Death, Taxes, and Hot-Pink Leg Warmers

by Diane Kelly

  “Guilty.”

  Game.

  Set.

  Match.

  Plimpton leaped to her feet and demanded that Trumbull issue a judgment notwithstanding the verdict. “The jury’s decision is pure nonsense. The evidence was woefully insufficient to convict my client on any of the charges.”

  Trumbull barked out a laugh. “Honey, you must’ve been sitting in a different courtroom. There was enough evidence admitted to convict these guys three times over.” She banged her gavel. “Motion denied.”

  Everyone in the room held their breath as Trumbull announced the sentence. “Twelve years in prison and a one-million-dollar fine each.”

  “Ouch.” I glanced over at the defense table and faked a cringe. Snarky, I know. But I had a hard time feeling at all sorry for these guys or their attorneys. Besides, I was a little cranky from lack of sleep. Moonlighting was killing me. And there was that itchy trigger finger issue …

  Pachuco and Featherstone buried their faces in their hands, their shoulders jerking as they emitted racking sobs. Carter rested his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and turned his face to the floor. Williams went stone still, his face expressionless. He stared off into space for a moment before slowly turning his head in the direction of the prosecution table.

  Ackerman, Ross, and Eddie were exchanging discreet low fives and didn’t notice Williams looking our way. When Williams’s eyes met mine, I refused to turn away, returning his icy stare. This was a classic battle of good versus evil. I represented good, and I wasn’t about to back down or wimp out.

  Williams slowly raised his right hand to his neck as if to adjust his tie, but instead he extended his index finger and made a slow cutting motion across his throat. He turned his hand so that his index finger pointed at me for a brief moment, then lowered it.

  Holy shit, had this guy just threatened me?

  I looked around the courtroom to see if anyone else had noticed, but everyone seemed to be wrapped up in their own celebration or pity party. The jurors chatted happily among themselves, excited to finally be going home. The judge was busy scribbling in her file. The other defendants and their attorneys were speaking among themselves.

  When I looked again at Williams, he, too, was speaking with his attorney.

  Had I seen what I thought I saw? Or had he simply been straightening his necktie? I didn’t want to discount my first impression, but I didn’t want to look like an idiot by accusing him of something he could so easily deny, either. And maybe I’d been wrong. Really, who would make a gesture like that in open court with so many potential witnesses?

  I must have been mistaken.

  Right?

  The judge finished notating in her file and looked up. “I’ll tell you what. Thanksgiving is next week. I’m going to let the defendants spend this last holiday with their families.”

  I supposed I couldn’t begrudge the defendants enjoying some final turkey and pumpkin pie with their families after the big old heaping platter of justice that had been served to them today.

  “Get your affairs in order,” Judge Trumbull told the men. “Report into custody by nine A.M. on Friday of next week.”

  Plimpton muttered to her client, “That’ll give me time to file my appeal.”

  “I’m freezing your remaining assets,” Trumbull told the defendants, “and appointing a receiver to manage them. Each family will be given a reasonable living allowance until the wives have had ample opportunity to find work.”

  The Realtor’s wife looked up in shock. “We always have Thanksgiving dinner at the club. How am I going to pay for that?”

  Trumbull blinked at the woman in disbelief. “I suggest you get your hands on a Betty Crocker cookbook and learn how to make dinner yourself.”

  The appraiser’s wife was similarly disturbed. “I haven’t held a job in twenty years. Who’s going to hire me?”

  “Check the classifieds,” Trumbull suggested, “or try Monster.com. If nothing pans out, people always need housekeepers and babysitters.” With that she banged her gavel one final time. Bam! “Court is dismissed.”

  chapter thirty-seven

  One Down, One to Go

  As we left the courthouse, we found Trish on the steps out front, her cameraman taking footage of her announcing the jury’s verdict.

  “It looks like the Tennis Racketeers will be strung up,” she said. “The jury found the defendants guilty on all three counts. The men have each been assessed a one-million-dollar fine and will spend a dozen years in prison.”

