by Diane Kelly
My history lesson complete and my toes numb from the near-freezing outside temperature, I climbed back into my car and headed home.
* * *
My cell phone rang the next morning as I dug into my usual breakfast, a heaping bowl of Fruity Pebbles. Wheaties might be the breakfast of champions, but these colorful flakes looked much more cheerful in the morning. Alicia sat across the table from me, sipping coffee in her shiny satin robe and looking like death warmed over. Her normally sleek platinum hair stuck out at odd angles, and her eyes were puffy and underscored with shadows.
Alicia worked in the tax department at Martin & McGee, a downtown accounting firm where I’d worked for four years, too, before joining the IRS. Gotta say, I didn’t miss the long workdays of tax season. Not that I didn’t put in a lot of overtime in my job as a special agent, but at least my current job didn’t keep me chained to a desk all day. In some ways I was a kid who’d never grown up. I still liked to go outside for recess.
The readout on my phone indicated Nick was calling. I punched the button to accept the call and put the phone on speaker. Unable to talk with the crunchy blob of cereal in my mouth, I offered a grunt in greeting.
“Good morning to you, too,” Nick said.
I swallowed my bite. “You caught me in the middle of breakfast.”
“Any chance you’re naked?”
Alicia snickered into her coffee.
“Nope,” I replied to Nick. “I’m showered, shampooed, and fully dressed.”
“Damn. Too late for a quickie, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you can put me down for a nooner in the supply closet.”
Alicia groaned and left the table, taking her coffee upstairs to my guest room where she was currently squatting rent-free until her nuptials this summer.
“Pencil me in for the nooner,” Nick said. “For now, bring me a couple of fried baloney sandwiches. Nutty’s being finicky this morning.”
Nick lived in a town house on the same block as me. The arrangement was perfect given the current state of our relationship—serious and exclusive, but with each of us retaining a modicum of independence for the time being. Nick’s dog, Nutty, was a golden retriever mix. The two had been best buddies since Nutty was a pup and Nick was a teenager. Despite the top-notch care Nick provided, old age could only be held at bay for so long. The elderly dog had cataracts, bad breath, and a flatulence problem, as well as a rapidly progressing case of arthritis. He’d also become much more picky about his meals, turning up his nose at the steaks and hot dogs Nick tried to feed him by hand. But the one thing the dog would never refuse was one of my homemade fried baloney sandwiches. Nick had tried frying them up himself, following my exact directions, but Nutty knew the sandwiches Nick offered him weren’t mine. The dog was a canine connoisseur.
“Will do.” I could never refuse that sweet dog. “I’ll be down in ten.”
I wolfed down the rest of my cereal, stuck my bowl in the sink, and retrieved the butter and baloney from the fridge. I slung a spoonful of butter into the pan and waited for it to melt before slapping two slabs of baloney into the pan, too. In a few seconds the lunch meat began to curl up and quiver on the hot surface. Using a spatula, I flipped the meat over to ensure it was cooked on both sides. When the baloney was done, I placed each piece between two slices of white bread thickly spread with mayonnaise. Martha Stewart would surely cringe, but me and Nutty happened to like this white-trash food.
After wrapping the sandwiches in foil and gathering up my purse and briefcase, I stepped to the bottom of the stairs. “Bye, Alicia!”
A muffled reply came from the bathroom. “See you later!”
I hopped into my car and motored down the block to Nick’s place. He met me at the door, his face puckered with worry. Nick was normally a pragmatic, stoic guy. Seeing him looking so anxious made my heart clench. That cinched it. I’d buy a pair of Mavericks tickets for Valentine’s Day. That would take Nick’s mind off his dog’s rapidly declining condition. I’d see if Alicia and her fiancé, Daniel, wanted to go with us. Christina and Ajay, too. Christina was a DEA agent I’d worked with on previous cases and with whom I’d developed a lasting friendship. Ajay was her smart-ass boyfriend, a doctor who had treated me for multiple ailments including a burn caused by an errant cigarette that had been part of an undercover outfit, a stab wound inflicted by a cockfighting rooster, and a skin rash caused by a sexual-enhancement product. A triple date would be fun.
