Death, Taxes, and Silver Spurs

by Diane Kelly

  We dropped the bodyguards at the bus station and drove over to the San Luis Resort. We’d obtained the key to Brazos’s suite from his boat. Nick and I stepped inside to find the place thoroughly and utterly trashed. Lamps lay on the floor, their shades smashed. Curtains had been pulled from their rods and sat in crumpled heaps on the floor. The mattresses lay askew, halfway off their box springs.

  “My God,” Nick said, “Hurricane Ike did less damage than this.”

  It looked like a party had taken place in the suite. More liquor bottles were strewn about here, including a shattered bottle of Smirnoff Wild Honey vodka on the floor of the kitchenette, surrounded by sharp shards of glass. Wet bathing suits and towels littered the floor, giving off the funk of stale salt water and mildew. Three moldy slices of petrified cheese pizza floated in three inches of water in the clogged bathtub. I used a toothbrush to pull a pair of black lace panties from the drain.

  Obviously, there was truth to the rumors after all. I couldn’t believe I’d once fantasized about a man who’d do something this stupid and boorish and juvenile. But I supposed I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. I’d been in love with a fantasy version of Brazos, one that I’d embellished and polished and perfected in my mind. Nothing wrong with that, necessarily. We all need a little fantasy, don’t we? Our own Prince Charming to dream about? But what I was getting now was a big dose of raw reality. Also, a fresh whiff of something that smelled like vomit coming from the second bedroom. Urk.

  “I’ll call the front desk,” Nick said, “let them know Brazos won’t be back. And to send a whole crew of maids.”

  “This place doesn’t need housekeepers,” I replied. “It needs a hazmat team. Or a wrecking ball. Or some gasoline and a match.”

  While Nick made the call, I checked the drawers and closets. I found two spare pairs of boots and spurs. I confiscated those. Heck, regardless of the shame the singer had now brought upon himself, the boots would likely fetch a pretty penny at a government auction. We’d use the proceeds to offset his long-outstanding tax bill. I also found a couple pairs of jeans I suspected belonged to Brazos, along with two western shirts and a leather jacket.

  Nick picked up a hotel notepad from the bedroom desk, took a look at the scribbles on it, and chuckled. “Looks like Winnie was writing a new song. Get a load of this. ‘Hop aboard my train, girl, it’s coming into town, my caboose is loose and my engine is hot.’ Looks like he had trouble rhyming the last verse. He’s got a bunch of crap marked out.”

  Nick held the paper out so I could read it. Brazos had lined through “baby, give me what you got,” as well as “you know I want you, want you a lot.”

  “Ugh. That’s horrible.” I took the paper from Nick. “But I bet this scrap of paper is worth something.”

  Nick arched a brow. “Still think the guy’s a poet?”

  “No. I think he’s a poser. An oversexed, man-whore pretender.”

  Nick chuckled. “I knew you’d come around.”

  Nick and I rode the elevator down to the parking garage. The Ferrari was parked on the first level.

  “Gotta say,” Nick said as we approached the car, “she is a thing of beauty.”

  That she was. I couldn’t wait to put my ass in the seat, grip the wheel, and open her up. Like I said, my federal badge was like a get-out-of-jail-free card. Still …

  “Heads up,” I said.

  When Nick looked up, I tossed him the car keys.

  A big smile brightened his face as he snatched them out of the air. “Are you kidding me? You’re going to let me drive it first?”

  “Why not? You’ve helped me out a lot in this case.” More precisely, he’d tried to take it over. But that was water under the bridge at this point. What was important was that Brazos was in custody, his assets had been located, and nobody had been seriously hurt.

  Nick unlocked the car and we climbed in.

  He moaned in pleasure as he settled into the seat. “This thing cradles your ass.”

  He was right. “It’s like sitting in butter.”

  After taking a quick look around the dash, he reached out his hand to turn on the stereo. The strains of opera streamed out of the speakers.

  “What the hell is this crap?” Nick said. “Bonnaduce?”

