by Diane Kelly
Trish threw her head back and laughed, hanging on for dear life as Brett wheeled her into the yard, tilting the wheelbarrow from side to side, feigning as if he were going to dump Trish in the dirt.
My head felt light and my stomach hollow, as if I were on a roller coaster launching into a deep plunge. I didn’t want to see this. I wish I hadn’t seen this. Brett was flirting with another woman. Mere hours after doing the naked tango with me.
“Tara?” Alicia asked through the phone. “You still there?”
I closed my phone, ending the call. Alicia would think it had been dropped. I’d blame my carrier. Not the nicest thing to do, but I didn’t trust myself to speak right then. I might burst into tears.
I started the car, shoved the stick into first gear, and floored it, leaving a cloud of dust and a trail of rubber in my wake.
I’d been wrong.
Brett didn’t need me.
CHAPTER THIRTY
When a Stranger Calls
I pulled into the Crescent Tower garage, driving down to the reserved level to see if Mendoza’s car was parked there.
Yep. There it was.
I circled back up, paying the attendant the minimum charge. I parked on a street a couple of blocks away. I rolled down the car’s windows, letting in the already warm late-morning air. By the afternoon, the temp would be in the nineties and it would be miserable to be running a stakeout from a vehicle. But such is the price to be paid. At least I wasn’t Eddie, having to hide out indefinitely. Poor guy.
I sat, watching Crescent Tower and thinking, trying to process what I’d seen earlier. So Brett had flirted with Trish. No big deal, right? They were just having some harmless fun. And he didn’t appear to be the one who’d started it. He’d been innocently moving rocks when she’d jumped into his wheelbarrow. My reaction had been an overreaction. I should’ve taken him the drink. Or maybe I should have gone all Glee on Trish and tossed the drink in her face, told the bitch to back off from my man.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda. None of that mattered right now. Right now I had to focus on my work. After all, once I busted Mendoza, I could get things back on track with Brett.
The sooner the better.
I tried to put myself in Mendoza’s place. My earlier assumption was that he’d be more discreet and careful now that he knew the IRS was after him again, which was probably correct. On the other hand, he might assume we’d back off temporarily to regroup. He might be forced to scramble, to make new arrangements for the operation of his illegal enterprises. If that were the case, I needed to keep the heat on.
As I sat there, waiting and watching, my cell phone bleeped again. I pulled it from the front pocket of my shorts and checked the screen. The call came from a phone number in the 713 area code, which covered a large part of Houston. I didn’t know anyone in Houston. Could this be Nick Pratt again?
I pushed the accept button. “Hello?”
“Tara?” It was that same deep male voice with music in the background again.
“You’re Nick Pratt, aren’t you?”
“Don’t hang up.” His demand held undertones of desperation.
Instinctively, I sat up straighter in the seat. “Why shouldn’t I hang up on the special agent who double-crossed his country and sold out to Marcos Mendoza?”
“Whoa, now,” Nick said. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“It came from a reliable source.”
“That doesn’t make it true.” The background noise grew louder, a bunch of young men whooping it up. “Look, Tara. I’ve got to make this quick. I’m in the men’s room at Señor Frogs. I borrowed this phone from a college kid down here celebrating the end of the semester.”
That explained the 713 area code.
“Then you better get to the point.”
“All right. Here’s the point. I can help you bring down Mendoza.”
I snorted. “You’re full of shit.”
“Fuck, woman! Listen to me. I know what happened. That Mendoza threatened Eddie.”
“You had something to do with that, didn’t you? It wasn’t enough for you to sell out, you sold out your former partner, too.”
“I’d never do that!”
“Then how did Mendoza find out Eddie was after him?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Nick said. “The guy’s suspicious of everyone. He keeps a careful watch on what’s going on around him.”
Nick sounded sincere. But how could I be sure?
“Look,” he said. “Come down here and talk to me, okay? If you meet me in person you’ll realize I’m a good guy.”
“Good guys don’t sell out.”
