Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure

by Diane Kelly

  * * *

  As we headed back to Dallas that afternoon, Brett detoured by his nursery property, situated fifteen miles northeast of Dallas, stopping his truck on the shoulder of the road. Three complete yet empty greenhouses stood near the center of the property, with another under construction next to them. There wasn’t much else to see except the nursery’s potential, but I had no doubt Brett would make it a success.

  Our next stop was Eddie’s house. He’d been released from the hospital and was recuperating at home. When Sandra led us into the bedroom, we found Eddie sitting up in bed, plump white pillows stacked behind his back, one adorable pigtailed twin nestled on each side of their daddy, watching cartoons. Eddie was all smiles, the only sign of his near-death experience an oversized bandage on the side of his head.

  I plopped myself down on the buttercup-yellow duvet, folded back at the foot of the king-sized bed. “So, lazybones, when are you coming back to work?”

  “Next week,” Eddie said. “Try not to get yourself into trouble while I’m out.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I introduced Eddie to Brett. “Glad to finally meet you,” Eddie said, shaking Brett’s hand. “Word is you pulled me out of harm’s way.” He glanced down at his daughters, then back up at Brett. He choked up, his voice breaking. “Can’t thank you enough, man.”

  Brett gave a quick, modest nod and smiled at the girls.

  I glanced around the room. On the windows were yellow curtains that matched the bedcovers. The fabric was sheer and poofy, the sides pulled back in oversized bows.

  “See?” Eddie said. “Too frilly.”

  “I like them.”

  Eddie snorted. “Should’ve known. You women always stick together.”

  “I’m with Eddie on this one,” Brett said. “Those curtains are awful.”

  “Right?” Eddie held out a fisted hand and Brett bumped knuckles with him. Eddie turned back to me. “Josh hacked into Gryder’s computer. He had a little trouble getting in until he figured out the password was”—he put a hand over the outer ear of each daughter and pulled their little heads to his chest to block the other ears—“blow job.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

  The phone rang as Eddie released his squirming girls. He picked up the receiver from his bedside table. “Hello?”

  I could only hear his side of the conversation. “Hi, Lu … Feeling great … Tell me.” His voice rose an octave, betraying his excitement. “Two mil? No shit?” The twins looked up at their father and frowned. “I mean, no kidding?” He glanced at me. “She’s right here with me. I’ll tell her. Bye, Lu.” He returned the phone to its cradle and flashed me a grin.

  “What’s up?”

  “The collections division seized over two million in assets from Gryder’s bank accounts, plus a ski boat he’d just purchased, his car, and a case of hair gel.”

  I sat bolt upright. “We did it!”

  “The Lobo can retire now.”

  In all likelihood, the majority of the funds would be returned to the duped investors rather than added to the government’s coffers, but Lu would be credited with the take nonetheless.

  My partner raised his right hand for a high five. With the cast on my right arm, I had to use my left to return Eddie’s gesture. A bit awkward, but it got the job done.

  Reassured Eddie was recovering nicely, Brett and I left him with the gifts we’d brought—a recently released thriller novel, a six-pack of Heineken, and a new straw Stetson cowboy hat that would hide the hard-earned scar on his temple.

  * * *

  A dozen voice-mail messages awaited me when I returned to the office Tuesday morning, mostly fellow agents congratulating me and Eddie for getting the Lobo to the hundred-million mark. I’d brought my tax return to work on and finally completed the darn forms. I was due a four-hundred-dollar refund, enough to pay for the bikini I’d ordered and then some. Woo-hoo!

  The Lobo stepped into my doorway, wearing a lemon-colored knit pantsuit with a flared hem and cuffs edged in green rickrack. Groovy.

  “Hi, Lu,” I said. “We’re getting plans in the works for your retirement party. Have you turned in your notice to the DFO yet?”

  “About that.” She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I’ve given it some more thought and I don’t think I’d be happy sitting at home all day. I’ve decided to hang on another year or two.”

  “After all this talk about retiring you’re staying on?”

