The Taxman Killeth

by Mitchell, Mary Ann

  “I’m sorry, Sara; I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He’s been quite intense about his work lately. He’s even been typing up some of his own papers and running out to post them himself. That’s what being considered for junior partner can do to you.”

  “Yes. I just don’t want to see anything happen to you because of my slip-up.”

  Sara waved a hand.

  “He’ll grunt about it for a while, then he’ll be over it. I hear you’ve got a new guy doing the taxes.”

  Amy frowned.

  “You mean he’s worse than Pickles?”

  “He’s gone and Pickles is back.”

  Sara giggled.

  “And Trudy was so sure it was a perfect match. You hardly had any time to get to know him.”

  Too much time, thought Amy, as she recalled the good-night kiss they had shared.

  When Amy got back to the conference room, she found Pickles tossing loose sheaves of paper around. Has he gone mad? she wondered.

  “I can’t work with this kind of sorting.”

  “That was the way Todd... Mr. Coleman wanted it.”

  “Who?”

  “Your replacement yesterday.”

  Pickles grumbled but quieted down.

  She wanted more information about Todd. She didn’t even know how to contact him; not that she would, of course. Unless she became desperate.

  “You and he must have discussed this firm quite a bit before he came here.”

  “Me and who?”

  “Mr. Todd Coleman, your replacement.”

  Pickles dropped his chin against his chest so that he could read off the numbers in front of him.

  “Had you?”

  “What is wrong with you, Ms. Simpson?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, then, get to work. I asked you for Mr. Lester’s papers hours ago. I don’t see them.”

  “He’s busy. His secretary will bring them as soon as she can.”

  “Here, sort this pile.”

  Pickles handed her a three-inch pile of paper that he had mussed up himself in his rage. She felt like tossing them in the air. Instead, she took a seat as far away from Pickles as she could and started making smaller piles. As she did, she occasionally would look up to watch Pickles. His bulbous nose would wiggle with disapproval as he uttered painful sighs. His glasses crept lower and lower, straddling the moon-shaped tip of his nose. Once he even pulled a pocket watch out of his vest. All he needs is long ears, she thought, as the sour Pickle’s nose vibrated quickly.

  “What’s this?”

  “Those are the notes that Mr. Coleman made.”

  “You mean he actually worked on the books?”

  “Why not?”

  Pickles’ nose shivered a few times before he tossed the paper in the waste basket.

  “But, Mr. Pickens, we worked very hard yesterday to get that work done.”

  “No, no, no. He shouldn’t have touched the ledgers.”

  “Why not?”

  Pickles was quiet again, ignoring her question.

  “Mr. Pickens, I’d like to know why you can’t use those notes. After all, they can save everyone some time.”

  Pickles ignored her. Furious, Amy shoved the papers she was working on toward the accountant and rushed out of the room.

  “He’s impossible, Trudy.”

  “Maybe you should see this,” said Trudy, holding up the afternoon newspaper.

  Amy reached out for the newspaper as she read the headline.

  “THIS MAN SOUGHT FOR MURDER OF BUSINESS PARTNER, JOEY LANDIS”

  Staring back at her from the page was a black and white photograph of the man she had dined with the previous evening.

  “What the...” Amy fumbled for words.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, when I saw the photo. It’s definitely him, even though he does look more luscious in those jeans and Western shirt.”

  “Trudy! You’re talking about a murderer. A man I dated. A man who knows where I live.”

  “Really! No wonder you were late this morning. I would have never gotten out of bed if...”

  “He saw me home, Trudy. Was very polite. Kissed me at the door, didn’t try to strong-arm me, just said ‘good-night.’”

  “Guess he had other things to take care of,” Trudy said, waving a hand at the newspaper that Amy’s sweaty fingers were holding.

  “It could have been me.”

  “No. According to the article, Landis and Coleman were good friends. Had served in the Marines together and ran some sort of business. Though they’re kind of vague on that.”

