by Diane Kelly
“How could anyone have dumped a pretty thing like you?” Nick said in a soft, soothing voice.
Pretty? The dog was anything but. Still, those blue eyes held some appeal and once she put on some weight and her fur grew back she probably wouldn’t look so pitiful.
The dog turned away, scooting herself into the back corner as if trying to make herself disappear. Poor thing.
“Hey, wallflower,” Nick called to her, refusing to give up on the beast. “Give me a chance, huh?”
She cast another glance back at him, this one a little less fearful, maybe even curious. With her big feet, bad hair, and less-than-friendly demeanor, others looking for a new pet probably hadn’t given her a second look. No doubt she wondered why Nick hadn’t yet moved on to the next cage. Though I felt sorry for the dog, I was wondering the same thing myself.
“She’s not well socialized yet,” the woman said, “but we’re working on it.”
“That’s okay,” Nick said. “I always did like girls who played hard to get.”
True. When I’d first met Nick I’d been in a serious relationship with another guy. Nick had been patient, though, pecking away at my defenses until I finally surrendered, breaking things off with Brett and starting a new relationship with Nick.
“What kind of dog is she?” I asked.
“She’s an Australian shepherd mix,” the woman said. “We’ve guessed her age to be around two years.”
“Can I go inside and take a closer look?” Nick asked.
“Sure. Just be careful. Approach her slowly.”
Nick lifted the latch to the enclosure and stepped inside, closing it gently behind him. He bent down so he’d be at the dog’s level. “Come on, sweetie. Come say hello.” He held out a hand for her to sniff.
I knew she’d come around. No female could resist Nick’s charms forever.
Sure enough, the dog turned her head and extended her snout. Her ears pricked up and her brown nose twitched as she gave Nick’s hand a thorough sniff.
When she finished the sniff test, he reached up under her chin and gave her a scratch. “See? I’m not so bad, huh?”
The end of her tail gave one tiny wag, so small I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been watching the two so closely.
“I saw your tail move,” Nick told her. “You’re warming up to me, aren’t you?”
The tail wagged again, unmistakably this time, hitting the concrete floor with a thump-thump-thump.
“Want to come home with me?” Nick asked.
The woman beside me emitted a soft giggle. I knew exactly what that giggle meant. If the dog won’t come home with you, heck, I will!
“How about it?” Nick asked the dog. “Want to be my girl?”
She extended her snout again and licked his hand.
“All right, wallflower,” he said, reaching out now to rumple her ears. “We’ve got a deal.”
A twinge of jealousy crimped my gut. Ridiculous, I know, to be envious of a dog, but I couldn’t help myself, even if this whole thing had been my idea in the first place.
Nick stood. “I’m going to call you Daffodil. What do you think about that?”
The dog’s tail wagged fully this time. She must’ve liked her new name. I thought it was a little goofy, but at least it was better than Nutty.
An hour later, Nick and Daffodil and I were in the pet supply store, looking over the collars. He’d tried a dozen on the dog.
“Which one do you think I should get?” he asked. “The blue one brings out her eyes, but the purple one with the polka dots is cute, too.”
The dog looked from one of Nick’s hands to the other, as if she couldn’t make up her mind, either.
“You’re not fooling me,” I told her. “I know dogs are color blind.” I returned my attention to Nick. “Get them both,” I suggested. “No girl likes to wear the same thing every day.”
“Good idea.”
We emerged from the store a half hour and a hundred dollars later. Daffodil was now the proud owner of not one, but two new squeaky toys, one in the shape of a rubber chicken, the other a porcupine. She also had a case of gourmet canned dog food and three different boxes of crunchy treats. Nick had even bought her a new doggie toothbrush.
By the time we arrived at Nick’s place, Daffodil was wagging her tail, running back and forth between us on the seat of the truck, and yapping happily. We climbed out of the truck and she hopped to the ground, prancing around Nick’s front yard like the prom queen now instead of the wallflower.
I shook my head. “That dog totally played you.”