“I didn’t sell out, Tara. I didn’t have a choice. Mendoza was going to kill me if I didn’t play along. ” Quickly, he told me how he’d landed a job with AmeriMex and used the position to spy on Mendoza. He’d begun to build a solid case when Mendoza asked him to work late one night. After hours, when the two were alone, Mendoza walked into Pratt’s office. “From the look in his eye I knew he’d figured out who I was. But my weapon was in my briefcase and I couldn’t get to it. Before he could say anything, I made him a proposition. I admitted I was an undercover agent but told him I was for sale. It was the only thing I could think of to save my life.”
The story sounded plausible. Eddie had said Nick didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d sell out. And Nick had reported the bribe, paid taxes on it, even. That’s not something a bad guy would do, right? Still, how could I be certain? “I’m not sure I’m buying this.”
Nick emitted an angry growl. “Shit, Tara. You’re even more stubborn than I was told. I want to bring Mendoza down as bad as you do. More, even. How do you think it feels for me being stuck down here, knowing everyone back there thinks I’m an asshole? Get yourself down here and let’s talk. Noon tomorrow. Playa Las Perlas. ”
I didn’t know what to think. He sounded anxious, angry. If he were trying to lure me into a trap, he would’ve tried sweet-talking me instead, wouldn’t he?
He must’ve taken my momentary silence as agreement, because he said, “Good. I’ll be the guy in the tiger-striped bathing suit. When you see me approach, hold out a tube of sunscreen and ask me to put it on your back. That’ll give us a minute to talk. I never know when I’m being watched, so we’ll have to be careful. Tell no one you’re coming down here.”
Was I really going to do this? When I heard myself say, “Okay,” I realized I was.
I don’t know why I agreed. But there was something in his voice, something genuine, something sad, something that said I could trust him, that things weren’t what they seemed.
My instincts again.
They’d never been wrong before.
Of course there could always be a first time.
“See you tomorrow at noon,” he said.
“Wait. How did you find out about Eddie? And who told you I was stubborn?”
Before I could get my answer, click, he was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A Quick Trip
Mendoza’s car emerged from the garage an hour later as I sat contemplating the insanity of my plans to travel to Cancún later that evening. I’d phoned the airlines and made a reservation. The last-minute fare ran me eight hundred and seventy-nine bucks. ¡Ay caramba! This investigation would put me in bankruptcy.
Surely Mendoza would be extra attentive now, check his rearview mirror for a tail. Frankly, though, I figured the situation was a win-win for me. If he didn’t realize I was following him, maybe I’d luck onto some useful information. If he did realize I was following him, maybe I’d foil his plans. Either way, neener-neener.
I started the car and eased away from the curb, willing an out-of-control eighteen-wheeler to slam into Mendoza’s Mercedes, turning it into a fireball that would consume the devil within. Case closed.
No such luck.
I followed, making several lane changes, falling back and keeping an eye on him from as far back as I could without losing him. Fortun
ately for me, Dallas has some of the worst drivers on the planet. Cars constantly crossed in front of me, creating enough obstacles that Mendoza might not notice me when he checked his mirrors.
Mendoza didn’t drive far today, only a few blocks into downtown. He parked on a side street near the Magnolia Hotel, a famous landmark with a red neon Pegasus atop the building. He climbed out of his car, looking around him. He glanced my way, but didn’t seem to give the Mustang a second thought. The sports car certainly wasn’t the typical undercover vehicle. Apparently it had been a good choice.
Why would he be going to the hotel? The most likely scenario was that he was meeting someone there. If I’d been dressed better, I might have followed him in. But I’d stick out like a sore thumb if I went inside the posh hotel dressed like a slob.
I climbed out of the car, figuring I’d look less like a stalker if I weren’t hiding out in a vehicle. Instead, I walked a block down and took a seat on a covered bench at a stop for the downtown trolley. An older woman in a hotel maid’s uniform sat on the other end of the bench, singing softly to herself. I recognized the song, Patsy Cline’s classic “Walkin’ After Midnight.” My granny had loved Patsy Cline, played her records on an old console record player in her living room when I was young.
