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

by Diane Kelly

  “No,” she scoffed. “I’ve got no idea what an IRS badge is supposed to look like. How do I know it’s for real?”

  This wasn’t the first time my position would be questioned, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. While Americans were accustomed to hearing about armed agents from the FBI, ATF, and DEA, most people didn’t realize the Treasury Department also had a crew of criminal law enforcement agents.

  “How about this?” I said, pushing back my jacket to reveal the GLOCK holstered at my waist. “Standard federal government weapon.”

  The woman gasped, sputtered, and pointed to the door. “Out! Now!” she shrieked. “I don’t allow guns in my shop!”

  As a federal agent, I was exempt from regulations that allowed private store owners to prohibit weapons on their premises. But there seemed no point in pressing the issue, at least not right now. The woman was agitated and continued to scream at me. “This is a family business! A children’s shop! You have no right to endanger my customers!”

  I looked around the empty shop. What customers? I was tempted to ask. Nonetheless, I chose to comply, backing toward the door. “Don’t be surprised if you get a subpoena from me.”

  She ushered me outside and stepped back into the shop, turning the inside knob and locking me out with a click. She issued a final glare and muffled shriek through the glass. “Don’t be surprised if you get a call from my congressman’s office telling you to stop threatening innocent people!”

  She stepped away from the door without bidding me good-bye. Seriously, where are people’s manners these days?

  With a deep sigh of resignation, I returned to my car. By this time, it was nearing noon and my stomach growled to remind me to fill it. But first, I decided to drive by KCSH. I didn’t expect to learn anything from merely driving past a building, of course, but I felt an instinctive urge to do it, like a shark circling its prey. Besides, part of me hoped Flo might spot me passing by and feel a little heat.

  As I approached the building, a silver Toyota with a car-top sign for Szechuan Express turned into the lot. I rolled to a stop at the curb and pulled my dad’s oversized field glasses from my glove compartment. A twentyish Asian deliveryman exited the car and carried two large bags inside. Putting the binoculars to my eyes, I aimed them through the front glass door of the radio station. Through the lenses I saw the man hand the bags to the young woman I’d met when I’d come to the station before. Rather than waiting for payment or even a tip, he turned immediately around and left the building, returning to his car. Odd that he hadn’t collected payment for the food. Maybe they’d ordered online with a credit card?

  The man slid into his car, closed the door, and appeared to be typing his next delivery address into the GPS system mounted on his dash. I took advantage of the time to pull up the restaurant’s Web site on my phone. While the site listed a phone number customers could call to place orders, there appeared to be no way to submit an order online. Hm-m …

  The delivery driver backed out of the space. I followed the car as it turned out of the lot, stopping behind it at a red light a block down. I waved my hand behind my windshield, hoping to get the driver’s attention in his rearview mirror so I could signal him to pull over. Not easy to do without a siren or flashing lights. He failed to notice my flailing arm.

  The light turned green and traffic began moving. I tried a different tack, pulling up next to the delivery driver and unrolling my window, waving again to try to get his attention. I even hollered, “Law enforcement! Pull over!”

  No such luck. A throbbing bass line loud enough to reverberate through his car had drowned me out.

  As the light turned green and we moved on another time, I pulled ahead of him and cut in, slowing so I could signal him to pull to the side behind me. He didn’t give me a chance. Before I could even attempt a hand gesture, he zipped around me like a NASCAR driver hell-bent on winning a race. This guy could give Jeff Gordon a run for his money.

  As we approached the next intersection, the light ahead cycled to yellow. The delivery driver gunned his engine to make the light. Vroooom! I gunned mine, too—vroom!—sailing through it a couple seconds after it turned red.

  Whoop-whoop! Lights flashed as a police cruiser pulled up on my tail.

