by Diane Kelly
I sipped the mulled wine as I mulled over my predicament.
“You look worried,” my mother said from her chair.
“So do you.” I took another, bigger sip of the cider.
She sighed. “I am. But remember, honey. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”
“I didn’t kill Don Geils,” I said, “but I certainly didn’t make him stronger.” After all, it’s not like the bullet holes I put in his leg would fill in with titanium.
Mom narrowed her eyes. “Are you sassing me?”
I raised my mug of hot wine. “I’m a little too old to have my mouth washed out with Ivory soap.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Sorry.” Really, she was trying to be supportive. When would I learn to keep my mouth shut?
“Have you checked your stocking?” Dad asked.
I glanced over at the fireplace where my stocking hung. The solitary stocking was a long red one my mother had crocheted for me when I was a kid. Sure enough, the stocking bore telltale bulges. I set my mug on the coffee table and pulled my stocking from the hook on the mantel. The fire warmed my back as I took a seat on the hearth.
Reaching inside, I pulled out the loot. A bottle of Chanel No. 5, my signature scent. A blue scarf my mother had knitted for me. A Ken doll and a plastic egg of Silly Putty. Holy crap! Had my mother known I’d used the putty to make a penis for my Ken doll when I was young? How embarrassing!
I looked up to find her watching me.
“Is that a Barbie doll?” she asked.
I turned the front of the box her way. “Ken,” I said. I held up the Silly Putty. “This, too.”
She frowned. “How on earth did those things get in your stocking?”
“You didn’t put them there?”
“No.”
My father raised his palms in a declaration of innocence.
If neither of them had put the toys in my stocking, then who did? Could the toys really have been from Santa? Or had they been put in my stocking by my brothers as a joke?
I pushed the ridiculous thoughts out of my mind. Of course it had been my brothers. Right?
The final item in my stocking was a box of ammo. I checked the box. “These bullets are for a long-range rifle.”
Dad reached behind the couch and pulled out a long, rectangular box. He held it out to me, offering me a grin at the same time. “Here you go, hon. Merry Christmas.”
I took the box from him and opened it. Inside was a Winchester Super X rifle, an autoloading repeating model with a gas-operation system to reduce recoil. “Hot damn!”
Nothing like some firepower to lift a girl’s spirits.
Dad stood from his chair. “What say we give it a try?”
He didn’t have to ask twice. I ran upstairs and changed into a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and an old pair of ropers I found in the back of my closet. What the hell. I was so excited I slid down the banister.
Spying me from the kitchen, my mother put her hands on her hips. “What have I told you about sliding down the railing?”
“Sorry!” I dashed past her and out the back door.
Dad was already waiting for me on the porch. “I’ve attached a scope and set up some targets.”
We went out the gate that led from the backyard into the hayfields. Dad had posted a target on a round hay bale four hundred yards away. He’d brought one of his own long-range rifles with him, too.
I loaded my new gun, stepped into place, and gathered my focus, aiming for the bull’s-eye. Yep. Got it in sight. I squeezed the trigger. Bang!
Dad raised his field glasses to his eyes.
I looked up at him. “How’d I do?”
“See for yourself.” He held the glasses out to me.
I squinted through them. Not only had I hit the bull’s eye; I’d hit it smack center. I may have lost my job and my sanity, but I hadn’t lost my marksman skills. Maybe I could get a job with the rodeo, do a show like Annie Oakley used to do, shoot an apple off the top of someone’s head. I doubted such a gig would pay much, though. Heck, I’d probably have to send around a hat for tips. Someone would try to stiff me; I’d shoot him and end up right back where I was now.
Dang.
chapter fifteen
Sayonara
I drove back to Dallas early the day after Christmas, leaving before sunup with a thermos full of coffee and a couple of Mom’s greasy homemade biscuits. No time to stay and enjoy them with an artery-clogging covering of gravy. The grand jury would be back at work today, deciding my fate. I could only pray they were feeling kind and forgiving this morning.