  She shrugged. “Consider it a motivational tool. It worked, didn’t it?” She handed me a check for one-third of the ten-grand bonus. The rest would be split evenly between Eddie and Josh. She gestured for me to follow her. “Come on. Got a new case I want to discuss with you.”

  I grabbed a legal pad and pen from my desk and followed Lu to her office. A man stood at the window inside, looking out onto the dreary, drizzly downtown streets. The April showers had hit town. Next month they’d bring the May flowers. This month, though, the rain brought only fender benders, traffic tie-ups, and the frizzies.

  As Lu closed the door behind me, the man turned around. He was fiftyish, with thick, dark gray hair. He wore a stylish gray business suit and a serious, intent expression. Though he wasn’t tall, he was stocky and had a commanding, formidable presence.

  Wasting no time, he stepped toward me, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss Holloway. I’m George Burton.”

  I went rigid. “The George Burton?” As in the name at the top of the organization chart? The big cheese? The grand poobah of IRS Criminal Investigations?

  He nodded. “Flew in from Washington last night.”

  Holy crap! I took his hand and shook it the best I could given the cast on my arm, praying I didn’t look like a gaping idiot. I’d hoped to meet him someday, but I’d never expected to have this opportunity so early on in my career. “Nice to meet you, sir. This is an honor.”

  Lu rolled her eyes and plunked herself into her chair. “Save your flattery. George doesn’t like suck-ups any more than I do.”

  Although Burton gestured for me to take a seat, he didn’t take one himself, instead returning to his spot at the window. Though he appeared to be addressing the skyscraper across the street, it was clear he was speaking to me. “Lu tells me you’ve done some good work in the short time you’ve been with the IRS.”

  Did she mention I’d had to fire my gun on two occasions? “Thank you. I love my job.”

  “We’re putting you on a new case. A big one.”

  A big case? I was flattered. Obviously, they wouldn’t assign me to an important investigation if they didn’t think I was capable of handling it. My lips spread in an enthusiastic grin. “The bigger the better.”

  He turned to me now, his narrowed eyes and severe expression instantly chasing the smile from my face. “Not only is this case big,” he said, “but it’s highly sensitive.” He paused a moment, eyeing me as if trying to determine if I was up to the task.

  I sat up straighter in my chair and tried my best to look competent, focused, and intelligent.

  “You ever heard of Marcos Mendoza?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m not surprised,” Burton said. “He’s very private. Keeps a low profile here in the States.”

  Lu pulled a photo out of a file folder on her desk and handed it to me. The photo featured an attractive Latino man wearing a tuxedo. A few strands of silver streaked through Mendoza’s otherwise dark hair. Mendoza’s arm was draped over the shoulders of a pretty teenage girl in a bright purple ball gown. Judging from the matching widow’s peaks the two shared, I guessed the girl to be his daughter. A sprawling, Spanish-style mansion appeared behind the two.

  “That photo was taken three months ago, at his daughter’s quinceañera in Mexico. Mendoza is a U.S. citizen. His wife is a Mexican national from a wealthy, well-connected family. Mendoza maintains a home for his family in Monterrey, as well as a penthouse in Cresc
ent Tower here in Dallas.”

  Not too shabby. The price of downtown penthouses ranged from a few million dollars on up.

  “We’ve been after this guy for years,” Burton continued. “We thought we were close a few years ago, had infiltrated his operations, but then one of our own tipped Mendoza off.”

  I gasped. “That’s low.”

  “That’s greed,” Burton said. “Mendoza paid the agent a fortune and set him up in a nice place on the beach near Cancún. Mendoza’s got the Mexican judges in his pocket. They won’t extradite the agent back to the U.S. for trial.”

  The traitor now lived in luxury in a virtual paradise. So much for justice.

  “Mendoza’s one smart bastard,” Burton said. “He’s insulated himself with layer upon layer of corporations, partnerships, and limited liability companies. His name doesn’t appear in any of the paperwork, but it’s clear he’s the one in charge of the operations, the one reaping the financial rewards. He pays his top brass enough to keep their mouths shut. Of course the fact that one of his associates disappears every so often encourages them to keep mum, too.”

  A lump formed in my throat. “Disappears?”

