by Diane Kelly
He nuzzled under my chin now, forcing my head back, my chest arching upward. Only a thin layer of fabric separated us, but it was too much to bear. He grabbed the hem of my now-rumpled nightshirt and eased it upward. Straddling my hips, he sat back and pulled my upper body forward, releasing me from my clothing in one swift, expert maneuver. There’s a lot to be said for an easy-on, easy-off style.
Brett tossed the shirt over his shoulder. Napoleon dashed over to pounce on it when it hit the floor. The mutt was just as playful as his master.
Brett looked down at my bare torso, his eyes roaming over my features with appreciation. Though my breasts were small, they were proportional to my petite frame and rested above flat abs toned from hours of hard work at the Y. But as good as Brett’s admiration felt, I craved his contact more. I reached my hands up, hooked them behind his neck, and pulled him down again until we were chest to chest, skin on skin. He felt so warm, so good, all conscious thought left my brain.
Mendoza who?
We kissed some more, touched some more, and when I could wait no longer, I used the leverage of my hip to push Brett to his side. His lounge pants and boxer briefs hit the floor next to my nightshirt, my lace panties coming to rest beside the latest edition of Architectural Digest on the end table.
Taking charge, I took him in, all of him, in one swift, slick motion, gasping with pleasure as he filled me. He countered with a moan of utter bliss and the two of us began the rhythmic dance that ended in absolute, mind-blowing bliss.
* * *
An hour later, minds blown and lusts quenched, we were back in our nightclothes, our hair mussed, satiated smiles on our faces. We nuked the pizza in the microwave and ate it while watching the previews at the beginning of the DVD, a romantic comedy, of course. It had been my turn to pick. Last time, Brett had selected an art film that had won all kinds of awards at the Sundance film festival. We were nothing if not versatile. We couldn’t quite figure out the plot of the four-hour flick, though. Something about two pickle farmers in search of their true destinies. It seemed their destiny was to bore us to death as they made vat after vat of dills. Brett had ended up slipping me his pickle while we watched.
Tonight’s movie, on the other hand, was fun, cute, and romantic. Still, I soon found myself yawning, my lids growing heavy. With both my physical and sexual hungers sated, I fought to stay awake.
* * *
Apparently I’d lost the fight. I awoke in Brett’s bed the following morning with no recollection of how the movie ended. He must’ve carried me to the bedroom.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Striped light filtered through the slats of the wooden blinds, much brighter than I would have expected for early morning. Reggie lay sprawled belly up on Brett’s side of the bed, dozing peacefully on his back, what remained of his boy parts shamelessly exposed. The bedroom door was cracked open a couple of inches and I could hear a soft voice from Brett’s home office across the hall, Brett chastising an impatient, growling Napoleon. “Hush, boy. Tara needs her sleep. How ’bout a tummy rub?”
I could go for a tummy rub, too. But first I needed to check my phone to see if Eddie had called. Unfortunately, when I stood, nature placed an even more urgent call.
After freshening up in the bathroom, I stepped into the hall. Brett sat at his drafting table, Napoleon lying on his side at Brett’s feet. Brett looked intently over a set of blueprints, rubbing the dog’s stomach with his bare foot while marking the plans here and there with a colored pencil.
Brett’s reputation as the must-have landscape architect of Dallas continued to grow by leaps and bounds. Not only did he understand the different types of local soil and the plants that would flourish in each, but he had an artist’s eye for color and design. He picked up a scarlet pencil and dabbed at the blueprint, his pencil giving off a soft squeak against the shiny paper. When he was finished, he leaned back in his chair with a smile on his face. Obviously, he loved his job.
Just like I loved mine.
The floorboard creaked as I tried to tiptoe past the door.
Brett lifted his head. “Hey.”
Busted. My cell phone would have to wait a little longer. “’Mornin’,” I managed, my voice gravelly from sleep.
“About time you woke up,” he said.
“What time is it?”
Brett held out his arm and tapped his watch.
I stepped toward him and checked his wrist. “Noon? Gosh, I slept for—” I tried to mentally calculate but my mind wasn’t awake enough yet for mathematics.
“Thirteen hours,” Brett said, beating me to the punch. “Give or take.”
“Haven’t done that since college.” When I’d been hungover after a kegger at the Beta house. This Mendoza case was going to kill me.
“I drove to the coffeehouse at ten and got you a latte,” he said. “I was sure you’d be up by the time I got back.” He watched me for a moment longer, his expression concerned. “You’ve been working extra hard lately. How much longer is this going to keep up?”
Until we either bust Mendoza or die trying?
That wasn’t the answer Brett wanted to hear and, besides, with Burton swearing me and Eddie to secrecy, I couldn’t reveal any specifics about the case anyway. “I’m not sure.” It was as honest as I could be.
“What kind of case are you working on?”
“I could tell you,” I said, stepping up behind him and nuzzling the back of his neck. “But then I’d have to kill you.” How was that for evasive? And now, an attempt to change the subject. “What are you working on?”
I stepped into place beside him and looked down at the blueprint. Unlike most of Brett’s projects, which tended toward high-end residential and large-scale commercial projects, the structure pictured in the blueprint appeared to be a basic, modestly sized house.
