by Tom Secret
“I worked hard to survive it and even harder to forget it.”
Lola’s head was spinning with questions. “What was it like getting even with that boy?”
“Oh! I was angry at a lot of things back then.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It wasn’t worth the price I paid if that’s what you mean.”
Lola crossed her arms. “What those investors did to us wasn’t the same, Brad.”
“No, it was the grown-up version. Same as Henryk. They may be egocentric sadists, but putting them down in a pool of blood won’t set the world right.”
“It could have, for Daisy.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I know they’re out to destroy us, and something has to make them stop.”
Brad’s eyes misted. “I miss her too, Babe, but the investors are long gone, and so is Henryk.”
“What about the IRS?”
He looked away. “I don’t know.”
“What was the boy’s name?”
“Ray, something. I only met him those two times and in court. The school expelled me the same day.”
Lola glanced behind her as Jack came down the stairs and disappeared into the kitchen, then looked down as she jabbed the toe of her Nike into the bare floorboard. “I asked your father to let me have one of his guns.”
“He told me.”
“And?”
“I told him no.”
“Brad, I’m not your mother; I won’t use it to kill myself.”
“I know why you want one. But I don’t want guns under this roof.”
“No, you’d rather have a fricking pencil!”
20. CLICKETY CLICK
Monday, 7:55 a.m.
Randall hadn’t slept a wink. He had lain there tossing and turning, his mind flitting from the mayor to the auction—his winning bid on the white tiger, and where he would find the money to pay for it now that the buyers had pulled out. Then he thought about the children. He didn’t like children. Not since Daniel left and caused the troubles at home, and made Mother call him that name ever since. Around and around his mind whirled until he felt queasy, so when the clock hit five a.m., he’d thrown Bogey a treat, and headed to work.
Now Clarissa was in the adjoining office, banging file drawers in backbeat with his throbbing temples.
A knock at the door preceded Clarissa’s coiffed head.
“Good morning, sir. Are you expecting any visitors?”
Randall blinked to clear his vision. “Morning. No, not expecting.”
“Are you all right, sir? You look dreadful.”
“Bad migraine. Who’s here?”
“A Lieutenant Donatello. Says he wants to speak to you and anyone who knows Rohn. Why does he want to talk about Rohn?”
“Who cares. Get rid of him, can you? I can’t even see straight with this damned headache.”
“I already told him you don’t take visitors without an appointment, but he won’t take no for an answer—says it’s serious. Has something happened?”
“I don’t know, Clarissa. Tell him I have nothing to say to him.”
Clarissa scowled, then pushed the door open farther to reveal Donatello, standing behind her. “I think you told him yourself.”
Randall caught the twitch of her mouth, and the little flicker of glee in her eye before she disappeared. Filling the doorway in Clarissa’s place was a linebacker in a dark suit. The man lumbered toward him with his hand outstretched.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Cilfus. I’m Lieutenant Donatello. I appreciate your seeing me without an appointment.”
Randall remained slouched in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head as he studied the cop's appendage without moving. “It’s Cilcifus. How can I help you?”
“Well, Mr. Syphilis, I am investigating an incident last night involving one of your employees, a Mr. Rohn Stark?”
Randall rose like a cobra from his chair as the childhood taunts flooded back, transporting him more than a quarter century to the playground of his youth. He planted his fists on the desk, cheek ticking as he leaned forward. “It’s Cilcifus! What the hell do you want?”
The big cop looked taken aback. “Sorry, Mr. Cilcifus, I meant no offense. But you are aware of the incident I am referring to, then?”
“I watch the news.”
“So you know this is a murder investigation, and you would be well advised to cooperate.”
“You haven’t read me my rights.”
“If you prefer, I can do that, and we can take this down to the precinct.”
Randall felt a wave of nausea. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“As I said, Mr. Cilcifus, we can either do this here or at the pre—”
“And I told you I’m not going anywhere! This is the IRS, and I collect the money that pays for your existence, so unless you have a warrant, get the hell out of my office, or I’ll call your captain and have you directing traffic!”
Randall thought he saw the man shake, but he couldn’t be sure, because in the blink of an eye, he had stepped forward and to the side, grabbed Randall’s right wrist, and twisted it between his shoulder blades, sending a stab of pain through the joint. Another blink and the man was behind him, pushing him onto the desk, face against the keyboard, yanking his other wrist behind him as he heard the clickety-click of the locking handcuffs.
21. POWDER KEG
Monday, 9:45 a.m.
Donatello had blanked out Cilcifus’s stream of abuse that began the moment he snapped the handcuffs on and continued with barely a pause for breath until he handed him over at the precinct for processing. The troubling part was the tirade had centered on how Cilcifus and Captain Colby were best buddies.
Now, as Donatello sipped coffee at his desk in the middle of the bullpen, the one thing he knew for a cast-iron certainty was that he had just lit the touch-paper on a powder keg.
The elevator chime announced the unwashed and unshaven Sergeant Carlson and Officers Kennedy, Sanjit, and Lance returning from a long night.