  Noticing Ross passing by, she grabbed him and shoved the microphone under his chin. “How does it feel to win this case?”

  “It’s always rewarding to see that justice is done,” Ross said, though we all knew courthouse justice was never complete. The Tennis Racketeers would go to jail and pay a fine, but they’d already spent a good deal of their illegally gotten gains on lavish meals, cars, and jewelry for their wives, not to mention the exorbitant heating and cooling bills for their luxury homes. Of course they’d incurred significant legal fees, too. Not enough money and liquefiable assets remained to make full restitution to their victims, though by our best estimate those who’d been swindled would recoup around forty cents on the dollar. Not great, but we’d seen far worse situations, too. Many victims never saw a dime of their money back.

  Trish held the microphone to her own, pink-frosted lips now. “Louis Featherstone’s attorney has threatened to appeal on multiple grounds, one of which is juror misconduct. Is it true that a member of the jury visited a local strip club when he was supposed to be sequestered? Do you fear that the verdict will be overturned by the appellate court?”

  “One of the jurors was dismissed for violating the sequestration order,” Ross replied, “but his misconduct had no effect on the remaining jurors. We had solid evidence and solid testimony from both the FBI and IRS, more than enough to prove that widespread fraud had taken place.”

  With that, Trish thanked Ross and looked into the camera. “This has been Trish LeGrande reporting live from the Dallas federal courthouse.”

  As I stepped away, Trish called out, “Sorry about you and Brett, Tara. I hear he’s head over heels for a chef in Atlanta now.”

  Trish wasn’t sorry for me. The only thing she was sorry about was that she hadn’t been able to get her claws into Brett herself. Frankly, if what Trish said was true, I was glad things were working out for Brett and Fiona. After all, things between me and Nick were going well, or they would be if not for the damn strip-club case and the no-nooky clause getting in the way.

  I shrugged and forced a smile. “It was fun while it lasted. I’m glad Brett’s happy.” Though I wasn’t happy he was still in touch with this butterscotch-haired bitch.

  * * *

  Eddie and I invited Lu, Viola, and Nick out to lunch to celebrate the victory in the Tennis Racketeers case.

  When the waiter brought our drinks, Lu raised her iced tea and proposed a toast. “To Eddie and Tara. Congratulations on taking four more tax cheats off the streets, and especially for doing it without getting shot or whacked in the head.”

  Eddie glanced my way, knowing Lu’s words would sting a little, especially after the beating I’d taken in court last Friday. He offered me a supportive smile. While it didn’t make me feel much better, it was a nice gesture on his part.

  We all lifted our glasses, clinked them together, and cried out, “Here, here!”

  While the rest of us indulged in fancy seafood with creamy sauces, Lu settled for a low-calorie shrimp cocktail. She’d dropped ten pounds so far thanks to our rigorous workouts and didn’t want to risk taking a step backward by indulging. She did sneak one bite of the chocolate decadence cake I ordered for dessert, though, pledging to spend an extra five minutes on the exercise bike to make up for it.

  Back at the office after lunch, I spent a couple of hours tying up loose ends on other cases. At three-thirty, Lu rounded me up to head to the Y for another intense workout. Nick ta
gged along, helping us with the weight stacks.

  He spotted me on the bench press, standing over me as I pushed the bar upward. Nick had added ten more pounds to my usual load, and I grunted with the exertion.

  “Come on, Tara, give me everything you’ve got,” he said in a low voice, grinning down at me. “Push it. Push it hard.”

  I lowered the bar back down. “So you’re a dirty talker, huh?” I took a breath and shoved upward with all my might, releasing another very unfeminine grunt as I raised the teetering bar.

  Nick reached out a hand to stabilize the weights. “Only if you want me to be.”

  I lowered the bar back down. “I might like that,” I said, shoving it up again with another groan. “On occasion.”

