Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (18 page)

Eddie gave a knowing nod. “I noticed your tight ass wasn’t looking so tight anymore.”

I whipped my towel into a twist and snapped it at him, landing a satisfying pop on his butt before he could get away.

An extra four sets on the glute machine rounded out my workout and hopefully took some of the roundness out of my butt.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Coffee Klatch

I drove home in Pinky, stopping by the grocery store to pick up snacks for later. As I turned into my driveway, I accidentally bumped the curb, distracted by the three-man crew working on my front lawn, one of whom was Brett. From behind the wheel, I took in my town house, hardly recognizing the place. Gone was that stubborn, misshapen evergreen bush. A row of abundant pink rosebushes stood before my living room windows, the ivy underneath thick and lush. The small redbud tree waved its heart-shaped leaves in the breeze, the begonias around the trunk even more vivid against a backdrop of cedar mulch. The multicolored river stones added yet another dimension to the landscaping. The shepherd’s hooks and hanging baskets framed my entryway perfectly.

What a transformation.

Brett raised a hand, indicating I should wait a moment. He trotted to the curb where he’d parked his Navigator, opened the hatch, and pulled out a pink plastic flamingo. He plunked the tacky bird into the grass next to the driveway, then spread his arms wide, the yard now complete.

I climbed out of the car. “Wow!”

Brett wiped a smudge of dirt from his face with a gloved hand. He was sweaty and filthy, yet still somehow managed to look sexy. “You like it?”

“I love it!” I grabbed his face in my hands and planted a big kiss on his mouth.

Brett smiled and dismissed his crew.

“Thanks, guys!” I called as they loaded their tools into the back of a green king cab pickup. They waved and headed off.

I walked over to the bushes and fingered the fragrant roses.

Brett followed me. “You weren’t kidding about that crazy evergreen bush. I thought we’d never get all the roots out.”

“I’m so glad you did.” I looked up at him. “The yard looks absolutely beautiful now. I can’t thank you enough.” Of course, there were ways I’d be willing to show my gratitude, none of them involving clothing and at least one involving whipped cream.

He removed his gloves and tucked them into the pocket of his shorts. “Ready for your trip home tonight?”

“Pretty much.” I wasn’t actually leaving town until the next morning since I’d be meeting with Dave Edwards shortly then spending the night at the crack shack, but I couldn’t get into that right now.

“Have a safe trip. I’ll miss you, Tara.”

“I’ll miss you, too.” My heart felt as if it were being squeezed in a juicer. I should be ashamed of myself, keeping secrets from a sweet guy like Brett. After all, he’d just spent a small fortune landscaping my front yard. I’d never dated someone so thoughtful and generous. But what he didn’t know, he couldn’t worry about, right? Besides, he was keeping secrets from me, too. Even if he wasn’t involved in Gryder’s scam, he had yet to tell me about the business venture reported on his tax return. Then again, the business was apparently a start-up and had produced a small loss. Maybe he wasn’t even running the business anymore. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t said anything about it. But I couldn’t very well ask him about it. If I did he’d know I’d been snooping through his tax files and he’d want to know why. Admitting I’d questioned his integrity would put an immediate end to our relationship.

*   *   *

After Brett left, I went inside, showered, and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I applied minimal makeup, just enough so I wouldn’t scare small children. No sense spending a lot of time on my face if I’d just be hanging around the ’hood all evening. I tossed a few things in an overnight bag and grabbed some snacks for later. Checking the map I’d printed out from the Internet, I aimed Pinky toward Mesquite.

Half an hour later, I sat across a small circular table from Dave Edwards, the bank employee who’d ratted to the OCC. Dave was a squarely built guy with a blondish flattop and meticulously groomed goatee. He wore standard bank attire—navy pants with black loafers, a white button-down shirt, and basic red and navy striped tie. He chewed his thick bottom lip, his right knee jerking up and down like a jackhammer. As jittery as Dave was already, I hoped he’d ordered a decaf.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear tonight. Part of me hoped he’d hand me the smoking gun to nail Shelton and Gryder, but another part hoped he’d found nothing. Because if he found nothing to implicate Shelton and Gryder, there’d be nothing to implicate Brett, either.

I took a sip of my latte and a bite of pumpkin scone before pulling a small notepad out of my purse. I kept my voice low so as not to be overheard, probably not necessary given that most of the people at the surrounding tables were too busy yakking on their cell phones or listening to their iPods to give us a second thought. “Got anything for me?”

