Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte

by Diane Kelly

  Public computers? A light bulb flashed on in my head. That’s what Mendoza had been doing at the libraries. Using their public computers. Maybe at the hotel, too. Many hotels had courtesy computers in their lobbies for guests to print boarding passes, check their flight status or e-mail. “How can I track down the stooge?”

  Nick had worked his way down to my lower back now, applying the cream in slow, sensual circles. If the guy hadn’t become a federal agent, he’d have made one hell of a masseur.

  “You’re not going to like my suggestion, but it’s the only thing I can think of.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  He lifted the strap of my bikini so he could spread the cream under it. His warm hand swept over my bare shoulder. “You need to get Josh involved.”

  Despite my attempt to remain professional, I felt my nipples tighten in response to Nick’s touch. “Josh?” I glanced down at my traitorous nipples, willing them to remember they were involved in an exclusive relationship with Brett. “You’re right. I don’t like it.”

  “The days of paper trails are gone, Tara. Everything’s electronic now. Josh has the best hi-tech skills in the office. He’ll figure out a way to track down the information you need.”

  “But how can I ask him to help? The case is officially closed.”

  “Which is exactly why he’ll agree. Josh was the last to be picked for every team in his life. He’s an outcast, an outsider. But that’s not who he wants to be. I invited him to join me for a beer once after work and he just about wet himself. He’s like an insecure little puppy. He’ll be thrilled you’ve asked him to be part of something secret.”

  Nick was probably right. On a recent case, Eddie and I had asked Josh to help us crack a computer password and he’d readily agreed to help, beaming with pride when we’d complimented him on his skills.

  Nick motioned with his hand, directing me to lie flat on the chaise so he could slather sunscreen on the back of my legs. “Mendoza has an associate here in Mexico. Vicente Torres. You’ve probably heard of him. The two send buttloads of cash back and forth across the border. They’re cheating both the IRS and the Mexican tax department. The Mexican government wants to put Torres out of business as bad as the U.S. government wants Mendoza. I’ve told the Mexican tax authorities everything I learned about Mendoza’s operations. Some of the information could help them nail Torres, so in return the judge agreed to refuse the Department of Justice’s extradition request. He knew I’d have no chance of defending myself back home. I would’ve ended up in jail.”

  For the past several weeks I’d thought Nick was a greedy chump. But, as I was learning, the guy was smart and savvy, a quick thinker, and, above all, a good guy.

  A good guy who’d been forced into an untenable situation.

  A good guy who needed my help.

  A good guy whose warm hands were on my thighs making me have bad girl thoughts.

  He’d worked his way down to my ankles and would have to leave soon lest anyone spying become suspicious of the amount of time he’d spent with me. “Get me back home, Tara. I miss my old life. I miss my family. I miss my dog.” His voice cracked and he made a vain attempt to laugh off his emotional breakdown. “But most of all, I miss chili cheese fries and the electric slide.”

  I sat up in the chair and held out my hand for the sunscreen. “You had me at ‘cheese.’”

  He smiled softly and handed the tube back to me. “Never seen this brand of sunscreen before.”

  I looked down at the tube in my hand.

  Shit.

  The guy had just slathered me in LovLub.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Recruiting

  Bright and early the next morning, I was back in Dallas, sitting at a coffee shop with the newspaper classifieds and a skinny no-whip latte in front of me. I was going to smuggle Nick back into the U.S. If you’re going to go rogue, you might as well go all the way, right?

  Problem was, I couldn’t smuggle Nick out of Mexico in my BMW. The space behind the backseat that housed the retractable roof left a trunk far too small to conceal a grown man, especially one Nick’s size. Thanks to George Burton’s order to cease the Mendoza investigation, I couldn’t borrow a car from the Treasury’s impound lot. Because so many rental cars had disappeared south of the border, rental agreements prohibited driving the cars into Mexico. I couldn’t risk driving a friend’s or family member’s car into Mexico for the same reason. I had no choice but to buy a car from a private party on my own dime.

