Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte

by Diane Kelly

  The first lane opened up and mother and baby headed to that register. The next person in line was a stocky white man, average height. The man wore a dark blue ball cap and windbreaker, both bearing the Dallas Cowboys star logo. The hat was pulled down tight on his head, the jacket pulled tight across his ample belly, the collar turned up to cover the lower part of his face.

  The next lane to open was number five. The man in the cap moved to the register, growing larger on the screen as he advanced toward the camera. As he made his way closer, I could see he also wore blue jeans, tennis shoes, and dark sunglasses.

  He’d taken care to make himself unidentifiable. The only thing I could tell for certain about the guy was that he hadn’t hit the gym lately. Without more, I’d never be able to track him down. Heck, I probably wouldn’t recognize him if he were standing right in front of me.

  After the cashier had rung up his items, he pulled a credit card out of his wallet and ran it through the machine mounted on the counter. Plucking the stylus from its holder, he signed the screen. The checker bagged the iPod, video games, and Blu-ray player he’d purchased, then handed him the bag and receipt. She never asked for identification. The thief waltzed out the door, free as you please.

  Courtney moved the mouse and clicked on the feed for the camera mounted over the exit door. We saw the thief walk into the parking lot. Problem was, he kept on walking, right out of camera range.

  “Any help?” Courtney asked.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d just wasted her time. Mine, too. “We’ll see.” I thanked her and told her I’d let her know if I found anything out.

  * * *

  In the parking lot, I climbed into my car, rolled down the window to let out the heat, and called Eddie from my cell.

  “Tell me you’re having more luck than I am,” Eddie said. “’Cause I got jack shit.”

  “I’ve learned that one of the men who used a counterfeit card is a white guy with a beer belly. Cowboys fan.”

  “Gee, Tara, that narrows it down to what? Half the men in north Texas?”

  “True.” I gripped my steering wheel and squeezed. Should’ve brought Nick’s stress ball with me. “I’ll run by the pharmacy on my way to dinner.”

  Maybe I’d have better luck there.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Rx for Love

  I drove to the pharmacy, parked, and tried to tune out the sappy Muzak streaming through the store’s speakers as I waited by the one-hour photo lab for the manager on duty. The way they’d cheesed up Avril Lavigne’s hit song “Complicated” was nothing short of criminal.

  A minute or so later, the manager arrived. Rectangular, plastic-rimmed reading glasses perched on the end of his pointy nose. His bald scalp was shiny, only a thin horseshoe of brown hair encircling his head.

  I identified myself and showed him my badge.

  He shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, Agent Holloway.” He stepped behind the front counter and stuck a key into a cash register that stood idle. He turned the key, pushed his glasses back into place with his index finger, and punched a few buttons on the register, releasing a series of beeps. He looked up at me. “What’s the credit card number?”

  I rattled off the number on Ernestine Griggs’s billing statement and he punched it in. He pressed a final key and zzt-zzt, the machine spat out a duplicate receipt. He handed it over and stared at me expectantly.

  My eyes ran down the list. Some of the items I could identify. Chap Stick. Deodorant. Disposable razors. Others I couldn’t. “What’s LuvLub?” I pronounced the word with two soft u’s. Love-lubb.

  The manager corrected me. “It’s pronounced love-lube. And it’s, uh … a sexual enhancement product.” His bald spot turned crimson.

  “Oh.” I looked back down at the receipt. The final entry was “Rx” followed by an eight-digit number. I held up the receipt, pointing at the entry. “Is this a prescription?”

  He nodded.

  “Can you tell me who the prescription was for?”

  “The pharmacist can look that information up for you.”

  My heart sped up. Finally, maybe, possibly, a viable lead. Hooray!

  He gestured for me to follow him and I trailed his shiny pink dome to the pharmacy at the back of the store. He explained to the female pharmacist what I needed. She balked at providing the information to me, claiming she wasn’t sure whether the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act’s privacy rules allowed her to give me the information.

