by Diane Kelly
But my spirits were not destined to remain lifted for long.
Booth continued. “The plates belonged to an SUV. A Kia Sorrento. It was wrecked and sold as salvage to one of those auto graveyards where people go to pick spare parts. Those places aren’t supposed to sell the plates, but they do it all the time. That, or people just remove them from the wrecked cars and steal them.”
“Any chance they’ve got security cameras there? At the auto parts place?”
“I checked,” she said. “They don’t.”
Frustration flooded through me. “Dang it!”
“If nothing else,” Booth said, “at least we know that there are two people involved. Could you tell anything about them? Were they male? Female?”
All I’d been able to make out through the darkly tinted windows were the four circles of the two sets of binoculars looking back at me. “I didn’t get a good enough look. The security camera footage didn’t show them?”
“No,” she said. “It wasn’t at the right angle to pick up the occupants of the vehicle.”
Ughhhh.
“Can you tell me the license plate number?” I asked. “I’ll run back through the footage from the post office, see if the car drove through the drop-off lane.”
She rattled it off and I thanked her.
“Stay in touch,” she advised.
“Will do.”
With that, we ended the call.
“No luck?” Bonnie asked, clutching a plate tightly, her face drawn in worry.
I shook my head.
She angled her head to indicate the shotgun, which she’d brought into the kitchen and leaned against the cabinet in easy reach. “If the people in the silver car are stupid enough to come after you here, we’ll be ready for ’em.”
* * *
That evening, I ran through the video footage from the outdoor camera at the post office again, looking to see if the silver car with the stolen plates appeared. Sure enough, around 8:05 in the morning on the day the engagement card had been postmarked, the car rolled through the lane, stopping for a second or two so that the driver could place my death threat in the box. Unfortunately, it was impossible to see through the windshield. A newspaper had been spread inside the glass to block the view into the car, leaving only three or four inches along the driver’s side so he or she could see to maneuver through the lane. Dammit!
While I was frustrated that we weren’t able to identify the person or people in the car, at least I hadn’t wasted my time searching hundreds of license-plate numbers, trying to find one registered to a familiar name. I supposed I should be grateful for small favors, huh?
When I arrived at work Wednesday morning, the light was blinking on my desk phone, indicating a voice mail awaited me. I dialed into the system to listen, expecting it to be a taxpayer who’d received a notice or maybe their accountant or attorney responding on their behalf. Instead, a man snarled, “How does it feel to be pursued, Agent Holloway? Hope you enjoyed a taste of your own medicine.”
The call ended with a loud click as the receiver was slammed down. That told me the call had come from a traditional phone rather than a cell. Probably a pay phone, if the caller had been able to find one. At any rate, while law enforcement could tap into a call in progress and trace it, tracing a landline call was impossible after it was completed. Still, while we couldn’t trace the call, I found it interesting that the voice belonged to a man given that the profiler had suggested the person after me was more likely to be a woman. Had the profiler been wrong? Or was this man in cahoots with a woman?
I went down the hall to Lu’s office where I dialed into my system once again and let her hear the call. “That’s not all,” I told her. “Someone followed me and Nick from the Y last night, too.”
Her lips puckered into a tight little ball of orange lipstick. “I’ve had just about enough of this!”
Yeah. Me, too. The question was, What can we do about it?
Lu grabbed her phone from her desk and jabbed some buttons. “Josh!” she barked. “Get down to my office.”
He arrived half a minute later.
She gestured for him to take a seat and filled him in on the latest developments. “I want you to wire Tara’s G-ride and her personal vehicle with both a dash cam and a rearview camera that will record while she’s driving. I also want you to install security cameras at her town house and her mother-in-law’s place.”
“Got it,” Josh said, his eyes gleaming. He loved any opportunity to work with gadgets.
Lu let out a long, loud breath. “I’ve only got a few more days in this job and I’ll be damned if I’ll lose an agent right before my retirement. I want to go out on a high note.”
I forced a smile. “I’ll do my best not to get killed, ma’am.”
“You do that. But for now, get out of here.” She wiggled her fingers in the direction of the door. “I’ve still got things to do before I turn over the reins to Nick and Eddie.”
I returned to my office and called Detective Booth from my cell phone. After telling her about the security camera footage from the post office, I said, “Listen to the message that I found on my voice mail this morning.” I played it for her, holding my cell phone microphone to the earpiece of my desk phone. When the message ended, I returned to the line. “What do you think?”
She paused for a moment, apparently pondering the message. “I’m not sure,” she finally admitted. “It could be that the primary suspect is male after all. The only thing I feel certain about is that this situation is serious.”
Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but an honest answer.
“Keep your head down,” she added.
Earlier she’d told me to watch my back. The only way I could both watch my back and keep my head down is if I stood up, bent over, and stuck my head between my legs. But I knew she was speaking metaphorically, so I let the conversation end there.
After ending my call with the detective, I checked my e-mails. At the top of the queue was a message from Backseat Driver. My application to become an evening and weekend ride-service provider had been approved. Hooray! The message directed me where to go to pick up my official bright yellow plastic placard to hang from my rearview mirror. Finally, it reminded me of their policies and procedures, most of which were common sense.
