Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (11 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Con Man and a Gentleman

We drove a few miles farther along the lake and turned into the resort, passing a threesome of middle-aged men standing on the golf course, one of them bending over to push a tee into the close-cropped grass.

Brett slowed down to watch. The man stepped into place, swung, and sent the ball sailing in a long arc down the fairway. “Nice shot.”

I made nice shots, too. Of a totally different variety, of course. I could handle a steel Glock with ease, but my skills with a titanium driver were limited.

The resort was two-story ivory stucco, boasting balconies trimmed with black iron railings and a lighthouse façade at the far end. My pulse raced as we pulled into the breezeway. Soon Brett and I would be led to our room, the room in which we might possibly make love for the first time.

I wondered what kind of lover he would be. Brett was a gentleman, sure, but he had his naughty, rebellious side, too. That dichotomy was one of the things I found so intriguing about him. Would he be a slow and gentle lover, tenderly bringing me to climax? Or would he ravage me, treating me to a passionate experience that would leave me sweetly sore the next day? Was it too much to hope for both?

After removing the white box from the glove compartment, Brett handed the uniformed valet his keys. The man helped me out of the car before loading our luggage and Brett’s golf clubs onto a rolling cart. A bellhop followed Brett and me through the automated glass doors and into the foyer, which was decorated in a combined nautical-fisherman theme, the hanging light fixtures shaped like the wheels of sailboats, the walls adorned with plaster casts of fish made to resemble award-winning specimens caught in the lake.

Brett set the white box on top of his suitcase on the cart and obtained the room key while I waited with the bellhop. Brett stood facing the registration desk, his pants drawing tight across his firm backside as he reached into his pocket for his wallet.
Nice.

Not to brag on myself, but I was in pretty good shape, too. You can’t hurdle filing cabinets to chase down tax evaders without exercising regularly. Eddie and I worked out together at the downtown YMCA for an hour or so after work most days. The elliptical machines were my favorite, though Eddie refused to use them, saying men looked like prancing sissies on them.

Brett turned around with a key card in hand. “Room 206,” he informed the waiting bellhop. We made our way to the elevator and climbed in.

The elevator dinged as it reached our floor, and Brett and I stepped out into the hallway. Behind us, the bellhop attempted to push the baggage cart forward, but one of the wheels caught in the groove at the bottom of the threshold and became stuck, causing the luggage and golf clubs to shift. The cart tilted precariously. The man gave it a forceful shove in an attempt to set it back on course. The box Brett had picked up at the lake house toppled off the front of the heavily laden trolley just as it careened forward. The front wheel rolled over the box, hopelessly crushing it, one end splitting open as luggage avalanched off the side of the cart, the golf bag tilting and spilling the clanking clubs onto the floor.

The bellhop apologized profusely as Brett helped him straighten the baggage cart and gather the luggage and golf clubs. “So sorry, sir.”

“No problem,” Brett said, unfazed. A lesser man would have lamented the mistreatment of his clubs. “These things happen.”

I bent to pick up the smashed box, inadvertently releasing a small cascade of checks, which flowed out onto the carpet. As I knelt to scoop them up, I noted the checks were drawn on personal accounts in varying amounts, most ranging between ten and twenty thousand dollars. All were made out to XChange Investments. I took a quick glimpse behind me to see if Brett was looking, but he was still busy helping to gather up our luggage. I squeezed the box so that the end gaped open and peeked inside. The box contained several more checks and a large stack of bills held together with a red rubber band. I poked a finger inside to riffle through the bills. Most appeared to be fifties and hundreds. By my quick calculation, there was several thousand dollars cash in the stash.

Whoa.

Something odd was definitely going on here. Nobody carried that much cash around, especially in these days of electronic banking when cash was virtually obsolete. Nobody but pimps, drug dealers, or money launderers, that is. But Brett was none of those things. So what was he doing with this box?

I glanced back at Brett again. He was loading my suitcase onto the cart and hadn’t seemed to notice what I was doing. Quickly, I shoved everything back into the box and cradled it in the crook of my arm so the contents wouldn’t spill out again.

