by Diane Kelly
“What’s Brett going to think?”
My recurring injuries didn’t just cause me physical pain, they were a sore spot between me and my boyfriend, too. Fortunately, he was volunteering tonight on a Habitat for Humanity project so I’d be able to put off sharing the news a bit longer. “Brett’s not going to like it. That’s for sure.”
“Especially when he finds out you can’t have sex for ten days,” Ajay added.
My head snapped his way. “What? You didn’t tell me that at the clinic.”
Ajay shrugged. “I’m telling you now. That cut was deep. You can’t risk straining the stitches. No physical exertion. That includes sexual activity.”
Nick chuckled beside me as he took a sip of his beer. I shot him a frown.
Christina turned to Nick then. “How’d you know how to handle a rooster?”
Nick rested his bottle on the table. “My parents were farmers. I was in 4-H as a kid and a member of Future Farmers of America in high school.”
I knew Nick had been raised a country boy in a small town outside Houston and that his parents had been farmers, but I hadn’t realized he’d once planned to follow in their footsteps. “What changed your mind about becoming a farmer?” I asked.
He leaned back against the booth. “My mother and father weren’t too happy about my plans. They wanted more for me and insisted I go to college. I decided to major in business because I thought it would help me run a successful farm later on.” He took a draw from his beer before continuing. “When it came time to graduate, I realized I could either spend the rest of my life breaking my back to merely eke out a living or I could get a cushy job with some fancy corporation and make four times as much money, maybe buy a new car and a high-def television.” He shrugged. “The decision seemed pretty simple.”
“So?” I asked. “Which fancy corporation did you go to work for?”
He offered a sour grin. “Ever heard of a company called Enron?”
“Dude.” Ajay cringed in sympathy. “Bad choice.”
“No shit, huh?” Nick chuckled again, though this time it was mirthless. “’Course hindsight’s twenty-twenty. I had no idea what was going on there. I wasn’t much more than a kid when I started, just one of the office grunts. I worked in payroll and employee benefits so I didn’t get any inkling of what was happening until it was too late. Lost all of my stock, every cent I’d put toward retirement.”
“That sucks,” Christina chimed in.
Nick looked away for a moment, then turned back, his jaw set firm. “The worst of it was that my parents had invested in Enron, too, as a sign of their support. They lost more money than they could afford to lose. The bank ending up taking their farm. When I landed the job with the Treasury Department, I moved them up here to Dallas to help them out. My dad couldn’t take it. It was too humiliating for him. He said he should’ve just let me be a farmer and none of it ever would have happened. He had a massive heart attack a year later, dead before he hit the kitchen floor.”
Whoa. Nick had been through a lot. My heart broke for him. Clearly, he felt responsible for what happened even though there was no way he could have foreseen how things would turn out. But when I put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him, he instantly shrugged it off. I pulled back, surprised and, admittedly, a little hurt.
“Sorry,” he said, apparently noting the wounded look on my face. “Didn’t mean to throw myself a pity party. Must be the beer talking, making me all soft and girlie.”
“Speaking of soft and girlie,” Ajay said, “it’s time for Christina and me to go.” He gave her an exaggerated wink.
Nick and I sat in silence for several moments after they left. He’d exposed his vulnerable side and seemed embarrassed by it. Part of me was flattered he’d opened up to me, but another part knew the closer I got to Nick, the more dangerous things would become. And no matter how sexy Nick was, no matter how attracted to him I felt, he wasn’t a sure thing. Brett was. And I wasn’t about to risk what I had for something that might or might not ever be. Still, a part of me wondered where things would stand today if I’d met Nick first, before Brett.
Truth was, if I’d met Nick first, I’d have jumped in with both feet. I would probably never have gotten to know Brett. He would’ve been no more than an attractive ticket taker at the Arboretum’s charity event.
But I had met Brett first, and he was a wonderful, caring, considerate guy. He made me feel special, made me happy. I’d be a fool to throw that away. When it got down to it, I hardly knew Nick. Still, I felt an odd connection to him, an instinctual understanding, as if the two of us connected on some primitive level.