  “Good to know,” he said. “I like to mix it up a bit myself.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we found ourselves imitating John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever in a new class dubbed Disco Aerobics. I wasn’t sure whether it was the exercise or the fact that Nick was dancing next to me, but either way my heart rate was up. At one point the instructor had us form two parallel lines and each of us took a turn freestyling our way down the center lane. The Lobo did an improvised conga, spinning her folded arms around each other while whipping her hips side to side. Nick performed some quick polka steps and turns, his arms up as if holding an imaginary partner. I followed him, doing a moonwalk followed by some gyrations I’d seen the girls at the club perform.

  “Ooh, that’s hot!” the instructor called, egging me on.

  When I reached the end, I slid into line next to Nick.

  “You little slut,” he whispered. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “You just wait,” I said. “I’m full of surprises.”

  Uh-oh. I was on the hook now. Better come up with some surprises, huh? I made a mental note to buy the latest issue of Cosmopolitan the next time I went to the grocery store.

  * * *

  Christina phoned my cell as I was on my way to the club.

  “Good news!” she said. “Cops in Oklahoma City busted two guys today for possession with intent to distribute. Both of them had the personal phone number for one of Stillwater Spirits’ delivery drivers in their phones.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “It’s the driver who delivers to Guys and Dolls?”

  “You got it.”

  “Have they arrested the driver yet?”

  “No,” she replied. “They don’t want to go after him until they’re sure he’ll have a large stash of drugs on him. Some of my coworkers plan to nail him after he makes his pickup at Guys and Dolls next week.”

  “What about Valley Produce?”

  “No luck there. The agents who have had the place under surveillance haven’t seen anything suspicious.”

  Huh. Maybe I was wrong about Valley Produce. Maybe the drugs weren’t coming from them. Maybe the drugs were coming in some other way. But none of us had noticed any of the customers giving Theo or Geils any bags or boxes or any other suspicious containers. Had one of the customers brought the drugs in hidden in his pockets or jacket? Maybe unloaded them in the VIP room where Geils or Theo could access them once everyone else had left the club? It was possible that Wesley Prescott had brought the drugs to Geils. After all, I’d seen him go into Geils’s office more than once. One of the dancers could be the link, too. Maybe one of the women had smuggled drugs into the club in a body cavity. Ew. And the cleaning service hadn’t been cleared, either, though I had my doubts they’d played a role.

  Christina continued. “We hope that once we bust everyone we know is involved, they’ll lead us to the supplier. Problem is, I suspect only Geils deals directly with that person, and I doubt Geils will talk.”

  “Sometimes we have to settle for who we can get.”

  It was unfortunate but true. Sometimes the best law enforcement could do was chip away at crime, arrest a few of the players and hope the others would eventually get their due.

  We ended the call when I arrived at the club. I went inside, stashed my purse, and headed to the bar for a soda.

  Aaron handed me my drink, glancing around to ensure no one was within hearing range. “Did you get the news?”

  “Yep. Got a call on my way over.” I signed my credit slip, adding a dollar tip.

  He slid the slip into the cash register. “I’m going to miss the tip income when this case is over.”

  Heck, I would, too, not that my meager wages came anywhere close to what Menger made with his gratuities. Still, having an extra paycheck had been a nice bonus. I’d been using the additional income to buy savings bonds for my nieces and nephews. So long as they cashed them in to pay college expenses, the income would be nontaxable. Not a bad deal, huh? I’d also made another contribution to the local animal shelter where I’d adopted Henry and Anne. The place could use the funds to care for the homeless pets and I could use the tax deduction. Win-win.

  Of course I’d been selfish with some of the money. I’d set aside enough to buy some new lingerie and scented massage oil. With my busy schedule, I hadn’t had time to go shopping yet, but I planned to take advantage of the Black Friday sales to stock up on sexy underthings to impress Nick. We’d gotten off to a rocky start and had to wait so long to be together. I wanted everything to be perfect our first time.

  When I arrived at the cash office, I found Bernice curled up in the wing chair, a notepad and pen in her hand.

  “Do you want green beans with almonds this year?” she asked Merle. “Or green bean casserole?”

  I found myself smiling at the thought of green beans.

  “Casserole,” Merle told her.

