Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (13 page)

“Hey!” I grabbed my pillow and whopped him right back.

We fought with the pillows for a few moments, laughing and wrestling on the bed until I could feel the scar on my forearm straining with the exertion.

Self-conscious now, I stood and picked my clothing up off the chair, holding my sweater and bra in front of my naked chest. Unable to face him, I looked down and mumbled, “I really am sorry, Brett.”

“Me, too.” Brett climbed off the bed and stood in front of me, putting a finger under my chin to raise my eyes to him. “But I’d rather you be sorry you didn’t make love to me than sorry you did.”

*   *   *

Sleeping in Brett’s warm, strong arms did wonders for me. With him next to me in bed, I felt physically safe and secure. Try as they might, Jack Battaglia and his sharp box cutter couldn’t invade my dreams that night. Instead, I dreamed of Brett, what it would have been like to make love to him.

In the morning, while Brett continued to doze, I slipped out of bed and took a long, hot shower. My breasts were still tender, my entire body aching with unfulfilled want the water couldn’t wash away.

Brett woke as I stepped into the doorway, wrapped in one of the hotel’s thick, luxurious blue towels.

“’Mornin,’” he drawled from the bed, his voice deep and gravelly from sleep. He somehow managed to look both adorable and sexy in his rumpled state.

I bent over to give him a kiss on the cheek and he playfully grabbed at my towel.

“Up and at ’em, mister,” I commanded. “I’m starved.”

A grin pulled at Brett’s lips. “I did enjoy more than my fair share of the fondue last night, didn’t I?”

While he showered, I used the mirror in my room to apply my makeup and fix my hair. I dressed in my Bermuda shorts and knit top, sliding my feet into a pair of tennis shoes. Brett emerged from the bathroom in khaki shorts paired with a colorful golf shirt sporting a palm tree motif.

After a nice breakfast on the poolside terrace, Brett retrieved his bag of clubs from the room and changed into his spiked, saddle oxford-style golf shoes. We headed out to the resort’s driving range so he could hit some balls.

I knew the basics of golf. Martin and McGee hosted a tournament every year, and its staff was expected to have at least a passing knowledge of the game. I’d taken a few lessons when I’d worked there and eventually my skills had improved from laughable to simply embarrassing. I much preferred to take shots on a firing range than a driving range.

Brett purchased a large bucket of balls in the clubhouse and we walked across the close-cropped grass to the range.

“Did your father teach you how to golf?” I asked.

Brett nodded. “Got my first set of clubs for Christmas the year I turned five. My father and I played every weekend until I left for college. We still play as often as we can.”

Father-child bonding over a golf game, the more sophisticated equivalent of me and my brothers hunting with my dad. “That sounds nice.”

“Want to hit a few?” he asked, lifting the bucket of balls higher.

“Nah. I’d make a fool of myself. I’ll just watch.”

I took a seat nearby on the covered patio of the clubhouse. Brett selected a spot between two other golfers and pulled out the legs on his bag’s built-in stand. After retrieving a wooden tee from a zippered pocket, he looked over his clubs, carefully choosing an iron. He bent over to stick the tee in the ground, grabbed a ball from the bucket, and positioned it on the tee. To loosen up, he took a few practice swings, the well-formed muscles in his broad shoulders flexing and shifting as he swung the club.
Nice.
I could watch this all day.

Ready now, he stepped into place and swung.
Ping!
He sent the ball in a long, perfect arc over the grass.

The man at the spot next to Brett watched the ball sail through the air and gave a long whistle, impressed. “What’s the secret to hitting like that?”

Brett pointed the handle of his club at me and smiled. “Showing off for a beautiful woman.”

Corny, sure, but sweet. I felt myself blush as the man glanced my way.

As Brett made his way through the bucket of balls, I watched him closely. Was he what he appeared to be on the surface, a nice guy with traditional values? Or was he something else underneath? When would I know for sure? How long would I have to live with this ache of unsatisfied desire?

*   *   *

The first thing I did when Brett dropped me back at my house on Sunday was fix myself a heaping bowl of Fruity Pebbles. I’d enjoyed the rich food at the resort, but after all the fancy meals—the morning’s breakfast was a fluffy spinach quiche—I was craving some real food.

