Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (29 page)

The paper featured what appeared to be a rural property dotted with several dome-shaped buildings and one large square facility. “What’s this?”

A broad smile spread across Brett’s face. “The design for Ellington Nurseries.”

“Ellington Nurseries?” I looked up at him.

“We’ve had trouble finding reliable nursery suppliers, so I’ve decided to start a landscaping supply business, grow some of the plants and trees myself.”

Having control over the landscaping stock would not only reduce the uncertainty and hassles, but it would also allow him to keep a bigger share of the profits on his projects.

“Wow. I’m impressed.” I looked back down at the blueprint.

He pointed to the dome-shaped structures. “These are greenhouses.” His finger continued on to the square building. “And this will be the wholesale facility. It’s not ready yet. I planned to take you out there once it was all complete, to surprise you.”

Aha! The nursery explained the entries on Brett’s tax return, the business deductions he’d claimed. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

“The gas well I told you about is at the back of the property. It’s beautiful out there. Twenty acres with lots of trees and a creek running through it.”

“Deep enough to skinny-dip in?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “As soon as your cast comes off, we’ll find out.”

*   *   *

I stopped by the hospital Saturday morning. Sandra met me in the lobby and led me to Eddie’s room. My partner lay in bed, the bright white bandage on the side of his head stark against his dark skin. He was hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor emitting soft, rhythmic beeps. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling slowly.

“He still hasn’t come to,” Sandra said. “But the doctors have assured me it won’t be much longer.” She took a seat beside the bed. “Eddie?” She rubbed Eddie’s arm and caressed his cheek with the back of her hand. “Eddie, can you hear me?”

Eddie moved a little in the bed, emitting soft groans and grunts as he fought to regain consciousness.

I stepped to the head of the bed. “Quit being a wuss, dude,” I whispered in Eddie’s ear. “A bullet to the head is no big deal. It builds character.”

Eddie’s eyes remained closed, but his mouth spread in a slow, dopey grin. “I know I’m not dead,” he murmured softly in a hoarse, gravelly voice, “because that certainly isn’t an angel talking.” He opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh overhead lights.

“Eddie! Thank God!” Sandra threw herself on his chest and dissolved into sobs again, this time crying happy tears.

Eddie slid his hand across the sheet, resting it on his wife’s back, the clear plastic IV tube draped over her heaving shoulders. He turned his head to me, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Did we get Gryder?”

“Hell, yeah,” I said. Thanks to Brett, of course. I gave Eddie the details. “Emptied my entire clip. I can only imagine the paperwork we’re going to have to fill out.”

Eddie cringed but gave a soft chuckle. “Don’t remind me.”

Warm tears welled up again in my eyes. I bit my lip. “Eddie, I’m really sorry. This is all my fault.”

“Bullshit,” Eddie snapped, both his expression and voice firm now. “This isn’t your fault, Tara.”

“Yes it is. I didn’t look under the mattress in the bedroom. I should’ve found Gryder’s gun.”

Eddie shook his head, grimacing as the motion apparently hurt his wound. “Who knows where he hid that thing. I’m the one who told you white-collar types go down easy. I let my guard down. I should’ve known better, been more careful.” He paused a moment, his eyes softening now. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had, Tara. You’re smart, tough, and one hell of a shot. I wouldn’t want to work with anyone else.”

I wiped my tears with my sleeve. “Really?”

“Really.”

The nurse glanced into the open door of the room and noticed Eddie was awake. She came in. “How are you feeling, Mr. Bardin?”

“Never better,” Eddie said.

The nurse offered Eddie some ice chips.

“No, thanks. Got any Heineken?”

*   *   *

Brett and I decided to spend a couple of days with my family. I had so much to tell them, but big news is best delivered in person. Brett swung by for me Saturday afternoon in his freshly washed SUV, the bloody evidence of Eddie’s tragedy rinsed from the cargo bay.

We enjoyed each other’s company, the three-hour drive to my parents’ house seeming to take no time at all. Brett had never been to my hometown of Nacogdoches. As we drove through town I pointed out some of the sights, including the Old Stone Fort built by the town’s founder in the late 1700s and the L. T. Barret Memorial, erected to honor the man who had drilled the first oil well in Texas back in September of 1866, when the earth still sported an intact ozone layer.

I instructed Brett which turns to take and soon we were on the outskirts of town, pulling down the noisy gravel road that led to my parents’ house. Brett parked his truck in the shade of a pine, cut the engine, and took in the stately Victorian farmhouse. “Wow. It’s beautiful.”

“Don’t look too closely,” I admonished him as I swung open the truck’s door and climbed out. “The whole thing’s held together with duct tape.”