Treat passengers with respect.
Never comment on a passenger’s appearance or ask about their relationship status, as such comments could be construed as sexual harassment.
Never touch a passenger.
Do not use abusive language or gestures.
Riders under the age of eighteen must be accompanied by an adult.
Drivers must obey posted speed limits and all traffic laws.
No texting while driving. Hands-free calls only.
Driver may not carry a firearm in the vehicle while providing services as a Backseat Driver.
I’d do my best to obey the rules, but I’d be breaking that last one for sure. Given that whoever was after me knew I’d spotted them last night, they wouldn’t be likely to try to follow me again. Still, I couldn’t put an unsuspecting rider at risk without having adequate protection. Besides, I’d still be on official IRS undercover business while driving for Backseat. Federal law trumped their policies.
I moved on to my other e-mails, excited to see several responses relating to the rental properties I’d inquired about yesterday.
The first e-mail provided a name and phone number for me to call for more information. I dialed the number to confirm that it was a working number. “Dallas Palace Properties,” came a woman’s voice. “How may I help you?”
“Sorry,” I replied. “Wrong number.”
After hanging up the phone, I responded to the e-mail. Thanks for getting back in touch, but I’ve decided not to move after all.
The next e-mail provided an address for the rental property and suggested I drive by to take a look at the outside before arranging an appointment. It warned me not to disturb
the current tenants. This message wasn’t from the crook, either. I replied with the same response. I’ve decided not to move after all.
While I also dismissed the ones in which a person with a female name had responded, a couple of the others looked promising. One was sent from a Yahoo account and was signed by a man allegedly named Johnny Brewster with the title “Independent Property Manager.” No business name was listed. He asked if I had any questions about the property and wanted to know if I could meet him there Thursday evening at seven-thirty. No address for the property was provided, nor was any phone number given. His suggested time for viewing the property was outside of normal work hours, which also fit into the con artist’s usual routine. Could this be the guy I was looking for? Everything so far fit his MO.
I pondered how best to reply and eventually came up with, Yes, I can meet you at seven-thirty Thursday. What’s the address? May I have your phone number in the event I get stuck in traffic?
Another response came in from a Gmail account. The sender identified himself only as Shane, no last name. He said he had availability on Saturday after four to show the property. He’d supposedly be tied up before then with the three other showings he had scheduled. Hmm. Was he trying to create a sense of urgency on my part by mentioning the other showings?
I replied to him with, How about four-thirty? What’s the address? Also, can I have your full name and phone number to call you with questions?
Their responses would tell me whether I might be on the right track.
I spent the next few hours working on some other matters, occasionally bringing up my e-mail to see if Johnny Brewster or Shane no-last-name had responded.
Brewster responded around two-thirty with the address of the subject property, but no phone number. Yep, definitely a possibility. Of course I could rule him in or out for sure by putting in a call to the property owner and finding out whether they’d hired Brewster to rent the property for them.
I logged into the Dallas County Appraisal District’s Web site and entered the address in the search box to determine who owned the property. It was a married couple who’d owned the property for decades. Next, I ran a search by their names. Another property popped up, this second one listed as their homestead. Given the relative sizes of the two properties, and the fact that the rental was a three-bedroom two-bath house and their current residence was a two-bedroom one-bath condominium, I surmised that the couple had probably once lived in the larger home but decided to rent it out when they downsized to the lower-maintenance condo.
I found their home phone number and placed a call. Unfortunately, I got an answering machine. Darn. They’d recorded a cheerful outgoing message together: Sorry we can’t get the phone right now. If you leave us a message, we’ll call you back as soon as we can. Bye-bye!
I left a quick message. “Hello. This is Special Agent Tara Holloway from the Internal Revenue Service. I need to speak with you about an urgent legal matter.” I left both my office and cell numbers for them to call, crossing my fingers they’d call me back soon. My time was valuable. I’d hate to waste it by going out to the property if nothing was amiss.
Given that I couldn’t reach the owners right away, I decided to do a little digging into Johnny Brewster, see if he was legit. A search of the Texas driver’s license records told me that, though there was no Johnny Brewster with an address in the Dallas area, there were both a Jonathan Vincent Brewster and a John Everett Brewster. Could one of them be the Johnny Brewster who’d responded to my e-mail?
The first was forty-one, older than the age estimate the victims had given. But maybe he looked young for his age. John Everett Brewster was thirty-three. Both were tall, five feet eleven and six feet two inches respectively. That jibed with the description. Both had brown hair, but the first had green eyes and the latter had brown eyes. While John Everett Brewster had no restrictions on his license, Jonathan Vincent Brewster’s license reflected restriction code A, meaning he had to wear corrective lenses while driving. The crook, too, wore eyeglasses.