  “I don’t need to know what the medication was,” I said. “I only need to know who the prescription was for and the person’s contact information.” I wasn’t sure whether the HIPAA rules prohibited her from sharing that info.

  She bit her lip. She didn’t seem certain, either, but she eventually acquiesced. “I guess that would be okay.” She pulled a pad of yellow sticky notes out of a drawer and read from her computer screen, jotting down the information. She handed me the note. I glanced at it. Although it was Ernestine Griggs’s card that had been used here, the prescription was for a man named Zachary Merten. Apparently, the Ernestine Griggs imposter, whoever she was, had purchased the prescription for Merten. A pretty stupid move to buy something that could be traced but, unlike Marcos Mendoza, most criminals aren’t all that smart.

  I thanked the pharmacist and stuck the note in my purse. I thanked the manager, too. He returned to stocking laxatives in the Digestive Relief aisle. I snagged a bottle of dandruff shampoo, then went in search of a tube of LuvLub. Not that Brett and I needed anything to enhance our spectacular love life. But, then again, sex can never be too good, can it?

  * * *

  Brett and I finished our egg drop soup and lo mein, and cracked open our fortune cookies. I probably should’ve told him right off the bat that I wouldn’t be able to go to Florida with him, but I knew how disappointed he’d be. I decided to break it to him as gently as I could.

  I cracked open my fortune cookie and pulled out the white strip.

  You will soon face grave danger.

  My breath hitched. Weren’t fortune cookies usually positive and optimistic? This wasn’t as much a fortune as a cookie-coated threat. Sheez. This was the last time I’d eat at Ning’s Noodle Palace.

  “What’s it say?” Brett asked, crunching down on his cookie and looking at me expectantly.

  No way did I want to tell him what it said. It would only remind him of the dangers of my job. I’d rather endure a bikini wax than rehash this sensitive topic. “It says ‘You will disappoint someone tonight.’”

  His expression became puzzled.

  I reached across the table to take his hand in mine. “I can’t go to Florida, Brett. Lu denied my vacation request.”

  Puzzled became pissed. “She can’t do that. You’re entitled to two weeks off a year.”

  “She can,” I said, “and she did. Eddie and I are working on a difficult case. She wants it resolved as soon as possible.”

  Brett sat back in his chair, putting a hand in his hair and pushing it up into angry spikes. “This is bullshit, Tara. We’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. This isn’t something we can reschedule. I’m getting a big award, for Christ’s sake. I want you there with me.”

  More guilt. Ugh. “I’m sorry, Brett. I’m not happy about it, either.”

  He looked away for a moment, his jaw flexing as he clenched his teeth. Finally he turned back. “Your job is taking over your life.”

  He had a point. But my job wasn’t a typical job, either. Being a special agent wasn’t just what I did for a living, it was a part of who I was as a person. It was as if the position had been made just for me, enabling me to combine my business smarts and marksman skills. The cases were interesting, challenging. We special agents ensured everyone paid their fair share to Uncle Sam, that honest taxpayers didn’t bear an unfair burden. I was an instrument of justice. Still, as proud as I was of my work, it sucked when my job got in the way of my personal life.

  �
�I’ll make it up to you, Brett.”

  “How?”

  I reached into my purse and pulled out the small bag from the pharmacy, tossing it to him across the table. He opened the bag and pulled out the tube of LuvLub. As he read the package, his expression changed from one hundred percent angry to equal parts angry and amused.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Brett and I lay in his bed, our bodies spent and our minds blown. The FDA may not have approved the product’s claims, but they were true. And a round of mind-blowing sex was just what I needed to take my mind off Marcos Mendoza and the fact that I was letting Brett down in a major way.

  Grave danger?

  Not if I had anything to say about it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Diseases and Immunity

  I dragged my butt out of Brett’s bed bright and early the next morning. I planned to stop by the address the pharmacist had jotted on the sticky note before Zachary Merten left for work.