My parents stepped out onto the porch to greet us, Mom wearing a floral-print sundress and Dad in jeans and a blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow.

Dad came down the steps, stopped by the truck, and held out his hand to Brett. “Nice to meet you, Brett.”

Brett gave my dad’s hand a firm yet friendly shake. “Likewise.”

“Tara!” my mother cried when she spotted the cast on my arm. She rushed down the steps. “What happened to you?”

Brett and I exchanged glances.

“It’s a long story,” I said. “One best told over lunch.” I knew my mother would have a fully stocked fridge and, frankly, I was looking forward to being taken care of a little.

Brett reached into his truck to retrieve the gifts he’d brought for my parents. “These are for you.”

Mom was impressed by the hanging basket Brett had brought for her, filled with lush blue trailing verbena. She was also impressed by the dessert wine he’d brought for us to enjoy later. She handed the plant and wine to my father, then took both of Brett’s hands in hers. “Glad to know you, Brett. Tara’s told us a lot about you.” She glanced over at me, questions in her eyes.

“There’s a lot more to tell,” I said.

My mother looked from one of us to the other. “Well, come have some lunch and catch us up.”

We sat around the kitchen table, drinking sweet tea and eating fried baloney sandwiches, a down-home delicacy that had been a regular staple of my childhood.

Brett took a bite and groaned in delight. “This is delicious.”

“Yeah,” I said, “especially when you consider what baloney is made of.”

“Tara, you hush,” my mother scolded, giving me the evil eye over the top of her tea glass. Some things never change.

When we’d eaten all we could, we pushed back our plates and updated my parents on the recent developments. My parents gaped when I relayed how Gryder had taken potshots at the two of us and put Eddie in the hospital, my mother reflexively putting a hand over her heart when I told her about being trapped in the hole, out of ammo, waiting to die, until Brett had whacked Gryder with the PVC pipe and brought me Eddie’s gun.

Dad’s forehead creased with fury. “You should’ve shot the son of a bitch, Tara.”

“Nah.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Too much paperwork. It’ll be much more fun to take shots at him on the witness stand.”

Dad turned to Brett then, giving him a pat on the back. “You’ve got some mighty big
cojones,
son.”

“Harlan,” Mom spat, scolding Dad now. “Watch your language.” She turned to Brett. “You were extremely brave, hon. I can’t tell you how grateful we are for that.” She gave each of us a squeeze on the shoulder while she cleared our plates. “I’m glad you two worked things out.”

Brett’s gaze met mine and we exchanged smiles.

*   *   *

Later that afternoon, Dad set up a paper target on a bale of hay in the backyard and taught Brett how to shoot a handgun, a hunting rifle, and a shotgun. Mom and I sat in lawn chairs to watch. Brett had surprisingly good aim for a beginner. All that time on the golf course, aiming for a tiny flag hundreds of yards away, had given him a good eye. When they finished their shooting lessons, Brett helped my father perform a tune-up on his ancient John Deere tractor. Brett seemed right at home in the barn, a smudge of engine grease on his chin.

My brothers brought their families over for dinner. We put the extra leaf in the dining room table and feasted elbow to elbow on a fried-food fiesta, everything from catfish to okra to jalapeño hush puppies. Brett hit it off with everyone, discussing this spring’s rainfall with my father, organic gardening with my mother, and pickup trucks with my brothers. He even entertained my nieces and nephews with recounts of Napoleon’s silly antics. When dinner was done, the dessert wine he’d brought served as the perfect complement to Mom’s cherry pie.

I’d often wondered how Brett would get along with my parents and brothers. He’d been raised in such a different environment. But he fit in easily, comfortably, like he belonged here. Like one of the family.

Would he become an official member of the family someday? It was too soon to tell. But he was definitely the kind of guy I could see myself filing joint tax returns and creating dependents with.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Here We Go Again

Ross O’Donnell called my cell Monday morning to catch me up. Gryder had gone before the judge this morning—with a new attorney, of course—and had been denied bail as a potential flight risk. He faced an assortment of charges. Tax evasion. Criminal fraud. Money laundering. Racketeering. Attempted murder of federal agents. With so many varied counts against him, there was no way he’d skate this time.

Neener-neener.

As for Stan Shelton, we’d given Josh the pleasure of arresting him. The Banking Department had set its sights on him, too. Shelton faced a varied, though slightly shorter, list of charges than Gryder. He’d posted bail and been released, but he’d likely serve some time for his role in the scam. His personal accounts had been frozen until it could be determined how much he’d profited from the Forex con. One of the vice presidents had taken over Shelton’s job at the bank and immediately given Dave Edwards, our informant, his long-overdue promotion.

