Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli (A Tara Holloway Novel) (8 page)

I gestured to Josh. “Josh’s primary job will be to try to hack into Cyber-Shield’s system. If he can get in, we can download the company’s financial data and look for evidence of tax fraud.”

Josh chimed in now. “I’ve spoken with the FBI tech team who’s been working this case. They told me Cyber-Shield has a high-tech surveillance expert on its staff.”

“Eric Echols,” I said.

“That’s him,” Josh replied. “We’re going to have to be especially careful with our communications or their guy could hack us and figure out that we’re after Fabrizio.” He went on to tell the team the same thing that Hohenwald had told me. “An expert hacker can get into anything with Wi-Fi access, even if the device isn’t actively connected to the Internet. You’ll need to make sure the Wi-Fi and Bluetooth are turned off on all of your unsecured devices anytime you’re tailing one of Fabrizio’s men or within a mile of Cyber-Shield or any of its customers.”

“Hold on a minute.” Will arched a questioning brow. “Wi-Fi range can go a full mile?”

“Yes,” Josh said. “With a chain of routers and extenders, it could theoretically go on forever. But a mile would be a safe bet. The FBI is going to send over a set of secure radios for the team members who will be following Tino and his men, as well as new phones for all of us to use for normal purposes and for contacting each other. We’ll need to add each other as contacts in case of an emergency, but be sure not to use anyone’s real name or alias in your contacts list just in case Fabrizio somehow gets hold of one of our phones. And don’t record an outgoing voice-mail message. Just use the default with the phone number. Be sure to regularly delete any texts and the list of recent calls, too. We can’t take any chances.”

“Since it’ll be difficult and risky to communicate by phone,” I said, “let’s meet up Sunday afternoon at four o’clock for updates. Does that work for everyone?” I scanned the group again. Everyone nodded or murmured their agreement.

“We can meet at my place,” Hana said. She lived in a condo near the Galleria, which would be relatively convenient for everyone.

“That would be great, Hana,” I said. “Thanks.”

She leaned back in her chair, a hand crooked behind her head. “I think we should come up with a cool name for the case. You know, like the Manhattan Project or Stargate or Fast and Furious.”

Eddie snorted. “Fast and Furious was a dismal failure.”

“Well,
we
won’t be,” Hana said.

I wasn’t sure we needed a name, but I had to admit the idea got me more excited about the investigation. It would give us a rallying cry, like “Remember the Alamo” or “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too.” “How about the Penne Pursuit?” I suggested.

Hana shook her head. “Too cheesy.”

Eddie chimed in next. “The Macaroni Mission.”

“Uck.” Hana cringed. “That’s even worse.”

Nick’s offering of Tortellini Taskforce got a double uck and a full grimace.

Will tossed out another idea. “Operation Italian Takeout?”

Hana pulled her hand from behind her head and pointed a finger at Will. “That’s it.”

I looked over my team. As the lead on Operation Italian Takeout, I was responsible for my fellow agents whom I’d brought into the case. Their lives would be in my hands. Problem was, my hands were shaking. I knew each of them was going into this case willingly, and that they were highly skilled, but I’d also seen images of the type of horrifying, heinous acts Tino Fabrizio was capable of. If any of my coworkers ended up impaled on a fence post, with a face full of nails, or crushed to death, I’d never forgive myself.

“Any questions?” I asked.

Hana raised a hand. “Can I take the leftover pizza home?”

I looked to Nick. He was the one who’d sprung for lunch, after all.

“Knock yourself out,” Nick said.

We wrapped up our meeting, Hana grabbed the pizza box, and we all returned to our offices.

While Nick’s new identity had been expedited so that he could secure the lease at the building near Cyber-Shield, I’d had to wait on mine. Late that afternoon, my new identity arrived via courier. The large cardboard box came complete with a driver’s license, resume, and the keys to both a car and an apartment. I was now Tori Holland, a twenty-four-year-old part-time student at Dallas Baptist University, majoring in business administration. They’d done a good job of making my alias as close to the real me as possible. The name sounded similar, and the fact that I had actually studied accounting in college would make me able to speak the language should anyone question me. The packet included three used college textbooks and a schedule of my classes at DBU. I’d have to attend, at least until I was sure none of Fabrizio’s thugs was following me. According to the schedule, I was signed up for Managerial Cost Accounting, Global Marketing, and Introduction to Linguistics.

