Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte Page 2

We stepped up to the door and Eddie rapped on the glass. A short, plump woman poked her head out of the backlit doorway inside. She gave us a wave, set aside her broom, and headed toward us. As she unbolted and opened the door, the warm, enticing scents of cinnamon and vanilla greeted us. Apparently the couple was getting a head start on the morning’s baking.

  Darina Pokorny was an attractive woman in her early fifties, with a round face and pink cheeks. Her blond hair bore undertones of white, her short curls springing from her head like a pack of frisky poodles. She wore white cotton pants and a long-sleeved white shirt covered by a red-and-white-checkered apron that, in turn, was covered by powdered sugar and smudges of what appeared to be lemon cream filling.

  Mrs. Pokorny flipped on the lights and offered a pleasant but cautious smile. “Come in, please.” Her Czech accent was still thick despite more than two decades in Texas.

  I stepped through the door. Before me stood a lighted glass-front display case containing cookies and cakes, pastries and pies, tarts and tortes. Some were slathered in chocolate, others oozed vanilla cream. Sugar crystals sparkled, glazes glistened. It was all I could do not to rush to the case and press my face to the glass.

  Should’ve had more than a latte for dinner.

  “Down, girl,” Eddie said from behind me. I swear the guy could read my mind.

  Forcing my eyes from the display case, I stuck out my hand to Mrs. Pokorny. “Tara Holloway,” I said by way of introduction.

  “And Eddie Bardin,” my partner said from behind me, likewise extending his hand.

  After we shook hands, Mrs. Pokorny directed us to one of the red vinyl booths. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Thanks.” I slid into one side of the booth, Eddie slid in after me, and my gaze slid back to the refrigerated case. A pastry on the bottom shelf oozed thick purple goo. Grape jelly? Blueberry filling? Blackberry jam? Couldn’t tell for sure. Regardless, the thing looked delicious.

  “Jakub?” Mrs. Pokorny called back to her husband. Since she spoke in her native tongue, I wasn’t sure what she said next. The only part I understood was “IRS.”

  A few seconds later, Jakub Porkorny emerged from the back room and joined us at the table. He, too, was dressed in white, including his apron. Like his wife, he bore a sturdy build, fair skin, and fair hair. Unlike his wife, he wore a burr haircut, a thick mustache, and a St. Christopher medallion around his neck. Some believed such medallions would keep the wearer safe. I wasn’t usually superstitious but, under the circumstances, figured the medallion couldn’t hurt.

  Jakub nodded to me and Eddie as he took his seat.

  I nodded back. “Good to meet you, Mr. Pokorny. You two have a nice place here.”

  The Pokornys smiled, obviously proud of their little bakery. And rightfully so. They’d built the business themselves from scratch. According to the information Burton had provided, the couple had left their homeland shortly before the Berlin Wall fell and the Velvet Revolution put an end to communism in Czechoslovakia. They’d been in the U.S. just long enough to settle in and squeeze out a couple of children. They chose to stay here to raise their family rather than tear up their newly formed roots and return to Europe.

  On the wall above the booths hung framed recipes written in both Czech and English, including one for palacinky, which, according to the translation, was a type of Czech crepe. Large photographs of Prague landmarks, including two identified by hand-lettered tags as Prague Castle and Saint Vitus Cathedral, hung on the wall behind the display cases.

  Another frame contained a dollar bill, the first the bakery had earned, alongside a photograph showing a smiling Darina and Jakub in their bakery garb with their arms around the shoulders of their now-grown son and daughter. Both of the children were fair skinned and fair haired like their parents. Their son sported a green-and-gold Dallas Stars jersey, their daughter an excess of eyeliner, skintight jeans, and a low-cut tee. All-American kids.

  Mr. Pokorny’s thick brows pulled together as he folded his hands on the tabletop. “Is there a problem? We thought everything was settled now.”

  “No. No problem,” I reassured them. “We just had some questions about your loan.” And about the fruit tart calling to me from the middle row of the glass case. “Is that lemon cream or custard filling in the tart with the kiwi on top?”

  “Lemon cream,” he said.

