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

by Diane Kelly

  “The more, the merrier,” I said.

  The three of us headed out to my G-ride. Hana climbed into the backseat, while Nick rode shotgun. We drove up I-35 through Carrollton and Lewisville before taking the exit for FM 407 and heading west. In just under an hour, we pulled up on the grass shoulder of the road next to a rusty metal gate. A modern-day log-style house sat back a hundred yards or so from the road, a gravel road leading from the gate to the side of the house. The Dodge pickup sat in the drive, but there was no sign of the Mercedes. Around the house spanned an expansive field of green. It would be another couple of months before the cotton bolls would open, turning the land snowy white.

  Nick removed my field glasses from my glove compartment and aimed them at the house.

  Hana stuck her head between ours. “See anything?”

  “Just a pair of really ugly dogs.”

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. “They’re miniature donkeys.”

  Nick adjusted the dial on the binoculars to better focus them. “You’re right. They’re a couple of little asses.” He cut a grin my way. “Not nearly as cute as your little ass.”

  “Where’s Andersen?” Hana asked. “I thought farmers were always out working in their fields.”

  “They are,” Nick replied, “at planting and harvesttime. They’ve also got to fertilize and irrigate and check for bugs.” Nick would know. He’d grown up on his parents’ farm outside of Houston. “But there are days when you get to just kick back and watch things grow.”

  Hana scoffed. “Sounds boring.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Nick said wistfully. “Farm life can be quiet and peaceful, but I never found it boring.”

  As much as Nick enjoyed his job at the IRS and the things a big city like Dallas had to offer, I knew a part of him yearned to be back in the country.

  He lowered the binoculars. “One of these days I’ll have to get myself a weekend spread somewhere. Ten acres or so ought to do me.” He cast a glance my way. “It’d be a fun place for kids to play.”

  Was he referring to our kids? He certainly seemed to be. I had to admit I liked the idea of a weekend home out in the sticks. Nick could teach our children how to grow things and how to catch fish in the stock pond, and I could put a target on a hay bale and teach them how to shoot. Of course I was getting ahead of myself, as usual. There’d be no children until there was a wedding, and there’d be no wedding until there was a proposal and a ring. And, so far, there’d been no proposal and no ring, only some vague talking around the subject.

  Movement at the door caught our attention and we all watched as a hirsute man stepped onto the porch. He wore boots, jeans, and a T-shirt, the same basic clothing Andersen had worn in his Facebook photos.

  Hana snatched the binoculars and raised them to her face. “That’s him. That’s Andersen.”

  “He can’t be Morgan Walker, too, then,” I replied.

  “No,” Hana agreed. “There’s no way he could regrow a beard that quickly. Besides, this guy just spit in the dirt.”

  “Ew.” Morgan Walker had been courteous and classy. I couldn’t imagine him spitting in the dirt, either.

  She handed the field glasses to me and I peered through them as Andersen trotted down his steps and headed to a wooden barn, the donkeys following him. The donkeys waited outside the door while Andersen disappeared inside the barn, emerging a moment later with a bucket of feed that he poured into a small outdoor trough.

  I lowered the glasses. “So, what now?”

  “We hang around here much longer,” Nick said, “he’ll spot us and wonder what the hell we’re doing. Let’s go get some lunch and figure this out.”

  I started the car and we made our way down the road until we found a small country café with a sign boasting the best corn bread in three counties. Can’t beat that, huh?

  Over lunch, we three agents debated our options.

  “Assuming Andersen rented the Mercedes for Walker,” Hana said, “we can’t speak to Andersen without risking him tipping off Walker.”

  Nick took a long swig of iced tea. “It would be a shame to drive all the way out here and not learn anything, though.”

  “Maybe we should just confront him,” I said. “Morgan Walker’s head shots didn’t show up on any of the other dating sites. It’s possible that the three women who I met with are his only victims. Maybe we’re only prolonging the inevitable and wasting our time by going out with the guy and hoping we’ll catch him in the act. Maybe we should just ask Andersen where we can find Walker, arrest the guy, and proceed on the evidence we have.”