I fretted anxiously the entire drive, nearly chewing a hole in the inside of my cheek constantly checking my cell phone to see if I’d missed a call or text from my attorney. What if the grand jury decided there was enough evidence against me to proceed to trial? I was no stranger to the courtroom, of course. I’d testified a number of times in tax cases. But I’d never been the one on trial. All of those procedures and processes designed to protect the rights of the accused had once seemed to be nothing more than unnecessary and annoying legal hoops we’d been forced to jump through to nail the bad guys. Now, however, those protections felt flimsy and fragile.
I’d always had faith in the judicial system. But could I count on it now?
Even after sunrise the sky remained gray and dark. A light rain fell from the sky, occasionally changing to sleet when I drove through a colder, open area. The dreary weather fit my mood perfectly. With any luck, I’d hit a patch of ice, slide off the road, and enjoy a quick death.
Ugh.
I really needed to stop thinking like that.
Nick, too, had risen with the sun to head back from Houston. He was flying out in the afternoon for Tokyo, and this would be our last chance to see each other until he returned on New Year’s Eve. Nick couldn’t have picked a worse time to be out of the country. Not that he’d picked the time, but still. I needed him here. I was terrified. So terrified I felt frantic and nauseated, as if I’d drunk ten venti full-caff lattes.
I made a brief stop at my place to check on the cats, then walked down to Nick’s place. The pings and pops coming from the engine of his pickup truck told me he’d just arrived home. The motor hadn’t had time to cool yet.
I knocked on his door and he opened it immediately.
“Any word yet?” he asked by way of greeting, his face drawn.
“Not yet.”
He stepped back to let me into his foyer. “Maybe no news is good news.”
I bent down to greet Nutty with an ear ruffle. “I hope you’re right.”
I’d brought back some of my mother’s leftover Christmas roast and made the three of us an early lunch of roast beef and mayonnaise sandwiches. Nutty finished his in four bites. For an old dog with nubby teeth and bad gums he still had quite an appetite.
When we’d finished eating, I reached into my purse and pulled out the envelope containing the eight-by-ten photograph of me with Santa. I handed the paper sleeve to Nick. “For you.”
He glanced at the photo studio’s logo on the envelope and raised a hopeful brow. “Boudoir photos?”
“Not exactly.”
He slid the picture out, took a look, and gave me his chipped-tooth grin. “I don’t know. Seeing you sitting on Santa’s lap still turns me on. Is that weird?”
“Lord, yes.” I gave a mock shudder.
He walked over to his fridge and affixed the photograph to the front of it with a promotional magnet from a real estate agency. “So? What did you ask Santa for?”
“A new job.”
“Darn,” Nick said. “I was hoping you’d asked him for some lace panties.”
“Nah. Nutty would just chew them up.”
“True.”
I stood to put our plates in the dishwasher. “Guess what? Santa told me I made his ‘nice’ list.”
“See?” Nick replied, reaching out to chuck me under the chin. “I told you not to feel guilty about shooti
ng Geils.”
“Santa may not have a problem with it,” I said, “but there’s no guarantee a jury will feel the same way.”
“Maybe you can get Santa to testify on your behalf as a character witness.”
If only.
“How did it go with Entrepreneur magazine?” I asked, knowing Nick had planned to call the publisher to determine whether Sundaram had used a credit card to pay for his subscription. If Nick could obtain a valid credit card number, he could have the card activity traced.
“No luck,” Nick replied. “Sundaram used a debit card linked to a bank account that was closed months ago.”
“Darn. Well, maybe another lead will turn up soon.”
We rounded up Nutty for the ride to the airport. He liked riding in the car, sticking his head out the window and barking at passing cars for fun. Of course we had to crank the heater up full blast to combat the frigid air flowing in. At least the rain had broken temporarily.
On the drive over, my cell phone rang. I yanked it from the cup holder where I’d stashed it for easy access in anticipation of my attorney’s call.
