Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli (A Tara Holloway Novel) (3 page)

chapter three

O
n the Rocks

After we wrapped things up with Dallas PD, we returned to Hohenwald’s car. He headed down the surface streets and merged onto Central Expressway.

Hohenwald changed lanes to bypass a caravan of yellow school buses transporting grade-school kids on a field trip. “That Fabrizio is one coldhearted son of a bitch.”

“You can say that again.” Tino Fabrizio made the Gambinos look like
bam
binos. “Where are we going now?”

“To speak with Alex Harris. He’s the only victim who had the balls to finger Tino.”

If Harris were willing to accuse a mobster, he must indeed have large testicles and plenty of them.

Hohenwald exited the freeway at Mockingbird Lane and hooked a left, entering the exclusive Highland Park neighborhood. A minute or so down the road, Hohenwald turned into the Dallas Country Club, parking near the entrance of the Tudor-style clubhouse. We exited the vehicle and went inside, stopping at the desk in the foyer to check in with the receptionist before continuing on to the club’s tavern.

A fortyish, sandy-haired bartender looked up as he slid a highball glass across the bar to a man in a blue golf shirt. He lifted his chin in acknowledgment to Agent Hohenwald, then gestured to an empty table in the back corner of the room. “Cover me,” Harris called to a second bartender who was refilling the garnish tray with maraschino cherries. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

Hohenwald and I took seats in the barrel chairs on the back end of the table, where we could keep an eye on the room and make sure no one could overhear our conversation. Harris dropped into a seat across from us.

Hohenwald introduced the two of us. “Alex Harris, Special Agent Holloway. Agent Holloway, Alex Harris.”

Harris and I rose a few inches from our seats and shook hands across the table.

Hohenwald explained my presence to Harris, though his words were a bit cryptic. “We’re having some fresh eyes take a look at Giustino Fabrizio, exploring some new angles.”

Harris cut a look my way. “I hope you can nail that bastard.”

Nail. Eek.
His words had me thinking of the nail gun. Better not show my fear, though. I looked Harris in the eye. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“It can’t hurt to have some fresh ears on the case, too,” Hohenwald added. “Tell Agent Holloway what happened.”

“Gladly.” Harris went on to tell me that he and his wife had owned a small neighborhood bar in Plano, a suburb about ten miles to the north. “Not much more than a hole in the wall, really, the kind of quiet, comfortable place a couple might go after a date or business associates might negotiate over a couple of beers. We’d built the place from the ground up, had a regular clientele, made a respectable profit. Then one day about two years ago, a salesman from Cyber-Shield comes in, offers us a great deal on security cameras and a combination burglar and fire alarm system. A pizza place not far from us had been robbed at closing time only a week before, so we figured it couldn’t hurt, you know?”

“Makes sense,” I said, nodding. Cameras could not only provide evidence to solve crimes, but they could also serve as a deterrent to would-be thieves.

“So we get the system,” Harris said. “Everything’s fine for a month or two, then the salesman comes back and tries to sell us additional services. First he says we should install some kind of fancy computer security system. I told him I didn’t see the need for it. We only had a couple of computers at the bar and the only people who used them were me and my wife. He seemed a little put off, but not too much yet. Then he tells me it would be a good idea to hire a security guard to keep an eye on things. Says it’ll run two grand a month and gives me some kind of bullshit about paying the guard in cash since technically he’d be an independent contractor.”

Harris was right to be suspicious. Cash payments were a red flag.

“Again,” he continued, “I didn’t see the need for a guard. We weren’t running the kind of place that attracted the college kids or young party types who get plastered and out of control. The bartenders and I could handle the occasional mean drunk until the cops arrived to deal with the situation. I told the salesman as much, told him I couldn’t afford to hire a guard, either. You know what he does? He looks me in the eye and says
‘You can’t afford not to.’”

“An implied threat,” I said.

“Yeah,” Harris said. “Only I wasn’t going to let the guy push me around. I told him I’d take my chances.” He scoffed. “That’s a gamble I lost. A month later my place burns to the ground. When I asked Cyber-Shield for a copy of the security-camera footage from the night of the fire, they gave me footage showing my car pulling up to the back entrance at three
A.M.
, twenty minutes before the smoke alarm went off and alerted the fire department.”