  “Dammit!” I slammed a palm against my steering wheel. I couldn’t manage to pull the delivery driver over, but Dallas PD had no problem getting me to pull aside. I knew better than to exit my car, which could appear to be an aggressive, threatening move, but once I’d stopped on the shoulder I put my hand out the window and gestured to hurry the cop up.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t about to be rushed. He climbed slowly from his squad car and sauntered up to my vehicle, taking his sweet time about it. Apparently he’d failed to notice my U.S. government license plates. A rookie, no doubt.

  I stuck my head and badge out the window. “IRS agent on official government business!” I hollered.

  He stopped in his tracks and took a couple of steps in reverse to check out my back bumper. “Sorry, ma’am!” he called, raising a conciliatory palm. “Be on your way.”

  I pulled back into traffic, my eyes scanning the road ahead and the side streets for any sign of the Toyota. The Szechuan Express delivery car was nowhere to be seen. Phooey, phooey, chop suey. Still, it couldn’t hurt to go directly to the restaurant, right? It was lunchtime, after all. I could pick up an order of orange chicken while I was there and kill two birds with one stone. Then I could eat one of those birds with a side of rice.

  At the next red light, I checked the Web site for the restaurant, which was still pulled up on my phone. It was only a mile from my current location. Good. Mama needs an egg roll.

  A couple of minutes later, I walked into the restaurant. A Chinese woman in a pretty silk blouse waited at the hostess stand. “Just one today?” she said in perfect English.

  “Actually, I need to speak to the owner or manager,” I said.

  “What about?” she asked, her face drawing in alarm and her English sounding a little less perfect now.

  “I’m from the IRS. I have some questions about the restaurant’s advertisements.”

  Her mastery of the English language evaporated like steam from a dumpling. “I owner,” she said. “But English not good.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “All I need to know is why your deliveryman just dropped two bags of food at KCSH but collected no payment.”

  “No pay?” the woman said. “Food no free. Customer must pay bill.”

  “Even Flo Cash?” I asked. “Or does she get some type of special deal because your business runs commercials on her station?”

  “Specials?” the woman said. “Today special Buddha’s delight.”

  I lost the battle. I rolled my eyes. “So suddenly you’re going to pretend not to understand me, huh? In that case, hand me a take-out menu.” I might have gotten no answers, but I would get lunch.

  I placed my order for the special. I hadn’t managed to kill the first bird, so I might as well let the other live, too. Besides, it wouldn’t kill me to eat more vegetables.

  I took a seat on a padded bench next to a bamboo plant in the small foyer. While I waited for my food, I thought things over. Maybe the businesses that Flo promoted off the books weren’t paying her in cash. Maybe they were paying her in donuts and haircuts and moo goo gai pan. If only one of them would fess up. So far, all they’d been was a moo goo gai pan in the ass.

  When my food was ready, the woman handed me the bag. “Thirteen eighty-five,” she said, the perfect English having returned.

  After paying for my lunch, I carried the bag out to the parking lot. The Toyota I’d been following earlier pulled in. I scurried over and cornered the deliveryman as he climbed out of his car. The restaurant’s owner had been tight-lipped, but maybe I could get a confession out of this guy.

  “I’m with the IRS,” I said, flashing my badge. “I need to know why you didn’t collect payment for the food you delivered to KCSH
Radio.”

  He scrunched his shoulders. “I do what my boss tells me and she says not to collect when I deliver there. That’s all I know.”

  “So you take food to KCSH regularly, then?”

  “At least once or twice a week.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “As long as I can remember,” the guy replied. “I started working here three years ago.”

  The door to the restaurant banged open and the woman I’d spoken with a moment earlier stepped outside and shooed me away. “No time for questions! He busy! Many delivery!”

  I rolled my eyes. “Thanks,” I told the young man, stepping back to let him return to his job.

  As I walked back to my car, I performed some mental calculations. The deliveryman had taken two large bags into KCSH, probably enough food for Flo and her three employees. Even assuming they’d chosen some of the less expensive items on the menu, their bill would be at least forty dollars. Multiply that by an estimated six meals per month and Flo had received $240 in value per month. Multiply that monthly amount by twelve and she’d received nearly three grand in food per year for at least three years. That amount warranted a quick mention or two on the air, didn’t it?

