by Diane Kelly
When he’d rounded the corner to go down to the next row, I scurried up to the first car on the row and yanked the paper from the windshield. The flyer contained a cartoon fish with a conversation bubble that read:
Give us a second chance to earn your trust and tantalize your taste buds!
50% off your entire order with this coupon. Void after March 15.
I’d come all this way for a stupid coupon? Sheesh. What a waste of time. Clearly, the owner of the restaurant wasn’t involved in the PPE con. He’d hired Cobb’s PR firm to come up with a campaign to rebuild its customer base after the salmonella scare. Good luck. With all of the restaurants downtown, competition was fierce. The seafood restaurant was likely sunk. I could only hope that my case wouldn’t suffer the same fate.
chapter twenty-three
Sausage Fest
In the early afternoon on Wednesday, I headed to the elevators, trying to move as discreetly as possible. Dang it! Nick was at the end of the hall speaking with Lu’s secretary, Viola. The last thing I wanted was for him to spot me. No doubt he’d give me a lecture if he knew I was on my way to see Brazos. The last thing I wanted right now was to be harangued, especially by him.
As I waited for the elevator car to arrive, Lu stepped out of her office down the hall.
“Where you going?” Lu called to me.
I’d been hoping nobody would ask. “Brazos is filming a commercial,” I called back. “I’m going to swing by and see about getting him to sign an agreement to get his taxes filed and paid.”
“I’d offer to go with you,” Lu said, “but that young stud gets my blood pumping so fast I might have a stroke.”
“Somebody ought to go with her,” Viola said, giving me a pointed look over the top of her bifocals. “We all know what happened last time. Nothing.”
Gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence.
“Oh, for the love of God!” Nick snapped. “I’ll go with Tara.”
“Great,” I said, though honestly, Nick coming with me was anything but great. On a personal level, I adored everything about Nick. On a professional level, Nick could be kind of overbearing sometimes. I didn’t like Nick interfering with my cases, second-guessing my decisions, pointing out my mistakes. But I couldn’t very well turn his offer down. He’d think it was because I wanted to go alone and get up close and personal with Brazos.
We bade Lu and Viola good-bye and headed down to my G-ride in silence. Once we were in the car, Nick cut angry eyes my way. “Were you planning to tell me you were going to see Brazos again?”
I cut angry eyes right back. “Why should I?” I added a derisive snort. “You don’t give me every detail about your cases. For instance, you didn’t tell me every time you got hit on by those gorgeous young girls at Guys and Dolls.”
Nick and I had recently worked an undercover case at a strip joint. More than one of the dancers had attempted to work her charms on Nick, and she’d usually done it while wearing nothing more than a G-string and some glitter. I had been totally jealous, I’d just had the sense not to show it. Besides, I trusted Nick. He might have thought those girls were hot and sexy and enjoyed taking in some eye candy, but the fact that he was dating me told me that he wanted a woman who was more than a pretty face and long legs and huge honkers. He wanted a woman who could match him in guts and gumption, who challenged him and didn’t kiss his ass, no matter how kissable that ass might be. Nick should show the same trust in me that I’d shown in him.
Nick didn’t say anything in return. He just sat there, brooding silently, while I drove to the television station. Unfortunately, a crash on the freeway set us behind a good twenty minutes. Even more unfortunately, while we were stuck on the road, we’d been forced to stare at a new enormous billboard erected on the frontage road. A twelve-foot-tall Brazos smiled down at us from the back of a horse, his arm raised over his head as if he were riding the bronc. His spurs had been embellished with sparkly silver paint. The caption across the bottom of the billboard read: BUCKIN’ BRONCO BOOTS. GREAT FOR SCOOTIN’. EVEN BETTER FOR KNOCKIN’.
I pretended not to notice the oversized ad.
Nick, on the other hand, rolled down his window, pulled his Glock from his holster, and aimed the gun at Brazos’s oversized face. Blam! A hole appeared right between the singer’s eyes.
I shook my head. “You’re going to have to account for that bullet, you know.”
Nick raised a shoulder. “Accidental discharge.”