“You think?” Nick said, though the smile on his face told me he didn’t care whether the furry creature had manipulated him. When she ran back to him, he knelt down and scratched her behind the ears. “I think I’m in love with you already.”
I felt a twinge in my heart on hearing his words. We’d been together quite a while now and he hadn’t told me he was in love with me, yet he’d had this mutt for only a couple of hours and was already proclaiming his love for her. I couldn’t help but be a little miffed.
Nick cut a glance my way. “No need to get jealous,” he said, a smile playing about his lips. “I think I’m in love with her, but I know I’m in love with you.”
My heart began pounding in my chest. Had he just…? Did he say…? Could he…? My lungs had stopped taking in air and it took everything in me to wheeze out a simple, “Do what?”
Nick chuckled and his whiskey eyes locked on mine. “I love you, Tara.”
My heart spun in my chest like the bottle on the deck. “You do?”
“Is that such a surprise?” He exhaled a long breath. “Why do you think I’ve been so pissed off about your crush on that no-talent twerp we busted?”
Moments ago I’d wanted to choke the life out of Brazos. Now I found myself choking up. “You love me, Nick? Really?”
“Well, duh. I put up with all of your crap, don’t I?”
After all I’d put Nick through, acting like such a twit about Brazos and dismissing his feelings, he could still love me? That really said something.
Happy tears filled my eyes. “Oh, Nick!” I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him tight, fearing I might float away otherwise. “I love you, too!”
We held each other for a moment. I’d never felt so content, so fulfilled, so thoroughly and utterly whole. Brazos might be overrated as a songwriter, but he’d got that part right.
“I hate to put an end to this,” Nick said, stepping backward. “But I better get some food in that dog before she starves to death.”
I rolled my eyes. “You are such a man.” More than three consecutive seconds of intimacy and they began to freak out. Still, I’d take what I could get. Besides, those three seconds were so damn awesome they’d hold me over for a really long time.
chapter thirty-five
Cry Me a River
Winthrop Merriweather VII was treated for a minor concussion at the hospital in Galveston, kept overnight for observation, and released into the custody of the two female federal marshals. They’d transported him from the island to the federal detention facility near Dallas, where he awaited his bail hearing scheduled for later this morning.
On my drive to the office Friday morning, I thought about Nick and what he’d told me. He loves me. Although I supposed I’d known it on some level, it sure was great to hear him say it out loud. I’d had the warm fuzzies ever since. I’d even found myself doodling the name Tara Pratt on a fast-food receipt in my car. Sheesh. I was like a schoolgirl, huh? Still, the name had a nice ring to it. And speaking of rings, I wondered whether there might be one in my future and what it might look like. But perhaps I was getting way ahead of myself here …
I arrived at the office to see Nick situating a framed photo on his desk. I ventured into his office. The five-by-seven photo was a snapshot of Daffodil that he must have taken last night. The rubber chicken hung limply from her mouth. She looked up at the camera, her head cocked at an ador
able angle.
I was many things, but adorable was not one of them. How could I compete with that?
I frowned, green with envy. “You don’t have a photo of me in here, but you’ve got one of your dog?”
Nick shrugged. “If I want to see you, all I have to do is look across the hall.”
“Gee. Thanks.” I treated him to a raspberry.
“You’ve got no one to blame but yourself,” he said. “You’re the one who made me go to the animal shelter.”
True. And I was glad he had a new canine companion, even if it did mean I’d be sharing Nick’s affections. I’d just have to get over it, huh?
I glanced at my watch. “Ready to go?”
“Hell yeah.”
Nick and I met up with Brazos and his attorney at the federal courthouse. A group of fans was gathered in the hallway, alerted by someone who’d spotted the singer entering the building. When they spotted Brazos coming up the hall, they flocked to him, offering him more flowers, teddy bears, and phone numbers, all of which he promptly dropped into a trash can after entering the courtroom. Knowing what I knew now, I felt sorry for those girls. Their attention and dreams were being wasted on a guy who wasn’t worthy of them.