Dave nodded, his fingers drumming nervously on the sides of his tall paper cup. He glanced around the room and leaned closer to me over the table. “When things get busy at the bank, my boss makes me help with paperwork, including regulatory reports. Last week I prepared a cash transaction report for the banking department on a large wire transfer to a foreign bank. I ended up working late that night to catch up on a few things and I found Stan Shelton feeding my report into the shredder. When I asked Stan what he was doing he claimed he’d made a mistake, picked up the wrong stack of documents, but I have a hard time believing he screwed up accidentally.”

I nodded, my mind working to process the information. I jotted a few notes on my pad.

Bank department report.

Wire transfer to foreign bank.

Scone is stale—next time try cinnamon bun.

Dave reached down into a hard-sided black briefcase he’d stashed under the table and pulled out a manila envelope. He slid the envelope across the table to me. “These are copies of the cash transaction reports I prepared and others I found in the backup files. They’d been deleted from the bank’s active network, but our computer security system would have prevented Stan from deleting the forms from the archives. If you run the reports against the government’s records, you’ll see none of them were ever filed.”

“Sounds like a potential money-laundering situation.” I opened the envelope and pulled out the forms. Each form documented a wire transfer of a large sum of cash, the smallest for thirty grand. A number of the transfers went directly into an account in the name of XChange Investments at Banco Primero de San Jose in Costa Rica.

Gryder.

My instincts had been right. I knew there was something sleazy about that guy the second I laid eyes on him. I just wished my instincts would be clear where Brett was—or was not—concerned.

The documentation included transfers in and out of a number of other accounts, some in the name of Michael Gryder, others in the name of Chelsea Reynolds, and more in the names of various businesses and trusts. Euro Investors Incorporated. Petroleum Partners Ltd. The MG Family Trust. Several of the more recent transfers went into an account at First Dallas Bank held in the name of Banco Primero, no doubt a correspondent account established and held by the Costa Rican bank to help its clients avoid reporting requirements and thus thwart U.S. law enforcement.

Dave had included statements for the various accounts as well, many of which showed transfers in amounts just under the $10,000 threshold, structured to avoid the cash transaction reporting requirements and hopefully avoid catching the government’s eye. This type of money-laundering process was often referred to as “Smurfing.” It was unclear who’d coined the term. Some sources attributed it to a defense attorney, others to a federal law enforcement officer. At any rate, the term referred to breaking down large transfers into a series of small transactions, like the numerous teeny blue Smurfs milling about on the children’s cartoon.

I shuffled through the papers, mentally calculating. “Whoa. There’s over four million in transfers here.” Big-time stuff. This case could be much bigger than I’d thought. I looked up at Edwards. “Do you know anything more about this XChange Investments?”

He shook his flat head. “I asked Stan but all he’d tell me was that it’s a private investment firm for the filthy rich. The guy who runs it has been in the bank several times.”

“Plastic hair? Shit-eating grin?”

“That’s the guy. His head looks like it belongs on a Pez dispenser. Name’s Michael Gryder. You know him?”

“Met him last night at the Rangers game.”

“You sat in the bank’s skybox?”

I picked a corner off my too-dry scone. “Yep.”

Dave snorted. “Then I guess you met Stan’s wife, Britney, too. She’s a piece of work, huh? Stan’s first wife was much nicer and a hell of a lot classier. He was an idiot to divorce her.”

“Midlife crisis?”

“That would be my guess.” Dave swallowed a gulp of his coffee. “Stan’s never offered to take me to a game. He only invites the bigwigs and major clients. How’d you get to sit in the box?”

I brushed a crumb from my blouse. “My boyfriend is doing a landscaping project for the Sheltons’ lake house.”

“Lake house?” Dave slammed his coffee cup down on the table. Good thing the cup was made of paper or it would’ve shattered. “No wonder Stan’s been busting our balls. He’s made the salaried staff put in all kinds of overtime. With as many hours as I’ve put in, I’ve barely earned minimum wage. All so we can pay for a lake house. Unbelievable.”

While he stewed, I continued to riffle through the paperwork. An illegible signature purporting to be that of Michael Gryder appeared on many of the documents, while a signature allegedly belonging to Chelsea Reynolds appeared on others.

“Ever seen Gryder’s wife in the bank?”

Edwards shook his head.