I input the addresses from their licenses into the map app on my phone. Neither one was in the Village, though one was in Richardson, only half a mile from a DART rail station. Maybe he was the guy I was after and he’d taken the train north to get home after the Backseat Drivers dropped him off near the Village. I looked at their tax returns next. Both had W-2 income from employment, Jonathan Vincent Brewster at the city’s parks and recreation department and John Everett Brewster with a general contractor operating under the name Renaissance Renovations, Inc. Hmm. Neither appeared to work for a property-leasing company, which told me one of three things. One, the Johnny Brewster I was looking for might not be either of these men. Two, one of these men might have started leasing properties on the side during the current tax year, which would explain why income from the leasing activity wasn’t included on his preceding year’s tax return. Or three, the Johnny Brewster who’d responded to me was a fraudulent alias being used by the con artist. In other words, I still had no definitive answer whether Johnny Brewster was legit or bogus.
I moved on to Shane’s response. It didn’t rule him out, either. I’ll e-mail you with the address an hour in advance of our meeting. Sorry to be so secretive but when I’ve given out addresses before, prospective tenants have showed up during other appointments and it’s very awkward. Can you send me your questions? It’s easier for me to respond via e-mail.
This second response only heightened my suspicions. Despite my explicit request, he’d provided neither his full name nor phone number. Had he intentionally ignored my requests, or was it an unintentional oversight? I wrote back with a couple of simple questions. Is there an extra pet deposit? Is the heat gas or electric? I didn’t care about the answers, of course, but felt the need to ask something given that I’d said I had questions.
Shane’s reply came back just before I left the office for the day. His answers were terse. $250 add’l pet dep. Heat is gas.
Okeydokey, then.
chapter twelve
Backseat Boys
Despite the fact that my car now had both dash and rear cameras, Nick insisted on following me that evening. He trailed me as I swung by the small storefront office from which Backseat Driver’s local administrator operated. When I gave the fiftyish dark-skinned man my alias, he flipped through a stack of placards until he found one with the name Sara G printed on it. “Here you go,” he said as he handed it to me. “Happy driving.”
We were on our way to Bonnie’s house when a push notification came up on my phone alerting me that a ride had been requested from an address associated with a Potbelly Sandwich Shop location on Central Expressway just south of Southwestern Boulevard. The place was only a mile from our current location and within walking distance of the Village.
Bingo!
I jabbed the button to accept the gig, made a quick U-turn, and passed Nick, who had unrolled his window and raised a palm in a “what’s going on?” gesture.
I flicked the placard hanging from my rearview mirror and he nodded, turning around to follow me. A couple of minutes later, I pulled up to Potbelly’s, my gaze roaming the patrons on the sidewalk outside, hoping to spot a tall, beefy man in eyeglasses and a business suit. Instead, the next thing I knew, three teenaged boys in jeans, T-shirts, and tennis shoes were banging on the back windows. Bam-bam-bam.
“Sara!” the one who appeared to be the oldest hollered. “Let us in!”
“Sa-ra! Sa-ra!” chanted the others, pumping their fists.
Crap. I had not anticipated playing chauffeur for a bunch of kids. In fact, wasn’t it against the rules for me to transport unaccompanied minors?
I unrolled the back window but didn’t unlock the doors. “Is one of you eighteen? If not, I can’t pick you up. It’s against the rules.”
“I’m eighteen,” said the first one.
“Can you prove it?”
He pulled out a state ID card and handed it to me. Sure enough, he’d turned e
ighteen three months earlier. I was surprised he didn’t have a driver’s license yet. He’d been eligible for over two years. Then again, it was probably just as well this punk wasn’t on the roads.
I returned the card to him and pushed the button to unlock the back doors. The boys climbed in, pushing and shoving each other all the while.
One of the younger ones cut me a look with a quirked lip. “This car is ugly as shit.”
While I had to agree with his opinion of the car, I felt the need to let him know I wasn’t going to listen to a string of profanities during the ride. “Watch your language,” I snapped back.
He rolled his eyes and spoke in an exaggerated tone. “Well, excuuuuse me. This car is ugly as doo-doo. Is that better?”
I didn’t bother giving him a reply. Once they were seated, I waited for them to fasten their seat belts. They didn’t.
“Buckle up,” I told them.
“The other drivers don’t make us do it.”
“Well, this driver does.” I turned off the engine. “If you want to go anywhere, you buckle up.”
They groaned and grumbled but eventually clicked their belts into place. I tapped the icon so that the app would navigate to their destination, restarted the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Hey!” the oldest boy yelled in my ear as he leaned forward between the front seats. “If we give you twenty bucks will you buy us some beer?”
“No.”
“Pleeeeeease!”
If he was trying to endear himself to me, he needed to stop shouting in my ear. “No means no.”
“Thirty bucks?”
“What part of ‘no’ do you not understand?”
“Forty?”
“Absolutely not.” I wasn’t supposed to touch passengers, but this kid was in my personal space and about to burst my eardrum. I retrieved my briefcase from the passenger seat and positioned it between the seats, forcing him back. I hadn’t touched the kid. My briefcase had.
“Fifty?”
I met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “It doesn’t matter how much money you offer me. I’m not going to buy beer for children.”