Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (20 page)

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Mom left early Sunday morning so she could arrive back home in Nacogdoches in time
to make lunch for the family after church. I dragged Alicia out of bed and to the
firing range with me, hoping that putting a few bullets in a man-shaped target would
lift her spirits.

“Check out my new gun.” I removed the red Cobra .38 from its case and handed it to
Alicia.

“Nice,” she said, turning it over. She scratched at the bright-orange price sticker
with the Strike-it-Rich oil derrick logo, loosening the adhesive and pulling the tag
off. She tossed the sticker in a nearby trash can. “Can I try it?”

“Of course,” I said. “You’re my best friend. Mi casa es su casa.” Okay, so that literally
translated as “my house is your house.” But I didn’t know the Spanish word for “gun”
and the sentiment was the same.

I offered Alicia some quick pointers and clipped a paper target to the pulley. Once
the target was in place, she assumed a shooting stance, narrowed her eyes, and took
aim. She emptied the entire clip, her shots hitting the target low, in the general
area of the target’s crotch.

“Not bad for a beginner,” I said. “Your aim was a little low, though.”

She gave me the stink eye. “I was going for the gonads.”

“Oh. In that case, good shots, then.”

I took up residence in the lane beside her, spending several minutes practicing with
my Glock. Each of my shots hit the target right in the heart. Yep, the Annie Oakley
of the IRS was still in business. Good thing, too. When you were dealing with terrorists,
weapon skills could come in handy.

chapter nineteen

Jailhouse Rocks

When I arrived at the office Monday morning, Nick stared at me from across the hall,
a look of disgust on his face. He’d expected me to call him over the weekend, to tell
him I’d put Brett on hold. No doubt Nick felt deceived and betrayed. I tried to explain,
but he simply held up his hand.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said.

He promptly logged onto the Big D Dating Service site, scrolled through the dozens
of new responses, and called one of the women, unabashedly flirting and making a dinner
date as I sat within earshot in my office, trying not to burst into tears or hurl
my calculator at him.

Josh passed by my office door on his way back from the men’s room.

“Hey, Josh!” I hollered. “Get back here.”

Josh retreated and poked his head in the door. “What?”

“I need your help,” I said.

“I’m busy,” he said.

I skewered him with a look. “I helped you land a date with Kira,” I reminded him.
“You owe me.”

He frowned but gave in. “All right. What is it?”

If I told him the specifics, he’d refuse. I strategically kept my words vague. “I
need your special skills on a field investigation.”

Josh would assume I was referring to his computer skills. What I was actually referring
to was his ability to pee standing up. Yep, I needed a man. Why? Because I was heading
out to a men’s prison. I’d seen what happened to Clarice Starling when she’d gone
alone to visit Hannibal Lecter in prison in
The Silence of the Lambs.
I hoped that my being accompanied by a male agent would discourage the inmates from
tossing any icky stuff at me.

I would have much preferred Nick’s help, but the guy wasn’t speaking to me at the
moment. Eddie was out on his own rounds of MSBs. That left me with Josh. He wasn’t
much of a man, but he would have to do.

We piled in a fleet car and drove to Venus, a tiny town of three thousand people located
southwest of Dallas. Though named after a planet, the place contained no extraterrestrials,
though it was home to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice Sanders Estes Unit.
The unit, in turn, was home to approximately one thousand inmates.

Because family members and prisoners needed a safe and secure system for exchanging
funds, the unit offered wire transfer services and both sold and cashed traveler’s
checks and money orders. As a result, the state prison was required to register with
the U.S. Treasury Department as an MSB. It was kind of like Big Brother keeping an
eye on Little Brother, huh?

As I turned down the road to approach the unit, Josh noticed the high fences and razor
wire that harbored groups of men in bright orange jumpsuits. “Wait a minute. We’re
not going to a prison, are we?”

“Yep,” I replied.

“No,” Josh said. “No way! I am not going in that place.”

I glanced over at him. “I’ll tell Kira you’re a wuss.”

He frowned again. “That’s not fair.”

“Tough.” I was probably being mean to the guy, but fate hadn’t shown me much mercy
lately and I was only paying it forward.

