Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (8 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Girlz in the ’Hood

The next morning, I dressed in a pair of the no-line panties and a scandalously short denim miniskirt I’d bought for nightclubbing back in college. The fabric barely covered my butt. I topped the skirt off with a bright yellow T-shirt knotted tightly above my belly button, revealing several inches of bare stomach. I may not have much to offer in the way of cleavage, but thanks to my frequent workouts with Eddie, at least my stomach was flat and rock hard. So long as I was going for the Daisy Mae look, I figured I’d wear my red leather ropers. I applied a heavy coating of eye shadow and mascara on my eyes and put on twice as much blush and lipstick as usual, carefully applying the cosmetics to my still-sensitive face.

After trying in vain to fluff out my hair like Christina had done in the mall’s dressing room, I bent over at the waist and sprayed my hair as I shook my head. When I stood back up, my hair stuck out wildly in all directions like I’d just climbed off a roller coaster. An enormous pair of silver hoop earrings completed my tacky ensemble. If Brett saw me now, he wouldn’t even recognize me.

Anne sat on the bathroom countertop watching me, her pupils large. I bent over and looked her in the face. “What do you think, Annie girl?”

She hissed, jumped off the cabinet, and darted under the bed. I took a glimpse at myself in the mirror. “You’re right, cat. Take me to the curb, I am white trash.”

*   *   *

At the office I filled out my expense report and handed the form to the secretary in the accounting department along with an envelope containing the receipts for my new trashy clothing, the cleaning supplies, and the toilet seat. I crossed my fingers the expenses would be approved. Accountants were generally known for being tight-asses, and the internal accountants at the IRS were the tightest asses of all. They pinched pennies until Abe Lincoln screamed for mercy.

Josh, wearing his standard khaki pants, blue button-down shirt, and malicious scowl, stood at the water fountain as I came down the hall. He looked me up and down. “My, my, if it isn’t Larry the Cable Girl.” He held an imaginary spittoon to his lips, making a
puh-ting
sound as he pretended to spit tobacco juice into it.

I put a hand on my hip. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m on an undercover assignment.”

Josh’s blue eyes flashed envy and he bolted by me, taking off in the direction of Lu’s office, probably to complain. He’d never been assigned an undercover operation, but it was his own fault. He was a whiz with computers, but his people skills stank. Rumor had it he was a cyborg.

I’d brought along a suitcase full of clothes, as well as some things to make the stakeout more enjoyable—a small cooler full of food and drinks, some magazines, my laptop. I carried my things outside and sat on my plastic cooler on the sidewalk in front of the office building, waiting for Christina to pick me up. A few minutes later, Eddie walked up with Ross O’Donnell, the attorney from the Justice Department.

Eddie took me in from the top of my teased hair to the bottom of my scuffed cowboy boots. “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”

Back in Nacogdoches, I’d been known to curse a time or two, but I was trying to change my uncultured ways. Still, I couldn’t let Eddie’s blatant affront go unchecked. “Kiss my derrière.”

“Classy comeback,” Ross said. “What with the French and all.”

Eddie wore his double-breasted gray power suit and shiny silk black and gray checkered tie, clearly attired for a major bust.

I shielded my eyes from the sun as I looked up at him. “Who’s going down today?”

“The owner of Chisholm’s Steakhouse.”

Chisholm’s was a popular high-end restaurant downtown, near the financial district, the kind of place where expensive wines were uncorked and slaughtered cattle found their way into the arteries of the rich and famous while million-dollar deals were sealed.

Eddie slid his sunglasses into the breast pocket of his suit. “The owner and his wife are in the middle of a nasty divorce and she ratted out her husband for cheating on his taxes. Of course, she claims she knew nothing about it until just recently.”

“How convenient.”

In the restaurant business, cash transactions were common, which made it easy to fudge the profits. That type of garden-variety tax fraud offered little intrigue. I was glad I had my own case to work on instead.

Christina rounded the corner in the pink Cadillac, the back tire riding up on the curb as she cut the wheel a little too close. Driving that long car was like steering a cruise ship. She rolled to a stop at the curb and leaned over in the front seat to peek up at me through the passenger window. She wore a skintight cap-sleeved pink top along with black imitation-leather pants and high-heeled black boots. Her hair was floofed within an inch of its life and her boobs were hiked up so high in a push-up bra they’d virtually become shoulder pads. “Your face looks much better today. Ready to head to the Taj Ma-hurl?”