Fortunately, Judge Trumbull had ordered her bailiff to keep the fans out of her courtroom. The last thing we needed right now was some crazed fan attempting to avenge Brazos by attacking the IRS agents who’d brought him down.
Winthrop VII’s attorney was one I’d dealt with before, in a case against men running a mortgage fraud scheme. Jacqueline Plimpton was young, black, and thin, a graduate of Harvard Law School with a zeal for the courtroom and an ego nearly as big as Brazos Rivers’s had been.
While he’d maintained his usual sparkly demeanor in the hallway with his fans, in the courtroom Brazos looked defeated. His shoulders were slumped, his normally dazzling eyes were dull, and his gaze was cast downward. He looked every bit the overgrown child that he was. At least he didn’t appear to be pouting. Maybe finally having someone put him in his place had been good for him. Maybe he’d bounce back from this experience having learned a few things. Maybe he’d be wiser from here on out, less juvenile, more responsible. One could hope, huh?
The Merriweathers had come to court to support their son. They appeared simultaneously concerned and peeved, though they seemed more irritated at their son than the IRS.
Today, the judge would set bail for Brazos. I only hoped her infatuation with Brazos wouldn’t impede her judgment as much as mine had.
“Your Honor,” Ross O’Donnell argued on behalf of the IRS, “Mr. Merriweather should be denied bail. He’s a clear flight risk. He’s already traveled out of the country when he knew federal agents were looking to arrest him.”
Of course, he’d come back into the U.S. not long afterward, which either meant his trip to Cozumel, Mexico, had been for pleasure only and not an attempt to evade arrest, or that the captain he’d hired had a full-payment-in-advance policy and Brazos had only paid for a week of services. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say his return to Galveston was for the latter reason.
Judge Trumbull looked from Ross to Plimpton, letting her eyes linger for a moment on Brazos as they swept past him. Her eyes twinkled with awe and a flirtatious smile played about her lips, but at least she wasn’t pleasuring her gavel today.
The defense attorney was more than happy to oblige the judge with a rejoinder. “Mr. Rivers no longer has the means to leave the country. The IRS has seized his car, his tour bus, his boat, and his private plane.”
It was true. Once the security team had told us of the whereabouts of Brazos’s mobile assets, we’d contacted agents in the collections department to solicit their help in seizing the vehicles and vessels. Everything was now housed at the impound lot, in preparation for public auction. The only thing Brazos purportedly had to his name were the clothes on his back, the boots and spurs on his feet, and his teeny-tiny wiener. Neener-neener. However, we also suspected he might have a foreign bank account he had yet to divulge.
Plimpton continued to argue the singer’s case. “Mr. Rivers is far too well-known to be able to escape. Every time he goes out in public, a fan posts the information on Facebook or Twitter. You saw the fans in the hallway. Brazos has nowhere to hide, even if he wanted to. It would be impossible.”
“Speaking of Galveston,” Trumbull said, “what exactly happened down there?”
I suspected her question was more a matter of personal curiosity than a need for the information.
Ross gestured to Nick, inviting him to explain.
Nick stood to address the judge. “Agent Holloway and I boarded the River Rat to look for Winthrop. We found him asleep in bed. When—”
“What was he wearing?” the judge asked Nick, though her eyes were on Brazos.
Yep, definitely personal curiosity.
“He was wearing his boots, his spurs, and his hat,” Nick said.
“That’s all?” she asked, her voice husky with lust. Her eyelids drooped and her lips parted as she seemed to be picturing Brazos in his naked glory, which, in reality, wasn’t all that glorious once you went south of his belly button. Seriously, his thing looked like it should be slicked up with tartar sauce. Judge Trumbull gripped the heavy end of her gavel with both hands, the handle sticking straight up between them, creating a phallic effect. “I heard something on TV about a concussion. Tell me about the arrest, how he got the head injury.”