  I circled several of the ads. An eight-year-old Honda Accord for three grand. A ten-year-old Dodge Intrepid for two and a half. And a decade-old Chevy Silverado with “minor hail damage” for fifteen hundred. I decided to call on the Silverado first. I had a soft spot for Chevy pickups. Heck, I’d lost my virginity in the back of one. Besides, the way I was feeling, I might decide to make things easy on myself and simply run Mendoza over. I wasn’t sure a Honda was up to the task, but I had no doubt a Silverado could splatter the prick from here to kingdom come. As the commercials say, “like a rock.”

  I spoke to the owner and made arrangements to take a look.

  “Cash only,” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I replied.

  The owner met me in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart. He was a scruffy, bowlegged cowboy, wearing scuffed boots and jeans with a telltale circle of Skoal chewing tobacco in the back pocket.

  The owner looked me over, taking in my ratty tennis shoes, frayed denim shorts, and freebie T-shirt I’d received for donating blood at the annual Martin and McGee office blood drive last year. I’d purposely parked my BMW well out of sight, too. Didn’t want this guy thinking I had a lot of money to spend. All part of my negotiation strategy.

  While he checked me out, I walked around the dark green pickup, looking it over with just as much scrutiny. “You call this minor hail damage?” The hood looked as if Savion Glover had tap-danced his way across it. What’s more, the windshield was cracked, the dashboard was split in several places, and the back bumper hung cockeyed, held on only by baling wire. But the tires were relatively new and the engine purred like a happy kitten. Plus, a large metal toolbox spanned the bed just behind the back window, the perfect place to secrete Dad’s hunting rifle should I decide to take Mendoza out with a clean head shot.

  “I’ll go down to fourteen hundred,” the man said, “but that’s my final offer.”

  “I’ll pay thirteen five.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “And that’s my final offer.”

  He stuck out his hand. “You got yourself a deal.”

  I gave him the cash, he gave me the title, and the deal was done.

  After the man left, I went into the store and bought a wrench to remove the license plates. Didn’t want to risk Mendoza tracing the truck if he realized I was watching him. Without plates, I ran the risk of being pulled over by local police or the DPS, but they’d let me go once I flashed my federal credentials.

  * * *

  I returned to the office early Tuesday afternoon. I lifted my chin by way of greeting and pretended to be speaking on my cell phone as I passed Viola’s desk. Didn’t want her quizzing me about my alleged sick day. I may have gone rogue, but I was still trying to keep my lies to a minimum. Hopefully Vi would think my pink skin was evidence of a lingering fever and not a sunburn. LovLub makes a poor sunscreen.

  “I need to see all of the invoices,” I said into my phone, ignoring Viola’s persistent stare. “Send me the accounts receivable information, too.” I turned the corner, out of her line of sight. All clear.

  I stepped into my office, closing my door behind me. I dropped my phone into my purse, dropped my purse into the bottom drawer of my desk, and plunked myself into my wobbly chair. The vent rattled over my head as the air conditioner kicked on. I looked around my office then, almost as if seeing it for the first time.

  My framed CPA license hung on the wall behind my desk next to the paper target from the firearms test I’d been given
at the end of my special agent training. All six shots square in the center. A cheap bookcase standing on the side wall contained the five-volume set of the Internal Revenue Code, along with binders containing audit and investigation manuals. A stack of files sat on my desk next to an adding machine and a stapler that routinely jammed. A plastic cup full of number 2 pencils perched in the corner beside a framed photo of me and my family taken last Christmas, every one of us wearing Santa hats Mom had sewn herself.

  This office wasn’t much. But it was mine. And I could lose it all in an instant if the Lobo realized I’d defied her orders and continued the Mendoza investigation.

  What would I do if that happened? Assuming I could plead out and avoid jail time, would I return to Martin and McGee? Would the firm even be willing to take me back under those circumstances?

