3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

Home > Other > 3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray > Page 9
3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray Page 9

by Diane Kelly


  Alicia leaned into me and whispered, “This place gives me the creeps.”

  I had the same feeling. “Yeah. It’s like Jeffrey Dahmer’s freezer in here. Except warmer.”

  We stopped to look at three models on an upper shelf.

  Alicia tilted her head, considering. “What about one of those?”

  “Nope.” I pointed at each wig in turn. “Too dark, too orange, too straight.”

  Alicia pointed her finger in my face. “Too picky.”

  “It has to be just right,” I said, “or Lu won’t be happy with it. Her hair means a lot to her.”

  Alicia picked up one of the heads from a lower shelf and turned it to face me. “What about this one? It reminds me of Debra Messing.” Alicia had been a huge Will and Grace fan. She’d cried when the show ended.

  I shook my head. “Too curly. Lu would look like Little Orphan Annie in that thing. Or Shaun White. Or Carrot Top.”

  “Okay, okay. I get it. No curls.” Alicia put the head back on the shelf.

  An older clerk approached us. Given that her hair was a natural wiry gray, she apparently didn’t take advantage of her sales position to wear the merchandise. “May I help you ladies find something?”

  “We’re looking for something in a strawberry blond,” I said.

  “I think we can help you out.” She slid a pair of glasses onto her nose and gestured for us to follow her. “This way.”

  She stopped on the next aisle in front of a straight pale blond wig with slight undertones of red. She gestured with her hand. “Here we go. Strawberry blond.”

  The color was closer to Lu’s shade, but we weren’t quite there yet. “Got anything that’s a little heavier on the strawberry?”

  The woman took a few steps forward and bent down to pull a display head off the bottom shelf. This wig was redder than the previous selection, but still too light. Lu’s color was a unique shade of pinkish-orange that was apparently one of a kind. We moved forward a few feet and she picked up another. Still not quite right.

  I reached into my purse and pulled the lock of Lu’s hair from the inside pocket where I’d stashed it. Fortunately, her industrial-strength hairspray had held the sample together. “I’m trying to match this.”

  The woman took the strands from me. “Is this from a doll? Or a stuffed animal?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s from a real person. My boss. She has cancer and her hair’s falling out.”

  The woman ran her thumb over the hair. “Why is it so stiff and sticky?”

  “She uses a special type of extra-hold hairspray,” I explained. “It’s imported.” Without the sturdy stuff her beehive could never have maintained its height.

  We made our way down the aisle, the saleslady holding up Lu’s lock to each of the wigs. We must’ve looked at a dozen of them before she proffered one cut in a stylish shag. It wasn’t Lu’s color exactly, but it was likely the closest the store had.

  “Do you have that same shade in a beehive style?”

  The woman shot me an incredulous look. “Your boss not only has pink hair, but she wears it in a beehive?”

  I nodded.

  The woman tucked the head under her arm. “Honey, my family has owned this store for more than fifty years. The last beehive I remember seeing in here was in 1972.”

  I sighed. Looked like I’d have to forgo the style and hope Lu would at least be satisfied with the color. “I’ll take it.”

  * * *

  I insisted on driving to the meeting at the Ark. Nick had offered to take his truck, but I felt that if I drove perhaps it would be a subtle reminder to him that this was my case and he was only along as backup. I had no problem with him providing some muscle if needed, but I wanted to be the brains of the operation. Besides, Lu had assigned this case to me, not Nick. It wasn’t fair for him to swoop in and start taking over.

  On the drive to the church, Nick chugged a Red Bull while I ran down the strategy I’d planned. “I’m going to play the publicity card, remind them of the potential consequences if word got out that the church and Pastor Fischer were allowing the Ark’s funds to be spent improperly. The parishioners would be enraged, demand changes.”

  “That tactic won’t work.”

  My simmering resentment began to boil now. “Why not?”

  “You saw those people yesterday, giving the guy a standing ovation, saying ‘amen’ to everything that came out of his mouth, standing in line for half an hour to shake his hand. They think Pastor Fischer walks on water. They’re not blind, they see that huge house back there, they see the limo. They think he deserves those things. They like having a celebrity pastor. It makes them feel important to be part of a popular church. They’re perfectly fine with things the way they are.”