  “I’m all for that plan,” Hana said. “I’ve got better things to do next Friday night than go out with a con artist, and Tara’s probably got something better to do Tuesday night, too.”

  A grin played about Nick’s lips. He tried, unsuccessfully, to hide it behind his glass of iced tea.

  I palmed the handle of the gun at my waist. “Next person who says the word ‘Tuesday’ is getting a bullet in the butt.” That wiped the smile off his face.

  By the time we finished eating, we were all in agreement. We’d confront Andersen and deal with this matter head-on. I’d like to say our reasons were entirely because we were tenacious and forthright, but admittedly part of it was because we were impatient. Type A personalities, all of us, at least when it came to our work.

  We paid the bill, complimented the waitress on what was, indeed, the best corn bread in three counties, and drove back out to Andersen’s place. Nick climbed out to open the gate, and I drove on through, waiting on the gravel drive while he closed the gate behind us and returned to the car. As we approached the house, Andersen stepped out of his barn and walked toward us. The expression on the small part of his face that was visible said he didn’t take too kindly to strangers trespassing on his private property.

  I raised a hand in greeting and forced a smile as the car rolled to a stop. Nick, Hana, and I climbed out of the car and met Andersen on the drive.

  “Hello.” I extended my hand. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway from the Internal Revenue Service. These are my coworkers, Senior Special Agent Nick Pratt and Special Agent Hana Kim.”

  Though Andersen shook our hands, his tone was wary. “What brings you out here?”

  “The Mercedes you rented at the Oklahoma City airport.”

  “Mercedes?” His head pulled back reflexively, his forehead becoming corrugated with confusion. “Run that by me again?”

  “I was informed by Hertz that you rented a car from their location at the Oklahoma City airport. Can you tell me who’s driving that car and where I might find him?”

  “I can’t tell you any of that,” he said, “because I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I eyed him closely. “Are you saying you didn’t rent a car recently?”

  “Why should I?” He gestured toward the Dodge. “I’ve got a perfectly good truck right there. Just put new tires on ’er. Spark plugs, too.”

  “How would Hertz have your name, address, and driver’s license number if you hadn’t rented the car?”

  “I’ve got no clue,” the man said, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out his wallet. “I’ve got my driver’s license right here.” He held it up to show us.

  “So you haven’t misplaced your license, then,” I said, thinking out loud.

  “Not this one, anyway,” he replied. “I went out bar hopping with some buddies late last summer and managed to lose my whole wallet. Had a few too many, I suppose. I called the bars later to see if anyone had turned it in but had no luck. I had to cancel all my credit cards and get replacements. Same for my debit card. I went down to the DMV a couple days later and got this new license.”

  Had his previous driver’s license somehow made its way into the hands of Jack Smirnoff/Morgan Walker? It seemed likely. Heck, maybe the catfisher had pulled an Oliver Twist and picked Andersen’s pocket. Maybe he’d taken one look at Andersen’s hair and beard, re
alized that nobody could tell what the man might look like clean-shaven, and figured it would be easy to pass the license off as his own. Really, it was an ingenious idea.

  “Are you sure you lost your wallet?” I asked. “Maybe someone picked your pocket.”

  He ducked his head in agreement. “That’s a real possibility. I would’ve been an easy target that night. I was shit-faced.”

  “What bars had you gone to?” I asked.

  He looked up in thought. “The Hidden Door in Dallas,” he said. “JR’s. We ended the night at Mable Peabody’s up in Denton. I’m sure there were several more in there, but it’s been a while and, like I said, I’d had a few.” As if afraid he’d said too much, he quickly added, “I wasn’t the designated driver that night, in case you were wondering.”

  I exchanged glances with Nick and Hana. Neither seemed to have any more questions for the guy.

  I extended my hand. “Thanks for your time.”

