Death, Taxes, and Mistletoe Mayhem: A Holiday Novella

by Diane Kelly

  We patrol officers spent our shifts cruising our beats, keeping an eye out for trouble, and serving as backup for other officers in the division when needed. Though our supervisors sometimes asked us to pay particular attention to one area of our division or another, for the most part we roamed randomly about like armed Bedouins, though we wore uniforms rather than robes and spoke in code rather than Arabic.

  Given that Christmas was coming, it seems appropriate for Brigit and me to spend the morning cruising up and down the streets of the Mistletoe Heights neighborhood, which sat just east of the park. Many of the vintage homes boasted ornate holiday wreaths on their doors and pine trees in their front windows. The scene had probably looked similar when these houses were first built nearly a hundred years ago.

  With the colder December weather upon us, not many were out and about in the neighborhood this morning, though I passed a couple of die-hard joggers, advised a tree-trimming service to put out orange warning cones and renew their vehicle registration, and wrote a ticket to an impatient motorist who ran a red light at Rosedale and nearly caused an accident. The Big Dick drove by in his cruiser as I was writing the ticket. He tapped his horn to get my attention and, when he had it, flipped me the bird. Given that I’d once roasted the guy’s chestnuts with my Taser, I figured I’d earned the gesture and thus declined to return it.

  Shortly after noon, I turned my black-and-white police cruiser into the Shoppes at Chisholm Trail Mall, my favorite place on my beat. Carefully weaving my way across the bustling parking lot, I zipped into the spot up front marked with a LAW ENFORCEMENT ONLY sign. Being a cop had its perks. Primo parking was one of them. Wearing a polyester blend uniform with a tendency to lodge itself between the dual domes of my gluteus maximus was not. I cut the engine and sat in the cruiser, listening until The Takeaway program wrapped up on my local NPR radio station.

  If you’ve now imagined me as some type of pseudo-intellectual who became a cop to serve the noble cause of truth and justice, you’d be partially right. Reserve complete judgment, however, until you’ve seen my less-than-exemplary behavior after three lemon drop martinis.

  My mental faculties now sufficiently stimulated, I emerged from the car with Brigit on my heels, her tags jingling as she trotted after me in her navy nylon police vest. In recognition of the holidays, I’d also dressed Brigit in a new red and green plaid collar. Not that she’d appreciate my efforts, dogs being color-blind creatures and all. Still, she’d wagged her tail when I clipped the collar around her neck, seeming to sense the new accessory meant something special.

  Chisholm Trail Mall was an open-air center shaped like an X, with shops along each of the four arms and a glass-enclosed, diamond-shaped courtyard in the middle. Named after the famous cattle trail that began in South Texas, extended up through Fort Worth, and ended at the rail yards in Kansas, the mall boasted its own herd of bronze cattle, which greeted shoppers at the main entryway. Lording over the herd was a bronze cowboy on horseback, a lasso raised over his head as the drover took aim at a maverick who’d strayed away from the herd and appeared poised to amble into the nearby Abercrombie & Fitch to check out the sales.

  Given that the mall employed its own security detail, I wasn’t required to patrol the shopping center on foot. But when you can earn a paycheck while window-shopping, you’d be a fool not to. Am I right?

  Hordes of holiday shoppers scurried in and out of the shops. Most were women, either young mothers with bundled-up toddlers in strollers or gray-haired grandmotherly types seeking the perfect gifts with which to spoil their grandchildren, but there were a few men milling about, too, along with a small scattering of teenaged mall rats on holiday break.

  Brigit crouched in a small strip of grass for a quick pee, then padded alongside me as I proceeded down a row of shops, both of us huffing steam in the frigid air like the cattle trains that had once dominated the city.

  “Hey.” I raised a hand in greeting as one of the mall’s security guards rolled past me on a three-wheeled electric scooter. The insurance company forced the security staff to wear bright orange helmets when riding the devices. As if they didn’t look dorky enough already. I suppose I had no right to think such thoughts, though. The chaste bun my hair was pulled back into made me look a little silly, too, like some type of street-smart ballerina. Appropriate, perhaps, given that my job occasionally required me to crouch, turn, leap, and kick derriere.

