by Diane Kelly
Bonnie showed me the vegetables growing in her garden. Spinach, broccoli, beets, and peas. Even a little kale.
“You’ve got quite a harvest,” I noted.
She pulled a stalk of broccoli from the ground. “I’ll wash this up, get some ranch dressing, and we’ll have a snack.”
My idea of a snack ran more along the lines of barbecue-flavored potato chips, but her suggestion was much healthier.
“Nick?” Bonnie called as we went back inside. “You want some broccoli?”
“Only if it’s cooked and smothered in so much melted cheese I can’t taste it,” he called back.
“Some things never change,” Bonnie said.
While she prepared the food, I poured us each a glass of her homemade peach sangria. The stuff was light and fruity. She’d been kind enough to share her recipe with me and I often whipped up a batch for me and Alicia.
My cell phone chirped and I checked the readout. The screen indicated the caller was Sierra Behr. I punched the button to accept the call. “Hi, Sierra.”
The only sound that came through the speaker was a sob.
“Sierra? Are you okay?”
“He fired me! I told Brazos that you had come to see me and—” She sobbed again for a few seconds. “He let me go!”
“That makes no sense,” I told her. “He’s the one who told me to contact you. He’s the one who gave me your number.”
She gulped and sniffled. “He asked me what I had told you. I said you asked why I hadn’t hired a CPA, and that I’d told you he’d never asked me to take care of his taxes. He said that was a lie, that he had asked me to file his taxes and that he’d assumed I’d gotten them done every year.”
How could Brazos have expected her to file his taxes if he never provided her with his income information? I was beginning to think Brazos was nothing more than a greedy jerk, who’d rather leave the tax-paying up to everyone else while he accumulated ranches and all-terrain vehicles, planes and boats and fancy cars.
Sierra sniffled again. “It’s not true! Brazos never asked me to hire a tax preparer. I’m very organized. I would’ve remembered.”
It looked like Katie Dunne might not be the only one being set up to take a fall for her employer.
“Any chance you’re willing to give me copies of his financial records now?” I asked.
Another sniffle. “He told me he’d sue me if I gave you anything,” she said. “He sent two of his bodyguards over to pick up my laptop.”
“Did you give it to them?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’d bought it with money from the business account, so Brazos said that meant the computer belonged to him.”
“Did you happen to keep any hard copies of the records?”
“I tried,” she said, “but the security guys went through my entire apartment and found them. They took everything. All of the printouts. The checkbook. The credit card. The planner. Everything.”
“You allowed them to go through your stuff?”
“I didn’t want them to,” she said, “but what was I going to do? Those guys weigh two fifty each. You don’t say no to guys like that. Not if you like your teeth.”
Clearly, Sierra felt betrayed and violated and perhaps even vengeful. I decided to use that to my advantage before she had time to rethink things.
“I’d like to come by in person,” I said. “Ask you a few more questions.” And get her to sign an affidavit. I needed to strike while the iron was hot.
“Okay,” she agreed, issuing one last sniffle. “By the way, did you see the newspaper today?”
“No.” My eyes scanned the kitchen, seeking the paper I’d handed to Bonnie earlier. It lay on the counter. I slid it from its plastic sleeve and rolled it open.
“I’m not the only one Brazos got rid of this weekend,” Sierra said. “We can talk about it when you get here.” With that, she ended the call.
I took a look at the front page. Sure enough, the headline was ROUGH WATERS FOR THE BOYS OF THE BAYOU. I quickly scanned the article. The report noted that Brazos Rivers had split ways with his backup singers and dancers, citing “creative differences.”
I begged off, apologizing to Bonnie for having to leave early.
“I understand,” she said. “Duty calls. Besides, that’ll leave more broccoli for Nick.”
“More broccoli?” Nick walked in from the living room and scrunched his nose in distaste. “Thanks a lot, Tara.”
