Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (9 page)

“I’ve got some magazines. Want one?” I pulled out the most recent issue of
Reader’s Digest
and held it out to her.

Christina slapped my hand and hissed, “You get caught ‘improving your word power’ around here and you’ll blow our cover.”

“Oh. Right.” I wasn’t very good at this undercover thing yet. “How about this?”

Christina accepted my second offering. “
Cosmo
. That’s more like it.”

I handed her a Diet Coke from the cooler and the two of us spent some time checking out the latest fashions, sniffing perfume samples, discussing the ridiculous crap written up in the Agony Column.

“‘My boyfriend says I’m too loud when we make love,’” Christina read aloud. “‘But I can’t help expressing my pleasure. What should I do?’”

I rolled my eyes. “The answer’s obvious. Get a new boyfriend who knows a good thing when he’s got it.”

One of the guys across the street glanced over at us, called out in Spanish—something about a
puta,
was it?—and the other laughed. Christina glared at them and raised her middle finger.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He asked if we were prostitutes. He won ten bucks on the Lotto and wanted to know how much that would get him.”

When I’d first moved into my town house, my neighbors had brought me homemade oatmeal cookies in a cute little basket. Things apparently worked differently here. I looked across the street and raised my middle finger, too, treating him to a French-tipped bird. Turning back to Christina, I said, “That’s great you can speak a foreign language.” Though Spanish hardly qualified as such in Texas. Since I grew up near the Louisiana border, French was standard high school fare. But I’d long since forgotten everything I’d learned, which wasn’t much to begin with. “Are your parents from Mexico?”

She shook her head. “My family emigrated from Uruguay three generations ago. My parents only speak English. I learned Spanish from the live-in maid.”

Christina certainly wasn’t the stereotypical Latina woman. “You had a full-time housekeeper?”

Christina nodded. “Daddy’s loaded. Coffee imports. But he’s very controlling. Typical Latino machismo bullshit. I originally joined the DEA to piss him off, but then I discovered I actually liked the job. Who other than the federal government would pay me to read
Cosmo
all morning?” She fanned the pages of the magazine and handed it back to me.

I checked the time on my silver bangle-style watch. “It’s been over two hours since we set off the roach bombs. Should be safe to go back in now.”

Christina stood and led the way up the rickety steps and into the house. I slammed into her back when she stopped unexpectedly, emitting a cry of disgust. I peered around her to see hundreds of dead or dying cockroaches littering the scuffed wood floor, a few on their backs, their legs dopily bicycling in the air. Nasty.

After we cleaned the place up and aired out the smell of insecticide, we unpacked the cooler, spread a clean sheet over the filthy sofa, and plugged in the television. We spent the afternoon being couch potatoes, waiting for Joe and watching trashy talk shows. Squinting at the small TV screen, I scrutinized Maury’s guest, who paraded back and forth across the stage in leopard-print spandex pants, gold sequined tube top, and black stilettos, her—or his—bleach-blond hair bobbing in long spiral curls.

Christina leaned toward the television for closer inspection. “That’s gotta be a guy.”

“No way.” I gestured at the screen. “Check out the crotch. No bulge.”

“Ever heard of duct tape?”

Sounded like a challenge to me. “Want to make it interesting?”

“Sure,” she said. “Loser buys the ice cream today.”

We leaned forward in our seats as Maury stepped up next to his guest. “Georgina is … a man!” The live audience whooped it up.

“Shoot.” The ice cream would be on me.

My freshly charged cell phone chirped and I went to the kitchen to get it. It was Viola.

“I heard from accounting,” she said. “They denied all your expenses.”

“On what grounds?”

“Unnecessary.”

Those tight-asses in accounting would have me sitting around this roach-infested house in my Donna Karan suit, crouching over a seatless toilet. Sheez. Martin and McGee never balked at reimbursing my expenses. Heck, they even paid for our parking and gave us a generous per diem for meals during tax season. There had been some benefits in working there. Not enough to make me want to go back, but still.

