Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries Read online

“Actually,” Eddie explained to Bethany, “it’s fairly easy to get tax ID numbers for corporations online if you know where to look.”

  “It is? Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Is she telling us the truth? Or is she actually a clever extortionist?

  “Anyway,” she continued, “my cousin’s a lawyer and he said he’d write a letter for me and see if he could get some type of settlement from Winning Tickets. But they wouldn’t offer me anything. They even threatened to sue me back! Can you believe it?”

  After all the crazy things we’d seen on the job, Eddie and I would believe just about anything. All we could do was offer her a pair of sympathetic shrugs.

  “Do you think you’ll figure out who sent in the fake reports?” she asked.

  Was it you, Ms. Flagler? “I won’t stop until I exhaust every lead,” I said, knowing I could make neither threats nor promises.

  She frowned. “So no guarantees, huh?”

  “Nope. But I’m hoping you can help me.” I cocked my head. “Any idea who it might have been?”

  She raised her palms. “None. I told the auditor as much.”

  As I asked the next question, a commercial for laundry detergent came on. If the ad was any indication, its fresh lavender scent could inspire a person to dance around in the grass in their freshly laundered clothing. Maybe I should buy some. My current detergent was entirely uninspiring. “Are you aware of anyone who’d want to make things difficult for you?”

  Bethany scoffed. “Hell, yeah, I know someone who’d want to make things hard on me.”

  “Who?”

  “My former roommate. We shared an apartment for six months. She stole my checkbook, wrote bad checks all over town, wiped out my bank account, and ruined my credit. I hardly ever write checks so it was weeks before I realized my checkbook was missing. She picked up our mail from the box every day. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was throwing away collection letters sent by the places where she’d bounced the checks. The cops came here one day and arrested me. I told them I had nothing to do with the bad checks, but they hauled me off anyway. In handcuffs! Most embarrassing day of my life. I was lucky I didn’t lose my job. The prosecutor eventually realized I was innocent and that my roommate was the one behind it. By then she’d stolen my jewelry and my boyfriend, too. I don’t miss the boyfriend, he was lazy and not going anywhere with his life, but there were a couple of bracelets I would have liked to hold on to.”

  Interesting … “What happened to your roommate?”

  “She spent a month in jail and was ordered to perform community service. Last I saw her she was on her knees in the mud pulling weeds in one of the city parks. Serves her right.”

  Perhaps the experience would set the wayward woman straight. At any rate, my suspicions about Bethany had been put to rest. She was a victim, not a lawbreaker.

  “Your roommate sounds horrible,” I said in empathy. “Do you think she’s the one who issued the fraudulent 1099 in your name?” After all, if she’d taken Bethany’s checkbook, she might have also searched the apartment until she found Bethany’s social security card, too.

  Bethany’s expression was skeptical. “As awful as she was, she wasn’t very smart. She probably doesn’t know the first thing about tax forms. I doubt she’s ever even filed a return.”

  It was a good point. Whoever had done this presumably had at least a minimal level of knowledge about tax filings. But perhaps someone else had given her the idea or provided assistance. I’d be able to determine whether she was the likely culprit if she had a link to the other victims, too.

  “What was her name?” I asked.

  “Robin Beck.” Bethany eyed the TV, which was currently in the middle of a commercial for auto insurance. Why humans should take advice from a gecko who’d never once driven a car or purchased an insurance policy was beyond me, but I had to admit the little green guy was cute and his Australian accent was adorable.

  I made a note of the name. “Any idea where Robin is now?”

  Bethany scoffed. “Probably mooching off another friend, sleeping on their couch and eating all their food and not chipping in for the bills.”

  “What about a job?” I asked. “What did Robin do for a living?”

  “Mostly retail work,” Bethany said. “She never seemed to keep a job for more than a few weeks at a time. She’d just gotten fired from a shoe store right before they sent her off to jail.”

  “Got a cell number for her?”

  Bethany pulled her phone from her back pocket, brought up her contacts list, and rattled off the number.

