Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (31 page)

We left Algafari’s apartment and drove to Nasser’s, located a few miles farther west.
His apartment was a virtual duplicate of his cohort’s, though Nasser had a treadmill
in his living room. I’d been thinking about getting one myself, for those days when
I couldn’t make it to the YMCA. I looked the machine over. It was a nice piece of
equipment, though it had accumulated some dust while Nasser had been in jail.

I noticed a small orange spot near the digital readout and instinctively scratched
at it, assuming it was a speck of paint. It wasn’t paint, though. It was a tiny remnant
of an orange sticker that had probably been the manufacturer’s warning label. Really,
weren’t some of the warnings they put on exercise equipment ridiculous?

Do not place treadmill in water.
Gee, I can’t use my electric treadmill in water? How shocking!

Wear proper athletic shoes during use.
Darn! I so wanted to take a run in my stilettos.

If you feel faint, stop exercising immediately and consult a doctor.
If I want to drop dead, isn’t that my own business?

The warning label might as well say:
Do not use this machine if your head is up your butt.

Nobody was home at the apartments located on either side of Nasser’s digs. His neighbors
were probably at work.

While Eddie and Zardooz grabbed some lunch, I made a quick stop at my dentist’s office.
He was able to use some type of composite to repair my tooth. Thank goodness. I was
tired of sounding like Daffy Duck.

We three agents hooked back up and visited Texas Instruments next. Eddie and I searched
through Algafari’s desk and spoke with his manager and coworkers, but none had anything
of interest to offer. We had the same results at the small biotech company where Nasser
had worked. Apparently both men had kept their noses to their respective grindstones
and had interacted with their coworkers only on business matters.

By that time, it was late in the day. We decided to make the rounds of Homsi’s mosque,
home, and workplace the following day, though we suggested visiting the mosque after
the daytime prayers. I didn’t think I could handle another 4:00
AM
muster.

chapter thirty-two

Matchmaker

It was nearly seven that evening when I made my way into the drive-through at the
same coffee shop where Nick, Josh, and I had met up with Kira a couple of weeks ago.
I ordered a decaf this time, hoping to get a decent night’s sleep tonight given the
early morning I’d had. I snagged another double espresso for Kira. Josh had told me
she was a night owl.

I drove to her office a few blocks away. She leased a small space on the second floor
of a trendy strip center. She was still at work, just as Josh had assured me. When
you’re your own boss, you get to set your own hours. Kira generally worked noon to
ten. Then, presumably, she stalked the streets looking for victims with good veins.

Her office was dark, lit only by her computer screen and a black light that made the
velvet Mad Hatter poster behind her glow. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim, I could
see that the walls of her space were decorated with enlarged prints of Web sites she’d
created. Her desk wasn’t actually a desk at all but rather a space-age-looking glass-top
structure with spiderlike chrome legs. Today, Kira’s blond almost dreadlocks were
pulled up into a sort of ponytail on top of her head and hung down, surrounding her
head as if she were a modern-day Medusa. She wore a sweatshirt with a picture of a
smiling Justin Bieber on it.

I gestured to her sweatshirt as I handed her the espresso. “You’re wearing that ironically,
right?”

She took the espresso, glanced down at her sweatshirt, and shrugged. “Actually, I
think the little dude is kind of cute.”

Huh. Who would’ve thought it?

Some type of chrome and canvas contraption sat in front of her desk. I assumed it
must be a chair and took a seat on it, changing positions several times in a futile
attempt to find a comfortable position.

Kira took a sip of her drink and eyed me. “I’m guessing Josh sent you.”

“He’s heartbroken, Kira. He thought things were going well. He doesn’t understand
why you broke up with him.”

She sighed. “You saw the nose ring, right?”

I nodded. “He did that for you.”

“I don’t know why.” She rolled her eyes. “I never asked him to do anything like that.
That was the last straw for me, honestly.”

“What do you mean?”

She set her cup down on the desk. “When we met he was this adorable little dork, all
shy and geeky. Then he changed. It started with a leather jacket and a chain on his
wallet. The next thing I know he’s putting holes in himself.”

“Wait a minute. You liked Josh better when he was a dork?”