If the rumor mill was right, both Britney and Chelsea had promptly filed for divorce. Looked like Stan and Michael would be filing single next year.

*   *   *

As we headed back to Dallas that afternoon, Brett detoured by his nursery property, situated fifteen miles northeast of Dallas, stopping his truck on the shoulder of the road. Three complete yet empty greenhouses stood near the center of the property, with another under construction next to them. There wasn’t much else to see except the nursery’s potential, but I had no doubt Brett would make it a success.

Our next stop was Eddie’s house. He’d been released from the hospital and was recuperating at home. When Sandra led us into the bedroom, we found Eddie sitting up in bed, plump white pillows stacked behind his back, one adorable pigtailed twin nestled on each side of their daddy, watching cartoons. Eddie was all smiles, the only sign of his near-death experience an oversized bandage on the side of his head.

I plopped myself down on the buttercup-yellow duvet, folded back at the foot of the king-sized bed. “So, lazybones, when are you coming back to work?”

“Next week,” Eddie said. “Try not to get yourself into trouble while I’m out.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I introduced Eddie to Brett. “Glad to finally meet you,” Eddie said, shaking Brett’s hand. “Word is you pulled me out of harm’s way.” He glanced down at his daughters, then back up at Brett. He choked up, his voice breaking. “Can’t thank you enough, man.”

Brett gave a quick, modest nod and smiled at the girls.

I glanced around the room. On the windows were yellow curtains that matched the bedcovers. The fabric was sheer and poofy, the sides pulled back in oversized bows.

“See?” Eddie said. “Too frilly.”

“I like them.”

Eddie snorted. “Should’ve known. You women always stick together.”

“I’m with Eddie on this one,” Brett said. “Those curtains are awful.”

“Right?” Eddie held out a fisted hand and Brett bumped knuckles with him. Eddie turned back to me. “Josh hacked into Gryder’s computer. He had a little trouble getting in until he figured out the password was”—he put a hand over the outer ear of each daughter and pulled their little heads to his chest to block the other ears—“blow job.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

The phone rang as Eddie released his squirming girls. He picked up the receiver from his bedside table. “Hello?”

I could only hear his side of the conversation. “Hi, Lu … Feeling great … Tell me.” His voice rose an octave, betraying his excitement. “Two mil? No shit?” The twins looked up at their father and frowned. “I mean, no kidding?” He glanced at me. “She’s right here with me. I’ll tell her. Bye, Lu.” He returned the phone to its cradle and flashed me a grin.

“What’s up?”

“The collections division seized over two million in assets from Gryder’s bank accounts, plus a ski boat he’d just purchased, his car, and a case of hair gel.”

I sat bolt upright. “We did it!”

“The Lobo can retire now.”

In all likelihood, the majority of the funds would be returned to the duped investors rather than added to the government’s coffers, but Lu would be credited with the take nonetheless.

My partner raised his right hand for a high five. With the cast on my right arm, I had to use my left to return Eddie’s gesture. A bit awkward, but it got the job done.

Reassured Eddie was recovering nicely, Brett and I left him with the gifts we’d brought—a recently released thriller novel, a six-pack of Heineken, and a new straw Stetson cowboy hat that would hide the hard-earned scar on his temple.

*   *   *

A dozen voice-mail messages awaited me when I returned to the office Tuesday morning, mostly fellow agents congratulating me and Eddie for getting the Lobo to the hundred-million mark. I’d brought my tax return to work on and finally completed the darn forms. I was due a four-hundred-dollar refund, enough to pay for the bikini I’d ordered and then some. Woo-hoo!

The Lobo stepped into my doorway, wearing a lemon-colored knit pantsuit with a flared hem and cuffs edged in green rickrack. Groovy.

“Hi, Lu,” I said. “We’re getting plans in the works for your retirement party. Have you turned in your notice to the DFO yet?”

“About that.” She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I’ve given it some more thought and I don’t think I’d be happy sitting at home all day. I’ve decided to hang on another year or two.”

“After all this talk about retiring you’re staying on?”

She shrugged. “Consider it a motivational tool. It worked, didn’t it?” She handed me a check for one-third of the ten-grand bonus. The rest would be split evenly between Eddie and Josh. She gestured for me to follow her. “Come on. Got a new case I want to discuss with you.”

I grabbed a legal pad and pen from my desk and followed Lu to her office. A man stood at the window inside, looking out onto the dreary, drizzly downtown streets. The April showers had hit town. Next month they’d bring the May flowers. This month, though, the rain brought only fender benders, traffic tie-ups, and the frizzies.

