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

by Diane Kelly

  “Good idea. I will.”

  A dark car pulled into the Chili’s parking lot. I raised my field glasses to my eyes to take a closer look. Sure enough, it was the rental Mercedes with Morgan Walker behind the wheel. “The catfisher has arrived.”

  The car made an immediate left turn and skirted the perimeter of the lot before stopping in a remote spot at the back of the lot. A few seconds later, Morgan Walker climbed out of the vehicle. He wore the same clothing he’d worn on our date.

  Nick wiped his hands on a napkin, then reached for the binoculars. “I want to take a look.” He took the glasses from me and held them to his face. “Meh. He doesn’t look like anything special to me.”

  “It’s not so much his looks that draw women in,” I told Nick. “It’s his personality. He’s a good listener and has impeccable manners. He’s gentlemanly and charming.”

  Nick grunted.

  “You’re charming, too,” I said, stroking his bruised ego. “Just in a totally different way.” I squinted, watching Walker, well, walk. “What do you think?” I asked Nick. “Does he have the confident swagger of a black belt?”

  Nick turned a dial, adjusting the binoculars. “Hard to say. He’s just putting one foot in front of the other like everyone else.”

  As we watched, Josh and Kira arrived, too. Josh would be providing on-site backup should anything go terribly awry. He’d also likely be busting my budget on this investigation, but if the tight-asses in Internal Accounting wouldn’t cover the cost, I’d take the hit. Josh had saved my ass with his tech skills on more than on occasion and had helped a lot in this case. Surely I’d need him in the future, too. A dinner bill was a small price to pay for the IT support.

  Just after Josh and Kira headed into the restaurant, Hana’s undercover vehicle pulled into the lot.

  I pointed, keeping my hand below dash level where it couldn’t be seen outside the car. “Elvis is in the parking lot.”

  She took a spot much closer to the doors than Walker had.

  Nick and I took turns watching through the binoculars as the two met in the foyer, exchanged pleasant smiles and handshakes, and approached the hostess stand. The young woman seated them at a booth along the front window where we could easily keep an eye on them. Good.

  Over the next half hour, the two smiled and laughed and chatted. Heck, they even shared a dessert.

  “Looks like they’re having a good time,” Nick noted, peering through the binoculars.

  Oddly, I found myself feeling jealous that their date seemed to have gone better than mine. The jokes’s on Morgan, I told myself. Hana isn’t interested in men.

  “Wait,” Nick said. “He just gave her something. What is that?”

  I took the glasses from Nick and spied through them. “A vintage harmonica.”

  Nick’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why in the world would he give her that?”

  “Hana let me draft her profile,” I replied. “She said to surprise her, so I did.”

  “If I ever ask you to surprise me,” Nick said, “forget the harmonica. Surprise me with sexy lingerie. Or a rib eye. Or Cowboys tickets.”

  Inside the restaurant, Hana nodded and grinned and appeared to express sincere appreciation for what I’m sure she considered the most ridiculous gift ever.

  Josh and Kira finished their meal first and returned to his car in the parking lot. I sent him a text. Nick and I are across the street. We’ll follow Walker when he leaves.

  A few seconds later, a reply came back. Good luck. Josh started his car and he and Kira drove off.

  When Morgan and Hana exited the building a minute or two later, Morgan gestured in the direction of the Mercedes. I grabbed the field glasses from Nick and watched as Morgan led Hana over to the car, reached inside, and, as he’d done with me the night before, handed her a business card. The task completed, he walked her back to her car.

  “Think he’ll try to kiss her?” Nick asked, leaning in next to me and squinting.

  “No, but if he did she’d break his nose.”

  I was wrong on both counts. Morgan did kiss Hana, though it was a modest peck on her cheek, and Hana did not break his nose. Why did he kiss her cheek and not mine? Maybe I’d lost whatever touch I used to have with men. Maybe I’d used it all up on Nick.