As Nick explained how he and Brazos had gone at each other on the boat, and then in the water, the judge’s gaze went from Nick to Brazos and back again. She sucked her lip into her mouth and worked it as she listened, apparently visualizing the two attractive men fighting each other, probably pretending they were fighting over her. Obviously, the visual her mind created was getting her hot and bothered. But who could blame her? I’d gotten a little hot and bothered, too. I half expected the judge to take a personal recess, go back to her chambers and stick some ice down her pants to cool herself off.
When Nick finished, the judge gave herself a moment to finish indulging in her erotic courtroom fantasy, then sat up, all business now, and turned to Plimpton. “Honey, your client needs a wake-up call. A swift kick in the rear, too, but looks like Agents Pratt and Holloway have already taken care of that. You better set him straight.”
The judge looked directly at Brazos now, pointing her gavel at him. “Don’t you ever lay a hand on a federal agent again, you hear me? These folks put their lives on the line every day and they don’t need some overblown choirboy taking potshots at them. If I ever hear of you pulling a stunt like that again, I won’t just throw the book at you, I’ll beat you with it first.”
With that, she set his bail at $2 million.
“Your Honor,” Plimpton argued, stepping forward. “That’s much too high!”
Trumbull snorted. “That kid’s got platinum albums falling out of his ears. You trying to tell me he can’t afford to post bond?”
A defendant would be out of pocket only 10 percent of the bond’s cost, with the bail bondsman posting the remainder. Surely Brazos could scrape together two hundred grand.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Your Honor.” Plimpton went on to say that Brazos was essentially broke. Evidently his decision to fire Sierra and the Boys of the Bayou hadn’t been entirely out of animosity. He’d run out of money to pay them.
The judge frowned. “Where the hell has all of his money gone?”
Brazos’s head hung a little lower. For the first time since he entered the courtroom, he spoke. “Booze. Expensive hotels. Travel. Dinners at fancy restaurants. Not just for me, but for my crew and friends and some of my fans, too.”
It dawned on me then that Brazos, who’d been isolated as a child and never attended school with other children, probably had no idea how to develop and maintain a friendship. He’d attempted to buy his friends, to impress them with his money. And where had all of that gotten him? Penniless and imprisoned.
; Plimpton handed the judge copies of statements from Winthrop’s paltry bank account, the one I already knew about. She handed a copy to Ross, as well. Ross, in turn, showed it to me and Nick. The statement showed a current balance of only $43,147.65. A mere pittance given what the star had earned over the years.
“Is this it?” I asked. “There are no foreign accounts? No investment accounts? Just this checking account?”
“That’s all,” Plimpton said. “Those documents show everything Brazos has to his name.”
The judge looked at the Merriweathers. “You didn’t teach your son how to handle his money?”
Mr. Merriweather, who’d remained silent up to this point, stood in the gallery. “We tried,” he said. “Obviously we weren’t successful.”
“Didn’t he buy your ranch?” I asked.
Mr. Merriweather shook his head. “That’s just rumor. My wife and I paid for the ranch with money we received when we sold our syrup business.” He returned his attention to the judge. “Winnie’s not much more than a kid, Your Honor. He’s barely twenty-two. I hope you’ll take that into account.”
Trumbull chuckled. “You want me to ground him? Order him to remain in his bedroom and take away his TV privileges?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Nick said. “Can you order him to keep his pants on, too?”
The judge pointed her gavel at Nick. “Hush, Agent Pratt. If there’s going to be any trash talk in my courtroom it’s going to come from my mouth and my mouth only.”
Nick ducked his head in acquiescence. “I’ll keep my thoughts to myself, Your Honor.”
Eventually bail was reduced to $1 million, the Merriweathers promised to keep a tight rein on their son, and Winthrop VII promised to behave. Plimpton informed Ross that she wanted to discuss a negotiated plea deal, and the two of them headed out to the Department of Justice to work out the details.
Nick and I returned to our offices at the IRS, walking side by side in silence. Though we loved to see cases resolved, there was always a certain reflective period after finally nabbing a target, a time when we looked back on the case, mulled over what went right and what went wrong, what we might do better next time, what we had accomplished and what we had yet to achieve.