“Yep.” I picked up the cooler, my suitcase, and my backpack and put them in the trunk next to a small television set Christina had brought with her. I slammed the trunk closed and climbed into the front seat.

Christina had just put the car in gear when the Lobo stepped up to my window and rapped on it, ashes falling from the cigarette in her hand. Today Lu wore a clingy knee-length dress in a swirled pattern of turquoise and pink, the bottom trimmed with balled fringe. At first glance she appeared to be wearing coordinating blue tights, then I realized the blue swirls on her legs were varicose veins. Instead of go-go boots, today she sported cork platform shoes. Talk about a fashion victim. This outfit should be a felony.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she demanded through the glass.

I unrolled the window. “We’re heading out to stalk the ice-cream man.”

“Didn’t you get Viola’s message?” Lu took a deep drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke waft back out through her nose. “She left one on your cell.”

I opened my purse and pulled out my mobile phone. The battery was dead. Oops. “What was she calling about?”

“Your hearing on Battaglia’s shooting is at nine.” Lu jerked her head toward the building. “Get your butt in there.”

I glanced at my watch. Eight fifty-three. Dang. No time to change my clothes. I’d have to defend myself in this skanky outfit.

I showed Christina where to park and we went into the building, Christina’s leather pants making that odd crunching sound, her heels again click-clacking as she followed me inside.

“Good luck,” Viola called as I passed her desk.

“Thanks.” I was going to need it.

Josh eyed Christina and me as we walked by his office, stepping into the hall and following us as we made our way to Internal Affairs. “Tara’s going down,” he called after me, following his comment with a “Boop … boop … boop,” like the sound of a submarine diving.

Christina glanced back at Josh. “Who’s the dork?”

“That’s Josh,” I said. “He’s a cyborg. His dad was human, his mom was a Pentium III.”

When I arrived at the conference room, Eddie was waiting outside. He’d just received word of the hearing, too.

I stepped closer to my partner. “Eddie,” I whispered. “I’m scared. What if I get fired?” No way could I go back to desk work. I’d sooner die. Maybe I’d have to shoot myself next time.

Eddie squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll do fine. Besides, this type of experience builds character.”

I punched him in the arm.

He rubbed his bicep, then held the door open for me and Christina. When Josh tried to come in, Eddie put one hand on each doorjamb, blocking the doorway. “This doesn’t involve you.”

“It doesn’t involve her, either.” Josh pointed to Christina.

“No,” Eddie said. “But she smells pretty so she’s allowed to stay.” He stepped inside and slammed the door in Josh’s face.

The Lobo stood at the window, a crumpled green pack of cigarettes in hand, ready to take another smoke break as soon as my hearing was over.

Eddie gestured to the pack in the Lobo’s hand as he walked past her. “That’s not your usual brand.”

“I switched to menthols,” she said. “They freshen your breath.”

Yeah, right.

On the far side of the long rectangular conference table sat two older men, one white-haired, one gray—the director of field operations, or DFO for short, and a seasoned investigator from Internal Affairs. Both wore navy blue suits and condemning expressions. They took one look at my outfit, exchanged glances, and frowned.

“Please excuse my attire.” I unknotted my T-shirt so it would at least cover my belly button and attempted to smooth my untamed hair. “I’m working undercover and only got word about this hearing five minutes ago.”

I slid into a seat across from the men, folded my hands on the table, and tried to appear as calm and professional as possible under the circumstances. Not easy when you’ve broken out in a cold sweat and every muscle in your body was so tense it hurt.

“Hi, y’all,” Christina chirped. She hiked her thumb at me. “This is one smart, tough chick you’ve got working for you.” She smiled and put her hand out across the table, leaning forward, her boobs likely to pop out of her shirt any second. “I’m Christina Marquez from the DEA, by the way. I’m working with Tara on the undercover case she mentioned.”

The men looked at each other as if unsure how to respond to the big-haired bimbo before them. Finally, the DFO slowly extended his hand across the table to shake hers. The investigator followed suit. Christina plunked down into the chair next to me.

