Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure

by Diane Kelly

  The guy struggled to get to his feet, but couldn’t. When he realized the futility of his efforts to stand, he began grabbing anything within reach. He hurled a shoe at me first. Then a lamp. I easily evaded both, then batted away a barrage of dirty sweat socks. When he reached for a crumpled pair of underwear, I yanked my pepper spray from my pocket. “Freeze!” I commanded. “IRS!”

  The guy stopped moving. “IRS? What the hell?”

  I couldn’t blame him for being confused.

  The door swung open behind him with brute force, knocking the guy in the head. He cried out and wriggled out of the way.

  Christina stood in the doorway. “You okay?” she asked me.

  “I’m fine.” Thoroughly disgusted, but unharmed.

  She looked down at the guy at her feet. “I’m with the DEA,” she said. “You’re gonna be a good little boy and let her cuff your hands, too. Got it?”

  The guy glared up at her. He said nothing, but gave one quick nod.

  Christina tossed me another pair of handcuffs and I quickly secured his hands behind him. Christina stood in the hallway between the bedrooms and barked instructions to the men. The two squirmed and inched their way into the hall where we could keep an eye on them and they wouldn’t be able to access any hidden weapons. The taller guy had a harder time moving around. Christina had somehow shackled his left hand to his right ankle and vice versa.

  “Nice work.”

  “It’s my signature restraint,” she said. “With their arms crossed over like that, it hides their junk.”

  “Wish you’d shared that sooner.”

  I stood guard over the guys, gun in one hand, pepper spray in the other, while Christina retrieved their pants and removed their wallets. According to their IDs, the taller one was Gustavo, the shorter one was Hector.

  Christina searched the place. In addition to the bag of brown powder they’d brought out earlier, she found a small stash of marijuana tucked inside a boot in Gustavo’s closet. Christina tested the drugs and called her office to request two plainclothes officers to come pick up our neighbors. “No uniforms,” she said into the phone. “Don’t want the other neighbors getting wind of this and blowing our cover. We haven’t hit our main target yet.”

  While we waited for the agents to arrive, I read the guys their rights. That part I was comfortable with. Rights are the same regardless of the crime. When I finished, I turned to my partner and pointed to the bag of brown powder on the trunk. “What is that stuff?”

  “Mexican brown heroin,” Christina said.

  Heroin. Whoa.

  She eyed the men. “You bought this from the ice-cream man, didn’t you?”

  Gustavo glared at her. “We don’t have to tell you shit.”

  Hector tried a different tack. “It’s all his!” He jerked his head at Gustavo. “I never bought nothin’.”

  “Fuck you, man!” Gustavo twisted on the floor in a vain attempt to land a punch on or kick his roommate.

  Hector kicked his shackled feet at Gustavo. “Fuck you right back!”

  “Boys!” Christina hollered. “Settle down or we’ll shoot you with pepper spray.”

  Her threat worked. The two men grew still, though they continued to shoot daggers at each other with their eyes.

  A half hour later, a white SUV pulled up in front of the house. The dog barked and strained at his chain. Two agents climbed out and came to the door. One was white, skinny, and scruffy, the other was black and beefy.

  “Hey, guys.” Christina let them into the house.

  The skinny guy cringed when he noticed both Gustavo’s and Hector’s pants around their ankles. “Should’ve known,” he said. “Every time Christina busts a guy, he comes in with his pants down.”

  “What can I say?” Christina raised her palms. “It always works.”

  The black agent bent down in front of Gustavo and Hector. “I’m going to uncuff you now. Any funny business and I’ll bust a cap in you. Got it?”

  They both nodded.

  He removed the cuffs from Hector’s wrists and hauled him to his feet. “Keep your hands up,” he commanded.

  Hector raised his hands, causing his shirt to ride up, exposing his turtleneck-wearing genitals. The agent turned his head. “Dude. Put your hands behind your back instead.” The agent uncuffed his ankles next, and allowed Hector to secure his pants. Once he’d finished with Hector, he did the same for Gustavo.

  In minutes, the agents had hauled the guys off to jail. Our bust was complete.