I joined her in singing and the woman turned to me and smiled. When we finished the song, she asked, “You know ‘She’s Got You’?”
“Sure do.”
We launched into song once again.
Mendoza spent only twenty minutes inside the hotel, looking around again when he walked out onto the sidewalk. He returned to his car and drove off.
I bade my duet partner adieu and sprinted back to the rental car. I hopped in and set off after Mendoza again. He made his way back to Crescent Tower and pulled into the garage.
Seemed doubtful he’d head out again anytime soon. I glanced at my watch. Might as well head on back home and pack for my trip to Mexico.
* * *
At eleven-thirty Monday morning, I tipped the cabana boy five bucks to set up a beach umbrella and chaise lounge for me. I spread my red-and-white-striped beach towel on the chair and plopped into it. A gentle breeze blew inward off the clear water, the waves gently lapping at the shore.
My God, Playa Las Perlas was beautiful. Shame this wasn’t a pleasure trip, like one of those Corona beer commercials.
Despite the relaxing surroundings, my stomach twisted itself into a hard little ball. I’d called in sick that morning, claiming to have a stomach bug, an ailment about which even the nosy Viola wouldn’t ask for details. Now I wasn’t just defying orders, I was flat-out lying to my boss.
I didn’t want to think of the penalties I’d face if I were caught. I’d lose my job, of course, but I could also face charges for abuse of authority, misuse of government property, obstruction of justice. For all I knew, working with Nick Pratt could constitute racketeering. I could serve prison time.
So what the hell was I doing here?
I slid my sunglasses on and pulled a paperback from my beach bag, opening it to a random page, using it as a prop so it wouldn’t be obvious I was looking up and down the beach. I would’ve felt much more comfortable if I’d had a gun with me, but there hadn’t been time to get the necessary clearances to bring it into Mexico and it was questionable whether the Mexican authorities would have approved it anyway.
Sitting on the beach, I felt exposed and vulnerable. Someone was on their way. But who? Was it really Nick Pratt? And, if so, was he truly on our side? Had I simply made myself a sitting duck for Mendoza’s cohorts in Mexico? If the latter was the case, I hoped my parents wouldn’t have a hard time getting my body back for burial.
Ugh. Nobody should have to have such ugly thoughts on such a pretty day in such a gorgeous place.
Over the top of page 73, I watched a young couple walk by, hand in hand, their skin the warm, natural brown of locals. Farther down the beach, a young tourist boy tossed pieces of bread up to a flock of seagulls poised on the breeze. The birds dived down to catch the morsels, much to the delight of the squealing child.
“Drink?”
I nearly jumped out of both my seat and my skin when a waiter from the hotel stepped up to offer me refreshment.
“Margarita. Frozen, with salt.” Might as well, huh? If I had been lured into a trap, maybe the alcohol would numb the pain when Mendoza’s minions chopped me into little bits.
I checked my watch. Straight up noon, the scheduled time. I looked around while I waited for my drink. A tall man in long red swim trunks walked by, his sunburned skin nearly as bright as his suit. Another man in a baggy green suit moseyed by. A few more men puttered around the beach, but none wore tiger stripes.
I had no idea what Nick Pratt looked like. I’d checked online the day before but found no photos, no Facebook page. Not surprising since federal agents tended to lie low, but it would’ve been helpful if I had at least a clue. Was he tall? Short? Dark haired? Blond? Bigger than a breadbox?
The waiter returned with my margarita.
“Gracias,” I said. It was one of the few Spanish words I knew.
“You’re welcome.”
I gave the waiter a tip and took a sip of my drink. Looking out at the water, I kept my head straight but darted my eyes side to side, trying to see as much as possible out of my peripheral vision.
The kid down the beach had run out of bread and was now waving the empty plastic bag at the birds, who scolded him with screeching calls. The young couple had begun a game of Frisbee, laughing as the warm ocean breeze carried the disc inland much faster than either of them could run. An older barefooted woman in a wide-brimmed beach hat and rolled-up pants meandered along the water’s edge, while two young women dressed in workout gear and carrying hand weights power-walked quickly by, their ponytails swinging behind them.