  “Perhaps that’s an overstatement,” Burton said. “We did find the last guy. In Houston. San Antonio. Harlingen. His right foot surfaced in a Dumpster in El Paso.”

  The lump in my throat was forced aside by rising bile. Instinctively I covered my mouth.

  Lu chuckled. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Holloway. Once Eddie’s back from leave, I’ll assign him to work with you on this one. I’m sure you two can handle it.”

  Burton stepped toward me now, stopping in front of my chair and looking down at me. “Given the nature of this case, you can’t tell anyone anything about it. Not your mother. Not your friends. Not your cats.” How’d he know I had cats? “You can’t even breathe a word of this to your coworkers.”

  Whoa. Telling Brett was definitely out of the question, then. Damn! Just days ago I’d promised there’d be no more secrets between us. I’d even crossed my heart, hoped to die. Yet here I was, already forced to betray him once again.

  But what choice did I have?

  CHAPTER ONE

  It’s a Terrifying Job, But Somebody’s Gotta Do It

  “I’m scared shitless, Eddie.”

  I looked over at my partner as he pulled his maroon minivan into the parking lot of the downtown Dallas post office. Eddie Bardin was tall and lean, sporting a gray suit and starched white dress shirt with a mint-green silk tie. Though Eddie was African-American, he was more J. Crew than 2 Live Crew, like a dark-chocolate version of President Obama. Not that Eddie’d ever condescend to vote for a Democrat.

  Despite the fact that my partner was a conservative married suburban dad and I was a free-thinking single city girl, the two of us got along great and made a kick-ass team. Problem was, the current ass we were aiming to kick was a very frightening one.

  A row of cars stretched out in front of us, a solid red line of brake lights illuminating the early-evening drizzle. Apparently I wasn’t the only slacker who waited until April fifteenth to file their tax return.

  Eddie pulled to a stop behind one of those newer odd-looking rectangular cars. Cube, was it? Quad? Shoebox? He glanced my way. “Scared? You? C’mon, Holloway. You’ve been slashed with a box cutter and shot at and lived to brag about it.” His scoffing tone might have been more believable if I hadn’t noticed his grip tighten on the steering wheel. “We’re invincible, you and me. Like Superman. Or toxic waste.”

  I scrunched my nose. “Ew. Couldn’t you have come up with a better metaphor?”

  “I’m exhausted, Tara. And besides, it was a simile.” He muttered something under his breath about me being the child the education system left behind.

  I might have been offended if I thought he truly meant it. You didn’t become a member of the Treasury Department’s Criminal Investigations team without a stellar academic record, impressive career credentials, and a razor-sharp intellect, not to mention a quick hand on both a calculator and a gun. Not that I’m bragging. But it’s true.

  I toyed with the edge of the manila envelope in my lap. “Battaglia and Gryder were chump change compared to Marcos Mendoza, and you know it.”

  Eddie and I had recently put two tax cheats–Jack Battaglia and Michael Gryder–behind bars, but not before Battaglia had sliced my forearm with a box cutter and Gryder had taken pot shots at me with a handgun and pierced Eddie’s earlobe with a bullet. Not exactly polite behavior. What’s more, neither of those men had a history of violence prior to attacking us. The focus of our current investigation, Marcos Mendoza, was an entirely different matter. Due to a lack of evidence, Mendoza had never been officially accused of any crimes. Yet his business associates had a suspicious history of disappearing.

  And resurfacing.

  In Dumpsters.

  In pieces.

  They’d found parts of Andrew Sheffield, a former employee of Mendoza and presumably his most recent victim, spread among garbage receptacles from Harlingen, to Houston, to San Antonio and beyond. The sanitation department of El Paso found Sheffield’s right foot, still clad in a pricey Ferragamo loafer, in the trash bin behind the police headquarters. Andrew had yet to be fully accounted for.

  Hence my scared shitless state of mind.

  We inched forward, the only sound the occasional swish of the intermittent wipers as they arced across the windshield.

  I knew Eddie well enough to know his lack of response meant he agreed with me. But perhaps some things are better left unsaid.