When I told Nick what Brazos had done, he was more than happy to hand me the keys to his truck. “I hope you and Sierra bring Stagnant Swamps to his knees.”
I gave Nick a kiss on the cheek, Nutty a peck on the snout, and raised a hand in good-bye to Bonnie.
On the drive to Sierra’s place, I ran through the evidence in my mind, building the tax evasion case against Brazos, then playing devil’s advocate, trying to anticipate the defenses he might bring up should this case end up in court. Would he continue to claim that his manager was supposed to file his returns? If so, would a judge or jury believe it? Heck, could there be any truth to it? Sierra had seemed on top of things when I’d first seen her with her clipboard and headset at the tour bus, but it could be possible that she’d forgotten about the returns, right? Maybe had a miscommunication with Brazos about them? As busy as their schedule was it would be entirely plausible for a thing like that to slip his manager’s mind, no matter how organized she might believe herself to be. Sierra took care of the other finances for the band, paying all of the expenses and salaries and filing their W-2s. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume Brazos would’ve asked her to file his returns, too. But how did he think she’d get his income information if he hadn’t given it to her?
Perhaps I was making this matter more complicated than it needed to be. Regardless of whether Brazos was guilty of criminal tax evasion, he still owed a buttload of taxes and interest. Maybe figuring out who was to blame wasn’t as critical as collecting the money owed and ensuring he’d comply with his tax filing requirements in the future. Or maybe I was going easy on the guy because I wanted, desperately, to believe that he wasn’t a creep. I’d had a crush on the guy for years, fantasized about him in intimate and compromising positions. I’d hate to think all of that energy had been wasted on a loser.
I parked next to Sierra’s Camaro. She opened her apartment door right away and let me in.
I took one look at the place and let out a whistle. “Holy crap.”
Brazos’s security team had trashed her place. It looked as if she’d been robbed. All of the couch cushions had been flipped over and her mattress overturned. Every drawer in her dresser, desk, and filing cabinet had been pulled out, ransacked, and dumped. They’d even pulled the bookshelves away from the wall, as if to assure themselves that she hadn’t hidden a copy of the financial records behind the unit.
Sierra dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “They were thorough. I’ll give them that.”
Despite the fact that she hadn’t been entirely cooperative before, I felt sorry for her. Having a bunch of overgrown thugs ransack your apartment had to be terrifying.
We sat down at her kitchen table.
“Would you be willing to sign an affidavit?” I asked. An affidavit loaded with condemning testimony could be helpful in convincing a defense attorney of the strength of our case, maybe encourage a quick settlement. I wasn’t looking to put Brazos in jail. His actions, though far from exemplary, were not nearly as naughty as many of the targets I pursued. If he willingly paid up soon, I might agree to waive any criminal penalties. After all, the goal of my work was compliance and, if I could effectuate that without having to put Brazos behind bars, all the better. Besides, if he were behind bars, he wouldn’t be earning the money he could use to get his taxes paid.
Sierra nodded. “Sure. I’ll sign an affidavit.”
We talked our way through the statement and I typed it up on my computer. Unfortunately, the goon squad had taken Sierra’s printer with them. I had to settle for e-mailin
g the document to her and hoping she’d print it out, sign it, and mail it to me as promised.
“I’m going to buy a new computer and printer today,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll need them to look for a new job.”
I gestured to the newspaper lying on her kitchen table. The paper was open, showing the front-page headline about the breakup between Brazos and his Boys. “What kind of ‘creative differences’ did they have?” I asked Sierra.
“I don’t see how they could’ve had any real differences,” she said. “Those guys did everything Brazos asked of them, without question. Brazos probably just got tired of giving them a cut of the earnings.”
I tried to imagine the concert without the Boys of the Bayou. Sure, Brazos was the star, and he was the one all the women came to see. But the Boys added another dimension to the show. Their dance moves were fun to watch, even if their act was a little reminiscent of the cheesy eighties boy bands. Without them, Brazos would have to step things up a notch, find a way to fill the stage all on his own.