What the heck is linguistics?

I supposed I’d find out.

According to my transcript, I was merely an average student, my cumulative GPA a 2.8.
Gee, thanks, FBI.
At least they’d given me a new laptop, one that was clean and devoid of any data that would link me to the IRS. The package also included a new cell phone with a bright pink cover. I’d disabled the Wi-Fi and Bluetooth on my government-issued phone to prevent Fabrizio and his men from being able to access it, but I’d leave those functions enabled on my new phone so as not to raise their suspicions. This meant I’d have to be careful with my communications, while at the same time using my phone as a real college student would.

The information included in the box listed the phone numbers for the new cell phones of all members of Operation Italian Takeout, both IRS and FBI. I entered them in my contacts list, giving them nicknames with flip-flopped first and last initials that would identify them to nobody other than myself. Burt Hohenwald became Hayden Beale. Nick Pratt became Pat Nix. Hana Kim became Kimberly Hannigan. Eddie Bardin was now Bart Edwards. William Dorsey became Donald Waltham. And Josh Schmidt morphed into Sam Jacobs.

I wrote
DO NOT DISTURB
on a Post-it note and slapped it on the outside of my office door, closing it behind me. Using my new pink cell phone, I dialed the number for Benedetta’s Bistro.

A woman answered on the third ring. “Benedetta’s Bistro,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“I saw your ad for help in your window and wanted to see if I could arrange an interview.”

“Just a second,” the woman said. There was a shuffling sound as she apparently covered the receiver. “Hey, Ma!” I heard her yell. “There’s someone on the phone about the job.” There was muffled conversation in the background, and the woman came back on the line. “She wants to know if you have any food service experience.”

Per my new resume, I’d been a nanny for a family who had three children. Surely that had involved some cooking and kitchen cleanup. “Yes,” I told the woman on the phone. “I’m experienced.”

“Hold on.” There was more muffled conversation, and the woman came back on the line. “Can you come in tomorrow at eleven?”

“That’s perfect.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tori Holland,” I replied, pleased at how easily my new name rolled off my tongue.

“Okay. Got you down, Tori.”

With the tough job market, there was likely to be some competition for the position. I crossed my fingers that I’d ace the interview and land the job.

chapter nine

W
ho Do You Love?

That evening, Nick and I had dinner together at his place one last time before going undercover. Neither of us could predict how long this investigation might last, and how long we’d be apart. I could only hope the intensive surge we’d planned would lead to quick arrests.

Nick’s Australian shepherd mix, Daffodil, shared our meal of barbecue, even indulging in some potato salad and cole slaw. According to the volunteer who’d handled the paperwork when Nick adopted the dog, Daffy had been nearly starved when she’d been brought to the animal shelter. Perhaps that accounted for her willingness to eat virtually anything. The only thing I’d seen her turn down was an olive.

“Daffodil!” I called to get her attention. “Catch.” I tore a piece from my dinner roll and tossed it in her direction. She snapped it out of the air with ease, licking her lips when she was done. I loved my cats, but I had to admit that dogs could be fun, too.

“What’s your new identity?” Nick asked, taking a sip from his bottle of Shiner Bock. “Terry Hollandaise? Tamara Hollowpoint?”

Fortunately, the FBI hadn’t named me after a creamy sauce or a type of bullet.

“Tori Holland,” I told him. “I’m a former nanny and mediocre part-time business student at DBU. I carry a pink cell phone now.” I pulled it out and waved it. “What about you?”

Nick showed me his new phone. Unlike my girlie phone, his was a sophisticated silver model. He reached into his wallet, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. It read
GALLERY NICO
in a silver script font across the top of the card. The words
NICOLAS J. BRANDT, ART DEALER
appeared in smaller, blue letters in the bottom right corner, along with the gallery’s address on north Fitzhugh and his phone number.

“Fancy schmancy,” I said.

“I know.” Nick raised his bottle. “I might have to trade in my beer for a cheeky chardonnay.”