We arrived late to the commercial shoot. The Ferrari sat at the far end of the station’s parking lot.
Nick took a glance at it as we pulled up. “That is not a cowboy’s car,” he said. Luckily, he left it at that.
We climbed out of the G-ride and went into the lobby. As we stepped up to the receptionist’s desk, we held up our badges.
Before I could speak, Nick said, “We’re with the IRS. We’re looking for Flaming Brassiere.”
The receptionist’s face crinkled in confusion. “Who?”
I kicked Nick sideways in the ankle. “Brazos Rivers,” I said. “It’s my understanding he’s filming a commercial here today.”
“Right. Just a moment.” The receptionist punched a button on her phone and summoned an intern to escort us to the studio.
We arrived to find the filming already in progress. This time, there was no stuffed horse on the set. Rather, the scene was designed to look like a backyard patio, complete with a wooden picnic table covered in a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Brazos stood before a shiny barbecue grill filled with dry ice to give the illusion of smoke. He was dressed in his trademark jeans, boots, and spurs, and held a two-pronged grilling fork with an enormous spicy summer sausage link on the end of it. Beside the grill stood a twentyish blonde wearing jeans and a red halter top so tight it was a miracle her blood could move through her veins. She was likely to develop a clot by the end of the day.
Two men in business attire stood off to the side. Probably representatives from the sausage company and its advertising firm if I had to hazard a guess. Next to them stood four of Brazos’s bodyguards. Looked like he’d kept the muscle on the payroll. After what happened at the photo shoot for Buckin’ Bronco Boots, he was wise to keep some personal protection in place.
A balding man with a fringe of fluffy brown hair stepped in front of the camera with a black-and-white-striped clapboard. “Schweiger’s Spicy Summer Sausage Commercial take two.” He slammed the top of the open board down. Clap!
On cue, Brazos raised the enormous sausage to the woman’s lips. “Come on, honey, try a taste. You’ll love my spicy sausage.”
The girl opened her mouth wide and took the end of the sausage between her lips. She bit off a chunk before turning to the camera, closing her eyes, and emitting an elongated and sensual, “Mmmmm.”
Nick covered his mouth with his hand and faked a cough that did little to mask his words. “Man-whore.”
The man with the clapboard yelled, “Cut!,” and shot Nick an angry look. “I don’t know who you are, but if you can’t be quiet you’re going to have to leave the set.”
Nick stiffened. “I’m federal law enforcement.” He held up his badge and pushed his jacket back to show the gun holstered at his waist. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had a word with Brazos.”
Until he had had a word with Brazos? I was the one who should be having words with Brazos, not Nick. Even if Nick was here as my partner and backup, this was still my case.
From the set, Brazos tossed Nick an eat-sausage-and-die look. In return, Nick shot Brazos a look so pointed I half expected to see a hole appear between Brazos’s eyes, just like the billboard. The blonde, meanwhile, took a step to the side and spat the sausage bit into a bucket. No wonder she stayed so skinny. I bet she’d never had to unbutton the top button of her pants.
The balding man turned his attention to Brazos. “Remember. It’s not try a taste. It’s take a taste.”
“Take,” Brazos repeated. “Got it.”
/> The man turned to another college-aged girl waiting to the side. Probably another intern. “We need another sausage.”
The girl nodded and pulled a cooked sausage from a Crock-Pot on a table next to her. Brazos held up his fork and the girl removed the bitten sausage, replacing it with the intact link.
“Okay.” The director stepped in front of the camera again with his clapboard held open. “Schweiger’s Spicy Summer Sausage Commercial take three.” He slammed the top of the open board down once again. Clap!
For the second time since we’d arrived, Brazos raised the enormous sausage to the woman’s lips. “Come on, honey, take a taste. You will love this spicy sausage.”
The girl opened her mouth wide another time and again took the end of the sausage between her lips. She bit down and severed a bite, turning to the camera and emitting another elongated and sensual, “Mmmmm.” Unfortunately, the mmmmm was followed by a gagging sound as the girl choked on the oversized bit of meat. She grabbed her throat with both hands, her mouth gaping open. Hork. Horrrk.