  I reached the glass doors that led to the fast-food outlets and administrative offices in the center section and pulled one open, releasing the strains of holiday organ music playing from the antique carousel that served as the centerpiece of the courtyard. I hummed along with “Up on the House Top” and held the door open to let Brigit enter. Once inside, she lifted her twitching nose to the air, scenting the enticing mix of aromas emanating from Cinnabon, Hot Dog on a Stick, and Cowtown BBQ. She began to salivate, licking her lips in anticipation.

  “C’mon, girl,” I said to my partner. “Let’s g-get some lunch.”

  You probably noticed I’ve got a slight stutter. Annoying at times, but it was mostly under control these days. When I was a kid, it had been a totally different story. I couldn’t get through a sentence without three or four words tripping me up. Some of my classmates had teased me, called me “stupid.” Others had pitied me. I’m not sure which was worse. I’d learned to keep my thoughts to myself and to choose my words—and friends—carefully.

  I stepped up to the counter and ordered my usual low-carb/high-protein/flaxseed-infused concoction at the smoothie place. Some of their fruit was imported, leaving a carbon footprint, but with it being winter here, my only other option for locally grown fruit was to buy canned rather than fresh at the farmer’s market. At least the place used only organic, Fairtrade certified ingredients. Being socially conscious was an exhausting exercise, and often one in futility. Seemed you couldn’t feed or clothe yourself without exploiting someone somewhere or polluting the environment.

  Having no qualms whatsoever, Brigit wagged her tail and batted her big brown eyes, begging a thick slab of brisket from the friendly man behind the adjacent barbecue counter. A shameless flirt, that beast. Never mind that the beef industry wreaked havoc on the environment and that rain forests were being bulldozed to make more grazing land.

  Ignorance truly was bliss. With knowledge came obligation. My life would be much easier if only I were as stupid as the kids back in elementary school thought I was.

  “Thanks,” I said to the man behind the counter. I gently tugged Brigit’s collar when she’d finished gulping down the meat. Sergeant Brigit might outrank me, but thanks to my opposable thumbs, I was the one who carried the leash.

  Brigit and I moved on past the carousel, past the twenty-foot fir tree decorated with gold trumpets and topped with a glittering winged angel, past the ornate sleigh-shaped throne where a line of children stood waiting, eager to share their holiday gift lists with Santa Claus. According to a sign at the head of the line, Santa was on his milk-and-cookies break and would return at 1:00 P.M. sharp.

  Just past Santa’s setup stood a small platform bearing two ten-foot-tall candy canes made of a glittery lightweight foam material. The candy canes crossed at the bottom, angling to each side with their crooked tops turned inward toward each other, forming a makeshift red and white striped heart. Mistletoe hung from the point where the hooked ends met. A sign affixed to one of the candy canes wished shoppers a MERRY KISS-MAS. Part of me wanted to smile, while another part felt the urge to purge. I suppose that makes me deep and complicated. Or perhaps I’m merely allergic to overly saccharine sentiments. I’ll let you make that call.

  I headed down the short hallway, past the restrooms, and slid into the employee lounge. At a table inside sat a couple of women from the janitorial staff sharing a cheese pizza for lunch. The pizza smelled better than my health-conscious smoothie, but I didn’t need all that cheese and grease weighing me down and making me feel lethargic.

  Sprawle
d on a sofa with his arm slung over his head lay Santa himself. Actually, the jolly not-so-old elf was a hunky pediatric nurse named Chris Rasmussen who played St. Nicholas between shifts at the nearby Cook Children’s Hospital. Chris had four or five years on me, putting him in the thirtyish range.

  As I plunked myself down in one of the lounge chairs, Brigit took the opportunity to give Santa a thorough exploratory sniff. As the dog snuffled Chris’s white-gloved hand, I glanced over at him, noting three quick facts:

  (1) The worn red velvet on his Santa costume hugged his biceps and muscular thighs quite nicely.

  (2) His hat was askew, revealing a swath of warm, ripe flesh behind his ear that looked due for a nuzzle.