  A soft sigh escaped me.

  During a recent routine audit, the auditor had noticed the Pokornys’ interest deductions seemed unusually high. When asked for documentation relating to the loan, the couple produced a faxed copy of a “Loan Contract.” Although the contract identified Darina and Jakub Pokorny by name, the party making the loan was identified in the documentation only as “The Lender.” The signature block contained lines for Darina and Jakub’s signatures but none for the lender’s representative. The contract required all payments be in the form of a money order made payable to bearer and be sent to a post office box in Dallas. The contract charged an interest rate of thirty percent, far above market rates and in excess of the legal rate for loans between private parties.

  When the auditor traced the Pokornys’ money orders, she discovered they had not been deposited in a bank account. Rather, they’d been cashed at various check-cashing businesses in the small agricultural towns of south Texas, otherwise known as “the Valley.”

  What caught the attention of higher-ups in the IRS was the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Porkorny had first approached their financial institution, North Dallas Credit Union, for a business loan. NDCU shared corporate DNA with other entities owned, at least in part, by Vicente Torres, who’d been the initial target of Nick Pratt’s investigation years earlier.

  All of NDCU’s stock was owned by a parent company, AmeriMex Inc., which also held interests in horse-racing tracks throughout the U.S. and several maquiladoras, factories in Mexican border towns where labor could be obtained cheaply. Venture capitalists not involved in the day-to-day operations of AmeriMex owned a combined 49 percent interest in the company. The remaining 51 percent controlling interest was owned by Torres.

  Torres was a Mexican national. American citizenship was not required to establish a business in Texas. Anyone willing to set up shop here in the Lone Star State and provide jobs and tax revenue was more than welcome. That’s Southern hospitality, y’all.

  Torres lived in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, a city situated just across the border from Laredo, Texas, and just outside the jurisdiction of U.S. law enforcement, including the Treasury Department’s Criminal Investigations Division.

  Muy convenient.

  But Marcos Mendoza lived and worked primarily in the U.S., within our jurisdiction. Mendoza was designated in paperwork as the assistant manager of AmeriMex, a position for which he was purportedly paid a salary in the mid six figures. His reported salary was high enough to support his lifestyle in the U.S. But it wasn’t nearly enough to cover the cost of the enormous mansion he owned in Monterrey, Mexico, not to mention the extensive full-time staff who ran the place.

  Things didn’t add up.

  I eyed a chocolate drip on Mr. Pokorny’s sleeve, my stomach rumbling audibly now.

  “You sound hungry.” Mrs. Pokorny motioned to the case. “Can we get you something?”

  I thought you’d never ask.

  Two minutes later, we were again seated at the table, the gooey purple pastry and fruit tart in front of me. Of course I’d paid for the treats. Didn’t want to be accused of abusing my authority. Now, which to try first? Eeny, meeny, meiny, mo …

  Given that my mouth was stuffed with pastry—blueberry, mmm—Eddie began the questioning. “It’s our understanding the two of you first approached your credit union for a loan. Is that correct?”

  Jakub nodded. “Yes. We needed eighty thousand dollars. But the credit union would not give a loan to us.” He explained they’d needed the funds to replace their industrial ovens, refrigerators, and display cases, all of which were outdated and not heating or coolin
g properly.

  The loan officer at the credit union denied the loan due to a lack of collateral or consistent income to cover the loan payments. The Pokornys’ home and shop were mortgaged, their retirement and investment accounts held only nominal balances, and, thanks to the sluggish economy, their bakery business was barely hanging on. It was no wonder their loan application had been refused. No legitimate financial institution would take such a risk.

  I swallowed. My God, the thing was delicious! These people should sell franchises. “After your credit union turned you down, did you apply for a loan at any other banks?”

  Jakub shook his head. “We thought if the place where we kept our accounts would not lend to us, we would have even less hope elsewhere.”

  Eddie jumped back in now. “So how did you end up getting the loan?”

  Jakub nervously twisted the end of his mustache. “Just a few days after the credit union turned us down, we received a call from a man who said he could help us.”

  “Did he tell you his name?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Jakub said. “His name was John Smith.”

