Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure

by Diane Kelly

  I put the photo album back on the shelf and picked up a Rubik’s Cube I’d been working on for almost twenty years, the multicolored blocks on each side of the cube betraying my lack of success. I lay back on the bed, staring at my ceiling and twisting the blocks on the puzzle cube. I probably should have worked on my tax return, but my mind was too occupied with thoughts of Brett to concentrate, plagued with nagging doubts I’d tried so hard to ignore.

  Was Brett the man he appeared to be, an honest, hardworking, though somewhat naïve guy? Or was he a willing participant in Gryder and Shelton’s scheme?

  I fell asleep with these questions echoing in my mind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Bust Goes Bust

  The questions remained unanswered when I awoke the next morning to the ruckus of my brothers and their families arriving for church. My brothers chose to return to east Texas after college. Though they could have made more money in larger cities, they held my father’s belief that more money didn’t necessarily translate into better living. Staying in Nacogdoches wouldn’t have worked for me, but I respected their decisions.

  My bedroom door banged open and onto my bed leaped my favorite niece, five-year-old Jesse. Maybe it wasn’t right to have a favorite, but I couldn’t help it. She was so much like me it was scary. I grabbed her in a big hug and gave her a noisy kiss on the forehead. She smiled up at me. “Hi, Aunt Tara.”

  I released her and ruffled the bangs of her long, dark hair, the length pulled back into a single, thick braid. “How ya doing, cutie?”

  She hiked her thumbs in the front pockets of her tiny, elastic-waist blue jeans. “Never been better.”

  Oh, to be five years old, life having yet to kick you in the ass. “Glad to hear it.”

  After an enormous breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and home fries, we all drove to church and sat together in the same Baptist church I’d grown up in, our expanding family now taking up an entire pew. My square-jawed brothers and dad were virtual clones in their starched, creased jeans, button-down shirts, and straw cowboy hats, my mother the epitome of country chic in a chartreuse prairie skirt and matching blouse. Jess sat next to me, swinging her legs, her pointy-toed pink cowgirl boots not quite reaching the floor. There was no denying my family were country folk, upper-crust rednecks. They were also extremely kind, generous, and loving.

  Would Brett fit in with them? I bet he’d never been to a gun show, never partied in a cow pasture, never driven a tractor to the grocery store because the truck battery was dead. Poor guy. He’d missed out by growing up in the big city.

  Afterward, everyone drove back over to Mom and Dad’s for lunch.

  “Boy howdy, that’s one butt-ugly car,” my oldest brother said as he walked past Pinky in the driveway.

  Mom prepared chicken-fried steak, fried okra, and fried pies for dessert, her artery-clogger special. After we’d stuffed ourselves silly, Jesse and I headed out back with my old BB gun. I made a pyramid of empty root beer cans on the picnic table and knelt down next to her to help her take aim.

  “A little higher, Jess,” I suggested. “And don’t forget, the gun’s going to kick a little.”

  Jesse closed her left eye, sighting the gun, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth as she focused on her target. She pulled the trigger. Ping! The BB hit the bottom middle can square in the center, sending the pyramid tumbling to the ground.

  “A girl after my own heart.” I held up my palm and she gave me her best high five.

  * * *

  Back at my town house Sunday night, I chowed down on a bowl of Fruity Pebbles for dinner. Brett called as I was rinsing out my cereal bowl.

  “How about dinner tomorrow night?” he asked. “We could cook out.”

  I wasn’t sure a private dinner at his house was a good idea. After all, his house contained a bedroom and, doubts or no doubts, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to resist giving in to the desires Brett sparked in me. It had been all I could do to put a stop to things at the lakeside resort. His kisses, nuzzles, and caresses would surely wear down my resistance, turn my brain to mush, make the suspicions—and any other conscious, coherent thought—fade away, at least temporarily. Besides, rejecting him, refusing his advances, could seem strange, prudish, and further complicate things.