Nick paid the tab and we left the bar. He drove the car to the federal building, parking it in the building’s lot next to a hail-dented Chevy Silverado pickup. I’d bought the truck a few weeks ago to smuggle Nick out of Mexico. He’d later taken it off my hands as a sign of his appreciation, paying me every cent I’d dropped on the thing plus a ten percent markup. Nick might be a badass, but he was a good guy, too.
He made no move to get out of the car. Instead, he turned to me. “You and I make a good team.”
“Sure. We’re both skilled and well trained.”
He tilted his head, eyeing me. “Maybe there’s more to it than skills and training.”
Uh-oh. Where was he going with this? And did I want to go there? I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing.
He didn’t say anything, either. After a few seconds, he turned away, looking out the front windshield. “See you tomorrow.” With that, he climbed out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and leaving me hot and bothered.
CHAPTER SIX
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Friday morning, I drove to the Lobo’s house, a green brick number with lavender shutters and trim. Needless to say, her neighborhood had no homeowners’ association with a persnickety paint approval committee. Also needless to say, Lu had a style all her own.
I stepped to her door and rapped seven times in a quick beat. “Shave and a haircut, two bits.”
After a moment, the Lobo opened her door.
I forced a smile. “Hi, Lu,” I said. “You look great,” I lied.
Bright orange go-go boots graced her feet, while a royal-blue minidress with a flared hem covered her pear-shaped body. The dress didn’t fit as snug as I remembered, though, and her cheeks looked sunken, her skin dull. What’s more, her always perky strawberry-blond beehive seemed to slump on top of her head. And was it just my imagination or was her hair thinner?
Although the tumor the doctors found on Lu’s lung was small, its location near her heart made it inoperable. They’d decided to attack it with chemo. Today would be the Lobo’s second chemo treatment.
Like Nick’s mother, Lu was a widow. Her middle-aged son had taken her to the hospital for her first appointment, but he’d had an important business meeting today. Since she had no other family in the area, I’d offered to drive Lu to and from the hospital and she’d grudgingly taken me up on it. Lu had always been a strong, independent woman and the fact that a cancerous tumor had dared invade her body made her madder than hell. She didn’t like being dependent on other people and she sure as hell didn’t want them feeling sorry for her. She was like Nick in that way. No wonder the two of them got along so well.
Lu gripped a large purple can of extra-hold hairspray in her right hand. “I’m just finishing up.” She held the can aloft and pushed the nozzle, spraying a large cloud of the sticky substance into the air. I took a step back, waving the fumes out of my face and coughing, wondering if it were possible her lung cancer was caused not by cigarettes but by hairspray fumes.
Her hair now glued in place, Lu plunked the can down on a table in the foyer. I picked it up and read the label. Well, the part I could read, anyway. The information on the label was printed in both poorly translated English and what appeared to be Chinese. The label proclaimed the contents capable of “make big hair not move” and deemed the product �
�much strong extra hold.” Weapons grade was more like it. At the bottom of the label was a fire icon, the international symbol for flammable materials, as well as a verbal warning in all caps. “BE CAREFUL VERY! MUCH FLAMMABLE!”
“Where do you get this stuff?” I’d never seen this particular brand at the grocery stores or beauty supply outlets.
“My hairdresser, Ming Lai,” she said. “She imports it direct from a factory in Shanghai.”
I glanced back down at the can. The hairspray probably contained a number of ingredients banned in the United States. But what the heck. It was a windy day. Might as well give the stuff a try, huh? I held my breath, closed my eyes, and sprayed a mushroom cloud of the stuff over my hair.
Lu grabbed her purse and house keys. After she locked up, we headed to my car and climbed in.
“Good job on the Buchmeyer case.” She eyed me from under her thick false eyelashes. “That geezer’s been thumbing his nose at the IRS for years.”