  John Smith. Sheez. Why didn’t crooks come up with more interesting aliases? Like maybe Isaiah Steele, I. Steele for short. Now there’s a good alias for a crook. Or maybe Rip Yuoff. If these con artists were smart enough to set up complicated loan transactions, the least they could do is show a little imagination when it came to their imaginary identities.

  Eddie and I exchanged glances. Presumably there was a connection between the loan application at the credit union and the subsequent phone call from the alleged “John Smith.” How else would the caller have known the Pokornys needed some quick cash?

  Darina leaned forward. “We were afraid we would have to close the bakery. When Mr. Smith said he could loan us the money, it was a godsend.” She raised her hands and looked heavenward. “He saved our business.”

  Mrs. Pokorny’s comment highlighted the problem with loan sharks. They never seemed like sharks at first, more like lifeguards tossing out a ring to save a drowning victim from going under the waves. It wasn’t until the borrower got behind on payments that the shark’s pointed teeth came out and began to tear bits of flesh from its victims.

  “How is your business doing now?” Eddie asked.

  “Not much profits,” Jakub said, “but we are able to pay our bills.” Shortly after obtaining the loan, he explained, they’d had the good fortune of landing a deal to supply kolaches to a local grocery store chain. They were managing to stay afloat. At least for now.

  When we’d obtained as much information as we could from the couple, we thanked them for their time and stood to go.

  “One last thing,” Eddie said, meeting their eyes to ensure they were paying close attention. “It’s very important you tell no one that we’ve been here. Understand?”

  The couple nodded.

  Eddie and I left with their promise to keep mum and a half-price day-old apple strudel.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Pressure Builds

  I arrived at the office Friday morning with another extra-whip, heavy-drizzle caramel latte in my hand. As I stepped off the elevator, Lu’s secretary, Viola, glanced up from her desk down the hall, her gray curls bobbing. She eyed me over her plastic-rimmed bifocals, keeping an eagle eye on the office activity, as always. I gave her a smile and a wave, and headed to my office.

  Josh Schmidt, one of my fellow special agents, passed me on his way up the corridor. Josh wore his standard attire of khaki pants and blue button-down shirt. He stood just five foot five, with a deceptively cherubic face given he was such a huge pain in the ass. Yep, no amount of Preparation H could counter the effects of Little Lord Fauntleroid.

  Though the computer geek could interface with technology like a pro, his people skills were sorely lacking. We other agents tolerated Josh only because he had the best cyber-sleuthing skills around. The guy could crack computer code in less time than the rest of us could crack our knuckles. But his condescending attitude, competitive nature, and sarcastic jabs made the rest of us want to crack his skull.

  “’Morning, Josh,” I managed. Just because I didn’t like the guy didn’t mean I wouldn’t be cordial. I’d been raised in the South, after all, where we’re taught to always be pleasant. Or were we taught to be hypocrites? Fine line there.

  His eyes cut to my briefcase. No doubt he was trying to summon X-ray vision so that he could read the documents inside. My case is bigger than your case, I wanted to say. Neener-neener, you little wiener.

  “Uh, yeah,” he said, when he realized I was eyeing him. “’Morning.”

  I continued on to my office and slid into my wobbly desk chair, dropping my purse into the bottom desk drawer. The red voice-mail light on my phone blinked, alerting me to an awaiting message. I dialed into the system and listened.

  The message was odd and cryptic. Loud techno dance music in the background and a deep male voice that muttered a single, frustrated word. “Fuck.”

  Strange. Must’ve been a wrong number.

  I pulled out a pen and legal pad, ready to get to work. Unfortunately, when I went to write the date on the pad, the tip tore at the paper. Out of ink. Not a good start to the day.

  I rummaged around in my pencil cup, then my desk, then my purse. Not a pen to be found. Dang.

  The supply cabinet was way at the other end of the floor so, being the lazy ass that I was, I’d taken to pilfering supplies from the unoccupied office across the hall, an office that had once belonged to the infamous Nick Pratt. I headed across the corridor and pulled open the top drawer of the desk. Empty. Looked liked I’d already cleaned it out. The second drawer contained a squishy blue stress ball and a half-used stack of sticky notes, both of which could come in handy. I slipped them into my pocket. In the bottom drawer I hit the jackpot. An entire box of ballpoint pens.