  Think happy thoughts, I told myself. Fluffy kittens. Colorful rainbows. Big tax refunds. Of course it would be easier to think happy thoughts if my right arm didn’t bear a plaster cast. I’d fractured my wrist diving out a window to evade Gryder. The con artist was rotting in jail now. Hey, now there’s a happy thought.

  Finally, we reached the bleary-eyed postal worker standing in the parking lot. She wore a dark blue rain slicker and held an umbrella in one hand, a white plastic box bearing the Postal Service eagle logo in the other. I unrolled my window, letting in the dank air, and dropped my return into her nearly full bin. “Thanks. See you next April fifteenth.”

  A drop of rain rolled off the tip of her nose as she forced a feeble smile.

  How much longer would I file single? I wasn’t yet ready for diapers, play-dates, and PTA meetings, but the thought of joint tax returns didn’t frighten me as much as it used to. Maybe because of Brett Ellington, the sweet, brave, and incredibly sexy landscape architect I’d been dating the past few months.

  I rolled up my window and checked my watch. “6:37 PM. That’s a personal best.”

  Eddie snorted. “I filed my return two months ago. Already got my refund.”

  I cut my eyes to him. “Oh, yeah? And what did Sandra and the twins spend the money on?”

  He turned away, letting me know my jibe had hit home.

  “Ha! You are whipped, dude.”

  “Better to be whipped than to be a procrastinator.”

  “Hey, I’ve been busy.” Busy shopping and packing for my upcoming trip to Fort Lauderdale with Brett. I’d made no less than three trips to Victoria’s Secret before deciding on the red satin teddy with black trim and those little clip thingies to hold up a pair of old-fashioned fishnet stockings. I couldn’t wait for Brett to see me in it. He was a perfect gentleman in public, but in the bedroom, well, let’s just say he left his decorum at the door. A new red chiffon cocktail dress had made its way into my shopping bag, too. The spaghetti straps and handkerchief edge gave it a feminine and festive feel. It was the perfect outfit for the American Society of Landscape Architects’ awards banquet, where the Society would bestow its prestigious Landmark Award on Brett for his work at City Hall. I’d scored the dress forty percent off at an after-Easter sale. Christ may have risen, but Neiman’s had lowered its prices. Hallelujah!

  I stifled a yawn. Not surprising I was tired since we’d been on
the job since nine o’clock that morning and at the office until midnight the last few nights reviewing paperwork. The Mendoza case was so highly sensitive we’d been forbidden to discuss it with anyone, even our co-workers. To maintain secrecy, we’d been forced to perform some of our work after hours.

  Why the secrecy? Three years ago, a special agent named Nick Pratt had infiltrated Mendoza’s operations and purportedly obtained evidence that Mendoza had earned enormous sums of illegal, unreported income. Though the details were sketchy, Mendoza allegedly got wind of the investigation, bought off the agent, and set up the traitor in a luxury beachside condominium in Cancún, Mexico.

  Tough life, huh?

  Lawyers at the U.S. Department of Justice fought to extradite Pratt back to the U.S. on charges of obstruction of justice and theft of government property, but the Mexican judge refused to cooperate, claiming all Pratt did was quit his job at the IRS, which wasn’t illegal. He argued the theft charge wouldn’t stick since Pratt’s government-issued cell phone and laptop were mailed back to the department. Of course all of the data had been wiped clean, the hard drive erased. Presumably Mendoza had the judge in his pocket.

  If only money were at stake, the government might have let the case go. But given the recent increase in body count, the case was reopened. Come hell or high water, Mendoza had to be stopped.

  And it was up to Eddie and me to stop him.

  We’d been on the case only four days, since Eddie had returned from his medical leave, sans one bullet-damaged earlobe. We’d finally finished our review of the documentation. We’d painstakingly searched through Mendoza’s tax filings and those of the businesses linked to him, document by document, page by page, entry by entry. But this guy knew how to cover his tracks.

  We’d found no evidence. No leads. Nada.

  Nada damn thing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Caffeine Fiend

  Eddie drove on, pausing at the exit to the parking lot. “Where to?”