Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (8 page)

Damn!
For the first time it hit me that if I told Brett I wanted to take time off from
our relationship to give things a try with Nick, he might seize the opportunity to
seize Trish. The thought of Brett with this pushy, brazen, big-breasted woman made
me sick. Brett had assured me time and time again that he had no interest in Trish,
but that could change after our talk, couldn’t it? All bets would be off then.

Ugh.

Seated next to Trish was a middle-aged man with muscular shoulders, a large black
case at his feet. I recognized him as the cameraman who’d taken footage of me putting
my foot in my mouth on a recent case against an errant minister. I fought the urge
to kick him in the shins.

Lu jerked her beehive-topped head at Trish. “Tara, you remember Trish LeGrande, right?”

How could I forget the bosomy bitch? “Sure,” I told Lu. I turned to Trish then. “Hello,
Trish.” I didn’t bother saying,
Nice to see you.
A lie that huge would make my nose grow to the size of an anteater’s.

Trish used to do the happy feel-good segment on the late news but had recently been
promoted to a position as a business reporter. Now it seemed she was constantly up
in
my
business.

Trish cocked her head and looked me up and down, her lips quirking to indicate she
was less than impressed with my poly-blend pantsuit. Hey, I wasn’t crazy about it,
either, but it’s hard to say no to a half-price sale and it wasn’t like my job required
me to dress like a supermodel. Besides, I hadn’t done laundry or made a run to the
dry cleaner’s in a while and this was one of the few clean outfits I had left. I’d
paired the suit with my cherry-red Doc Martens, my takedown shoes as I thought of
them. They had thick rubber soles that provided good traction, as well as steel toes.
Perfect for kicking or serving as a doorstop if the need arose.

Trish finally raised her eyes to mine. “Hello, Tara.”

“Trish has heard about our sweep of abusive preparers,” Lu said. “She wants to do
a piece on the issue.”

Was it actually possible that Trish and I could be on the same side for once? If she
ran a feature on the news about abusive preparers, it could not only strike some fear
into those who might be considering fudging their returns but also educate the public
on the issue. Still, I didn’t trust the woman as far as I could throw her.

Lu waved a hand. “Get her set up in the conference room and round up some agents for
her to interview.”

“Will do,” I said.

“And don’t make any lunch plans for tomorrow,” Lu added. “You and Nick are coming
with me to meet Carl.”

Trish looked at me and raised an accusing brow.

“This way,” I told Trish, ignoring the brow and jerking my head toward the door.

Trish and her cameraman followed me down the hall to the conference room.

“Good news about Brett’s contract with the city of Grand Prairie, right?” Trish said
from behind me. “Landscaping all of the city parks is a huge deal.” Though her tone
sounded innocent, the bitch knew exactly what she was doing. The question was her
way of letting me know she was still in touch with Brett despite my recent request
that he cut off contact with her.

I was glad she couldn’t see my face, as I’m sure my expression showed the hurt and
betrayal I felt. I managed to continue on, not breaking stride. “I’m sure Brett will
do a great job.” If I didn’t kill him first.

While they set up their equipment, I headed to the kitchen and offices, rounding up
special agents and sending them down to the conference room to be interviewed.

As I approached Nick’s office, I heard voices coming from within and stopped a few
feet short of his door to eavesdrop on a conversation taking place between him and
Josh. Apparently Nick had wasted no time and invited Shea, the cute Mavericks dancer,
out for drinks last night. Although she was “smoking hot” with “a body that wouldn’t
quit,” according to Nick, she’d seemed a bit immature. Not surprising since she was
only in her early twenties.

So Nick hadn’t made a love connection. I glanced upward.
Thank you, Lord Jesus!

“I e-mailed Kira,” Josh told Nick. “She asked me to meet her for coffee after work
today.” The quiver in his voice told me the prospect had him quaking in his Buster
Brown loafers.

Nick must have noticed it, too. “Need a wingman?” he offered.

“That would be great.”

Great?
Apparently Josh didn’t realize that having Nick along would only make him pale by
comparison. Then again, Kira was a techie sci-fi nerd and anime enthusiast. Maybe
a badass cowboy like Nick wouldn’t be her type.