I looked down at the readout. “It’s Eddie,” I said, handing the phone to Nick. The roads were slick. No sense taking unnecessary chances by also talking on my cell phone.
Nick punched the button to accept the call and put Eddie on speaker, holding the phone up where the mic could pick up my voice.
“Hey, Eddie!” I called out.
All I got in reply was the soft sounds of him chatting with his wife and one of his daughters asking if they could stop for pizza.
“Yo. Eddie. You there?”
Still nothing.
“Eddie Munster. Eddie Van Halen.” I raised my voice and hollered, “Eddie spaghetti!”
Nutty pulled his head back into the car and joined in, giving a loud, Arf!
Still nothing.
Nick jabbed the button to end the call and set the phone back in the cup holder. “Eddie told me Sandra was getting him a new phone for Christmas. He must’ve butt-dialed you.”
“Is Eddie taking your same flight to Tokyo?” I asked.
“Eddie’s not coming.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Too busy with new cases. We’re all swamped. Besides, Lu didn’t feel like she could justify the cost of sending two agents to Japan and India. We drew straws and I got the travel.”
I knew I had no right to feel hurt, but I did. I needed Nick here now, with me, supporting me. I’d only face criminal charges once.
At least I hoped it would only be once.
“When did y’all decide this?”
Nick looked my way and, as if reading my mind, answered, “Before you heard from Troy Kerr. If we’d known what you’d be going through now, Eddie would’ve taken the trips. I don’t like leaving you all alone in the middle of all this shit.”
“It’s okay. The shit will still be here when you get back.” It might even be deeper by then. “Did you listen to the Japanese CDs on your drive?”
“Sure did,” Nick said. “Not sure it did me much good, though. The language seems to be all vowels. Ah. Eh. Uh. Oh. Ooh. It sounds like you when you’re having an orgasm.”
“Nick! Jeez!” My cheeks flared up like a barbecue grill.
He cut me a grin. “Hey, I never said I didn’t like it. It’s nice to know my efforts are appreciated.”
At the airport, Nick held me in a long hug, his face buried in my hair. “I wish you were coming with me.”
“Me, too.”
“I bet I could find some lifer in the prison who’d be willing to shank Geils in the shower. Want me to look into it?”
“The same thought crossed my mind.” While I was sitting in church during the Christmas Eve service, no less. I probably should have been ashamed of myself for that, but I wasn’t. I was ashamed at not feeling ashamed, though, so that should count for something, right?
Nick stepped back. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you on New Year’s Eve.”
“I’ve got a new dress.” I’d bought it before I’d been fired. It was a gorgeous evening gown in a shimmery golden fabric.
“Can’t wait to see you in it,” he said. His lips spread in another grin, this one more subtle, more sexy. “Can’t wait to see you out of it, either. I’ve got plans that’ll put you on Santa’s ‘naughty’ list next year for sure.”
Mm-m …
Nick made me promise to text him the instant I learned the grand jury’s decision. With one last warm kiss, he climbed out of my car and grabbed his suitcase from the backseat. He gestured through the glass for me to unroll the window. When I did, he leaned back in and gave me a wink. “Sayonara.”
chapter sixteen
Santa Comes Through
I pulled the collar up on my new coat as I exited the airport. The day was colder than a witch’s tit and still drizzly. Uneven patches of ice had begun to form on the road and sidewalks. If this winter weather kept up, Traffic Control would have to commandeer a Zamboni from the Galleria’s skating rink.
As I walked through the short-term parking lot, trying to remember where the heck I’d parked my car—level three? Four?—my cell phone bleeped. I yanked it from my pocket. The screen read: LOBO. Damn! Not that I wasn’t happy to hear from my former boss, but waiting to find out the grand jury’s decision was killing me.
I jabbed the button to accept the call, noting it was time to replace my Christmas manicure. The candy cane stripes on my fingernails had been cute, but the edges were now chipped. Besides, I wanted to get a glamorous and sexy style for New Year’s.
“Hey, Lu.”
“Come see me!” she barked. “I got a job for you.”
