Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli (A Tara Holloway Novel) (11 page)

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine. How do I get in touch with your legal department?”

She gave me the legal department’s phone number and I jotted it on my pad. I didn’t bother thanking her. If she was going to dish it out, she’d have to take, it, too. “Later, dude.”

Her snotty voice came through the line one last time. “You’re wel—”

Click.

I phoned the legal department. While the representative there was pleasant, she was just as tight-lipped. “We’ll need a court order before we can release private information.”

I’d gone as far as I could with Triple 7’s phone number at the moment. Next, I tried the Web site. Still down. My “Who Is” search showed the domain was registered in the name of Tripp Sevin, clearly a play on the business name. The address was also clearly fictional: 333 Anystreet, Somewhere, SD 12345.
Urgh.
This guy wasn’t making things easy. He also wasn’t fooling me with the alleged South Dakota address. Given that he’d targeted a local retirement home and offered trips to casinos in the neighboring states of Oklahoma and Louisiana, he was likely based somewhere in north Texas. For now, at least. Con artists often hit hard in a particular area, moving on to a new region once they’d milked a location dry or to avoid apprehension by law enforcement.

Though I was fairly sure the name Tripp Sevin was made up, due diligence required me to run a search to be certain. My query for a driver’s license in the name of Tripp Sevin came up with only two licenses issued in the United States with that combination. The first belonged to a seventeen-year-old boy in Salem, Oregon. The other belonged to a thirty-six-year-old Asian man in Oakland, California.

Searches of business filings got me nowhere, too. While there were several businesses with the words
Triple Seven
or the combination word/numeric
Triple 7
in their name, none included the word
Adventure
and none listed an owner or director named Tripp Sevin.

I phoned the domain registry and explained the situation to an assistant in the legal department.

She offered me a few pertinent details. “The customer who bought the domain name also purchased a month-to-month do-it-yourself Web site package. Looks like the site was only up for four months.”

“How were the fees paid?”

“By credit card.”

Finally! Someone was giving me something to move on. “What was the name and number on the card?”

“Sorry,” she said. “We can’t disclose that information without a court order.”

Gee, that sounds familiar.
“I’ll get you one.”

As soon as we were off the phone, I dialed Ross O’Donnell, an attorney at the Department of Justice who represented the IRS on a regular basis.

“I’d be happy to help,” he said. “But I’ll need affidavits from the men to show to Judge Trumbull. You know how she is.”

I knew all too well how Judge Alice Trumbull was. She was a rare left-winger in a state that leaned so far right it was a wonder Texas didn’t topple over on top of Louisiana and sink into its swamps. Still, I respected the judge. She didn’t issue search warrants willy-nilly. She made us government agents prove our cases, do our jobs right. She kept us honest. Not that we needed anyone to keep us honest, but she made sure we never even thought about doing otherwise.

“Thanks, Ross. I’ll get the affidavits to you ASAP.”

chapter twelve

S
ign Here

I pulled out the notes I’d taken during yesterday morning’s discussion with Harold, Jeb, and Isaiah and typed up an affidavit for each of them. When I finished, I printed them out and headed back down the hall to Lu’s office. I held up the documents. “I’m going out to Whispering Pines to get these signed.”

She grabbed her purse. “I’ll come with you.”

Lu pulled up the address to the retirement community on her phone and navigated as I drove. The place sat just south of the Richardson city limits, a mile east of Central Expressway. The grounds were surrounded by a five-foot brick wall sporting an overgrowth of ivy. The entrance was a wide driveway divided by a median of pink and white petunias.

I drove on past, looking for somewhere to pull in across the street. The last thing I needed was to blow my cover on the Fabrizio investigation by showing up with my badge and gun on the security videos of one of their clients. I turned into a pharmacy, hooked a quick right, and drove to the end of the parking lot, pulling into a spot that faced Whispering Pines. Leaving the engine running, I reached under the seat and pulled out my father’s old high-powered field glasses. I scanned the front of the building for a sticker or sign featuring the Cyber-Shield trademark green logo. I saw none. As Harold had noted, there was a security camera mounted over the front door, but it was black and bore no security company logo.

