Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli (A Tara Holloway Novel) (28 page)

As Benedetta positioned the desserts in the case, I casually asked, “I’ve noticed you have an accent. Where are you from?”

She slid an entire cream cake onto the top shelf, her brows forming a Vee of confusion. “My parents were fresh off the boat from Naples,
cara.
The whole family came over. I spent my childhood immersed in Italian. I can’t help but speak with an accent.”

“Not the Italian,” I clarified. “I get that. But I thought I detected another accent, too. Maybe a New York accent or something? Did you live somewhere else before moving to Dallas?”

“Ah,” she said, “it must be my Chicago accent you’re hearing.”

“Chicago? That sounds like an interesting place to live. They’ve got lots of museums and stuff, right? And that big silver jelly bean. You must have liked it there.”

She froze, and for a moment I thought I’d blown my cover by asking about her past. But after a few seconds’ pause, she retrieved two plates of tiramisu from the top of the case and slid them into place on either side of the cream cake. “Chicago wasn’t a good place for us. It’s a…” She hesitated, as if trying to find the right word. “A
mean
place. I didn’t want to raise my daughters there.”

So it was her idea to move away, then? Or maybe she’d suggested a move and Tino saw the advantages in it. I hoped I wasn’t pushing my luck by asking the next question. “Did you leave family behind? Do you miss them?”

“I miss some of
my
family,” she said. “But
Tino’s
family? No. I don’t miss any of them.”

Be more specific!
my brain screamed at her. “Not warm and fuzzy, huh?”

“No,” she said curtly. “Not at all.”

She didn’t elaborate, and I realized asking any more questions would seem impolite. But her words gave me the first inkling that she might be aware of the shady business Tino was involved in. Or at least that she had an inkling that members of his extended family weren’t exactly model citizens.

“Any chance you’re free on Saturday evening?” Benedetta asked. “I’m catering a big Italian wedding. Luisa was going to help me but she got asked out on a date. Could you fill in?”

“I’d be happy to.” Working an outside event with Benedetta might help me figure out if she was laundering money for her husband through the liquor account.

“Great,” she said. “Be here at four.”

The rest of morning and the lunch rush passed by in a blur. At one-thirty, Tino called in with his order. I took the call and crossed my fingers I’d be the one to take it over to him.

“Don’t forget my cannoli,” he said in a singsong voice.

“Never,” I replied.
You might kill me if I did.

I hurriedly served my last lunch table and rushed back to the kitchen, surreptitiously watching as Dario prepared the mushroom ravioli Tino had requested today. I boxed a cannoli and gathered up silverware and a napkin, hoping that by hovering over Tino’s bag with the utensils I’d possess some type of squatter’s rights that would give me the privilege of delivering his meal. Dario handed me the to-go container of ravioli and I put it in the bag.

As I folded the top of the bag over, I felt both relief and apprehension. It was good that I’d been able to take charge of the delivery, but the fact that I planned to plant a recording device in Tino’s office had my insides squirming.

I was halfway through the dining room with the bag when the front door opened and Tino stepped into the bistro. It was all I could do not to hurl his bag of food at him and scream. I didn’t need him
here.
I needed him back in his office!

He raised his hand. Three tickets of some sort were splayed in his fingers. “Look what Daddy’s got, girls!”

Squealing, Stella, Luisa, and Elena rushed over to him. They jumped up and tried to grab the tickets from his hand, but he playfully held them up, out of reach. Not an easy feat for a short guy like him. Eventually he lowered his hand and Stella snatched the tickets from him.

“Stars on Ice!” she cried. “Woo-hoo!”

“Thanks, Dad,” Elena said, leaning in to give her father a kiss on the cheek.

Luisa did the same. “You always know just the thing to make us happy.”

Stella looked up from the tickets in her hand. “There’s only three tickets. What about Mom?”

Tino waved a hand. “Your mother hated the cold back in Chicago. She’d have no interest in sitting next to a frozen ice rink.”

Elena looked my way. “These tickets are for next Thursday night. I know you’ve got finals next week, Tori, but could you cover for us?”

“Of course,” I said. “I should ace my tests. I’ve been studying a lot.”
As if.
I hadn’t cracked a book since the night I’d pretended to be studying at the nail salon.