  But so would turning down his dinner invitation. He hadn’t seemed to buy the bad bratwurst excuse I’d offered on Thursday. Any further excuses for avoiding sex would likely cause him to back off, question my commitment to our relationship, make him wonder about my motives. In fact, refusing to sleep with him could jeopardize my ability to investigate his involvement in XChange Investments. Yep, sleeping with Brett was the only thing a dedicated special agent could do. I’d do it for all those honest taxpayers out there, for my country, for Uncle Sam. Then again, maybe I was just horny and trying to justify sleeping with a potential criminal by making it sound like my patriotic duty.

  “I’d love to have dinner at your place.” I wondered if I could buy some truth serum somewhere, slip a few drops in Brett’s drink, find out what he really knew about XChange Investments, Stan Shelton, and Michael Gryder. But where would truth serum be sold? I didn’t recall seeing it on the pharmacy’s herbal supplement aisle with the echinacea and Saint John’s wort. Probably it was regulated, available only with a court order. Damn FDA.

  * * *

  Monday morning dawned bright and warm. The perfect day to bust a drug-dealing ice-cream man. Also the perfect day to finally sleep with my hot, sexy, surely innocent boyfriend.

  After my shower, I strapped my holster over my polka-dot panties. I slid into a pair of cutoffs, the frayed ends of the denim tickling my thighs. I threw on a loose-fitting dark blue T-shirt that would conceal both the gun at my waist and the handcuffs crammed into the front pocket of my shorts. Tennis shoes were the best thing to wear on a takedown, where traction could become an issue if a target bolted or resisted arrest, so I pulled my running shoes out of my gym bag and put them on.

  I checked myself out in my full-length mirror. “Joe Cool, watch out,” I said to my reflection, forming pretend guns with both hands and aiming them at the glass. “Today, you’re going down.”

  * * *

  A half hour later at the office, Josh sneaked up behind me and peeked over my shoulder as I searched online for the cute bikini Christina and I had seen the other day in Cosmo.

  “Busted,” he said, adding chink-chink as he pretended to snap handcuffs on my wrists. “You’re not supposed to use government equipment for personal purposes. If I know of an offense, I’m duty-bound to report it.”

  Busybody. The Lobo wouldn’t give a rat’s ass. My online shopping wasn’t costing the government a cent. I was debating my response when I noticed a cheap ballpoint pen sticking out of the breast pocket of Josh’s shirt.

  I pulled the pen out of his pocket and read the logo inscribed on it. “Bryson and Associates, CPAs, hmm? Weren’t you investigating them for preparer fraud?” I faked a gasp and put a hand to my heart. “Josh, did you take this pen as a bribe?”

  Josh rolled his eyes. “I must have picked that up by accident.”

  He reached for the pen, but I jerked it back away from him. “I think I need to turn this in to the Lobo. Like you said, we’re duty-bound to report offenses.”

  Josh paused for a moment and our eyes seared holes into each other. “Reporting these minor infractions would be a waste of Lu’s time,” he said finally.

  I slid the pen back into his pocket, finished my swimsuit search, and ordered one in my size. I still hadn’t finished my tax return yet, but I was hoping for a refund big enough to cover the purchase. I was also hoping the swimsuit would cover my ass. Still had those extra ice-cream pounds loading me down. Maybe I should order the matching cover-up, too, just in case.

  As I was on my way out, Eddie caught me in the hall and handed me a heavy cardboard box filled with the last of Chisholm’s paperwork. “We’re almost done.”

  “You stil
l owe me,” I said, hefting the box onto my shoulder. “Big.”

  “Don’t worry,” Eddie assured me. “I’ll pay up.”

  “You can start by giving Josh some hell today.”

  Eddie grinned. “It would be my pleasure.”

  * * *

  When I pulled up to DEA headquarters, Christina hopped into Pinky. She wore cargo shorts along with a colorful Hawaiian-print cotton top and an equally bright grin on her face. “Today’s the day! Joe’s last ice-cream round.”

  “It’ll be an awful disappointment to our neighbors.”

  Christina lifted her shoulders. “I never liked them anyway.”