  Christina and I stepped onto the porch.

  “That was easy,” she said.

  “Easy?” I said. “That was revolting. I can’t believe you do this kind of thing on a regular basis.”

  “At least these guys showered recently. Sometimes I run into guys who haven’t showered in weeks.”

  “Ick.” I cringed at the thought. “Ick, ick, ick.”

  We’d made our way down the steps and halfway across the yard when we heard the jangle of a chain behind us. We turned to find the big dog standing in the yard, his black brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Crap,” Christina said. “We forgot about the dog.”

  We eyed him for a moment. He barked again, but at least he wasn’t growling.

  That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

  Christina pulled out her cell phone and called the agents who’d picked up Gustavo and Hector. “Ask them what they want us to do with the dog.”

  She listened for a moment and rolled her eyes.

  “What did they say?”

  “That he’s our problem now.”

  We looked at the dog again. He looked back at us, his nose twitching as he smelled the air, assessing our scent.

  “I bet it costs a fortune to feed him,” Christina said.

  No way the IRS would pay for dog food. But I didn’t have the heart to call animal control. The poor beast wasn’t a puppy and he wasn’t cute. Add those factors to his size and his chances of adoption were slim to none. I couldn’t bear the thought of the alternative. “Are you friendly?” I asked him.

  He began to wag his tail, the movement causing his enormous pendulous testicles to swing back and forth. I hoped he wasn’t too attached to the pair. As soon as possible, he’d be taken to the vet to be neutered.

  I eased toward him.

  “Careful, Red Riding Hood,” Christina said. “He may be trying to lure you in so he can eat you.”

  I reached the dog and tentatively held out my hand. He sniffed it for a few seconds, then gave it a solid lick! Apparently he was all bark and no bite. “Okay, boy. You’re with us now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Spoil Me

  As I stood in the shower at home that evening, my stomach knotted up. Would tonight be my last date with Brett? I stuck my head under the spray as if I could wash away my doubts. If nothing else, at least I wouldn’t have to wait much longer to find out for sure whether Brett was a criminal. Christina was scheduled to attend Gryder’s seminar in just two days. I’d use the information she gathered, along with the documents Dave Edwards gave me, to seek a search warrant and launch a full-scale investigation of XChange Investments. If Brett were involved, damning evidence would surely turn up then.

  And if it did? What then?

  I slipped into a pair of jeans, a silky tunic-style top, and black flats. I was ready half an hour early, plenty of time to prepare my simple tax return, but I was too restless to concentrate. Once again, I set the papers aside for later.

  The doorbell rang promptly at seven-thirty. Brett stood in the doorway, dressed in navy pants, a striped button-down, and the scuffed boots. Apparently he’d only been supervising projects today. He bent down and gave me a slow, lingering kiss. Mmm. He pulled me to him. “I missed you last weekend.”

  I looked up at him.

  He looked exceptionally handsome.

  Undeniably sexy.

  And totally innocent.

  Sheez. What a doofus I was. Surely there was a logical
explanation for why he met with Gryder and Shelton at the bank behind closed doors. Probably it had something to do with the landscaping project. A project that large had likely been financed. Maybe they were discussing the payment schedule. I wished I could ask him, but there was no way I could pry for details without giving away that I’d received inside information from someone at the bank.

  “I missed you, too.” I locked my door and we headed out to his car.

  While Brett drove, he talked about a new project he’d been hired for, a rooftop garden at a residential high-rise downtown. I stared out the window. I wanted to tell him about my job, too. About last Friday’s impromptu poker party with the ice-cream man. How Christina and I had waited in vain to buy crystal meth from Joe today. How Joe hadn’t showed so we’d offered sexual favors to our neighbors and busted them instead. But, despite the fact that the arrests went down without a hitch, Brett might freak out if I unloaded all of this on him.

  Or would he see how capable I was? And how a strong and adventurous woman like me could bring an element of excitement and fun to his otherwise conventional world? Really, that was part of the reason he was attracted to me, wasn’t it?

