Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte

by Diane Kelly

  Eddie called me that evening at six-fifteen. “Mendoza’s leaving the credit union now, heading south.”

  That meant he might be coming back home. “I’ll get into position.”

  I parked down a side street, waiting to see if Mendoza returned to Crescent Tower. A few minutes later, he drove down the street ahead of me and into the underground garage. There was probably no point in going into the lobby. By this time, he was likely going home for the night. Still, something told me to give it a few minutes. Instinct kicking in again.

  Sure enough, after about forty-five minutes, Mendoza reemerged from the parking garage. I followed him as he took Maple to McKinney. He turned again on Pearl, then made his way to I-45 south. I followed him when he took the I-30 exit, keeping a safe distance and staying two lanes over, where he was less likely to notice me. After a short drive, he exited and entered the older but upscale Lakewood neighborhood. He slowed and I had to take a brief detour through a gas station parking lot to prevent myself from inadvertently gaining on him.

  Finally, he pulled into the branch library on Worth Street. Was he was making a call from a pay phone here? This branch was small and there was no way to follow him into the building without being spotted. Instead, I parked behind a taco stand across the street, breathing in the smells of simmering beans, garlic, and onions.

  When Mendoza emerged from his car, I noticed he’d changed into a pair of jeans and a knit polo shirt, looking more like a typical middle-aged father than a killer.

  But I knew better.

  While I waited, I listened to the steamy, romantic audio book. The duke was a prig, ignoring his wife and instead gallivanting around town, gambling and boozing with friends. The lonely duchess was riding the stablehand like a bronc when Mendoza emerged from the library.

  I checked the clock on the dashboard. Mendoza had spent an hour inside. Couldn’t the guy take another minute so I could find out if the stablehand satisfied the duchess better than the indifferent duke?

  I phoned Eddie. “Elvis has left the building.”

  “Do I hear moaning?”

  I jabbed the button to eject the audio book. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Given that it was now the middle of the evening, we assumed Mendoza was heading back to Crescent Tower. Eddie said he’d drive over there to check. Meanwhile, I went into the library and looked around for a pay phone, but found none.

  When I asked an older, bearded man at the front desk where the pay phone was, an amused smile played at his lips. “We don’t have a pay phone anymore,” he teased good-naturedly, giving me a wink. “These days most people have a magical, newfangled device called a cell phone.”

  Except for criminals who don’t want their calls traced.

  I thanked the man and stepped away from the desk. No pay phone here. That meant Mendoza had come to the library for another reason. But what?

  This library was a single story with the requisite children, teen, and adult areas, though all were much smaller than those at the central library. At the front was a series of long, narrow tables on which eight computers were placed side by side. All but one were in use. Off to the right were glassed-in study rooms, a group of high school kids in one of them laughing and eating Skittles they’d smuggled into the library against its strict no-drinks, no-food policy. Didn’t look like they’d be getting much studying done tonight. Then again, it was Friday evening, a night intended for fun.

  Not for me, though. Thanks to that bastard Mendoza, I was still at work.

  * * *

  When I arrived home, I gave my neglected cats some much-needed attention. Annie purred softly and rubbed her head against my chin as I cuddled her to my chest. Henry normally acted as if I didn’t exist, but tonight he stretched a paw toward me when I reached up to his place on top of the armoire.

  I scratched behind his ears. “Hey, boy.”

  He replied with a yawn and rolled over onto his back.

  Brett was having dinner with some of the other Habitat for Humanity volunteers tonight and, as much as I’d have loved to see him, the thought of a quiet evening to myself, soaking in the tub, sounded wonderful. I’d hardly been home lately and I missed it. Besides, Eddie and I planned to double-team Mendoza tomorrow. We figured the weekend might mean a change in his routine given that AmeriMex would be closed. Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally do something to move this case along. I hoped so. I’d far exceeded my shopping budget at the shops in Crescent Tower.

