by Diane Kelly
With eyes everywhere, there was no way we could check out AmeriMex’s office space tonight. Not that we’d planned to. We were here simply to get a feel for the place, seek out spots from which we might be able to keep a clandestine eye on Mendoza’s comings and goings. Still, at some point, I wanted to take a peek at his digs.
To keep the security guards from becoming suspicious, we headed across the lobby to the twenty-four-hour copy center, the one still-bright spot in the lobby. The large machines whirred, giving off heat and the acrid smell of hot ink. Two young men were hard at work, copying and collating.
I pulled a legal pad out of my briefcase and jotted down a quick memo for the staff of a fictitious business I created on the spot. I handed the memo to the young female clerk, asking her to make five copies of the Tardie Incorporated dress code policy. Nose-hair trimming was mandatory, but underwear was now optional.
“Tardie?” Eddie asked after the clerk stepped away.
“That’s what our name would be if we were a celebrity couple.”
Eddie shook his head. “You watch too much Access Hollywood.”
While the clerk made the copies, Eddie and I glanced around the lobby. Several restaurants had atrium seating from which a stakeout could be run. What’s more, it would be fairly easy to keep an eye on the elevator bank from the windows of various shops around the lobby. The random clusters of cushy chairs and coffee tables situated around the lobby could be used, too.
Memos in hand, we made our way back across the lobby, giving a friendly wave to the security guards when a couple of them glanced our way. Yep, we belong here. Not casing the joint. Nope. Not us.
Back in his van, Eddie loosened his tie and pulled it from the neck of his white dress shirt. Always the helpful sidekick, I took it from him, folded it neatly, and set it on the backseat on top of his briefcase.
“Where to now?” he asked.
I used my phone to access the Internet, found the address for NDCU, then plugged the address into the GPS feature. Per the map, NDCU was located in the Lake Highlands neighborhood northeast of downtown. “Take Central north.”
Eddie took a right out of the parking lot and headed onto the nearly deserted street. In minutes, we were heading north on Interstate 75, the same general route we’d taken to the Pokornys’ bakery. The late-spring drizzle kicked in again, halos forming around the streetlights, Eddie’s tires kicking up a steady stream of rain, the white noise nearly lulling me to sleep.
We made a quick stop for coffee and I opted for another skinny no-whip latte. My thigh muscles still ached from my recent workout. I wasn’t sure the whipped cream and caramel drizzle were worth an extra half hour on the treadmill. Then I took a sip of the plain latte and decided maybe they were.
A half hour later, we pulled into the parking lot of a florist across the street from the credit union. Eddie stopped his van and we looked across the road at NDCU. The building was a single-story structure composed of rust-orange brick. A stand of silver maples lined the left side of the building. On the right were two drive-up lanes, one marked for commercial customers, the other for personal banking. A piece of modern art that resembled a twisted strand of DNA stood to the left of the glass double doors on the front of the building. To the right was an ATM machine built into the brick wall. The building’s front windows were dark, the lot empty, the floodlights reflecting off the wet asphalt. The security cameras mounted on each corner of the building made slow sweeps side to side across the building’s parking lot, but I wasn’t concerned. We were parked well out of camera range.
Eddie cocked his head as he stared at the building. “Looks like any other small bank.”
“Mm-hm.”
But clearly there was more to NDCU than met the eye. Someone there had accessed NDCU’s client records and obtained personal information about Ernestine Griggs and the other fraud victims, information later used to produce counterfeit credit cards. Did Mendoza have one of the employees under his thumb, doing his dirty work? Or had he accessed the files himself and passed the information on to an outsider?
Given what Lauren Sheffield had shared with us, it seemed that Mendoza tried to keep his hands out of the cookie jar, instead recruiting others to handle the questionable activities. But it also seemed that Mendoza had taken to outsourcing the dirty work, keeping it away from the companies he managed, increasing the distance between himself and his minions. Probably a smart idea. Given that two AmeriMex employees had already died under suspicious circumstances, any more questionable deaths at such a small company would raise eyebrows.