  I hoped he’d learn to accept what I did for a living. I wouldn’t quit my job for anyone, and I needed a stable, calm guy like him in my crazy and tumultuous life. But I also needed someone I could be completely honest with, and who was completely honest with me.

  Brett lived in Upper Greenville, an older area of northeast Dallas that had once flourished, suffered decline, then been reclaimed and renewed by yuppies looking for both home ownership and a convenient commute to their jobs downtown. He pulled into the driveway of his house, a white brick ranch home with glossy black shutters.

  As expected, the front yard was manicured within an inch of its life, the edges crisp, not a brown spot or weed anywhere. A white brick path wove its way from the street past a magnificent magnolia tree. Soon the tree would be covered with dozens of ivory, teacup-shaped blossoms. The base of the magnolia was home to a bed of large-leafed caladiums, no doubt grown in a greenhouse and just recently transplanted here once the risk of a late-spring frost had passed. The beds running along the front of his house were home to reddish flowering azaleas, which presided over bedding flowers ranging from white vinca to purple hostas.

  Brett put a warm hand on my back as he guided me up the three steps to his front porch. After unlocking the door, he stepped back to allow me to enter first.

  His den was decorated in typical bachelor style, spare with furniture chosen for comfort rather than fashion, including an overstuffed tan couch and matching recliner situated around a sturdy coffee table. The floors were dark hardwood, crisscrossed with the telltale scratches of dog claws. A flat-screen television was mounted on the wall next to the fireplace, a short bookcase below it. On top of the bookcase sat the close-up photo of me that Brett had snapped at the Sheltons’ lake house. The orange-hued wood frame perfectly matched the auburn highlights in my hair, letting me know it had been carefully and thoughtfully selected. Brett definitely had an artist’s eye for color. Clearly one of the many reasons why his landscape designs were so breathtaking and his services in such high demand.

  I picked up the wood frame, flattered he’d taken such pains in its presentation. My surprised smile, my tossed head, my hair blowing slightly in the breeze, all combined to show off my fun, natural, free-spirited side.

  Brett’s dog, a male Scotty mix with dark eyes and long black hair, scrambled down the hall toward us, his nails clicking happily on the floor.

  “Hello, Napster.” Napoleon put his front paws on Brett’s leg, wagging his shaggy tail as Brett greeted him with a two-handed scratch behind the ears.

  I bent down. “Hey, there, boy. Nice to meet you.”

  Napoleon abandoned Brett and turned to me. I ran my hand down his furry back. The dog emitted one quick, shrill bark. Arf.

  Brett smiled down at us. “That means he likes you.”

  I gave the dog another pat. “I like you, too, boy.”

  Brett let Napoleon into the backyard to relieve himself. Seconds later, the hairy little beast popped back in through the flap in the doggie door. We walked to the kitchen, where Brett grabbed a handful of T-bone-shaped treats from a box in the kitchen pantry and tossed them to the dog, who caught them in midair. Apparently the treats served as hors d’oeuvres, tiding the dog over momentarily until Brett could empty a small can of dog food into a bowl, warm it in the microwave, and set it down before his spoiled, but not at all rotten, pet.

  Brett uncorked a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass. He searched through his fridge, coming up with a jar of maraschino cherries that hadn’t yet been opened, clearly purchased just for me. He used a spoon to fish a cherry out of the jar, dropped it into my glass, and held it out to me. “As you like it, milady.”

  I gave him a smile as I took the glass from him. Apparently his dog wasn’t the only creature he was prepared to spoil.

  He picked up his wineglass and took my hand, leading me out the French doors from the dining area to the backyard. Napoleon scampered after us, following us outside into the cool, moist evening air. Goose bumps spread across my arms momentarily until my skin adjusted to the outside temperature.

  The evening had grown dark, but Brett’s backyard was well lit by the back porch light and the solar lights outlining the flower beds. His back fence was covered in trumpet vine, a few early blooms in bright orange dotting the green background. The rest of the backyard was a lush garden, featuring a white Victorian gazebo surrounded by redbuds in full pink bloom. A small koi pond with a gurgling fountain in the center flanked the gazebo. An opalescent gazing ball rested on a carved stone pedestal. I made my way over to the ball and waved my hands over it. “I’m going to get you, my pretty,” I said in my best Wicked Witch of the West voice.

