Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (13 page)

“Thanks for your help,” I told Madam Magnolia.

“No problem,” she replied. “By the way, if you want to catch the man with one eyebrow,
he’s at a campground on Lake Lewisville. But you better hurry. He’s planning to move
out soon.”

Eddie and I exchanged glances. How the heck did this woman know we were after Beauregard?
Had we discussed his case while we were inside?

I racked my brain, reviewing our conversation. I didn’t remember either of us mentioning
Beauregard, and especially not his unibrow. Weird.

“Uh … thanks,” I said, feeling a little freaked out but trying not to show it.

“My pleasure. Oh, and one more thing.” She cast me a knowing smile. “
Neener-neener.
”

*   *   *

I was glad Eddie was driving as we pulled away from the curb, because I felt totally
dazed and confused.

“How?” I demanded. “How did she know we were after Beau?” And how did she know we’d
show up today? And how did she know my catchphrase? And why was I asking Eddie these
questions when the only one who knew the answers was Madam Magnolia?

“I don’t know, Tara,” Eddie said. “But there has to be a logical explanation.”

Could Beauregard actually be at a campground at Lake Lewisville? It was possible.
After all, his camp trailer had to be parked somewhere, right? He hadn’t used his
credit cards anywhere since we’d tried to arrest him, so we hadn’t been able to track
him to a hotel. I wasn’t sure he’d even be able to use his credit cards. Most were
maxed out and all were delinquent. Of course he could be staying at one of those sleazy
cash-only motels that rented rooms by the hour.

I glanced out the window, then looked back at Eddie. “You think we should try the
campground?”

Eddie shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“A-ha! So you
do
think Madam Magnolia could be on to something.”

Eddie shot me an exasperated look. “No,” he insisted. “I just think it would be nice
to take a drive out to the lake.”

“Bullshit.”

As if to prove he didn’t believe in Madam Magnolia’s purported gift of prophecy, Eddie
stopped to fill the car with gas, then took a detour through a coffeehouse drive-through.
He ordered his usual black coffee while I opted for a caramel-drizzled extra-whip
latte. Hey, winter was coming. I could hide any extra fat under sweaters and coats
for the next few months, right?

We made our way out to Lake Lewisville and drove through the campgrounds, paying careful
attention to the spaces with electrical and water hookups for campers. According to
the DMV’s vehicle registration records, Beauregard’s trailer was a Palomino fifth-wheel-style
travel camper, the Puma model. Unfortunately, none of the trailers on-site bore the
Puma logo. Beau was nowhere to be found.

“See?” Eddie said as we drove toward the exit. “Madam Magnolia is just as bonkers
as the Tax Wizard.”

I pointed to the park ranger’s shack. “Pull over. I want to talk to them.”

Eddie emitted a snort of derision but nonetheless eased to a stop by the small structure.

A ranger slid the glass window open and tipped his pith helmet in greeting. “Howdy,
folks.”

We explained who we were, flashed our badges, and asked whether they’d had a camper
by the name of Richard Beauregard.

The ranger consulted a sheet of paper on his clipboard. “Looks like he checked out
of here a half hour ago. You just missed him.”

Damn!
We might have caught him if we hadn’t stopped for gas and coffee.

I raised a brow at Eddie. “Think we should go ask Madam Magnolia where Beauregard’s
headed off to?”

“Hell, no,” Eddie said. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

I could probably have gotten away with it. People at the office already thought I
was a little kooky. Shooting a man in the nuts tends to earn one some notoriety. Still,
I didn’t want to put Eddie’s good name at risk. I’d check in with Madam Magnolia later
on my own.

chapter twelve

Looking for the Money Trail

I retrieved my G-ride and spent the rest of the afternoon visiting money transmitters,
hoping for a lead in the terrorism case.

According to the data in the file Agent Wang had given me, the men who’d been arrested
here in Dallas had maintained accounts in a number of banks and credit unions, keeping
their balances relatively low to avoid catching the attention of bank personnel. They
had a standard MO. Just prior to transferring funds overseas, they’d make a series
of cash withdrawals from their accounts, each in the two-thousand- to three-thousand-dollar
range. They probably thought that by spreading the funds among several banks they’d
enable their multiple withdrawals to go unnoticed and unreported.