  “What about the fact that Todd... Coleman worked for the accounting firm?”

  “Not mentioned in there.”

  “Think I should show it to Mr. Pickens?”

  “Yeah.”

  As Amy headed for the conference room, Trudy shouted out, “Let me know what his reaction is.”

  Amy’s fingers were sticking to the paper; newsprint ink covered her fingertips. It has to be a mistake, she kept repeating to herself until she entered the room and found Pickens cursing the ledgers soundly.

  “Mr. Pickens, may I speak to you?”

  “Mr. Lester’s secretary brought me the wrong books.”

  “Perhaps you should take a look at this afternoon’s newspaper.”

  “What for? I don’t have that kind of time to waste even if you people do, which you don’t.”

  Amy slid the paper on top of the sheets Pickens was currently working on. The man turned the color of an overripe tomato. The tip of his nose bounced spastically, and he threw the paper onto the other end of the long table.

  “I don’t know the man.”

  “What? But he was here yesterday, taking your place in the exact chair you’re sitting in. How could you not know him? He had a lot of information about the firm, including who worked here and the names of several clients.”

  “I said I don’t know him.”

  “Why weren’t you here yesterday?”

  “Sick.”

  “But neither you nor your firm called.”

  “Get Lester’s book. See to it, Ms. Simpson.”

  “No! I need to know who I spent the entire day and evening with.”

  “Evening?”

  Amy’s jaw went slack. Not good. Amy, you’ve got to learn to be more circumspect, she silently chastised.

  “Please, Mr. Pickens, I’m the office manager here, and I opened up all our financial records to some—”

  “Stranger.”

  “Are you telling me he wasn’t from your accounting firm?”

  Pickens was quiet for several seconds. He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and pondered the distant wall.

  “Ms. Simpson, forget anyone was here yesterday; there’ll be no charge for that day.”

  “But everyone knows he was here. What if I’m asked about him? What if he uses the information he obtained through my assistance?”

  “What time is it?” Pickens pulled out his pocket watch. “I’m late.”

  Why did she know he would say that?

  “I promised I would call the office by three o’clock. Can I have some privacy while I make my call?”

  The two stared at each other as Amy gradually backed out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

  “How are you getting along with Pickens?”

  Stu was walking down the hall, several metered letters grasped in his hand.

  Amy shook her head and asked whether she could mail the envelopes for him.

  “No. I need the air. Been cooped up all day, even skipped lunch. Getting any slimmer?” he asked, pulling in his gut and spreading his suit jacket open.

  Amy smiled.

  “You were never fat, Stu; a little plump, but never fat.”

  Stu tapped her on the head with his mail and continued into the reception area. As she stood in the hall, she heard the lock on the conference room door click shut.


  An hour later Amy tapped gently on the door. There was no answer, but she knew Pickens was still in there, because she had surreptitiously tried to turn the knob and the door wouldn’t budge.

  Back in her own office, Amy was joined by Trudy.

  “Aren’t you going home?”

  “Do you think it’s safe?”

  “Ah, come on, Amy, why would he want to come back and kill you?”

  “Pickens won’t admit to knowing Todd Coleman; perhaps he’ll want to wipe out anyone aware of his being here.”

  “That would include me!”

  “And most of the office. You didn’t miss telling a soul about him.”

  “Well, he was cute and...”

  “And now everyone thinks I had the hots for him.”

  “You did.”

  “The police. They’ll want to question me.”

  “I think you’re getting carried away, Amy. Besides, so what if they did? You don’t know anything except that he was here for the tax season.”

  “Pickens says he was sick. I get the feeling he would deny anyone was sent in his place.”

  “Pickens left for the day.”

  “What! I wanted to speak to him.”

  “But you always try to avoid the man.”

  “Not now. Not when I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Go home, Amy, take a hot bubble bath, turn on some mellow music. Want the romance I finished today?”