  As Morgan headed back to his car, Nick started the engine, preparing to follow him. Once the Mercedes pulled out of the lot, we eased onto the road behind it. Given that Hana’s date tonight started an hour earlier than mine had the night before, the night was still light and our car clearly identifiable.

  “You better hang back,” I told Nick. “We don’t want him to realize he’s being tailed.”

  Nick took his foot off the gas and slowed down a little, letting a few cars pass us as we headed east on Belt Line Road.

  When he reached I-35, Morgan turned to the north like he had before, heading away from Dallas rather than toward the city.

  “This is the same way he went last night,” I said.

  “You think he’s driving all the way to Oklahoma?”

  “It’s possible. Or he could be headed to Colorado.” Though if the latter was true, at some point he’d need to veer farther west. “Of course he could be going somewhere else entirely.”

  Without knowing the guy’s true identity, I had no way of knowing where he actually lived. With any luck, I’d soon hear back from Hertz and learn the real name of Jack Smirnoff/Morgan Walker.

  We followed him for several miles. As we left the Lewisville city limits and drove over the lake, traffic thinned considerably. We’d reached the outer suburbs and would soon be in Denton, a much smaller neighboring city with a unique personality. Denton was home to the University of North Texas, which was known for its music program and had produced such greats as Roy Orbison, Don Henley, and, more recently, Norah Jones. The city served as the northern point of what some called the Golden Triangle, a region that was also defined by Fort Worth and Dallas.

  “Uh-oh,” Nick said. “He moved into the left lane and he’s slowing, for no apparent reason.”

  “You think he realized we’re following him?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  If Morgan had become suspicious and Nick slowed, too, it would only confirm that we were trailing him. Nick had no choice but to maintain his speed. As we came up on the Mercedes I pulled my cell phone from my purse and held it up to my ear to further obscure my face from view. With the hat, sunglasses, and phone, surely he wouldn’t be able to identify me as Sara Galloway, right?

  Nick gave the car a little more gas so we’d pass at a good clip. “Shit,” he hissed through barely open lips. “He’s speeding up now. I think he’s trying to get a better look into our car.”

  Dammit! Had he recognized me? “Take the exit!” I cried. “Now!”

  Nick veered off just as Morgan pulled up next to our car. With any luck, Morgan would assume we’d left the highway to get gas or because we lived out here in the country. If we’d blown this case, I’d never forgive myself for letting Leslie, Nataya, and Julia down.

  The Mercedes continued up the freeway as we slowed on the frontage road. Nick hooked a turn under the interstate and headed back to Dallas.

  I looked back over my shoulder, but the Mercedes had driven out of sight. Childish as it might be, I crossed my fingers and hoped Morgan Walker hadn’t realized it was me in the truck.

  I pondered our next move. “Maybe Hertz has a tracking system in the car. You know, LoJack or OnStar or some type of gizmo like that.” It would make sense for rental cars to come pre-equipped with such a system, especially upmarket cars like a Mercedes. The rental company stood to lose big if one of their expensive luxury cars was stolen. “Think I should ask their legal department when they call back? See if they’ll tell me where the car is?”

  “Not much point in that. They’ll make you jump through flaming hoops before they’ll give you the information.”

  He was probably right. Besides, such a request would be b
eyond the terms of the court order.

  “Borrow a tracker from Josh,” Nick suggested. “I can put in on the Mercedes Tuesday night while you’re on your date.”

  Nick and I had used a GPS tracking device in an earlier case, putting it on a target’s car so we could determine his whereabouts. It had led to us discovering some very damning information.

  “Good idea,” I told him.

  He reached over and toyed with a lock of my hair, running a finger up and down my neck as he slid me a sexy smile. “I’m full of good ideas. Want to hear another one?”

  chapter twenty-one

  Licensed to Party

  Friday morning, Hana stormed into my office. She tossed a small harmonica case onto my desk. It featured a dark-haired woman with red flowers in her hair playing the instrument. The name “CARMEN” appeared next to her, along with the name of the manufacturer, “KOCH,” and place of production, “MADE IN GERMANY.”

  “Vintage harmonicas?” Hana cried, throwing her hands in the air. “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  “You said to surprise you.”