  I drove back to the IRS building, parked, and carried my lunch inside.

  As I returned to my office, Nick looked up from his desk. “Got enough to share?”

  “Sure,” I said, angling my head in invitation toward my office. “It’s a date.”

  Several minutes later, the two of us were kicked back in my wing chairs, our feet propped on my desk, chowing down.

  In between bites, I told Nick about my unsuccessful morning trying to get information from the businesses Flo touted on air. “Nobody will tell me anything,” I lamented. “Even when I showed my badge and gun. Am I losing my edge?”

  “Nah,” Nick said. “People just play dumb. Of course some of them don’t have to play too hard.”

  He had that right. I swallowed a bite of rice. “You think Flo’s giving these businesses air time in return for services and food? That she’s got some type of off-the-books quid pro quo going on?” Or, in the case of the hair salon, curl pro quo?

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.” He gave me a pointed look. “Now all you have to do is prove it.”

  Easier said than done.

  Having polished off my egg roll and my portion of the Buddha’s delight, I tossed my trash into my wastebasket and pulled a fortune cookie from the bag, tossing the second cookie to Nick. Of course the softball MVP snatched it easily from the air, despite my off-aim throw. I removed the clear crinkly wrap and snapped my crunchy cookie in two, stuffing the empty half into my mouth. As I chewed—crunch-crunch-crunch—I pulled the white slip of paper from the other half of the cookie and read it.

  The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.

  Huh. I swallowed the cookie and read it aloud to Nick. “What do you think it means?”

  “Heck if I know. It makes me picture some hillbilly blowing into a jug to make music.”

  I doubted a jug band was what the fortune cookie manufacturer had in mind, but I supposed these cryptic fortunes were subject to all kinds of interpretation. “What’s yours say?”

  He looked up from the slip in his fingers. “And they lived happily ever after.”

  “That’s not a fortune,” I said. “That’s the ending to a fairy tale.”

  “Maybe,” he said, a grin playing about his lips. “And maybe I’m your Prince Charming.”

  “I don’t want a Prince Charming,” I said. “He didn’t earn his position; he was born into it. Anyone can do that. I’d rather have a man of action, one who’d earned his place in the world. You know, a knight in shining armor.”

  Nick gathered up his things and tossed them in the trash can, too.

  “Back to work?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he said, his face bearing a full-on grin now. “Off to see a blacksmith for a metal suit.”

  Aw. Sweet, huh? “Forget the metal suit for now,” I said. “Put on your workout gear and come with me to an MMA class tonight. I found a place that offers a free introductory class and signed us up.”

  Given my small stature, my targets often underestimated me and rarely gave up without a fight. Tonight’s class could come in handy in case I tracked Jack Smirnoff down, history repeated itself, and the two of us ended up going head-to-head. While I was a sure shot with my gun, I knew I’d be up shit creek if I fired on an unarmed person, even if that unarmed person was a black belt. I’d faced one excessive force charge already, and I wasn’t about to go through that ordeal again. Of course I knew one class wouldn’t be sufficient for me to best a black belt. But maybe they’d at least teach some evasive maneuvers that could keep me from totally getting my ass kicked.

  “Sounds fun.” A grin played about Nick’s lips. “I hope you and I get a chance to spar.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’d kick your butt.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d like to see you try.”

  Lu flitted past in the hall, shaking a finger as she went. “I told you two no flirting on the job!”

  chapter ten

  Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting

  On my drive home from work, I swung by Flo Cash’s house to check on things. The blue tent was still draped over her residence, the mass execution of termites purportedly happening inside. But, in addition to the dead or dying bugs, did the home also contain a safe full of cash as Flo had told me? Or was it a lie, intended to put me off, string me along, buy Flo some time while she came up with a strategy for avoiding a tax assessment? I supposed I’d find out tomorrow when I met Flo at her house at 6:00 PM.

