by Diane Kelly
Emily stepped back and eyed her piece, then reached out and moved the dangling fingers of a glove into a different position. “There. That’s better.”
I gestured to the sculpture. “Interesting piece.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I think I’m going to call it Lifelines.”
“Seems fitting.”
She moved to her right, to something nearly as tall as her that was covered with a hospital bedsheet. “Give me your thoughts on this.”
She grabbed the bottom edge of the sheet and tossed it up and over the piece, revealing a plastic skeleton like those used in an anatomy class. The skeleton wore a ruffled, floor-length dress made from a number of light blue hospital gowns stitched together. Emily stared at me, her face expectant. “How does it make you feel?”
“Honestly?” I said. “Uncomfortable. A little scared, even.”
“Good,” she said. “It should. It’s called Death’s Beauty Pageant. It’s a statement about the dangers of anorexia.” She swung the sheet back over the skeleton, wheeled it back against the wall, and turned to me again. “I’m fascinated by life and death, and all we humans do to destroy ourselves or keep death at bay. I like to explore those themes in my art.”
It also explained her fascination with medicine.
Emily began to sway with the pan flute music and executed some type of hands-up pirouette before jabbing the button to turn off the stereo. “Okay, let’s talk.” She offered me a short, square stool that looked as if it could serve as either a seat or a platform for working on taller pieces.
“Did Sharla Fowler call you?” I asked as I sat. “Did she tell you I might be coming to see you?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “She said something about you not believing that the Unic is a real art museum? Accusing her and her son of trying to pull something over on the IRS?”
Unlike Mallory, Emily didn’t seem at all upset or concerned.
I pulled a pad and pen out of my briefcase to take notes. “Would it bother you if someone questioned the value of your art? Or whether it even was true art?”
“Oh, honey.” She tittered. “I wouldn’t last a second in this business if I cared one iota what other people think. There’s always some critic or other telling an artist she’s a no-talent hack, then the next minute there’s another critic calling her the next Georgia O’Keeffe or Mary Cassatt or Polly Morgan.”
I’d heard of the first two artists, but not the latter. “Polly Morgan?”
“British taxidermist and sculptor,” Emily replied. “She uses dead birds, rats, and squirrels in her pieces.”
Art imitating life, I supposed. Or was it art imitating death?
I shifted on the hard stool, trying, unsuccessfully, to find a more comfortable position. “Do you have any thoughts about the other pieces on display at the Unic? About the other artists?”
She offered a patronizing smile. “I have all sorts of thoughts, Miss Holloway. But what do my opinions matter? As long as an artist believes he or she has created something worth making, and as long as someone else decides a piece is worth buying or at least thinking about, hasn’t the purpose of art been fulfilled?”
Hell if I know.
“But you were trained as an artist,” I said. “You wouldn’t have spent the time and money on an art education if you didn’t think it would have value, right?”
“Of course not,” she agreed.
“Then doesn’t it bother you that someone with no training can just throw something together and call themselves an artist?”
“Not at all. I studied art because I wanted to hone my talents and learn more skills and techniques. But even untrained amateurs can have moments of brilliance. It’s like cooking. Restaurants hire professional chefs to make gourmet meals, but people whip up all kinds of yummy stuff from scratch in their kitchens every night, too. It’s just different approaches to the same end.”
I supposed what she said was true. My mother had ordered that dump cakes cookbook after seeing the commercial on TV, and damn if some of those cakes weren’t delicious.
Seeing I’d get nowhere questioning the art itself, I asked Emily how her work had ended up on exhibit at the Unic. She told me that Rodney Fowler had come to her husband’s office to be treated for swimmer’s ear.
“I was installing a piece I’d made specifically for my husband,” she said, pulling out a portfolio of photographs and showing one to me. “See? I painted a half-dozen plastic ear models, posted them on flexible wires, and put them in a vase to resemble a bouquet. I call that one Listen to Your Doctor.”
