hand to help me up, then righted my chair for me. Once we were seated again, we opened our briefcases and pulled out our legal pads and pens.
Eddie began the questioning. “What can you tell us about the gambling operation?”
McNabb shrugged. “What would you like to know?” The man wasn’t being evasive, he simply didn’t seem to know where to start. He looked back and forth between me and Eddie.
“When did you first become involved in the telephone betting?” Eddie asked.
McNabb looked up in thought. “Three, maybe four years ago. The wife and I took a weekend trip up to Arkansas for our fortieth anniversary. They got a racetrack up there in Hot Springs. We bet a little on the ponies. Won a little money. Had some fun. Remember that weekend, hon?” He shot a wink at his wife.
Mrs. McNabb clutched at the neck of her blouse and blushed. Must’ve been some weekend. I wondered if the McNabbs had ever tried LuvLub or if Mary Lynn had had her vagina rejuvenated, whatever the hell that meant.
“How much did you bet at the track?” Eddie asked McNabb.
“Couple thousand dollars, give or take. Won ’round six grand, if memory serves me right. The girl at the counter had us fill out one of them tax forms before they paid out.”
I nodded. Eddie’d pulled the McNabbs’ tax records for the last decade and saw a Form W-2G had been filed by AmeriMex for the year in question, reporting McNabb had won sixty-two hundred dollars at the track. All of the legitimate companies operated by AmeriMex were run carefully, all i’s dotted and t’s crossed, the record-keeping meticulous. Mendoza ran a tight ship. Unfortunately, he seemed to run an even tighter ship with his illegal operations.
Eddie continued his questioning. “How did you get hooked up with ‘Double D’?”
“About a month after our trip to Arkansas,” McNabb said, “I got a call from someone saying he could place telephone bets on football games and the like.”
“What about horse races?” I asked.
Carson shook his head. “I asked about that, but the person on the phone said they only did sports betting.”
Probably another way to make it appear as if the bets had nothing to do with the racetracks owned by AmeriMex.
Eddie jotted a note on his legal pad. “Did the representative say how he got your name and number?”
“No, and I didn’t ask, neither. I assumed that since we’d recently been to the track in Hot Springs, he must’ve been associated with that outfit.”
Made sense. “How did you place your bets?” I asked.
“He gave me a phone number to call.”
I held my pen poised over my pad. “Got that number handy?”
“Sure do.” McNabb pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his list of contacts, holding up the phone so I could read from the screen. The number displayed was a toll-free 800 number. Now we were getting somewhere. I jotted the number down.
“How’d you place the bets?” Eddie asked.
“With my credit card.”
Eddie nodded. “Do you have any statements that would show the charges?”
“Reckon I might.”
Mary Lynn stood. “I’ll get them, hon.”
Mrs. McNabb walked into the den through which we’d entered and rummaged through the top drawer of an antique roll-top desk. She came back with a handful of credit card statements and handed them to Eddie.
I scooted my chair closer to my partner and looked over his shoulder. The bills were in reverse chronological order, with the most recent bills at the top and the older bills at the bottom. The first two entries on their April statement indicated the McNabbs had enjoyed dinner at a local steakhouse and made a significant purchase at a feed store. The third entry listed the merchant as “DD Entertainment.” The charge was two hundred and fifty dollars.
After reviewing the rest of the statements and pulling out those showing charges by Double D, Eddie looked up at Carson. “May I take these statements with me?”
“Sure,” the man said. “They’ve done been paid.”
Eddie launched back into his questions now. “When you won, how did you get your winnings?”
“They mailed checks to me.”
Checks? My heart flip-flopped in my chest.
Checks left a paper trail. Checks could be traced.
Was this our big break? My eyes met Eddie’s. He, too, looked surprised and hopeful.
“Any chance you might have one of those checks around?” Eddie asked.
Carson pulled out his wallet and removed a check. “Received this one yesterday. Haven’t yet had a chance to get by the bank to deposit it.”
He laid the check on the table. It was a basic blue business-style check in the amount of three hundred dollars with the name “Double D” imprinted on the top. No address was listed on the check.
Eddie inquired about their winnings and learned Double D had paid out various amounts over the years, the smallest being a mere fifty bucks and the largest being nine grand he’d won on a Texas-Oklahoma football game.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You didn’t bet against the Longhorns, did you?”