  “Thanks.” I took note of the number and looked back up at her. “Anyone else who might have a vendetta against you for any reason?”

  “I can’t think of anyone.”

  The commercial ended and a quick Spanish guitar riff played as the station segued back into Amor y Vengaza. Bethany seemed to instantaneously forget that I was even there. She stared up at the screen, her mouth slightly agape. On the screen, a different handsome man in a business suit walked past a group of women seated in front of computers, typing. “¡Ponte las pilas!” he barked, the translation reading Put in your batteries! Judging from the context, the phrase appeared to be an idiom for “hurry up.” Whaddya know? I’d learned something new. I gave myself a mental pat on the back.

  “Bye,” I said to Bethany. “Thanks for the information.”

  She made a soft grunt of acknowledgement but didn’t look my way. That Mexican soap opera sure must be addictive. Eddie stuck out his tongue, put his thumbs in his ears, and waggled his fingers. Still she didn’t turn our way. She was mesmerized by the drama.

  Eddie and I ventured back through the building and bade farewell to the friendly guy working the front desk. Unlike Bethany, he actually said good-bye.

  Back in the car, I fished my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and called the number Bethany had given me for Robin Beck. An annoying series of shrill tones followed by a computerized voice told me the number was no longer in service.

  Eddie ran a quick search on his laptop. “Robin’s driver’s license is expired. So is her vehicle registration. Both show an address in Cypress, Texas.”

  Cypress was one of the many suburbs north of Houston. There was no telling where Robin might be now, and it didn’t seem like much of a lead anyway. Bethany hadn’t thought Robin was the guilty party. Barring another victim of the 1099 scheme telling us that he or she knew Robin, we didn’t see much point in putting more time into chasing her down. Besides, getting evidence against Hidalgo and trying to help the Border Patrol find the three kidnapped girls was much more important.

  I started my engine, pulled out of the lot, and aimed my car for El Loro Loco.

  chapter eight

  Runaround

  As we pulled to a stop in the parking lot, I closed my eyes for a brief moment, imploring the good Lord Almighty with a silent prayer that Julio Número Uno would give us the information we needed to save Nina, Larissa, and Yessenia. When I opened my eyes again, I caught Eddie doing the same thing.

  El Loro Loco was housed in a stucco building painted a terra-cotta orange with green cartoon parrots in sombreros gracing the outside walls, the words in their speech bubbles promising “The best beans north of the border!” and “Salsa so fresh you should slap it!”

  We stepped through the front door and found ourselves face-to-face with an oversized green and yellow mechanical macaw sitting on a wooden perch. Our movements having activated its motion sensors, the bird tilted its head first one way, then the other, his eyes sliding around in their metal sockets. He flapped his wings and opened his beak, squawking so loud it threatened to burst our eardrums. “SQUAWK! Welcome to El Loro Loco!”

  Grinning mischievously, Eddie gestured to the raspy-voiced parrot. “How about I get you a bird like that for your wedding gift?”

  “How about I buy your daughters a couple of them for Christmas?”

  That shut him up. My eyes sc
anned the room. The hostess stand was unmanned for the moment, the hostess evidently taking care of another task. The lunch crowd was dwindling, many settling their tabs and leaving their tables, some with to-go boxes. The smell of onions and green pepper permeated the air.

  As the door opened behind me to admit a patron, the macaw flapped his wings again and repeated his greeting. “SQUAWK! Welcome to El Loro Loco!”

  Eddie grabbed a paper delivery menu, wadded it into a ball, and shoved it into the bird’s gaping beak. “Maybe that’ll shut him up.”

  It didn’t. As a trio of men walked past us to leave, the bird flapped his wings and opened his mouth again, the wadded menu falling out and dropping to the floor. “SQUAWK! Welcome to El Loro Loco!”

  Eddie cut the bird a dirty look. “Stupid bird. They’re leaving, not coming in.”

  Undaunted, the bird emitted another “SQUAWK!”