I parked the car in the visitors’ section and climbed out, donning the cheap plastic
poncho I’d purchased at the dollar store on my drive in this morning.

“What’s that for?” Josh asked.

“Let’s just call it a protective measure.”

“Do you have one for me?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

We headed inside to the
thwump-thwump-thwump
of a basketball being dribbled on the court on the other side of the fence. The sound
ceased momentarily when the tall, muscular inmate with the ball wandered over to the
fence.

“Hey, baby!” the man called. “You coming for our conjugal visit?” He put a hand under
his nards and lifted them. “I’m ready for you.”

“Aren’t you going to tell him off?” Josh whispered.

“Nope,” I said.

“Why not?” Josh asked. I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t like me to let a slight pass
unaddressed.

I shot Josh a pointed look. “Because he was talking to
you.
”

When Josh glanced back at the fence, the man puckered his lips and made a kissing
sound. Josh emitted his usual puppy whimper and scampered ahead of me into the building.

We checked in with Security and a warden led us to the administrative offices. He
chuckled at my poncho. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We ain’t going to let any of these
men within spitting distance of you.”

“Thanks,” I said, not bothering to mention it wasn’t spit I was worried about.

Josh and I settled in at a desk in the jail’s financial office. The man currently
tasked with the job of maintaining the records was more than happy to let us use his
digs in favor of his taking an extended coffee break.

We spent a couple of hours searching through the files. The records were less than
ideal, resulting no doubt from the constant employee turnover evident in the files.
Seemed nobody stayed at the job for more than a few weeks at a time. Still, though
the information was somewhat spotty and incomplete, the data told us enough. All of
the transactions were in relatively small amounts and all were to and from other people
located within the United States. Nobody who worked here at the jail had helped the
terrorists transfer funds to Syria.

We thanked the staff for their assistance and made our way back outside. Josh ran
from the door to the car, ducking behind it amid laughter from not only the inmates
but also the guards sitting atop a nearby tower.

The same man who’d propositioned Josh earlier stepped up to the fence, lifting his
stones once again. “Last chance for love!” he called.

Josh whimpered again.

As I pushed the button on the remote to open the door, a drop of rain fell from the
sky. Whaddya know? The poncho had come in handy after all.

chapter twenty

Get Out of Here!

I dropped Josh back at the office, trading him for Eddie and heading to the federal
prison located thirty miles west in Fort Worth. Though the federal prison was a low-security
facility, the building had a small wing in which violent offenders could be segregated
as they awaited trial. Once convicted, these offenders were sent to a high-security
prison out of state to serve their sentences.

We checked in at the gate and were directed to park in a designated area. We stepped
through a metal detector and endured a thorough pat down before being allowed inside.
The staff also searched our briefcases and my purse. Once we’d passed muster, a male
warden with a thick neck and thick southern accent led us to the visiting area. The
prisoners’ three attorneys were already seated in a waiting area outside a private
visitation room.

Eddie requested that we be permitted to speak with Karam Homsi first. Homsi was the
man who’d earlier offered to talk, the man whose tongue had been later cut out. The
warden nodded, pushed a button on his shoulder mic, and turned his head to bark an
order into the device. “Bring me Karam Homsi.”

A couple of seconds later a male voice responded. “Homsi. Got it. On my way.”

Homsi’s attorney stood and followed me and Eddie into the small room. While Eddie
and I took seats on the near side of the table, the attorney took a seat on the other.
I noticed he slid his chair farther away from the empty one, as if he didn’t want
to get too close to his client. I couldn’t blame the guy. Who knew what these men
were capable of?

We sat quietly, listening to the hum from the fluorescent lights overhead as we waited.
A few minutes later, a door on the back wall opened and a warden led Homsi inside.

Homsi stood around five feet, ten inches, and wore khaki pants and a khaki shirt,
the standard federal prison uniform. His hands were cuffed in front of him. He glanced
at me and Eddie, then turned his head down as he took his seat. He didn’t look up
as his attorney identified us and told him why we were there.