  Okay, maybe he had a point. These types of financial indiscretions were often overlooked. The public hardly batted an eye when Martha Stewart was convicted of insider trading, and they’d eagerly welcomed her back on television after her brief stint in the pokey. Money crimes seemed deceptively victimless and many people weren’t sophisticated enough to understand them. Thus, they were quickly forgiven and forgotten.

  “What would you suggest, then?”

  “Beat them at their own game,” Nick said. “Point out that failing to properly report earnings and pay taxes is tantamount to theft, that misreporting is not”—he formed air quotes with his fingers—“what Jesus would do.”

  Now it was my turn to point out the flaws in his plan. “That’s not going to fly, either.”

  Nick crushed the now-empty can of Red Bull in one fist, squeezing his ever-present stress ball in the other. “Oh, yeah? Why not?”

  “The guy obviously has no conscience or none of this would have happened in the first place.”

  He grunted, which I supposed was his way of acknowledging my argument might have some merit, too. “There’s always plan C.”

  “Which is?”

  Nick pulled his handcuffs from the pocket of his jacket. “Say nothing, slap cuffs on him, and haul his hypocritical, tax-cheating ass off to jail.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Turning the Tables

  Only a dozen or so cars were parked in the Ark’s lot today, and we were able to snag a spot not far from the doors.

  Nick leaned forward, looking up at the Ark through my front windshield. “Watch out, Titanic,” he said. “Here comes your iceberg.”

  We climbed out of the car into the scorching heat. An iceberg wouldn’t last a minute out here.

  “What did you think of Fischer’s book?” I asked Nick as we walked toward the building.

  “Toss Your Net? It made me want to toss my lunch. It wasn’t about saving souls. It was about recruiting more members for the church, more pockets for Fisher to pick.” Nick gave a snort of disgust. “Fischer stole his tips from those multilevel marketing gurus. Except instead of promising financial rewards here on earth, he claims the recruiters will be rewarded in the hereafter.”

  Nick held the door for me and we stepped into the foyer, finding it dim today, no grinning greeters to welcome us. The turtle continued to slowly circumnavigate the aquarium, while the fish alternated between floating serenely on the current and darting in crazy paths through the water.

  We made our way past the tank today, following the hallway back to the administrative wing of the church. Double glass doors etched with EXECUTIVE OFFICES led to a waiting area. The receptionist sat on a high-backed leather chair behind an expansive mahogany desk, sorting through a stack of mail and dividing it into piles. She looked up as we came in. Before I could speak, Nick handed her his business card and informed her we had an appointment to meet with Pastor Fischer at three o’clock.

  “Please have a seat.” She picked up her phone and dialed an extension. “The pastor’s three o’clock is here.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was 2:57. Shouldn’t be a long wait.

  Nick and I sat in silence. We couldn’t exactly discuss the case in front of a churc
h employee and, frankly, I wasn’t much in the mood for idle chitchat. I was miffed Nick had rejected my plan. He seemed to think he was smarter than me. Grr. This was my case and I was going to attack it the way I thought best. And if he didn’t like it, well, to hell with him.

  After a few minutes of waiting, I became bored and looked over the selection of magazines on the coffee table. No Vogue. No People. And, of course, no Cosmo with its standard fare of sex tips. All of the offerings were religious in nature. Christianity Today. Guideposts. And, ironically, Men of Integrity.

  I picked up Guideposts and flipped through the pages, stopping to read a piece about a woman who’d dedicated her life to helping abandoned children living on the streets of Romania. She embodied the true Christian spirit in action. I made a mental note to send her organization a contribution. They’d benefit from the funds and I’d benefit from the tax deduction. Win-win.

  My phone vibrated in the pocket of my blazer as a text came in. I pulled out the phone and checked the readout. The message was from Nick.

  BTW you looked mighty purty yesterday.