  Bernice made a note. “Jellied cranberry sauce or chutney?”

  “Chutney,” he replied.

  I slid into my chair. “Are you two spending Thanksgiving together?”

  “We sure are,” Merle said. “We’ve spent every holiday together since we first met.”

  “Really?” I asked. “When was that?”

  Bernice waved a graceful yet dismissive, hand. “Way back. We were hardly more than kids then.”

  Would I never figure out how old Bernice was?

  “Remember the first Thanksgiving we spent together?” Merle’s eyes twinkled with humor.

  “Don’t remind me,” Bernice said, offering Merle a soft laugh before turning to me. “I didn’t know you had to thaw the turkey before cooking it. It was burned on the outside and still frozen on the inside.”

  “I ate a whole plate of it anyway,” Merle said.

  Bernice smiled. “You were sick as a dog later, too.”

  “It was worth it.”

  The two gazed at each other for a long moment.

  I was beginning to feel like a third wheel and considered leaving the office when a dancer knocked on the door, bringing me her tips and interrupting Bernice and Merle’s romantic reverie. For the first time I wondered what would happen to the two of them when we busted Geils and closed down Guys & Dolls. The two had worked in this place for so long, had seen it through so many changes, the club seemed to be almost a part of them.

  Would Bernice hang up her tassels and retire?

  Would Merle finish his scripts?

  Whatever happened, I hoped the story would end with a happily-ever-after for the two of them.

  chapter thirty-eight

  Nabbed

  The next few days passed without incident, though Nick, Christina, Aaron, and I buzzed with anticipation, excited about the looming bust of the Stillwater Spirits delivery driver. I could hardly wait to wrap up this case so I could begin working on the investigation into the international organized-crime syndicates. Foreign intrigue sounded so much better than pursuing local perverts.

  When I arrived at Guys & Dolls the Tuesday of Thanksgiving week, the truck from Stillwater Spirits passed me on its way out of the lot. I glanced surreptitiously at the driver, curious what the drug mule would look like. Like the Tennis Racketeers, he was surprisingly unremarkable. Brown hair s
horn short, plain face, average build from what I could tell. No aura of evil or danger.

  But looks could be deceiving.

  I knew that better than anyone.

  I parked two spots down from Nick’s yellow Hummer and went inside.

  The club was exceptionally busy for a Tuesday. Seemed a lot of men wanted to get in one last night of fun before spending the next day driving the wife and kids over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house for the Thanksgiving holiday. A large number of college-aged boys packed the place, too, sowing a few wild oats before heading home to Mom and Dad’s where they’d sleep in their boyhood beds and take a peek, once again, at that ten-year-old copy of Playboy they’d stolen from their father’s tool kit years ago and since kept tucked between their mattress and box spring.

  I kept a close eye on Theo all night, watching for any sign he might have gotten wind that the driver from Stillwater Spirits had been busted. But when he brought me his tips, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  A generous amount of tips came in from the VIP room tonight. Looked like the johns had gotten a head start on the stuffing and cherry pie. Ew. The thought made me lose my appetite.

  I crouched down in front of the safe to add a stack of bills to the large stash that had accumulated, glad to know I wouldn’t be in this job much longer. Besides the sleaze factor at the club, the tasks were mind-numbingly routine with nothing to break up the monotony. The thought that I’d soon be leaving all of this behind put me in exceptionally high spirits.

  My happy demeanor didn’t get past Merle. “You seem in an unusually good mood tonight.”

  Uh-oh. I’d felt a bit giddy knowing the delivery driver was being busted, but I hadn’t realized I’d let my feelings show.

  “I’m excited about the holiday,” I said, hoping he’d buy my cover story. It wasn’t a total lie, after all. I was truly excited about the holiday, but more because I’d get to spend the whole day with Nick than because it would be an opportunity to overdose on squash casserole and pumpkin pie. “Speaking of holidays, does Mr. Geils give his employees a Christmas bonus?” I hoped the question would imply that I expected to still be working at the club a month from now. In reality, nobody would be working at the club a month from now.