Sheez. Gryder had been forging Chelsea’s signature, implicating her in his scheme. Poor girl. Her white knight was not what he seemed. “I have to ask,” I said. “What’s in this for you?”

Dave tossed back the dregs of his coffee, set his cup back on the table, and leaned toward me, jamming his index finger on the table to emphasize his points. “I’ve worked my ass off for Shelton for ten years—ten freaking years!—trying to make something of myself, and he treats me like shit. If you’ve got a nice pair of tits you can move up the corporate ladder at warp speed, but if you’re a guy? Forget it.”

A disgruntled employee. Could he be trusted? What kind of witness would he make if this case went to trial? Oh, well, I’d let Ross O’Donnell, our attorney, worry about that. It was unlikely Edwards would risk making false accusations against his boss even if he was pissed off at him. “So your coming forward is a revenge thing?”

Dave spun the now-empty cup with his fingertips. “I wouldn’t call it revenge. I’d call it justice.”

“That does sound much nicer.” I swallowed hard, afraid to ask my next question, but knowing I had to. Once again I felt sick to my stomach. “Is there anyone else who may be involved?”

“You mean another bank employee?”

I nodded. “Or anyone else associated with Gryder or Shelton outside the bank?” Like my boyfriend?
Oh, please, please, please! Tell me no!

He paused a moment, chewing his thumb knuckle as he thought. “Maybe. There’s another guy who’s come in the bank a few times. I don’t know his name, but he’s got light brown hair, average height. Saw him in the parking lot once. Drives a black Navigator.”

Brett.

Aw, hell.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Party Pooper

My heart raged against my ribs like a rabid monkey in a too-small cage. I took a deep breath to try to calm myself. Dave had jumped to conclusions. Brett was probably in the bank to talk about the landscaping project, not to play a part in the investment scam. But at this point, with the landscaping project already under way, couldn’t any of the landscaping business be handled by phone or e-mail? What need would there be to meet in person?

“The guy came in with Gryder several times to meet with Stan,” Dave continued. “They usually come late in the day, at closing time. They always go right into Stan’s office and shut the door.”

After-hours, closed-door meetings. This didn’t sound good. In fact, it sounded bad. Real bad. A hollow feeling shot through me.

I pulled one of my business cards out of my wallet and slid it across the table to Dave. “I’ll see what I can do from here. If anything else comes up, let me know.”

The two of us walked out to the parking lot together. When I stopped next to Pinky, Dave scrunched up his face. “You sell makeup, too?”

“Not exactly.” Though maybe I should consider it. My job as a special agent had proved to be riskier than I’d imagined, as evidenced by the fading scar on my forearm. The biggest risk I’d face hawking cosmetics would be poking myself in the eye with a mascara wand.

*   *   *

I drove back to the ’hood, having to stop for a tank of gas on the way. Pinky sucked down gas like Britney sucked down tequila shots. I tried not to think about what Dave had said about Brett meeting with Gryder and Stan at the bank. Surely Brett couldn’t be involved. He seemed sincerely in the dark when I’d questioned him about Gryder’s investment scheme. There had to be another explanation why Brett would meet privately with both of them. But what?

I couldn’t come up with anything. Damn.

Damn.

Damn.

Damn.

The night began to grow dark and I paid extra attention as I wound my way through the ’hood. Cars seemed to be everywhere, lining the curbs, parked on lawns, cruising slowly down the roads. Friday night and no place to go.

I pulled into the driveway and lugged my snacks and overnight bag inside. Ignoring the police sirens that seemed to be constant background noise, I watched a little TV, enjoying a rerun of
Reba
. That Reba McEntire had spunk. I hoped I looked half as good at her age. Heck, I wished I looked half as good at
my
age.

When the show ended, I read for an hour, finishing the novel I’d been reading. I even spent a few minutes twisting myself into knots on my new yoga mat. I rolled onto my back with my legs up in the air, spread wide. “This pose is called ‘the drunken cheerleader,’” I said, talking to myself to break the quiet. I shifted onto my knees, head hung forward, arms stretched out in a circle in front of me. “This pose is called ‘praying to the porcelain god.’” After a few minutes, even the yoga grew tiresome.

“I’m bored,” I told the housefly resting on the windowsill. Apparently he didn’t find me all that interesting either and flew off, leaving a speck on the paint. Eventually, I decided to take a nap until Christina arrived, although going to sleep alone in this neighborhood seemed a risky proposition. I slid my holster around my waist, pushed it down into position, and stuck my gun in the sheath. After switching off the bare bulb that lit the room, I plumped up my pillow and stretched out on the sofa for a snooze.