“You do?” My heart whirled in my chest like a figure skater executing a camel spin. “George Burton changed his mind?”
“Slow down there. I said I’ve got ‘a’ job for you. I didn’t say it was your old job.”
My spinning heart went off-kilter and fell to the frozen ice, momentum causing it to careen into the wall like an Olympian who’d just lost all hope of a medal. “What is it, then?”
“Come into the office and we’ll talk about it.”
I drove to the IRS building, circling the lot until I reached my usual spot next to Eddie’s minivan. The parking place was occupied by a mid-sized white SUV with stick-figure decals on the back window indicating a man, a woman, three boys, and a dog. Hm-m …
I drove on until I found a narrow spot under a tree. As I climbed out of my car, the crows perched on the now-leafless tree cackled with birdie laughter. I knew what their caws meant. Hey, dumb ass! Thanks for parking your car here so we can crap all over it. If I’d had my gun, I would’ve scared them off with a warning shot. Without my gun, I had to settle for calling, “Shoo!” and flapping my arms ineffectually. One had the nerve to dive-bomb me.
Before setting off, I cast them a final glare. “Jerks.”
I went inside, stopping at Security and having to wait in the longer civilian line rather than the shorter, expedited employee lane. When both me and my purse had been scanned and found to pass muster, I rode up in the elevator to the Criminal Investigations Division.
Ding! The doors slid open and there I was. Back home, in a sense. Except now I was only a guest here, no longer a permanent resident. What’s that old saying? Oh yeah. “You can’t go home again.”
I hate that old saying.
I stepped out and headed down the hall. Viola eyed me over the top of her bifocals and computer monitor as I approached. “Good morning, Tara.”
I stepped up to her desk. “It’s great to see you, Vi.”
“You, too.” She angled her head to indicate Lu’s door, which was cracked open a couple of inches. “Go on in. She’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks.”
I rapped on the door to announce my arrival and proceeded inside. The Lobo sat behind her massive desk, enjoying a pink-frosted donut.
Busted.
“What happened to the di
et?” I asked.
She tossed her free hand in the air as she took another bite. “Between the pumpkin pie and Christmas cookies, I blew it. I’ll start again after New Year’s.” She motioned for me to take a seat and I slid into one of her wing chairs.
She ran her eyes over my coat. “Nice. Is that new?”
“Christmas gift,” I said.
“From Nick?” she asked.
I nodded.
She leaned back in her chair, a frown dragging her orange-painted lips downward. “That boy hasn’t been the same since you’ve been gone.”
Nick was hardly a boy, but I knew Lu used the term as a sign of affection rather than an insult. “What do you mean?”
She took another bite of donut. “He’s off his mojo.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that, but I’d already gotten myself fired. The last thing I wanted was to jeopardize Nick’s job, too. “He’ll adjust,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be back on his mojo soon.”
“I hope so,” she said. “Things are busier than ever around here. I need all my agents to be at their best.”
I mentioned the pending order from Tokyo Discount Telecom, the delivery that was to take place at my town house. It didn’t seem fair to keep the information from her.
Lu considered the situation for a moment. “I suppose it can’t hurt if all you do is accept some boxes. No sense in me throwing a monkey wrench in things.”
Lu popped the last piece of pink donut in her mouth, pulled a sticky note off the pad on her desk, and held it out to me.
The note contained the name Clyde Hartford and an address in Fort Worth, a city thirty miles to the west of Dallas. Fort Worth, the official “Gateway to the West,” was known for its historical stockyards, Billy Bob’s country-western nightclub, and the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame. Though looked upon by some as Dallas’ less sophisticated country cousin, Fort Worth was actually a thriving cultural center, featuring the world-renowned Kimbell Art Museum and Bass Hall, an ornate white stone theater downtown. The city’s Colonial Country Club hosted an annual golf tournament that drew visitors from all over the globe. I ventured west to Fort Worth on occasion for a concert or when Alicia dragged me to an art exhibition.