Still no man in a tiger-striped suit.
I’d been sitting there half an hour and had nearly finished my margarita when I spotted someone out in the waves, swimming toward shore. When the guy could reach the bottom, he stopped swimming and stood. From this distance, I couldn’t tell much about him other than the fact that he had brown hair, slicked back with seawater.
I continued to look around the beach, occasionally glancing back at the man in the waves. His shoulders emerged as he made his way in and, mmm, what nice shoulders they were. Broad, tanned, muscular. Sure, I was in a serious relationship, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy the scenery, did it? Especially given Brett’s recent flirting infraction. What’s good for the gander …
The man continued toward the shore and a set of well-developed pecs broke the surface. Nice. Then two abs, four abs, yep, a whole six-pack. I put the straw to my lips and noisily slurped the dregs of my drink. When the man’s muscular thighs emerged, framing a tiger-striped Speedo, I choked.
Holy.
Freakin’.
Guacamole.
The guy looked like Kurt Russell in his younger days, or Val Kilmer, who, coincidentally, had encountered his own problems with the IRS and had had to put his ranch on the market to pay delinquent taxes.
Lu had said Nick was a workhorse. But she hadn’t mentioned he was a stallion. I’d like to think it was the flush of alcohol, but I knew the warm blush that rushed to my cheeks was a feminine reaction to Nick’s raw masculinity.
He emerged from the water twenty feet away and turned to head up the beach. His tiger-striped suit left nothing to a girl’s imagination. It looked like he’d packed an oversized potato in there. An extra-large, genuine grade-A russet that would win the blue ribbon, hands down, at the Idaho state fair.
I dug in my beach bag and felt around for my tube of sunscreen, readying myself to ask his assistance when he walked by. Nick approached, his eyes on the beach ahead of him. I held out my tube and called, “Excuse me? Would you mind putting some sunscreen on my back?”
He turned and looked my way. His eyes were a golden brown, the color of Southern Comfort, and caused the sa
me warm burn inside me as the liquor. “Sure.” He shook his head, drops of water glistening as they sailed through the air. Dryer now, his hair hung in a natural, shaggy fringe about his face, the ends tinged with blond, a sexy result of sun damage. He stepped over and took the tube from my outstretched hand.
I lowered my glasses and locked my gaze on his. Keeping my voice low, I asked, “Was the Speedo really necessary?”
“Didn’t want you to worry that I might be packing a weapon.”
My focus left his face, traveled to his crotch, then back up again. “I’m not so sure you aren’t.”
He gave me a crooked smile, revealing a slightly chipped bicuspid. A thick, short scar lined the top of his cheekbone below his left eye. He’d taken a right hook from someone. I wondered when and why. Somehow these flaws only made him seem more manly, enhanced his primal sex appeal.
He stepped behind me and I sat up on my chair. He knelt down in the sand, squeezed out a dollop of cream, and ran a warm, wet thumb across the top of my spine, sending a tingle down my backbone. His hands moved to the base of my neck and for a moment I wondered if this was it, if my instincts had been wrong, if he’d wrap his hands around my throat and try to choke me. I’d learned some evasive maneuvers in my special agent training but I’d never had to test them in the field. Still, if need be, I was ready.
“Here’s how Mendoza operates,” Nick said, his voice low, his warm breath feathering across the back of my neck. “He hires someone on the outside to keep his books for him off-site, usually someone running a solo accounting practice or working independently at a small firm. Some of them are willing pawns in his game, others are suckers who figure it out too late. All of the dirty money is run through that outside person, through their bank accounts.”
Everything Nick said so far made perfect sense. The MO he’d described matched what Lauren Sheffield had told me about Mendoza’s arrangement with her husband. My instincts had been right. I could trust this guy.
“Finding the puppet is the key. But it’s not going to be easy. Mendoza’s careful not to leave a trail. He uses untraceable cell phones, free e-mail services, public computers.”