Around ten-thirty, a key jingled in the door lock and Christina and Ajay bounded through the front door, both dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Christina yanked on the light, giggling and shoving Ajay’s hands away as he tickled her with his free hand. In his other hand he held a large paper grocery bag.

I raised my head off the pillow and rubbed my eyes.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Christina said, nudging me with her toe. “It’s party time.”

Ajay looked around the room. Not much to see other than the grungy sofa, the yoga mats, and the portable television. “I love what you haven’t done with the place.” He set the bag down on the floor and unloaded the contents—a bottle of butterscotch schnapps, a bottle of Irish cream liqueur, a box of disposable paper cups, and a deck of red and white playing cards.

I raided the fridge and, using my cooler as a makeshift coffee table, set out a plastic tub of hummus with sesame crackers, a small wheel of brie, crudités with creamy artichoke dip, and garlic-stuffed olives. A pretty fancy spread given the surroundings. I took a seat on the couch next to Christina while Ajay played bartender, mixing the schnapps and liqueur in the paper cups and handing a creamy cocktail to each of us.

Christina raised her cup. “To Friday night.”

We tapped our paper cups carefully to avoid crushing them and took a sip of our drinks. The concoction was delicious, creamy, and sweet.

“Yum.” I turned to Ajay, who’d taken a seat on the floor on top of a yoga mat. “What do you call this?”

“Buttery Nipple.”

Hmm.

Ajay bounced on the mat and cocked his head at Christina. “I’d love to see some of your yoga moves.”

He stood as she made her way to the mat. She knelt on the mat, then pushed herself up on her forearms, her back arched, her legs bent backward, her feet nearly touching her head. Ajay’s mouth gaped, his eyes glimmering with unfettered lust.

I had to admit, Christina was impressively strong and limber. “What’s that position called?”

“The Scorpion.”

“What a coincidence,” Ajay said, looking down at her and waggling his eyebrows. “That’s also a position from the Kama Sutra.”

Christina looked up at him from under her dark bangs. “Don’t get your hopes up. I can only hold it for ten seconds.”

Ajay’s lips spread in a grin. “That’s long enough.”

“
This conversation
has gone on long enough.” I shoved a hummus-covered cracker at each of them, hoping to put an end to their exchange.

Ajay resumed his seat on the mat and shuffled the deck of cards. “Texas hold ’em?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’d be glad to take your money.”

“You wish,” Christina hissed. “Poker’s my game.”

The three of us emptied our wallets. I had only eight dollars and fifty-three cents. I’d better get lucky fast. Ajay slid on a pair of sunglasses and dealt the first hand.

Several hands into the game, I was up by twenty bucks. Ajay’s glasses hadn’t helped him any. The guy couldn’t bluff if his life depended on it and, besides, the mirrored lenses reflected his hand. Christina and I hadn’t bothered to point that out to him. Naughty girls.

A knock sounded on the door.

Ajay glanced at the door. “Expecting someone?”

We shook our heads.

I stood and walked to the door. No peephole. I walked to the window and snuck a peek through the blinds. The porch light was burned out and I couldn’t see anything but a dark shadow. Should’ve bought light bulbs. I pulled my gun from my holster and stepped back to the door. “Who is it?”

“Joe,” came a muffled voice through the door. My eyes met Christina’s.

“Joe, the ice-cream guy?”

“Yeah.”

Christina sat bolt upright and frantically scooped up the fancy snacks. “Say as little as possible,” she whispered to Ajay. “Follow my lead. And pretend you’re with Tara.”

She dashed off to the kitchen with the food clutched in her arms.

I shoved my gun back into the holster and fluffed out my top to make sure the weapon was sufficiently hidden. Glancing quickly around the room, I spotted nothing else that might give away the fact that we didn’t actually live in this dump. I went to the front door and opened it.

Joe stood on the porch wearing a dingy blue T-shirt and hideously tight jeans, a bulge against his left thigh showing us what little boys were made of. A six-pack of Milwaukee’s Best hung from his fingers. If he was trying to impress Christina, he should’ve brought something better than that cheap swill. But the rules of Southern etiquette dictate that anyone bearing beer is guaranteed entry to any venue, so I had no choice but to invite Joe in.