We tuned in to a soap opera as we ate a late lunch. By then it was about time for Joe to make his appearance. I’d brought along a blue nylon fanny pack to hide my gun and cuffs in, and I set about clipping the bag to my waist in preparation for the ice-cream man. The gun and cuffs probably wouldn’t be necessary, but if I’d learned anything in the last few days, it was to never underestimate anyone. Jack Battaglia had seemed harmless until he was coming at me with that box cutter.

Christina scrunched up her nose. “A fanny pack? That’s so nineties.”

“I’m not trying to be stylish here. I’m trying to conceal my weapons. There’s nowhere to hide a gun in this short skirt.”

“Sure there is. I worked on this at home last night. Watch.” Christina slid her gun into the waistband of her cheap pleather pants, tied the striped scarf she’d scored at Sam Moon around her waist as a belt, then clipped her iPod to the scarf to hold it in place and conceal her gun. She raised her palms. “Voilà.”

“Creative.”

The faint tones of tinny ice-cream truck music drifted in through the open windows.

“There’s our man.” I dug through my purse and retrieved my wallet. Never one to welsh on a bet, I dropped a couple of singles into Christina’s outstretched palm.

We stepped onto the porch to wait. The guys across the street had disappeared, the hood now closed on the car, the dog nowhere to be seen. After a few minutes, the ice-cream truck music grew louder and Joe’s rusty van rounded the corner down the street. He slowly made his way toward us, stopping several times for young children clamoring to buy a cold treat.

As he approached our house, Christina waved and he stopped the truck. She sauntered to the van, doing that sexy hip-sway thing while I trotted along like a pathetic sidekick.

“Hey.” Joe’s gaze ran up and down Christina’s body and his lips spread in a sleazy grin.

“We got money today.” Christina allowed a sexy Spanish accent to ease into her voice as the words rolled slowly off her tongue. She waved the bills at him.

Joe leaned through the window, his eyes darting around as he tried unsuccessfully to hide the fact he was peeking down Christina’s tight, low-cut shirt. “Uh … Fudgsicle?”

Christina tossed her head, her dark locks swaying. “Nah. I want to try something different.” She peeked up at Joe with bedroom eyes. She put a pink manicured nail to her lips, drawing Joe’s attention to her mouth. “What else you got that tastes good?”

Joe about came unglued, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Bomb Pop?” His voice cracked.

“Okay.”

Joe reached down into the freezer and fumbled around. He found a Bomb Pop and handed it to Christina. She gave him the bills and he returned her change.

“See ya tomorrow.” Christina waggled her fingertips at Joe and turned back toward the house.

Joe’s eyes locked on Christina’s ass as she sashayed her way back through the yard and disappeared into the house. Joe continued to stare after the screen door had swung closed.

I waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello?”

His head jerked in my direction. “Oh, yeah. What can I getcha?”

“I’ll have a Bomb Pop, too.”

I paid for my purchase and headed back to the house, noting that the two guys from across the street had come out of their house now and were headed to Joe’s truck. I stepped into the living room and walked to the window, looking through the dusty slats of the miniblinds. Christina stepped up beside me, sticking a finger between the slats to expand our view. Outside, Joe was bent down at his service window, talking closely with our neighbors. Joe stepped away from the window, then returned a few seconds later and handed the guys a small brown paper bag.

“Granny got it right,” Christina said, taking a lick at her Bomb Pop. “He’s dealing.”

CHAPTER TEN

Intuition

The next week and a half was basically a repeat of our first day undercover, minus the pepper spray and pretzel. Christina and I dressed trashy, hung out in the ’hood, and did our best to suck up to Joe. It wasn’t easy. Not only did he make our skin crawl, but the Latino guys who lived across the street made a habit of stepping into line behind us each day, disabling us from engaging in private conversation with Joe and rushing us through our exchange.

We’d rented a U-Haul and moved a few pieces of furniture into the house to make ourselves look legit. The spare dresser from my guest room. A whitewashed bookcase from Christina’s apartment. A wobbly dinette set with three mismatched chairs that we’d picked up for fifty bucks at Goodwill.