Good.

We drove across the street to Whispering Pines. Though the development appeared to have been constructed a few decades earlier and bore a few telltale rust stains under the outdoor faucets, for the most part it had been well maintained. The place comprised three separate five-story wings anchored by a central, one-story section that, according to the signage, contained the administrative offices, dining facilities, and recreation rooms. A large fountain greeted visitors from the center of a colorful and fragrant rose garden. The rest of the grounds were groomed as well, park benches and picnic tables placed here and there for residents to enjoy the outdoors.

We parked in a designated visitors’ spot and passed under the security camera as we entered through the automated front door. Though I’d seen nothing to indicate Cyber-Shield provided security to the home, I averted my face in an abundance of caution. It never hurt to be too careful, right?

The foyer floor was tiled in a red and black checkerboard pattern. When Lu and I had made it across the space to the receptionist, I was tempted to holler
King me!

“I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway,” I told the woman at the desk, handing her my business card. I held out a hand to indicate Lu. “This is my boss, Luella Lobozinski. We need to speak with the person who handles your on-site security.”

“That would be Mickey.” She retrieved a walkie-talkie from her desk and pushed a button to activate the mic. “Hey, Mickey. There’s some people here from the gov’ment want to speak with you.”

A male voice came back. “Give me five minutes to finish this sink.”

She returned the radio to the desk. “Mickey’s in charge of maintenance, too. He’s kind of a jack-of-all-trades around here.” The woman pointed to a seating area nearby. “Y’all can take a seat if you’d like.”

Lu and I sat down on a black vinyl love seat and looked up at the television mounted on the wall. Steve Harvey filled the screen, hosting
Family Feud
in one of his pimp-style suits. A family had been challenged to name five things you might lose on vacation. After getting on the board with
cell phone
and
camera,
they earned their first strike with
virginity
.

A man wearing blue coveralls and carrying a red toolbox stepped up to us. He looked to be in his mid-fifties and had the lean, strong build of someone who makes a living with physical labor. “I’m Mickey. I was told you two were looking for me?”

Lu and I stood. I explained the situation to him. “I’m hoping your camera out front picked up the van’s license plate.”

“Follow me to my office,” he said. “We can review the tape there.”

He led us to a clean, sparsely furnished office at the far end of the administrative wing. As Lu and I took seats in the padded chairs that faced his desk, he slid into the standard office chair behind it.

“We don’t have many security problems here,” Mickey said as he typed his log-in information into his laptop and ran his index finger over the mouse pad to pull up the video camera footage. “The receptionist keeps an eye on who’s coming and going during the day. All of the side doors lock automatically once someone goes out so there’s no way to sneak inside. At night we’ve got both a receptionist and a cop on site. We hire off-duty Dallas police officers.”

Smart decision. A cop would be a good deterrent to any would-be criminal.

He pulled up the camera for the day in question and dragged his finger slowly across his mouse pad, leaning in to eye the screen, watching for the van. “This must be it.”

He turned the computer to face me and Lu, then rolled his chair around the desk so that he could operate the laptop. He right-clicked the mouse to set the video in motion. As we watched, a shiny gray van pulled to a stop at the outer edge of the parking lot. On the side of the front passenger door was a removable white magnetic sign with black lettering that read
TRIPLE
7
ADVENTURES
. A moment later, a group of Whispering Pines residents flowed out of the lobby, passing under the security camera as they aimed for the van. Harold, Jeb, and Isaiah were among them.

As we watched on the screen, a man exited the driver’s side of the van and came around to speak to the residents. He was too far away for us to tell much about him other than that he was a little taller than average. He wore a cowboy hat and sunglasses, not unusual in Texas though I surmised the accessories were more to shield his identity than to shield him from the sun.

After a brief conversation with the group, he opened the van’s doors. Several residents, including Harold and Jeb, climbed inside. Not long afterward, they climbed back out. The man retrieved a clipboard from the front passenger seat and began to accept cash payments from the residents, handing them the useless receipts. In groups of twos and threes, the residents filtered back into the building, smiles on their faces as they anticipated their upcoming vacation.