Aw, hell.
Who was I trying to fool? Nick was
every
woman’s type.

I stepped into the doorway of Nick’s office.

He looked up and caught my eye. “Want to join us for coffee after work?” he asked.
“Josh is meeting up with a woman from the Big D site and wants me to be his wingman.
It’ll be less awkward if we’ve got another woman with us.”

“So I’ll be your date?” I tossed my head coyly.

His eyes narrowed. “In a manner of speaking.”

I was thrilled by the thought of being Nick’s date, whether officially or not. “Count
me in.”

Eddie appeared in the hallway. “Ready to nab Richard Beauregard?”

“Almost.” I told Eddie, Josh, and Nick about Trish and her cameraman waiting in the
conference room.

“How do I look?” Eddie asked, turning his face side to side. “Do I need some powder?
How’s my hair?”

I rolled my eyes and led the entourage down the hall.

Trish had arranged two chairs in front of a bookcase that contained the seemingly
endless volumes of the Internal Revenue Code and the extensive regulations promulgated
thereunder. She sat in the chair on the left, leaving the right chair open for the
interviewees.

Trish ran her eyes down the most recent recruits, smiling up at Nick and putting a
hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get you in the chair,” she said. “Your face was made
to be on camera.”

It was bad enough that she’d put the moves on Brett, but the bitch was flirting with
Nick now, too?

Nick cut his eyes my way, took in the pissed-off look on my face, and grinned down
at Trish. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

Grrr.
Nick’s name was so going on my
people-to-kill-today
list, too.

Trish asked Nick some remarkably well-prepared questions and Nick provided a series
of sound bites in return, clever, witty comebacks sure to make us IRS special agents
appear smart and sharp. Eddie performed well, too, explaining that fraudulent tax
returns not only cost honest taxpayers hundreds of millions of dollars in unreported
taxes due but also caused significant costs for enforcement personnel. Josh went next,
but Trish quickly wrapped up his interview when Josh turned pink and began to sweat
and stammer.

As I slid into the seat, Trish said, “No need, Tara. We’ve got what we need already.
Besides,” she scrunched her nose as she eyed my suit again, “cheap fabrics don’t film
well.”

I stood, doing my best to remain calm. “You’re right, Trish,” I said. “Cheap things
look awful on camera.” I punctuated my words with a pointed look and a snide smile
before raising my head high and walking out.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket a few seconds later. I checked the readout. It
was a text from Nick.

Good one.

I smiled to myself. He’d earned his way back off my list. He’d live to see another
day.

chapter eight

Beau on the Geau

The interviews now completed, Eddie and I hopped into our basic white G-ride and headed
out to arrest Richard Wallace Beauregard III. Beau, as he was known, had been an exceptionally
naughty boy. He’d sold his clients interests in a fuel company, which he claimed entitled
them to fuel tax credits on their returns. Problem was, the fuel company didn’t actually
exist and the interests were bogus.

I supposed I couldn’t blame his clients for falling so easily for his song and dance.
Energy companies had recently discovered they could use a fracturing technique to
exploit the natural gas reserves trapped in the Barnett Shale formation that lay under
the Dallas–Fort Worth metroplex. Thanks to “fracking,” the tight rock formation that
had once been deemed too difficult and expensive to drill in could now produce natural
gas at significant profits. Hundreds of oil and gas companies had descended on the
area, offering property owners a pretty penny for leases on their mineral rights.
Once the drilling began, property owners enjoyed further income in the form of royalties.

Though the drilling had been a boon to some, others had suffered, claiming benzene
and other carcinogens had seeped into their groundwater as a result of the gas companies’
fracking activities. A few lawsuits were making their way through the courts now.
It wasn’t clear where the cards would fall at the end of the day. Still, North Texans
overall had renewed their love affair with oil and gas, each expecting to become the
next Jed Clampett.
If you don’t own a well,
went the wisdom,
get one!
Beauregard had apparently realized the gas fervor could work in his favor and devised
the fraudulent scheme.