The second thing I did was dump my laundry into the washing machine. Anne stared at me from her perch atop the dryer, her head cocked. That cat knew all my dirty secrets, like the fact that I hated doing laundry and usually put it off until I had absolutely nothing clean to wear. My weekend with Brett had me feeling invigorated, though, and I decided to put that energy to good use. I poured a scoop of detergent into the washer and pulled the knob to start the water.

The next thing I decided to do was run an Internet search on that foreign exchange outfit. What was the name of it again? Investment Exchange? I’d need to check the flyer to be sure.

The flyer had been in the pocket of my jeans, which I’d put in my laundry bag, which—oh crap!—I’d dumped in the wash. I ran to the laundry room and yanked on the knob to stop the machine. By the time I found the paper among the wet, heavy clothes, the agitator had shredded it to tiny, damp, illegible bits. Maybe this was a sign that I shouldn’t look further into the matter. Then again, maybe I was just a moron.

I flopped down on the couch with my laptop. Since I couldn’t recall the specific name of the Forex program, I simply searched “foreign currency exchange.” The search brought up an overwhelming number of sites, some of them in other languages, not surprising given the subject matter. I tried to narrow the search by adding the words “First Dallas Bank” and “Shreveport” but none of the links seemed right. Without the name, I could waste hours hunting through the sites trying to find out more about this particular investment program. Dang. I’d have to figure out some other way to get information.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Bringing Out the Big Guns

Monday morning, Christina picked me up at my town house. I patted Henry the Eighth on the head and gave Anne a quick kiss on the cheek, her white whiskers tickling my face, before heading out to the pink Cadillac.

“How was your weekend?” she asked once I’d climbed in. “Did you and Brett cross-pollinate? Did he fertilize your garden?”

I put my nose in the air and harrumphed in mock indignation. “I’m not one to kiss and tell.”

She giggled. “That means you didn’t get any.”

She had me there. Now, in the bright light of day and with some distance between us, it seemed incredibly stupid that I’d put a stop to things with Brett Saturday night. No way could he be involved in some type of financial scam. Heck, I wasn’t even sure there was a scam to begin with. I’d panicked for no good reason and missed out on the perfect opportunity to be close to him. What an idiot.

Christina had some things to take care of at her office that morning, so she dropped me at the IRS. I spent a couple of hours helping Eddie comb through the records for Chisholm’s Steakhouse. There was a significant amount of cash run through various bank accounts that wasn’t accounted for on the restaurant’s tax returns, clear evidence of tax fraud. “These cheats didn’t even have the courtesy to challenge us.”

Eddie sighed. “Yeah. This case is a snoozer.”

The most interesting cases involved offshore accounts, hidden assets, multilevel conglomerates with falsified audit reports. Enron-type stuff that required us to dig for clues, play financial detective. Chisholm’s Steakhouse was a no-brainer in comparison.

Later that morning, I went to the break room to snag a Diet Coke from the vending machine. Lu’s thermometer had edged up a bit more, showing an additional hundred grand had been collected, and none of it by me. Chisholm’s would likely bring in a sizable amount, but not enough to get the Lobo to the hundred million mark. I needed a big case of my own to have any chance of winning the bonus.

Could the foreign exchange outfit be that case?

I reviewed what little I knew. Whoever operated the Forex plan was staying at Stan Shelton’s lake house, which meant the two had some type of close relationship, either personal or business. Shelton had arranged for Brett to deliver the flyers to the guests at his lake house so, presumably, he knew about the investment program. Sheltons’ guests had transferred significant amounts of cash and checks to Shelton, through the box Brett had been asked to deliver. Shelton was the president of First Dallas Bank, which had recently been penalized by banking regulators for misstatements on its financial reports.

It wasn’t much. But was it enough to persuade Lu to let me open a new case and do more digging?

I headed to Lu’s office and rapped on the open door. “Got a minute?”

“Got good news for me on the ice-cream man?”

“Not yet,” I said, slipping into one of her wing chairs, “but we’re working on it.”

“Well, work a little harder,” she said. “I’ve got big plans for my retirement. Taking a trip to Maui. And I’m not going to get there any time soon if you don’t bring some money in.”

“Then you might be interested to hear this.” I told her what I’d learned.

When I finished, she tapped her fingers on the desk for a moment, thinking. “It could be something,” she said, “or it could be nothing. Give the OCC a call, see what they’ll share from their investigation into First Dallas. If it looks promising, I’ll let you open a case.”

It wasn’t exactly a yes, but it was close enough. Woo doggie!

