Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter: A Tara Holloway Novel

by Diane Kelly

  “I’ll be as brief as possible,” I told her, “and I’d be happy to work around your schedule. I can come in before or after your normal business hours if that would help.”

  “It would,” she said. “I’ve got back-to-back bookings all day tomorrow. Why don’t you come by at eight in the morning?”

  “Great,” I said though, to be honest, I was thinking, ugggh. I’m not much of a morning person. Besides, Dallas traffic at that time of day was a bitch. But it was a bitch I’d have to face. “See you then.”

  I put my phone aside and set about winnowing down the list of links Josh had found for me, the ones with photos that had also been taken by Goode Photographic Arts. Many of the links were to couples’ wedding sites, which they’d made public either by mistake or because imposing a password proved problematic when trying to share with extended family and friends. The photos included bridal portraits, posed photographs of the wedding party and family, brides and grooms shoving cake into each other’s mouths, and candid shots taken at the reception. My personal favorite was the one of a bridesmaid in a long pink brocade dress. She’d apparently enjoyed one too many glasses of champagne, fallen backward into a hotel fountain, and had a hell of a time pulling herself out with three yards of soaked brocade weighing her down. Did that make it a night to remember, or a night to forget? The next shot showed a laughing groomsman yanking her out by her arms. Such a gentleman. Unfortunately, neither the chivalrous groomsman nor anyone else at the wedding appeared to be Jack Smirnoff.

  Dozens of professional head shots popped up on business sites, everything from a smiling dentist, to a serious-looking probate attorney, to a caterer in a white chef’s coat and hat who was brandishing a wooden spoon. None of the head shots belonged to anyone who looked even remotely like Jack Smirnoff, however.

  My gaze ran down the list, searching for listings on dating sites. Bingo! There was a link to a singles ad on Craigslist. I clicked on the link and took a peek. While the thumbnail appeared to be a sandy-haired man rather than a dark-haired one, it could still be Jack Smirnoff. After all, changing your hair color took only a trip to the pharmacy and a few measly bucks.

  I couldn’t tell from the thumbnail whether this guy had the telltale freckle or mole, so I clicked on the link to take a better look. Nope. Definitely not our guy. The man in the photo was too young, twenty-five or so, and had a black tattoo encircling his neck.

  I backed out and returned to the list, clicking on the links and finding lots of nice shots, but none of Jack Smirnoff.

  Looked like I’d hit a wall for the time being. But even if it took a battering ram, I’d get through that wall. I owed it to every lovelorn person who’d been duped in the name of romance.

  chapter seven

  Holes in Her Story

  I decided to call some of the dating sites and see where that might get me.

  After identifying myself to a female executive at one of the major sites, I explained the situation. “We’d like to search your database and see if this man has approached women through your site.”

  “What name did you say he was using?”

  “Jack Smirnoff.”

  “Like the vodka?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hold on a moment. I’ll see if we’ve got a listing for him.”

  So far, so good.

  She paused for a moment as she apparently ran a search. “No. Nothing comes up under the last name Smirnoff. Could he be using a different name?”

  “It’s possible,” I said, “maybe even probable. Unfortunately, I don’t know what his other aliases might be. But we have his head shot. Our tech specialist has told me that if he has access to your site he can run a search for the pictures and see if they show up in one of your clients’ profiles.”

  The woman exhaled sharply. “I can understand your conundrum, and honestly I’d like to help. The problem is that our privacy statement assures our clients that their identities will be kept confidential. We don’t put a client in touch with another client unless and until both parties express interest. Even then we provide only screen names and an internal messaging system that clients can use until they decide whether they want to share their true identities and contact information. They have to jump through a lot of hoops before they get any real information. These levels are put in place to give our clients a sense of safety and security. I don’t see how we can willingly violate that trust without risking our reputation.”

  Ugh. “Isn’t it just as risky to your reputation to let a predator use your site to troll for victims?”

  “That’s certainly a concern,” she conceded, “though we take measures to warn our clients of the risks they assume by using any online service.”

  “So you won’t let us access your database without a judge’s order?”

  “Sorry, but no.”

  “I figured as much.” I decided to take a similar approach to the one I’d take with J.B. at Big D Dating Service. I’d much prefer to keep the investigation in the hands of the IRS, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Especially when her chances of getting a court order were minuscule. “What if I sent you the photograph we have of Jack Smirnoff? You could have someone on your tech team run a search and see if it matches any profile pics in your system. If that were the case, you could determine whether he’d contacted any women through your site, get in touch with them, and ask them to call me.”

  “That could work,” the woman said. “I’ll have to check with the tech department and see if they have the capability to search by picture. But assuming they do, this plan is a go.”

  “Wonderful! What e-mail address should I send the photo to?”

  She gave me an address and within ten seconds of my ending the call Smirnoff’s head shot was on its way to her. Over the next hour, I had the same discussion with staff at a dozen other dating sites. With any luck, one of them would soon be in touch to tell me that they’d found Smirnoff in their system and identified more victims.

  I spent what remained of the afternoon listening to KCSH while working up some numbers in a tax evasion case against a window-washing service and discussing a potential plea bargain with Ross O’Donnell, an attorney at the Justice Department who handled many of the IRS cases.