As if ripping off his unsuspecting clients in the gas well scam weren’t bad enough,
he’d also hijacked their personal data and filed amended tax returns in their names
and Social Security numbers. The amended returns generated over seven hundred thousand
dollars in phony tax refunds. Because Beau’d had the additional refunds directly deposited
into his own bank account, most of his clients had no idea he’d amended their returns
without their authorization.

The IRS had caught on to his identity theft ploy when a taxpayer had responded to
a notice questioning an entry on his amended return. When the taxpayer indicated he’d
filed no such amended return, the audit department had looked to the preparer for
explanation. The one Beau offered the auditor had been flimsy and evasive. Thus the
case had been transferred to Criminal Investigations. A little bit of digging into
the amended returns, a few phone calls to his clients, and we’d built the case against
him easy peasy without his knowledge. Yep, our visit to his office today with our
arrest warrant would be a surprise.

I pulled into the parking lot of a three-story stucco office building painted the
color of pistachio ice cream. A yard sign stuck in the empty flower bed let potential
tenants know “Executive Suites Available—First Month Free.” We exited the car onto
a parking lot covered with oil stains and cigarette butts.

A beat-up beige Chevy Suburban was parked near the doors. The windshield was cracked
and the back bumper was held on by baling wire. The tires appeared mismatched. The
driver’s door featured a magnetic sign that read:

BEAUREGARD FINANCIAL SERVICES

TRUST YOUR FUNDS TO US

(555) 837-BEAU

The door buzzed as Eddie and I entered. I glanced around. The building appeared to
be a typical arrangement. A dozen office suites on each floor, most housing small
one-man or one-woman operations. The tenants shared a common copy room, conference
room, and kitchen, as well as the services of a receptionist/secretary.

The receptionist didn’t look up from her built-in horseshoe-shaped desk as I approached.
From the top of her graying head all I could tell about her was that her part was
crooked and that she suffered a mild case of dandruff.

I stepped up to the desk. She still didn’t look up from the
National Enquirer
she was reading. I couldn’t much blame her, though. The article about alien remains
found in the freezer at a grade-school cafeteria looked intriguing.

“Excuse me,” I said.

She glanced up, a slightly annoyed look on her wrinkled face. “Can I help you?”

Eddie and I slid our cards onto the countertop in front of her.

“We’re looking for Richard Beauregard,” I said.

She turned and glanced down the hallway behind her to a door marked with black stick-on
letters that spelled “BEAUREGARD FINANCIAL SERVICES.” “His door’s closed, which means
he’s with a client. But I’ll let him know you’re here.”

While she buzzed Beau on the intercom, Eddie and I took seats on the cheap vinyl couch.

“Some people from the IRS are here to see you,” the receptionist said into her phone.
She paused a moment as she listened to Beauregard’s response. “Okay.”

She hung up her phone and turned back to us. “He said he’ll be with you shortly.”

Eddie nodded. “Thanks.”

We waited for a moment or two. Eddie used the downtime as an opportunity to read conservative
political blogs on his phone while I played another game of Scrabble. Despite my double
word score with the word “violin,” the program beat me with a triple word score for
“quizzes.”

Eventually the door to Beauregard Financial Services opened and a man in dark-blue
work pants and a short-sleeved blue work shirt emerged. He had a ball cap in his hand
and a perplexed expression on his face. He walked up to the receptionist’s desk. “I
don’t know what the hell happened in there,” he said. “One minute I’m talking to Mr.
Beauregard about my taxes and the next minute he’s climbing out the window.”

Eddie and I leaped from our seats. “You check the office,” Eddie said. “I’ll head
outside.”

Eddie ran to the building’s doors and yanked them open. The sound of tires squealing
came through loud and clear, followed by the stench of dust and burning rubber. Eddie
turned around and I tossed him the keys to our fleet car. He ran back outside, hopped
into the car, and took off after Beauregard. I headed down the hall to see what I
could find in Beau’s office.

The space was spare. A basic wood desk sat in the middle of the room with a lateral
filing cabinet stretching across the wall behind it. Two cheap metal chairs with black
vinyl seats faced the desk. The built-in white bookcases were mostly bare, the only
items on them an outdated copy of a tax primer, a stack of pamphlets promoting the
fictitious fuel company, and a glass candy dish containing a handful of plastic-wrapped
peppermints.