by Diane Kelly
So that’s what this was all really about, huh? Nick’s ego. Sheesh. The guy stood well over six feet tall and had played on the defensive line on his high school football team. He’d since maintained the tight abs and ass and well-developed pecs he’d formed back then. He kicked butt on a regular basis, had one of the best records of any special agent within the entire IRS. He had every right to strut around like a proud peacock, yet his ego was as fragile as spun sugar.
My first impulse was to tell him to sack up, that he was acting like a damn baby and to get the hell over it. But I knew that would only make matters worse. One of us had to swallow their pride, and it looked like it would have to be me. Of course my pride would be much harder to choke down than the delicious food we were eating.
The other couples watched us across the table, their expressions revealing their discomfort at our spat. I felt uncomfortable, too. I didn’t want to be arguing at all, especially in front of our friends. Yet it seemed no matter what I did where Brazos was concerned, Nick didn’t like it. I could do no right.
I exhaled a long breath. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” I reminded Nick. “Let’s just have a good time, okay?”
“Don’t you worry.” Nick tossed back the remains of his drink and slammed his glass down. “I’m not gonna let Teeny Weenie stop me from enjoying myself.”
“Good.” I scooted my chair over and snuggled up to him. “’Cause you’re twice the man Brazos Rivers will ever be.”
I thought my compliment would thaw Nick’s frosty attitude, but instead it only seemed to piss him off more. Perhaps I’d inadvertently sounded patronizing.
Fortunately, he seemed to let go of his anger once we arrived at the game, even draping his arm around my shoulders and playing with my hair during the second quarter. The Mavericks’ win put him in even better spirits, and the ride home was pleasant and conflict-free.
After the game, we headed to Nick’s place. When we entered, we found Nutty lying in a puddle by the back door. The poor old dog hadn’t been able to get out the doggie door Nick had installed for him. Nutty wagged his tail, slinging fluid all over the floor and wall.
Instantly, the two of us gelled, rushing to the poor dog.
“You all right, Nutty?” I asked, laying a hand on his side.
“It’s okay, boy.” Nick lifted Nutty up without regard to the mess the dog would make of his clothes. “I know you tried.”
In that instant I knew, without a doubt, that I loved Nick. He might be a stubborn ass sometimes but, hell, so was I. How could I not love a man who was so patient with an old dog, who was capable of such caring and compassion?
I opened the back door for Nick and he carried Nutty out into the yard. While the two of them were outside, I grabbed a bottle of spray cleaner and a roll of paper towels and cleaned up Nutty’s mess, feeling tears prick at the back of my eyes. A few minutes later, Nick carried Nutty back inside. Nick’s eyes looked misty as he took the dog upstairs to give him a bath. I ran down the street to round up my blow-dryer, and returned to Nick’s. When Nutty had been washed and dried, Nick laid him in the center of the bed where’d he be comfortable and couldn’t accidentally roll off.
Nick stripped off his soiled clothes, took a quick shower, and changed into a clean pair of boxer briefs and flannel lounge pants. I put on the silky red sleep shirt I kept in Nick’s dresser drawer and the two of us climbed in on either side of the bed with Nutty sandwiched between us. Our gazes met over his furry back, communicating without words. There’d be no nooky tonight. Both of us were too concerned about Nutty to even think of carnal desires.
The dog’s health was rapidly declining, noticeably worse nearly every day. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to suggest that the dog should be put out of his misery. Nutty was suffering, sure, but he still seemed to get some joy out of life. He still wagged his tail when Nick came home and enjoyed the fried baloney sandwiches I made for him. That was something, wasn’t it?
“I almost forgot.” Nick climbed out of bed and went to his closet. “I got you something for Valentine’s Day.” He opened the door and pulled out a tall, narrow gift bag and large box wrapped in pink paper with white hearts and topped with an oversized pink bow.
“Wine?” I guessed, taking the bag.
He grinned. “Nope.”