  At the crack shack, I reviewed a stack of invoices from Chisholm’s meat supplier while Christina paced back and forth. I might have been able to ignore her if it weren’t for her dangly charm bracelet constantly tinkling. “Would you be still? You’re making it hard for me to concentrate on this paperwork.”

  “I can’t,” Christina said. “I’m too excited. I’ve got that prebust buzz.”

  I felt the same way. A special kind of excitement preceded a takedown, the adrenaline already beginning to flow in anticipation. My nerves were on edge, as if I’d shaved over goose bumps. I couldn’t wait to take down that mullet-topped tax cheat. Still, another part of me was terrified. This was my first bust since Battaglia had attacked me. What if Joe fought back? What if he had a weapon? What if I got cut again, or worse?

  “Christina?” I said, unsure whether I should ask the next question, but needing to know I wasn’t alone. “Are you ever … scared?”

  She turned and looked me in the eye. Her eyes were hard, but her voice was soft. “All the time, Tara.”

  “Why do we do this?”

  She closed her eyes then, as if looking inside for the answer. “Because it’s who we are.”

  * * *

  Around one, Christina and I began preparing for Joe’s arrest, each of us hiding a small canister of pepper spray in the front pocket of our shorts. After loading clips into our guns, we slid them into our holsters and put on our ballistic vests. Neither the weapons nor the vests would likely be needed, but procedures required we wear them. After all, you never knew what criminals were capable of, especially when surprised and cornered.

  Two o’clock came and went with no sign of Joe. We opened the windows wider to make sure we’d hear his music the minute he entered the neighborhood. We took turns peeking out the blinds. By two-thirty, we’d grown antsy and moved outside onto the porch. My back began to perspire in my vest, my skin sticky with sweat. Kevlar doesn’t exactly breathe. Ick.

  The guys across the street came out to sit on their stoop, too. Their dog lay in the shade under their porch, chewing on the bottom step. He’d probably have the whole house eaten before long.

  I went inside, grabbed a couple of Diet Cokes from the fridge, and ventured back out on the front porch. We drank our sodas and waited, Christina anxiously chewing her lower lip, constantly checking her watch. I relieved my anxiety by wiggling my toes and clenching my buttocks, working my glutes. I wasn’t just nervous about arresting Joe. I was also feeling anxious about my date with Brett that evening. Had I really tried to convince myself earlier that it was my patriotic duty to sleep with my boyfriend?

  The chunky blonde from next door came outside to retrieve her mail from the dented mailbox at the curb. She extended no greeting to us, just thumbed through her mail, tearing open an envelope. She read the contents and muttered to herself, an unflattering and expletive-ridden diatribe about the electric company and where it could put its bill.

  After waiting another long, anxiety-filled hour, I said, “Joe’s always come before four o’clock. Something’s up.”

  Christina’s only response was to bite her lip harder.

  Joe never came, but five o’clock did. “No way he’d be this late,” Christina said.

  I whispered, “Do you think he figured out who we are?” We’d put on a pretty convincing act. But had Joe caught on? Did he notice something Friday night that clued him in to the fact we weren’t the skanky slackers we pretended to be?

  Christina blew out a breath. “I hope Joe isn’t on to us. The last agent who blew his cover got transferred to Bismarck.” She gestured at her torso. “A body like this wasn’t made to be covered up with a parka.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Howdy, Neighbors

  Christina and I went back inside. She stood at the window, her hand in her hair, worried. The dog across the street barked once, and Christina’s eyes narrowed. She turned to me. “Just so the day isn’t a total waste, how about we go bust our neighbors?”

  I hadn’t signed on for that, but what the hell. At that point we had no idea whether we’d ever see Joe again. I couldn’t bear the thought that I’d spent the last three weeks in this hellhole for nothing. At least if we could bust those two, we’d have something to show for our efforts. Or at least Christina would. The IRS wasn’t interested in drug users, only in dealers who failed to report and pay taxes on their profits. But no way would I leave Christina to handle their arrest on her own.

  “I’m in. What’s the plan?”

  A sly smile spread across Christina’s mouth. “Puta.” She quickly ran through her proposed strategy.