When we reached the suite, the bellhop rolled the cart into the main room to unload our luggage. Brett and I followed him inside. The suite was decorated in heavy oak furniture, the blue and gold tones of the fabric that covered the love seat and armchair reflected in the seascape paintings on the walls. The base of the tableside lamp was a white ceramic heron with long gray legs and a pointy gold bill. The decorator had certainly played up the water theme. Open doors situated on either side of the living area led to the two bedrooms, which were similarly decorated.

Brett tipped the bellhop when he finished unloading our luggage, then saw him to the door. When Brett returned to the room, I held the smashed box out to him, watching him closely to gauge his response. Did he know what was in the box?

He took the box from me and turned it in his hands, carefully holding the torn end closed so the contents wouldn’t spill out. “That cart really did a number on this, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped over to the narrow closet next to the entry door, opened the small wall safe situated inside, and slid the mangled box into it. After shutting the safe, he turned the key and stuck it in his pocket, then closed the door to the closet.

What now? My gut told me something was up. But guts didn’t matter. Evidence did. And that evidence was now locked securely away in the room’s safe. I wasn’t exactly an ace safecracker and, even if I were, I couldn’t tell my boss I’d opened a locked safe without permission. The agents who trained us in Glynco hammered the rules of criminal evidence into our heads and we’d been tested extensively on them. Our attorneys would have a fit if they knew I’d collected evidence without a search warrant. Besides, Judge Trumbull would throw the evidence out of court and me into jail. A bright orange jumpsuit would clash horribly with my auburn highlights and the wardens probably didn’t allow manicure scissors in the cells.

Looked like I’d have to figure out for myself if Stan Shelton or his houseguest were involved in illegal activity. But if Shelton or his visitors were involved in fraud, did that mean Brett was involved, too? After all, someone wouldn’t just hand a box full of cash over to a casual acquaintance, would they? It was highly unlikely.

Damn.

I looked over at Brett, taking in his honest green eyes, his genuine smile, his strong jawline that spoke of strong character.

No. No way. Brett came from an affluent family and made a good living on his own. He didn’t need to supplement his wealth by getting involved in a scam. But wasn’t it usually the rich who were involved in financial scandals? Once people tasted the good life, they always wanted more. It often seemed the more a person had, the greedier he or she became. Like Michael Milken. Leona Helmsley. Bernie Madoff.

But surely not Brett. I refused to believe he’d take part in anything illegal. In fact, I was ashamed of myself for even thinking he could be involved. He’d simply been asked to do a client a favor by playing mailman, delivering a couple of boxes, nothing more.

Right?

Hell, rather than drive myself crazy wondering, why not just ask him? “What’s with all the checks and cash in the box?”

Brett glanced over at the closed closet. “Must be a deposit or something.”

He seemed nonchalant. Maybe too nonchalant. Then again, Brett had been raised in a bubble of propriety and didn’t deal with criminals on a daily basis like I did. Besides, he didn’t work in the financial world. Maybe he didn’t realize how fishy the situation seemed. Was he being honest with me? There was no way to tell for sure, but either way it was clear I’d get nothing useful out of him.

Forcing the negative thoughts from my mind, I stepped to the window and pulled back the lightweight curtains. The room overlooked an amorphously shaped pool and patio area where a few guests relaxed on padded lounge chairs or at umbrella tables. Two small boys were the only ones willing to brave the pool’s still-cool water, splashing in the shallow end while their mother sat on the steps nearby, a martini glass in her hand, ruining all chances of that mother-of-the-year award.
Here’s to you, boys!

Brett walked up beside me, putting his hand on my back as he took in the view. His touch was gentle yet firm, reassuring and right. I’d been an idiot to question his integrity. A warm flush raced through my veins. Being alone with him in a hotel felt a little strange. And a lot exciting.

“Ready for lunch?” he asked.

“Give me a minute to freshen up?”

“Sure.”

I grabbed my makeup case and stepped into the bedroom on the right, closing the door softly behind me. In the large, luxurious bath, I hurriedly touched up my hair and makeup, trying to force my windblown hair into a style that didn’t look like it belonged on a troll doll. When I was finished, I walked back to the living area.