As Lu closed the door behind me, the man turned around. He was fiftyish, with thick, dark gray hair. He wore a stylish gray business suit and a serious, intent expression. Though he wasn’t tall, he was stocky and had a commanding, formidable presence.

Wasting no time, he stepped toward me, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss Holloway. I’m George Burton.”

I went rigid. “
The
George Burton?” As in the name at the top of the organization chart? The big cheese? The grand poobah of IRS Criminal Investigations?

He nodded. “Flew in from Washington last night.”

Holy crap! I took his hand and shook it the best I could given the cast on my arm, praying I didn’t look like a gaping idiot. I’d hoped to meet him someday, but I’d never expected to have this opportunity so early on in my career. “Nice to meet you, sir. This is an honor.”

Lu rolled her eyes and plunked herself into her chair. “Save your flattery. George doesn’t like suck-ups any more than I do.”

Although Burton gestured for me to take a seat, he didn’t take one himself, instead returning to his spot at the window. Though he appeared to be addressing the skyscraper across the street, it was clear he was speaking to me. “Lu tells me you’ve done some good work in the short time you’ve been with the IRS.”

Did she mention I’d had to fire my gun on two occasions? “Thank you. I love my job.”

“We’re putting you on a new case. A big one.”

A big case? I was flattered. Obviously, they wouldn’t assign me to an important investigation if they didn’t think I was capable of handling it. My lips spread in an enthusiastic grin. “The bigger the better.”

He turned to me now, his narrowed eyes and severe expression instantly chasing the smile from my face. “Not only is this case big,” he said, “but it’s highly sensitive.” He paused a moment, eyeing me as if trying to determine if I was up to the task.

I sat up straighter in my chair and tried my best to look competent, focused, and intelligent.

“You ever heard of Marcos Mendoza?”

I shook my head.

“I’m not surprised,” Burton said. “He’s very private. Keeps a low profile here in the States.”

Lu pulled a photo out of a file folder on her desk and handed it to me. The photo featured an attractive Latino man wearing a tuxedo. A few strands of silver streaked through Mendoza’s otherwise dark hair. Mendoza’s arm was draped over the shoulders of a pretty teenage girl in a bright purple ball gown. Judging from the matching widow’s peaks the two shared, I guessed the girl to be his daughter. A sprawling, Spanish-style mansion appeared behind the two.

“That photo was taken three months ago, at his daughter’s
quinceañera
in Mexico. Mendoza is a U.S. citizen. His wife is a Mexican national from a wealthy, well-connected family. Mendoza maintains a home for his family in Monterrey, as well as a penthouse in Crescent Tower here in Dallas.”

Not too shabby. The price of downtown penthouses ranged from a few million dollars on up.

“We’ve been after this guy for years,” Burton continued. “We thought we were close a few years ago, had infiltrated his operations, but then one of our own tipped Mendoza off.”

I gasped. “That’s low.”

“That’s greed,” Burton said. “Mendoza paid the agent a fortune and set him up in a nice place on the beach near Cancún. Mendoza’s got the Mexican judges in his pocket. They won’t extradite the agent back to the U.S. for trial.”

The traitor now lived in luxury in a virtual paradise. So much for justice.

“Mendoza’s one smart bastard,” Burton said. “He’s insulated himself with layer upon layer of corporations, partnerships, and limited liability companies. His name doesn’t appear in any of the paperwork, but it’s clear he’s the one in charge of the operations, the one reaping the financial rewards. He pays his top brass enough to keep their mouths shut. Of course the fact that one of his associates disappears every so often encourages them to keep mum, too.”

A lump formed in my throat. “Disappears?”

“Perhaps that’s an overstatement,” Burton said. “We did find the last guy. In Houston. San Antonio. Harlingen. His right foot surfaced in a Dumpster in El Paso.”

The lump in my throat was forced aside by rising bile. Instinctively I covered my mouth.

Lu chuckled. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Holloway. Once Eddie’s back from leave, I’ll assign him to work with you on this one. I’m sure you two can handle it.”

Burton stepped toward me now, stopping in front of my chair and looking down at me. “Given the nature of this case, you can’t tell anyone anything about it. Not your mother. Not your friends. Not your cats.” How’d he know I had cats? “You can’t even breathe a word of this to your coworkers.”

Whoa. Telling Brett was definitely out of the question, then. Damn! Just days ago I’d promised there’d be no more secrets between us. I’d even crossed my heart, hoped to die. Yet here I was, already forced to betray him once again.

But what choice did I have?