Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria Read online

  Agent Zardooz pointed to each photo in turn. “Their names are Radwan Algafari, Karam Homsi, and Hani Nasser.”

  While the sounds rolled off his tongue, I knew I’d stumble over the unfamiliar names.

  “All three men were raised in very rigid, fundamentalist families,” Zardooz continued. “They went to school together in Syria, then immigrated to the United States to attend college at the University of Texas.”

  Whoa. These guys had attended UT, my alma mater? Scary to think I might have crossed paths with terrorists on campus. Then again, the university was no stranger to terror. In 1966, a student named Charles Whitman purchased scopes and an arsenal of rifles, murdered his wife and mother in their home, then ascended to the observation deck of the administration building tower and proceeded shooting randomly at those down on the campus and streets below. In the end, sixteen people lay dead and more than thirty others were wounded. More recently, in 2010, a student with an AK-47 opened fire on campus. The university was better prepared this time and went into immediate lockdown mode. Fortunately, no others were injured this time around, though the shooter took his own life in the main library. I’d been lucky there’d been no incidents during my period of attendance.

  “Algafari was an engineering major,” Zardooz informed us. “Nasser studied chemistry and Homsi majored in physics.”

  Smart guys, huh? Too bad they didn’t use their intelligence for good instead of evil.

  Zardooz went on to tell us that Algafari and Nasser obtained jobs in Dallas after completing college, while Homsi went to work for a small start-up company in neighboring Fort Worth. They’d stayed in close contact and sometimes prayed together. They traveled back to Syria often and maintained close ties to their relatives and homeland. The CIA had obtained extensive evidence linking them to acts of terror that had taken place in and around Syria at the times the men were visiting their native country. One of those acts involved the school bus.

  A queasiness invaded my stomach at the mention of the bus. Luckily, the agent spared us the gory details and moved on to other matters.

  Zardooz looked from me to Eddie. “How much do you two know about Arab history?”

  Eddie and I exchanged glances. Sure, we heard snippets about events in the Arab world all the time on the news. Another car bomb had exploded; another embassy had been firebombed; another political leader had been assassinated. The snippets failed to provide a complete picture, however. What information was available seemed confusing and contradictory, complicated and conflicting. To make matters worse, allegiances were tenuous and constantly shifting. Countries that fought side by side in one war would be at each other’s throats not long afterward.

  Admittedly I’d never bothered to research the issues in detail. It wasn’t that I didn’t care; it’s just that I got my fill of violence on my job. I lived in Dallas, thousands of miles away from these Arab countries, and had no control over the events that took place there. Heck, I paid just as little attention to the political unrest here in America. I never did quite get that whole “Occupy Wall Street” movement. I hated corporate fat cats as much as the next guy, but where would the little guy be if his bank went kaput? Honestly, I couldn’t tell who was right and who was wrong in many cases. I didn’t have the answers. Plus, Neiman’s was usually having a shoe sale. A 30 percent discount could be quite distracting. No doubt Eddie also found little time to devote to world politics. Between his job as a special agent and his duties as a husband, father of twin girls, and soccer coach the guy was lucky to find a spare ten minutes to take a peek at a Mavericks game.

  Yep, as ashamed as I was to admit it, to a certain degree I was one of those people who’d rather stick her head in the sand and pretend the world is a happy, sunshiny place full of nice people. I knew it was naïve and wrong, but the alternative was to be upset and depressed all the time, wasn’t it? Who wants to live like that? Besides, it wasn’t like I was doing nothing. I contributed to human rights groups. Just take a look at the charitable deductions on my last tax return.

  “What do we know about Arab history?” I repeated, eyeing Zardooz. “Try squat.”

  “Okay,” Zardooz said, thankfully accepting our ignorance without an eye roll or sigh. “Back in the seventh century, the prophet Muhammad—”

  Zardooz was interrupted when Agent Wang tossed a fried green bean at him. “We don’t have all day, dude. Bring it up to this century, at least.”

