by Diane Kelly
I sighed. “I like amateurs. They’re so cute when they think they can get away with stuff.” I closed my eyes, racking a brain that had already been racked, reracked, and re-reracked. “You think there’s any point in talking to the widow?”
“The widow?”
“Lauren Sheffield. The wife of the guy Mendoza…” Again, I couldn’t say it. Heck, I could still hardly even think it.
“Dismembered?” Eddie supplied for me.
My sphincter tightened involuntarily. “Yeah.”
“We’ve read through her statements. There was nothing in there that looked helpful. She didn’t seem to know much.”
“You got any other bright ideas?”
He shook his head. “Guess it can’t hurt to talk to her again. What’s a little more wasted time at this point?”
* * *
I hung around the office after Eddie left, telling him I wanted to catch up on my e-mails. But it was a ruse. What I really wanted to do was find out who’d been in touch with Nick.
But how?
I stepped out into the hallway. The cleaning crew stood around their cart at the end of the hall. One of the women pulled a vacuum cleaner off the cart and headed into an office, another grabbed a feather duster and a roll of trash bags and followed her in.
The sound of the vacuum switching on met my ears as I slid into the office next to mine. The space belonged to another female agent, one who’d been with the IRS for five years or so. I rummaged through her drawers and checked her trash can but found nothing of interest other than a secret stash of gummy worms she’d never offered to share. And to think I’d given her a half dozen of Mom’s pralines.
I continued down the hall, quickly searching each office, paying particular attention to the digs of those who played on the softball team. The team members not only practiced and played together, but they often went out for pizza and beer after the games. Maybe one of them had bonded with Nick over slices of pepperoni.
My search turned up a small bottle of wart remover in one office, a can of deodorant foot spray another, and, in the last office, a copy of Dr. Phil’s Relationship Rescue Workbook. More than I really wanted to know about my coworkers. Too much information. And, unfortunately, not the right information.
My last stop was the Lobo’s office. I eased past Viola’s desk and slipped through Lu’s half-open door. I found nothing incriminating in her workspace other than an empty can of Slim-Fast and a king-sized Snickers wrapper.
Would I ever find the answers I was looking for?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Pasta to Die For
The following Monday, Hector Gutierrez called us back with some interesting information. Double Down was owned by a small, privately held Mexican corporation. It had taken some digging, but he’d been able to verify that the stock of the corporation was held by two Mexican partnerships. Vicente Torres was the managing partner of one of the partnerships.
Given that Torres was also one of the owners of AmeriMex, Double Down could thus be linked to Mendoza. The link was tenuous at best, but it was nonetheless a link. Still, as expected, it didn’t directly implicate Mendoza in any illegal activity.
We needed more.
The supervisor from Dallas PD’s crime scene team called shortly thereafter.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“We matched several prints on the cash register till to Darina and Jakub Pokorny,” she said. “No surprise there. But we also lifted one print from the till that didn’t match either of them.”
Bubba’s, no doubt. Dumbass.
“Unfortunately,” she continued, “the print didn’t match anyone in the system. Whoever it belongs to doesn’t have a record. Yet.”
“What do you mean ‘yet’?”
“The fingerprint matched an unidentified print lifted from a burglary last year. If the thug did something like this twice already, he’s likely to do it again. In time, he might be arrested for another crime.”
Problem was, time was in very short supply.
I gritted my teeth in frustration. It seemed as though Eddie and I were running through a maze that had no way out. The loan payments couldn’t be directly linked to Mendoza. And even though Gutierrez found out that Torres owned Double Down, what could we do with that information? Not a damn thing. Not with Torres and Double Down sitting on the wrong side of the border and no definitive evidence that Mendoza had received any payments from the gambling operation. The fingerprints from the Pokornys’ bakery had given us nothing to go on, either. Nick Pratt hadn’t called back, either. Damn him.
At this point, unless and until something else developed, the only hope we had for a break in the case rested with Lauren Sheffield, the widow of Mendoza’s most recent victim. I hoped against hope Lauren would give us something, anything, that might help in our investigation. Eddie and I were out of ideas.