  I ran by my house to shower, using the new dandruff shampoo I’d bought at the pharmacy. I hoped it would relieve the itchiness. It was becoming damn near unbearable. I dressed, fed my poor neglected cats, and drove to the apartment complex in South Dallas.

  I walked to the door of apartment 1D and, badge in hand, knocked on the door. There was no immediate response. I knocked again, louder, and heard a man’s voice, muffled and irritated. “Jus’ a minute. Fuck! Where’s my underwear?”

  Funny, I’d had to search for mine at Brett’s earlier that morning, too. Turned out Napoleon had dragged them under the bed and chewed them to bits. I’d had to drive home commando style.

  “You forget to pay the fucking rent again?” I heard the male voice ask someone else in the apartment.

  A female voice responded. “I paid it, you dumbass. With no help from you. When you gonna get a fucking job?”

  “When you gonna get off my fucking case about it?”

  “When you get a fucking job. Duh!”

  Looked like I’d worried myself unnecessarily about stopping by before working hours.

  Eventually, the door was yanked open. “Yeah?”

  In the doorway stood a man in his early thirties. He was, hands down, the hairiest person I’d ever seen. The hair on his head was shoulder-length and shaggy, and his face sported a scraggly beard. He appeared to be wearing a hair vest. His chest, shoulders, and what I could see of his back bore an apelike coating of dark fur. Urk. He looked like Chewbacca. He held a couch cushion in front of his crotch, his underwear apparently continuing to elude him, though he did sport one dingy sweat sock.

  I fought a gag reflex. “Are you Mr. Merten?”

  He looked me up and down, taking in my blue pin-striped suit, and closed the door slightly. “Who’s askin’?”

  “Tara Holloway. I’m a special agent for the IRS.” I flashed my badge and eased my foot over the threshold in case he tried to shut the door.

  “IRS?” He released his hold on the door and scratched at his ear. Fleas, perhaps? “What’s the IRS want with me?”

  “Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me who picked up a prescription for you last December at the pharmacy on Hatcher.”

  The guy visibly relaxed then, his shoulders slumping. He swung the door open and hiked a thumb behind him. “That would be her.”

  A big-boned thirtyish woman sat on a cockeyed recliner behind him, lighting a cigarette. She wore a stained pink T-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants cut off above the knee. Her hair was brown at the roots, the remainder blond, dry, and frizzy. She must have gotten her hair care tips from Dog the Bounty Hunter.

  Merten turned and waltzed down the hall to the bathroom, tossing the couch cushion aside and giving me a view of his furry ass before he disappeared into the bath. I hoped the hair growth wasn’t a side effect of the LuvLub. I might owe Brett an apology.

  “You better not be getting a weapon, Mr. Merten,” I called.

  “I’m just taking a leak,” he hollered back. “Chillax.”

  Chillax? Sounded like the ape had been watching a little too much iCarly.

  The frizzy-haired woman took a long, slow drag on her cigarette and eyed me through narrowed lids. No attempt to get out of her chair. No greeting. Apparently her mother hadn’t sent her to Miss Cecily’s Charm School like my mother had.

  I stepped further into the apartment, leaving the door open behind me in case I needed to make a quick exit. You never know. “Are you the one who bought the prescription for Mr. Merten?”

  “Mr. Merten?” She chortled. “Never heard anyone call Zach ‘mister’ before. Sounds kinda funny.”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t,” she said. “I know my rights. I don’t have to say nothin.’” She took another drag on the cigarette, narrowing her eyes further as she inhaled.

  I gestured toward the bathroom, from which a loud flushing sound could be heard. “Mr. Merten just identified you as the one who purchased his prescription. It was paid for with a counterfeit credit card. That’s enough for me to take you in.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  This woman was really starting to piss me off.

  “Where did you obtain the counterfeit credit card?” I scratched at the back of my neck again. That dandruff shampoo wasn’t helping a bit.