Donatello had met Carlson in homicide training, at the same time he met Jonah. Like Colby, Carlson would rather eat than exercise, but that didn’t bother Donatello; what did was that Carlson was Colby’s stooge, and a shoo-in for Donatello’s job if Colby ever got his way.
The other three, a good ten years younger than Carlson, were bright and hungry.
“Morning, guys,” Donatello said as they approached his desk. “Where’s Crane?”
“Parking,” said Kennedy. A running fanatic, he was a foot taller than the others and lean as a whip. “And before you ask, so far we got squat.”
“Any of the neighbors see the Chrysler outside the house, or recall seeing it there before?”
“Nu-uh,” Kennedy said. “The nanny was a regular, though.”
Donatello felt Lance looking at him and made eye contact.
“You seem rattled, Big D. Everything okay?”
“A shit storm’s about to break on our shores, guys. The Chrysler’s registered to an IRS office and issued to a tax investigator named Rohn Stark, and I’ve arrested his boss.
“Why’s that a problem?” Lance said.
“Because the little dweeb spent the whole ride over telling me how Colby was his buddy and will carve me a new one.”
“As if Colby needs an excuse,” Sanjit said, scratching his beard.
“Show some respect, Sanjit,” Carlson said. “The captain’s due in an hour.”
Donatello ignored him. “Leave the parents and nanny for now and get me everything you can on Stark and Randall P. Cilcifus. I want phone records, bank accounts, property holdings, prison records—the works. Go back as far as you can, but keep it off the radar. And, guys, when the shit hits, duck.”
“Better duck, then!” Lance said, nodding toward the far end of the precinct. “The shit’s a-coming.”
They turned in unison to see Colby’s mass storming toward them.
“Donatello! My of
fice, now!”
“Damn it, Carlson, you call that an hour?” Donatello muttered under his breath. He glanced at his team, mimicking a slicing action across his throat. “Remember, guys, off-radar!”
All except Carlson gave a conspiratorial nod as he walked past them.
“Shut the door!” Colby barked.
He did as instructed and reached for the vacant seat.
“I said shut the door, not sit down!”
Donatello clasped his hands behind his back.
“Did I not make it crystal last night I won’t tolerate any of your cockamamy wild-goose chases?”
“As I recall, Captain, you told me to do my job, which includes following my hunches, as I did today.”
“What you did contravened a direct order from your commanding officer, and you made me look like I can’t control my department!”
“If I may, Cap—”
“You may not! I’ve had it with you, Donatello. You’ve been a loose cannon since Jonah died, and now the last hinge bolt’s fallen out of your brain. What were you thinking, arresting an IRS special agent?”
“Well—”
“It was rhetorical! You’re suspended from duty pending a formal hearing. Leave your weapon and badge and get out!”
Donatello remained with his feet planted. “Captain, that IRS agent refused to cooperate with a murder investigation, insulted an officer, and resisted arrest! I followed procedure, and you know it.”
Colby’s face flushed. “I’m sorry, Donatello, did I not say ‘dismissed’?”
“If that’s the way you want it, I’ll sue for wrongful suspension and go to IA about the cases you’ve buried, starting with Jonah’s!”
“You sue, and you’ll lose, capisce! Oh, and I released Cilcifus with no charge, so expect him to file assault charges against you. Now, get the hell out of my sight before I have you thrown out!”
Donatello left the shark tank, ignoring Carlson’s smirking face as he headed for the elevator.
22. ONE-WAY STREET
Monday, 10:22 a.m.
Brad swore as he signaled left and started his fourth lap around the so-called financial district. Two blocks of charcoal-gray buildings, stacked above coffee shops and sandwich bars on a one-way street with almost no parking spots and everywhere else a tow zone.
A white Toyota flashed its turn signal and pulled out without checking that the road was clear. Brad stood on his brakes and dove into the space.
Ten minutes later, he hit the buzzer on the outer door of his accountants, Woolrich & Jane.
The door buzzed him through a virtual time warp into a 1970s lobby with worn avocado-green carpet tiles and discolored earth-tone chairs.
The receptionist appeared through a side door. “Morning, Mr. Fairweather. Please go through to the conference room. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
The twelve-by-twelve room had a barred window at both ends and an oversized wooden desk with blue inlaid top dominating the center. The only item on the desk was a faded cream plastic phone with a rotary dial. Two red fake leather chairs flanked it, and a high-back massa's chair stood behind.
He took his usual seat at the left and mused about why he preferred that one. Perhaps because the door opened inward, exposing the other chair first, giving him an extra second to react, though the only thing to react to here was their propensity to overcharge and under-deliver. The door opened, and he straightened.
“Hello, Bradley! How are we today?”
His name was Duncan Woolrich. An oily leprechaun of a man, five feet in thick soles, buttoned into an antique woolen suit. He tottered around the far side of the desk and stuck out his pale hand.
Brad shook the lifeless protrusion. “I’ll be better when you get these lunatics off my back once and for all.” He handed over the bundle of tax demands.
“You said over the phone that the woman who visited you would make note these were a mistake or words to that effect.”