“Hey, Joe,” Christina said, returning from the kitchen and plopping down on one end of the couch. She draped one leg over the armrest and leaned back in a sexy pose. If the DEA ever made a calendar, that crotch shot would earn her a spot as Miss January.

Joe’s eyes went from Christina’s face to her crotch, then to Ajay, who sat scowling up at him from the yoga mat, having removed his mirrored sunglasses.

“That’s Ajay,” I said, gesturing.

Joe pulled a beer from the six-pack for himself and handed another to Ajay. Good thing he’d brought cans. Ajay looked as if he’d like nothing better than to slit Joe’s throat with the jagged edge of a broken bottle.

Christina tilted her head and eyed Joe. “Got anything else to make this a real party?”

Joe shook his head. “Can’t get my hands on anything until Monday.”

“Promises, promises.”

Joe smiled his gap-toothed grin. “I’ll come through for you. Don’t you worry.”

He was the one who ought to be worrying. Idiot.

Joe slid onto the couch next to Christina. He looked down, noting the cards on the cooler. “Texas hold ’em?”

“Uh-huh.” Ajay picked up the deck and tapped it in his palm.

Joe stood and dug through his front pocket for coins, having a hard time getting a finger into his skintight jeans. He turned to Christina, his genitals at her eye level. “Little help?”

Christina looked away, faking a giggle, but making a gagging face at me behind the drape of her long hair.

I snuggled up next to Ajay on the mat. He put an arm around my shoulders and nuzzled my neck, probably trying to get back at Christina for flashing her crotch at Joe.

“Maybe you two should get a room.” Joe laughed. Alone.

Maybe he should get a haircut that’s not two decades out of style.

Ajay dealt another round of cards.

Joe eyed Ajay. “That your car outside?”

Ajay dipped his head. “Yeah.”

“That Viper’s a sweet ride, man,” Joe said. “You a pimp or something?”

Ajay peered out from under his thick, dark eyebrows. “You could say I make a living off other people’s bodies.”

Good improvising, Ajay. I shot him a surreptitious wink.

We played another round, Christina winning. With her elbow, she nudged Joe. “Winning back some of my ice-cream money.”

Every few minutes, Joe eased himself a few inches closer to Christina on the sofa. She’d scrunched herself into a tight ball in the corner, her arms wrapped defensively around her curled-up legs. Eventually, Joe’s thigh made contact with hers and Christina leaped off the couch.

“’Nother beer?”

Joe chugged the dregs of his drink and set the can on the floor, crushing it with his dirty sneaker and kicking it aside. He emitted a beer-scented belch. Classy.

Christina darted to the kitchen before Joe could get to the fridge and see the bottle of wine and the swanky spread we’d stashed there. Joe’s eyes didn’t leave Christina’s denim-covered butt until she rounded the corner. Ajay put a hand on my knee and squeezed out his frustrations.

“Ouch!” I shoved his hand away this time.

Joe flashed another grin at us. “Y’all want to get it on, don’t mind me. I’ll just watch.”

I fought the urge to punch those crooked teeth right down his throat.

A few hands later, both my luck and my money had run out. I raised my hands in surrender. “I’m out.”

“Me, too,” Christina said. She walked to the bedroom and returned with a manicure kit and a couple bottles of nail polish. She waved them at me. “How about I give you a French manicure?”

Joe grinned. “How about you give her a French kiss?”

My hand instinctively went to the handle of my gun, hidden under my shirt. One more perverse comment and this guy was losing his nuts. In those tight jeans, they’d be easy to target. Christina faked a giggle and shoved him off the couch. Joe looked a little confused when his ass hit the floor.

Christina knelt down next to me and the two of us gave each other French manicures while the guys played a few more rounds of poker. When Christina finished, I held up my nails and took a look. Not as good as a professional nail tech, but Christina hadn’t done too bad for an amateur.

Joe nudged Christina’s thigh with his toe. “Why don’t you and me go somewhere, get a drink or something?”

I didn’t even want to think what the “or something” could be.

Christina glanced up at him. “You bring me something Monday, we’ll talk.”

Joe somehow looked both frustrated and hopeful, but he seemed to realize he’d get nowhere with Christina tonight. “I’m gonna go meet some friends.”

This loser had friends?

Christina stood and walked him to the door. “See ya Monday.” She shot Joe a wink.

Joe gave Christina one last, longing glance before walking out the door and tripping down the front steps in the dark.