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

by Diane Kelly

  She lifted a shoulder. “Surprise me.”

  “Okeydoke.” I stood. “I’ll let you know when I hear something back.”

  I returned to my office and set about entering a profile for myself on PerfectCouple.com. I resurrected an alias I’d used twice before, first when I’d gone undercover in a strip club and later to lure in a crook running a charity scam on Facebook. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Sara Galloway.”

  I scrolled through my phone, searching for a pic that would make me look naïve and trusting, someone the catfisher would immediately peg as an easy victim. Bingo. A recent candid photo Nick had taken of me with my cat Anne cradled in my arms would fit the bill perfectly.

  Next, I filled in the boxes for my alter ego’s personal information, making her three years older than I really was so that I’d fall into the acceptable age range for Morgan Walker, which he’d listed as thirty to fifty. I had to give the guy a little credit. At least he wasn’t going after the barely legal crowd. Of course his tactic probably said less about his appreciation for mature women and more about the fact that women in their early twenties were less likely to be able to cash a check for two grand without raising eyebrows at their bank. He was probably trying to avoid scrutiny or the bank holding the funds until they were certain the check had cleared. A bank was more likely to give immediate credit to an older and financially proven long-term client.

  My alias ran her own independent bookkeeping business to mild success. I noted this detail in the profile, as well as the fact that Sara Galloway, like me, was a big fan of sushi, cats, mystery novels, and romantic comedies.

  Now that I’d paid my fee and input my profile, I had unfettered access to all the men on the site. But I was only after one.

  M.W.

  It took a few moments for me to read over the instructions and familiarize myself with the site’s functions. It offered a variety of search options. I could peruse the listings by interests, age range, location, keywords, or a combination of these factors. Okay. I think I’ve got it.

  First, I narrowed my search to men looking for women within Dallas and a thirty-mile radius of the city. I wasn’t sure how far out M.W. might have expanded his search, but I figured thirty miles should cover it. I also narrowed the listings by my preferred date’s age range, inputting forty to fifty for my target range, though I’d listed myself as thirty-three. I also limited my search to include the key words “health care.”

  I clicked the “search” button and waited for a moment until a list of photos and names popped up.

  An Asian physical therapist. Nope. Not the man I was looking for.

  A gray-haired hospital administrator. Nope. Not him, either.

  A black-haired insurance salesman. Nope.

  A-ha! There he was in his newer head shot, his thieving face smiling at me from the reaches of cyberspace. Per the profile, Jack Smirnoff was now going by the name Morgan Walker. Odd. Most criminals who used aliases tended to use ones that were somewhat similar. But “Morgan Walker” and “Jack Smirnoff” sounded nothing alike. Where is he getting these names?

  Once again, he claimed to be relocating to the area, allegedly transitioning from Oklahoma City this time around. Rather than claiming to be a psychologist, he now touted himself as a substance abuse counselor for high-profile clients, another occupation that would require him to keep a low profile and would explain the lack of a well-developed online presence. I had to hand it to this guy. He was a smart cookie. Unfortunately for him, I liked to eat cookies.

  Morgan had kept his list of interests broad and vague, probably on purpose so that he could appeal to a wide range of potential victims. According to his profile, he was a man who enjoyed the variety entertainment options Dallas had to offer and loved to try new things. I’d give him a new thing to try. My foot in his ass.

  I ran a quick Internet search for obituaries that included the name Morgan Walker. Sure enough, there was one in the Oklahoman newspaper online edition dated a few months back for a Michelle Walker. Per the obituary, she was survived by her husband of nine years, Morgan Walker, and her son, Shane.

  I grabbed my mouse and maneuvered it to an icon at the bottom of the page. “Prepare to meet your dating doom, Morgan Walker.” Okay, so busting criminals made me a little melodramatic on occasion. ’Scuse me for that.

  With a click of my mouse, Sara Galloway gave Morgan Walker a “wink,” engaging in a little cyberforeplay. I added a note that said: Hope to hear from you soon! I crossed my fingers that Morgan would respond, and quick. I wanted this guy behind bars before he could rip off another unsuspecting, trusting woman.