  “I’ve had enough of romance.”

  “Don’t be silly. In a couple of days all this will be history, and in a couple of weeks Pickens will be gone, leaving nothing to remember Mr. Coleman by. Oh, by the way, did you read about how Joey Landis was killed?” Amy shook her head, knowing she couldn’t stop Trudy. “From thirty-five to forty knife wounds, although it looks like Coleman beat him up pretty bad first.”

  “Trudy! We don’t know Todd did it.”

  “Todd? Well, the police are sure who did it, that’s what counts. Come on, walk with me to the cable car.”

  “Aren’t you catching the BART train?”

  “No, I’ve got a blind date tonight.”

  “Be careful, Trudy.”

  “His name is Nathan Schwartz, not Todd Coleman, ninny. Although if Coleman showed up instead, I might choose to live dangerously.”

  Amy decided to walk home. She left Trudy at the cable car and waved good-bye as the car climbed the hill. During her walk she passed a pet store that had several Doberman puppies in the window. She went in to pet and admire the dogs. The owners of the store were used to her visits and never complained about the fact that she never bought anything.

  As Amy held the sleek small body of one of the puppies, she regretted not having bought one a long time ago. The puppy was too young now to be of any use against knife-wielding accountants. Besides, the idea of walking the animal three times a day didn’t appeal to her slothful nature. Gently, she placed the puppy back in his pen and hollered her ‘so-long’ to the owners, who were with a customer in the back of the shop.

  When she was able to see her apartment building up ahead, she began looking around for strangers or ex-dates. The street was empty. Most people were probably eating dinner or washing up afterwards, she assumed. Amy made sure she had her keys in her hand before ascending the steps, and she looked over her shoulder as she turned the key in the front door lock. Once inside the vestibule, she took several breaths. Her apartment was on the third floor, the top floor, meaning that she would have to make sure all the windows were locked, so that no rappelling accountant could lower himself from the roof. Imagine, an accountant, she thought. Who’d believe it would be dangerous dating someone in that line of work? Her mother had warned her against rock singers (anyone in entertainment, for that matter), gamblers, and bartenders, but an accountant would have been a perfect find in her mother’s eyes. Amy wasn’t going to tell Mom about this one.

  Amy hurried into her apartment, closing every lock she could find before she snapped on the television and once again saw the murderous blue eyes of Todd Coleman. Funny, she thought, he doesn’t look like a psychopath. Firm, maybe. Strong, definitely. But a vicious killer, no.

  Chapter 4

  Guess Who?

  The collar of Todd’s leather bombardier jacket was pulled up against the back of his neck. The zipper was undone, allowing the night breeze to pass through the weave of his linen shirt as he walked through the alleys of San Francisco. He wondered how the hell he had gotten into this mess. Frequently the Feds had used him and Joey for this kind of job. Find the guy helping illegals enter the country, then get out, was all they had said. And the accounting firm would work along with them, up to a point. In other words, they’d never acknowledge that he had worked for them. Todd swore. What moral support.

  He tried to remember details of what his apartment had looked like when he got in the night before. No forced entry. Joey had a key. But Todd had planned on telephoning Joey when he got home. He didn’t expect Joey to be in the apartment, but he was, lying in a congealing pool of blood on the bathroom tiles. Blood smeared the walls. There had obviously been a struggle. Todd’s throat tightened. Joey and he had been in college together, went through officer training together in the Marines, and then accepted mercenary undercover employment whenever the U.S. government needed them. It paid well, and both felt they owed their well-honed talents to their country. Now he was on his own, and someone had managed to pin Joey’s murder on him.

  As he exited the alley he ran into a call girl, who flirtatiously rubbed her knee inside his leg.

  “Not tonight, honey.”

  “A man like you can name the place and time.”

  He did need a place to stay. She probably didn’t work alone, though, and her old man would certainly take advantage of the reward offered for information on his whereabouts. Pity, he thought, as he patted her high derriere and moved on.