I yanked out the tissue to find a night-vision rifle scope. The device would be perfect should I ever need to use my long-range rifle in the dark. It would also be useful in keeping an eye on PPE and the historical marker. I’d mentioned to Nick that Eddie and I had trouble seeing much in the dark when we’d driven out to Palo Pinto last Friday. Apparently, Nick had listened. That in itself was romantic. In my experience, most men didn’t pay much attention to anything that didn’t involve sports, beer, or sex.
“This will come in handy, Nick. Thanks.” I gave him a smooch on the cheek before turning to the box. “Wow. That looks big.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and walked over. Starting at the top, I tore into the wrapping. When I was done, I found a gun cabinet, custom-painted in my signature red. The cabinet was big enough to hold my entire collection of handguns and rifles, as well as a sizable stash of ammunition. “I love it! You always find the perfect thing to get me.”
He shrugged, a soft smile playing about his lips. “I know you a little.”
The cabinet had both a key lock and a programmable number pad for extra safety. I currently kept my guns and ammo in a trunk in my bedroom closet. This cabinet would make the guns more difficult to access. It would be perfect for the days ahead when, if my life went according to plan, I’d have a rug rat or two running around. I eyed Nick. I hoped those rug rats would be his rug rats, too.
Nick cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Obviously, I couldn’t tell him I was envisioning the two of us starting a family or he’d run for the hills. Or would he? Maybe. Maybe not. Regardless, I wanted him to know how I felt about him. “I…”
Ugh. I can’t do it. I couldn’t say the L-word even though I knew without a doubt that I loved him. I supposed I feared that he might not be ready to say it back. What a chickenshit, huh? Love is risky. We all know that going in. Nonetheless, I decided to go with, “You’re a great guy, Nick.”
“Hell, yeah.” He gave me a wink. “And don’t you forget it.”
chapter nineteen
Mismanaged
It was only 7:15 in the morning when I knocked on the door to Sierra Behr’s condominium. She lived on the first floor of a three-story building painted maroon and gray and topped by numerous chimneys. Her car, a bright yellow Camaro, was parked directly in front of her unit.
I had a number of questions for Sierra, the first of which was, Why didn’t you return phone calls from a federal criminal investigator? Was it because you’re stupid or because you’ve got something to hide? Hmm. I guess that’s two questions, huh? And now I’ve asked three. Maybe I should just stop while I was ahead.
A few seconds later a groggy voice came from behind the door. “Who is it?”
I looked directly at the peephole, knowing Sierra would be looking out at me. I held up my badge. “Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS. Open up.” I didn’t say or else, but my tone implied as much.
She hesitated a moment. “This isn’t a good time.”
“Tough.”
Another hesitation. “I’m not dressed yet. And…” She seemed to have realized that not being dressed was a lame excuse and one that could readily be remedied. “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ve got the flu.” The sound of a forced cough came through the door.
“I’ll take my chances. Throw on a robe and let me in. You’re not leaving this condo until you talk to me.” If she didn’t voluntarily open her door, I’d sit out here all day if I had to.
A few seconds later the door opened, revealing the woman I’d seen with the clipboard and headset at the tour bus after the concert. Sierra was dressed in rumpled light blue pajamas a
nd fluffy socks. Her black hair was squished on one side, fluffy on the other in a bedhead style. Her eyes, which were crusty with sleep, stared at me, bright with anxiety. Still, though she was hardly at her best, she exhibited no signs of having the flu. Her nose wasn’t red and raw and she wasn’t hunched over with achy muscles.
I stepped forward, positioning my brand-new steel-toed shoe in the doorway to prevent her from shutting the door should she change her mind about talking to me and try to close it. “I’ve left you a half-dozen messages. Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
She looked up, as if trying to come up with a credible response. “I’m sorry. I’ve … been busy.”
“Too busy to get Brazos Rivers’s tax returns filed?”
Her eyes darkened and she put her thumb to her mouth, chewing nervously on the nail.