The question was, was he man enough to do it? I was beginning to feel like maybe I didn’t know this man who’d been traipsing about in my dreams for years. No, I didn’t think I knew him at all.
chapter twenty-two
Void
Monday evening, Katie called my cell with some interesting news.
“I remember now why the name of that PR firm sounded familiar,” she said. “Mr. Burkett had me make out a check to them last May for $15,000. He never told me what the check was for, but I guess it was for a fee or retainer of some kind. He came back a few days later and told me to show the check as void in the system.”
“Did he give the check back to you?” Good accounting practices dictated that voided checks should be retained in the records as proof that the check had not actually been issued.
“No,” Katie said. “He told me he’d torn it up after he decided not to hire them. He also told me to delete their name from the computer files.”
In other words, Burkett didn’t want any type of paper or electronic trail linking him to Cushings, Cobb, & Beadle. But if he’d decided not to hire them, what were the cash payments for? Had he actually hired them after all, but didn’t want anyone, including Katie, to know? If so, why? There was no shame in hiring a PR firm. Companies did it all the time. And why pretend that the payments were for drill bits instead?
None of this made sense. Of course it was my job to make it make sense. And I always got the job done.
* * *
Tuesday morning, I decided to take a stroll by the offices of Cushings, Cobb, & Beadle. Their office was only four blocks away from my office at the IRS, it was a sunny day, and I could use the fresh air. Why not?
I headed out and, in ten minutes, arrived at their building. The firm was located on the second floor. Their entire reception area was fronted with glass, the vertical blinds turned to allow those on the outside to see in and those on the inside to see out. A receptionist sat behind a built-in rectangular console to the side, while two clients sat on modern love seats, flipping through magazines while awaiting their appointments.
Brazos sure could use the services of a PR firm about now. His break with the Boys of the Bayou had been the only thing newscasters and entertainment shows could talk about all weekend.
Some of the reporters had been understanding, noting that it wasn’t unusual for performers to part ways to pursue different interests or solo careers. The Beatles had done it. So had the Eagles, though they’d reunited for a concert tour, playing their classic hits for fans who refused to give up on them. Beyoncé and the other girls from Destiny’s Child had parted ways to pursue individual callings, too. No big deal, right?
Others had condemned Brazos, painting him as a self-centered, egotistical jackass who cared about no one but himself. The Boys of the Bayou appeared on a local weekend talk show and had few nice things to say about the young man who’d employed them the last few years. According to the Boys, Brazos never let them have any input on the music or lyrics and, until they’d taught him to dance, he’d had two left feet wearing two right boots. They vowed to move on, saying they already had plans in the works to hire musicians and form their own new “alternative Southern rock band with indie punk influences,” whatever the heck that was. They planned to call this new band Armadillo Uprising. Hmm. They might want to give the name a little more thought …
Trish had landed an exclusive interview with Brazos, in which he’d claimed that his upcoming album would take his music in a new direction, one that was “less pop” and had more “artistic integrity and emotional purity.”
“These new songs,” Brazos had told her in the interview, putting his palm to his chest, “they came not just from my heart, but from my soul.”
Nick had gotten a laugh out of that. “Sure they didn’t fall out of your ass, Brazos?” he’d inquired of the man on the TV screen.
I’d thought Nick’s comments were unfair, but I kept my mouth shut. Things between me and Nick seemed better lately and I wasn’t about to get him riled up over Brazos again. Besides, as wonderful as Nick was, he was neither a creative type nor particularly in touch with his emotions. He simply couldn’t understand a man like Brazos, one who looked deep within himself and drew on his experiences and emotions to craft beautiful songs of love and loss and feeling.
Oh, God. Nick was right. Brazos really did have me under his spell, didn’t he? Even after he’d apparently misled me twice, I still wanted to forgive the guy, to think the best of him. Ugh. Was I really so weak? I didn’t want to think so. But all of the evidence was against me. A silent shame burned within me.