He slid the pencil into a cup on his drafting table. “It’s a Habitat for Humanity project. I volunteered to do the landscaping at a house they’re building in Oak Cliff.”
“That’s wonderful!”
Brett reached out and took my arm, pulling me toward him until I was sitting on his lap. He nuzzled my neck. “I hope you wrap up your case soon. I miss spending time with you.”
“Me, too.” I tilted my head to give him better access to the sweet spot where neck meets shoulder. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it up to you in Fort Lauderdale.”
He found the spot—mmm—then left a trail of soft, warm kisses as he moved up to nibble my earlobe. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
I reluctantly left him and walked to the kitchen to heat the now-cold latte in the microwave. I would have a hard time getting it down. My stomach had clenched back into that tight knot. After I’d withheld information from Brett on my last case, including the fact that I stupidly suspected he might be involved in a fraudulent scheme, I’d promised Brett there’d be no more secrets between us. But here I was, keeping things from Brett again.
It didn’t feel right.
In fact, it felt pretty damn wrong.
CHAPTER SIX
Going Postal
My latte now warmed, I checked my freshly charged cell phone. Three voice mails awaited me.
Uh-oh.
All of the messages were from Eddie, each one progressively less cordial.
Message number one, left at eight o’clock yesterday evening: Tara, it’s Eddie. I’ve got some important news about the P.O. box. Call me as soon as you get this.
Oops. The dang phone was set to vibrate, the ringer turned off. No wonder I hadn’t heard Eddie’s calls.
Message number two, left just after midnight : What part of “call me as soon as you get this” did you not understand?
Message number three left at nine this morning: Get your skinny white ass out of bed and over here to the post office or, so help me God, I will feed you headfirst through the shredder!
Yikes. With the volume of confidential information we handled at the IRS, our shredder was an industrial-sized unit with
blades the size of chain saws. The device could make short work of a school bus. I called Eddie back immediately. “I’m on my way.”
His only response was to hang up on me.
I threw on the same clothes I’d worn yesterday, bade a cursory good-bye to Brett and the dogs, and hopped into my car.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the post office parking lot, taking the spot next to Eddie’s minivan. I climbed out of my car and into his vehicle. Despite the fact that he’d parked in the shade of a tree, the heat inside was sweltering. That’s Texas for ya.
Like me, Eddie was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, though he’d stripped down to his undershirt, his white button-down in a ball on the backseat. He cut angry, bloodshot eyes my way.
I cringed. “Were you here all night?”
“Gee, Tara. What was your first clue?”
“I’m sorry. Really.”
“You better be.” His eyes narrowed at me. “You look well rested.”
True, I’d gotten lots of sleep last night. Lots of sex, too. My orgasm quota was back on track. Heck, I’d even accumulated a surplus. “What did you find out?”
“I spoke to the manager on duty. He gave me a copy of the rental application.” Eddie reached into the pocket of his pants, retrieved a folded piece of paper, and handed it to me.
I unfolded it and looked it over. The application indicated the P.O. box had been rented in the name of ARS Financial Corporation.
My heart tripped over itself. “ARS? As in Andrew Richard Sheffield?” As in the one-time member of NDCU’s staff who was later dismembered?
Eddie nodded. “One and the same.”
When Sheffield’s appendages had surfaced, the local police departments in each city had opened separate murder investigations. After one of the detectives pieced Sheffield’s pieces together and realized that a single victim had been sprinkled across several cities, the local police turned the matter over to the Texas Rangers, who had statewide jurisdiction. When the Texas Rangers had been unable to solve the case, they referred it to the FBI.
Per the FBI files, Andrew Sheffield had left NDCU a couple of years ago to form his own one-man financial services company. Although the banking records for ARS Financial indicated a number of suspicious transactions, including a significant number of cash deposits and withdrawals, no direct evidence could be found to link the transactions to Mendoza.
As primitive as cash transactions were in this day and age, they were the best way to move money without leaving a trail. The FBI report made note of other deaths surrounding Mendoza, including an AmeriMex employee who’d been the victim of an unsolved carjacking and another who’d perished in a suspicious house fire.
Interestingly, there’d been no reference to the P.O. box in the FBI’s investigative reports on Sheffield’s murder. “I’m surprised the FBI didn’t find out about the box.”
Eddie shrugged. “You know how these things go, Tara. There’s a lot of luck involved.”
True. Investigating a crime wasn’t nearly as easy, or as quick, as they made it look on television shows. Clues didn’t exactly jump out at you and holler “Here I am!” You had to hunt them down.
Eddie leaned toward me then, speaking in a low voice. “Of course it’s also possible that the FBI’s investigators didn’t want to find the post office box.” He raised a suspicious brow.
My throat constricted, my voice coming out tight and squeaky, like one of Alvin and the Chipmunks’. “Does the manager at the post office know about Sheffield? That he’s…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud.
“Dead?”
A nod was all I could manage.
“No,” Eddie said. “I didn’t tell him. Didn’t want him closing the account. He told me the box rental had been renewed a month ago. Prepaid in full for an entire year.”
