Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli

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DEATH, TAXES, AND A CHOCOLATE CANNOLI

Chapter One

Gone Guys

 

At two o’clock in the afternoon on a Monday in early May, I stood on the sidewalk in front of the federal building in downtown Dallas. To a casual observer, I’d look no different from any other female professional in her late twenties. Heck, we were a dime a dozen. But the subtle bulge under the blazer of my navy blue pantsuit set me apart. I didn’t just handle business, I meant business. And my business was making sure that tax cheats paid for their crimes, both in cash and convictions.

 

A shiny black sedan with dark tinted windows eased up to the curb in front of me. The passenger window slid down only an inch or two, not enough for me to see the person inside, but enough for me to hear his deep, gravelly voice. “Special Agent Holloway?”

 

            I tried to swallow to clear the tightness in my throat but was unsuccessful. As much as I hated to admit it, bringing tax cheats to justice could sometimes be a little frightening. Instead of speaking, I merely nodded.

           

The door unlocked with a click. “Get in.”

           

I shifted my briefcase to my left hand and grabbed the door handle, my heart pumping like an oil jack in my chest. Why was I anxious? Because my boss at the Internal Revenue Service had assigned me my biggest case yet, against mob boss Giustino “Tino” Fabrizio. Fabrizio’s acts of violence and extortion were the thing legends–and movies starring Robert DeNiro–were made of.

           

Since joining the IRS a little over a year ago, I’d faced down a con artist running a Bernie Madoff style Ponzi scheme, a killer operating a cross-border crime enterprise, a televangelist who’d fleeced his flock, the president of a secessionist group that was stockpiling weapons, terrorists, a sleazy strip club owner operating a prostitution ring, a country-western superstar who’d thumbed his nose at the IRS, and a violent drug cartel. Guess you could say I’d been busy. You could also say there were as many ways to cheat the government as there were tax evaders. Each had their own unique scheme or scam. But none had gotten past me . . . so far.

 

            My earlier successes, as well as my exceptional gun skills, landed me this mob case. Part of me was proud that my boss had assigned me as the lead agent on the investigation. Another part of me was so scared I feared my sphincters would never release again.

           

I slid into the car, placed my briefcase on my lap, and snapped the seatbelt into place. As FBI Agent Burt Hohenwald pulled away from the curb, I ventured my first glance at him. The veteran agent was a tall, lean, fiftyish man with curly pewter-colored hair, a nose like a ski jump, and a gray tweed blazer that made him look professorial. I half expected him to launch into a lecture about the Treaty of Versailles or Plato’s theories on the nature of virtue.

           

Hohenwald cast a glance my way, too, looking me and up down, unabashedly sizing me up. I took no offense. It was par for the course. After all, the two of us would be working this case together, counting on one another, holding each other’s lives in our hands. Unfortunately, in my case, appearances could be deceiving, even to a veteran of law enforcement. My chestnut brown hair hung in loose curls around my shoulders, my gray-blue eyes were accentuated with liquid liner, and my lips bore a shiny coat of plum-toned lipstick. Along with the basic navy suit, I’d worn my favorite cherry-red steel-toed Doc Martens. Like me, the shoes meant business. The bright color might be a little flashy, but the soles provided good traction should I need to chase a suspect and the reinforced toe protected my little piggies should my foot find itself implanted in a suspect’s nards or ass. You’d be surprised how often that happened.   

 

A frown played about Hohenwald’s mouth as he returned his focus to the street. “Lu says you’re a girl who knows how to get things done.”

           

“I am.” Approaching thirty, I was hardly a girl anymore, but I knew my boss Lu “the Lobo” Lobozinski meant no insult when she’d used the term. Besides, at five-feet-two-inches, just over a hundred pounds, and wearing what was essentially a training bra, I appeared more girl than woman. I’d accepted it. Besides, what I lacked in stature, I made up in attitude, which was one-hundred percent bad ass. Okay, ninety-nine percent bad ass and one percent chicken-shit. Seriously, a person would have to be an idiot not to fear a violent mobster, right?

           

Hohenwald hooked a left on Field Street. “I trust you’ve read the file I sent over?”

           

“Thoroughly.” I hadn’t just read it, I’d highlighted it, cross-referenced it, and made copious notes in the margins, including several HOLY CRAPS! a half dozen OMGs! and one very big YIKES!!! If Hohenwald wasn’t impressed by my physical attributes, maybe he’d be impressed by my reading comprehension and annotation abilities. Not everyone can pull off both a pink and a purple highlighter.

           

“So you know Tino Fabrizio’s history prior to coming to Dallas.”

           

“Up, down, and backwards.”

 

According to the file, Guistino Fabrizio had been born and raised in the ritzy Gold Coast neighborhood of Chicago. The youngest cousin of the reigning Chicago mob boss, Tino had worked for his cousin for years as an enforcer. He was suspected in a multitude of beatings and execution-style shooting deaths, the victims including both members of the extended mafia family and unrelated persons. Unfortunately, though he’d been brought in for questioning several times, law enforcement had been unable to pin anything on him. The guy knew how to cover his tracks.  