  Eddie glanced around and, seeing nobody in authority in the immediate vicinity, edged toward the bird. In a clandestine move, he stepped onto the electric cord with one foot to hold it still, while he hooked the opposite ankle around the cord and yanked the plug out of the wall socket. “SQUA—”

  The bird silenced, we stepped up to the hostess stand, where a woman in an apron was approaching.

  “Table for one?” the grandmotherly Latina woman asked in a heavy Spanish accent.

  “Actually, we’re looking for Julio Guzmán,” I told her. I pulled out a business card and handed it to her. I found the cards gave me just as much legitimacy as flashing my law enforcement badge but freaked people out less, kept them more at ease. “I understand he works here?”

  Eddie offered his card, too. “I’m Eddie Bardin.”

  Her face clouded as she read our cards. So much for keeping her at ease, huh?

  “Julio works the early shift,” she said. “Five in the morning until two in the afternoon. But he’s off until Thursday.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked from me to Eddie and back again. “Why are you two looking for him?”

  “He’s not in trouble,” I told her, hoping to alleviate any concerns. “We think he might have some information about a case we’re working on.”

  She said nothing in return, just continued to stare at me through her eye slits. Okay, then.

  “Are you the manager?” I asked.

  “Manager and owner,” she replied with a mix of pride and pensiveness.

  “You’re not in trouble, either,” I assured her. After all, the documentation Salvador Hidalgo had provided to the people he’d smuggled into the U.S. appeared to be valid documentation that would allow a person to work here. Presumably the man going by the name Julio Guzmán had given this woman the same set of documentation to prove his eligibility for employment. She’d have no reason to question the validity of the documents. “Could you give me his home address?” I asked. “I could speak to him there so I don’t have to interrupt him here at work later in the week.”

  She took a deep breath as she thought things over, but eventually motioned for me to follow her. She led me to a hallway at the back of the restaurant and stepped into the small office at the end. Walking over to a filing cabinet, she opened a drawer, rifled through the files therein, and pulled one out. I stood in the doorway as she dropped into her chair and opened the file on the desk. She proceeded to give me an address in Hurst, where Eddie and I had been before heading here. So much for using our time efficiently, huh? I entered the address into my phone’s GPS.

  “Thanks,” I told her. “Enjoy the rest of the day.”

  As we exited the restaurant, the parrot once again raked our nerves with his grating mantra. “SQUAWK! Welcome to El Loro Loco!” Looked like an employee must’ve plugged the annoying bird back in.

  Leaving the macaw to his sentry duties, we set off to the mobile home park where Julio Guzmán Número Uno lived. The female voice of the GPS led us back onto Highway 121 for just under three miles before directing me to exit. A couple of turns later and we were pulling into the mobile home park. Though the homes were modest and set fairly close together, they were well kept and clean. Ditto for the yards. The place had a small neighborhood pool where children played and splashed about and shrieked with glee. As sweltering hot as it was outside, I was tempted to get out of my car and perform a cannonball in my clothing.

  My eyes sought the lot numbers on the mailboxes. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. There it is. Lot twenty-eight. An ancient blue Buick Riviera sat in the driveway.

  I pulled to a stop behind the Buick, and we climbed out of my car, taking the two steps up to the porch. Eddie rapped three times on the glass storm door. Rap-rap-rap.

  A moment later, a Latina woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties opened the door. Her hair was pulled into a loose pile on her head. She wore a tank top, denim shorts, no shoes, and an uneasy expression. Is she undocumented, too?

  A young boy, maybe four or five years old, scurried up behind her, latching onto her leg for comfort and looking up at us with big brown eyes, a small stuffed dog with long floppy ears clutched in his hands. From how worn and old the dog appeared, I guessed it must’ve served as the boy’s security blanket, his velveteen rabbit. I gave the kid a smile and he flashed me a shy grin back. Adorable.

  “Hi,” I said to the woman. “I’m looking for Julio Guzmán. I understand he lives here?”

  She looked me up and down, then did the same to Eddie, as if her response depended on her assessment. “No. No Julio here,” she replied in a thick Spanish accent. “Wrong house.”