She threw her hands in the air. “Yes!” She leaned forward over the glass. “I don’t
want to date a guy like me. If I did, I wouldn’t have responded to his ad on the dating
site. I want someone different, someone who will keep me grounded, someone who might
make a good husband and father someday.”

Wow.
“What if he was just himself again? The annoying little dweeb you fell for?”

She skewered me with a look. “I didn’t say ‘annoying little dweeb.’ I said ‘adorable
little dork.’”

“Right. Sorry.” My ass had fallen asleep and I shifted on the chair. “So, what about
it? What if he goes back to being the old Josh again?”

She grabbed her cup and tossed back the remainder of her espresso. “I guess I’d be
willing to give him a second chance. I’ve been out with a few other guys I met on
the dating site and it’s been brutal.” She jotted something down on a notepad, folded
the paper, and stapled it shut. “Here.” She handed it across the table. “Give this
to Josh.”

“Will do.” I wiggled myself loose from the chair and stood. “See you around.”

*   *   *

On my drive home from Kira’s office, my cell phone rang. The readout indicated it
was Daniel calling.

I jabbed the button to accept the call. “Hey, jerkface.” I might be rude, but I’m
also fiercely loyal. He deserved to be called names after hurting my best friend the
way he did.

Daniel ignored my insult. He was a lawyer, after all. He was probably used to being
called names. “How’s Alicia?”

I chuffed. “How do you think? She wasted the last three years living with a guy she
thought she’d be with forever only to learn he’s a weenie.”

“I’m not a weenie, Tara.”

“Oh, yeah? Prove it.”

“That’s exactly what I plan to do,” Daniel said. “But I need your help.”

He sounded not only sincere but desperate, too. Still, I wasn’t going to give in easily.
I was going to make him work for it. “Why should I help you?”

“Because I love Alicia,” he said, “and so do you.”

Damn!
He’d gotten me. Alicia and I might not agree on everything, but we shared a tight
bond. She was the sister I never had, minus the sibling rivalry, hand-me-downs, and
childhood illnesses most real sisters shared.

I changed lanes to ditch the eighteen-wheeler that had been riding my ass for the
last two miles. “What do you want me to do?”

“Bring me one of her rings,” he said. “I need to take it to a jeweler to figure out
the size of her ring finger.”

I nearly sideswiped the concrete barrier that divided the regular road from the car
pool lane. “Daniel! Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m having an exact replica of Alicia made and I need to make sure
I get her measurements right.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “You’re going to ask her to marry you!”

He chuckled. “I am.” He was quiet a moment before speaking again. “Being without her
has been pure torture, Tara. That whole thing about not knowing what you’ve got until
it’s gone is true.”

Whoa. A rare moment of emotional honesty from a man. Would wonders never cease?

Daniel’s words got me thinking. Brett was gone now and, though I was aware of his
absence, I didn’t feel tortured. Sure, I missed our dinners out and missed watching
BBC America with him by my side, imitating the actors in a horribly faked accent.
I also missed the sex. I hadn’t had an orgasm in days. I think I was going through
sex withdrawal. I’d felt shaky and light-headed. But did I feel tortured? No. Then
again, maybe I’d been too busy with my investigations and the arrests and my parents’
visits and Alicia shacking up with me to have time to feel the pain.

“So?” Daniel asked. “Will you do it?”

“All right,” I agreed. Stealing her ring would be sneaky, but all in the name of love,
right?

“Thanks, Tara.”

“No problem,” I said, feeling myself tear up at the thought of losing my best friend,
once again, to this man. “Alicia’s a pain in the butt anyway. She uses up all the
hot water, complains about the cat hair in her food, and refuses to wash my dirty
laundry. I’ll be glad to see her go.”

Lies. Every word of it. It had been great having her around, and not just because
she cooked and cleaned and generally served as my surrogate wife.

Daniel knew it, too. “You’re a good friend to her, Tara. She’s lucky to have you.”

I blinked to try to keep the tears at bay. “Once you get her back, you won’t have
to sniff her pillow anymore.”

“Wait,” Daniel said. “How did you know I’d been doing that?”