 

Eventually, Tino realized his job taking people down had no upward potential. As ambitious as Tino was, and as cold as the Windy City’s winters were, he decided to head south to Dallas. Though there’d been isolated instances of mob activity in the area, the mafia had enjoyed no real toehold in the Big D since the death in 1970 of local leader Joseph Francis Civello, with whom Jack Ruby, JFK’s assassin’s assassin, was rumored to have ties. These days, organized crime in north Texas existed primarily in the form of drug cartels or gangs that operated in limited circles and with no pretense of legitimacy. Here, Tino could rule the city, put his parka in mothballs, and work on his tan.

 

“What you don’t know,” Hohenwald said as he took a second left onto Main, “is what Fabrizio’s been up to since he moved to Dallas. The file I sent over to the IRS was heavy enough with just the FBI’s background reports. Besides, I figured it would be best to let you get the scoop straight from Detective Booth at Dallas PD.”

 

“Dallas PD?” I repeated. “Local police are involved in the investigation, too?”

 

“Sure are,” Hohenwald replied. “In fact, Detective Booth was the one who put two and two together and realized Fabrizio was connected to a lot of bad stuff.”

 

“Why didn’t the police department keep the case?”

 

“With Fabrizio’s history in Chicago, the detective realized his crimes had national implications. She also knew that bringing down his network would take more resources than her department could provide.”

 

“So Booth turned the case over to the FBI?”

           

“Essentially,” he said, “though she’s kept a finger in the pie. She wants this guy as bad as we do.”

           

With Dallas PD handing primary responsibility for the matter over to the FBI, and the FBI subsequently punting some of the work to the IRS, it might seem like the buck was being passed. But such was not the case. Rather, law enforcement was hedging its bets. In important yet difficult cases such as this, it was not unusual for several law enforcement agencies to work together and attack a wanted suspect on more than one front. While local police and the FBI could investigate the violent crimes, the IRS could take a different tack and try to nail the suspect for tax evasion or money laundering. Not only did a multipronged approach increase the odds that the suspect would be caught doing something illegal, but it also gave the government additional charges to fall back on should the primary indictment be thrown out. Suspects could be slick, and their defense attorneys could be even slicker. We needed as much ammunition as possible in our arsenal to ensure the bad guys didn’t get away with their dirty deeds.  

           

Hohenwald turned south on Lamar and drove several blocks, passing under Interstate 30, before pulling into the parking lot of the Dallas Police Department headquarters. We parked, went inside, and checked in with the uniformed officer working the front desk. He directed us to wait in a seating area crowded with people, none of whom looked happy to be here. Hohenwald snatched a copy of the Dallas Observer, the city’s alternative newspaper, from a coffee table. Frankly, I was afraid to take my eyes off the group, which likely included a high percentage of felons.

 

            A moment later, a fortyish woman in khaki slacks and a pink button-down stopped in the doorway. She had pointy, pixie-like features and honey-blond hair pulled back in a short pony tail. She scanned the seating area, her eyes stopping on Agent Hohenwald.

 

“Is that Detective Booth?” I asked, gesturing toward the woman.

 

He looked up from the paper. “Yup. That’s her.”

 

He set the paper aside and stood. I followed him over to the woman, who simply lifted her chin in acknowledgment, turned, and led us down the hall and around the corner to a small elevator. Another person was already in the car, so we remained silent. One could never be too careful with confidential information. We rode the car up to the third floor, exited, and trailed the woman to an office at the end of the corridor. The nameplate on the door read DETECTIVE V. BOOTH. I found myself wondering what the V stood for. Valerie? Vivian? Violet? She stood at the door as we stepped inside, closing it behind us.

 

Stacks of files stood like a paper skyline at the edge of the detective’s desk, flanked by an automatic stapler and an ivy that looked desperate for a drink of water. While the detective rounded her cluttered desk, Agent Hohenwald dropped into one of the two seats facing it and I perched on the other, setting my briefcase down beside me.

 

Hohenwald made a quick, unceremonious introduction. “Detective Booth, Special Agent Holloway. Agent Holloway, Detective Booth.”

 

Booth and I shook hands over the desktop and offered each other polite smiles.

           

“What’s the V stand for?” I asked.

           

“Veronica,” she replied.

           

That minor mystery had been easily solved. But getting the goods on Tino Fabrizio was sure to be far more challenging.

           

As we began our powwow, Booth summarized the situation for me. “Giustino Fabrizio is suspected in the deaths or disappearances of at least ten men in the Dallas area over the last five years. Most of the men had worked for him in one capacity or another, some officially, others unofficially.”

 

Yikes! And to think I sometimes complained about my job. At least my boss wasn’t out to kill me. “So Tino made sure those who knew his secrets didn’t live to tell them?”

 

“Exactly,” Booth replied. “Anyone who had dirt on the guy ended up buried in dirt themselves.”