I was tired of being jerked around. “You’ve got one month from today to get the returns filed. Better get crackin’.”
Sierra’s brow furrowed and she pulled the thumb from her mouth. “What happens if the returns aren’t filed by then?”
“Then I arrest him for tax evasion and you for aiding and abetting. But don’t worry. Your dark hair would look great with a bright orange jumpsuit.” I turned to go. “Have a nice day.”
“Wait!” She grabbed the sleeve of my blazer, then glanced out the door, looking to see who might be around, as if afraid to be seen consorting with the enemy. “Come inside. Please!”
“No funny stuff,” I told her, stepping inside. “I’m armed.” Not to mention cranky. Getting up extra early to come by here hadn’t exactly put me in a friendly mood.
I glanced around quickly as she let me in. Her place was a two-bedroom unit. Both doors were open, one revealing an unmade bed, the other revealing a room being used as an office. The office contained a small desk with a laptop and printer sitting on top of it, a four-drawer filing cabinet, and a large bookshelf.
Sierra led me into her kitchen and gestured for me to take a seat at the table while she made coffee. I noticed her hands were shaking as she poured the grounds and water into the machine. I doubted the shaking was the result of the flu, though. More likely it was nerves. This woman seemed to realize she was up shit creek without a paddle and that a waterfall lay dead ahead.
Once she had a steaming mug in hand, she slid into the seat opposite me. “I … I don’t know where to start.”
“The beginning is a good place,” I suggested.
She gazed down into her coffee for a moment before looking up at me. “I don’t know why Brazos told you I was supposed to file his tax returns. That’s not part of my job as his manager. I handle his schedule, make hotel arrangements, make sure the bus is gassed up and stocked with food and drinks. When he’s got a concert I go to the venue early to set up his dressing room the way he likes it. I run errands for him. I also hire and manage the crew and make sure they get paid and that their earnings are reported to the IRS. I even respond to his fan mail, post tweets for him, and maintain his Facebook fan page. But I don’t take care of any personal financial matters for Brazos.”
“He’s never asked you to hire a CPA to prepare and file his taxes?”
She shook her head. “There’s no way I could. Brazos doesn’t share his financial information with me. I have no idea what he earns. I just know it’s a lot.”
I sat back in my chair. “I’m beyond frustrated here. First, Brazos told me his agent was supposed to take care of his taxes. Then, after his agent denied it and I confronted Brazos again, he told me the taxes were your responsibility. Is the guy just forgetful or is he pulling a fast one?”
I feared he was trying to buy himself some time. Time he could use to hide his assets or spend his cash, leaving me with nothing to seize to satisfy his tax debt. A stupid strategy, really. I might not be able to seize his assets, but I could seize him, throw his sweet ass in jail. Perhaps he was thinking of moving in with relatives in Italy, beyond the jurisdiction of the U.S. Treasury. He could always resurrect his opera career. Maybe he’d land the role of Figaro this time.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Sierra said. “I really have no idea what he’s thinking.”
“How do you pay the roadies and staff?” I asked. “The hotels and restaurants and all that?”
“Brazos set up a business account for me to use for paying expenses. He keeps just enough in it to cover the bills. When the account runs low, I tell Brazos and he wires money. He also gave me a business credit card to use.”
Sounded like Brazos had received advice from someone with financial savvy back when he’d set up these accounts. Why hadn’t that person advised him about his taxes? Or perhaps that person had told Brazos to get his taxes paid and Brazos had ignored him or her. Unfortunately, just like people sometimes ignored the advice of their doctors, they also sometimes ignored the advice of their accountants. I’d run into that type of client back when I’d been a practicing CPA. They’d pay for my advice, then refuse to follow it. Dumb butts.
“Do you know whether Brazos hired someone to advise him on his finances? On setting up the accounts?”
“I have no idea,” Sierra said. “Brazos is pretty tight-lipped about that kind of thing. For someone who’s so well known he’s actually a very private person.”