About a year ago, one of the banks had bought one of the others, though the terrorists
were apparently unaware of the pending consolidation. During the merger process, a
keen teller clued in to the fact that one of the men had made significant cash withdrawals
from both banks within a half hour of each other. A Suspicious Activity Report was
filed and an investigation ensued, though at first nothing came of it. It wasn’t until
agents in Syria received information from an informant there that the government put
two and two together and realized the man who’d made the suspicious withdrawals here
in Dallas was financing the terrorists overseas. Although surveillance helped federal
agents identify the man and most of his cohorts, they never could determine who had
helped them transfer the funds.

My first stop was Zippy’s Liquor, a small, grubby place in dire need of a thorough
scrubbing. As I reviewed the store’s wire transfer records, I found several errors
and discrepancies. While most were minor transgressions that appeared unintentional,
the records included several large transfers to Honduras, including three made on
a single night to the same party, each in the amount of four thousand dollars.

It was obvious the transactions had been intentionally structured to keep each transfer
under the ten-thousand-dollar cash-transaction reporting threshold. Still, banking
regulations required MSBs to observe not only the letter of the law but also the spirit.
If an MSB suspected a client of manipulating their transactions to avoid the cash-transaction
reporting requirements, the MSB was supposed to file a Suspicious Activity Report.
In this case, no such report had been filed.

Hmm …

Was it possible that the terrorists had filtered their money through someone in Honduras
who had then forwarded the funds to Syria? Having their funds sent to a straw man
in a seemingly innocuous country would be a good way to avoid detection.

I showed the staff on duty the photographs of the men who’d been arrested, but none
of them claimed to recognize Algafari, Nasser, or Homsi. Hard to say whether they
were telling me the truth. Perhaps I should hire Madam Magnolia as a consultant to
read their minds. Then again, there was no way in hell the tight asses in the IRS
accounting department would reimburse the cost of a psychic consultant.

I pulled the manager aside and asked who had handled the transfers to Honduras. He
glanced at the records. Though he could not tell for certain who had handled the transfers,
he noted they’d been performed in the evenings by the staff who worked the 6:00 to
10:00
PM
shift.

“How many people work in the evenings?” I asked.

“Four,” he said. “Two per shift.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Dottie, Israel,
Jesús, and Gloria.”

I jotted down their full names and Social Security numbers and informed the manager
I’d come back at a later time to speak with them.

On my way to my next MSB, I spotted a sign up ahead.

PARADISE TRAILER PARK—STAY FOR A DAY OR STAY FOR A LIFETIME.

Might as well check it out, huh? Beau had to move his camper somewhere after he left
the lake. Perhaps he’d driven it to Paradise.

I pulled into the park, driving slowly down each row, searching for his camper. I
eyed the trailers, looking for the telltale Puma logo. One had a hawk on the side;
another featured a deer. But nope, no big cats here. The closest I got was a stray
orange tom popping a squat in a kid’s sandbox. There’d be an unpleasant surprise in
Little Johnny’s sand castle tomorrow.

I stopped at the management office and left my business card with the woman who ran
the place, asking her to give me a call if Richard Beauregard happened to show his
face.

My last official stop for the day was a bus station. As I approached the place, I
noticed that the parking lot was virtually empty of cars. Not surprising, I supposed.
People who owned cars didn’t need bus service, right?

I pulled into the lot. The darn thing looked like a minefield, potholes all over the
place. I drove slowly to avoid hitting one and damaging a tire. I parked near the
front glass doors and climbed out of my car.

Two young men in hoodies and ripped jeans leaned against the exterior wall, smoking
cigarettes. They eyed my car and exchanged glances. I could virtually see their minds
computing how much cash they could get at a chop shop for my hubcaps and engine parts.