I wasn’t sure I was following him. “You were at the bar just prior to the fire?”

“Hell, no!” he spat. “I was at 7-Eleven buying a pack of cigarettes. Someone had called our home number a few minutes earlier. When I answered, they asked for a Becky. My wife’s name is Rhonda and we’re not close to anyone named Becky. I told the caller he had the wrong number. After the call woke me up I had trouble getting back to sleep. My wife had been on my case, trying to get me to quit smoking, but I was having a hell of a time of it. She fell fast asleep right away, so I decided to sneak out and grab some cigarettes. I was at the store when the smoke alarm went off at the bar.”

“I assume you have proof that you weren’t at the bar?” I said. “Maybe camera footage from the 7-Eleven or a receipt with a time stamp?”

“Better.” Harris reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and tossed it onto the table.

I picked up the paper and unfolded it to find a copy of an automated red-light citation. The camera had picked up not only the license plate of Harris’s SUV, but also his face as he sat at the wheel, a cigarette clamped between his lips. The citation indicated the offense occurred on a date in April two years prior, at 3:16
A.M.

Harris pointed at the paper. “That camera is fourteen miles from the bar. No way in hell could my car be at the bar and at that intersection within a three-minute span.”

As he sat back in his seat, my mind considered the information. “So the security-camera footage was doctored.”

“Evidently.”

“And the wrong number?”

“Was probably some goon from Cyber-Shield checking to make sure I was at home in bed and not somewhere I’d have a good alibi.”

Little did the caller know that the call itself would lead Harris to verifiable proof he hadn’t been at his bar when the fire started.

Agent Hohenwald chimed in now. “The fire was intentionally set. No doubt about it. An accelerant was used and the fire department ruled it arson. Problem was, there was no concrete evidence to implicate anyone connected with Cyber-Shield.”

Harris shook his head, a thick, purple vein throbbing on his neck. “Since the fire wasn’t an accident and the security video showed my car on the scene, my insurance company refused to pay up, even after the red-light citation was provided to them. We’re still in litigation trying to work something out. Meanwhile, my creditors have sucked me dry. I personally guaranteed the financing for the bar furniture, fixtures, and equipment. The finance company has taken everything but the shirt off my back. My wife and I had to liquidate our retirement fund and sell our house. But the worst thing is”—he lowered his voice and took a quick look around—“I’m always looking over my shoulder, wondering if some thug is going to fill me with lead. And I’m here, working for someone else, rather than owning my own bar like I always dreamed of.”

I felt a pang of pity for the guy. He certainly hadn’t deserved any of what happened to him. On the other hand, I also admired his balls—figuratively speaking. He’d stood his ground. Good for him. He might have lost his bar but he’d retained some of his dignity.

When a large group of golfers came into the bar, Harris said, “I need to get back to work.”

We wrapped up the conversation, thanked Harris for his time, and promised him we’d let him know if and when there was any progress on the case.

I followed Hohenwald to his car once again and climbed in. “Did anyone examine the video footage for evidence it had been tampered with?”

“We had some of our guys analyze it,” he replied. “The results were inconclusive. The bar’s security cameras had a low resolution and frame rate. Poor quality recordings like that are much easier to tamper with than higher quality video.”

So much for that avenue. “Where to now?”

He turned the key and the engine roared to life. “The belly of the beast.”

chapter four

T
he Belly of the Beast

It was nearly five o’clock and traffic on the roadways had picked up as people headed home from work. Still, we were able to make decent time since most of the traffic was heading north into the suburbs and we were going against traffic. Agent Hohenwald drove south on Central Expressway for a little over two miles before exiting and driving into the Swiss Avenue historic district.

Over a hundred years ago, Robert Munger, a wealthy cotton gin manufacturer and real estate developer, came up with the idea of developing an exclusive neighborhood east of downtown Dallas, envisioning an opulent neighborhood of grand homes. His building restrictions stipulated that all homes on Swiss Avenue must be at least two stories high, and that the exterior be constructed of brick masonry. Each residence had to cost a minimum of $10,000 to build, which was quite a big sum at the time. Swiss Avenue was also the first paved street in Dallas. The older homes had been well maintained, and the area’s reputation for upscale living continued. The district had given rise to many notable residents, including former U.S. Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison and Carrie Marcus Neiman, the founder of Neiman Marcus department stores, God bless her.