Brett was nowhere to be seen, and the other bedroom door was closed. A voice on the other side caught my attention. I could hear only Brett speaking, so he must have been on the phone. The door muffled some of his words, but it was clear he was not pleased. I eased closer to the door, my ears perked.

“The agreement was fifty grand, cash up front.”

There was a short pause as Brett apparently listened to the person on the other end of the line.

“Unacceptable. Either you get me what you promised by Wednesday or the deal is off.”

What was that all about? What deal?

I’d never heard Brett sound so forceful. It was kind of sexy, revealing a tough, aggressive side of him I hadn’t seen before. We were still in the honeymoon phase of our relationship, comfortable with each other but with lots more to learn. Clearly, we both had aspects of our personalities that had yet to fully surface.

I didn’t let myself entertain the thought that the phone call might have something to do with the cash he’d stashed in the safe. Brett was a Rotarian, for goodness’ sake. And surely if he were involved in a financial scam he would have dumped me the second he learned I worked for the IRS. The mere idea that he could be involved in something illegal was absurd.

But fifty grand? Cash?

When Brett ended the call, I stepped back over to the window so he wouldn’t know I’d been listening.

He opened the door, seeming surprised to find me there. “That was quick.”

I gave him a smile. “A woman motivated by food can move really fast.”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, we were seated on a patio, enjoying the fresh warm air, the view of the water, and a couple of mimosas while we waited for our meal.

Brett reached into his pocket, pulled out a case, and slid on a pair of sporty aviator-style sunglasses. He turned his chair to face me. “The resort rents Jet Skis. Want to take a run around the lake after lunch?”

I’d never been on a Jet Ski before, though I’d ridden the Guadalupe River in an inner tube several times with college buddies, a Styrofoam cooler of beer floating along with us. But what the heck, I was an adventurous girl. “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

We dined on overstuffed paninis. Although Brett’s posture was relaxed, his jaw worked several times, revealing pent-up tension, probably due to the heated phone call I’d overheard earlier. Brett hadn’t mentioned the call, and I didn’t want him to know I’d been eavesdropping, so I didn’t ask about it. No guy wants a meddlesome girlfriend, especially this early in the relationship. Besides, who was I to demand explanations when I hadn’t told him about my new case with the DEA?

After lunch, we changed into our swimsuits and made our way to the resort’s marina. A row of brightly colored Jet Skis bobbed alongside the dock, as well as a number of paddle boats for the less daring. After we’d been given brief instructions and signed the requisite waivers, releasing the resort from liability for any boneheaded maneuvers on our part, the attendant showed us to our Jet Ski, a larger model made to seat two. The man handed each of us a thin neon-yellow life jacket from a wooden bin on the dock. Brett helped me into my vest, his hands mere inches from my breasts as he cinched the nylon belts across my front. I gazed up at him. He, too, seemed to sense the sexual tension. He tugged playfully on the end of the straps, pulling me to him for a warm kiss that promised much more to come.

Brett climbed aboard first, reaching out to help me across the narrow gap between the wooden dock and the wet bike. The vessel bobbed slightly as I settled on the seat behind him. I wrapped my arms loosely around his waist, acutely aware of every point of contact between our bodies.

Brett started the motor and the water churned behind us. He eased slowly away from the dock, picking up speed once we’d cleared the buoys marking the no-wake zone.

“Want to see how fast this thing can go?” he called back over the engine noise.

“Heck, yeah!” I wrapped my arms tighter around Brett’s waist, pressing my chest to his back, only the thin life vests separating us. It felt natural, right.

We picked up speed, zooming across the lake. The spray was cool, but bearable now that the sun had made its way higher in the sky. Brett glanced back at me. The smile on my face said it all. I hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. I needed this diversion. Between my training and new job, I’d focused on nothing but work the past few months.

Brett slowed as we approached a trio of bass boats clustered together in a shallow cove, each vessel containing a single angler atop an elevated seat. Large coolers sat on each deck, the beer inside sure to disappear over the course of the day, to be replaced by dead, dull-eyed fish.