  The woman said nothing, just continued to stare at me, occasionally putting the cigarette to her lips.

  I pulled my cuffs from my purse and stepped toward her. “You have the right to remain silent,” I said. “You—”

  She held up a hand and sat up in her chair now. “You’re not after me,” she said. “Not really.”

  She was smarter than she looked.

  “You want to talk?” I asked.

  “You want to deal?” She arched a brow in dire need of plucking.

  “Sounds like you’ve been through this before.”

  She pinched a flake of tobacco from her tongue and smiled a knowing smile.

  I hate it when they do that.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the day in a small, stuffy conference room at the Justice Department with Ross O’Donnell, an attorney who regularly represented the IRS. I had the frizzy-haired woman, whose named turned out to be Lizzie Crandall, in tow.

  Ross contacted a buddy at the Dallas County District Attorney’s Office. Despite being a top-notch attorney, Ross initially had a hard time getting the DA’s office on board. The assistant DA wanted to know more about my investigation, whom I was after, whether my target was a big enough fish to make it worth forgoing an open-and-shut credit card fraud case against Crandall. The DA’s office liked easy cases. Good for their trial statistics. Besides, Lizzie Crandall already had a record for three misdemeanor thefts, one drunk and disorderly, and one possession of marijuana, each of which had been pleaded out and earned her only short periods of probation. The DA felt it was time to give Lizzie more than a slap on the wrist.

  Ross finally convinced his buddy that we weren’t pulling rank, that my investigation was highly sensitive because the target had not only done some evil stuff far worse than Lizzie’s relatively minor infractions but had so far also managed to avoid arrest. Eventually, the lawyers worked out the details and the Justice Department and DA’s office granted Frizzy Lizzie immunity from all charges relating to the credit card fraud on the condition she’d tell us all she knew.

  I wrote down the date and Ms. Crandall’s name on my legal pad. “How’d you get the counterfeit credit card?”

  She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I was sitting outside my apartment sometime last fall, smoking a cigarette, when some guy drives into the complex. He unrolls his window and asks if I’d like to buy a credit card. Said I could use it for days before anyone would find out.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told him to prove it was good, take me to buy some beer and cigarettes.”

  “And did he?”

  She nodded. “Bought me a six-pac
k of Bud and a carton of Camels at the convenience store on the corner.”

  I knew which store she was talking about. I’d spoken with the manager there on Tuesday. It had been one of my dead ends. Until now.

  “What was the guy’s name?”

  She rolled her eyes again, as if I were an idiot. “Didn’t need to know. Didn’t ask.”

  “How much did you pay him for the card?”

  “Two hundred,” she said.

  “Cash?”

  “No.” She chuckled a hoarse and sarcastic smoker’s chuckle. “I used a credit card.”

  All right, I had to admit it was a stupid question. Still, scribbling the word “bitch” on my legal pad made me feel a little better. “So, cash then.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bitch paid cash, I jotted. Bitch needs a trim and facial.

  “What did the guy look like?”

  She looked up in thought. “Skinny little Asian guy.”

  Thin. Asian. Male.

  “How old?”

  “Twenty or so.”

  Twentyish.

  “Any distinguishing characteristics?”

  “Capped tooth in front.” She tapped on her top right incisor. “Gold ring in one ear.” Now a tug on her left lobe.

  I made another quick note. “What was he wearing?”

  She squinted, as if trying to conjure up a mental image of the guy. “Dark hoodie, black or navy. I forget. It’s been a while, you know. Baggy jeans, maybe, or sweatpants. One of those goofy-looking knit caps. A red one, I think.”

  As I made a note of his clothing, I wriggled in my chair. Was it just my imagination or was my skin starting to burn down there? Sheez. As if my itchy scalp wasn’t bad enough. “What kind of car was he driving?”

  “One of them cheap little foreign pieces of shit.”