Eddie eyed the top of Homsi’s downturned head. “We’d like to ask you some questions
about how the money was moved overseas.”

Homsi didn’t respond. He simply sat immobile in his seat, staring at the tabletop.

Eddie and I looked to Homsi’s attorney. He merely shrugged as if to say,
I told you he wouldn’t talk.

I figured I might as well take a crack at the guy. Maybe he’d react differently to
a woman. “Look, Mr. Homsi. I know you don’t want to help the government out and I
know the plea deal fell through. But if you give us a break here, share some information,
the judge will take it into consideration in your sentencing.” I couldn’t make any
promises, of course, but judges tended to go easier on cooperative inmates.

Homsi raised his head then, looking at me with sheer terror in his eyes. Ironic for
a terrorist, huh? He tried to say something, but without benefit of a tongue it came
out only as garbled gibberish. “Ay lah my ung lass ime ay awk. Ex ime iss my lie.”

Huh?

I slid my legal pad and pen across the table. He snatched up the pen, scribbled on
the pad, and slid it back across the table. Eddie leaned over to read the words with
me.

I lost my tongue last time I talked. Next time it’s my life.

In other words, he’d give us nothing.

The warden led Homsi away and his attorney left, quickly replaced by Algafari’s lawyer.
A few minutes later, the same warden led Algafari into the room. Unlike Homsi, who’d
averted his eyes, Algafari stared straight at me and Eddie, his gaze gleaming with
raw rage and hate. He looked like he’d enjoy ripping out our hearts. I was grateful
for the shackles on his wrists.

Like his predecessor, Algafari refused to tell us anything. He merely sat there, glaring
at us while we all but begged for answers.

Finally, I asked the only question that really mattered. “You’re not going to tell
us anything, are you?”

He gave me one final glare and a single word. “No.”

Damn!
The frustration of this case was really starting to get to me. But as they say, the
third time’s the charm, right? Maybe Nasser would open up to us.

Algafari’s attorney left the room and Nasser’s came in. I noticed he didn’t take a
seat. He stood off to the side, one hand holding his briefcase with a death grip,
the other nervously jingling the coins in his pant pocket.

When the back door opened again, Nasser shuffled through. He wore shackles not only
around his wrists but also around his ankles. He fell back into a chair and kicked
out at the table with his shackled feet, shoving the edge of the tabletop into Eddie’s
gut and my rib cage.
Ouch!
Nasser’s attorney had been smart to keep his distance. I rubbed my side and looked
at Nasser. Clearly the man was not going to play nice.

So much for the third time being the charm.

As Eddie and I pushed the table back into place, the warden grabbed Nasser’s chair
and dragged him backward a few feet, out of kicking range of anyone or anything in
the room. The distance didn’t prevent him from impaling me with his eyes, however.
His gaze bored into mine like a heated, pinpoint laser. Heck, he could probably perform
LASIK surgery with that stare.

I felt an uneasy prickle along my back, but I did my best to hide my fear. Guys like
Nasser feed on fear like beer-bellied men feed on barbecue. I wasn’t about to give
him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.

I looked Nasser in the eye. “Mr. Nasser, I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with IRS
Criminal Investigations. My partner and I are trying to determine how you moved funds
out of the country. We know you withdrew significant sums of cash from your bank accounts
and took the funds to someone who transferred the money overseas. It’s only a matter
of time before we figure out who that person is.”

What a lie. Given the way things had been going, we might not ever figure out who
that person was.

“Problem is,” I continued, “we’re busy people. Our time is valuable. If you would
tell us who helped you it would save us some time and maybe knock some time off your
sentence.” Surely he’d want to get out of jail sooner, right?

Nasser smirked an evil smirk. “You might be busy, Agent Holloway, but me? I’ve got
all the time in world.”

Wang and Zardooz had informed us that Syrian officials were seeking to have Nasser
extradited back to the country, where he’d surely face the death penalty for his acts
of terror there. I supposed it made sense that he’d rather stay in the United States.
He might live out the rest of his life in prison here, but at least he’d have a life.
Hell, for his own protection the guy was probably hoping for as long a sentence as
possible, maybe even additional time for bad behavior.