I glanced around as I stepped inside Nick’s town house, looking for Nutty but not seeing him anywhere. “Where is he?”
“Kitchen floor.”
I walked to the kitchen to find Nutty lying on his side on a folded nylon sleeping bag Nick had laid on the floor for him. A full bowl of food sat in front of him, as well as another bowl filled with his favorite treats. Neither had been touched. My heart squeezed in my chest.
Nutty lifted his head and his wagging tail brushed against the sleeping bag with a swish-swish. He made no move to get up, however.
“Hey, boy.” I knelt down on the floor and gave the dog a kiss on the snout. “Not feeling good today?”
His nose twitched as he scented the fried baloney sandwiches. I quickly unwrapped them and tore the first into small bites. With a little help from Nick, Nutty rolled onto his belly and eagerly took each morsel from me. Halfway through the second sandwich, he turned his head away, refusing to eat the rest.
Nick took the remainder of the sandwich from me. “No sense letting this fine cooking go to waste.” He finished it off in two big bites.
With a final scratch behind the ears and an admonishment for Nutty to be a good boy while his daddy was gone, Nick rounded up his jacket and briefcase and the two of us headed out to work.
* * *
After checking my voice mail and e-mails at the office, I decided to do some cybersnooping on Larry Burkett, see if I could dig up some dirt on the guy.
An hour later I’d found some data but no dirt, not even a tiny dust speck. The guy appeared to be sterile, squeaky clean, sanitized for my protection.
Per my research, Burkett owned a fifty-acre spread near Palo Pinto. The place had an agricultural exemption and thus showed a value of only $175,000 for property tax purposes. No doubt the actual market value would be much higher. He and his wife, Patty, had five kids, all of them grown and on their own with addresses in various towns and cities across Texas. The couple owned three vehicles. A Dodge Ram pickup, a Yukon SUV, and a Cadillac coupe. I assumed his wife drove the latter. A photo in the online version of a newspaper showed a smiling Burkett posing with the Wildcatters, a girls’ softball team PPE sponsored. Another showed him receiving an award from the local chamber of commerce for bringing much-needed jobs to the area. By all accounts the guy was a stand-up family man who ran a successful business.
Doug had been right, though. The guy was wrinkled. The shallow, narrow wrinkles were likely from age, but the deep crags could only have come from spending excessive amounts of time under the brutal Texas sun. Not surprising, I suppose. Someone who worked in the oil and gas industry probably spent a lot of time outside checking on their wells. He might want to apply some sunscreen next time.
A couple of entries regarding the lawsuit showed up online, but the curt reports told me little more than Doug had. Although the lawsuit had originally been filed in Palo Pinto County, defense lawyers had claimed PPE could not get a fair trial there and sought a change of venue. The case had been transferred to the Dallas County Court. The plaintiffs alleged that benzene and other toxic chemicals had seeped through the ground and polluted their well water. The suit alleged a total of $13 million in damages.
Though I empathized with the ranchers, I knew the lawsuit didn’t necessarily mean that Burkett was a bad guy, even if the allegations were true. The wastewater disposal methods were standard in the industry, and did not always cause damage. PPE’s operating methods were no different than those of other natural gas companies. And, really,
was there any good way to dispose of contaminated water? Perhaps I was naïve, but it seemed to me it would simply be best not to contaminate it in the first place. Hopefully scientists would soon develop better solar power methods or some other clean type of energy source. After all, if Willie Nelson could develop biodiesel fuel from vegetable oil and waste fats, why couldn’t someone invent an energy source powered by expired pudding cups and toenail clippings?
Nothing in the Burketts’ tax returns or those for PPE immediately caught my eye, either. PPE’s corporate charter was in good standing with the Texas Secretary of State’s office, meaning the business was current on all state tax filings, too.