  After I bathed, I gave myself a manicure with shiny red polish. Not as fancy as a professional job, but I hadn’t had time to stop for a manicure. The red polish would match the dress I planned to wear to Lu’s party tomorrow night. I was glad to have something fun to look forward to, something to take my mind off Marcos Mendoza and the trail of body parts he’d left across the state of Texas, even if only for an evening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Discovered

  The following morning, I headed to Crescent Tower around nine, stopping on the way for a skinny no-whip latte. I’d lost another pound. Just a few more to go and I’d be back to my precaramel-latte weight. Still, I’d have to hold my breath in order to zip the dress I planned to wear to Lu’s party tonight.

  I pulled into the garage, circling slowly down the dimly lit levels, passing a security guard on a golf cart and giving him a friendly smile and wave. Mendoza’s car was in his reserved spot. The guy was probably still in bed. Eddie’s rented Taurus was parked on one of the lower levels. No doubt his girls had wakened him early, as usual. The car was empty.

  I parked a few spots away and sent Eddie a text message from my phone. Where R U?

  Twenty seconds later the reply came. Restaurant in lobby. Gr8 waffles.

  Mmm. It had been a long time since I’d had a waffle. I rode the elevator up and stepped into the foyer. Compared to the hustle and bustle of the workweek, the place appeared nearly deserted today. Other than the print shop, the only business open was a small café. Eddie sat at one of the restaurant’s tables in the atrium, where he’d have a clear view of the elevators. A stack of waffles covered in syrup, strawberries, and whipped cream graced the plate in front of him.

  Dang, they looked good. But I’d fought hard to get rid of the caramel latte weight. No sense undoing all that work, right?

  I planned to check in with Eddie so we could formulate a game plan for the day, but my plans quickly changed when Marcos Mendoza stepped off the elevator to my right. My heart lurched in my chest and my vision blurred as if I were looking through a kaleidoscope.

  Get it together, I told myself. I paused and looked down, pretending to be searching for something in my purse. I watched from under my bangs to see if Mendoza would glance my way. He didn’t, thank goodness. But, oddly and alarmingly, he seemed to be aiming straight for Eddie.

  Holy shit.

  Was he on to us? Probably it was nothing more than coincidence. Most likely, Mendoza was simply going for breakfast at the same restaurant where Eddie was seated. Maybe he wanted one of those great waffles, too.

  Still, the guy was a cold-blooded killer. Best to stay close.

  Eddie held the weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal in front of him, not looking up as Mendoza approached. He did a good job of pretending to be unaware of Mendoza’s presence. Mendoza walked up to the railing and stopped next to Eddie’s table.

  There was no doubt now.

  Mendoza had not come down for the waffles.

  The man said nothing, his posture menacing as he towered over Eddie. Eddie eventually looked up. It was the only natural thing someone could do.

  I was too far away to hear what Mendoza said to Eddie, but the exact words didn’t really matter. The mere fact that he’d addressed Eddie directly said it all.

  Eddie’s cover was blown.

  The case was blown.

  All these weeks of work, all the sacrifices, all for naught.

  Shit. Shit! SHIT!

  I ducked into t
he copy center and engaged the young male clerk in a pointless conversation about paper colors, all the while keeping a surreptitious eye on Eddie and Mendoza twenty yards away. Whatever Mendoza said, he kept it short. He turned abruptly, not glancing back as he made his way to the elevator bank.

  Eddie wore a panicked expression, his posture more tense than I’d ever seen it. Everything in me wanted to run to him, to ask what Mendoza had said, but I had to remain cool. Just because Eddie’s cover was blown didn’t necessarily mean mine was, did it?

  Eddie pulled out his wallet, placed some bills on the table, and rushed across the lobby to the elevator. I had no idea what to do, but figured it was best to keep up pretenses, at least until I knew for certain I’d been outed. “Do y’all do wedding invitations?”

  The clerk nodded and handed me a heavy, oversized sample book to thumb through. I pulled the book aside so that he could help another customer, and flipped slowly through the papers, not really seeing anything.