Tino glanced at the bag of food in my hand. “Is that for me?”

“It sure is.” I stepped forward to hand it to him, tempted to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine and even Rainy Daze and the Sunshine Brigade wouldn’t dare to venture. “Enjoy.”

Choke on it, you rat bastard.

*   *   *

On Saturday morning, I made yet another trip to check out yet another gray Chevy van. This one was registered under the name Adam Stratford. Huh. That name didn’t sound Cajun at all.

After having no luck previously, I didn’t feel so much as if I was honing in on my target as if I was launched on a wild-goose chase. Maybe the Cajun cowboy lived far out in west Texas. Pecos or El Paso, maybe. Or perhaps he lived in Marfa, famous for its mystical lights of unknown origin. Or maybe he lived down in Houston, the state’s largest city. It was an easy four-hour drive up Interstate 45 from Houston to Dallas. Not too far for a con artist to drive if he wanted to rip people off yet reduce his risks of being identified in line at the grocery store. But I wouldn’t feel like I’d done my duty if I didn’t follow up on all of these leads. On the bright side, surely I’d get a free cannoli for helping Benedetta out with the wedding later.

I pulled up to a house in Garland, a city made semifamous by Jesse Eisenberg in the movie
Zombieland.
To paraphrase, the character he portrayed said the city might appear as if zombies had destroyed it, but that’s just the way Garland looks. An overstatement, to be sure. Garland might not be the most exclusive area of Dallas, and it might have some older neighborhoods, but there were no eviscerated corpses lying around. At least not at the moment.

The home on west Avenue D was a wood model, beige with dark green trim, and appeared to have been built in the 1950s. The driveway, if you could call it that, was merely two wide concrete runners, one for each tire, with crabgrass growing between them. The van sat at the far end of the driveway, which proceeded from the street up along the side of the house.

I climbed out of my car and walked up to the van, keeping an eye out for rotting, brain-eating predators, just in case. The van gleamed in the sun, looking as if it had been freshly washed. There was no magnetic sign on the side, no telltale novelty license plates on the vehicle. By all accounts, it looked like this van would be another dead end.

Until I peeked in the passenger side window.

Bingo.

On the passenger floorboard lay a magnetic sign. This one read
OZARKS EXPRESS
. On the seat lay a stack of postcards held together with a rubber band. The postcard pictured beautiful photos of the Arkansas mountain range along with the words
Let Us Take You There!
and a phone number and Web site address. Given that the postcards lay flat on the seat, I couldn’t read the backside, but it didn’t much matter. It was clear I’d found my Cajun cowboy con artist.

I tried the door of the van but found it locked. I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a picture of the evidence through the window. It was a little on the dark side, but it would have to do.

Now it was time to make an arrest.

After retrieving my Glock, handcuffs, and badge from the locked glove compartment of my car, I went to the door and knocked, my heart bouncing up and down in my chest in anxious anticipation.
Knock-knock-knock.
I waited thirty seconds or so, but nobody came to the door.

I knocked again, louder and longer this time.
Knock-knock-KNOCK-KNOCK-knock.

The place had no doorbell, so knocking again was my only option. I put some extra muscle into it this time.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!

A voice came from the yard next door. “Adam left earlier in his car,” said a fortyish woman who’d wandered out to water her petunias with a garden hose.

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Do you know him well?”

“Nope,” she repeated. “Met him when he moved in and occasionally he’ll come over and ask to borrow a tool from my husband, but that’s about it.”

Typical neighbor relationship these days, when people valued privacy over idle conversation at the fence.

“I’ll check back later,” I said.

She didn’t ask who I was or why I’d come by. Also fairly typical of people these days. Rather than sticking their noses where they might not be welcome, they minded their own business.

I got back in my car and drove to Whispering Pines to give the residents my good news. I found Harold out front, pushing Isaiah in his wheelchair, making their way toward the rose garden. There was no sign of Jeb. He was probably hitting on women in a knitting class or over cards again.

I pulled my car to a stop at the curb and rolled my window down. “Hi, Harold and Isaiah!” I called, raising a hand. “Got some good news for you!”

I climbed out of my car and walked over to the men. Harold’s huge eyes blinked at me from behind his thick glasses, making me feel like I was a specimen under a microscope.