I whipped my badge from my purse and held it up. “I’m a federal agent. You lay one
finger on my car, boys, and you will be sorry.”

They glared at me, not even bothering to pretend they’d simply been admiring my car
for its power or appearance.

I pulled open one of the glass doors and stepped inside. Sheesh, the place was depressing.
The lobby smelled of urine, stale cigarettes, and coffee left too long on a burner.

A few people sat in the cheap plastic chairs, waiting until it was time to load their
buses. A Latina woman was on her cell phone, having a heated argument with someone
in Spanish while her two young girls chased each other in circles around the bank
of chairs. A twentysomething black man stared droopy eyed into space, slowly bobbing
his head to music playing through his earbuds. A stoop-shouldered elderly white man
mumbled to himself while eating a ham-and-cheese sandwich he’d bought from the refrigerated
vending machine. Some dinner.

A blonde in a frayed denim miniskirt stood near the doors, strumming a guitar and
singing a horribly botched version of a Taylor Swift song. A quick glance into the
open guitar case at her feet showed her efforts had earned her a whopping twenty-three
cents so far. I was tempted to offer her a dollar to stop her off-key caterwauling,
but who was I to kill a young girl’s dream of stardom? I dropped the bill into her
guitar case anyway, hoping she’d apply the money toward voice lessons.

I made my way across the mismatched tile floor to the booth. A large bald black man
sat behind a pane of thick glass I suspected was bulletproof. He appeared to be in
his mid- to late fifties, his expansive forehead wrinkled with age, making him resemble
a shar-pei. He was reading a Tom Clancy novel.

“Hi,” I said, flipping my badge open. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS.
I need to take a look at the records for wire transfers, money orders, and traveler’s
checks.”

The man lifted his chin in acknowledgment, extended his hand through the small window
at the bottom of the glass panel, and pointed to a door a few feet away. I stepped
over to the door and he opened it to let me in, locking it behind me.

He introduced himself only as Mack. Given his size, his last name might as well have
been Truck.

Mack walked with the confident gait of a man who knew how to handle himself. I followed
him back to the ticket booth, which turned out to be merely a small nook in what was
otherwise a fairly large administrative area. Four built-in desks ran along the walls.
Two of them were occupied by older women wearing headsets connected to multiline telephones,
while a young man in a mechanic’s uniform sat at another, surfing the Web with grease-stained
fingers.

Mack directed me to the empty desk and showed me how to log into their system and
access the information I sought. I thanked him and he returned to his nook and his
book.

I was immersed in data a half hour later when I heard a commotion at the ticket booth.
I looked up to see a young kid standing on the other side of the glass, aiming a pistol
at the ticket booth attendant. The boy had bright orange hair, braces on his buck
teeth, and looked all of twelve years old. He held the gun on its side, gangster-style.

“Give me all your money,” the kid said, his voice cracking with puberty hormones.
“Or else.” His hand shook uncontrollably, telling me this was likely his first stickup.

Mack barely glanced up from his novel. “Or else what?”

The kid looked confused. Apparently he hadn’t expected questions.

“I’m not interested in playing cops and robbers.” Mack waved his open book at the
boy, shooing him. “Buzz off, squirt.”

The boy stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. He pulled out a cell phone, dialed
a number, and told the person on the other end of the line what had taken place. The
kid listened intently, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and banged his adolescent
fist on the glass. “Give me your money or I’ll shoot you and everyone else, too!”

His raised voice caught the attention of those in the lobby. The woman with the guitar
fled out the door, the old man on her heels. The Latina woman gathered up her girls
and followed the others, rolling her bags behind her. Only the man listening to music
through his earbuds didn’t move. He probably hadn’t heard a thing.

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying, you little carrot-topped shit.” Mack banged
his fist on the inside of the glass, imitating the little twerp, laughing when the
boy flinched. “I bet you don’t even have bullets in that gun.”

I glanced around me. Back here, behind the glass, everyone was nonplussed. The women
on the phone continued to take calls, answering questions about bus schedules and
taking seat reservations. The mechanic didn’t bother to look up from his computer.