by Diane Kelly
When the piece ended, Brett retrieved the remote, clicked off the TV, and led me to his bedroom.
Move aside, burr, there was someone else who wanted to get in my britches now. And I’d let him. Maybe it would make up for me missing the awards banquet. Then again, maybe I was afraid that if I didn’t maintain my claim to Brett’s equipment, someone else might try to get her hands on it.
Perhaps a butterscotch-blond bimbo.
* * *
Saturday afternoon I sat in a mid-sized rental car on a side street, keeping an eye on the Crescent Tower parking garage while Eddie attended his daughters’ soccer games. Thanks to Eddie’s mad coaching skills, their team had made the playoffs. Good news for Eddie, bad news for me. Their championship status meant I’d be stuck babysitting Mendoza all day.
In the early afternoon, Christina swung by with a homemade batch of virgin peach Bellinis in an oversized thermos. The perfect thing to keep us cool as we sat in the rental car, watching the garage exit.
Christina glanced around the sedan. “This is a step up from the toy car you were using to spy on the post office.”
“Yeah, but the upgrade’s coming out of my pocket.” The government would pay three grand for a hammer, but provide a comfortable car for an undercover agent when a tiny compact would do? Forget it.
The day was warm, and a layer of sweat formed on our skin even with the windows down and a small, battery-operated fan blowing on us.
I updated Christina on the Mendoza case. It only took two words. “No progress.”
She played with her straw, stirring her rapidly melting drink. “He sure is one slippery sucker.”
“You can say that again. Got any suggestions?”
“Wish I did.” She was quiet for a moment before turning in the passenger seat to face me. “We can’t eliminate all of the bad guys, you know. Occasionally there’s one that gets away. Sucks, but that’s just the way it is.”
I knew what she said was true. Still, I couldn’t accept that Mendoza might get away with his crimes. “This guy hasn’t just ripped off the government, he’s killed people. And he’ll likely kill again.” I chewed the inside of my cheek. Hell, I’d just about chewed through it.
Christina reached across the console and put her hand over mine in a rare showing of seriousness. “If that happens, Tara, you won’t be to blame. You can’t take on that kind of responsibility or guilt. What Mendoza chooses to do is his fault and his alone.”
Somehow, that didn’t make me feel any better.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A Sighting
Eddie and I continued our surveillance. We did our best to vary our looks, dressing professionally some days, wearing more casual clothes on others. I styled my hair differently each day, going from bun, to loose and curly, to flat-ironed.
On Monday, I wore the maternity set again, this time stuffing a beach ball from the dollar store into the front pouch of the pants. Might as well make the most of my disguise, huh?
I waddled into the lobby of Crescent Tower, making my way to the coffee bar, my round belly eliciting friendly smiles from several of those who passed. But when I ordered a skinny no-whip latte, the woman behind me in line wasn’t so friendly.
“Caffeine isn’t good for the baby,” she said, “and you really should be drinking whole milk when you’re pregnant.”
“The drink’s for a coworker,” I lied. I didn’t want to debate prenatal care with this woman, especially when my baby-to-be was merely an inflated piece of plastic.
I waited until she left, then slid into a booth to watch the elevators. Unfortunately, the beach ball sprung a leak as I sat. Even more unfortunately, the leak was on the side of the ball pressed up against my skin.
A sound like a whoopee cushion came from my belly. Blaaat.
A man at the table next to me glanced up. “My wife had the same problem when she was pregnant.”
A hot blush rushed to my cheeks. Blaaat. I stood up, spotted the closest ladies’ room, and bolted toward the door.
Two short blaaats blasted as I slammed the door on the stall. I reached into my pants and removed the quickly deflating ball. Sheez. A buck doesn’t go very far these days.
I wadded up bath tissue and used that to fill up the pants pouch, tossing the ball into the trash bin as I left. My new baby was slightly lumpy and lopsided, but at least this one wasn’t flatulent.