  The night before, he had managed only to change his clothes and stuff a few personal items into a canvas satchel before departing from the murder scene. He knew either way he was a loser. He’d look guilty if he ran, but he’d also look guilty if he stayed, since there was no doubt that Joey had been killed while Todd was meditating alone on the beach. No one had disturbed him. Todd was sure that no one had even seen him in the heavy fog of the autumn evening. His employer would deny any knowledge of him. Besides, if he talked he would expose the kinds of covert activities in which the government was engaged, and he might even endanger another agent.

  If he had just returned directly to his house after leaving Amy... Amy! He couldn’t stay with any relative or known friend, but who would guess that he was with the office manager of the law firm? Todd remembered her address and felt she was open-minded enough to listen to his story. He’d have to be careful. Todd didn’t think she was involved in the illegal activity but couldn’t be certain. Hell, what did he have to lose? By dawn he’d be picked up by the police if he didn’t find a place to stay.

  She lived a distance from where he stood, and since he dared not use a cab he began a brisk walk. It took him an hour and a half to arrive at his destination.

  Her neighborhood was quiet. An elderly man was walking a scruffy-looking bulldog, who kept looking back at Todd as if he recognized him from someplace. The elderly man kept his head down, gray strands of hair dangling in front of his eyes.

  Damn picture plastered all over town, Todd complained to himself as he pulled his jacket collar higher.

  He had no problem jimmying the lock to enter the building. Quickly he checked the directory and found Amy Simpson’s apartment number. Todd rang her doorbell but got no answer. He prayed she didn’t have a security alarm. She didn’t, and he slipped into her living room soundlessly.

  A halogen torchère was dimmed to a low glow, and there was a lit fluorescent over the stove, where the contents of a pot were simmering over a low flame. Todd walked over to the stove and lifted the lid on the pot. The tomato sauce smelled good, and there seemed to
be enough for two. He replaced the lid. The kitchen was spread along one long wall; the Formica-topped partition probably served as her table, he thought, peering across at two light oak stools.

  From where he stood in the kitchen the living room looked pretty plain. A two-seater couch faced a nineteen-inch television screen; a glass-topped coffee table separated them. Two minispeakers were anchored halfway up the wall. A CD player was wedged on a shelf under the T.V. and above a stereo receiver. No rug marred the almost perfect wood floor. However, two large throw pillows were strewn with careless care toward the far corner of the room.

  Simple, but it’s probably not where she sleeps, he speculated. How many rooms were there, and where was Amy Simpson? Can’t be too many rooms; the building was too narrow. Todd moved to the short hallway and heard some splashing and a voice singing The Impossible Dream. More like a recitation. Amy couldn’t sing.

  A crack of light appeared in the doorway nearest him. He backed away into the kitchen area. How was he going to approach this woman so that she wouldn’t be frightened of him, Todd Coleman, murder suspect and now guilty of breaking and entering?

  There she was in front of him. Todd placed a hand over her mouth and grabbed her from behind. He heard her snort and felt her wet hair brush against his chin. He pulled her in close to his body, his hand spread across the nubbiness of the towel. His thumb traveled up to gauge the fullness of her breasts underneath. Nope, they weren’t fakes, he concluded.

  “Easy, Amy, I’m not going to hurt you,” despite what you’ve read in the afternoon press, he silently added.

  As far as he could tell, she was talking a mile a minute in muffled tones under his palm. Would she bother to listen to him at all?

  “If you stay real quiet I’ll explain why I’m here.”

  Todd’s body moved to the side to avoid a jab from Amy’s elbow. Next she was trying to beat on his shin with the heel of her foot.

  “Good grief, Amy, I’m way bigger than you are. If I had wanted to hurt you I would have done so already. I just want to explain my predicament to you.”

  She quieted. He certainly couldn’t trust her not to yell, but how could he gain her confidence if he held her like this?