  “Danny Bonnaduce was the redheaded kid from The Partridge Family,” I said. “I think you mean Pavarotti.”

  “Whoever the hell it is,” Nick said, “I’m not waiting for the fat lady to sing. This is over. Now.” He punched the button to eject the CD, yanked it from the player, and tossed it over his shoulder. He tuned the radio to a country station. Ironically, the DJ was playing a Brazos Rivers song. “Whaddya know,” Nick said. “I do want to get fast and filthy.”

  He started the engine. It purred like a kitten with a full tummy.

  He backed out of the spot and headed to the exit for the parking garage. “Listen to that engine. I’m going to open this baby up and see what she can do.”

  “You realize you only get to drive as far as the boat ramp, right?” I told him.

  He slammed on the brakes, throwing both of us forward until the seat belts snapped us back. “What did you just say?”

  “I can’t drive your truck all the way back to Dallas,” I said. “I don’t know how to drive something that’s pulling a trailer.”

  “That’s a lame excuse,” he spat.

  “Your boat is your baby,” I reminded him. “If I put so much as a tiny scratch on that thing you’d never forgive me.”

  “True.” He looked up in thought. “In that case, we might have to take a little detour on the way to the boat ramp. That is, if you’re willin’.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, giving him a grin. “I’m definitely willin’.”

  Nick zipped out of the garage and headed down the island, away from the developed area. Midweek there was virtually no traffic on this stretch of road and we could see a full mile ahead. He pushed down on the accelerator, then pushed down some more. The needle on the speedometer eased up to eighty, ninety, a hundred. When it reached one hundred twenty, he held it steady, unrolled the windows to let in a blast of ocean air, and tossed his head back. “Yee-ha!”

  A mile later, he pulled onto a secluded stretch of beach and cut the engine. “You know what would be even better than driving this Ferarri?”

  “What?”

  “Making love in it.” He wagged his brows. “Few people have had the opportunity to ride in a car like this. Even fewer have fooled around in one. What do you say? Want to knock one out?” He made a fist and faked a punch, making a clucking noise with his tongue.

  I was willin’ to do that, too. “Why not?”

  Unfortunately, the thought of fooling around in a Ferrari was much sexier than the actual process. There wasn’t much wiggle room in the cab. Eventually we realized the only way to make things work was for me to be on top. Even that didn’t work very well. Every time Nick thrust into me, I ended up hitting my butt on the steering wheel and activating the horn.

  Honk.

  Honk.

  Honk.

  Hoooooooonk!

  We eventually gave up, climbed out of the car, and finished on the hood with a dozen voyeuristic seagulls scolding us. Caw! Caw! Caw!

  When we finished, we climbed off and gathered our clothes.

  I glanced over at Nick. “You’ve got the Ferrari emblem imprinted on your ass.”

  He looked back over his shoulder, shrugged, and gave me that smile that never failed to warm my heart. “Totally worth it.”

  chapter thirty-four

  Played by a Pup

  The arrest of Brazos Rivers hit the airwaves like a freight train. His mug shot made the front page of virtually every newspaper in the nation, and the story was the lead on both the local and national evening news. Fortunately, given that I’d returned to Dallas immediately after he’d been taken into custody—well, immediately after Nick and I finished having sex on the beach—I’d managed to avoid the media frenzy. The local
police in Galveston and the two female marshals had been interviewed extensively, and appeared thrilled to have been involved in taking down such a notorious, and sexy, target.

  When I arrived at the office Thursday morning, Brazos had racked up another $2,191.78 in interest and my voice mail box had been flooded. It took me a full twenty minutes to listen to my messages. Reporters had called with request after request for interviews and information about Brazos and his tax woes. I jotted down their names and phone numbers and handed the list to an intern, instructing him to call them back with the name and phone number of the IRS public relations officer. As much undercover work as I did, I’d just as soon keep my name and face out of the news. Especially now that I was getting so close to busting Larry Burkett, Russell Cobb, and Judge Craven in their “justice for sale” scam.