  Finished with myself, I moved on to set up an account for Hana. Like me, she, too, needed a name enough like her own that she’d respond to it. Given that her last name, Kim, could also serve as a first name, I decided to go with Kimberly, or “Kim” for short. Huang would be a good surname, right? Sure. Thus, Hana Kim became Kim Huang.

  Her make-believe profile took a little more thought. What should Kim Huang do for a living? It would have to be a type of job that Hana would know enough about that she could fake it. Hm-m … Hana had once mentioned in passing that she’d attended Texas State University in San Marcos on a full-ride softball scholarship. Good for her. Heck, I’d been lucky for the fifty bucks the PTA had tossed my way, and that was only because my mother had been the historian all four years I’d attended high school. That woman could crop the shit out of a scrapbook. But that was neither here nor there. Right now, I needed to give Hana a new occupation. Why not make her an independent college softball scout?

  “Good thinking, Tara,” I told myself as I entered the data into her profile. Sometimes you have to be your own cheerleader.

  Choosing Kim Han’s interests was easy. I chose ones Hana had in real life. Thriller novels and horror movies, the grislier the better. Microbrewed beers. And softball, of course. Just for kicks I tossed in the fictitious fact that she liked bluegrass music and collected vintage harmonicas. Hey, she’d said to surprise her.

  When I finished, I searched under her profile for Morgan Walker. There you are, freckle and all. A few keystrokes later and Kim Huang had given him a wink, too. She’d also passed him a cybernote that read: You’re cute! Game for some fun?

  With that, I logged off the site. I’d check back later to see if my foreplay had gotten me anywhere. With any luck, I’d soon have a hot date with a hot-check writer.

  chapter twelve

  An Impromptu Picnic

  At a few minutes after five, I logged off of my computer, gathered my things, and turned off the light in my office. Josh, Eddie, and William came up the hall, their briefcases in hand, heading out for the day, smiles on their faces. Lucky them. Their workweek was over. I still had a matter to take care of.

  That matter was Flo Cash.

  I stepped to Nick’s doorway. I’d asked him to accompany me tonight. I was a little uncomfortable going into Flo’s house alone. For all I knew she’d try to push me down the stairs and claim I’d tripped. It couldn’t hurt to bring a witness. Also backup in case I needed to arrest Flo and she put up a fight. I’d learned never to make assumptions about taxpayers. Some were all bark and no bite, and some were no bark but big bite. “Ready to go?” I asked.

  Nick looked up from his computer. “Give me two seconds.” He entered a few keystrokes before announcing his work “done.” He shut down his computer, grabbed his briefcase, and followed me out to the parking lot.

  “Let’s take my ride.” He angled his head to indicate his government-issued car, which was much newer than mine and retained all of its stereo knobs and a complete set of floor mats. Luxury.

  I hopped into the passenger side, while he stowed his briefcase in the back and slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Which way, boss?” he asked.

  “Lakewood Heights,” I said.

  Nick aimed his car for the neighborhood, which sat northeast of downtown. We crept along on the freeway, boxed in by com
muters heading home from work. Many were talking or texting on their cell phones. At least at these slow speeds the worst thing that could happen would be a fender bender.

  Nick cut a questioning glance my way. “How are Alicia’s wedding plans coming along?”

  “All done,” I told him. “The last thing she had to do was buy a garter and we took care of that the other night.”

  “What’s it look like?” Nick asked.

  “Pale blue with a white satin ruffle.”

  “Sexy,” he said. “Maybe I should buy you a couple of garters and some thigh-high stockings.”

  “Sure,” I said. “They’d go great with my cowgirl boots.”

  A smile played across his lips. “Careful now or you’ll turn me on.”

  He exited and turned into Flo’s neighborhood. Shortly thereafter, we turned onto Flo’s street and pulled up to the curb in front of her house. The termite van with its disco eyeballs on the roof sat in the driveway, the back doors hanging open as the two exterminators wrangled the large blue tent into the back bay.