  When I believed enough time had passed that I could leave the building without necessarily being associated with Eddie, I took the stairs down to the garage, hopped into my rental car, and got the hell out of there.

  Once I was a couple of blocks away, I pulled over and called Eddie. “What the hell?”

  “Fuck!” he screamed, so loud I had to hold my phone away from my ear.

  “What did Mendoza say?”

  “He thanked me for keeping an eye on things at the credit union and Crescent Tower. Then he—” Eddie choked up.

  “What, Eddie?” I cried. “What did he say?”

  “He said to give his best to Sandra and the twins.”

  I felt light-headed, as if the world had dropped away under me. “Oh God! Oh Eddie! Oh … God!”

  Mendoza’s words were a threat. Veiled, sure, but clearly intended to let Eddie know he wouldn’t be messed with. Mendoza had never met Eddie’s wife or girls. The only way he’d know about them was if he’d done some checking up himself.

  Or if Nick Pratt had told him.

  Had Nick ratted us out to Mendoza? Or had I been right about that security camera at the credit union? Had it picked up Eddie’s license plate? We’d been stupid—Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!—to drive over there in a personal vehicle.

  I had no idea what to think. “What now, Eddie?”

  “I’m getting home as fast as I can. Call Lu for me.”

  * * *

  “Damn it all!” Lu shrieked through the phone after I told her what happened. “How in the Sam hell did this happen?”

  How did this happen? Either Nick had served Eddie and me up to Mendoza on a silver platter or Eddie and I had fucked up, that’s how. We never should have driven one of our personal vehicles on the investigation.

  I didn’t want to lie to my boss, but I didn’t want to get Eddie in trouble, either. If I told the Lobo he’d driven his minivan to the credit union, she’d have a shit fit. Taking his car had been a major lapse in judgment, one brought on by exhaustion and the pressure to move this case along as quickly as possible.

  I also didn’t want to tell her about the communications I’d received from Nick. How could I tell her now, when I’d kept the information to myself for weeks? She might question my actions. Besides, what did it matter at this point? The case was blown.

  “I … I don’t know how this happened, Lu.”

  “Well, this a fine mess,” she spat.

  A fine mess thanks to Marcos Mendoza, the fucker. Pardon my language, but the guy had me more angry than ever.

  He’d threatened my partner.

  He’d made this personal.

  He shouldn’t have done that.

  Especially when I was now in possession of an unregistered hunting rifle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Party Pooper

  That afternoon, I stopped by the salon to have my hairdresser style my hair into a sleek updo. I normally enjoyed chitchatting with her, sharing secrets and gossip, but today I was in no mood for small talk. I was too upset, too devastated. To be more precise, I felt ashamed. George Burton and the Lobo had trusted me and Eddie to bring down Marcos Mendoza, and we hadn’t been able to deliver.

  My stylist brushed out my locks, pulling one section up in a plastic clip. She put her hands on my shoulders and tilted her head, eyeing me in the mirror. “You okay, Tara?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  Yes! But I couldn’t. “Wish I could.”

  “Confidential government stuff, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  She held up a sharp pair of shears, running a finger up and down the razor-sharp five-inch blade. “You need to take someone out,” she said. “I’d be glad to help.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” I forced a smile. “I’m sure everything will eventually work out fine.”

  As if. Nothing was fine. And nothing would be fine until Mendoza was behind bars.

  Or dead.

  Once again, I found myself seriously considering the head shot with a hunting rifle.

  * * *

  After what happened that morning, I was hardly in the mood for merriment. But since the other special agents had no idea what had taken place, I couldn’t very well skip Lu’s party. Heck, the celebration had been my idea. I had no choice but to play along as if nothing unusual had occurred, as if Eddie and I hadn’t suffered a major career setback, an enormous defeat.