  Years ago, I hadn’t even known there was such a thing as a special agent for the Treasury Department. It wasn’t until one of the agents came to Martin and McGee to seize the files I’d been working on that I realized the IRS had a criminal law enforcement division. I’d noticed the data in the client’s records hadn’t seemed kosher, had planned to discuss the matter with the partner in charge, but the IRS had beat us to the punch.

  When I’d seen the gun holstered at the agent’s waist, I’d driven the guy crazy, asking about his job. The job sounded exciting, each case different, posing a unique set of challenges. The agent traveled around the city rather than being trapped in his office day after day. How cool! I knew then it was what I wanted to do.

  Being a special agent was more than just a job for me. Much more. I played a role in keeping things fair and just, making sure we collected as much as we could from those who owed it so that others didn’t have to pay more than their fair share. I had a unique skill set. There weren’t many people who had a mind for both accounting and weaponry. The job seemed tailor-made for me. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

  If I lost this job, I would lose a part of myself.

  Nick Pratt must have felt the same way.

  My resolve thus renewed, I picked up my cell and called Christina, giving her a quick rundown.

  “You’re going to be a coyote?” she asked, using the slang term for those who trafficked people into the country undocumented. “Have you gone loco?”

  “Probably.”

  “You know how much trouble you could get into, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re still going to do it?”

  “Yeah.” Crazy or not, it was the right thing to do. The end justified the means, right? Still, I didn’t want to go alone. “Come with me. It’s a long drive from Dallas to Mexico. I’ll get bored without someone to talk to.”

  “Not to mention you’re scared to death to do this alone.”

  Busted. “Well, yeah. There’s that, too.”

  She hesitated, but only for a second. “Okay. I’m in. I know a great little jewelry place just across the border. They sell silver for next to nothing.”

  One down, one to go.

  I made my way down the hall to Josh’s office. He sat at his desk, sipping chocolate milk from a small carton. Chocolate milk? Seriously? This was the guy who would help me bring down a murderer? I rapped on the door frame. “Got a minute?”

  He looked up. With his baby blue eyes, blond curls, and chocolate-milk mustache, he looked like a second grader. Hard to believe he was such a hotshot cyber sleuth. “I guess.”

  His baby blues narrowed in suspicion as I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

  I flopped down in one of his chairs. “I need your help, Josh.”

  The suspicion was replaced by an expression of smug self-satisfaction. “Oh my. Don’t tell me the Annie Oakley of the IRS can’t handle her job.”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “Not without you I can’t.”

  “Let me guess. Your case needs computer skills rather than weapons skills.”

  “At least for now.” Yep, still keeping that head shot in reserve.

  “Who are you after?”

  Could I trust this guy? I wasn’t sure. The only thing I knew for certain was that I’d get no further without him. So I took a chance and laid it all on him, including Mendoza’s threats to Eddie and his family, the details about Nick leaving the IRS, my recent contacts with the former agent. I crossed my fingers that Josh wouldn’t refuse to help and rat me out.

  But Nick was right. Josh virtually squealed with delight when I asked him to join in on my unauthorized operation. “I’ll do it!”

  That had been easy. Almost too easy. Had he been the one Nick had stayed in contact with? “You understand we’ll be in deep shit if anyone finds out we continued this investigation against orders? We’d lose our jobs and possibly serve prison time.”

  “I know,” Josh said. “But if we bring Mendoza down we’ll be heroes.”

  Aha! Josh, the little squirt, wanted to be a big man, a hero. Probably to overcome some childhood playground trauma. But whatever his reasons, he was willing to help me out and accept the risks that went with it. I’d owe him. Big-time.

  His blue eyes glittered eagerly. “When can we start?”

  “No time like the present.” I waved him after me. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Vamos a la Biblioteca

  Two hours later, Josh and I rode in my hail-dented truck, following Marcos Mendoza. Josh had put on a pair of dark sunglasses, pulled up his collar, and slunk down low in his seat, a poor man’s Magnum, P.I.

  After a few turns on the surface streets, Mendoza pulled onto Harry Hines, one of the larger thoroughfares. Was he heading to the Dallas Love Field airport? I thought so until he passed the airport’s entrance on Mockingbird and continued on. After ten minutes of driving, he turned right onto Gilford, once again pulling into a branch library.