  Zardooz picked up the green bean, dipped it into Wang’s chipotle ranch sauce, and took a bite. “All right. You two have heard of the ‘Arab Spring,’ right?”

  Eddie and I nodded. Our heads had not been completely up our asses.

  Zardooz gave us a quick rundown. In recent months, many of those living in the Arab world had reached the limits of their tolerance and revolted against their country’s oppressive regimes. This so-called Arab Spring led to rulers being forced from power in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, and Yemen. While lesser protests took place in Algeria, Iraq, Jordan, Kuwait, and Morocco, serious civil uprisings occurred in Bahrain and Syria. The clashes were often violent, with thousands killed as a result.

  Militant groups took advantage of the recent unrest to unleash further terror across the Arab world. But attacking thousands of people ain’t cheap. When they needed funds for weapons and bomb-making materials, they’d hit up their cohorts here in Dallas, playing on their emotions, reminding the men that while they lived in their cushy apartments in the relatively safe United States their family members were risking their lives overseas. It was like some type of sick, sadistic soap opera, with psychological manipulation, constant strife, and goals and motivations that were far from clear.

  Still, despite what I’d been told and the evidence I’d been given, I didn’t want to accept the facts. The men who’d been arrested lived and worked in this country, interacted with Americans on a daily basis, ate Oreos just like the rest of us. How could they enjoy the freedoms this country offered while supporting radicals who murdered their former neighbors and countrymen back in their homelands? Couldn’t they see that, by and large, people all over the world were basically good?

  I supposed it was pointless to even try to make sense of their thinking. Their acts could never be rationalized or justified.

  Our history lesson now completed, I turned to Wang. “What have you done so far in the investigation?”

  “The usual. Searched their homes and cars. Talked to their coworkers and neighbors. Visited their banks.” He took a sip of his iced tea. “Our next step is to visit MSBs near their homes and workplaces, see if any of them sent the funds overseas.”

  Treasury regulations not only included provisions to prevent and detect money laundering, but they also prohibited trade between Americans and certain foreign persons and entities suspected in the promotion of terrorism. Money services businesses, often referred to as MSBs, were subject to extensive regulation to prevent illegal financing. The regulations covered a wide range of financial transactions and gave the government broad authority over any business that cashed checks, performed wire transfers, or sold money orders, traveler’s checks, or foreign currency.

  In most legitimate financial transactions, funds were transferred directly from the payer’s account at one institution to the recipient’s account at another, with neither party actually handling cash. In such cases, banking records provided a clear money trail. Cash, however, was an entirely different matter. Large cash transactions were unusual these days and, therefore, suspicious. Because cash was essentially untraceable, it was often used in criminal activity. Thus, the Bank Secrecy Act required MSBs to report cash transactions involving amounts of ten thousand dollars or more.

  Recent legislation had been passed to cover loopholes related to the sale or redemption of prepaid stored-value cards, which could easily be purchased in the United States and sent overseas to prohibited parties for redemption. Cash-for-gold transactions were also now subject to record-keeping requirements after it was di
scovered that gold bars and jewelry had been used as a means of illegally moving assets between the United States and foreign countries. Unfortunately, regulations were often reactive rather than proactive, with the laws put in place only after a scheme had been discovered.

  Agent Wang pulled out three copies of a computer-generated map and an accompanying list with addresses for local MSBs. The list covered a diverse range of businesses, including liquor stores, tobacco shops, travel agencies, gas stations, grocery stores, convenience stores, and bus terminals. Heck, there was even a state correctional facility on the list.

  “I’ve divided up the list,” Wang said. “With three of us working on this, we should be able to visit each of the businesses within the next few weeks.”

  I took my copy from him and ran my eyes over it. Many of the MSBs were located in the North Dallas sector that surrounded the TI location where one of the men arrested had worked as a product engineer. Sheesh. I wondered if any of his coworkers had suspected him of links to terror cells overseas. I hoped he hadn’t programmed any of the products to explode. It would be an awful shame for some high school sophomore to be working on his geometry homework and have his TI calculator burst into flaming shards.

