Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (34 page)

“This is a class on anarchy, right?” I said, letting a student-like hint of sarcasm
sneak into my voice. “I’m here to learn about anarchy.”

I continued on, walking with self-assurance. I’d learned long ago that if you act
like you have the right to do something, few will question your actions. I snagged
an empty desk at the back of the room and plunked myself down. As expected, no one
questioned me further.

I looked around as Professor Horst resumed his ranting and gesticulating.

A quote attributed to Mahatma Gandhi was written on the chalkboard.
The ideally non-violent state will be an ordered anarchy. That State is the best governed
which is governed the least.

Gandhi advocated anarchy? Huh, I never knew that. Looked like I had learned something
from going back to college. I had to admit the quote surprised me, though. It seemed
pretty radical for a guy who went around wearing a bedsheet like a diaper.

The class wrapped up at thirty-seven minutes after the hour. A random time but, hey,
anarchy.

The students streamed out into the hallway. Well, all but the sleeping guy, that is.
He continued to doze on at his desk. I stepped out with the students, waiting by the
door for Professor Horst. Unfortunately, when he walked out he was talking on his
cell phone, arguing with his ex-wife about who was legally obligated to pay for their
teenage son’s six-hundred-dollar speeding ticket.

“What do you mean I encourage this type of behavior?” Horst barked. “Need I remind
you that you’re the one who took him to get his driver’s license!”

I followed Horst down a set of stairs and out onto the quad. He continued arguing
with his ex, eventually saying, “Fine. We’ll split the cost.” He snapped his phone
shut and muttered “bitch” under his breath.

By this time, we’d nearly reached the fountain at the edge of campus.

“Professor Horst!” I called. “Wait a minute!”

The man stopped, turned, and shot me an irritated look. “What do you want?” he spat.
“Besides a free lesson in government.”

I pulled my badge from my purse and flashed it at him. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway
with the IRS. You’re under arrest for willful tax evasion. I need you to come with
me.”

“As if,” he said, sounding like the eighteen-year-old students in his class. He turned
and took off running. He was remarkably fast. Either he jogged on a regular basis
or he had experience running from law enforcement.

I took off after him. When he neared the fountain, he was forced to turn to avoid
colliding with a large group of students. I ran around the fountain from the other
direction, hoping to head him off. When he saw me coming around the other side, he
reversed course. For several seconds, the two of us played a ridiculous game of cat
and mouse, each of us running first one way, then the other, around the fountain.

A chubby campus police officer on a golf cart saw the commotion and headed over at
full speed, which was approximately three miles an hour. He braked to a stop. “Are
you the IRS agent?” he called out to me.

“Yes!” I shouted. “Horst is resisting arrest!”

“I’m not resisting!” Horst hollered. “How can I be resisting you when you aren’t even
touching me?”

By this time, a large group of students had noticed the cop arrive and gathered around
to watch the antics taking place. Fortunately for me, the crowd served as an effective
fence, preventing Horst from escaping.

The officer joined in my chase, though he stayed in his golf cart, driving forward
and back in the tiny vehicle like a dog herding a maverick steer. Eventually I was
able to grab Horst in a bear hug from behind.

He wrapped his fingers around my wrists and tried to wrench my hands off him. “Now
I’m resisting arrest!”

We wrangled next to the fountain for several seconds before Horst lost his balance
and toppled over sideways into the water, taking me with him.

Splash!

Damn. I’d expected this case to be a slam dunk. Instead, it was just a dunk.

Both of us came up sputtering.

Horst hoisted himself over the side and back to the pavement. The campus cop was waiting
for him, Taser at the ready.

Zzzap!

The taser delivered fifty thousand volts of electricity into Horst. His wet clothing
no doubt aided in effective conductivity of the electrical charge. Horst stood, rigidly
convulsing for a few seconds like a monster being animated in one of those cheesy
old horror flicks. When the cop released the charge, Horst crumpled to the ground.

I pulled myself out of the fountain, scooping up a handful of coins as I did so, aiming
for the quarters. After this debacle, I deserved a cherry limeade from Sonic. Hey,
I’d earned it.