Agent Hohenwald checked his rearview mirror for the hundredth time, probably making sure we weren’t being followed. It never hurt to be vigilant.

“Get out your cell phone,” he instructed me, “and turn off the Wi-Fi. It’s likely that Cyber-Shield’s tech staff keep tabs on who’s in their vicinity.”

“They can do that through Wi-Fi?” I asked, pulling my cell phone from the pocket of my blazer. “Even if a device isn’t connected to a system?”

“So I’m told.” Hohenwald shrugged. “I don’t understand exactly how it works, either. But our specialists at the FBI gave us strict orders to turn the Wi-Fi off on all devices anytime we get near Fabrizio or any of his security systems. Bluetooth, too.”

Funny how cell phones made us both safer and more vulnerable at the same time. I did as he’d directed, thumbing the Wi-Fi and Bluetooth buttons to the right.
Wi-Fi off. Bluetooth off.

We passed many of the stately homes until Hohenwald took a left turn on North Fitzhugh and slowed as he approached the neighborhood’s business district. He pointed through the windshield as we came up on a single-story L-shaped strip center comprised of two one-story brick buildings sitting at a perpendicular angle. The building’s roofs were slightly pitched and covered with tan shingles. At the upper end of each building, just under the eaves, was a triangular metal grate that would allow air to circulate in the small space between the ceiling and the roof. As hot as Texas summers were, good ventilation was critical.

“There it is,” Hohenwald said. “Cyber-Shield’s home base.”

The right one-third of the building facing Fitzhugh was painted a neon-green color, while the remaining two-thirds was painted white. Cyber-Shield Security Systems took up the smaller green space. Parked in the angled spaces in front of the business were a small fleet of security patrol cars, each painted the same can’t-miss vivid green and equipped with fold-out spotlights on the driver’s side and a white light on top that flashed. Also parked in front of Cyber-Shield were a gorgeous Alfa Romeo coupe in a sporty orangey-red color and a blue ’65 Ford Mustang Fastback.
Nice.

“The Alfa Romeo is Tino’s,” Hohenwald said. “The Mustang belongs to his tech guru, a guy by the name of Eric Echols.”

Over the larger white space to the left hung a sign that read
BENEDETTA’S BISTRO
. Adorning the windows were green, white, and red striped curtains, mimicking the colors in the Italian flag. A neon-green sticker with the Cyber-Shield logo was affixed just above the handle of the wide glass door. A sign in the window read
HELP WANTED
, while a sandwich board situated on the sidewalk out front declared today’s special to be half-price chocolate cannoli with any entrée.

Hohenwald tipped his head toward the building. “See that Italian restaurant?”

“They’re offering half-price cannoli.” My mouth watered at the thought of the creamy filling, the chocolate garnishes, and the crisp, delectable crust. “How could I miss it?”

“I’m more of a tiramisu man myself,” Hohenwald said. “At any rate, Tino’s wife runs the bistro. Their three daughters help out. Tino spends a lot of time there.”

With the bistro sitting alongside Cyber-Shield, I had to wonder if Fabrizio’s wife and daughters were involved somehow in his dubious dealings. Perhaps they’d stood ready with alibis, if needed, or maybe they laundered his extorted funds through the restaurant’s accounts. “You think his wife and girls know what he’s up to? Maybe play some kind of role?”

“We’ve had no indication they’re involved in any way,” the agent said. “Hell, I’d be surprised if they were even aware of his nefarious deeds. By all accounts Tino Fabrizio is a stand-up family man. He’s even a Eucharistic minister in one of the Catholic churches here.”

Ironic. Or perhaps appropriate. It sounded like Tino was used to dealing with flesh and blood. Still, it wasn’t unusual for the families of mobsters to be in the dark, either by design or because they purposely stuck their heads in the sand. It was food for thought. Not delicious food like a chocolate cannoli would be, though.