  Also in the drawer was a box of business cards. I opened the box and fished out a card.

  Nicholas Pratt

  Senior Special Agent

  Humph. Double Agent was more like it.

  I glanced around the room, wondering what else I might find. Surely the room had been thoroughly searched after his defection, so I didn’t hold out much hope of finding anything important. Still, maybe something here would yield a clue about Nick, why he’d traded a good job and a good life for a dirty bribe, why no one had seen it coming.

  The desk blotter calendar was three years out of date. I flipped through the oversized pages. While handwritten notes appeared on the top page, the following pages were pristine, unused.

  His bookshelves held only the standard special agent manuals and a dusty Dirk Nowitzki bobble-head doll. Looked like Nick was a Mavericks fan. Were NBA games broadcast in Mexico? I hoped not. Would serve the guy right to miss out on them.

  In the credenza I found an aluminum baseball bat and a blue nylon duffel bag. The duffel bag contained a pair of athletic shorts, a pair of tennis shoes, a T-shirt that read IRS-CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS, and a jock strap. Size extra large according to the tag. Not surprising. Accepting a bribe and fleeing the country knowing you’d become a federal fugitive would take some pretty big balls.

  I returned the items to the bag, zipped it up, and closed the credenza.

  Nothing I’d found had told me anything useful about Nick. But now I wondered something else. Nick had been gone for three years. Why hadn’t Lu reassigned the office to another agent?

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the morning on the phone, speaking with the managers of the check-cashing businesses where the Pokornys’ money orders had been cashed. The calls proved to be a total waste of my time. Given that money orders are prepaid and virtually risk free, the check-cashing businesses had been more than happy to cash them, for an exorbitant fee, of course. Moreover, because the money orders were payable to “bearer,” meaning anyone possessing them had the legal right to cash them, the staff had taken only a cursory glance at the identification proffered by the custo
mer. No permanent record had been kept.

  A dead end.

  Dang.

  * * *

  I met my best friend, Alicia, at a downtown sandwich shop for lunch. While I was a part-time, bargain-basement sophisticate, Alicia was überchic, a platinum blonde with a short, angular haircut and a cutting-edge sense of style. Today she wore a royal blue satin blouse with a dark gray pencil skirt, along with a pair of pointy-toed black stilettos. Her look was polished and professional, yet feminine. I looked professional in my gray suit, too, though far less feminine. Hard to look too girlie when your clothing has to accommodate a hip holster. And since I never knew when I might have to chase down a suspect, rubber-soled loafers were more my style.

  I glanced up at the menu board and debated. Soup, sandwich, or salad?

  Alicia stepped up to the counter in front of me. “Bottled water. Garden salad. Fat-free ranch dressing.” Always watching her figure.

  “I’ll have the same,” I said, “but not with that icky fat-free stuff. Give me regular dressing.”

  Alicia cut her eyes my way. “You’ll regret that decision someday.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but it won’t be today.”

  Alicia and I had met in college, in our first accounting class, and instantly hit it off. When we graduated, we’d both taken jobs at Martin and McGee. Though I’d felt stifled and had since moved on to my special agent position at the IRS, Alicia thrived at the CPA firm. She’d recently been promoted to a junior management position, a job which came with a cushy office and a twenty-percent pay increase.

  We paid for our lunch, took our trays, and found seats at a table in a corner.

  The skin under my cast itched like crazy. I grabbed the plastic fork that came with the salad and eased it under the plaster near my thumb, scratching at my skin. Relief. Aaah. Unfortunately, the fork became stuck inside my cast. After several attempts, I managed to fish it out, though two plastic tines broke off and eluded me. I retrieved another fork from the bin on the counter to eat my lunch.

  When I sat down again, Alicia looked at me across the table and frowned. She plucked two slices of cucumber off her salad and held them out to me. “Here. Put these over your eyes. They’ll help with those dark circles.”