  “Surprise, not blindside. I know nothing about harmonicas, vintage or otherwise. When Morgan gave me the harmonica last night I had to make up some bullshit about my grandfather playing songs for me when I was a kid.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet.”

  “That’s the worst part,” she said. “I had to be sweet! Uck!”

  As she flopped backward into one of my wing chairs, I opened the case, removed the harmonica, and held it in front of my mouth. I wasn’t about to put my lips on it. For all I knew the Führer’s vintage saliva could have coated the thing. I puckered my lips and blew at it, moving it back and forth. Twoo-twee-twoo-tweeeeee!

  Hana cringed. “Don’t quit your day job.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it.” I returned the harmonica to the case and held it out to her.

  She raised a palm. “Keep it as a souvenir.”

  “Really? Thanks.” I slid the harmonica into my desk drawer and sat back in my chair. “From what Nick and I could see last night, it looked like you and Walker hit it off.”

  Hana raised her shoulders. “I must’ve done something right. He asked me out for Friday of next week.”

  “Friday?” I said. “He asked you out for a weekend?”

  A snicker erupted from Nick’s office across the hall. A “shut up!” erupted in return from mine.

  “Yeah,” Hana said, her brows drawn in question. “Why is that an issue?”

  “It’s not,” I said. “It’s just that he planned our second date for Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday?” She snorted. “Looks like he’s only after one thing where you’re concerned. Cash.”

  I ignored both the snort and the comment. “What did you think of him? Get any clues as to who he might really be?”

  “Mm-hm.” She cocked her head. “It was kind of weird, though. My gaydar was blooping all over the place. I mean, what straight man would go to an antique store to buy a vintage harmonica? He ordered a salad for dinner, too. Bloop, bloop.”

  “Bloop? I thought gaydar pinged.”

  She rolled her eyes. “We must have different models. But I’m guessing mine is better calibrated.” At that, she arched a brow.

  “Point taken.” I mulled this news over for a moment. Unfortunately, it didn’t help me figure out who the guy was. “Did he ask for your phone number and e-mail?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be sure to check your e-mail regularly,” I said. “He sent me a message after our date and he’ll probably e-mail you, too. Make sure you respond so he thinks you’re forging a connection.”

  “Got it.”

  “Did he mention martial arts? Say anything about earning a black belt?”

  “Nope. He only mentioned liking Sonny Boy Williamson. I had to pretend to know who that was.”

  Putting my fingers to my keyboard, I performed a quick Internet search. “He was a blues harmonica player in the early 1900s.” Walker had done his homework, probably hoping to impress Hana.

  Hana stood to go. “We done here?”

  My phone rang before we could finish our conversation. The readout indicated the call came from the Hertz legal department.

  I raised a finger to stop Hana. “Wait just a minute. It’s Hertz.”

  She flopped back into my wing chair as I raised my receiver and issued a greeting. “Good morning. Special Agent Tara Holloway.”

  “I’m calling from Hertz,” the paralegal said. “I have the name, address, and driver’s license number of the man who rented the Mercedes.”

  “Great.” I grabbed a pen. “I’m ready.” I wrote the information down as he read it off.

  “His name is Kevin Michael Andersen,” he said, spelling the last name for me.

  He proceeded to read off an address on Farm to Market Road 407 in Argyle, Texas, a small town that sat about thirty miles north of Fort Worth and eight miles south of Denton. My body began to hum in excitement. The address was consistent with the route Morgan Walker had taken after both dates, though he’d bypassed the exit for FM 407 last night. Of course, if he’d thought he was being followed maybe he’d driven past the road to throw us off his trail.

  “What about his phone number and credit card number?” I asked.

  The card number the paralegal provided matched the one Smirnoff/Walker had used to sign up on the Big D Dating Service site, so I knew that information was a dead end, unfortunately. The phone number was the same one he’d given to Leslie, Nataya, and Julia, the one that had been disconnected. Dead end there, too.

  “Where did he pick up the Mercedes?” I asked.