* * *
The only glimpse I caught of Mendoza on Monday was when he came down late in the day to pick up his dry cleaning. Needless to say, I gained no helpful information from watching him pay for the shirts he’d had laundered and pressed. Maybe I should speak to the dry cleaner’s staff, find out if they’d ever had to wash bloodstains out of his clothing or found a weapon in his pocket, maybe a handwritten confession drafted in a moment of weakness.
That was too much to hope for, wasn’t it?
On Tuesday, I borrowed a portable watering tank from Brett, wore a bright green T-shirt and white shorts, and pretended to be from the plant service. I paid particular attention to the plants on the ninth floor, but there was no action at AmeriMex other than a guy from the sandwich shop downstairs delivering lunch to the office. The club sandwich looked particularly appetizing but the chicken salad appeared a bit soggy.
On Wednesday, I was doing duty outside when Mendoza made his first venture out of the building. Eddie texted me from inside Crescent Tower at two-thirty in the afternoon. The rat is out of the cage.
I started the engine on my rental sedan, suffering a momentary panic when it seemed to have trouble catching. All that sitting in the car and listening to my newest Carrie Underwood CD had run down the battery. Fortunately, the motor eventually kicked in.
I slid my sunglasses on, a pair of tortoiseshell Brighton knockoffs, and looked off to my left as Mendoza drove by on my right in his silver Mercedes E550. The car cost around sixty grand. Luxurious, sure, but still well within range for his purported salary. Not surprising. His lifestyle in the U.S. was controlled, measured, while the home he owned in Mexico was a fully staffed mansion. There had to be a lot of unreported, untaxed money being sent to his wife and daughter in Monterrey.
Once Mendoza had a block lead on me, I eased myself into traffic to follow him. He turned west on McKinney, then south on Olive Street, heading toward downtown. Where was he going? A meeting, maybe?
He took another turn onto St. Paul, then drove a short distance on Young Street before putting on his right blinker to turn into a parking lot. I continued past, watching in my rearview mirror to ensure he actually made the turn he’d signaled.
I made the block and drove back around, stopping to look up at the building. The Dallas Central Library. What was Mendoza doing here? Checking out The Seven Habits of Highly Successful Tax Evaders?
I called Eddie from my car and told him where I was.
“The library?” He sounded puzzled.
“Yep.”
“What do you think he’s doing there?”
“Not a clue.”
Just in case Mendoza had noticed my car following him earlier, Eddie drove over in the rented Taurus to take my place. I headed back to Crescent Tower, parking three blocks behind the building, waiting for further instructions from my partner.
Fifteen minutes later, Eddie rang me back. “He’s come out of the library, but he doesn’t have any books or anything.”
“Strange.”
We weren’t sure what to make of that. What had he been doing in the library if not checking out a book or video?
“Could he have returned an item he’d checked out earlier?” Eddie asked.
“It’s possible.” I hadn’t seen Mendoza walk into the building so I couldn’t be sure whether he’d carried something inside.
“Maybe he was doing research,” Eddie suggested.
“I don’t think so. He wasn’t inside the library long enough to get much done.” Besides, it’s not like the guy had a term paper due on Great Expectations. “Think he
was meeting up with someone?”
“Maybe.”
But who?
And why?
* * *
Despite my protests, my mother insisted on making the three-hour drive from Nacogdoches to Dallas on Thursday. She claimed she simply needed a change of scenery, but I knew better. We hadn’t seen each other in weeks and she’d grown suspicious when I’d repeatedly put off her visit. She was worried about my safety and had traveled all this way to check on me, assure herself I was alive and well.
Who could blame her? It had only been a few weeks since Michael Gryder had put a bullet in Eddie’s skull and then tried to obliterate me. If not for Brett’s bravery, neither I nor my partner would be alive today. Never again would I let myself run out of bullets. I’d since bought five extra clips for my Glock. Overkill, probably, but overkill was better than ending up six feet under.
I had no choice but to take my mother along on my stakeout. To be honest, I was glad for the company. I’d spent way too much time alone lately.