  Brett ducked and looked up at the sky in mock terror. “Don’t summon the flying monkeys!”

  Too bad the thing wasn’t truly a crystal ball. Then I could look into it and have the answers to all those questions that had been nagging me for days.

  Brett fired up his propane grill and slapped a couple of chicken breasts on it. While our dinner cooked, we sat on the white wooden porch swing that hung inside the gazebo. The jasmine climbing on the latticework enveloped us in its soft, pretty scent. Kicking off my shoes, I nestled against the back of the swing, the boards giving off a soft creak with my movements. Brett scooted closer to me and draped an arm along the back of the swing behind my shoulders, the warmth of his body taking the edge off the slight evening chill. I took a sip of my wine, savoring the flavorful liquid on my tongue.

  Napoleon nosed around in the flower beds and, finding his bright yellow tennis ball, bounded into the gazebo bearing the ball between his teeth. The dog hurled himself into Brett’s lap, causing the swing to rock back at an angle. “Whoa, boy!” Brett held his wineglass up over his head, trying to prevent the liquid from sloshing over the rim. He pointed a scolding finger at the adorable beast. “Napoleon, mind your manners.”

  Napoleon jumped down from the swing, dropped the ball at our feet, and issued a demanding bark.

  “Yes, sir.” I gave the dog a firm salute, picked up the ball, and tossed it underhand into the yard. Napoleon darted after the ball at warp speed. In an instant, he was back with the ball, dropping it at my feet again. Bending over, I picked up the ball, now coated in gooey Scotty slobber, and tossed it across the yard again. Once again, Napoleon darted after it.

  “He’s such a sweetie. Where’d you get him?”

  “I found him on a country road outside the city. The folks out there said he’d been dumped a few days earlier. Poor thing was half starved.”

  The dog was lucky he’d survived. He could’ve been hit by a car or bitten by a rattlesnake. But Brett had rescued this mischievous little mutt, showing once again what a sweet, caring guy he was. And sweet, caring guys aren’t con artists. Right?

  CHAPTER TWENTY
-FIVE

  Things Heat Up

  Napoleon bounded back with the ball yet again, pressing it against my leg. He was panting, winded from the playtime. I threw it one last time, all the way to the far fence where it bounced off the wood and landed in the ivy. The dog nosed around, searching under the greenery. This time when he found it he lay down in the ivy and simply chewed the ball.

  Brett checked on the chicken, slathering the pieces with barbecue sauce and flipping them over so they’d cook evenly. In the kitchen, I set the table while Brett removed a tub of potato salad and another of cole slaw from the fridge. When the chicken was ready, we sat down to our meal. Brett poured us each another glass of wine.

  “How are things going at the Sheltons’ lake house?” I asked, taking a bite of the chicken.

  “We’re almost done with the decks and gazebo. We’re still waiting on the ground cover and bushes, but the live oaks finally arrived. In a couple days we’ll be ready to put them in. That’ll be a big job since we ordered mature trees.”

  “The project seems to be moving along quickly,” I noted.

  “Stan wants the landscaping completed by May.” Brett picked up his fork and poked at his potato salad. “He even paid a premium so we’d make the project our top priority. But things would go faster if Chelsea Gryder would stay out of our hair.”

  That comment got my attention. “Chelsea?” I asked, taking another sip of my wine, trying to appear casual. “How is she getting in the way?”

  “She and Michael are staying at Stan’s lake house. Michael is usually gone all day, but Chelsea just hangs around, drinking and sleeping, watching television. The minute the crew starts up the equipment in the morning, she comes out half dressed and hungover and complains the equipment is too loud. I’ve explained to her several times that the only way we can meet Stan’s deadline is for the crew to start at eight each morning. I suggested she turn on a box fan in the room or try earplugs, but she just gets snitty.”

  It was easy to visualize Chelsea with bloodshot eyes, her oversized breasts hanging out of a robe as she lambasted the crew. At least now I knew for certain Gryder was residing at the lake house. That information could come in handy.