  He gave it another shake. “If you find out who’s using my license, you’ll try to get it back, right? I don’t want him wrecking that fancy car and sticking me with the bill.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I promised.

  After we climbed back into the car, I said, “I’m not familiar with the bars he mentioned.”

  “Me, neither,” Nick said.

  “That’s ’cause they’re gay bars,” Hana said.

  Nick turned around in his seat. “You mean to tell me that when that bearded cotton farmer sows his wild oats—”

  “He sows them with other men,” Hana said. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Was your gaydar blooping?” I asked. Mine hadn’t given off a single ping.

  “Not at all,” Hana said. “I wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t mentioned the bars.”

  I started the car. “Maybe it needs a tune-up.”

  chapter twenty-two

  You Made Your Bed; Now Lie in It

  When we returned to the IRS office, I bade good-bye to Nick and Hana, printed out the immunity deal Ross O’Donnell had e-mailed to me, and headed right back out to my car. This time, I aimed for Mister Sandman’s Mattresses and More.

  As I drove, I pondered the Sandman folklore. According to legend, he visited people in their sleep, sprinkling magical sand in their eyes to give them sweet dreams. In my experience, having good dreams only to wake to the reality of grainy, crusty, itchy eyes didn’t seem like a very good trade-off. If I were going to have a nocturnal visit from a fantasy figure, I’d much rather it be the dollar-doling Tooth Fairy, thank you very much. Still, the Sandman was preferable to his scary cousin, the Boogeyman.

  The mattress store was located in a shopping center on the frontage road for Central Expressway, just north of the 635 loop. It was a large shop, one of those places that moved significant quantities of merchandise for reasonable prices. The front windows bore colorful paint and bold promises. “Nobody beats Mister Sandman’s prices!”

  I stepped inside and glanced around the space. Two small, squealing children jumped on a king-sized bed at the back, testing its springs much to the chagrin of the salesman who was speaking to their mother. To my right, an elderly couple were also trying out the mattresses, though they merely lay down on one after another rather than jumping on them. A saleswoman addressed a middle-aged man in the center of the store before lying down on a bed and spreading her arms and legs as if making a snow angel to show how wide it was. I supposed when you worked at a mattress store lying down on the job was encouraged rather than frowned upon.

  Figuring my best bet for finding the Sandman was at the checkout counter in the back, I weaved my way among the beds in that direction.

  “Hi,” I said as I stepped up to the counter. “I’m looking for—” I realized then that I hadn’t asked the man on the phone what his real name was. I went with, “The boss.”

  Before the clerk at the counter could respond, a black man in a dress shirt and tie stepped to the open door of an office behind her. “Are you the woman I spoke with yesterday on the phone?”

  “Yep,” I said. “That’s me.”

  He waved me over. “Come on back.”

  I circled around the counter and walked back to his office.

  He closed the door behind me, then held out a hand. “Max Brady.”

  I gave his hand a shake. “I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Brady.”

  “You don’t have it yet.” He slid into his seat and gestured for me to sit in one of the padded lounge chairs that faced his desk. “Not until I see that immunity agreement.”

  He wasn’t being rude or pushy, just no-nonsense. I could appreciate that. I’d pick a straightforward person over a bullshitter any day. I pulled the document from my briefcase and handed it to him. As he perused it, he took a sip from his coffee mug. Light-brown liquid ran down his chin and onto his shirt.

  “Darn Novocain!” he snapped, grabbing a tissue from a box on his desk and dabbing at his shirt. “It’s been three hours since my root canal and my face is still numb.” He slapped his cheek as if to prove his point. “I can’t feel a thing.”

  The coffee crisis dealt with, he returned his attention to the immunity agreement. Apparently satisfied, he pulled a pen from a cup on his desk and signed it. Turning to a desktop copier on the credenza behind him, he slapped the paper down on the glass to make himself a copy. He closed the lid, jabbed the button, and waited until the moving beam of light had traveled from one end of the machine to the other. His copy ready, he stashed it in his desk and handed the original back to me. The paper bore a few brown drips of coffee but was nonetheless enforceable.