  I felt a warm blush on my face. I felt Nick’s eyes on me, too. Not looking up, I hit the delete button and replaced the phone in my pocket, returning my gaze to the magazine even if my attention was now hopelessly elsewhere.

  Nick stood and began to pace. The guy couldn’t sit still. He was like a fidgety child with ADD.

  “Maybe you should cut back on the Red Bull,” I suggested.

  Nick ignored me, instead stopping in front of the receptionist’s desk. “We’ve been waiting half an hour,” he said, more than a hint of irritation in his voice. “How much longer is he gonna be?”

  The woman gave Nick an icy smile. “Let me check for you.” Nick hovered over her while she dialed Fischer’s office again. “Can you tell me when Pastor Fischer might be ready to meet with Mr. Pratt and his assistant?”

  Nick’s assistant?

  Ooh, that did it. Hot and bothered now, I stood, slapped the magazine back on the table, and walked over to take a place next to Nick in front of the desk. I could stare down the receptionist just as well as he could. Heck, even better. I had the added benefit of mascara.

  “Thanks,” the woman said into the receiver before hanging it up. She looked up at us. “His executive assistant is on his way now.”

  A side door opened and a fresh-faced guy in his early twenties poked his head in. “I can take y’all back now.”

  We followed the guy to a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM. He opened it for us and gestured for us to step inside.

  I took three steps in and instinctively took one back, stepping on Nick’s boot, my back colliding with his rock-solid chest.

  Holy moly.

  The room contained a virtual horde. Seated at the table were not only Pastor Fischer and Associate Pastor Walters, but also Scott Klein—the managing partner of Martin and McGee and my former boss—Alicia’s boyfriend Daniel, and five other stern-looking men in business suits, one of whom was Tim Haddocks, the pinched-faced former attorney general for the state of Texas.

  Daniel offered an apologetic smile. I knew now why he’d declined to discuss his work with me at dinner the other night. This case was apparently the big one he’d alluded to. I had no problem going head to head with him. I knew we could both maintain our professionalism and not let the case interfere with our friendship.

  My former boss gave me a respectful nod. Haddocks merely glanced up briefly before looking back down at the cell phone in his hands. He resumed typing on the tiny keyboard with his pudgy thumbs. The other suits bored holes in us with their eyes.

  Nick put a strong hand on my back to steady me and stepped to my side. Given the unexpected squad of suits, I had to admit I was glad Nick was there with me. Still, we were outnumbered four and a half to one.

  “Didn’t realize we’d be having a party here.” Nick smiled and stuck his hand across the table to Noah Fischer. “Senior Special Agent Nicholas Pratt.”

  Pastor Fischer stood. The gray suit, white shirt, and red tie he wore today were more demure than the attire he’d worn during the church service yesterday, but I doubted they were less expensive. His flashy Cartier watch caught the light as he extended his hand to Nick. “Pleasure to meet you, Nicholas.”

  Pleasure? As if.

  “You can call me Special Agent Pratt.” Nick’s tone made it clear Fischer could also kiss his ass.

  Nick had put the pastor in his place by refusing to accept the first-name familiarity. Yep, the guy played hardball. The strategy could be a good one, though occasionally a softer touch led to better results. As my mother always said, you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. But Fischer was more a vulture than a fly, feeding on the church as if it were a rotting carcass. He hadn’t exactly played nice so far, had refused to pay both the county and federal tax assessments sent to him. So, yeah, hardball was probably the way to go here.

  A patronizing smile played across Fischer’s lips as his gaze locked on Nick’s. “Certainly, sir. Special Agent Pratt it is.”

  I introduced myself next, noticing a chunky gold bracelet slip out from the cuff of Fischer’s suit jacket as he shook my hand. I also noted that his fingernails appeared to have been professionally trimmed and buffed. Cleanliness is next to godliness, as they say.

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Klein,” I said, moving on to my former boss and shaking his hand.

  “You, too, Tara.”

  It was odd to face my previous employer now as not only an equal, but also an adversary. Ditto for my best friend’s live-in boyfriend.

  Daniel extended his hand to me. “Agent Holloway.”