The director rushed over, performed a quick Heimlich maneuver on the bug-eyed blonde, and the sausage popped out of the girl’s mouth like a baseball out of an automated pitching machine. The makeup artist, a thin man in a purple jumpsuit, stepped over with a tissue, dabbing moisture from the girl’s eyes. “No harm done. You look great, darling. Fabulous!”
With a discreet cringe, the intern used a napkin to retrieve the errant sausage bit. She tossed both the napkin and the sausage into the bucket, returned to the Crock-Pot, and fished out a fresh sausage, replacing the one on the fork.
“Remember, Brazos,” the director said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “It’s not ‘you will,’ it’s the contraction ‘you’ll.’ We want this commercial to sound casual. It’s also not ‘this spicy sausage.’ It’s ‘my spicy sausage.’ That’s, well, sexier.”
Next to me, Nick shook his head and muttered, “This is all kinds of wrong.”
The director stepped in front of the camera again with his clapboard held open. “Schweiger’s Spicy Summer Sausage Commercial take four.” He slammed the board closed. Clap!
This time, Brazos got the wording right and the girl didn’t choke. When they were done, she spat the sausage bite into the bucket and asked, “How’d we do?”
The director and the two men who’d been standing along the wall watched a replay and huddled, quietly discussing the commercial. When they broke, the director said, “Let’s do a few more takes so we can have some options.”
Ten minutes and six sausage spits later they deemed the commercial “done.”
Brazos glanced over at me and Nick and waved a hand, gesturing for us to follow him to his dressing room. When the four members of his security team attempted to follow us into the room, Brazos held up a palm. “Wait for me outside.”
Brazos closed the door and turned, leaning back against the dressing table, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m glad you two are here,” he said. “We need to set some things straight.”
chapter twenty-four
Shooting Star
“Oh, yeah?” Nick spat, putting his thumbs in the front pockets of his pants. “Illuminate us.”
Apparently deciding I’d be more easily convinced than Nick, Brazos turned his gaze on me. “If Sierra told you she wasn’t supposed to get my taxes done, she lied. Way back when I first hired her I asked her to find a CPA to prepare my tax forms for me. I’m a singer and a songwriter—”
“A poet,” Nick added, arching a brow. “Isn’t that what they say?”
Brazos hazarded a glance at Nick. “Some do, yes.” He turned his focus back to me. “At any rate, I don’t know anything about taxes or running a business. That’s exactly what I hired Sierra for. I didn’t know she’d dropped the ball until you got in touch with me. I wish I’d realized it sooner.”
His words instantly made me feel lighter, releasing a coil of tension inside me. This was all just a misunderstanding. Sure! What Brazos said made total sense. After all, as busy as he was, he couldn’t be expected to take care of the business details himself, could he? Of course not. Sierra had been lying to me, covering her own ass. She was to blame. Not Brazos. Right?
Nick rocked back on his heels. “How’d you expect your manager to get your taxes done if you didn’t give her your income information?”
Brazos addressed Nick’s question, though his eyes were still on me. “Sierra had access to all of my income records. In fact, every time I received any kind of financial data I gave her a copy. She lied about that, too.”
As he spoke, he scratched himself behind the ear. He might have just had an itch, but I also knew that scratching one’s ear or nose or touching one’s throat or face could be indicative that the speaker was lying. Was Brazos telling me the truth? Or had Sierra told me the truth? I had no idea whom to believe at this point. Brazos had previously claimed not to have received the letters sent by the collections department. Understandably, I now had trouble believing he was as on top of his financial paperwork as he’d just claimed. That coil of tension that had released only a moment ago began to recoil inside me, like a rattlesnake preparing to strike.
This case was coming down to a he said/she said situation. We special agents never liked those. We liked cases we could prove undeniably via paper or electronic trails.
People lied. Numbers didn’t.
I felt Nick’s eyes on me and turned to look at him.
His frustration was evident by the firm set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes and mouth. “If everything you’re telling us is true,” he said to Brazos, “then you’ll want to get this matter resolved and get your taxes all paid up.”