After her husband’s murder, Lauren had immediately put their house on the market and moved herself and her young son back home to Tulsa, Oklahoma, where she’d grown up. When I’d spoken with her by phone on the previous Friday, she’d agreed to meet with us this Wednesday, when she’d be in town to close the sale on the house.
In preparation for our meeting, I reread the files from the earlier investigations. The Texas Rangers and FBI had thoroughly investigated Andrew Sheffield’s murder already and had come up with nothing. No evidence. No witnesses. No viable suspects. Mendoza had an ironclad alibi. At the time of the murder, he’d been out of the country attending a weeklong financial conference in Frankfurt, Germany, seeking out venture capitalists who might want to invest in businesses owned by AmeriMex.
Obviously, just as he’d hired others to attack the Pokornys, he’d hired someone to kill Andrew Sheffield. The creep didn’t have the cojones to do his own dirty work. Ironically, the fact that he didn’t commit his own murders made me lose even more respect for him.
* * *
We’d arranged to meet Lauren at one-thirty on Wednesday, when the lunch crowd would be thinning and we could have more privacy. She’d chosen the spot, a small Italian restaurant in Garland, the suburban town she and Andrew had once called home.
I hoped she’d give us a new lead. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take the stress. I’d had to stop by a grocery store to buy chewable antacid tablets this morning. I’d washed them down with a tasteless skinny no-whip latte. On a brighter note, I’d lost a pound. The squats and lunges the tax-cheating personal trainer had recommended were doing the trick. The girl might not pay her taxes, but when it came to fitness, she knew her stuff.
Eddie and I entered the restaurant, pausing inside the door as our eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight to the dimly lit interior. The bar sat to the right, through a wide archway. Eddie and I made our way into the room, glancing around for Lauren.
Though neither of us knew what she looked like, we identified her immediately. The woman sitting on a stool at the bar bore the gaunt physique reserved for marathon runners, supermodels, and the grief stricken. She wore a pair of wrinkled black linen pants and a long-sleeved gray silk blouse she hadn’t bothered to tuck in. Though both garments were clearly expensive designer pieces that had once fit her, the clothing now hung off her skeletal frame.
I stepped up to her. “Lauren?”
She turned to me and nodded. Her hazel eyes were sunken and underscored with dark crescents accumulated through dozens of sleepless nights. She wore no makeup, making no attempt to conceal the evidence of her despair. Her dark, dull hair fell haphazardly around her shoulders, brushed, barely, but not styled. She was so thin, so pale, so lifeless, it was as if some part of her had died along with her husband.
“I’m Tara Holloway.” I stuck out my hand and she took it in hers, her grip light, hopeless.
Eddie also introduced himself. None of us bothered to say “nice to meet you.” There was nothing nice at all about this meeting. If Andrew Sheffield hadn’t been brutally slain, Lauren would have remained blissfully ignora
nt of our existence and vice versa.
“Shall we get a table?” Eddie asked.
Again, Lauren merely nodded. Words seemed too much of an effort.
She climbed off her stool to follow us. Eddie checked in with the hostess, requesting a private table. The woman grabbed three menus from a stack on her podium and led us to a table in the back corner.
Eddie and I took seats opposite Lauren.
Once the hostess had gone, she finally spoke. “This was Andrew’s favorite restaurant. He always ordered the linguine formaggio. Said he could eat it every day until he died.”
Oh God. What do you say in response to something like that? I glanced at Eddie, but his stricken expression told me he was as shell-shocked as I was.
“I’m so sorry, Lauren.” Couldn’t go wrong with that, right?
The woman reached into her purse, removed a photo, and set it on the table in front of me. I picked it up. A couple dressed in colorful aloha shirts smiled big, gaping smiles at the camera, a cruise ship visible behind them. On the woman’s hip rested an adorable dark-haired toddler, a white sailor cap tucked squarely on his head.