Sleeping on an air mattress on the floor left a lot to be desired, and left me with a sore back, but if we didn’t spend some of our nights at the house the neighbors might become suspicious. As if the accommodations weren’t bad enough, nights in the ’hood offered a cacophony of police sirens, car horns, and barking dogs. The mama raccoon and her offspring had taken up residence in the attic, banging around up there like they owned the place. Yet, as much as we missed a good night’s sleep, our tired, droopy eyes enhanced our pretense, giving us the strung-out look of drug users.

The usual spring drizzle had set in, forcing us to remain inside the house most of the day. At first it was fun to hang out, surf the Net, and watch television, but after a few days I developed a raging case of cabin fever. It didn’t seem to me we were making much progress, but Christina assured me that prolonged periods of downtime were normal on a stakeout, that things were moving along as expected, and that, unlike a tax investigation, the progress of a drug case couldn’t be measured in stacks of paperwork.

I checked in at the office several times, performing triage on my in-box and taking care of the items that couldn’t wait. I noted the thermometer in the break room now read ninety-eight million. One of my fellow agents had scored big in a case involving a chain of discount furniture stores, taking the Lobo that much closer to retirement. But there was two million left to go and the ten-grand bonus was still up for grabs.

After work on Friday, Christina dropped me at my town house. I changed out of my trashy clothes and into a pretty skirt and blouse. I drove into the parking lot of my favorite French restaurant, the chichi Chez Michel, pulled down the visor, and quickly checked my hair and makeup in the mirror. My lips definitely needed attention. I applied a coat of plum-hued gloss, rendering them soft, luscious, and kissable. I handed my keys to the waiting valet.

Stepping through the frosted-glass doors of the restaurant, I spotted Brett sitting at a secluded table in the back, next to a window. When he saw me walk in, his handsome face lit up.

My stomach gave an excited flutter. We’d attended a play at the Majestic Theater the previous Saturday, spent Sunday afternoon at a home-and-garden show at the convention center, and had dinner at a Mexican restaurant earlier in the week, but the new-car smell still hadn’t worn off our relationship.

I weaved my way past other diners to our table. Brett stood and walked around the table to greet me. I looked up at him, admiring the way his tailored charcoal suit draped across his broad shoulders, the way his soft green tie perfectly matched his eyes. He gave me a hug, his body lean and firm, a byproduct of time spent on landscaping projects and golf courses.

“Hey, Tara.”

“Hey.”

He kissed me gently, his hand sliding from my shoulder to the nape of my neck. His touch sent shock waves down my spine, making me want to rip off his jacket and tie and have my way with him right there on the crisp, white tablecloth, salad forks be damned.

I returned the kiss, melting into his arms. When I realized I’d been clutching him too close and too long for proper decorum, I released him from my grasp and stepped back.

He grinned slyly, his voice low and husky. “That was quite a greeting.”

Brett pushed the chair under me as I sat down. On the table was a glass of my favorite merlot, ready and waiting for me, complete with a cherry. Just how I liked it. This guy paid attention.

He reclaimed his seat on the other side of the table.

“I take it from the suit you weren’t planting trees today.”

“Nope.” He explained that he and one of the commercial architects from his firm had met with a potential client today to pitch designs for a medical complex.

“How’d it go?”

“We got the job.”

I raised my glass. “Congratulations.”

He clinked his glass against mine. “Thanks.”

The waiter arrived to take our order. I quickly perused the menu, deciding on a relatively simple mixed greens and goat cheese salad since I’d be having the calorie-laden crème brûlée for dessert.

“Oui, madame,”
the waiter said, taking my menu.

Over dinner, we discussed the turbulent world of Dallas politics, debated the possible causes for the reduction in the bee population and the effect it might have on gardening, and discussed the previous night’s episodes of our favorite British comedies. After spending the day on a stakeout in a former crack house, I needed to be able to let my guard down, experience this normality. Brett’s presence was calming, reassuring. I felt safe with him.

“Working on any interesting cases?” Brett asked.