I downed the last of my latte, cringing as the now-cold grounds from the bottom of the cup hit my tongue. I glanced over at the bank again.
What the hell?
One of the security cameras was raised high on its mount and appeared to be aimed in our direction. I watched it for a few seconds, waiting for it to continue its slow sweep over the premises, but it didn’t seem to be moving. I put a hand on Eddie’s arm. “Is that camera pointed at us?”
Eddie turned to me, then followed my gaze, squinting through the drizzle-dappled windshield and dim light. The camera moved then, swinging slowly to the right. “Nah. It’s moving. See?”
I hesitated a moment. Had the camera been aimed at us? Or had the rain-dotted windshield and darkness played tricks on my mind? “Must’ve been my imagination.”
But was it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I Spy
Darina Pokorny called to let us know she’d been released from the hospital. After several days in a coma Jakub had come to, though the doctors were keeping him heavily sedated to help him deal with the pain of seventeen—my God! Seventeen!—broken bones. But his prognosis was surprisingly good.
My prayers had been answered. Well, one of them at least. I was still waiting for the thugs to be apprehended. Of course, that might be up to me to accomplish.
Darina informed us that she and Jakub planned to move back to Czechoslovakia as soon as he was able to travel. Who could blame them? The American dream had turned into a nightmare for them. I wished her well and told her to stay in touch. I’d let her know when we nailed the people responsible for hiring the goons who’d beaten them.
Because we would nail Mendoza and his minions.
We simply had to. For Darina, for Jakub, and for their children. For Mendoza’s other victims and their families. And for every other unsuspecting person out there who might get sucked into Mendoza’s vortex of violence.
So here I was on Friday morning, in a women’s clothing store in the lobby of Crescent Tower, pretending to be window-shopping when, in fact, I was watching out the window, casing the lobby, hoping to catch a glimpse of Marcos Mendoza. I slowly made my way toward the jewelry display near the cash register. A pink beaded bracelet caught my eye. The piece had Lu written all over it. She’d insisted no one buy presents for the upcoming party to celebrate her hundred-million-dollar milestone, but the fact that she’d insisted no less than a dozen times negated her words.
“I’ll take this one.” I held the bracelet out to the sales clerk.
“Great choice,” she chirped. “Would you like this gift wrapped?”
Eddie sat in a rented dark blue Ford Taurus on a nearby street, watching the exit of the underground garage, waiting to see if Mendoza left the tower. Given that Mendoza both lived and worked in this building, it could be days before he ventured out. The place was a virtual world unto itself, a microcosm housing a barber, a dry cleaner, even a full-service spa. Groceries and meals could be delivered. About the only thing Mendoza couldn’t do in this building was get a prostate exam.
I wasn’t a patient person under the best of circumstances, and these undercover stakeouts had stretched my patience very thin, especially after the debacle at the post office. Time for more aggressive action.
I strode purposefully across the lobby, punched the up-arrow button, and rode the elevator up with two men, both in business suits, both carrying briefcases,
both talking on their cell phones. One of the men got off on the fourth floor, the other got off on the seventh. Alone now. Just me and my telltale heart, pulsing so rapidly in my chest I feared it might explode.
The bell dinged as the elevator reached the ninth floor and the doors slid open. I stepped out onto the floor, eyeing the sign indicating suites 901 to 905 were to the left with suites 906 to 910 to the right. AmeriMex was in 901. I turned left and made my way down the hall, past a law office, a commercial property management company, and a collection agency. The doors and front walls to each of these offices were glass, giving the offices an open, welcoming feel and allowing a view into their reception areas.
AmeriMex was located at the end of the hallway, next to the door leading to the stairwell. Judging from the proximity of the stairs and the adjacent business, AmeriMex’s headquarters were small, probably no more than twelve hundred square feet. But that was all I could tell. Unfortunately, there was nothing to see other than a solid wood door with AMERIMEX printed on it in three-inch gold lettering. The front walls were solid. No glass.