Despite my best attempts, I found nothing online for Ector Oilfield Supply. This tidbit was the only piece of the puzzle that didn’t seem to fit. Like Katie, I came up with nothing to indicate the business existed, not even an assumed-name certificate filed with a county clerk. I did find an Ector Oil & Gas Equipment Company, however, as well as an Ector Gas Well Servicing, Ltd. Perhaps Katie had gotten the name wrong.
Frankly, this investigation looked like a waste of my time. Still, I couldn’t totally discount Katie’s gut feeling that something was awry. My brain told me nothing was wrong, but it couldn’t hurt to get a second opinion from my own gut, too. I decided to go check out Larry Burkett for myself.
chapter ten
Pants on Fire
Friday morning, I swung by Quentin Yarbrough’s office bright and early, not bothering to wait for his phone call. In fact, I beat the man to his digs and had to wait in his reception area until he arrived a few minutes after nine.
Since I’d stopped by on Monday, Brazos’s account had accrued another $8,767.12 in interest. It wasn’t fair that Brazos would be hit with the additions to his bill when none of this was his fault. I’d be sure to point that out to his agent.
Yarbrough was a tall, narrow-shouldered man with the slightly rounded belly common to middle-aged men who worked from a chair. His dark hair was slicked back over his head, the ends curling up under his ears. Though dressed in a black business suit, he had an artsy look, partly due to the longish hair, partly due to the silky gray-and-white-striped shirt he wore under his suit jacket and the matching pocket square.
He blew into his office like a gust of wind, heading straight for the stack of pink phone message slips on his receptionist’s desk. “God, it’s good to be back,” he told the woman seated in the chair. “If I had to eat one more crepe I’d slit my wrists.”
As I stood and stepped up beside Yarbrough, the woman looked up apologetically. “Mr. Yarbrough,” she said, raising a hand to indicate me, “this is Agent Tara Holloway from the IRS.”
I stuck out a hand. “Good morning.”
Yarbrough ignored my hand and looked down at me, his lips pursed in displeasure. “I’m a busy man. The IRS doesn’t have the courtesy to make an appointment?”
“Sorry.” I offered a contrite cringe. “My mother would be very disappointed in me.” So would Miss Cecily. I’d attended her charm school as a young girl, but often found it hard to practice what she’d preached.
Yarbrough glanced back at his secretary. “What’s on my schedule today?”
“You’ve got a ten o’clock teleconference with a producer from the Today show, an early lunch with the art director at Gladstone Advertising, and a three o’clock with a prospective client.”
Yarbrough turned back to me. “Looks like it’s now or never. Come this way.”
He dipped his head toward his office door and I followed him inside. He closed the door behind me and gestured for me to take a seat in one of the low, boxy chairs that faced his enormous desk.
He took a seat, too, sitting stiffly and raising a brow. “What’s up?”
“It’s about Brazos Rivers,” I said. “His tax returns haven’t been filed.”
“Ugh.” Yarbrough slumped back in his chair. “Why am I not surprised?”
Huh? “I’m a little confused. He told me that you were supposed to hire a CPA to file the returns for him.”
“Why would I do that?” Yarbrough said. “I’m his agent, not his bookkeeper.”
I was at a loss. Brazos was the first performer I’d pursued for taxes. I really had no idea how the agent relationship worked. My confusion must have been spelled out on my face, because Yarbrough went on to clarify things for me.
“My job as an agent is to get Brazos gigs for performances and endorsements and to negotiate the contracts, not to babysit him or wipe his ass. I help him make money. But as for his recordkeeping and accounting and whatnot, that’s up to him.” He swiveled around in his chair and opened a drawer in the filing cabinet behind him. After thumbing through several files, he pulled out a document and tossed it onto his desk. “Take a look. That’s the agency contract between me and Brazos. You see anything in there about filing his tax returns?”
I picked up the document and quickly scanned it over. Per the agreement, Yarbrough was entitled to a percentage of revenues from the concerts and promotions he arranged for Brazos. Nothing in the contract obligated him to file tax returns on behalf of his client. I noted, too, that nothing in the contract addressed the Boys of the Bayou.
“Do you represent his band, too? And the backup singers and dancers?”