  At least I hoped I was close to busting them. It dawned on me as I headed to the courthouse that the preceding Friday could very well have been the final payment from Burkett to Judge Craven. After all, the payola couldn’t be expected to go on forever, right? At some point the bill for the verdict would be paid in full.

  On the other hand, who in their right mind would make full payment on something that had yet to be delivered? Maybe the payments would continue, at least until immediately after the verdict was rendered. Hell, I didn’t know. Criminals didn’t follow an established protocol. It wasn’t like there was a rulebook to follow. Things could go either way.

  My mind briefly toyed with what my options would be if I were unable to bring this case to a resolution tomorrow night. I supposed I could initiate an audit of PPE. After all, the cash withdrawals would show up in the bank statements. And I could easily prove that no such entity as Ector Oilfield Supply existed. But I feared it wouldn’t be enough. Burkett could plead the Fifth, refuse to share any more details. I’d be able to prove he’d sucked cash out of the company, and I could deny him the deductions for the illusory drill bits, but without evidence proving what was actually done with the cash it was unlikely I could sustain a criminal tax evasion case.

  As for maintaining a case against Cobb, the K on his Toyota license plate might not be enough to implicate him in picking up the cash at the marker. Plus, given that Judge Craven was a client of his, the two could easily explain his visits to her house as meetings to discuss her PR needs. After all, she was probably planning to run for another term once her current one expired. Defense attorneys were experts at poking holes in evidence and, without more, this case would look like a dartboard at an Irish pub once they were through with it.

  We needed solid evidence. Video footage that couldn’t be denied or reinterpreted. A paper trail.

  We need to catch them red-handed.

  The plan I’d devised last week over my glass of moscato had to work. If it didn’t we might be shit out of luck.

  As I sat in the courtroom Thursday afternoon, listening to a chemist testify on behalf of the defense that the levels of toxins in the plaintiffs’ wells were too small to be of real concern, my resolve returned. Many of the plaintiffs had thought the gas leases and the royalties they’d earn would help put food on their tables, pay their mortgages, send their kids to college. Instead, they’d found themselves forced into financial ruin by PPE.

  Several had moved off their properties due to the health and safety concerns. Though they’d listed their properties with Realtors, none had been able to sell their homes and land, even at giveaway prices. Several of the ranches had been foreclosed on by the banks, leaving the plaintiffs homeless and with bad credit to boot.

  When the plaintiffs’ attorney cross-examined the chemist, he posed a litany of pointed questions. Hadn’t he barely graduated from college a mere five years ago, having earned only a 2.1 GPA? Hadn’t he had trouble finding stable employment since? Hadn’t he been paid to testify on behalf of the oil and gas companies in thirteen other fracking trials? Hadn’t his paper minimizing the safety risks of fracking been rejected by scientific journals due to a lack of thorough research and substantiation?

  Clearly, his so-called expert opinion had been bought, too. Sheesh. Brazos had sold out to the music market. Judge Craven had sold out to a gas company. So had Cobb and this guy. Was everyone for sale? It sure seemed that way.

  When testimony concluded at the end of the day, the defense rested.

  “I have some smaller matters to hear in the morning,” Judge Craven said, looking down at the attorneys. “I’ll have my verdict for you at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” With that, she banged her gavel—bam!—gathered up the notes from her bench, and disappeared through the door to her chambers.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, I let Nick drive the Ferrari from the IRS to the federal auto impound lot. It was the least I could do for the man who’d tolerated my silly celebrity crush. Well, maybe tolerated was too strong a word. Suffered through was perhaps more precise. Either way, I figured I owed him. I’d unintentionally hurt him, stepped on his feelings, made him look and feel like a cuckold. Letting him drive the car was small recompense, but at least it was something.

  At the attendant’s direction, Nick pulled the car into a spot in the warehouse where the upscale vehicles were maintained for safekeeping. Reluctantly, he climbed out, emitting a loud, long sigh as he handed the keys over. “It was fun while it lasted.”

  I scooted over into the passenger seat of Nick’s truck.