When we were done eating, Daffodil and I followed Nick up to his room and helped him pack his suitcases. Like me, he’d be moving into a new place, just in case Tino’s men decided to delve into the identity of their new business neighbor.

“The FBI got me and Josh a two-bedroom place together,” he said. “It’ll be less expensive that way, and safer, too.”

I tried not to dwell on the fact that I’d be on my own at my new apartment, with no one to watch my back. I was well trained and capable, sure, but Tino and his men were no slouches, either.

Nick laid his two suitcases on the bed and opened them. Daffy hopped up on the bed and settled between them, draping her furry head over the edge of the smaller one. Nick put the new clothes I’d help him select into the larger suitcase, while I rummaged through his closet, pushing hangers aside on the rack, looking through his existing wardrobe for his most unusual items. It wasn’t easy. Nick tended to wear western-cut shirts, jeans, and boots during off-hours.

“You know,” I said, “you could probably just add a touch of flair to some of your usual clothes to change your look a little. A scarf or an arrowhead necklace or something like that would go a long way. I’ve probably got some things at my place you could use.”

“So I’m cross-dressing now?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like you’ll be wearing my underwear.”

“Thank God. All that lace has got to be itchy.”

“It is.” Little did he know I only wore the lace panties when I knew we’d be fooling around and they wouldn’t be staying on long. The rest of the time I wore comfy cotton granny panties. Comfortable underwear was one of the hidden benefits of working undercover.

Nick added his shaving kit to his smaller suitcase and zipped both bags shut.
Zzzzip. Zzzip.
He set the bags upright on the floor next to the bed, grabbed my hand, and flopped back on the bed, taking me with him. “Come here, you.”

We lay side by side, looking into each other’s eyes, neither of us speaking for a moment or two. Finally, he reached out and brushed back an errant lock of my newly red hair from my cheek. “Let’s bust this guy fast. I don’t like being away from you.”

I didn’t like it, either. But it was the price we paid. Besides, maybe we could find some time to sneak away and get together during the investigation. It couldn’t be anywhere public, though, or we’d risk being discovered.

He leaned toward me and pressed his lips to mine, just as he’d done a thousand times before. And just as it had done a thousand times before, my heart shimmied in my chest.

I was crazy about Nick. He wasn’t perfect, of course. But I could live with his stubbornness, his occasional snoring, his weekend fishing trips in the spring and summer. Still, I knew that if he and I settled down and started a family someday, one or both of us would have to make some sacrifices, at least where our careers as special agents were concerned. You couldn’t take a kid on a late-night stakeout. After all, those baby carriers that strapped to your chest weren’t made of Kevlar. One of us would likely have to take a desk job or transfer to the auditing department.

But no sense worrying about that, right? After all, Nick and I weren’t even engaged …
yet.

Nick’s kisses grew more insistent, and his hands began to roam over my body, touching, caressing, removing clothing. Daffy watched us for a moment or two, a furry canine voyeur, then decided our show wasn’t all that interesting. She’d seen it before, knew the script. With a jingle of her tags, she hopped down from the bed and went in search of a chew toy.

Nick and I made love, taking our time, knowing it could be days or weeks before we’d be able to be intimate again. We savored each second, each sensation, the sensual release our interlude gave us.

Afterward, we lay in each other’s arms for a long moment, simply enjoying the companionship, until I finally looked at the clock.

“It’s after nine,” I said. “I need to get packed, too.”

He returned the favor, coming down to my place and helping me fill my suitcases. I dug though my jewelry box and found a necklace made of small white rocks that I’d had since my summer camp days back in junior high. With Nick’s western shirts, though, the necklace would be right at home. I also found a basic unisex black scarf.

He took the items from me but scowled. “I thought being a man meant I didn’t have to accessorize.”

“That’s not so true anymore,” I said. “Get with the times.”

I went through my things, choosing garments that would be appropriate for a nanny-turned-college-student. Blue jeans. Tennis shoes. T-shirts. I also packed some fun items. A pair of stilettos and a shimmery blouse, both in red, my signature color. Black ballet flats, black leggings, and a polka-dot tunic. A sundress in a pale blue and white print.