Damn.
Eddie and I had searched the IRS payroll filings on AmeriMex employees. Once we’d composed a list, we searched the Net to obtain information about the personnel, as well as photos of each of them. In addition to Mendoza, AmeriMex employed five staff, including three accountants, an administrative assistant, and one part-time human resources administrator. Typical for a holding company that simply owned other businesses and provided no products or services itself.
Was one or more of them in on Mendoza’s schemes?
None of the information we’d collected about the workers was remarkable. Their reported salaries were fair but not unusually generous. The cars, houses, and other assets they owned were typical for workers in their salary ranges. No inexplicable Maseratis or vacation homes in Maui. Other than one of the accountants who’d served a short probation years ago for driving under the influence, none of the staff had a criminal record. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say they were all legit. Still, I had hoped to get a glimpse into the office, maybe try to visually identify some of the employees, see if they looked as innocent in person as they seemed from our background check.
I’d reached the end of the hall and my only options were to enter the stairwell or turn around. I chose the latter. I slowly made my way down the hall in the other direction, pretending to be searching for an office.
A woman in a bright green T-shirt and white cotton shorts stepped off the elevator ahead of me, rolling a plastic tank behind her. She made her way up the hallway, stopping to water several potted plants placed here and there along the way, sticking the nozzle into the base of the plants to avoid spattering the liquid. She pulled a feather duster from a loop on the dolly and dusted the plant, then used a spray bottle to spritz the leaves.
I wondered if working as a professional plant maintenance person was as monotonous as watching a bank of elevators all day. I’d been bored out of my skull.
I walked to the far end of the hallway, noting a security camera at this end of the hall. The camera was mounted over the door leading to another stairwell and aimed down the hallway where it could take in all of the space. No sense hanging around in the corridor where I might garner suspicion from the security guards monitoring the camera feeds. I made my way back to the elevator and rode it down to the lobby.
Back to window-shopping.
I stepped into a different store this time, an upscale women’s clothing boutique. I slid several blouses aside on a rack, pretending to be looking through them.
A blond-bobbed saleswoman wearing one of the store’s offerings, a silvery trapeze dress, wandered over. “Can I help you find something?”
I offered a cordial smile. “Just looking.” Out the window. I didn’t have two hundred bucks to spend on a blouse and, even if I did, I wouldn’t. I liked the thrill of a bargain hunt.
She looked me up and down appraisingly, a smile tugging at her lips. She must have recognized my suit as Donna Karan. What she didn’t know was that I’d bought it at Neiman’s Last Call. Underneath the paisley scarf tied around my neck was a hideous black slash, an accident with a permanent marker. But, heck, for seventy percent off its original price I was happy to take the damaged goods off their hands.
“Take your time,” she said, virtually salivating at the commission she thought I might generate.
Darn. I was on her radar now. Time to find another spot from which to keep an eye on the lobby elevators.
I sorted through a few more racks, then slipped out the door when another customer came in and sidetracked the clerk. A few minutes later, I was seated at one of the restaurants on a mock patio surrounded by a wrought-iron railing that extended into the lobby. I sipped an iced tea and slowly picked at a spinach and walnut salad while pretending to read the Dallas Morning News.
An elevator dinged across the way and the doors slid open.
Oh my God.
There he was. The murderer himself. Complete with his expensive suit and dark widow’s peak.
Mendoza stepped out of the elevator and strode across the lobby, heading toward the shops on the far side. My heart pumped fast in my chest, sending my blood rushing through my veins. I held the newspaper higher, watching him over the top of the business pages.
Mendoza stepped up to the glass counter of a small jewelry store. He spoke briefly to the salesman standing behind the case, then removed his watch from his wrist and handed it to the clerk.