  Today, excluding the professionally produced commercials, Flo mentioned no fewer than twenty-nine local and regional businesses. She’d mentioned Doo-Wop Donuts at least three times. “Try a cruller and cappuccino,” Flo said. “There’s no better way to start your day.”

  On my drive home, I decided to make a detour by Doo-Wop Donuts. A cruller might be a good way to start a day, but it wasn’t a bad way to end one, either.

  The donut shop was housed in a fifties-style drive-in. The circular windows on the sides of the building appeared to be the holes in the sprinkled donuts painted on the walls around them. White Christmas lights were strung along the edges of the aluminum roof that overhung the parking spots, as well as along the poles that supported the menu boards and speaker systems. Two teenage girls wearing pink coveralls and roller skates carried bags and boxes of donuts out to the cars, making change from the money belts at their waists.

  I pulled into an open bay next to a tired-looking young mother with three kids in a minivan. The kids were out of their car seats, high on sugar, screaming and hopping up and down and making the car bounce. “Stop that jumping!” the mother hollered. “You’ll wear out the shocks!”

  I climbed out of my car and walked to the building, ignoring the sign on the glass door that read: “EMPLOYEES ONLY” and opening it to go inside.

  Inside I found a blond woman wearing the same pink coveralls as the carhops but tennis shoes rather than skates. She glanced up from a table loaded with tray after tray of glazed donuts. “Bathrooms are around back.”

  “I don’t need to use the bathroom,” I said.

  She held up the pastry bag she’d been using to apply chocolate frosting to the donuts and used it to point outside. “You can orde
r from your car. The girls will bring the donuts out to you.”

  “I’m not here to pick up donuts, either,” I said. “I need to speak with the owner.”

  Her face clouding in concern, she set down the pastry bag, wiped her hands on a dishcloth, and stepped over to the counter, giving me a once-over. “I’m the owner. How can I help you?”

  I handed her one of my business cards, which only made her face cloud over more. Yeah, people aren’t so happy when an IRS agent shows up on their doorstep. We ranked right up there with magazine salesmen and purveyors of religions.

  “Internal Revenue Service.” She looked from the card to me. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, not a problem,” I assured her. “I just need some information. I noticed that you advertise on KCSH Radio. I’m wondering if you can tell me how much you pay the station for your ads. I believe you paid cash, correct?”

  According to the financial records Flo had provided to the auditor, KCSH had received no payments from Doo-Wop Donuts. The business wasn’t listed among the paid advertisers. Still, I’d bet dollars to these chocolate-frosted donuts that this shop had made some sort of under-the-table deal with Flo.

  The woman was silent for a moment, her darting eyes telling me that a lot of thoughts were zinging through the brain behind them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally, returning her gaze not to my face but to a spot over my shoulder. “We don’t pay to advertise on the radio.”

  I moved my head slightly, forcing her to look me in the eye. “You don’t?”

  She swallowed hard. “No.”

  I call “bullshit.” “I heard the radio announcer mention Doo-Wop Donuts no less than three times today. She even mentioned that you’re running an early-bird buy-one-get-one-free promotion for customers who come in before seven in the morning this week. How would Flo Cash know about your special if she hadn’t discussed it with you?”

  The woman hesitated a moment, then gestured out the glass front doors. “Maybe she saw our sign.”

  I turned to look. Sure enough, the letters on the roadside marquee sign read: “EARLY BIRDS—BUY 1 GET 1 FREE B4 7 AM THIS WEEK ONLY.” Still, the donut shop wasn’t located between Flo’s house and the station. If Flo wanted a donut, why would she drive out of her way to come here when surely there were plenty of other donut shops located conveniently along her route?

  I eyed the woman intently. “You are familiar with Flo Cash, aren’t you?”

  As before, the woman hesitated. “I’m not sure. We get so many customers in here I don’t remember them all.”

  There were as many holes in her story as there were in her donuts. But there didn’t seem to be much use in pushing her, at least not at the moment. She might change her tune once she had time to think things over. Then again, I could be totally off base here. Maybe Flo was telling me the truth, that she simply liked the donuts and that’s why she mentioned Doo-Wop on her show. This woman could seem hesitant simply because she was nervous. Having a federal law enforcement agent appear unexpectedly on your doorstep didn’t exactly give people the warm fuzzies.

  “All righty then,” I said. “As long as I’m here, I might as well get a mixed dozen. Can you throw one together for me?”

  The woman glanced out at my car and at the young girls in their coveralls milling about. It was clear she’d prefer I follow their normal ordering procedure, but I just as clearly didn’t want spit in my donuts. I’d take them right here where I could keep an eye on things.

  The woman seemed to sense that I wasn’t going anywhere, and set about packing me a box of mixed donuts, even throwing in an extra blueberry. “I’ve made it a baker’s dozen.”

  “Thanks.” I wasn’t sure if the extra donut was standard procedure or an attempt for her to get on my good side, but it would take more than flour and sugar and vanilla to ease my suspicions.

  She set the box on the countertop. “That’ll be nine dollars.”