Well, at least I could redeem myself somewhat if I solved this darn PPE mystery. I discreetly watched through the glass of Cushings, Cobb, & Beadle, pretending to be talking on my cell phone in the outer hallway but in reality just muttering random gibberish into it—recipes, literary clichés, scenes from a romance novel I’d been reading. “Add two cups of sugar and a half cup molasses. Stir two hundred strokes by hand and then fold into a thirteen-by-nine baking dish. It was a dark and stormy night. And they lived happily ever after. Looking into his eyes, she took hold of his throbbing member and—”
Inside the PR firm, a door opened and a man in a business suit stepped out from the interior offices and into the lobby. He had a thick envelope clenched in his hand. Was it the envelope? The one Larry Burkett had left for Cobb at the historical marker? Hard to say. One bulging nine-by-twelve manila envelope looked just like any other. The man was followed by the elephant-faced man I’d seen at the airport.
My heart began to beat faster in my chest as adrenaline coursed through me. What are you up to, Russell Cobb? What have you been doing with all the cash? Did you keep it for yourself or give it to someone else? And what about you, guy in the blue tie? Is that envelope in your hand from PPE? Are you the missing piece of this puzzle?
Oops. I realized I’d just said those questions out loud into my cell phone. Duh!
The two men shook hands and the one in the business suit exited the PR firm. He didn’t look familiar, but it couldn’t hurt to follow him and try to figure out who he was and whether he was part of the PPE drill bits scam.
The man stepped to the elevator and punched the down-arrow button. I mentally crossed my fingers that he’d come here on foot. If he’d driven, he’d be heading down to the underground parking garage to retrieve his car. Given that I’d walked here, I’d have no way of following him if he were in a vehicle. At least not for long. I could sprint for a couple of blocks, but after that I’d surely peter out.
I sneaked into the stairwell and dashed down the stairs to the first floor. I scurried across the lobby and stepped outside, positioning myself next to the garage exit to await him. If he came out on foot, I’d follow him. If he drove out in a car, I’d get his license plate and try to figure out who he was and the nature of his connection to PPE, assuming, of course, that there even was a connection.
&nbs
p; A moment later, the man walked outside and turned left. Good. I followed him, keeping a discreet distance and pretending to be working my cell phone while surreptitiously watching him from under my bangs.
The man walked three blocks down and two blocks over, using a key to unlock the door of a downtown seafood restaurant. I knew this place. I’d heard on the news that the restaurant had been responsible for a recent salmonella outbreak. A dozen customers had been treated for gastronomical distress after eating at the place. Ick.
The man stepped into the restaurant but stopped just inside the door. As I slowly meandered by the front window, I saw the man hand the envelope to a young blond guy in athletic shorts, sneakers, and a hoodie. The young man had a canvas bag slanted across his chest. He tucked the envelope into the bag and came outside, slipping earbuds into his ears as he walked past me. Looked like I had new quarry to follow.
His head bopping in time to the music, the guy took only a few steps down the sidewalk before turning into the lobby of the skyscraper next door. I followed right on his tail, but the guy was oblivious, too absorbed in his tunes to even notice. The faint notes of the music drifted on the air, but I couldn’t identify them as any particular song or artist. Perhaps it was a new release by Armadillo Uprising.
He punched the down button on the lobby elevator. Damn. He was heading down to the parking garage. Oh, well. Might as well follow him and get his license plate number, see if that information would get me anywhere.
I lagged behind as he stepped off the elevator, waiting until the doors began to close before forcing them back open with my hand and slinking after him. To my surprise, he didn’t climb into a car. Rather, he pulled the thick envelope from his messenger bag, tore the end open, and removed a stack of papers. As I watched from behind a support beam, he began making his way down the row of cars, sliding what appeared to be a flyer under the windshield wipers of each vehicle.