Given the secretive nature of my current undercover operation, there wasn’t much I could tell Brett. “Kind of,” was all I said.

He waited for more. He didn’t get it.

“I’m sorry, Brett. I wish I could tell you more, but a lot of what I do is highly confidential.”

He chuckled. “Covert ops?”

His comment was closer to the truth than he realized.

“Not exactly Navy SEAL stuff,” I said, “but yeah.”

He raised his palms. “Okay. I got it. No shoptalk.” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. “I just hope you’re not working on anything dangerous.”

“You’re sweet to worry.” His concern warmed my heart. He’d begun to care about me. Woo-hoo! Still, I wondered if my inability to share the details of my job would become a problem. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel if the shoe were on the other foot. But I couldn’t reveal anything that might jeopardize the case. You never knew what might be overheard or innocently shared with a coworker or family member and inadvertently become public.

“Are you?” Brett asked. “Are you working on a dangerous case?”

I wasn’t sure what to say because I wasn’t entirely sure myself how dangerous the case was. I certainly hadn’t expected Jack Battaglia to go after me like he had. Was Joe a true threat? Hard to tell. He was scrawny, not too smart. Then again, he was a drug dealer. Still, the biggest danger was probably that the decrepit house would collapse on us.

“I’m not sure,” I said finally. I suppose I could’ve told him then that I carried a Glock, handcuffs, and pepper spray, but mentioning the weapons might only serve to underscore the danger of my job. Better to ease him in, feed him details over time as we came to know each other better.

Brett exhaled, released my hand, and sat back in his chair.

The concern that had warmed my heart only a moment ago now had me hot and bothered. Jack Battaglia hadn’t realized how tough I could be, and now it seemed as if Brett, too, were questioning my ability to take care of myself. Of course, the reason it bothered me so much was that I harbored the same doubts. Still, it was my ability and my right to question it, not his. Time to turn the tables. “What about your job?” I demanded. “You work with nail guns, chain saws, heavy equipment. You could be run over by a tractor or fall into a wood chipper, end up like Steve Buscemi in
Fargo
.”

Brett shuddered, then raised his white cloth napkin and waved it. “Okay, okay. I surrender.” He put the napkin down. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Tara. I know you can take care of yourself. I just don’t want to see you hurt. It’s only natural for a guy to feel protective of his woman.”

His woman?
Oddly, the statement got both my ire and hopes up. “You consider me
your woman
?” I looked across the table at him, noting the playful smile on his face. He hadn’t truly gone caveman on me. He was only teasing, flirting, testing the waters. Maybe I needed to lighten up.

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met, Tara.”

“How so?” Okay, so now I was blatantly fishing for compliments. But I was also curious how Brett saw me, what qualities he found attractive.

“You’re…” He looked up as if searching for the right word. Finally, he found it. “Feisty.”

Yeah, “feisty” pretty much summed me up.

“I don’t want another guy getting his hands on you until we’ve had a chance to see where this goes. What do you say?”

I looked into his gorgeous green eyes, noted the sincere smile on his soft lips, and damn if I didn’t forgive him on the spot. Now, what to say to his offer? It had been a while since I’d dated anyone exclusively. But it had also been a while since I’d met anyone as attractive, fun, and interesting as Brett. We seemed to be a good match so far, and the idea of him going out with another woman made me feel, well,
icky
. I shrugged. “What the heck.”

Brett chuckled, shook his head, and took my hand again. “What the heck it is.”

After the waiter brought the dessert, Brett leaned toward me over the table, gazing into my eyes, his expression seductive now. Instantly, my body temperature kicked up ten degrees. I hoped my antiperspirant could handle it. It had already been through a lot today. The foreclosure didn’t have central AC and the window units had either been removed by the former owners or stolen.

“Remember that client I told you about?” he said. “The one with the lake house?”

“The banker, right?”

He nodded. “The construction is complete now and I’m heading out to the lake tomorrow to survey the property. It’ll be an overnight trip.” Brett watched my face as if trying to gauge my reaction. “Come with me, Tara.”