Let him wonder.
“Gotta go,” I said, disconnecting the call and slipping the phone into my cup holder.

I eyed my rearview mirror again. Given that it was nearly full dark now, drivers had
turned on their headlights and it was difficult to distinguish one car from the next.
Still, there was an SUV behind me with a set of fog lights on in addition to the headlights.
If I wasn’t mistaken, the car had been behind me before the eighteen-wheeler had cut
in between us.

Was I being followed? I wasn’t sure. But there was one way to find out, wasn’t there?

I put on my signal and eased over two lanes to the right, as if preparing to take
an upcoming exit. A few seconds after I’d made my move, the SUV moved over, too, though
the driver failed to signal the lane change and seemed to have slowed a bit, putting
a little more distance between us as if to avoid detection. A freeway interchange
came up shortly, and I exited from the north–south highway onto another running east–west.
The car with the fog lights exited, too.
Hmm.
Still, it could be mere coincidence, right?

I took the first exit and, so as not to look suspicious, pulled into a fast-food drive-through.
I stopped at the menu board and ran my eyes over it. The place served seasoned curly
fries.
Score!

I placed my order for a large fries and a soda at the drive-through speaker and pulled
up to the service window. As I waited for my food, the SUV turned into the dark parking
lot of an adjacent donut shop that was closed for the night. The driver parked at
the back of the lot and cut the lights on the vehicle, though the exhaust cloud told
me he’d left the engine running.

No doubt about it now. The car was following me.

Given that the last time I’d been followed someone had tried to end my life and Eddie’s
with a bomb, I wasn’t going to take any chances. Once I received my food, I drove
back onto the freeway. I pulled my Glock from my purse, inserted a clip, and laid
the gun in easy reach on the passenger seat. The next step was putting in a call to
911. I was tough, sure, but I was also smart. The smart thing to do when followed
by a violent terrorist was call for backup.

When the dispatcher answered the phone, I explained who I was and told her I was being
followed, very possibly by a terrorist adept with explosives.

“We’ll get someone out there right away,” she said. She took my cell number so the
officers en route could communicate directly with me.

A minute later an officer called. “I hear you’ve got a tail. What’s your exact location?”

I activated the cell’s speaker and set the phone in the cup holder. “I-Thirty heading
west,” I told him, “approaching the Westmoreland exit.”

“Keep heading west,” he said. “Don’t exit unless absolutely necessary. We’ll see if
we can sneak up on the guy.” He explained he’d approach from the rear while another
patrol car would lie in wait ahead to assist.

I continued driving, keeping an eye on my rearview mirror. Yep, the SUV was still
behind me. A mile later, a wall of red brake lights reflected off the road ahead.
Highway construction caused several lanes to be closed, forcing all of the traffic
into the two right lanes. I slowed and moved into the right of the two open lanes,
while the car with the fog lights pulled into the lane on the left. With a concrete
barrier to my right and vehicles both in front and behind me, I was trapped, a sitting
duck.

Damn.

We approached the work zone, bright overhead lights illuminating the dusty air and
men in hard hats working heavy machinery. A green sign overhead indicated the next
exit would come up in half a mile. A potential means of escape should I need one,
assuming I’d get that far before the terrorist pulled up and attempted to turn me
into flesh confetti.

“I’m in the construction zone,” I told the cop on the phone, feeling myself grow warm
with adrenaline. “The car that’s been following me is coming up on my left.”

“Uh-oh. That’s not good.”

Not exactly what I wanted to hear.

I rolled down my window and grabbed my gun, holding it ready on my lap in case I’d
need to put a bullet in the bastard. My lane slowed to a complete stop, but the lane
next to me was still moving. With me trapped in traffic and the exit ramp only twenty
feet ahead, my follower would have the perfect opportunity to take me out and make
a quick getaway.

Better beat him to the punch, huh?

My breaths came fast as the SUV inched up next to me. A quick glance told me the driver
had unrolled his passenger window. Clearly he planned to lob an explosive at my car
or shoot me. With cars and construction boxing me in, I’d have no way of escaping
an explosive. And what about collateral damage? I’d been crazy enough to sign up for
this job, but the people in the cars around me didn’t deserve to be injured—or worse.