Mom and I spent some time browsing in the shops in the Crescent Tower lobby, then had lunch at a French bakery. I opted for a hummus and olive sandwich on sun-dried tomato bread. Mom ordered a traditional Reuben. We claimed a table near the front of the restaurant where we’d have an open view of the lobby.
Mom smiled at me across the table. “Playing spy is fun.”
I smiled back. “We’ll have to make bring-your-mother-to-work day an annual event.” Especially if she’d bring me another full tin of her homemade pecan pralines.
Window-shopping with my mother was indeed fun, but this investigation had become anything but. My stomach felt tight and I could only nibble at my sandwich. I wondered if Eddie and I would ever get Mendoza. The longer this case dragged on, the less likely it seemed. After all the time we’d put in, we still had nothing to show for our efforts. We’d caught only brief glimpses of the man. How could we snag someone so covert, so elusive?
I kept a close eye on the elevators as I ate. My mother kept a close eye on me.
She set her half-eaten sandwich down on her plate and reached across the table to take my hand. “You’ve hardly touched your food, honey. I hate to see you so stressed out.”
I wasn’t merely stressed out. I was stressed in, up, down, backward, and sideways. “We can’t seem to catch this guy doing anything wrong. It’s incredibly frustrating. Sometimes I think we’ll never get him.”
She gave my hand a squeeze. “Well, Tara, the biggest part of getting something is wanting it bad enough.” Mom was full of wisdom.
I, on the other hand, was full of piss and vinegar. “You’ve got a saying for every occasion. As if all it takes is the right adage to solve any problem.” I rolled my eyes, a flashback to my petulant teen days.
“I’ll have none of your backtalk, young lady.” Mom pointed a finger at me, just as she’d done so many times when I was younger. Only this time the gesture was in jest. I was too old to be affected by a scolding from my mother and she darn well knew it. But I’d never be too old to appreciate the comfort she brought by coming to see me.
“You may scoff at my sayings, but they’re tried and true.” Mom took a sip of her iced tea. “So, tell me. How much do you want this guy?”
“Bad.”
“Just bad?”
“So bad I can taste it.” I wanted to say fucking bad, but the mere thought of cussing in front of my mother brought another taste to my mouth, the taste of Ivory soap. Mom had washed my mouth out with the stuff each time I’d let a curse slip as a child.
“You want him bad enough,” she said, “I have no doubt you’ll get him.” She picked up her sandwich again. “By the way, your dad sent his Winchester hunting rifle with me. Said you wanted to borrow it for target practice.”
“Great. Thanks.”
She eyed me one last time. “You realize I’m not buying that ‘target practice’ bullshit.”
Now it was my turn to point at her. “Don’t make me get the Ivory soap.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Checking Things Out
Friday morning, I wore a baseball cap and ponytail, figuring the look went hand in hand with the sporty tracksuit I had on. I carried a cardboard box with me, hoping to look like a courier.
I was on my way across the lobby, heading toward the pastry shop, when Mendoza turned around from the shop himself, a small white bakery bag in one hand, his keys in the other.
He wore an understated, perfectly tailored brown suit, a crisp white shirt peeking out from under the jacket, and a slate-blue silk tie. He looked awfully classy for such an awful guy. He’d already slipped on his sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but his widow’s peak seemed extra dark and pointed today.
I hoped he didn’t notice the brief hesitation in my step when I spotted him. My heart pounded in my chest, throbbing in my ears. There he was. The tax cheat. The murderer. El Diablo himself.
I continued across the lobby and he crossed a mere ten feet in front of me. I swear I smelled death on the man but perhaps it was only his cologne. Eau de Muerte. I glanced back to see him stop at the elevators and jab the down button, summoning a car to take him to the parking garage.
I made my way into the ladies’ room. Since there were two other women in there with me who could eavesdrop on a phone conversation, I texted Eddie instead. Passed M in lobby. He’s heading out.