  He climbed in and took the wheel, taking one last, longing glance back at the Ferrari. “I’m going to miss that car. She was one sweet ride.”

  “If you want a sweet ride,” I said, sending my best seductive grin his way, “I’ll take you on one.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “Now you’re talking.”

  Nick drove out of the impound lot and headed down the surface street.

  “Get on I-30,” I told him.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I said so.”

  He cut me a narrow-eyed look, mumbled something about being pussy-whipped, and drove onto I-30. When we reached the Hampton Road exit, I told him to take it. A few blocks later we pulled up to the SPCA, the same shelter where I’d adopted my two cats a few years back.

  “What are we doing here?” he asked. “I thought we were going to have sex.”

  “We are,” I replied. “But first we’re getting you a new best friend.”

  Nick turned the key to stop the engine and slumped back in his seat, staring at the building in silence. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was soft and full of raw emotion. “No dog will ever be able to replace Nutty.”

  “I know that,” I said. “It doesn’t have to. But you need a new best friend.”

  His jaw flexed. “I’m doing just fine.”

  What a liar. I didn’t bother pointing out that his emotions were obvious. He was grieving and sad and lonely. I understood there would always be a place in his heart that only Nutty had been able to fill, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t another spot a new dog could occupy, right?

  I shrugged. “We’re already here. No harm in going in and taking a look, right?”

  “I suppose not.” Nick exhaled a long breath. “But I don’t want any pressure from you. Got it? I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

  I raised my palms to indicate my agreement. “Understood.”

  As we climbed out of his truck, we could hear the sounds of dogs barking over the rush of traffic on the elevated highway ramp behind us. High-pitched yips mixed with baritone woofs, with a sprinkling of mid-range arfs in between. One even bayed, howling as if he were a wolf under a full moon rather than a mutt under an overpass.

  Nick held the front door open for me and I stepped inside.

  “How can I help you?” asked the curly-haired woman manning the front desk.

  “He’s looking for a dog to adopt,” I said.

  Now it was Nick’s turn to raise a hand. “Hold on, now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m just here to take a loo
k. That’s all.”

  The woman looked from Nick to me.

  “His old dog just died,” I explained.

  “Ah,” was all she said, but her eyes told me she knew what Nick was going through, why he seemed reluctant. She stood and put a hand on his shoulder. Her gesture was probably intended to be an act of compassion and comfort, but I couldn’t help but think she’d taken advantage of the situation to cop a quick feel of Nick’s muscles. Heck, I would’ve done the same in her situation. Nick was every bit as handsome and sexy as Brazos Rivers. More so, even. Nick was tougher, an alpha dog. I supposed that would make me his bitch, though, huh? Not sure I liked that.

  The woman removed her hand from Nick’s shoulder and gestured for us to follow her. “Come this way. I’d be glad to show you around.”

  She led us back to the dog area and we made our way slowly up and down the rows, looking over the dogs available for adoption. A high-energy spotted terrier jumped up and down in one cage as if his legs were springs and he were a canine jack-in-the-box. A lazy black Lab lay on his side in another, yawning and stretching out his long legs as we passed by. In a third, a white Eskimo dog sat on his haunches, using his back leg to scratch behind his ear.

  Nick stopped in front of a cage that housed what had to be the ugliest dog I’d ever seen. Her feet appeared two sizes too big for her bony body. Her tail drooped. Her hair was a mottled mix of gray, black, white, and tan, with a number of thin spots, too, her pinkish skin showing through.

  “Mange?” I asked.

  “No,” the woman said. “Her fur was severely matted when she was brought in. Some of her hair fell out when we brushed her.”

  I guessed I shouldn’t fault the dog. If not for my hairdresser saving me with the weave, I’d have a sparse spot in my hair now, too.

  Nick eyed the dog, who cowered at the rear of her enclosure, her back to us. “What’s her story? Was she a stray?”

  The woman nodded. “Animal control found her near a school, nearly starved to death. It looked like someone had dumped her there.”

  When Nick knelt down, the dog flattened her ears and cast a glance over her shoulder, fear in her blue eyes.