I was beginning to think that Brazos’s public persona might be more marketing ploy than reality. It wouldn’t be the first time a singer had reinvented himself in pursuit of the almighty dollar. Sexpot Jessica Simpson had started out singing Christian music. When she realized her boobs were made for gawking, she changed her tune to “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” As the culture changed in the sixties, the Beatles changed, too, giving up their black suits and ties and the clean, comprehensible lyrics of songs like “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” exchanging them for Nehru jackets and ankle boots and the incomprehensible tune “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” More recently, Snoop Dogg transformed into a cat, changing his name to Snoop Lion. Allegedly inspired by Rastafarian priests, he switched his style from rap to reggae. It was reasonable to assume that Brazos might have followed suit and chosen to pursue country music over opera.
“Do you provide Brazos with financial reports?” I asked Sierra.
“Yes,” she said. “I give him a monthly report of all the expenses, as well as copies of receipts, bank statements, and credit card bills. What he does with them I have no idea.”
“Can you give me copies of the reports?”
She bit into her thumb again, clearly uncomfortable with my request. “Am I legally required to? I’d like to clear it with Brazos first. He is my boss, after all.”
“If you refuse I’ll get a court order.”
She gnawed the thumb again. “Let me talk to him and get back with you. How’s that?”
It wasn’t what I’d hoped for. But I’d take what I could get. I retrieved a card from my pocket and handed it to her. “Call me the instant you hear from him.”
“I will.”
It dawned on me then that if she kept his schedule, she’d know where the guy was supposed to be and when.
“You mentioned that you handle his schedule,” I said. “Can you tell me where he is?”
“He’s taking a few days off,” Sierra said. “I haven’t spoken with him in a couple of days, so I’m not sure exactly where he is. Sometimes he stays at his parents’ ranch, other times he stays on his boat. Sometimes he flies off on a whim and spends a night or two in Paris or London or Acapulco.”
“When’s his next engagement?”
Sierra stood, went to her living room, and pulled a planner from her tote bag. She returned to the table, sat down, and looked at his schedule. “He’s filming a commercial next Wednesday afternoon at the Fox TV studio in Dallas.” She showed me the entry on the calendar.
I took a screen shot of the information and asked whether I could look through the rest of his calendar.
She chewed the thumb again. “I guess there’s no harm in that. He’s got not
hing else on his schedule at the moment. He won’t go on tour again for at least a year, until he finishes writing and recording his new album.”
I flipped through the pages. Sure enough, each one was empty. I stood to go. “Will you be at the filming?”
“No,” she said. “The film crews assign a runner to take care of Brazos, so I don’t normally attend those type of things. I usually just send a couple bodyguards. Of course, after what happened at the shoot for Buckin’ Bronco Boots, I might have to send the whole team this time.”
I was tempted to issue her a bill for the ass-saving services I’d provided at the photography studio, but the woman looked upset enough that things had gone awry. “Maybe he’ll leave the Ferrari at the ranch this time, travel incognito.”
She shook her head. “God, I hope so.”
chapter twenty
Come Fly with Me. Or Not.
Friday at 4:30, Eddie and I headed back out to Palo Pinto, taking a different G-ride this time in case Burkett had taken note of the car we’d driven last week. We parked at the closed feed store again, though this time we waited on the dirt along the side of the building, where the vehicle would be less visible.
The evening was considerably warmer than before, so we climbed out of the car and sat on a wide railing in front of the dark store, keeping an eye on PPE’s building. Eddie used his binoculars. I used the new night-vision scope Nick had given me for Valentine’s Day.
Eddie frowned. “I can’t see shit.” He snatched the scope from my hands. “My turn.”
“Hey! That was a gift!”
“Too bad, so sad.” He held the scope up to one eye, closing the other. “This thing works great.”
“Maybe Sandra will get you some night-vision goggles for next Valentine’s Day.”
“That would beat the grout-cleaning kit she got me this year.”