She went on to say that Rodney had commented on the piece, mentioned that he was involved in an arts charity, and asked if she had any pieces available for sale.
“One thing led to another,” she said, closing the book, “and the next thing I knew I had a nice, fat check in my hand.”
“About that check,” I said. “Did it surprise you how much the Unic paid for your work given that you had sold only one piece beforehand? And that you’d sold the earlier piece for much less?”
“On the contrary.” She offered me a grin. “I thought I deserved much, much more.”
A theory was beginning to develop in my mind. Maybe those running the Unic realized they had to spend significant sums on at least a few pieces from unrelated artists in order to give the place the air of legitimacy and to justify the amounts they’d paid for the pieces made by Sharla’s grandson and great-grandson, as well as Rodney’s fiancée.
Although I found Emily interesting on a personal level, it was clear that spending any more time with her would in no way further my case. If anything, I was more confused than ever.
What constitutes art?
What is the purpose of art?
Who has the right to call themselves an artist?
I thanked her and returned to my car, pondering art, life, death, and taxes.
chapter ten
Gone Phishing
Early Thursday morning, I sat at my desk and stared across the hall at Nick’s empty office, missing the hell out of him even though he’d been gone only a short time. His chair sat at attention behind his desk, as if waiting for the return of the firm ass that had graced its seat for the last few months. An aluminum baseball bat leaned against his credenza and a gym bag sat on top of it. I wasn’t the only one who missed Nick. The others on the IRS softball team had pitched a fit when they heard Nick would be gone indefinitely. He was not only the team captain but also their star player. Will Dorsey had stepped up to coach but, without Nick, the chances of the Tax Maniacs winning a game were slim to none.
The situation sucked. All around. Big-time.
Ly’s secretary, Viola, stepped into my doorway with a huge bouquet of red roses interspersed with greenery and baby’s breath. “Special delivery!” she sang as she set them on my desk.
“Wow!” I exclaimed, rising from my seat. “Thanks, Vi.”
As she left my office, I grabbed the card from the plastic holder. Tearing the envelope open, I pulled out the card. It read “I miss my gooey girl. Nick.”
Tears of relief welled up in my eyes as I clutched the card to my chest. These flowers were beautiful, sure, and they smelled great, too. But it was more what they symbolized that had me getting so emotional. These flowers meant El Cuchillo’s knife bore none of Nick’s or Christina’s blood. The two of them were alive and okay.
Or were they?
Just as quickly as the relief had hit me, so did the realization that Nick might not have ordered these flowers today. He might have placed the order on Monday or Tuesday before he’d gone undercover, and simply requested they be delivered today. There was only one way to know for sure.
I picked up the envelope from my desk, sat back down in my chair, and dialed the phone number of the florist listed on the envelope. When the clerk answered, I said, “Hi. I had a question about a floral arrangement from your store. It was ordered by Nick Pratt. Can you tell me when he placed the order?”
&n
bsp; The woman hesitated a moment. “Can’t you just ask him?”
Hmm … What can I say that will make her give up the goods?
“He’s actually the one who asked me to call you. He couldn’t remember what day it was. His credit card company said there’d been some fraud on his account. If you can’t verify the date for me he’ll be forced to have the charge reversed.”
I felt absolutely evil, but I knew the best way to get information from someone was to make them believe that the cost of withholding it would be higher. Either this woman would tell me what I wanted to know, or she’d be out $75 or more.
“Just a moment,” she said.
Good.
There was a clicking of keys. “It says here in the computer that he ordered them on Monday. Wait a minute. It also says he paid cash. Why would the credit—”
Click. I hung up on her.
Though I felt bad both about misleading the florist and hanging up on her, I was dealing with issues of much greater importance. The flowers were still undeniably gorgeous, yet their red blooms no longer bore the message of hope I’d thought they had. In fact, the red blooms seemed suddenly reminiscent of blood, the thorns like tiny little knives along the stems.