“Tara?” Lu said as I stood to leave. She shot me a pointed look from under her penciled brows. “Don’t you go falling for this Brett fella. Not until we know which side he’s on. Hear me?”

My gut seized up. “Yes, ma’am.”

I went to my office and called the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency, the federal agency charged with regulating the nation’s banks. After several transfers, during which I was treated to a Muzak version of Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way”—pure sacrilege!—I finally reached the agent who’d led the First Dallas Bank investigation.

“I suspect the bank’s management may have known the financials were incorrect,” the agent said, “but we couldn’t prove they’d intentionally done anything wrong.”

Not surprising. Any incriminating evidence had likely been deleted or shredded.

“How did the bank become a target?” I asked.

“We received a tip from an employee.”

An informant. It doesn’t get much better than that. “Any chance you’ll share his name and number?”

The agent gave me a name—Dave Edwards—and a phone number. No time like the present, right? As soon I ended the call with the OCC, I tried the number.

Edwards answered on the third ring. After I identified myself, he hesitated a moment. “Let’s meet up,” he said in an overly cheerful, overly familiar voice, as if he were speaking to a buddy. Other ears in the vicinity, no doubt.

“When’s good for you?”

We arranged to meet Friday evening at six o’clock at a coffeehouse near his home in the suburban town of Mesquite. It was unlikely we’d run into anybody from the bank there but, just in case, I’d dress in civvies and leave my gun at home.

“I’m particularly interested in foreign currency transactions the bank president might be involved in,” I told Edwards.

“Got it,” he said.

I was curious to see what, if anything, Edwards might find for me on the Forex scheme. If it turned out to be something big, maybe I could involve Eddie, give him something more interesting to do. Then again, if it looked like big bucks were involved, maybe I’d keep the case all to myself. Selfish, sure, but if I were the one to get Lu to the hundred-million mark, I wouldn’t have to listen to any more ribbing about being the office rookie. Then again, Edwards might find nothing. It was entirely possible that all of my suspicions were simply the result of an overactive imagination.

Christina returned for me at noon and we took off for Roachingham Palace, driving to a deli for takeout salads on the way. As we waited in the drive-thru lane, Christina removed a small plastic case from her oversized purse as she dug for her wallet.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Christina found her wallet and shoved the kit back down into her purse, where it wouldn’t be visible. “Field test kit. After Joe sells us the drugs, I’ll have to test them and make sure they really are illegal drugs before we can arrest him.”

The Dallas Police Department had been rocked several years ago by a fake drug scandal in which a number of people were swept up in alleged drug raids. The apprehensions boosted the department’s arrest statistics and the approval rating of the police chief. But when a clever defense attorney later demanded the drugs be retested by an independent lab, it was discovered that the white, powdery substance purportedly seized from many of those arrested was not cocaine but, in fact, nothing more than ground-up drywall. The FBI investigated the “Sheetrock Scandal,” heads rolled, and the police chief was fired as a result of the trumped-up charges. No doubt all branches of law enforcement were sure to dot their
i
’s, cross their
t
’s, and test their drugs as a result.

Today, I’d worn skintight jeans and a periwinkle-blue top. Christina had dressed in a black tank top and yoga pants. After lunch, she rolled out a thin mat on the living room floor. I’d brought some work with me and, while I reviewed copies of Chisholm’s bank statements, circling all of the cash deposits in red pen, she slid a DVD into her laptop and ran through a series of stretches and poses, her position matching that of an impressively limber woman on the screen.

“Planning to moonlight as a contortionist?” I asked, circling yet another unreported deposit.

“It’s yoga, you moron. This is called the ‘One-Legged King Pigeon Pose.’”

“I thought maybe you’d had enough of chasing down drug dealers and decided to join the circus.”

“Don’t make me have to kick your ass,” Christina said, looking up at me from under her dark bangs.

I set the papers aside, stood, and put my hands on my hips. “I’d like to see you try.”

You’d think I would’ve been taught a lesson after the incident at the coffeehouse, but unfortunately I’m sometimes a slow learner. Before I knew what was happening, Christina grabbed my ankles and yanked my feet out from under me. I landed with a
whump
on my butt. Luckily, I landed on the mat so the only thing bruised was my ego.

I ignored her chuckle and positioned myself on the mat like the woman in the video. During our afternoons at the Y, Eddie and I typically spent a half hour on the cardio equipment and another half hour pumping iron. Yoga seemed wimpy in comparison.