“Right, but I called the number on the way over, and they said there’s no record of a Mrs. Patel working there.”
The accountant scanned the pages one by one, shaking his head at each turn. “Well, this is not good news, is it, Bradley? They say you owe over half a million dollars! Oh, and they seem to have added a few thousand more in penalties for good measure.” The corners of his thin lips turned upward. “Are you able to pay this?”
“Am I what? Why should I pay it when I don’t owe a dime! And why am I getting these insane demands again?”
“You mentioned she had been instructed to target you?”
“That’s right.”
“And now she appears to have vanished from their employment?”
“Correct.”
“Hm. Curiouser and curiouser.” Woolrich adjusted his tie and jacket as though it might shield him from the enemy. “They seem to like picking on you and your companies, don’t they? Is this the fourth or the fifth time since we began acting for you?”
“Fifth.”
“And if memory serves, we spent almost a hundred hours fighting the last round of fictitious demands before they reversed them—hours you have not paid for.”
“But why does this keep happening? This is harassment. I have no money, and they’re using you to bleed me to death!”
“Well, there’s the rub.”
“What?” Brad blinked at the diminutive man behind the big desk.
“Trying to prove harassment is all but impossible, even though this has been a regular occurrence and appears personally motivated. If confronted, the IRS will contend that it was a computer error, and the courts will find in their favor. Meanwhile, if you don’t settle your account, we will have no alternative but to take legal action ourselves.”
“You’re throwing me under the bus?”
“My hands are tied, Bradley.”
“But where do they get their bloody figures, Duncan? You know I owe nothing. You prepare my accounts and file the returns! What they’re doing can’t even be legal, for crying out loud!”
“Have you read the history of President Nixon?”
Brad clutched the arms of his chair. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
The wool suit rustled. “I read it years ago, but as I recall, Nixon captioned it rather poetically. He said, ‘If I say it, then it is the law.’ I believe his statement is truer now than it ever was.”
Brad shook his head. “What are you saying?”
“Wake up, Bradley. The powers of government are greater now than at any time in history. If the IRS says you owe them, it’s for you to prove you don’t. Not the other way around.”
“That’s crazy! It’s a license to extort from the public!”
“There you have it. And come to think of it, I will send your account to Legal.”
Brad bolted from his chair. “But you didn’t do your job, now, did you!”
“My job is not to defend you against a personal vendetta. In fifty years of practice, I have not seen anything quite this… extreme. So, given the case’s personal nature, I do not agree that this is a reflection on the quality of our work, and therefore I expect your account to be settled forthwith.” The fossil rose from his seat. “Good day, Bradley.”
23. DON’T CANCEL!
Monday, 12:55 p.m.
Randall poked his head through the door to the adjoining office. “Clarissa.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Pack your things and get out.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“You’re fired.” Randall disappeared into his office.
Clarissa appeared behind him, her face flushed. “What have I done wrong, Mr. Cilcifus?”
Randall turned to face her. “You smiled.”
“But you can’t just fire me!”
“Please close the door on your way out, Clarissa.”
“This is outrageous! You’ll hear from my husband. He’s a lawyer, you know!”
“I’m sure he is. But there are certain cardinal rules you have
to abide by when working for a department head of Special Investigations, and one of the most sacrosanct is that you let no one near me unless I know in advance who it is. Do you know why that is, Clarissa? Hm?” Randall’s cheek twitched.
“It says nothing about cardinal rules in the IRS manual.”
“It was a figure of speech! The reason, Clarissa, is to ensure a disgruntled taxpayer doesn’t waltz in here with a fake police ID and a real gun to blow me to kingdom come. And your smile when you let him into my office shows you harbored malicious intent toward me, which makes it a firing offense. Ergo, you’re fired. Goodbye.”
Randall smiled as the woman’s eyes grew moist and bloodshot, her cheeks quivered, and a choked harrumph escaped her flared nostrils as she stormed away. Randall walked to his desk and speed-dialed Antwan.
“My office, please, and bring Snyderman and Castro with you.”
Antwan and Castro appeared moments later, both looking shaken by the previous night’s events. Snyderman sauntered in with that untouchable look that Randall found so irksome.
“Sit down, gentlemen.” Randall slouched back in his chair and picked his teeth with a matchstick.
“What happened, boss?” Antwan said. “Why’d the cops arrest you?”
“Pah! I own those maggots!”
“But Clarissa said—”
“Clarissa’s history. Now, did any of you get hold of Walton?”
“I did,” Snyderman said.
“And?”
“Well, last night could not have gone worse if we’d planned it!”
“Can he get us more time to complete the order?” Randall said.
Snyderman gawped at him.
“It was a simple question, Snyderman. More time—yes or no?”
The blimp rose and walked in front of the window, flexing his jaw. “Walton agreed on a drop-dead extension of six p.m. today—no thanks to Michaels, I might add.”
“Six o’clock! It’s one already!
“Walton said they were contumacious. It’s six p.m. or nothing.”
“I bet he didn’t use a pompous word like that. What about the Christmas order?”
“Provided we deliver today, it remains confirmed; otherwise, sayonara.”