Yarbrough shook his head. “Can’t. Potential conflict of interest. Brazos brings them along for the ride but it’s my understanding they work on an at-will basis.”
In other words, the boys worked for Brazos and he decided how much to pay them and when.
“Brazos has been a pain in my ass since the day he set foot in this office,” Yarbrough continued. “The kid’s never satisfied, never thinks he’s getting paid enough even though I always get him every dollar he deserves and then some. If he hadn’t made me millions I’d dump the ungrateful little shit.”
Wow. This wasn’t what I’d expected at all. “You got a number where I can reach him?”
Yarbrough pulled out his cell phone and consulted his contacts list. He rattled off a number. I figured the smartest thing I could do was call Brazos right then and there to straighten this matter out. When I tried the number, though, I got a recording telling me the number was no longer in service.
“That doesn’t surprise me, either,” Yarbrough said. “That boy is always breaking his phones or losing them.” He consulted his contacts list again. “I’ve got his parents’ home number. They can tell you how to reach him.”
He rattled off a number in the 940 area code. When I tried the Merriweathers’ number I got a recording. Damn. I’d hoped to leave Yarbrough’s office having made some real progress. Looked like that wasn’t going to happen. I left a message for Brazos’ parents, giving my callback number and asking them to inform their son that I needed to get in touch with him as soon as possible.
As I stood to go, Yarbrough raised a finger. “Hold on just a minute. If memory serves me right, Brazos has a photo shoot coming up in Fort Worth. You might be able to catch him there.” He turned and riffled through the file again, pulling out another document. “Here it is. He’s got a shoot on Monday for a print ad for boots.”
I took the contract from him and made a note of the time and location of the shoot. I also noted that Brazos would be paid $300,000 for the one-hour job. I felt both impressed and annoyed. I worked my ass off trying to collect past-due taxes, risked my very life, but Uncle Sam didn’t pay me in a year what Brazos would make in an hour. Kind of hard not to feel a little irritated by that fact. “Thanks, Mr. Yarbrough. I appreciate your cooperation.”
He slid the contract back into his file cabinet. “My pleasure.”
* * *
For the second time this week, I slunk into the IRS office with my tail between my legs.
Unfortunately, Nick and my boss, Lu, were talking in the hallway as I approached my office.
Nick arched a brow. “So? Dirty Undies gonna pay up now?”
“It’s not Dirty Undies,” I said. “It’s Brazos Rivers. A
nd for your information I’m going to meet with him in person next Monday.”
Okay, so maybe calling my plan to crash the photo shoot a “meeting” was an overstatement. But better to fib a little than for Nick to know that Brazos had lied to me and that I’d fallen for it.
“Want me to go to the meeting with you?” Nick asked.
“No!” I snapped. He’d given me enough crap about how I’d handled this investigation. I’d rather leave him out of it and take care of things all by myself.
Lu crossed her arms over her ample chest, squinted at me through her false eyelashes, and cocked her pinkish-orange beehive toward me. “Someone should go with you to make sure the job gets done.”
What? My jaw fell slack.
“Lu came by to check on things when you weren’t here,” Nick said, a defensive tone in his voice. “She asked me for an update.”
The glare I aimed at him was so intense it wouldn’t have surprised me to see flames shoot from eye sockets. Obviously he’d told her about my less-than-stellar performance in this case, how Brazos had manipulated me like a kid with a fresh can of Play-Doh. I felt embarrassed and betrayed. Nick wouldn’t be getting any for a while. Tara’s Fun Factory was temporarily closed for business.
Beyond furious, I threw my hands in the air and turned my attention to my boss. “After all I’ve done for this agency, you’re going to treat me like an incompetent idiot?”
“You’re not incompetent, Tara,” Lu said, the placating tone in her voice annoying me even further. “You’re just a little star-struck. It’s understandable. Heck, this is partly my fault. I should’ve known better than to assign you to go after Brazos. Tell you what, I’ll go with you on Monday. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out in the field. I wouldn’t mind getting out of the office for a bit.”