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “Seriously,” she said. “I’m telling you, it works every time. You offer sex to a man and his mind stops working. They’ll be putty in our hands.”

  Not a strategy I could ever use in a tax investigation, but it would be a learning experience.

  “I don’t know what they bought from Joe, so we’ve got to be ready for anything.” She retrieved her purse and pulled out a syringe, a roach clip, a lighter, and a small brass tube with a mouthpiece.

  “What’s that?” I asked. “A kazoo?”

  She snorted. “This is for smoking crack, not playing ‘Jimmy Crack Corn.’” She tossed it to me. “Put it in your pocket.”

  I slid the pipe into the back pocket of my shorts.

  She pulled one final thing from her purse, her field test kit. She stuck it in the oversized side pocket of her cargo shorts. “Let’s roll.”

  I followed Christina out the door and across the street. When the guys realized we were headed their way, they stood from their spots on the steps. Their expressions were both interested and wary. The dog wore the exact same expression.

  Christina stepped right up to them. I wasn’t sure exactly what she said next since she spoke in Spanish, but since a lecherous sneer spread across both of their faces, the men were clearly interested in what she was offering. The guys turned to go inside. Christina gestured for me to follow them.

  We stepped into the living room, furnished only with a lumpy metal-framed futon, a battered army trunk that served as a coffee table, and a big-screen television, all of which bore a coating of dust.

  “What do you got?” Christina asked, pulling out her syringe and roach clip.

  I followed suit, removing the crack pipe from my back pocket. Apparently, we were drug whores, willing to try anything these guys might have.

  “First things first,” the taller guy said, a perverse smile on his face as he began to unbuckle his belt. The other did the same.

  “Oh, hell no,” Christina said, making a slash through the air with her index finger. “You’re not getting any until we see the goods.”

  The two men exchanged glances and the taller one left the room, returning a moment later with a Baggie. Inside was a dark powdery substance that looked like brown sugar. I had no idea what it might be or how it might be taken. I let Christina take the lead.

  She snatched the Baggie from his hand and opened it, releasing a faint vinegar-like smell. She grinned, resealed the Baggie, and dropped it on the trunk.

  “Okay, let’s go,” she said. “Which bedroom is yours?”

  This must be the “divide and conquer” part of the plan.

  Christina followed her prey into his bedroom, closing the door be
hind her. The shorter guy jerked his head toward another door. I followed him in, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he’d hear it.

  The bedroom was a pigsty, the floor covered with dirty, discarded clothing. The space smelled like dirty socks and sweat. Not exactly a romantic love nest. The guy stopped next to the unmade bed and began to unzip his pants.

  I’d never been so nervous. I was supposed to act like I’d done this before, but casual sex didn’t come naturally to me. “If we’re going to do this,” I said, “I should at least know your name.”

  “Shit, girl. I’m not your prom date. Just get naked.” The guy unzipped his pants and shamelessly dropped trou.

  He wasn’t hard. I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or insulted. But, what the heck? It looked like his thingy was wearing a turtleneck.

  “Ew!”

  The guy looked down at his crotch, then back up at me, frowning. “What the fuck is your problem?”

  “Sorry. I’ve never seen an uncircumcised…” I gestured in the general direction of his nether regions. “You know.”

  He gave me a lewd grin. “Want to take a closer look?”

  He laughed when I involuntarily grimaced. He sat on the edge of the dingy, unmade bed and looked at me expectantly.

  This situation had not been covered in my training at the IRS. But it was too late to turn back now.

  “What are you waiting for?” the guy demanded.

  Okay, now I was mad. Which was good. Anger worked for me. I knelt down in front of him. He emitted a nasty chuckle. Before he could figure out what was happening, I slid my cuffs out of my pocket and clasped one around each of his ankles.

  “What the fuck?” He leaped to his feet. Big mistake. The momentum carried him forward. I scurried out of the way while he toppled forward across the room, unable to get his balance. He crashed into the door and fell to the ground, shouting something in Spanish that I could only guess was a warning to his roommate.