  The cosine of B = KABLOOEY!

  “Be careful,” Zardooz warned. “We know that whoever helped the men move their money is on the loose, but it’s possible there are others still out there, too.”

  Eddie’s brows drew together. “Say what?”

  “We’re not certain we got all the terrorists,” Zardooz clarified. “Some of the communications we intercepted implied there was another here in the Dallas area, but we feared we’d lose the main targets if we waited any longer to bring them in. They had plans to return to Syria shortly.”

  “These men don’t play games and they don’t like getting caught.” Wang shot us a meaningful look. “Don’t let your guard down.”

  chapter four

  Old Flames

  Eddie and I returned to the IRS office and stepped off the elevator. Voices from down the hall drew my attention to Lu’s office, where she sat in her high-backed chair behind her enormous desk, Josh and Nick flanking her on either side. The three huddled, looking down at her computer screen.

  While Eddie headed back to his office, curiosity led me to the Lobo’s digs. I stopped in the doorway. “What’s up?”

  Lu glanced up through her false eyelashes. “We’re checking the results from Big D Dating Service, seeing if we’ve got any hits.”

  I stepped into her office, taking a place next to Nick. He glanced down at me. Though I gave him a smile, his face remained impassive. Surely his response would be different if he knew I planned to talk to Brett tonight, to make arrangements to take Nick for a test-drive.

  The three checked Josh’s account first.

  His cherubic face lit up when he noted he’d had a response. Just one, but that was all he needed, right? He reached down and maneuvered the mouse, clicking on the link. The screen brought up a photo of a skinny young woman with white-blond hair pulled up into two long pigtails on either side of her head. Her blue eyes were opened wide, giving her a youthful, innocent look. She wore a white short-sleeved sailor-style top with a blue collar that ended in a big red bow over her chest.

  “Does she work for a cruise line?” I asked.

  “No.” Josh rolled his eyes. “She’s dressed as Sailor Moon.”

  “Sailor who?”

  “Sailor Moon,” he repeated. “She’s an anime character.”

  No wonder I hadn’t recognized her. I knew less than squat about anime, though I could quote Homer Simpson, Hank Hill, and SpongeBob SquarePants verbatim. Hey, I’m not totally uncultured.

  “She fights evil by moonlight,” Josh said, “and wins love by daylight.”

  “The girl who responded to your ad?”

  “No!” Another eye roll. “Sailor Moon.”

  “Oh.” I supposed I was a bit like Sailor Moon, though I generally fought evil between 8:00 AM and 5:00 PM and preferred to win my love in the more romantic evening hours.

  Josh read from the screen. “The bio says her name is Kira and she’s a freelance Web designer.”

  Another tech nerd. “She sounds perfect for you, Josh.”

  Lu took control of the mouse and pulled up her account next. She’d received three responses. The first was from a forty-year-old man with greasy hair and a sleazy grin. “No thanks,” Lu told the screen. “I’m not a tiger mom.”

  “I think you mean cougar,” I said.

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. I’m not dating someone my son’s age.” She clicked on the second link. This potential suitor had the opposite problem. He was a man in his late eighties looking for a “nurturing” woman. Lu’s lips pursed in disgust. “That’s just a nice way of saying he wants someone to change his diapers.”

  While Nick, Josh, and I leaned in, she pulled up the third respondent. This guy was sixty-five, which made him age appropriate for Lu. The bio indicated his name was Carl. He wore a navy-blue polyester leisure suit with visible white stitching around the collar and buttonholes, along with black plastic horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

  “He’s very fashionable,” Lu said, gesturing at the screen. “He’s wearing those new stylish glasses that are so popular.”

  Nick and I exchanged glances. Carl’s glasses weren’t the geek chic look that was in vogue today. No, his were definitely original horn-rims from the 1950s. To make matters worse, the guy had a horrid comb-over. Well, maybe “comb-over” was the wrong word. “Comb-forward/comb-across” would be more precise. His hair, which appeared to originate on the back and sides of his neck, had been combed up and over his bald dome in a sort of crisscross pattern, like a hairnet made of real hair. He’d glued the stuff in place with Brylcreem.