  “Mr. Blowitz.” I gave his hand a soft squeeze as I shook it, letting him know I bore him no ill will. He was only doing the job that had been assigned to him. Still, I felt a little shaky. I was a smart, savvy agent. But Daniel was no shirk, either. If there was any legal way to get Pastor Fischer and the Ark off the hook, he’d find it. He hadn’t lost a case in years.

  Yep, Daniel was a workaholic, doggedly determined and ingenious, not to mention relentless. But so was I. And I hadn’t lost a case since I’d joined the IRS, either. Still, there was no way both of us could come out on top. One of us would suffer a blow.

  Fischer introduced the rest of those at the table. In addition to the church’s bookkeeper, Associate Pastor Michael Walters, and the former state attorney general were the Ark’s outside CPA and two more attorneys. One of the attorneys was a partner with Benson and Brubaker, otherwise known as B and B. The other was a partner at Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz, the firm where Daniel worked as an associate and one which routinely hired CPAs from Martin and McGee to serve as consultants on cases requiring financial expertise. The firms were two of the largest and most prestigious law firms in Dallas. Also the most expensive. The ten seconds spent on handshakes had likely cost a couple hundred bucks.

  The B and B attorney indicated he represented Pastor Fischer, while the partner from the Gertz firm said they represented the church. Due to ethical rules, an attorney could not represent both parties since there could potentially be a conflict of interest between the church and its pastor.

  I looked at the former AG. “Whom do you represent, Mr. Haddocks?”

  He glanced at me, then exchanged looks with the other attorneys. Sheez. The guy didn’t have a clue whether he represented the Ark or its pastor. Clearly he’d been hired onto the team merely as an intimidation tactic, another warm body to sit at the table, another waste of the Ark’s, and its members’, money.

  Nick emitted a soft snort. “The name on your retainer check might give you a clue, Mr. Haddocks.”

  “He represents Pastor Fischer,” spat the partner from B and B, shooting Nick an eat-shit-and-choke-on-it look.

  Technicalities aside, all of this splitting hairs was silly, really. In actuality, the church and its pastor were virtually one and the same, the tax issues and their funds inexorably intertwined. Fischer sat at the table both
as the pastor of the church and in his individual capacity as a taxpayer. Or should I say nontaxpayer?

  Nick and I took seats on our side of the table, flanked on each side by several empty chairs. But what the IRS team lacked in head count, we made up for in determination.

  I figured I’d better jump in before Nick could completely take over. With so many people on the other side of the table, I wasn’t quite sure whom to address, but I figured I couldn’t go wrong with speaking directly to the pastor.

  “Pastor Fischer,” I said, using what I hoped was a certain but reasonable tone. “Your outstanding tax bill with the IRS is now well over half a million dollars, with interest continuing to accrue daily. The government has been more than patient with you and the Ark, but we simply can’t let this go on any longer. When one taxpayer fails to pay their fair share, the burden falls on other taxpayers. It’s tantamount to stealing.”

  Nick cut his eyes my way. Ha! I’d stolen his argument and, thus, his thunder.

  “The time has come for you all to do the right thing,” I added, “and take care of this bill. Let’s get this settled today, shall we?”

  When one of the attorneys down the table began to speak, Fischer silenced him with a raised hand. He then raised a white-blond brow at me and, though responding to my words, stared intently at Nick. “‘Render unto Caesar,’ you mean?”

  Nick chuckled. “Found my card, did you?”

  The brow lowered as Fischer’s eyes narrowed. He turned his focus back to me. “We beg to differ, Miss Holloway. We believe the time has come for the federal government to do the right thing and stop harassing this ministry. Those in power are clearly trying to restrict the practice of religion and the fundamental freedoms on which this country was based. That, Miss Holloway, is tantamount to oppression.”

  Wow. Pastor Fischer was a master of spin. His bullshit sounded almost rational. No doubt his attorneys had spoon-fed him these responses, and no doubt much of the public would be swayed by this rhetoric.

  As much as I hated to admit it, Nick had been right. The soft sell didn’t work with these people. Well, it might work with the associate pastor. His expression seemed more concerned and conciliatory than defensive.

 

‹ Prev