  (3) The poor guy had dark circles under his eyes. He looked peaked. An odd term, isn’t it? Shouldn’t someone who looked “peaked” be at their peak? This Santa looked like he’d been trampled to death by his reindeer.

  I nudged his black rubber boot with my toe. “You okay?”

  Chris turned his Nordic blue eyes my way. I had something going on with a bomb squad officer from the Fort Worth fire department, but that’s another story for another time. Despite my entanglement with the bomb tech, I wasn’t entirely immune to Chris’s good looks. The woman in me felt a warmth in my belly and wondered about the size of Santa’s south pole. The cop in me forced my facial expression to remain impassive. Lady Gaga wasn’t the only one with a poker face. I’d never wear a suit made of meat, though. With her insatiable appetite, Brigit would eat me alive.

  Chris scrubbed a hand over the thick blond hair and beard he’d bleached white for his Santa gig. “I’m dead on my feet.”

  I settled back and propped my feet on the coffee table. “Why are you m-moonlighting?” After all, nurses were well paid. He should have no trouble covering his bills.

  He emitted an emphatic grunt and sat up on the sofa, swinging his legs over the side. “Got a diamond ring to pay off by year end and forget about. I want to start next year with a clean slate.”

  A diamond ring? I raised a dark brow in question. Brows don’t stutter.

  “My fiancée dumped me the day after Thanksgiving,” he said, giving Brigit’s head a nice pat. “She met some cowboy from Montana on the Internet and called me from the airport, saying she owed it to herself to see where it might lead.” He frowned. “Of course, she didn’t think she owed it to me to return my engagement ring even though I had two grand left to pay on the damn thing.” He mumbled a couple of choice words that, though fair and accurate, were undeniably un-Santa-like and therefore will not be repeated here.

  I felt bad for the guy. Being dumped unexpectedly had to be humiliating. Being forced to pay off the engagement ring added a metaphorical kick in the nuts. But my pointing this out would only make him feel worse. “You’ll meet someone better.”

  Chris shook his head. “I’ve learned my lesson about love. No more women for me.”

  “Men, then?” I teased.

  “I wouldn’t take it that far.” He cupped Brigit’s head in his hands and looked into her eyes. “Maybe I should get a dog like you. You’d never break my heart, would ya?”

  Brigit wagged her tail and gave Chris a lick on the cheek. The dog might destroy my shoes and cost an arm and leg to feed, but she was unfailingly loyal. Not the love ’em and leave ’em type, no sir.

  Chris released the dog and reached down to adjust his bulging belly, which had shifted to the side.

  I gestured to his stomach. “Pillow?”

  “Nope.” Chris lifted the jacket of his Santa suit to reveal an artificial baby bump. “It’s one of those suits men can put on so they’ll understand what it’s like to be pregnant. I borrowed it from a nurse who teaches childbirth classes. The thing must weigh thirty pounds or more. Carrying this extra weight is a workout.”

  I reached out and poked the fake abdomen. While it was covered in soft beige fabric, the thing was stuffed solid and gave in only a little to the pressure.

  Chris glanced at his watch and stood. “Duty calls. See ya.”

  As Santa exited the room, the mall’s middle-aged manager walked in with a petite, brown-haired woman dressed in a conservative gray blazer, white turtleneck, and black pants. Though her fashion was cautious, her bearing was not. She entered with the confidence of a woman who’d been trained to take care of herself. A quick up-down glance led my eyes to a pair of steel-toed Doc Martens and a barely perceptibly bump above her ankle. Her leg was armed, no pun intended.

  The manager glanced over at the custodians before turning back to me and motioning stiffly to the woman at his side. “Officer Luz, this is Tara. She’s an outside accountant we’ve hired for a consulting project.”

  I didn’t believe his bull for a second. His mannerisms were stiff and awkward and he avoided eye contact with me, classic signs he was lying. Still, it was clear the manager didn’t want the mall staff to know why this woman was here, so I played along for the time being.

  As I stood, the custodians gathered up their trash. Once they’d tossed their garbage in the can and left the room, my eyes locked on Tara’s. “You’re law enforcement.”