  “At our location in the Oklahoma City airport.”

  I tapped the pen against my cheek. “Does the rental agreement say when he’s planning to return the car?”

  “A week from this coming Tuesday.”

  A-ha! Looked like he planned to make his move on me and Hana before then.

  “Thanks,” I told the man. “I appreciate your help.”

  As soon as we ended the call, I logged into the Texas DMV records and ran a search for Kevin Michael Andersen.

  Hana leaned forward in her seat. “What’re you doing?”

  “Looking up his driver’s license photo.” When his record popped up, I clicked on the link. “Huh?”

  “What?” Hana asked.

  I waved for her to come around my desk and take a look.

  The photograph on Andersen’s driver’s license looked nothing like Smirnoff/Walker. Or at least I didn’t think it did. It was nearly impossible to tell with the bushy beard and hair. It’s not that they were unkempt; they were just thick and full of volume, the kind of hair featured in shampoo and electric razor commercials. His hair was listed as brown, as were his eyes. His physical details noted that he was five feet, ten inches tall, and weighed 170 pounds.

  Hana pointed to the description. “Sounds about right. Doesn’t look a thing like Morgan Walker, though.”

  “What if he didn’t have the beard and all that thick hair?”

  Hana leaned in, squinted at the photo, and shook her head. “I don’t know. Hard to say.”

  I squinted at the screen, too. Could this man be the catfisher? I supposed it was possible. After all, he looked remarkably different in the two sets of head shots he’d had taken at Savannah Goode’s studio and all he’d done was modify his hair and eye color and glasses. I knew from experience that facial hair drastically changed a man’s appearance. Nick had grown a goatee once to go undercover and he’d looked very different. When the men on the Today show participated in the No-Shave November event, their appearances changed quite a bit, too. And with the beard covering his jawline, there was no way for me to tell if Kevin Andersen had the distinguishing freckle near his left ear.

  Hm-m …

  “Let’s see what we can find about Kevin Andersen online,” I suggested.

  Besides his driver’s license, the DMV records showed that he drove a Dodge R
am pickup. The Denton County Appraisal District property tax rolls indicated that Andersen owned sixty acres at the address listed on his license.

  “See if he’s on Facebook,” Hana said.

  I logged on to the site and searched for his name. Sure enough, he had a page. His profile picture looked nearly identical to his driver’s license photo. A pair of eyes and the tip of a nose surrounded by a mass of brown hair.

  My gaze ran down the page. While Andersen had posted a couple photos of cotton fields covered in puffy white plants, most of the posts had been made by his friends. A group of men roasting hot dogs around a bonfire. A group of men posed on and around a green John Deere tractor. A group of men drinking beer on a porch. Andersen seemed to be a guy’s guy.

  Hana pointed to a gray animal standing among the men. “That has to be the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s not a dog,” I said. “It’s a miniature donkey.”

  “Well, if he were a dog,” Hana said, refusing to back down, “he’d be an ugly one.”

  I clicked on the “photos” tab. “There don’t appear to be any pictures of him in a martial arts uniform.” I tried the About link to find out Andersen’s romantic status. “Says here he’s in a relationship.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said. “What woman could resist an ape-man with a tractor and a miniature donkey?”

  I exited the site but found little else about Andersen on the Net. I turned to Hana. “Want to drive up to Argyle? Spy on him and see if we can learn anything?”

  “Why not? Beats adding up invoices.”

  As I gathered my things, Nick strolled over from his office, stopping in my doorway. “Headed out?”

  “We’re going to pay a visit to Kevin Andersen,” I said. “He’s the one who rented the Mercedes from Hertz. He lives on a sixty-acre spread in Argyle.”

  “Want some company?” Nick offered. “If he lives out in the country he’s likely to have guns. It can’t hurt to have another agent along.”

  Nick had a point, though I suspected part of the reason he wanted to come along was merely to get out of the office. None of us agents were the types who could be happy being cooped up inside sitting at a desk all day. Fieldwork was much more fun, even if that field was a cotton field.