“I’m trying to get the license plate number,” I told him. “Can you zoom in?”

“I can,” Mickey said, “but we’ll lose some clarity.”

He zoomed in but the picture became fuzzy. “Let me play with it a minute.”

Mickey fooled around on his computer, going back and forth in the footage to find the best angle, zooming in on the front of the van as it drove into the lot. Finally, he was able to narrow in on the plate. It was a bright blue novelty design with three glittery silver sevens.

“Darn it!” My hands involuntarily fisted. “Those plates don’t tell us anything.”

Mickey pointed out the cross-shaped logo. “The van’s a Chevy. Does that help?”

“Definitely.” I jotted the information on the small notepad I carried with me. “Can you see if there’s an official plate on the back of the van?”

Mickey spent a couple more minutes going through the footage, and zooming in on the van as it drove away. The back bore the same novelty plate as the front.
Poop.
The novelty plates and concealing cowboy hat told me this wasn’t the crook’s first rodeo.

Lu and I stood and thanked Mickey for his time.

“Happy to help,” he said. “The folks around here are like family to me. I don’t like to see them taken advantage of.”

We shook his hand and returned to the foyer.

“Any idea where Jeb Proctor and Harold Brinkley might be?” I asked the receptionist.

“Water aerobics.” She pointed down the hall. “Through the door at the end.”

God help me if these men are wearing Speedos.

We reached the end of the hall, where a foggy glass door led to a heated pool area. Lu and I stepped into the warm, humid room, and instantly I felt my hair preparing to frizz. A dozen residents bounced in the pool, moving their arms up and down as directed by an instructor at the front. Isaiah sat in a special seat, doing his best to mimic the instructor’s movements. He might not have full control of his muscles, but he certainly had spunk.

I scanned the faces, locating Jeb and Harold not far from their friend. Harold wore his thick glasses, which sported water droplets. Jeb stood near the edge of the pool, one hand on a rail to steady himself. He wasn’t wearing his hearing aids. The steam and water probably weren’t good for them.

Three women flanked Jeb. He extended his outer leg through the water and played footsie with the one closest to him. She looked his way, her shoulders scrunching as she giggled.

Jeb was quite the flirt. He was also was the first to notice us. He nudged Harold and leaned over to speak into his friend’s ear. “That good-lookin’ broad from the IRS is here,” he bellowed, probably unaware of how loudly he was speaking.

As the woman he’d just been toe-wrangling with scowled, Lu and I each raised a hand in greeting. The two men eased themselves through the water and up the steps, holding carefully to the handrail. Harold helped Jeb to his walker. Thankfully, both men were wearing swimsuits that came down to their knees. Harold’s suit was printed with cartoon sharks, while Jeb’s featured dark-haired hula dancers. We followed as Harold walked and Jeb thumped over to a bench where they’d placed their towels. Jeb dug in the pocket of his gym bag for his hearing aids and put them on.

“Sorry to interrupt your class,” I told them, “but we need your signatures on affidavits for court.”

Jeb wagged his brows at Lu. “Pretty ladies like you are welcome anytime.”

Harold notified the instructor’s assistant, who operated the winch to lift Isaiah out of the water. She helped dry him off, wrapped him in a plush robe, and guided him to his wheelchair.

While I retrieved the paperwork from my briefcase, Harold and Jeb dried themselves off and sat down on the bench. Using my briefcase as an improvised lap desk, they read over the affidavits and signed them. I moved my briefcase to Isaiah’s lap, and offered him the pen.

He took it and signed a slow, shaky
X
on his form. When he finished, he gave me his lopsided smile. “Get … that … Cajun … weasel.”

Harold squealed. “That’s the first words he’s said since his stroke!”

With any luck, they’d be the first of many.

I bent down and looked Isaiah in the eye. “Did you say ‘Cajun’?”

He moved his head in a barely perceptible nod.