I closed my eyes. Don’t go there, Tara, I told myself. Chances are Nick and Christina are fine. Nick wanted you to enjoy these flowers. So do it already!
I could be damned bossy with myself, huh?
I tweaked the arrangement, separating the blooms slightly to let them breathe and spread, and took a deep breath of the nearest blossom. Heavenly.
Forcing my thoughts back to my work, I pulled my regular cell phone out of my purse. Pulling up my contacts list, I stopped on Mom and Dad and hit the button to call home.
My mother didn’t answer until the seventh ring. “Hi, sweetie!”
Ah, mothers. Even if we pack a gun and kick ass for a living, we’ll always be their “sweeties.”
“Hi, Mom. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not at all.” Of course she could’ve just cut her finger off in the garbage disposal and be standing there bleeding to death and she’d still make time to talk to me. That’s the kind of mother she was. “I was just out in the garden, planting tomatoes.”
“Wish I could be there to help you.”
“Me, too, hon. Those bags of garden soil seem to get heavier every year.”
Gardening together had been one of our favorite mother-daughter activities, second only to making road trips from our home in east Texas to the Neiman Marcus flagship store in Dallas. Gardening had always relaxed me. Digging in the ground made me feel, well, grounded. Between my long hours on the job and my romantic pursuits, I’d had little time to garden recently. With Nick gone now, maybe I’d find time to work on my flower beds. Brett, a landscape architect I’d dated before Nick, had hired a crew to install and maintain a nice bed in front of my town house. Unfortunately, when the relationship ended, so did my free lawn service. Weeds had snuck in among the plants, many of which had died off over the winter. Time for me to get things spruced up. Besides, the labor would help take my mind off my worries.
“Is Dad around?” I asked.
My mother’s tone instantly changed from happy to concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Can’t a girl ask to speak to her father without something being wrong?”
“She can,” my mother snapped. “But you don’t. Every time you want to speak to your father it means something’s up.”
True. I generally counted on my mother to share any of my news with my father. Not that my dad and I weren’t close. We were. It’s just that my mother’s role in the family was serving as the central information center and my father’s role was to pay for things, fix things, and teach us kids how to handle guns. It was thanks to his superb guidance that I’d learned to shoot as well as an army sniper.
“Last time you asked to speak to your father,” my mother continued, “you wanted to borrow his long-range rifle.”
“That’s not why I need to speak to him,” I replied. I had my own long-range rifle now. Dad had given it to me for Christmas, just like he’d given me my first Daisy BB gun when I was a little girl. Yep, some girls, including moi, are made of gunpowder and lead. “I need him to help me on a case. I’m pretty sure an animal rescue group I’m investigating is supplying animals to a canned hunting ranch.”
“That’s despicable.”
“Yep. It’s also illegal if they’re claiming to be a tax-exempt sanctuary.”
“Hold on a minute. I’ll have to go find him.” My mother set the phone down and a minute or so later returned to the line. “Here he is.”
“Thanks.”
Dad’s voice boomed over the airwaves. “Hello, there, Tara. Your mother says you want to speak with me?”
“I’ve got a favor to ask you.”
“Anything for daddy’s girl. Ask away.”
“I need you to come with me to a hunting ranch and shoot a lion.”
There was a moment of silence followed by a, “Say what, now?”
“You won’t actually shoot the lion,” I clarified. “But I need you to pretend you’re a trophy hunter wanting to bag a big cat.”
I explained about the Kuykendahls and the canned hunting outfit. “My gut tells me those cousins may be supplying animals for hunts.”
If I could prove it, I could charge Quent and Kevin with criminal tax evasion and put them out of business for good. As things stood right now, all I could do was revoke their organization’s tax-exempt status for failure to maintain adequate records and issue them a tax bill. I wanted to do more than that. I wanted to put those losers in jail. And I wanted to rescue Simba and his furry, four-legged bear buddies and as many of those deer and oryx as possible.