  I took a left at the end of Flo’s street and continued on home. When I arrived at my town house, I found a small padded envelope addressed to Alicia in the mailbox, along with a larger one for me. Also a grocery store circular and a reminder that it was time to renew my salsa-of-the-month subscription. Next month’s can’t-miss flavor would be roasted corn and red pepper. Yum!

  I tucked my package into my briefcase and hurried inside. Given that CPAs were enjoying a summer reprieve from tax-filing deadlines, Alicia had arrived home before me and was already lounging on the couch in a pair of yoga pants and a soft tee.

  “Catch!” I called, tossing her package in the direction of the sofa.

  She deftly caught the envelope and eyed the return address. “It’s my garter!”

  While I slung my purse and briefcase onto the couch and kicked off my loafers, she tore into the package, dropping the wrap to the coffee table next to the glass of sangria she’d poured for herself.

  “It’s perfect!” she squealed, holding the garter up, stretched between the thumb and index finger of each hand.

  I stepped over to take a closer look. “It’s even prettier than it looked online.” I flopped down next to her and reached for her sangria to take a sip. Alicia and I had shared apartments, bills, and even some tears over the years. Sharing a few germs was nothing new, either.

  She elbowed me gently in the ribs. “Maybe Nick will be the one to catch the garter. You two could be the next ones going down the aisle.”

  Nick and I certainly seemed to be moving in that direction. The office had a pool and he’d even placed a bet that he’d propose in September. But that was still over three months away. Was I ready yet? Nick and I had often shared a bed, but was I prepared to share my bathroom and my closet space with someone else for the rest of my life? To wake up every day to the same face on the pillow next to time? To find Nick’s dirty socks on the floor? To accept that I’d never have another first date, another first kiss? To forsake all others?

  I realized something big then.

  I was.

  Nick really was my knight in shining armor, though his typical “armor” consisted of a Western shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots.

  I turned to my best friend. “You ready to be my maid of honor?”

>   “Matron of honor,” she corrected. She gave me a smile. “All you have to do is ask.”

  “Well, Nick has a certain little question he’d need to pop first,” I replied. “But if and when he does, it’s nice to know you’re on standby.” I reached over, draped an arm over her shoulders, and pulled her to me for a sideways hug. “You’re the best.”

  “Thanks, Tara. I feel the same way about you.”

  When I reached for her sangria this time, she playfully slapped my hand away. “Friendship has its limits. Get your own glass.”

  I stood, but rather than going to the kitchen for a glass of sangria I went upstairs. In my bedroom, I changed into a loose-fitting burnt-orange T-shirt with my college mascot, a longhorn steer, on the front. I exchanged my trousers for a pair of stretchy black yoga pants and my business loafers for sneakers. Strolling into the bathroom, I pulled my locks back into a high ponytail and rounded up a hand towel. Now properly attired and equipped for exercise, I went back downstairs, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and bade good-bye to Alicia and my cats. “See you later!”

  Returning to my car, I drove down the street to pick up Nick. As I headed up the front walk, Daffodil, his adorable Australian shepherd mix, pushed back the curtains in the front window, spotted me, and announced my arrival. Woof! Woof-woof! Or, in human terms, Daddy! The woman who makes me fried baloney sandwiches is here! Yippee! While I tended to be more of a cat person, I had to admit that canines had felines beat when it came to welcomes. My cats had never greeted me with such unfettered delight.

  Nick opened the door and Daffy bounded onto the porch, running in three circles around me before slowing down enough that I could crouch down and ruffle her ears. “Hey, girl! Good to see you, too!” Before I could stand she whipped out her tongue and licked me from chin to cheekbone. “Thanks for the kiss,” I told her as I stood again.

  Nick, too, gave me a kiss. When I stepped back, he offered a mock frown. “Aren’t you going to thank me for my kiss, too?”

  “Hers are more enthusiastic,” I countered.