As I shoved the coins into the pocket of my jacket, a student nearby raised his fist
in the air and shouted, “Surf’s up!”

The next thing we knew, students were throwing themselves into the fountain, laughing
and shouting and splashing. The cop blew his whistle but still didn’t stand from his
golf cart. The kids ignored him and continued their romp.

The poetry professor walked by, took one look at my wet, dripping clothing, and improvised
a verse on the spot. “The droplets sparkle with prisms of color, millions of tiny
rainbows, bringing beauty to us all.”

A half hour later, Horst had been hauled off to jail by a marshal and I was dressed
in an oversized pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved Dallas County Community College
T-shirt I’d purchased at the campus bookstore. Though I’d ditched my hopelessly soaked
padded bra in a trash can, I’d been able to dry my Monday panties under the air dryer
in the ladies’ room, so at least I wasn’t forced to go full-on commando.

A barrage of thoughts assaulted my mind as I headed back to my car.

How angry was Nick? Should I try to talk to him again before I spoke with Brett? How
would Brett react when I gave him the news?

How fast had Horst’s son been driving to get a six-hundred-dollar speeding ticket?
Sheesh!

Could that orange speck on Nasser’s treadmill have been the remains of a price sticker
from Strike-it-Rich Pawn?

chapter thirty-six

Roses Are Red. So Is Blood.

Brett’s flight wouldn’t arrive until eight o’clock. By the time he had claimed his
bags, retrieved his car from the long-term parking lot, and driven home, it would
be nine thirty or so. In other words, no need for me to rush home.

I stopped at a Sonic and ordered an extra-large cherry limeade. It wasn’t nearly as
good as the peach sangria I’d become addicted to, but it wasn’t a bad substitute and
would pose no risk of a DUI conviction.

I handed the carhop all of the coins I’d collected from the fountain at the college.
“Keep the change.”

Her face lit up when she glanced down at the heavy pile in her hand and realized her
tip would be at least three dollars.

I sat in the stall for a moment, sipping my drink and using my phone to log onto the
Internet. Once I was connected to the Web, I accessed the MSB registrations and searched
for one in the name of Strike-it-Rich Pawn.

I shook my head, chastising myself. Shame on me. It was ridiculous to think a sweet
grandmother like Margie Bainbridge could be involved in a terror plot. Right?

Then again, I’d been up to my eyeballs in crazies for the past two weeks. Hell, I
hardly knew what normal behavior was anymore.

The circle at the top of the screen spun while the phone accessed the data. After
a few seconds it stopped spinning and displayed the information I’d sought.

There was no current registration listed.

I experienced an odd feeling then, part frustration, part relief. I’d been hoping
this could be a lead in the case. At the same time, I’d hate for the information to
lead me to a seemingly nice person like Margie. I liked my bad guys to be, well,
bad.

To make sure I’d done a thorough job, I tried several variations of spelling for Strike-it-Rich
Pawn, leaving out the hyphens, spelling it as one word, removing “Pawn” afterward.

Still nothing.

Hmm.
If the store only made short-term pawn loans and didn’t transmit funds, engage in
significant cash-for-gold transactions, or sell money orders, traveler’s checks, or
stored-value cards, it would need only a state license and wouldn’t have to be registered
with the Treasury Department. Given that there was no current registration, maybe
the store did none of those things and I was barking up the wrong tree here.

Then again, Margie had seemed overwhelmed by record keeping at the store and was far
from computer savvy. It was possible she’d failed to register as required or perhaps
had inadvertently let the store’s registration lapse.

I searched the records for lapsed registrations, holding my breath as the data processed.
The circle spun again for a moment or two before the information flashed up on the
screen.

Bingo.

Strike-it-Rich had been registered decades ago by Margie’s husband, Ronald Bainbridge,
and had maintained its registration until last year, when no renewal had been received.
Because her husband had registered electronically, any renewal notice would have been
sent to the e-mail address on file. Margie probably didn’t have access to her husband’s
e-mail account and therefore would not have received the notice. Or even if she did
have access to his e-mail account, she probably hadn’t bothered to check it since
he’d run off with the floozy.