  I handed her my debit card and she ran it through a machine. I typed in my four-digit PIN, took the receipt and box of donuts from her, and headed back toward the door. Just before exiting, I glanced back her way. “If you happen to remember anything,” I said, “give me a call. It could be in your best interests.” Unlike eating a thousand calories of pure sugar, carbs, and custard, which was definitely not in my thighs’ best interests. Still, that fact didn’t stop me from shoving a Boston cream into my mouth on the walk back to my car.

  chapter eight

  Road to Nowhere

  KCSH kept me company as I slowly made my way through the Dallas morning rush-hour traffic on Thursday morning. My car’s speedometer might as well have measured my progress in inches rather than miles. That they called the morning commute rush hour made no sense to me. Everybody might be in a hurry, but nobody was going anywhere fast. A more appropriate term would be “tush hour.” After all, we were all sitting on our asses, cursing the cars ahead of us. At least I had a mug full of hot coffee and a couple of Doo-Wop donuts to enjoy on the way.

  I crawled north on Central Expressway, exiting onto Lovers Lane and heading east. Finally, I arrived at Savannah Goode’s photography studio, barely making my 8:00 appointment.

  A black woman who appeared to be in her early thirties met me at the door, turning the lock with a click. Her hair hung long and straight, her big brown eyes rimmed with thick mascara. She wore a loose-fitting tunic belted at the waist and a pair of stylish leggings that would allow for easy movement as she moved around to take her camera shots. “Are you the lady from the IRS?” she asked.

  I held out a hand. “I am. IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway.”

  We shook hands and I thanked her for agreeing to meet with me. She waved me in and led me to a small room containing an oblong wooden table with six chairs all angled to face the screen at the front of the room. A projector sat in the middle of the table. I surmised that this was the room where she and her clients reviewed the photographs she’d taken.

  She pulled out one of the chairs for me, turning it back to face the table. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” I placed my briefcase on the table and dropped into the chair.

  She took a seat next to me. “You said you had some questions about a photo?”

  “About the person in the photo, actually,” I replied. “He’s one of your clients.”

  “A client?” She paused a moment. “I may not be able to tell you much. Most people come in, get their photos taken, look them over, and place an order. If they want digital images, I download them to a thumb drive before they leave. If they order prints, those are mailed to them later. Unless they’re a wedding client, that’s about the extent of things.”

  Unwilling to have my hopes dashed just yet, I snapped open the latches on my briefcase, removed the photos of Jack Smirnoff that I’d printed out, and handed them to her. “I’m trying to locate this man.”

  She glanced down at the photo. “Are you sure he had this head shot taken here? I don’t see my copyright notice.”

  “I’m positive.” I explained how Josh had been able to identify the source of the images online. “Any idea who the man in the picture is?”

  She looked down at the photo once more and frowned. “He looks vaguely familiar, but I photograph so many people they tend to all run together after a while.” She looked up. “Not that I’d ever tell my clients that.”

  Understandable. “The man in the photo has been going by the name Jack Smirnoff,” I told her. “We suspect that’s not his real name, though. He’s wanted for questioning in connection with some financial crimes. Could you check your files and see if he gave you his real name? Maybe an address or phone number, too?”

  “Give me just a minute.” She stood and left the room, returning a moment later with a laptop. It took a few seconds to boot up, but once it did she put her fingers to the keyboard. “What was that last name again?”

  “Smirnoff,” I said.

  “Like the vodka?” she asked
.

  “Exactly.”

  She typed the name in, hit the “enter” key, and leaned in to look at the screen. I leaned in with her.

  She pointed to the display. “Looks like he provided that same name when he had his photos taken here.”

  Damn! So much for finding out his real identity.

  She ran her finger down the screen, stopping an inch or two lower. “He provided an address on Royal Lane.”

  Royal Lane was a major east–west thoroughfare that ran just south of, and roughly perpendicular to, the northern stretch of the 635 freeway. I jotted the information down. 12705 Royal Lane, # 256, in Dallas. Hm-m. I made note of the phone number and e-mail addresses he’d provided, too, flipping back a few pages in my notes to compare them to the phone number and e-mail address he’d given Julia, Nataya, and Leslie. While the e-mail account was the same, the phone number didn’t match. The phone number he’d given to Savannah Goode was a local number, while the one he’d given to the Big D Dating Service and the women he’d victimized began with 303, one of the area codes for Denver and surrounding communities.

  I looked over at Savannah. “Do you know if this address and phone number are valid?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. I only use the address for mailing printed photos. I don’t recall any photos being returned for an incorrect address. I rarely need to call or e-mail a client other than for appointment reminders. I don’t bother sending a reminder if the appointment was made within a day or two preceding the shoot since people usually remember to show up when they schedule so close in time.”

  In other words, even though the name he’d given was false, the contact information could be legit. My nerves began to buzz. The phone number he’d used with the three victims I’d met had since been disconnected, but maybe the local address and phone number would prove to be viable leads. After all, the guy seemed to think that cropping out the copyright that referenced Goode Photography was enough to cover his tracks. He probably wasn’t aware that the photo could be digitally traced. I mentally crossed my fingers that the address or phone number would pan out.