  Her grayish eyes flashed in surprise but then met mine, conveying an unspoken message of respect and understanding. “Busted. We planned to tell you once we had some privacy.” She cocked her head. “What gave me away?”

  I gestured toward her feet. “Ankle holster and nut-busting footwear.”

  She arched a brow. “I hope others around here aren’t as perceptive as you.”

  I shrugged. I’d always been the type of person who noticed the details others overlooked. The skill came in handy now in my work as a cop, and would be an essential asset once I made detective a few years from now. “Which agency are you with?”

  “IRS.” She offered a smile and a hand. “Special Agent Tara Holloway.”

  IRS? Interesting. I supposed on some level I knew the Treasury Department had a criminal investigations division, though I’d never met one of the agents before. I took her hand and gave it a firm but friendly shake. “Officer Megan Luz.” I gestured to my K-9 counterpart. “My partner, Sergeant Brigit.”

  Brigit likewise extended her paw for a shake and gave Agent Holloway an “Arf!” in greeting.

  “Nice to meet you, Brigit.” Tara bent down to shake the dog’s hand before turning her attention back to me. “I’m investigating a potential case of tax evasion. A taxpayer claimed a series of alleged theft losses on her income tax returns, but I suspect the thefts never took place. She moved her storage facilities into a different jurisdiction after each burglary, and failed to mention to the detectives that her units been broken into previously.”

  A frown pulled at my lips. Cops don’t like it when people lie, and as far as I was concerned, withholding information was the same as lying. “What type of property was stolen?”

  “Jewelry. I looked over the lists of tenants who’d accessed the gates at the mini-storage facilities and one name appeared on each list.”

  My brow made its second inquiry of the day, this time quirking to ask, And what name might that be?

  “Deidre Freitag,” Tara said. “I have a hunch she’s in cahoots with the taxpayer.”

  Deidre Freitag involved in a theft? Doubtful.

  My surprise and skepticism must have shown on my face, because Tara asked, “You know her?”

  “Yes.”

  When I was assigned to this beat, I’d made a point of getting to know the mall employees. Deidre and her husband, Phil, owned Freitag’s Fine Jewelry. Phil was as tightly wound as the watches he sold, but Deidre struck me as a grown-up Girl Scout, always smiling and congenial and ready to lend a hand. She’d brought me some paper towels once when Brigit had gorged herself on a soft pretzel and horked the thing back up on the mall’s main walkway.

  I hoped Tara’s suspicions were wrong. I liked Deidre. The many losers I encountered on my job were bad enough, but if I found out a seemingly nice person like Deidre was a fraud, it would shake m
y already fragile faith in humanity. Working as a cop didn’t exactly give a person the warm fuzzies. The only thing warm and fuzzy about my job was my partner. Still, despite the drawbacks, it was rewarding to know my work made the world a safer, better place.

  The mall manager cut in. “Many of the tenants pay a variable rent based on sales. Their lease contracts give us the right to perform an audit to verify they’ve paid the correct amount of rent. Special Agent Holloway has arranged to go undercover as an outside CPA purportedly hired to review the tenants’ accounting records.”

  “Of course, I’ll start and end my investigation with the jewelry store,” Tara added.

  I hated to sound critical of Agent Holloway’s investigation, yet as a fellow member of law enforcement, I felt I should share my opinion on the suspect. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Brigit lifted her chin, offering a woof as if in agreement.

  Tara narrowed her eyes at me, though her expression was inquisitive rather than offended. “Why’s that?”

  “Deidre’s sweet,” I offered, shrugging. “Simple.”

  Tara cocked her head and chewed her lip, evidently weighing my comments. “I appreciate the input,” she said, returning my shrug, “but Deidre is the only active lead I’ve got.”

  An investigator had to start somewhere, I suppose, and I’d been on the beat long enough to know that not everyone was who he or she appeared to be. Admittedly, I felt a little green with envy that Tara got to perform investigations. My work as a street cop was more akin to putting out small, arbitrary fires. I looked forward to the day when my job would involve interviewing witnesses and suspects, examining crime scenes and digging for clues, solving cases and bringing criminals to justice.