I was beginning to feel that little buzz of anticipation, the one that said maybe
I was on to something here. I tried not to pay too much attention to it. Just because
the pawnshop had been registered as a money transmitter at one time didn’t mean it
had continued to provide money transmission services. Heck, it was doubtful Margie
would even be able to handle a wire transfer. The transactions could be complicated.
Besides, even if the place had continued to wire funds, it didn’t necessarily mean
she’d helped Algafari, Nasser, and Homsi move their money. Still, it couldn’t hurt
to check things out. Like I said before, leave no stone unturned, even if Lu had ordered
me to stop overturning stones. She couldn’t very well complain if I continued the
investigation on my own time, though, could she?

I dialed Eddie’s cell phone to let him know of my plans. The phone rang several times
and, when Eddie didn’t pick up, put me into voice mail. I couldn’t blame him for not
answering. It was Friday night, after work hours, and he was probably enjoying some
long overdue family time with his wife and daughters.

“Yo, bro,” I said. “I know this is a total long shot, but I noticed an orange sticker
on Nasser’s treadmill yesterday. I went gun shopping at a place called Strike-it-Rich
Pawn a few days ago and they use orange price stickers. They carry a lot of used exercise
equipment. They were also previously registered as a money transmitter, but their
license lapsed a while back. Anyway, I’ll call you later tonight, let you know what
I find out.”

I dropped my phone into my purse, backed out of the stall, and set out to Strike-it-Rich.

*   *   *

Other than Margie’s ancient station wagon, the only car in the Strike-it-Rich lot
was a Jeep Grand Cherokee outfitted with headlamps and gun racks, obviously a hunter’s
vehicle. I parked near the door of the shop and stepped inside, once again greeted
by the scent of roses from the bowl of dusty potpourri by the door.

I made my way past the guitars and televisions and treadmills to the back of the store,
where Margie was assisting a customer with a Smith &Wesson rifle. She looked up and
offered a smile when she saw me approach the counter. “Be with you in just a bit.”

While I waited, I looked around. I noticed the official Major League Baseball bat
signed by Josh Hamilton was still available.

I clutched the manila file folder to my chest and eyed the space around the cash register,
looking for a sticker or placard indicating the shop provided wire transfer services.
I saw colorful stickers affixed to the register, indicating the store accepted Visa,
MasterCard, and American Express.

And I also saw one in brown and yellow.

Western Union.

That little buzz I’d been feeling increased from one errant bee to an entire swarm.
Could this seemingly innocuous store be the place where Algafari, Nasser, and Homsi
had wired their funds to the terror groups abroad? Had the seemingly sweet grandmother
behind the counter played a role in the deaths of thousands of people, including children?

The customer stood at the counter for a moment, his fingers rubbing his chin as he
considered the Smith & Wesson. Finally, he stepped back. “Let me sleep on it.”

“Okay,” Margie said, “but you know what they say. If you snooze, you lose.” She gave
him a smile to let him know her words were intended primarily in jest, not as a high-pressure
sales tactic.

Margie returned the gun to the case as the man left the store. She pulled the stretchy
coiled key ring from her wrist and used it to lock the case back up.

“Hi, there,” she said as she made her way toward me. She was wearing her pink plastic
reading glasses again, and again they kept sliding down her nose. She put a finger
to them and pushed them back into place. “You’re the gal who bought the Cobra, right?
Back for something else? I’ll make you a great deal.”

“Actually,” I said, setting the file down on the counter, “I’m here on official IRS
business this time.”

“Uh-oh.” Margie tilted her head. “Is there some kind of tax problem? I’m not sure
how much help I’d be with that. I turn everything over to my CPA.”

I narrowed my eyes at her as if trying to see into her soul, determine whether this
woman was a bloodthirsty, evil bitch. But, God help me, I just didn’t see it.

She stared back at me with friendly, innocent eyes, blinking as she waited for me
to respond.