Page 43 of Tito

He scowled at me. “No one manages self-serve carwashes. He’s either unemployed, or he’s a criminal.”

I felt a compulsion to defend Tito, and I didn’t really understand why. Nevertheless, I did so with vigor. “Someone’s got to manage them,” I argued. “And, that someone is him.”

“If his job is managing carwashes, he’s a criminal.”

“What if he really manages carwashes?”

“Car washes manage themselves,” he replied. “An owner has a contract with a firm for the products they use: soap, wax, and cleaner, and they come by once a week or whatever and check the levels. They’ll have a contract with the water filtration rep for their deionized water, and they’ll have a maintenance contract with a company for their pumps. Nobody works at a self-serve car wash except for the owner, who typically uses the all-cash business as a means to launder money.”

“No everyone’s a criminal,” I said.

“Laundry mats, flea market vendors, carry-out restaurants, taco trucks, some hair salons, nail salons, these are typical all-cash businesses,” he said, counting on his fingers as he spoke. “They all claim to make no profit whatsoever. Across the board, they evade taxes by claiming little income and inflating their expenses. The typical car wash owner, however, has a lucrative business that thrives. At least that’s what they claim at tax time. How can their all-cash business thrive, while all the others make no profits? Because their income is shit, and they use the carwash to filter their ill-gotten cash, claiming tremendous revenue. The business is a front for them to launder hundreds of thousands of dollars through, and there’s no one to question them. If they own multiple car washes, they have a means to launder millions.”

I stared blankly. Being the daughter of a detective was exhausting. “When are you going to retire?”

He smirked. “After I catch the little clique I’ve been chasing.”

He’d been trying to catch the same elusive street gang since I was in college. As certain as he was that they were a criminal enterprise, he couldn’t do so much as confirm their existence, let alone prove they’d committed a crime. His “instinct” continued to drive him to pursue them.

I looked at him and sighed. “Do you ever turn it off?”

“What?”

“Being a cop?”

“I can’t,” he said dryly. “It’s who I am.”

“Well, he’s nice. You don’t have to believe him about the carwash thing, but I choose do.”

He looked me in the eyes. “Bring him by.”

“We’re not dating,” I said for clarification’s sake. “We went on one date.”

“You said he’s nice, Not, he was nice,” he argued. “You’re planning on seeing him again.”

“Stop interrogating me,” I huffed.

“Stop withholding the entire truth.”

“I may see him again, I may not,” I admitted. “I’ll have to see.”

“What does he drive?” he asked. “What did he pick you up in?”

I should have known that’s where he was going to go. I considered lying, but just for an instant. Telling him the truth was going to start a full-fledged investigation into everything related to Tito. Nevertheless, I couldn’t lie.

“A Harley,” I muttered.

“Tattoos?”

“He’s covered in them,” I said as if it were a huge upside to Tito’s existence.

He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Does he ride in a motorcycle club?”

If I had to paint a picture of an imperfect man—in my father’s eyes—it would be Tito or someone like Tito.

I had no idea if he rode in a motorcycle club. If he did, he’d be my father’s nemesis. Detective Ted Gottschalk spent a considerable amount of time investigating motorcycle gangs and their criminal activities, then rained on their club’s parades at the most inopportune times.

“Ride in an MC?” I acted satisfied by the mention of it. “I sure hope so.”