  With the tent removed, I could now see what Flo’s house looked like. It was a beautiful two-story country French–style home, with a rounded tower on one end, hipped roofs, and multiple dormer windows. The façade was composed of a combination of brick and stone, with corner quoins in a lighter, contrasting color. A narrow balcony with an iron railing extended from the upper floor, shading the front walkway, which was flanked with fragrant gardenia bushes.

  “Not too shabby,” Nick said.

  He and I climbed out of his car and made our way up the stone walkway to the front door. I rang the bell and waited. When there was no response after twenty seconds or so, I tried a second time, using my knuckle to jab the button twice in rapid succession. Ding-ding-dong! When that got me nowhere, I lifted the heavy iron knocker and sounded it three times. Clack! Clack! Clack!

  The men had finished loading the tent back into their van and walked around to climb in.

  “Hold up a second!” Nick called, raising a hand and stepping toward them. “Have y’all seen Ms. Cash around? We have an appointment with her.”

  “The only time we saw her,” said the driver, “was the first day we came out here.”

  “So her car’s not in the garage?” I asked, walking over to stand next to Nick.

  “Not if she’s driven it in the last three days,” the man said. “We just uncovered the garage a half hour ago. Nobody’s taken a car in or out.”

  Nick and I exchanged glances before both of us checked our cell phones for the time. It was straight up 6:00 now. The time Flo had agreed to meet me here.

  “Have a good weekend,” I told the men as they climbed into the van. As they backed out, I turned to Nick, “You think we’ve been stood up? Or do you think she’s just running late?”

  “Hard to say,” he said. “Dallas traffic can be a nightmare.”

  That was true. With so many freeways crisscrossing one another it seemed like there was always an accident somewhere causing residual slowdowns throughout the entire system. Residents knew to pad their commute times to account for the unpredictability.

  We stood out front for fifteen minutes before I grew bored and plucked a gardenia bloom from the nearby bush. I plucked the petals, dropping them on the ground. “He loves me,” I said, tossing the first petal aside. “He loves me not.” The second petal hit the Bermuda grass. “He loves me”—pluck, toss—“he loves me not. He loves me.…” I continued on, a pile of petals forming around me, until I reached the last petal. “Damn.” I dropped the petal. “He loves me not.”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty head about it,” Nick said, kicking the last petal aside and sliding me a soft smile. “I know for a fact that he loves you. A lot.”

  “We’re talking about Chris Hemsworth, right?” I teased.

  “Bite your tongue, woman.”

  We stood there another ten minutes before my stomach growled. “She better get her butt home soon. I’m hungry. Another ten minutes and I’m going to start eating her lawn.”

  Nick pulled out his cell phone. “Let’s order some takeout. We can have them deliver it here.”

  “Good idea.”

  “What sounds good? Chinese?”

  “We had Chinese for lunch earlier in the week, remember?” The fortune cookie strip was still sitting on my desk at work. The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.

  “Oh, right. How about Italian?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Benedetta’s Bistro is the best, but we’re outside of her delivery range.” Damn shame, too. I’d worked undercover in the restaurant and they made the best chocolate cannoli on earth. I could’ve really gone for one of the delicious desserts right now.

  “Thai?” Nick suggested. “Sushi? Barbecue? Greek?”

  I raised a finger. “We have a winner. I haven’t done Greek in a while.”

  “Greek it is.” He used his phone to find a Greek place in the area. Fortunately, they offered delivery service. We placed an order for grape leaves and falafel, along with drinks.

  “What should we do while we wait?” I asked. Patience might be a virtue, but it wasn’t one of my virtues.

  Nick gestured toward his car. “We could get in the backseat and make out.”

  I scoffed. “Real professional.”

  “Says the woman who tossed flower petals all over the yard.”

  “Touché.” I reached out and touched Nick’s shoulder. “Tag. You’re it!”