Though the woman in the photo was Lauren Sheffield, she bore little resemblance to the person sitting across the table. The Lauren in the photo looked lively, happy, in love. The man standing beside her had an average build, short brown hair, and a friendly smile, the grown-up version of the boy next door. His head angled toward his wife, his arm draped protectively and lovingly over Lauren’s shoulders.
“That photo was taken on our vacation two summers ago,” she said. “We took the trip to celebrate the launch of Andrew’s consulting business. Andrew and Tyler had so much fun.” Her voice caught and she struggled to maintain her composure. “Tyler is so young. He’ll never be able to remember his dad. What am I going to tell him when he grows up and asks what happened to his father?”
I glanced at my partner. Eddie looked uncomfortable, fidgeting with his silverware. I wasn’t sure whether Lauren’s question was intended to be rhetorical but, regardless, there was no good answer.
“Can I keep this photo?”
She nodded. “It’s digital. I can print another.”
I slid the photo into my purse and pulled out a small notepad and pen. “I hate to put you through this again, Lauren, but the IRS may be the last hope for nailing the person responsible for your husband’s death.”
She looked me square in the eye. “You mean Marcos Mendoza.” She spat out his name as if spitting out poison.
I met her gaze for a few seconds before responding. Even if Mendoza hadn’t done the actual killing, he’d ordered the hit. He was as culpable as the man, or men, who’d slain Andrew. “Yes. Marcos Mendoza.”
She sat up straighter in her seat. “I want to help in any way I can.”
I looked down at my blank notepad, willing it to tell me what magic question I could ask that might elicit something new, some clue that had been overlooked. Unfortunately, the pad was silent. I glanced over at Eddie, then back at Lauren. “I’m going to be honest with you, Lauren. I have no idea where to start. My only hope is that we might elicit something new or different than the earlier investigations, that maybe a small tidbit of information that seemed insignificant to the other agencies might mean something to us.”
Eddie chimed in now, giving us a place to start. “The earlier reports indicated that Andrew started working for Mendoza about ten years ago, at North Dallas Credit Union. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Lauren said. “He started working there just after we graduated from Oklahoma State. Andrew was the first person in his family to go to college. He was very ambitious, worked hard. He started as a loan officer, then transferred into the accounting department. Eventually he was promoted to chief financial officer. It was a good job. Regular hours. The pay was good, too. But he’d gone as far as he could at the credit union. Andrew wanted more. For himself. For us.”
Ambition was normally a good thing. But Andrew’s ambition got him killed. If only he’d been a slacker he’d still be alive today.
The waiter arrived then to take our order. We all ordered the linguine formaggio, a culinary tribute to Andrew Sheffield. It seemed the least we could do.
When the waiter left, Lauren continued. “Andrew met Marcos Mendoza several times when Mendoza came to the credit union to check on things. Mendoza wore the right clothes, drove the right car, knew how to get what he wanted. Andrew was impressed. He seemed like the kind of man Andrew aspired to be.” Lauren emitted a sharp, derisive breath before continuing. “Andrew figured getting a job with the credit union’s parent company would open more doors for him. So he approached Mendoza about opportunities at AmeriMex. Mendoza told Andrew that no in-house positions were available, but that if Andrew opened his own business he’d hire Andrew as an outside consultant on special projects. Andrew was thrilled. He thought it would be a chance for him to prove himself, to be his own boss. Mendoza told Andrew how to set up a corporation and Andrew formed ARS Financial.”
No doubt Mendoza had advised Andrew to set up a corporation because tax law did not require payments to a corporation to be reported to the IRS. Funds could change hands off the agency’s radar.
She went on, telling us that Andrew had rented a one-room executive suite not far from their house. “Andrew dealt directly with Mendoza rather than one of his underlings. Mendoza even gave Andrew his private e-mail address and cell phone number. Andrew felt important, like his right-hand man.”
Feeding the victim’s ego. Typical MO for con artists.
