Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure
Page 31
I pulled the papers out of the manila envelope and riffled through them until I found the printout listing directions to Pokornys’ Korner Kitchen, a small Czech bakery and cafe located in an older section of Garland, one of the many mid-sized cities making up the sprawling Dallas suburbs.
“Central north to Loop Twelve,” I instructed.
Eddie gave me a salute. “Aye-aye, Captain.”
He took a right turn out of the parking lot and in minutes we were driving north on Interstate 75, known to locals as Central Expressway, one of a dozen freeways that crisscrossed the extensive Dallas metroplex area. We had a 7:30 appointment scheduled with Darina and Jakub Pokorny, the owners of the bakery.
Early last week, the head of the Treasury’s Criminal Investigations Department had flown in from Washington D.C. to meet with our boss, Lu “The Lobo” Lobozinksi. George Burton had asked Lu to put her top agents on the Mendoza case. She’d immediately assigned Eddie to the investigation. Eddie was one of the more senior special agents, experienced, clever, and intuitive, the crème de la crème of the Dallas team. As a rookie, I hardly qualified as crème of any sort yet. I should’ve been flattered to be put on the case. But I feared it was my skills with weaponry rather than my skills with a calculator that landed me the assignment. If ever there’d been a case that called for an agent adept with a gun, this case was it.
As far as career enhancement, this was definitely the job to be on. As far as my boyfriend Brett, well, if he knew what I was up to he’d shit a brick. Maybe even a cinder block.
Before coming to work for the IRS, I’d spent several years in the tax department of Martin and McGee, a large regional accounting firm. I’d learned a lot at the CPA firm, earned a lot, too. But sitting in a cubicle day after day, week after week, year after year, sorting through paperwork and staring at a computer screen had eaten away at me. I’d felt unsatisfied, caged, trapped. It was a good job, but it wasn’t right for me.
Of course I still dealt with a fair share of paperwork and computer screens at the IRS, but I loved the action in Criminal Investigations, hunting down clues, the thrill of the chase, the sense of purpose and justice. My job called for financial savvy, investigation expertise, and weapons proficiency, a unique skill set possessed by very few. This job was made for me.
Still, Brett worried about the risks my job posed. Who could blame him? He’d recently witnessed me cowering in a hole amid a shower of bullets and risked his own life to rescue me from certain death. Of course I’d done my best to convince him that the attack was a fluke, that the vast majority of tax evaders surrendered peacefully, that most special agents went their entire careers without facing real danger.
But I wasn’t most special agents. As Eddie’d once pointed out, something about me brought out the homicidal tendencies in people.
Forcing that ugly thought aside, I rubbed my eyes, which were beginning to feel heavy. “I sure could go for a latte.”
“Not a bad idea.”
Eddie took the next exit and pulled into the drive-thru of a twenty-four-hour coffee house. New York isn’t the only city that never sleeps. Dallas doesn’t doze either. “The usual?”
“Yep.”
The barrista at the drive-thru opened the window, releasing the invigorating aroma of French roast. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Mmm.”
Eddie placed our order. “Small coffee. Black.” Eddie was a purist. I was anything but. “And a large caramel latte. Extra whipped cream, heavy on the drizzle, sprinkle of cinnamon on top.”
Just the way I liked it. Eddie knew me well. I handed Eddie a ten from my wallet. “My treat.”
When we received our drinks, I removed a dark-skinned doll from one of the cup holders. “Nice job on Barbie’s hair,” I said, holding up the doll. One of Eddie’s girls had pulled the doll’s hair up into a ponytail on the top of her head, and the black locks cascaded down on all sides of the doll’s head, making her look like a palm tree.
“That’s not Barbie,” Eddie said. “That’s Christie. Barbie’s black BFF.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. My girls set me straight on that right away.”
I tossed the doll into the backseat. “Girls’ll do that for ya’.” I sipped my hot drink. Yum. I could live on these things.
Eddie stuck his cup in the holder, pulled out of the drive-thru, and headed back onto the freeway.
My thoughts returned to the case, to Mendoza and the earlier agent he’d bought off. What kind of guy would turn like that? Give up his job, his reputation, his life for money? Nick Pratt had to be one sorry-ass son of a bitch. “Hey, Ed. I was wondering. How well did you know Nick Pratt?”
Eddie hesitated a moment, seeming to consider his words. “Nick and I partnered on several big cases, had a beer together after work every now and then. He covered for me when the twins were born.”
I snorted. “You make him sound like a nice guy.” As if. Nice guys don’t sell out.
“You would’ve liked him. He was a country boy, wore snakeskin cowboy boots with his business suits. Didn’t take crap from anybody.” Eddie cut his eyes my way. “He was a lot like you, only with—”
“Guy junk?”
“I was going to say more muscle and less mascara. He could handle a gun almost as good as you, too.”
I offered a derisive snort. “Nobody handles a gun as good as me.” They didn’t call me the Annie Oakley of the IRS for nothing.
Eddie rolled his eyes. “I said ‘almost.’” He stopped talking for a moment and looked solemnly out his window as if looking for answers to questions that had none. “When Pratt disappeared, Lu told the rest of us he’d turned in his resignation. Claimed the stress of the job got to him.”
“Did that seem odd to you?”
“Odd? Yeah. He was smart as they come. Hard-working, too. But he could be a little intense at times, so we bought the story. Figured he’d burned himself out. It happens.” Eddie’s jaw flexed as he clenched angry teeth. “But I can’t believe he turned on us.”
“Guess you never can tell, huh?”
Eddie turned back to me then, our eyes locking. “People aren’t always who they seem to be.”
Praise for Diane Kelly’s
DEATH, TAXES, AND A FRENCH MANICURE
“Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure is a hilarious, sexy, heart-pounding ride that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Tara Holloway is the IRS’s answer to Stephanie Plum—smart, sassy, and so much fun. Kelly’s debut has definitely earned her a spot on my keeper shelf!”
—Gemma Halliday, National Readers Choice Award Winner and three-time Rita nominee
“The subject of taxation usually makes people cry, but prepare to laugh your assets off with Diane Kelly’s hilarious debut Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure.”
—Jana DeLeon
“Quirky, sexy, and downright fabulous. Zany characters you can’t help but love, and a plot that will knock your socks off. This is the most fun I’ve had reading in forever!”
—Christie Craig, award-winning author of the Hotter In Texas series
“Tara Holloway is Gin Bombay’s BFF, or would be if they knew each other. Kelly’s novel is smart, sexy and funny enough to make little girls want to be IRS agents when they grow up!”
—Leslie Langtry, author of the Bombay Assassins mystery series
“With a quirky cast of characters, snappy dialogue, and a Bernie Madoff–style pyramid scheme—hunting down tax cheats has never added up to so much fun!”
—Robin Kaye, award-winning author of The Domestic Gods series
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DEATH, TAXES, AND A FRENCH MANICURE
Copyright © 2011 by Diane Kelly.
Excerpt from Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte copyright © 2011 by Diane Kelly.
All rights reserved.
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sp; For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 978-0-312-55126-1
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / November 2011
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN 978-1-4299-9561-0