  “Thanks.” I slid the agreement back into my briefcase and got down to business. “As we discussed on the phone, I’m trying to establish that KCSH has been offering on-air advertising in return for products and services. Can you tell me what arrangements you have with the station and how they came about?”

  He sat back in his chair, elbows on the armrests. “Flo came into my store about a year ago looking for a queen-sized bed. She wanted a pillow-top model. Even with our discounted prices, those don’t come cheap. She said if I’d give her the bed she’d promote the store on the station three times a day every weekday for the next two years. She’d brought in a price sheet with her, one that showed the rates KCSH charged for airtime, so we could compare. My cost for the bed she wanted was twelve hundred. We sold it for two grand. The amount of airtime she was offering would have cost me over three thousand dollars if I’d paid cash for it. Seemed like a good deal, so I took it. At the end of the day, I’d essentially made eighteen hundred dollars.”

  “I can certainly understand the attraction,” I said. Bartering basically allowed people to obtain retail products and services for wholesale prices. “Did you get anything in writing to substantiate the agreement?”

  “Sure did,” he said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  He reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a sales agreement, and handed it to me. The pricing column showed the retail price of $2,000 for the pillow-top bed, along with sales tax of $165 and a delivery fee of $75, for a total of $2,240. Along the bottom was a handwritten note:

  In exchange for the above products and services, KCSH Radio Corporation agrees to promote Mister Sandman Mattresses and More in three spots of no less than fifteen seconds each between the hours of 6:00 AM and 10:00 PM each weekday for two years from the date of this sales agreement.

  Signed: Flo Cash, CEO.

  “Can you make me a copy of this?” I asked.

  “Sure can.” He turned back to the copier and ran the paper through. Seconds later, he handed me the copy of the document, all nice and warm.

  “Thanks.” I slid the copy into my briefcase, pulled out my laptop, and typed up an affidavit to attach to the sales agreement. After asking for his e-mail address, I sent him the affidavit. “Print that out and sign it,” I instructed him. “I’ll need it for court.”

  As he set about the tasks, I thanked him
for agreeing to speak with me. “Your cooperation will help me get this case moving along.”

  He raised a nonchalant shoulder. “I don’t want to find myself in hot water. Not like I did with that shoddy plumber Flo sent over.”

  What? Flo sent a plumber over? “Excuse me?”

  “The guy was young, had no idea what he was doing. He was supposed to fix a small leak in the water heater in our storeroom, but next thing I know we’ve got hot water an inch deep all over the floor. Steam, too. It was like a sauna in here. Ruined three mattresses before I was able to stanch the flow with a blanket.”

  “You said Flo sent the plumber over? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I didn’t mean it literally,” Brady replied. “Only that I’d found him on her barter site.”

  “Her what?” My voice went up an octave into chipmunk range and I reflexively rose a few inches from my seat. Did he say Flo ran a bartering Web site? Holy guacamole, this case could be even bigger than I’d thought!

  He rolled and clicked his computer mouse, reached over to the keyboard for his desktop computer, and tapped a few keys. Finished, he turned his flat-screen monitor so that I could see it. “That’s the site.”

  Pulled up on the screen was a Web site called TradingPost.com, the image at the top of an old-timey Western storefront. The verbiage on the home page stated that the site was intended to help individuals and businesses exchange products or services cash-free. A direct, two-party exchange was not required. Rather, to facilitate transactions members would earn “Barter Bucks” in the market value of the products or services they provided to another member. The Barter Bucks could be redeemed for products or services of equal value from any member of Trading Post. Thus, the Barter Bucks functioned as a type of currency.

  The site had four clickable tabs along the side of the page. The first was designated with “LIST YOUR PRODUCT/SERVICE,” the second read: “SEARCH FOR PRODUCT/SERVICE,” the third read: “ACCOUNT INFORMATION,” and the last read: “ABOUT BARTERING.”