  I took off running across the grass, but he caught up with me in three short strides. Rats!

  “That was easy,” he said.

  “You have a distinct advantage,” I said, gesturing to his long legs. “How about hide and seek?”

  He chuckled. “I haven’t played that since I was twelve.”

  I sighed. “I hardly remember what it was like to be twelve.”

  “I remember,” Nick said. “One of my friends came across a girlie magazine his father had hidden in the garage. He brought it over to my parents’ house and we invited all of our friends over to the barn to take a gander. We stashed it in the hayloft, but my mother must have found it, because the next time we went to the barn to peek at it all the naughty bits had been covered with black marker.”

  “Serves you right.”

  We stepped over the curb and took seats on it to wait for our food. As we waited, a couple of Flo’s neighbors drove by, eyeing us suspiciously, clearly wondering what was going on. If our presence started a rumor Flo would have no one to blame but herself. If she’d been here at six like she’d agreed, this matter could have already been resolved.

  I pulled out my cell phone and tried the phone number for KCSH. All I got was an automated system telling me that their business hours were 8:00 AM to 5:00 PM Monday through Friday and that I could either call back during business hours or leave a message at the beep. The message was followed by the foretold beep.

  “Hello, Miss Cash,” I said into my phone. “You agreed to meet me at your house at six o’clock. I’ve been waiting here since. Give me a call as soon as possible so I’ll know when to expect you. Otherwise I’ll have to take more serious measures.” With that I hung up.

  “More serious measures?” Nick said. “What’s your plan?”

  “If I can’t get what I need from Flo,” I told him, “I’ll have to keep hammering away at her advertisers until one of them breaks.” It wasn’t an efficient process, but she was leaving me with no choice. One way or another, I had to get some evidence against her.

  A car came slowly up the street, the driver craning his head to search for addresses.

  “That’s gotta be our food,” Nick said, stepping into the street and waving his arms over his head to get the driver’s attention.

  When the man noticed Nick he sped up, coming to a stop behind Nick’s car. He climbed out, retrieved a bag of food from a box in the backseat, and handed it to me. “Twenty-two fifty,” he said.

  Nick pulled out some cash and handed
it to the man. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nick and I climbed back into his car to eat, rolling down the windows to enjoy the evening air, which was beginning to cool down. We ate our food while listening to KCSH on the radio. The morning’s Cash Flow Show was being repeated, Flo suggesting that listeners would be wise to invest their funds in hotel companies that offered resort-style accommodations in the United States. “Thanks to all the terrorism and unrest, people with disposable income are staying closer to home these days,” she said. “While they once might have toured Europe, they’re choosing to visit Jackson Hole or Savannah or Bar Harbor. We’re already seeing an uptick in reported profits for these businesses, and I think this trend will continue for the next few years. Remember, make your money make money for you, folks.”

  When we tired of listening to KCSH, we watched some recent episodes of television on my phone’s Hulu app. The night continued to grow darker around us, the crickets chirping, the moisture in the air increasing as the temperature dropped, my hair absorbing the moisture and expanding like a sponge.

  When ten o’clock arrived, but Flo still hadn’t, I jotted: Call me immediately! on the back of one of my business cards, lifted her door knocker, and slid the corner of the card under it where the knocker would hold it in place. Though the card wasn’t big, it would be hard to miss.

  “You better call me, Flo,” I muttered to her door, giving it a solid kick. “Or I’m going to cash you out.”

  chapter thirteen

  A Fitting Way to Spend the Day

  Nick and I played a very lively and satisfying round of Uno at his place Friday night and another on Saturday morning before dragging our lazy butts out of bed. Daffodil padded down the stairs after us, more than ready for her morning potty break. While Nick let her out into the backyard and set about making coffee, I logged on to my laptop and checked my profile on the PerfectCouple.com site. Sure enough, Morgan Walker had winked back at me. He’d also left me a message: Are you free Wednesday evening? Thought we could meet at an Olive Garden near you at 7:30.