Eddie called me shortly thereafter and informed me that Mendoza was heading north on Central Expressway, apparently making his way to the credit union. I left Crescent Tower then. No point in risking any AmeriMex employees seeing me loitering unnecessarily.
I wasn’t sure what to do, so I decided to head over to the central library where Mendoza had gone earlier in the week. Eddie had stuck around for half an hour after Mendoza had left, watching the other patrons leaving the library, trying to see if any looked like someone Mendoza might have met with. Most had been college kids or mothers with school-age children, though there’d been a couple of men in the bunch. Given that none of them carried a sign reading I JUST MET WITH MARCOS MENDOZA, it was impossible to know whether the men were associated with our target.
I parked in the library’s lot, walked inside, and looked around. If Mendoza hadn’t been meeting someone on Wednesday, what else could he have been doing here?
Maybe the library had a pay phone he’d come to use. I passed the long bank of computers situated near the reference librarian’s desk and walked the floors, searching. The only pay phone was in the basement by the restrooms. I made my way down the hall and looked at the phone, picking up the receiver and putting it to my ear. No dial tone. Of course not. You didn’t get a dial tone until you put money in.
Had Mendoza made a call from this phone? If Mendoza used pay phones to make the private calls we’d hoped to intercept, a wiretap on his personal and business lines would prove pointless even if we somehow convinced Judge Trumbull to grant us a wiretap. It was highly unlikely Trumbull would include public pay phones in a wiretap order. She’d never allow us to listen in on the phone calls of random, unsuspecting people. Never mind the fact that, to make the call, they would have to be standing in a public building in an open hallway where any passerby could hear the conversation, or at least one side of it, anyway.
Damn. Mendoza really was an expert at making himself untouchable.
I made my way back upstairs and looked around. I loved to read, but I hadn’t been to a library in years. I liked to read in the bathtub and librarians tend to get miffed when you return books with steam-wrinkled pages.
The library had a huge nonfiction area. Story time was going on in the children’s area, a dozen slack-jawed tykes staring up at the children’s librarian as she read an oversized picture book, something about a young giraffe being teased by the others in the herd for his extra-long neck. When a drought ensued and all the lower foliage had been eaten, the giraffe with the extra-long neck was the only one able to reach the higher-up leaves, which he shared with
the others, who now saw the value in his aberrant neck length. The story was barely veiled plagiarism, Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer on the African savannah rather than the North Pole. How about some creativity here?
I wound my way through the fiction section, ending up in the audio books. Since I’d be on this stakeout for the foreseeable future, I checked out a couple of mystery novels on CD, as well as one historical romance featuring a tightly corseted young duchess and a hot stablehand taking a roll in the hay and breaking the class barrier. Good for them.
The librarian handed me an application for a library card. I filled it out and handed it back to her. She input my personal data into her computer, then aimed a handheld scanner at the bar code on the back of my newly issued card and on the plastic case for each of the audio books.
Bleep. Bleep-bleep-bleep.
She slid the books across the table to me. “Here you go. They’re due back three weeks from today.”
I wondered if we’d have Mendoza busted by then.
I feared we wouldn’t.
Not unless something unexpected happened.
* * *
Since I hadn’t heard back from Eddie, I went home to change into a business suit and headed back to the office to work on some of my other cases. Though my other investigations were far more routine and certainly less risky, they were also far less interesting. Run-of-the-mill tax fraud cases, including a bar owner who’d siphoned off thousands of untaxed dollars from his corporation and a woman running an eBay sales business who didn’t bother to report over eighty grand in sales.
The woman’s attorney had been trying to convince me to settle the case for pennies on the dollar. No way, Jose. Not only did we have solid evidence against her, but the cheating twit had plenty of assets to pay her tax bill. She’d just rather spend the money on herself.
I called the attorney, reminded him that interest and penalties continued to accrue, and threatened that if his client didn’t pay up in the next week I’d arrest her. No more Miss Nice Girl. I was tired of tax cheats, sick of people who thought they were above the law.