“Well, he’ll have to find something else to do with his thumb now.”
She stared at me, unblinking.
“That didn’t come out the way I intended.”
“Lord, I hope not.”
I backed out of the driveway. “I’m not sure how much money the Spam and beans’ll bring in,” I said, “but the guns have to be worth at least five grand.” The Treasury Department held regular auctions to sell off property seized from deadbeats. A savvy buyer could find some pretty good deals. In fact, I’d phoned my father this morning to let him know about the guns. His current collection included over thirty weapons, but he was always looking to expand. Like I said, gun nut.
“Thank goodness you and Nick seized those weapons,” she said. “There’s no telling what that bunch of wackos might have been planning.”
Probably more than a Spam cook-off.
After we’d driven a few miles and I’d shared the latest bits of office gossip, we reached the hospital. Lu and I sat in the waiting room flipping through magazines while waiting for her name to be called. Lu had settled on Vogue. Ironic, given that she’d bought no new fashions since the sixties. I opted for People. As expected, the issue featured several photos of Suri Cruise. That poor child couldn’t take a dump without the paparazzi wanting to photograph it.
A nurse in blue scrubs stuck her head inside the swinging door. “Luella Lobozinksi?”
Lu tossed her magazine onto the table and stood to go.
I felt like I should say something but I had no idea what was an appropriate thing to say to someone heading into a chemo treatment. Best wishes? Break a leg? Mazel tov? I settled for giving her what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
She gestured for me to follow her.
“You want me to come?”
“I’ll be hooked up to a drip for the next few hours. Misery loves company.”
* * *
Lu was uncharacteristically quiet on the drive home. The strained expression on her face told me she didn’t feel well. No surprise there. She’d spent the entire morning hooked up to an IV dripping poison into her bloodstream.
As she climbed out of my car, she turned and ducked her head back in. “Thanks for taking me to—”
Lu stopped speaking as a lock of her pinkish-orange hair fell from her head, fluttering like a feather to the seat. Even her contraband extra-hold hairspray was no match for chemo. The Lobo stared down at the hair lying lifeless on the seat. Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over her false eyelashes.
Oh, my God. I really had no idea what to do now. I was used to the Lobo barking orders, taking charge, bossing people around. This fragile, vulnerable Lu was a person I didn’t recognize.
She put a hand to her head. “My hair.” She looked at me now, desperation in her eyes. “How can I be me without my hair?”
“Come on,” I said. “You’ll still be you.”
I was lying through my teeth. Lu’s strawberry-blond beehive was much more than just a hairdo. It was her defining characteristic, a crown of sorts. The coiled fluff stood up on her head as if standing up to the world. The beehive was proud, rebellious even. Her do had both altitude and attitude.
Who would Lu be without her hair? Well, we’d never have to find out. Not if I had anything to say about it.
“I’ll find you a wig,” I told her. “One just like your real hair.”
Her eyes lit up for the first time that day. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. You’re the best boss I ever had.”
It was true. Big Bob had made me mop the floor of the Bait Bucket, including his office, which was wallpapered with nude centerfold posters. Maybe if I’d taken a closer look I’d have learned where the G-spot was located. The partners at the CPA firm where I’d worked after college had been nice enough, but they’d measured my worth in billable hours. I’d been a replaceable cog in their moneymaking machine, nothing more. Lu was the first boss I’d had who appreciated me as a unique individual. The feeling was mutual.
Now, where in the hell was I going to find a strawberry-blond beehive wig?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Love ’Em and Leave ’Em
I spent the rest of Friday afternoon reviewing the case file for Pastor Noah Fischer and the Ark Temple of Worship. The audit department had already collected extensive evidence, including the church’s travel expense ledger. The pastor might not worship a golden calf, but he was certainly using the church as his cash cow.
According to the records, Pastor Fischer had been quite the jet-setter in recent years, logging an average of fifty thousand airline miles annually, all of it on the Ark’s dime. In the last quarter alone he and his wife, Marissa, had traveled to the Greek isles, France, and Tahiti, purportedly on mission trips for the church.