  Back at home, I dressed for Lu’s party, slipping my red chenille dress over my head, reaching around the back to zip it up. I took a deep breath and stood on tiptoe, hoping to stretch myself as thin as possible. I managed to zip up the dress, but breathing would be difficult.

  The dress was the one I’d bought to wear to Florida. I’d felt beautiful in it when I’d tried it on at the store, but when I looked in the mirror today all I saw were seams stretched to their limits and worry lines creasing my forehead.

  Brett arrived promptly at six. When I opened the door, he stepped inside, looking me up and down. “You look gorgeous.” He took both of my hands in his, placed a soft kiss on the back of each, then another on my lips.

  He looked handsome in his dark gray suit. The black shirt he’d worn under it was a nice, unusual touch. He’d added a white tie, the effect both trendy and slightly retro.

  I returned his kiss, forcing a perky demeanor. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  I grabbed my tiny black evening purse and the gift-wrapped bracelet I’d bought for Lu, and we headed out to Brett’s car. On the drive to the country club, Brett was too busy chattering on about the great deal he’d negotiated on azalea bushes for the Habitat houses to notice how quiet and pensive I was.

  Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to the main clubhouse. The valet helped me out of the car, Brett handed him the keys, and we made our way inside.

  Viola was already there, henpecking the club’s catering staff, counting the appetizers on the trays to make sure they hadn’t shorted us a single stuffed mushroom.

  She glanced over at me as I walked in. Her wrinkled face seemed pinched, her smile strained, her usually perky curls droopy. Did she know about Eddie, that Mendoza had threatened him?

  Even though Lu had sworn me and Eddie to secrecy about our investigation, it wouldn’t have surprised me if Lu had shared the information with Viola. Even if the Lobo hadn’t volunteered the information, Viola could probably have figured things out on her own. Not much got past her.

  The double doors that led from the kitchen into the clubhouse swung slowly open and one of the kitchen employees backed into the room rolling a cart bearing an enormous mermaid ice sculpture.

  “Wow.” Brett tilted his head as he took in the frozen display. “That’s…”

  I looked up at him. “Is ‘incredibly tacky’ the term you’re looking for?”

  Brett pointed a finger at me. “That’s it.”

  The sculpture had been a point of contention among the members of th
e party planning committee. Some called it art, others called it ridiculous. I’d been among the ridiculous faction. We’d lost out.

  But the mermaid was the least of my concerns at the moment. I couldn’t imagine what Eddie was going through, fearing not only for his own life, but even more so for the lives of his wife and young children. Surely he was suffering the same sense of failure I felt, kicking himself for driving his minivan to the credit union.

  We should’ve gotten a rental. No matter how tired and stressed we were, we should’ve followed procedure. I felt an urge to flog myself. Where’s a whip when you need one?

  Then again, it could have been Nick who’d sold us out. I wished the guy would call again so I could talk to him, figure out what the hell was going on.

  I placed my gift bag on the side table near the door and surveyed the room. Colorful helium balloons with “100” printed on them floated above each table. They’d probably been intended for a centenarian’s birthday party, but they worked just as well for celebrating Lu reaching the hundred-million-dollar mark. I’d ordered them from an online party supply outfit, along with napkins printed to resemble dollar bills and chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil.

  Among the first to arrive at the party was Josh. He was dressed in his standard work clothes, khaki pants and a blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Sheez. Way to make the party feel special. Then again, the guy was known for his technical skills, not his social graces. He was alone. No date.

  Josh eyed the buffet table, noting the covers had not yet been removed from the chafing dishes. “What? No food yet? I’m starving.”

  I directed him to a side table where crudités and a creamy spinach dip had been arranged on a shiny silver platter.

  Several other couples wandered in, including Christina and Ajay. Since Christina and I had worked together to bust the drug-dealing, tax-cheating ice cream man, it earned her an invitation to the party, plus one of course. Although the case hadn’t brought in oodles of money, it had nonetheless brought the Lobo closer to her hundred-million-dollar goal.