Oh, I’d like to come with him, all right. Still, we’d only known each other two weeks. It was awfully soon to spend the night together, wasn’t it? Even if we had just agreed to date exclusively?

Brett seemed to sense my hesitation. “There’s a nice resort on the lake. I reserved a suite with two bedrooms.”

A suite? Sweet. And separate beds would take some of the pressure off.

Brett ran his thumb down the back of my hand, triggering a tingle that raced up my arm, made a sharp turn, and headed south, stopping for an extended vacation at my equator. “How about it?”

I mentally ran through my schedule for the weekend. I’d planned to mow my tiny lawn, but for ten bucks the boy who lived next door would take care of it. I’d planned to see the latest chick flick with Alicia, but she’d understand if I rescheduled. I was also going to work on my tax return. But the return wasn’t due for a few more weeks. It could wait.

I raised a finger. “One sec.” Pulling my phone from my purse, I sent a quick text message to Christina, asking if she’d mind covering the house alone this weekend so I could go out of town with Brett.

OK,
came the reply a few seconds later.
But U will O me.

Not a problem. She’d bought me off with a pretzel and she was probably just as easy. A bottle of vanilla-scented bath oil should cover it. “Let’s do it.”

Brett smiled and gave my hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. “Great.”

My heart somersaulted at the thought of spending so much one-on-one time with Brett. Going away together for the weekend would certainly crank our relationship up a notch. I wondered if it would end with at least one notch on the bedpost, too.

Brett saved the last few bites of his steak for his Scottish terrier mix, asking the waiter for a doggie bag. We split the crème brûlée for dessert, engaging in a round of rock-paper-scissors to see who would get the last bite. Brett won, rock over scissors, but while his hands were raised in victory, I scooped the last spoonful off the plate and into my mouth before he could protest. He watched me lick my spoon clean, a hungry look on his face despite having just enjoyed a sizable filet mignon. I can be such a tease sometimes. It’s part of my charm.

We decided to call it a night at that point since we needed to get an early start the next morning to make the hour-long drive to the lake. Brett tipped the valet when the young man brought my car around, then turned to me. “See you at eight.” He gave me a soft good-night kiss, then pulled back, putting his tongue to his lips. “Tastes like stolen crème brûlée.” He grinned, then quickly stole another kiss from me. “There. Now we’re even.”

*   *   *

I made a quick stop by the nail salon on my way home from the restaurant. The nail tech removed the sparkly red polish, replacing it with traditional white French tips.

When I returned home, I headed straight upstairs to pack. I stepped into my walk-in closet, wrangled my black soft-sided suitcase down from the shelf, and opened it on the bed. Annie promptly climbed into it and curled up in the corner, watching me.

I returned to the closet and looked around. If another woman searched through my clothing, she would assume two very different women lived here rather than just one. My wardrobe comprised two extremes—feminine heels, sophisticated cocktail dresses, and conservative business suits on one side of the closet, with T-shirts, faded jeans, and scuffed boots on the other. I guess I’m unofficially bipolar. The rough-and-tumble tomboy I’d been while growing up in Nacogdoches still lived in me, but part of her had been replaced by a young woman who enjoyed the more sophisticated things in life.

I shooed my cat out of the suitcase and she settled on my pillow instead. Along with a pair of cream Bermuda shorts and a sporty short-sleeved knit shirt, I decided to pack a deep purple calf-length fitted skirt and a coordinated short-sleeved sweater. I dug in my panty drawer and retrieved my red lace bra and the matching itchy, uncomfortable red lace thong I’d recently bought but had yet to put to use. I wasn’t sure I understood thongs. When I was young, my brothers had yanked my underwear up my crack, giving me a wedgie as punishment for eating the last Twinkie or telling Dad they’d been dipping snuff behind the barn. Weren’t wedgies supposed to be a bad thing? Now, all of the sudden, women were intentionally wearing wedgies. Made no sense to me. But, not to be left out of the fashion trend, I’d bought one of the torture devices.