  From behind her, I heard the same guitar strain I’d heard at Sweet Melody Music. This woman was also watching Amor y Vengaza. It sure seemed to be a popular show.

  “Mr. Guzmán’s not in trouble,” I said, telling her the same thing I’d told his boss. “I just need to ask him some questions about a man named Salvador Hidalgo.”

  She sucked in a quick breath of air—uh!—and her eyes flashed in alarm. These two things told me two other things. One, this was not the wrong house as she’d just suggested. And two, she was familiar with Salvador herself. Maybe he’d arranged to get her into the U.S., too.

  “No,” she said, beginning to close the door. “No Salvador here. Wrong house.”

  I wasn’t quite buying her act. “Are you the wife of the man who is working under the name Julio Guzmán? Maybe his sister?”

  She shook her head again. “No Julio here.”

  She went to shut the door, but I stuck my steel-toed shoe in the space before she could get it closed. “I’m trying to help, ma’am. We believe Hidalgo is responsible for the deaths of several people in the desert in west Texas. But we can’t do anything about it until someone gives us information.” I pulled the photos of Nina, Larissa, and Yessenia from my briefcase. “We also believe he’s involved in the kidnapping of these three girls. They’re missing.” I let that sink in for a moment.

  She said nothing. I wasn’t sure if she hadn’t understood me or was simply refusing to speak to me. I looked past her into the house but saw no one else inside. If Julio lived here, he didn’t appear to be home at the moment. Maybe he worked a second job or was out running errands. Or perhaps he was holed up in a bedroom or closet. I returned my attention to the woman and looked her in the eye. Or as much in the eye as I could given that she repeatedly cast her glance downward.

  “We are trying to help people,” I told her, speaking slowly. “To keep desperate people from paying a lot of money to someone who is not going to keep them safe. And we’ve got to find these girls right away. If we don’t, they might disappear forever.”

  Still she said nothing, though the anxious look on her face indicated that, despite the language barrier, she understood the gist of what I was saying to her.

  “We really need someone to talk to us. I can get a translator if necessary. Would you like me to do that?”

  “No.” She shook her head frantically, her eyes clouding in fear.

  I realized that part of the reason she might not
want a translator is because she didn’t want to speak about the unspeakable things that had happened to her and Julio on their journey to America.

  “Did Salvador hurt you?” I asked gently. “Or maybe someone he is working with?”

  She gulped back a sob. “Wrong house,” she said again, though this time she had to choke the words out.

  “Ma’am,” I tried again, taking a different tact that I thought might hit home with her, convince her to help. “A Border Patrol agent told me they recently found a child in the desert in west Texas. He was the only survivor. His parents died of heatstroke and dehydration and we believe Salvador Hidalgo is responsible.” I gestured to the little boy. “A little boy like him will grow up without a family now. We can’t let there be others. We need Julio’s help. Your help. For that little boy’s sake. For the girls’ sake.”

  My heart and gut both squirmed. I didn’t want to pressure this woman. Clearly, she was distraught. But if nobody would give us information Hidalgo would only rack up more victims.

  When she shook her head again, I pulled out one of my business cards and handed it to her. “Please have Mr. Guzmán call me, okay? Or if you change your mind and would like to talk you can call me, too.”

  She blinked back her tears, nodded, and took my card. I removed my foot, and she closed the door.

  Strike one.

  Eddie and I exchanged looks of frustration. It sucked when a case depended on the cooperation of witnesses, which wasn’t always easy to get. It was much easier when we had numbers and financial records to rely on.

  “Think we should wait around?” I asked Eddie. “See if Número Uno might show up?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the best use of our time.” He gestured at the door to indicate the woman inside. “She probably texted or phoned him the instant she closed the door and warned him to look out for us.”

  Eddie was probably right. Besides, if Uno decided to cooperate, he had my card and phone number and could get in touch with me.

  As we climbed back into the car and headed out, I cast a final wistful glance at the children playing in the swimming pool. Oh, to be so carefree, unencumbered by the shackles of the world’s complex and emotional issues. I heaved a loud sigh.