Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli (A Tara Holloway Novel) Read Free Page B

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