Smelled like bullshit to me.
Mission trips were normally to impoverished places like Guatemala or Haiti where people needed help, not to well-to-do countries that were also popular tourist destinations. What’s more, many of the expenses the church paid for had nothing to do with any type of religious activity. The church and its pastor could probably justify the visit to Notre Dame Cathedral, maybe even the visit to the Père Lachaise cemetery where Jim Morrison was buried. But I failed to see how a visit to the Louvre museum, a romantic boat ride along the Seine River, and tickets to the Folies Bergère could further any church-related purpose.
These expenses appeared to be nothing more than personal vacation expenses. As such, the church should have reported them as compensation to Pastor Fischer on his W-2. The pastor, in turn, should have reported the amount as wages on his individual return and paid the related income tax.
The church bookkeeper, the outside CPA, and the pastor had apparently forgotten one of the basic tenets taught in Sunday school. Thou shalt not steal.
The parsonage was another big issue. Although tax law allowed a church to provide a reasonable housing allowance or parsonage to its minister tax-free, the Ark’s parsonage could hardly be deemed reasonable. At over eight thousand square feet with a heated swimming pool and Jacuzzi, high-tech media room, fully equipped fitness room, and gourmet kitchen, the place was a veritable heaven on earth.
What’s more, the church had bought top-of-the line furnishings for the place, including custom-designed window coverings, imported Persian rugs, and the largest 3-D TV on the market. The Ark also paid for lawn and pool service, along with a full-time maid and cook. Heck, the Ark even provided Fischer with a limo and driver.
Several years ago, the Dallas county tax collector had deemed the parsonage ineligible for a property tax exemption because the home was far beyond what was necessary for use as a residence. The tax office had issued an assessment to the church, but the church refused to pay. When the tax collector pressed the county attorney to pursue the unpaid property tax bill in court, the county attorney had balked.
In Texas, as in many Southern states, a wide variety of public offices are filled through elections rather than appointments. This syste
m had been in place since just after the Civil War and was designed to keep power in the hands of the locals and prevent those pesky Yankees from appointing their cronies to office.
Problem was, the elected officials were now controlled by their financial supporters. In the case of the county attorney, a number of those who’d made significant contributions to his campaign attended the Ark Temple of Worship. Rather than risk alienating his supporters and losing his reelection bid, the county attorney wimped out and did nothing. Frustrated, the tax assessor had referred the case to the IRS, hoping the feds would take action.
After the case was referred, IRS auditors performed a thorough investigation and issued an income tax assessment of over five hundred grand to Pastor Fischer. Just as the Ark had ignored its property tax bill, Fischer refused to pay his federal income tax bill. Although collection action could have been taken, the head of the Dallas collections department realized he’d be in the hot seat if his department seized the pastor’s assets. The buck was passed once again and the case was moved up the Treasury’s chain to Criminal Investigations.
The case was sure to be a political nightmare for the IRS, just as the federal government’s raid at the cult compound in Waco, Texas, years ago had caused untold amounts of grief for people at all levels of government, from low-level agents at the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms all the way up to then Attorney General Janet Reno. But unlike those who’d come before her, the Lobo didn’t scare easily.
Neither did I.
The buck stopped here.
I reviewed the pastor’s dossier next. Actually, it was just a bunch of copies of personal documents crammed into a reused manila folder on which another taxpayer’s name had been crossed through and “Noah Fischer” written above it. But “dossier” sounds much more classy, doesn’t it?
According to the information in the file, Noah Fischer had been born in Dubuque, Iowa, and raised in government-subsidized housing. His father was a disabled Vietnam veteran, a former electrician for the Army Corps of Engineers who’d been injured in a fall and could no longer work. His mother was employed sporadically as a housekeeper. Their meager income was subsidized with benefits from government entitlement programs, including food stamps, Medicaid, and social security supplements.