“I’d be glad to help any way I can,” my father said.
“Great,” I told him. “I’ll call Southern Safari and see if I can get it arranged.”
As soon as we ended our call, I pulled up the photograph I’d taken of Southern Safari’s sign on my phone and jotted down the phone number. I then placed a call to Southern Safari.
A man with a deep Texas accent answered. “Southern Safari, where your trophy is guaranteed. How can I he’p ya?”
I told him I wanted to arrange a hunt for my father as a gift for his birthday. “Any chance you’ve got a lion? He’s always wanted to bag a big cat.”
I knew they didn’t currently have one on site. I’d had Eddie call them yesterday afternoon. He’d claimed to be a personal assistant for an unnamed Hollywood celebrity and asked for a full list of their available game. The manager of Southern Safari had e-mailed Eddie a complete list. Though it contained a variety of deer, scimitar-horned oryx, Nubian ibex, Dama gazelle, Mouflon sheep, and wildebeest, there was no lion on the list.
“I don’t have a lion at the moment,” the man said, “but if you can give me a few days I believe I can make arrangements to get one.”
“What’s the fee?”
“It’ll depend on our cost, but my best guesstimate is that a lion’ll run you at least five grand.”
Holy crap! Being a bloodthirsty jackass was expensive. I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised. Canned hunting was a multimillion-dollar industry in Texas. Hence the state legislature turned a blind eye and failed to regulate it.
I arranged the hunt for a week from Saturday. Looked like Simba would be getting a stay of execution at least until then and, if I had anything to say about it, for the rest of his life afterward.
I turned my attention to the stack of files on my desk. Each of them was equally pressing and they had been assigned to me en masse, so there was no clear file to start on next. Beginning at the top, I pointed my index finger at each file in turn. “Eeny, meeny, miny, mo.” I pulled “mo” from the stack and opened the file.
This particular case was something new and different. Someone, or perhaps multiple someones, had been impersonating an IRS employee online and phishing for personal banking inform
ation via e-mails purporting to be from the agency. The e-mails were designed to resemble official IRS letters, and included the Treasury Department insignia at the top. While the letters contained a valid mailing address for the IRS service center in Austin, they failed to include a telephone number.
The con artist had clearly had some fun when drafting the e-mails. The names of the fictional IRS employees who’d allegedly written the e-mail correspondence included such clever monikers as B. Andit, T. Hief, and U. R. Aschmuck. The scammer had included falsified employee identification numbers, as well.
The someone or someones used a clever and conniving method. Had the culprit told potential victims that they owed money to the IRS, the taxpayers would have likely questioned why and perhaps enlisted the assistance of a tax professional. After all, people didn’t want to give a penny more to Uncle Sam than they had to. Instead, the perpetrator informed victims that a programming glitch in their tax software had caused a computation error and overstated their tax liability. As a result, they were due a $427.95 refund that the IRS would be happy to send by check in the mail in the next six weeks or, if the taxpayer wanted their funds quicker, via direct deposit to their bank account within three business days.
Again, while the amount was nothing to sneeze at, it wasn’t such a significant number as to set off warning bells. The thief seemed to realize that subtlety worked in his favor. Suspicions were also allayed by the fact that the letter purported to give the recipient the option of receiving a paper check. Of course anyone choosing that option would never receive the refund check.
The victims were asked to fill out a short form at the bottom of the letter. The form included spaces for their bank’s routing number, bank account number, and signature. The letter stated that the recipient’s social security number had not been included on the letter for security purposes, but requested that the taxpayer provide his or her social security number as verification that the person receiving the e-mail was the intended recipient. The letter said the number provided would be compared to the social security number on record with the IRS to authenticate the recipient’s identity. The letter then requested that the taxpayer either scan the completed document or take a photo of it, and that the file or image be sent to the IRS via a reply e-mail to an address intended to look like an official Treasury Department address.