My first reaction was annoyance that Christina didn’t seem to realize the critical nature of this meeting, but when the men kept sneaking glances at her as I related the events of last Friday’s bust, I realized
her
bust served as an effective distraction.

I explained I’d been innocently perusing documents in the office of the auto parts store when Battaglia entered, wielding the box cutter. I pulled back the fresh bandage on my arm and showed them my stitches, hoping to earn some pity points in my favor.

Christina gasped. She sat bolt upright, slapping her palms on the table, opening her big brown eyes wide, and poking out her breasts in indignation. “My God! He cut you?” She turned to the men across the table. “Clearly Tara did what she had to do.” She crossed her arms under her cleavage, pushing her breasts up even further. “Case closed.”

“I agree,” said the DFO. The investigator murmured his assent.

I signed the record of their findings to be placed in my permanent Internal Affairs file. The Lobo signed off, too, and handed the form back to them. They slipped the form into a file and opened the door to leave. Josh fell forward into the room, obviously having been listening at the door, the nosy twerp. He turned and quickly scurried away like the little rodent he was.

Once the higher-ups had gone, Lu shook a cigarette from the pack in her hand. “That went much better’n I expected.” She stuck the cigarette between her lips and shooed us out the door. “Everyone back to work now.”

Eddie walked me and Christina out to the Cadillac. “I can’t believe I didn’t have to testify,” he said to me. “I figured we’d be begging them not to transfer you to the audit department.”

“Oh, please,” Christina said. “Men are so easy. Just show them some boob and you can get whatever you want.”

Aha. I’d had my suspicions she’d been playing a part back there. Under all that poofy hair was a nimble brain.

“I owe you one,” I told her.

The two of us climbed into the Caddie and waved good-bye to Eddie. Standing alone in the parking lot, he looked wistful, as if he wished he were going undercover on a stakeout. Beats the heck out of reviewing accounting ledgers all day.

*   *   *

On the way to the crack shack, I quizzed Christina about her date with Dr. Maju. “Fess up. How was your date with Ajay last night? Did he rock your Casbah?”

“We had a great time. I’m hoping to see him again.” She honked the Caddie’s loud horn as a silver Mustang sailed across three lanes in front of us, nearly taking off our front bumper. That’s Dallas traffic for you.

“Well, I hope I
never
have to see Ajay again.” I scratched at the itchy tape holding the bandage to my forearm.

“He’s a great kisser, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. He’s never slipped me any tongue. Just a tongue depressor.”

“He was all over me last night,” Christina said. “Like that Hindu god with all the hands. What’s his name?” She twirled a finger in the air as she tried to remember.

“Vishnu?”

She snapped her fingers. “That’s the one.”

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the gravel driveway of our shack-away-from-home. Across the street, two young Latino men wearing jeans and white wife-beater shirts leaned over a primer-gray seventies-era Nova, tinkering under the hood. The portable stereo at their feet blasted Tejano music. A huge, muscular black dog was chained to a tree in the yard, eyeing me and Christina and drooling, as if wondering what we might taste like. Chicken, perhaps? He hadn’t been neutered, sporting a pendulous pair of egg-shaped testicles. He appeared to be part pit bull, part Rottweiler. What would that make him? A pitweiler? A rottbull? Either way, it didn’t sound nearly as cute and friendly as a labradoodle.

Next door, a heavyset frizzy-blond woman stepped out onto her porch, a cigarette in one hand, a can of beer in the other, and a scowl on her face. “Turn that goddamn wetback music down!” she bellowed.

The young men pretended to ignore her, though one of them nudged the volume button with the toe of his work boot, turning the music down a few decibels from earsplitting to simply irritating. The other muttered something about “white trash.”

“Shouldn’t these people be at work?” I asked.

Christina just snorted in reply.

I grabbed the roach bombs we’d bought the day before out of the plastic bag. “First things first.”

After we triggered the bombs, we had to stay outside for two hours, giving the fog time to work its deadly magic. I retrieved my cooler and backpack from the car, sat down next to Christina on the front steps, and unzipped the bag. I’d brought my tax return—filing single yet again—but I really wasn’t in the mood to work on it.