Replacing his battery. Such an everyday activity for such an evil man. The incongruity made him seem more real, more vulnerable than the legend in my mind. He might be a cold-blooded killer, but he was still mere flesh and bone, right? He could be taken down.
He would be taken down.
He paid the clerk and made his way back across the lobby, raising a hand in greeting to the security guards at their desk. An elevator opened directly in front of him as if on command and he stepped in without breaking pace. Okay, maybe that seemed like the stuff of legend.
The doors slid closed and the man was gone.
* * *
I drove over to Brett’s for dinner. He showed me the plaque he’d received in Florida, as well as photographs from the banquet. Judging from the pictures, he was the only award recipient without a significant other in attendance.
Guilt weighed on me. I’d let him down. Ugh.
Brett fired up the propane-powered barbecue grill on his patio and grilled thick salmon steaks with a lemon butter sauce, which he served with rice pilaf and a sweet moscato wine. I’d brought dessert. Double Stuff Oreos. Only the best for my man.
We ate on the couch, bypassing Keeping Up with the Kardashians on E! in favor of Keeping Up Appearances on the BBC America channel. What exactly was a Kardashian anyway? And why would anyone want to keep up with one?
After Hyacinth Bucket had wrapped up her silly antics on the TV screen, Brett retrieved the remote and changed the channel to the local ten o’clock news. I stood to go. It was a work night after all. But Brett took my arm and pulled me back to the couch. “You have to stay and watch,” he said. “One of the reporters is doing a piece on Habitat for Humanity. She came to the house today when I was planting some bushes and interviewed me.”
“Brett, that’s fantastic!” I focused on the screen, eager to see my man on TV.
The intro provided sound bites of the news to come, including a nine-second shot of a cheesecake reporter named Trish LeGrande who was known for both her catch phrase—“Tune in for Trish at Ten!”—and her oversized breasts. Trish wore a tight, low-cut pink T-shirt that barely contained her cleavage, along with skimpy khaki shorts and a leather tool belt slung low across her curvaceous hips. Her long butterscotch-colored hair was pulled up into a sassy ponytail.
She held her microphone in front of full, pink-frosted lips. “I’m Trish LeGrande,” she said in a soft and airy voice, as if she was having trouble catching her breath. Perhaps her enormous bre
asts were crushing her lungs. “I’m here at a house being built by volunteers for Habitat for Humanity. Stay tuned to learn more about the charity and this great group of volunteers.” The camera panned farther out, showing Brett standing beside Trish with a shovel in his hand. Trish turned to him. “I see you’ve got some big equipment, Mr. Ellington. I hope you’ll show me what you can do with it.”
Big equipment? If that didn’t call for a jeer I didn’t know what did. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Brett cut a disapproving look my way. “Don’t be so critical.”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Brett. I’m all for the happy-feel-good crap, but did the station have to hire someone like that for the job?”
“Someone like what?”
So he was gonna play dumb, huh? I leaned into Brett, rubbing my hand in circles on his shoulder, mimicking Trish’s girlie voice. “Someone with such big equipment.”
Brett cocked his head. “She’s not the bimbo she comes off to be. She earned a master’s degree in journalism from Texas Christian University.”
The same school that gave the news world Bob Schieffer. Not bad. Wait a minute. “How do you know where she went to school?”
Brett shrugged. “We talked while the camera crew was setting up. She asked about my business. Said she’d plug it in the piece. It was only polite to show an interest in her job in return.”
Hmm. Not sure I liked that. The idea of another woman engaging in chitchat and tit-for-tat with my man put a burr in my britches. Especially when she had so much tit to exchange for his tat.
The full piece came on halfway through the news broadcast and ran only thirty seconds, but it was long enough for Brett to mention he worked as a landscape architect for Wakefield Designs. Not only was he helping a great cause, but the exposure for his business couldn’t hurt, either. Dallas was a huge television market. More than two and a half million people lived in the area.