Ca
rson chuckled and held up his palms. “Gotta plead the fifth on that one.”
Mrs. McNabb looked from me to Eddie. “Do we have to stop making the bets?”
I couldn’t blame her for asking. The gambling had paid off much better than the stock market.
Eddie and I exchanged glances. Technically, this type of gambling was illegal in Texas. But most law enforcement agencies had shown little interest in pursuing violators. It seemed silly to punish people for placing bets on sports when they could easily go to one of the horse or dog tracks in the state and do essentially the same thing. Splitting hairs, wasn’t it? And after controversy surrounding the arrest of small-time gamblers and business owners offering “eight-liners,” a type of slot machine, neither local police nor state law enforcement agencies had made gambling violations a priority. It seemed to be a victimless crime and, besides, the police had bigger fish to fry. Still, the thought of any more money going into Mendoza’s pockets, possibly funding hits on his unsuspecting associates, turned my stomach.
I gave them a regretful smile. “Any more betting with Double D could get you in trouble.”
Carson frowned. “Dadgummit.”
“Sorry, folks. But we’ll send this check back to you to deposit once we’re done with it.” I didn’t want any more money going into Mendoza’s pockets, but I sure as hell didn’t mind more money coming out of them.
Eddie and I thanked the McNabbs and left, our spirits renewed. The McNabbs’ credit card service could tell us where Double D was located and the bank would be able to tell us where the check had come from. Plus, the toll-free phone number could easily be traced to its source.
Surely one of these sources would provide a link to Mendoza. Then we could bring the murderous bastard in and I could focus instead on the upcoming party to celebrate the Lobo reaching the hundred-million milestone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wrong Numbers
As we drove back to Dallas, Eddie called his wife to let her know he’d be late getting home tonight.
“Again?” I heard Sandra lament through the phone.
“Again,” Eddie said. He didn’t sound none too happy about it, either. This case was taking over his life, too.
I glanced at my watch. The banquet in Fort Lauderdale would be starting soon—the banquet I’d be attending if it weren’t for this damn investigation.
I pulled out my phone and sent Brett a quick text. Thinking of u. Fat lot of good that did, huh?
Fresh anger surged through me. I wasn’t just mad at Mendoza now, I was starting to feel pissed at Nick Pratt, too. He’d gotten me all hot and bothered, wondering what the hell he was up to, whose side he was on now.
I’d kept my phone with me at all times since his last call, even taken the darn thing into the bathroom when I showered.
Why hadn’t he called back?
When we arrived at the federal building, Eddie headed to his office to research the phone number for Double Down, while I returned to my office and set about tracking down the banking information. It was well after five o’clock on a Friday evening and, other than the cleaning staff, we were the only people on the floor. Still, I closed my door. Couldn’t hurt to be cautious.
I examined the line of numbers across the bottom of Carson McNabb’s check and typed the bank’s routing number into the research system. After a few seconds, the screen popped up with some information. The checks paid to Carson McNabb had been issued by an offshore bank.
I banged a fist on my desk, causing a trio of paper clips to jump out of their shallow plastic bin. “Damn!”
There’d be no luck getting any information on who had set up the account. Those Caribbean islanders would happily share a spliff, but under no circumstances would they share banking information, mon. That wouldn’t be irie.
I made my way to Eddie’s office, plopping into a chair while he finished his phone call. He had the receiver in one hand and a death grip on his skull with the other. This didn’t bode well.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Okay. Well, thanks for the information.” He slammed his phone down and threw his hands in the air. “The phone number for Double Down is an international toll-free number.”
A what? “Didn’t know there was such a thing.”
Eddie stared out his window, glaring at the world at large. “There are several American companies that provide call forwarding services. The calls go through the forwarding company’s toll-free number in the U.S. and are then routed internationally.”
Clever. “That way Double Down has no physical presence in the U.S. and can’t be called on the carpet here for running an illegal gambling operation.”
“Exactly.” Eddie turned back to me, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Hate to tell you this, but the checks were a dead end, too.”
“Let me guess,” Eddie spat. “Offshore bank?”
“Yep.”