“For the first few months things seemed normal. Financial information was provided to Andrew for various business ventures operated by AmeriMex, and Andrew prepared financial statements, did some projections and forecasting. AmeriMex paid Andrew ungodly amounts of money for the consulting work.” Her voice grew softer, sadder. “We thought our ship had come in.”
It had.
And it was the Titanic.
Our salads arrived then, along with a basket of warm garlic bread. While Eddie and I picked at our salads, Lauren continued.
“After a few months, things started getting weird. Andrew didn’t tell me all the details. He probably didn’t want me to worry. But I know Mendoza asked Andrew to funnel a large cash payment though the ARS corporate bank account. Mendoza claimed that he suspected an employee with access to the AmeriMex accounts had embezzled funds and that he didn’t want to put the money where the employee might be able to abscond with it. Andrew agreed to transfer the funds that one time.”
She turned away then, a guilty look on her face. My guess was the couple knew the exorbitant income Andrew received would come with some not-so-ethical strings attached. They just hadn’t realized the strings would become the rope with which Andrew would later be hung.
Lauren took a shaky breath and turned back to us. “After that, the transactions became more frequent and in larger amounts. Mendoza had cash and money orders couriered to Andrew and instructed Andrew to deposit the funds in ARS Financial’s accounts. He’d give Andrew instructions later on where to send the money. Proper accounting controls weren’t being followed. The source of the income was questionable and when Andrew asked about it, Mendoza was evasive. Andrew became uncomfortable serving as a straw man with such large sums involved.”
Rightfully so. Clearly, Andrew’s consulting business had become a front for a money-laundering scheme.
Lauren took a small sip of her water. “Mendoza wouldn’t allow Andrew to contact anyone at AmeriMex directly. He insisted that all communication go through him, via e-mail or his cell phone. Andrew felt like he wasn’t getting the full story. He didn’t like being kept in the dark and he was worried he could end up in trouble.”
He’d ended up in more than trouble. He’d ended up in a Dumpster. Actually, four Dumpsters to be exact.
Tears pooled in her eyes now. “Andrew sent Mendoza a resignation letter politely thanking him for the opportunities he had provided, but stating tha
t he no longer wanted to perform consulting services for AmeriMex. Mendoza offered Andrew even more money to continue on. Of course, Andrew declined. Two days later, Andrew was … gone.”
She picked up her fork, gripping it so hard her knuckles turned white. “When the police investigated, the officers found drug paraphernalia and hard-core porn magazines in one of Andrew’s desk drawers. I think Mendoza’s henchmen planted them to make Andrew look bad and to throw off suspicion. Andrew would never have done drugs or looked at porn.”
Eddie gave me a little kick under the table. This kick said Never say never. Lauren Sheffield may not have wanted to believe her husband would involve himself in drugs or sexual perversion, but Eddie and I had learned that looks could be deceiving and that nobody knew others as well as they thought they did. We’d recently sent a softball coach away for eighteen months for tax evasion, much to the surprise of his wife. She’d known nothing about the stash of unreported cash he’d earned in his roofing business and mingled with the team’s accounts in an attempt to hide it.
Regardless of the extent to which Andrew had been a partner or pawn in Mendoza’s game, the fact remained that Mendoza was a dangerous man, a man who’d gotten away with murder, more than once.
A man who would kill again.
I couldn’t let that happen. “Any chance Andrew ever gave you the private phone number or e-mail address Mendoza had instructed him to use?”
Lauren shook her head. “The cell phone disappeared. The police kept the computer as evidence. But there wasn’t anything on it. The hard drive had been wiped clean.”
Just like Nick Pratt’s hard drive had been wiped clean.
“All the money in the ARS bank accounts was gone, too,” Lauren said. “Every penny had been withdrawn.”
The FBI report had indicated that the funds had been taken out in cash rather than a check or wire transfer that could be traced. Unfortunately, it had been Andrew Sheffield himself who’d cleaned out the account, probably at Mendoza’s request since most, if not all, of the funds belonged to Mendoza. Andrew probably thought he was doing the right thing returning the money, that it would get him out from under Mendoza’s thumb.