Brazos dipped his head in agreement. “As soon as possible.”
“Fan-damn-tastic.” Nick pulled the agreement from the inside pocket of his jacket, where he’d stashed it after taking it from my briefcase on the drive over. He held it out to Brazos. “You’ll have no trouble signing this agreement, then.”
“It’s to your benefit,” I pointed out. “Your account is accruing over two thousand in interest per day.”
The singer’s eyes widened. “How much?”
“Over two grand. Two thousand one hundred ninety-one dollars and seventy-eight cents to be precise.”
He blinked. “You’re kidding, right?”
I shook my head.
Brazos took the paper from Nick and read over the one-page agreement. Now it was he whose jaw was set, who looked tight around the eyes and mouth. Brazos looked up, ignoring me now and setting his sights on Nick. “I’d be glad to get this back to you once I run it past my attorney.”
Nick snorted. “Can’t you read? That’s one page of straightforward, black-and-white English. There’s no room for misinterpretation. It says you’ll have your returns filed within the month and make arrangements to get your taxes paid. That’s all. It’s not rocket science.”
Brazos offered Nick a shrug. “I don’t sign anything without my lawyer taking a look at it first. Surely you can understand that. You’re not trying to deny me the right to an attorney, are you?”
If not for the smug, self-satisfied grin playing about the singer’s lips, I might’ve still been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But in that instant I feared I’d been wrong to ever trust the guy.
Nick stopped breathing for a moment and I could sense him mentally counting to ten to prevent himself from snapping the singer’s neck like a toothpick. Hell, I felt like doing it, too, but I knew I couldn’t. The situation was clear to me now. Brazos had been playing me for a fool, stringing me along, toying with me. No doubt he’d already spoken with an attorney who’d suggested this very strategy, knowing it would temporarily tie our hands, give Brazos yet another reprieve.
Several years ago, a federal judge was forced to dismiss the biggest tax fraud case in U.S. history after the prosecutors on the case were held to have effectively denied the defendants their right to counsel by preventing
the defendants’ employer, one of the Big Four accounting firms, from paying legal fees on behalf of the accused. Since then, everyone working for Uncle Sam had been advised to be especially cautious when it came to defendants and their lawyers. No way would Nick and I risk the case against Brazos by interfering with his right to have an attorney look at the agreement, no matter how unnecessary that review might seem.
“Call your attorney right now,” Nick suggested. “That’s a short agreement. You can read it to your lawyer over the phone.”
Though the smile remained on Brazos’s face, his eyes flung sharp daggers at Nick. “I’m sure she’d rather see a hard copy.”
“No problem,” Nick said. “That’s what technology is for. Snap a photo with your cell phone and attach it to an e-mail. She can print it out and take a look.”
A frown flickered across the singer’s face. He continued to balk. “My attorney is very busy.”
“Surely not too busy for a star like you,” Nick said. “Besides, you don’t know if she’s busy right now unless you call, right?”
Brazos said nothing, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest indicated he was secretly seething.
“Remember when we first met?” I said to Brazos. “You said you wanted to cooperate.”
He had the nerve to snort then, and tossed a look my way that was so full of contempt it froze the blood in my veins. “What the fuck did you expect me to say?”
Both my stomach and heart clenched into tight little balls. How could I have been so wrong about him? So stupid as to believe his lies?
I supposed I should’ve been more annoyed that Nick had taken over here, but honestly, I was glad he had. I wasn’t sure I could talk at the moment. Even though Brazos had misled me, even though he was being uncooperative, I still found it hard to overcome the long-held feelings I’d had toward the guy. No, not toward the guy, exactly, but toward the guy I thought Brazos had been. I’d been in awe of the Brazos Rivers I’d created in my mind. But the Brazos Rivers standing here in front of me? I supposed the most accurate way to describe what I felt for him was pity. This young man was clueless, and seemed intent on staying that way. The world had kissed his ass, fallen at his feet, let him get away with all sorts of bad behavior with impunity. Obviously, he’d expected the special treatment to continue.