Given that Sheffield was killed more than a month ago, he couldn’t have been the one who’d renewed the box. “Who paid the fee?”
“Good question. The manager said the payment was made by mail. In cash.”
Again, untraceable.
My mind whirled. Could this box be the missing link? The one that would tie Mendoza to Sheffield’s murder?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But hopefully it would be. I wanted this case closed. Quick. I wasn’t sure my nerves could take a lengthy investigation. I didn’t like keeping things from Brett. And I sure as hell didn’t want a dead body on my conscience.
Eddie took the rental application from me and slid it into his briefcase on the backseat. “With Sheffield gone, somebody else must be picking up the loan payments from the box. Maybe the same person who paid the renewal. We have to find out who that person is.”
Which meant we’d have to continue a round-the-clock watch on the box. Good thing I had those surplus orgasms to keep me going.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Frugal Fashionista
Stakeouts required stealth, special equipment, and, of course, a carefully planned wardrobe. If I were going to spy on the post office for several days, I had to vary my look or risk being noticed. Problem was, the tightwads in the IRS accounting department weren’t exactly generous when it came to reimbursing agents for business-related expenses. I’d learned that lesson the hard way. Good thing I was resourceful.
I phoned Alicia from the post office parking lot on Monday afternoon. “Meet me after work at the downtown thrift store.”
“Making a donation?”
“No,” I said. “Buying some new clothes.”
“They don’t sell new clothes at the thrift store.”
Duh. “Not new new. New to me.”
“You’re going to wear some stranger’s used clothes?” Her tone was incredulous with a hint of revulsion. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.” I rolled my eyes, grateful she couldn’t see through the phone. I adored Alicia, but she could be tad particular at times, perhaps even snobby. She took that whole dress for success and clothes make the woman stuff to heart. “People wear secondhand stuff all the time. Haven’t you heard of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants?”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s a horror movie. Four girls sharing used jeans they don’t even wash? That’s disgusting. They could get an STD.”
Sheez. “Get over it.”
She reluctantly agreed to accompany me, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if she showed up in a hazmat suit.
When Eddie arrived at five o’clock to relieve me, I drove to the secondhand shop downtown. Alicia sat out front in her sleek black Audi, an expression of distaste on her face. She climbed out of her car and we met at the front door.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Ready.” She took a deep breath and held it.
I eyed her. “Are you going to hold your breath the entire time we’re inside?”
She nodded frantically, her face already turning red.
“You’re nuts.” I yanked the door open and we stepped inside.
The place wasn’t fancy but it was clean, smelling faintly of pine-scented disinfectant. Decorative items and small household appliances were situated near the front of the store, followed by racks of clothing, with a display of shoes and accessories along the back wall. Signs hanging from the ceiling indicated the men’s, women’s, and children’s sections.
I pulled a shopping cart from the corral and aimed for the women’s department. Alicia followed, gasping for air behind me as her lungs gave way.
I stopped at a rack of blouses and began to sort through them. A T-shirt that read FOXY GRANDMA. No, thanks. Ditto on the bright green polyester blouse with the enormous, eighties-style shoulder pads. Next was a black leather vest trimmed with silver studs, only three of which were missing. Now that had possibilities, both for the stakeout and, come October, a biker chick Halloween costume. Into the cart it went.
Beside me, Alicia squealed and yanked a champagne-colored blouse off the rack. “Ohmigod!” She checked the
label and looked at me, her eyes wide and gleaming with excitement. “This is Versace!”
“Secondhand Versace.” I couldn’t help myself. What are friends for if not to razz each other? “You might get an STD, remember?”
She checked the price tag. “For four bucks I’ll risk it.” Alicia stepped to my other side, quickly moving hangers aside. “Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!” Squeal! Squeal! Squeal!
“You sound like a piglet.”
Her only response was to squeal again.
I suppose it shouldn’t have been surprising the downtown thrift store would have some designer pieces. More than likely they had been donated by wealthy female executives who worked in the city’s nearby financial district.
I continued sorting through the tops, adding a colorful striped tunic, a lace-trimmed peasant blouse, and a teeny half-shirt with HOOTERS printed across the front.
I moved on to the dresses and coordinates next. A pastel blue and white polka-dot set caught my eye and I pulled it from the rack. Though the label indicated the top was a size small, it seemed oddly spacious. Then I noticed the matching pants contained a solid white stretchy panel across the front. A maternity set. What the hell. The outfit was the perfect disguise. No one would suspect a pregnant woman of being an undercover agent, right?
I added the set to the stack accumulating in my cart. I also selected a pair of blue scrubs with BAYLOR MEDICAL CENTER stamped on the chest and a muted floral dress with long sleeves, a long skirt, and a collar that buttoned all the way up. I’d look like a Sunday school teacher in that one, or maybe a cast member from Little House on the Prairie.
Next came pants. I passed on a pair of stretchy stirrup pants, as well as an outdated pair of high-waist black dress pants. A pair of leather-trimmed jeans made their way into the cart, though, as did a pair of white cotton Capris with red roses embroidered on the pockets and hem.