  “The library,” I said. “Just as expected.”

  Josh bounced in his seat like a kid going to a carnival.

  I climbed out of the car and followed Mendoza inside. When we’d swung by my house to pick up the truck, I’d changed into clothes that looked the least like an IRS agent as possible. A pair of dollar store flip-flops. Ripped jeans. A red tank top with my bra strap showing. I’d pulled my hair back into two short pigtails on either side of my head. I looked like a college kid. Okay, maybe a college kid who’d spent a few semesters partying and was a little behind the ball.

  While Josh waited in the truck, I followed Mendoza into the building. He seemed to be familiar with the layout, taking a left through a set of low bookshelves. I headed straight into the magazine section and picked up a copy of Southern Living, turning to an article featuring a bed-and-breakfast in Fredericksburg, Texas, a popular weekend antiquing spot.

  I watched Mendoza through a gap in the metal shelves. He stopped near a bank of computers and looked around the room, scanning for potential spies.

  Here I am, asshole.

  Seemingly satisfied that nobody was watching him, he sat down at a computer, leaning close to the screen to shield it from the view of passersby. He tapped a few keys then sat for a moment, staring intently at the screen. After another moment he punched a few more keys.

  Mendoza spent half an hour at the machine before he stood to go. He glanced around the room again, his eyes stopping on a trim, thirtyish man in khaki pants and a plaid cotton shirt. The man stood at a kiosk, reviewing the announcements posted there. Eyes narrowed, Mendoza glared plainly at the man now as if waiting to see how he would respond.

  Maybe I should’ve been insulted that Mendoza had overlooked me as a potential spy. After all, his failure to notice me implied that I was, well, overlookable. Okay, I admit that without makeup and decent clothes, I wasn’t anything to write home about. And given my stature, I appeared deceptively harmless. Still, just once I’d like to make a man quake in fear without having to pull my gun. Heck, I’d settle for a quiver. A blink even.

  A woman carrying a toddler walked up to the man in the khaki
s, put her hand on his arm, and smiled up at him. “Ready to go, honey?”

  Mendoza’s narrowed eyes returned to normal. He followed the couple into the library’s lobby. The couple continued on, exiting through the front doors. Mendoza, however, ducked into the men’s room. I slunk between the shelves, moving closer to the lobby. Not ten seconds later, Mendoza emerged from the men’s room and headed out the front door.

  Hardly enough time to do his business.

  I watched from one of the windows as Mendoza returned to his car and left the lot. Scurrying into the lobby, I rapped once on the men’s room door and pushed it open a couple of inches, my eyes averted. “Cleaning crew,” I called. “Anyone in here?”

  When no response came, I stepped inside. Typical men’s room. Two stalls, two urinals, crumpled white paper towels in a shiny metal bin located under the towel dispenser.

  Hmm.

  I bent down and looked under the sink to see if Mendoza might have stashed something there. Nope. Nothing there but some rusty pipes. I glanced around again. Toilet tanks? Nope. Nothing there, either. The only other place to stash something was the waste bin.

  Urk.

  Sticking my hand in a bin of used, soggy towels was about the last thing I wanted to do. Nailing Mendoza, on the other hand, was at the top of my list. Cringing, I stuck my hand into the metal bin, feeling around the bottom.

  Bingo.

  At the bottom of the bin was a cell phone, one of those cheap basic models made to be used with a prepaid card. I turned it over and slid open the compartment for the sim card.

  Empty.

  Damn. Mendoza had probably flushed it. Even if his fingerprints appeared on this phone, it would do us no good. Without the sim card to tell us the phone number he’d been using, the device itself was useless.

  Just to make sure I’d covered all my bases, I peeked into both urinals and toilets, checking to see if by some miracle the card hadn’t been sucked into the sewer system. No such luck. But the fact that Mendoza had ditched the phone told me he was running scared now, being extra careful. We’d made things harder on him. That fact gave me some satisfaction.