I shifted as the woman on the screen repositioned herself, my jeans riding up on my rear. “I don’t see how posing like a Gumby doll can be much of a workout.”

“You’ll see,” Christina said.

We shifted positions again, bending over so our heads were between our legs. “What’s this position called?” I asked. “‘Kissing Your Own Ass’?”

The woman instructed us to hold the pose for thirty seconds. After fifteen, my thighs were shaking and I was rethinking my earlier assessment.

“Quit grunting,” Christina said. “It’s distracting.”

“This is harder than it looks.”

“Told ya!”

I bailed out and flopped back onto the sofa.

An hour later, we heard the faint notes of ice-cream truck music.

Joe.

Christina and I dug dollar bills out of our purses and walked to the door.

Christina stopped just before stepping out onto the porch. “I can tell Joe’s interested, wanting to make a move on me. That could work to our advantage. Today, I’m bringing out the big guns.”

“Our Glocks?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a rookie.” She reached her hands up the back of her tank top and unhooked her black bra, pulling it out through the armhole and tossing it aside. She quickly ran her hands down hard over her bare breasts, perking her nipples up to a fully erect position clearly visible through the fabric. She pointed to her breasts. “These are the big guns I was talking about.” She marched out the door and down the steps, her pointy breasts leading the way.

I followed her out the door. “Nice to see you’ll do anything for the agency.”

“You have to work with the tools you’ve got.”

“Maybe you can get a professional nipple tweaker. I heard J-Lo has one.”

Joe turned the corner and headed toward us. Through the front window, we saw him smile when he spotted Christina. The smile grew wider when he spotted her barely covered chest.

Christina smiled back but whispered through unmoving lips, “Is it just me or does this guy get more disgusting every time we see him?”

“They teach ventriloquism at the DEA?”

When Joe had rolled to a stop, we stepped up to the truck. Christina placed her hands wide apart on the window ledge, leaning forward to give Joe a clear view of her cleavage. “Push-Up,” she said.

Joe handed her the ice cream and she slid him a buck. I ordered a Drumstick. The guys from across the street wandered over then, just as they had most other days. Dang. So much for our plan to try to make a buy today.

Joe and the guys watched as Christina used her teeth to pull the paper wrapper off the top of the Push-Up. With the plastic stick, she slowly eased the circular treat up out of its cardboard sheath. Bringing the ice cream to her lips, she ran her tongue slowly in a full circle around the edge. She looked up at Joe and, when their gazes locked, gave the ice cream a hard flick with the tip of her tongue.

Thud. Joe hit the dirt face-first, having fallen out of the truck’s window and into the yard. Christina and I looked down at him, a few stray pieces of dried grass now stuck in his greasy mullet.

Christina reached down, grabbed an arm, and pulled Joe to his feet. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbled, a blush spreading on his acne-pocked cheeks. “Just lost my balance.”

Our neighbors snickered.

Joe climbed back into his truck, tried, unsuccessfully, to regain his cool, and turned to the guys, his gaze flicking to me and Christina, who suddenly seemed unwelcome despite the nipples. “Can I getcha?”

We stood aside as they placed their order and paid for their ice cream. The taller of the two glanced back at me. Was that a hint of impatience on his face? The two lingered, as if also hoping for some one-on-one time with Joe.

When the situation grew awkward, we aborted our mission, crossing the yard to the house. Christina yanked the door open, almost pulling it off the hinges. The door slammed shut behind us. Once inside, she kicked her bra across the floor. “We could move faster if those jerks from across the street didn’t keep getting in the way.”

We settled on the couch and I peeled the wrapper from my ice cream. “You sure sent Joe for a loop. But, you know, if you’re going to perform sexual favors on that ice cream bar, you should at least make it buy you dinner first.”

Christina ignored me. “I checked Joe’s arm for tracks when I helped him up. He looks clean.”

“Is that good or bad?”

She shrugged. “You never know. Sometimes users are easier to manipulate. Sometimes they’re more unpredictable, more violent.”

I’d rather not deal with any more unpredictable, violent people. My experience with Jack Battaglia had been more than enough for me. Sure, it was fun to carry a gun, to feel tough and in control, but I only truly like
playing
cop. Shooting at a human-shaped paper target and shooting at a real person were two different things entirely. Actually having to use my gun to defend myself hadn’t been fun at all.

I hoped I’d never have to do it again.