Just to make sure we’d left no stone unturned, I placed a call to McNabb’s credit card company. The representative informed me that the charges by Double D originated in Juarez, Mexico, a large city just across the Rio Grande river from El Paso, Texas. Plagued with violence related to drug trafficking, Juarez had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of murders in recent years, many of the victims shot with guns funneled south from the U.S. given that the sale of guns was illegal in Mexico. Drugs were one export that did nothing to positively impact the Mexican economy. Though a few arrests had been made recently, law enforcement had little control over the city. Juarez was the perfect place to operate a business such as this.
And, again, it was outside of our jurisdiction.
Ugh.
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh!
“The problem with this case is that we can’t get close to anyone involved,” Eddie grumbled, an edge in his voice. “Mendoza’s done a great job of making himself untouchable.” Eddie punted his plastic garbage can across the room in frustration. Fortunately, the cleaning crew had already come by his office and the can was empty.
I stood and walked over to the corner where the can landed. Rather than pick it up, I gave it another kick. Had to admit, it felt good to let out some of my frustrations, even if it was on an innocent piece of plastic.
“What now?” I kicked the can back in the direction of Eddie’s desk. It seemed as if we had dozens of puzzle pieces that we were trying to fit together, but the pieces that would link them together were still missing.
Eddie picked up the can and set it back in its place. “Let’s call Gutierrez, see if he can be of any help.” Eddie dialed Hector Gutierrez, our agent south of the border. Fortunately, he was still in his office. Eddie pushed the speakerphone button so we’d both be able to hear, but kept the volume turned low.
“Gambling was recently legalized here in Mexico,” Gutierrez informed us in a voice tinged with a heavy Spanish accent. Apparently the Mexican federal government realized it was losing tax revenue due to the giant sucking sound pulling Mexican tourists north into Las Vegas, Reno, and smaller gambling destinations such as Shreveport. “There’s only a handful of casinos in the country now, but plans for more are under way. I’ll look into who owns Double Down Entertainment and let you know what I find out.”
“Thanks,” Eddie and I said in unison. Sometimes it seemed we shared one brain.
“By the way,” Gutierrez said, “I tracked down that license plate you gave me.”
Eddie’s head whipped my way and vice versa.
“And?” we asked, again in unison.
“The car belongs to a young guy in his early twenties. He works at one of the maquiladoras. A shoe factory operated by a corporation called Zapatos Superiores.”
Eyes still locked on mine, Eddie cocked his head. “Any idea who owns Zapatos Superiores?” he asked Gutierrez, his tone deceptively casual.
“There are a number of minority shareholders,” Gutierrez said, “but the majority of the stock is held by a man named Vicente Torres.”
“Aha!” A possible link. After all,
Torres held an indirect interest in AmeriMex.
Eddie put a finger to his lips.
I covered my mouth, realizing my reaction might have clued Gutierrez in to the fact that Torres was on our radar. Then again, a little niggle at the back of my mind told me Gutierrez might have already figured that out on his own. After all, the IRS don’t hire no flunkies.
“Want me to talk to anybody down here?” Gutierrez asked.
“Not yet,” Eddie said. “But we’ll let you know if we change our minds on that.”
We thanked him for his time and bid him adios. He bid us buena suerte—good luck.
“What now?” I asked Eddie. “There’s got to be something we can do with this information.”
“I’m not so sure,” Eddie said. “Short of placing a mole in the shoe factory and hoping he can prove the money orders were delivered to Torres, which is highly doubtful, I don’t see how we can use this information. And even then all we’d prove is that Torres is involved in a loan shark operation. That wouldn’t prove Mendoza played a role.”
“Then where do we go from here?” Throwing in the towel was not an option. I debated suggesting the head shot with the hunting rifle, but I was afraid my partner might take me up on it. At this point, Eddie’s okay would be all the encouragement I’d need to follow through on the plan.
Eddie ran a hand over his short hair, letting out a frustrated huff. “Hell, I don’t know what to do now. Never had a case like this before. Most people aren’t this good at covering their tracks.”
True. Most people didn’t even try very hard, failing to give the IRS credit we’d be able to track down the financial information needed to prove their returns hadn’t been on the up-and-up.
I hated to ask the next question, but I wanted an honest answer. “What do you think the chances are we’ll bring Mendoza in?”
Eddie’s gaze locked on mine. “Honestly, Tara? Slim to none. We’re not dealing with an amateur here.”