“I found the con artist who ripped y’all off.”

Harold’s mouth fell open. Isaiah’s already hung open so it was hard to tell if he was surprised, too, but the glimmer in his eyes told me he was happy to hear the news.

“I knew it!” Harold cried, clapping his hands. “I knew the girl who killed a drug dealer could find our bad guy, too!”

Back to
that,
were we?
Ugh.

“Did you arrest him?” Harold asked. “Is he in jail? Can we go visit him and poke him with a stick through the bars?”

“No, no, and I don’t think you’re allowed to do that.”

He frowned. “Well, if he’s not in jail, what did you go getting us all excited for?”

No pleasing some people, huh?
“I know who he is, and I know where he lives,” I told them. “Problem was, he wasn’t home. I could go back and arrest him, but it would be more fun to beat him at his own game, wouldn’t it?”

Harold’s eyes flashed with mischief behind his glasses. “You mean con the con artist?”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Isaiah lifted his head. “Count … me … in.”

chapter thirty-six

M
y Big Fat Italian Wedding

I slipped the fitness tracker around my wrist and pushed it up under the hem of my sleeve. It was doubtful I’d have a chance to plant the thing today, but better to have it with me just in case.

I arrived at the bistro at four as Benedetta had requested. Tino’s car wasn’t at his office. Looked like he was off today.

Across the parking lot, things were bustling at the gallery. Through the window I could see five or six patrons milling about the space. Looked like Nick might have done too good a job with his cover. Gallery Nico was doing a brisk business. A reporter from the
Dallas Morning News
had even come by earlier in the week to do a piece on the place.

I entered the bistro and stashed my things in my locker. While Elena handled the relatively quiet dining room, Luisa and Stella and I lugged pot after heavy pot of pasta out to the catering truck. It was a wonder none of us suffered a hernia. The garlic knots were much easier to carry, as were the coolers holding the salad. Given that wedding cake would be served at the reception, no desserts had been ordered.

While the girls and I carried the food, Dario stacked cases of wine and assorted liquor onto a dolly and rolled them out to the catering truck, setting them side by side on the floor. He returned to the restaurant two more times, reloaded the dolly, and came back to the truck with yet more cases of liquor.
My gosh!
There was enough liquor here to throw an entire year’s worth of frat parties.

When the truck was ready, Benedetta came outside carrying a metal cash box. She handed the cash box to me and climbed into the driver’s seat. I sat in the middle with the box on my lap, while Juan sat on the right.

I cast a glance back at the liquor. “Who’s going to tend the bar?”

Benedetta said that one of the bistro’s bartenders planned to meet us at the event to work the bar. “I’ll back him when things get busy.”

“You know how to mix drinks?” I asked.

“I know how to do everything,
cara,
” she said with a coy smile.

Tonight’s event could be a chance for me to figure out whether cash was being laundered through the liquor account. If I could count the funds in the cash box at the end of the night, I’d be able to compare them to the figure she’d put into her bookkeeping system later.

“I’d be happy to help at the bar,” I said. “I don’t know how to mix drinks, but I’d love to learn. And I can pour wine or champagne.” Merely filling a glass required no bartending skills.

“I’ll need you to handle the food tonight,” she said. “Besides, you’re not certified to sell liquor.”

Ugh!

“But if you are interested in learning,” she added, “I can schedule you a shift as a bar back so you can get your feet wet.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’d like that.”

She chuckled and cut a glance my way. “One of these days you are going to take over my restaurant.”

I gave her a smile. “I just might.”
But probably not in the way you think.

Benedetta headed onto Central Expressway, exiting on Mockingbird, just as Agent Hohenwald had done only days ago when we went to visit with Alex Harris at Dallas Country Club. Instead of turning left on Mockingbird, however, Benedetta turned right. In minutes we arrived at the beautiful St. Thomas Aquinas church on Kenwood. As we pulled up, I found myself admiring the arched entry and beautiful stained-glass windows. I also found myself wondering whether Tino Fabrizio had ever confessed his sins to a priest. Clergy were bound to confidentiality, but
whoa.
What a burden those secrets would be to bear, huh? And what penance could possibly make up for what Tino had done?