  I looked at Lu, taking in her pinkish-orange beehive, false eyelashes, and lemon-yellow dress trimmed in purple rickrack. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on Comb-over Carl. He could be just the guy for Lu.

  Josh put a hand on the mouse. “Let’s check your responses, Nick.”

  As Nick leaned in closer to the screen, a slight twinge of guilt tightened my gut. Poor guy. He still didn’t realize I’d sabotaged him with that horrible bio and angry photo. I hoped he wouldn’t feel bad when he learned there’d been no interest.

  Josh clicked the mouse. “Holy crap!” he cried, his eyes wide as he turned from the screen to look up at Nick. “You’ve got seventy-three responses.”

  What!?!

  I leaned in closer now, too. Yep, sure enough, seventy-three women had responded to Nick’s ad. Well, make that seventy-two women and one guy named Sergio who encouraged Nick to “be open to new experiences” and “take a walk on the wild side.”

  To my surprise, Nick didn’t look so much excited by the responses as exhausted. Josh clicked on each of them in turn, taking us through a long line of women with abundant cleavage, excessive lip gloss, and biographies containing far too many exclamation points.

  Maddie, a blue-eyed blonde, was a “party girl!!!” who was sure she and Nick would “hit it off!!!”

  Kaitlyn was a green-eyed redhead who “enjoyed wine! Music! Dancing!” and thought Nick looked “sexy and fun!”

  Shea was an African-American woman with cute short curls. She was a “Dallas Mavericks Dancer and a big sports fan!” who thought she and Nick would have “an awesome time together!”

  No fewer than a third of the bios noted that the woman enjoyed long walks on the beach. Seriously? Dallas was three hundred miles from the nearest beach. That was indeed a long walk.

  “If I were you,” I told Nick, “I’d give Sergio a try. Look at those biceps. He definitely works out.”

  Nick shot me a look before turning back to Josh. “They’re all running together. Is there a way to sort them?”

  “How about by IQ?” I suggested, my sarcasm earning me another exasperated look from Nick. Hey, he was the one who said he wanted a woman with some brains.
/>   “Try sorting them by breast size,” he told Josh, earning himself an indignant grunt from me.

  “I thought you were an ass man,” I said. He’d told me so himself after a well-endowed reporter named Trish LeGrande had made me feel inadequate when Nick and I were working together on an earlier case.

  Nick eyed me again and shrugged. “Maybe my tastes have changed.”

  Ouch. That hurt. Like a knife in the heart. He wasn’t over me already, was he? Just when I’d decided to take a shot with him?

  Josh pulled up the next potential candidate and Nick sat bolt upright, his eyes wide.

  What was that about?

  Lu squinted at the screen. “Natalie. She looks like a nice girl.” Lu glanced up at Nick, then back at the screen, then back at Nick. “Wait a minute. Isn’t she that woman you almost married?”

  Nick nodded, his gaze still locked on the screen, a faraway look in his eyes.

  The knife in my heart turned and twisted, like a sharp corkscrew working its way to my core. I knew Nick had been engaged years ago, but he’d never talked much about it other than to say his job as a special agent had been a problem in their relationship, just as it was sometimes a problem in my relationship with Brett. Our jobs were demanding and risky and often took us away at inopportune times. Not everyone could deal with it.

  Nick’s reaction was strange. Did he still have feelings for this woman? And did she still have feelings for him? Of course she did. Why else would she have responded to his ad?

  Did Natalie want Nick back?

  I looked at the screen. The photo showed a dark-haired girl with sweet brown eyes, a scattering of freckles, and a figure that bordered between voluptuous and pleasantly plump. She was dressed modestly in a pink cotton blouse buttoned high enough to keep her cleavage completely under wraps.

  If ever there was a girl-next-door, Natalie was her. I was more like the girl down the block with bare feet and a frog in her pocket, hanging upside down from a tree branch.