Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries Read online

  The intro complete, the episode began with Isidora Davila stopping in a dark hallway and pulling a ski mask over her face. She tiptoed to an office at the end of the hall, where an unsuspecting blonde stood at a file cabinet, rifling through the contents. Isidora slunk silently into the room, sneaked up behind the woman, and grabbed a lamp from the woman’s desk. Moving quickly, she wrapped the electrical cord around the blonde’s neck, pulling with all her might. Choking, the blonde clawed at the cord, desperate for air.

  Whoa! That was some pretty dramatic stuff. Especially for daytime television. And, of course, the entire scene was punctuated with music that enhanced the mood, minimal at first, but building to a loud crescendo.

  Things only got more dramatic from there. Isidora dragged the blonde to a staircase and gave her a forceful shove, sending her careening headfirst down the steps. Thump-thump-thump-thump! The camera panned from the blonde’s lifeless body on the landing up to Isidora’s wide smile, evident even behind the ski mask.

  After a quick commercial break, the screen showed the lead actress now lounging on a chaise, furiously scribbling in a journal with a fancy silver pen, the subtitles revealing the woman’s innermost thoughts. If anyone ever figures things out, I’ll be ruined! But I refuse to feel shame. That thief stole a heart that belonged to me. She got what she deserved!

  Good thing people didn’t act like this in real life, huh?

  Rather than continue with this episode, I figured it made more sense to start at the beginning. When I was forced to stop for a long train at a railroad crossing, I backed out of the program and pulled up the pilot episode of Amor y Vengaza.

  The story began with Isidora, dressed in a gauzy sundress and stiletto heels, her makeup perfect, standing in the office with the fortyish man. The dialogue in the subtitles told me the man had just recently become her husband. His custom-tailored business suit and the diamond ring logo on the wall behind his desk told me he was a busy man who ran a large, successful chain of high-end jewelry stores.

  “You know I adore you,” he barked impatiently. “I didn’t just marry you for your family’s gold mines.”

  Her narrowed eyes said she wasn’t so sure. Maybe he’d married her for the family discount. I supposed I couldn’t much fault him when I’d been thinking of ways to leverage my relationship with Nick into perks at work.

  When Isidora’s husband excused himself to take a phone call, she chastised him for not giving her the attention she needed and flounced out of the room.

  Ay yi yi, I said to myself. Such melodrama!

  After a commercial for laundry detergent, the show resumed. An angry Isidora left the office building and stormed across the busy street, where she yanked open the door of a coffeehouse. Inside, she saw something she couldn’t resist. No, it wasn’t a caramel latte. It was the artsy barista. When their eyes met, she gave him a coy smile, dipping her head and looking up at him from under her long, dark lashes.

  She stepped to the counter and placed her order with the girl working the register.

  “Your name?” asked the clerk.

  “Isidora,” the star replied.

  She waited patiently until the barista called her name in a warm voice that could melt icebergs faster than global warming.

  “Isidora?” His eyes met hers over the counter as he handed her a big cup of coffee, his sexy smile full of suggestion as he spoke, his dialogue translated across the bottom of the screen. “Just the way it should be. Hot, steamy, and only for you.”

  The scene continued with the barista’s fingers brushing Isidora’s as he handed her the cup of coffee. When the caboose rumbled by, the crossing arm lifted, and the warning lights stopped flashing. I drove on. The episode ended with a cliffhanger, the barista stepping over to wipe a ring of moisture from Isidora’s table and leaning in close to whisper in her diamond-studded ear. I can fill your cup like no other. Do not deny me, or yourself.

  The innuendo and double entendre were laughable but, as the closing credits and romantic guitar music played, I found myself wondering. Will she deny him? And herself? She had so much to lose if she gave in. Her beautiful home. Her jewelry and clothes. Her share of her husband’s fortune. But if her husband didn’t truly love her, had married her only for her family’s resources, should she be forced to live a lie? To deny herself the love she could find elsewhere?

  By this time, I was nearing my destination. I paused the show so that next time I watched I could pick up where I left off.

  Brett’s nursery and landscaping business sat on a thirty-acre parcel of land several miles beyond the northeast Dallas suburbs. A white wooden fence ran across the front of the property, looking as fresh as the daisies dotting the letter Is on the green sign identifying the place as Ellington Nurseries.

  I pulled into the asphalt drive. A cute little Mazda Miata and Brett’s black Navigator were parked to the right of the metal prefab building that housed the offices and an expansive warehouse. Through the open doors, I could see pallet after pallet of organic compost, soil, and mulch in a variety of wood and color varieties. Beyond the metal building were rows of greenhouses in which plants, shrubs, and trees could start their lives in a protected environment under Brett’s nurturing care.

  Though Brett owned the operation, his background and education were in landscape architecture, not business, and he preferred to spend his time schmoozing new clients and working on designs. To that end, he’d hired another man to run the day-to-day operations. The guy had worked for several years as an assistant manager with one of the big home improvement chains, but he’d been ready for more responsibility and jumped on the opportunity to be in charge of Brett’s nursery and the landscaping crews. I could see the guy now making his way among the greenhouses. A Latino man—perhaps one of the men I was looking for—followed him.

  I glanced around for Brett. Not seeing him out and about, I figured he must be inside. Taking a breath to steel myself, I climbed out of my car. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since I’d left MetalMasters. A fresh gust of wind pushed me along as I walked to the door and pulled it open.

  To my surprise, I found myself face-to-face with Fiona, Brett’s fiancée. Scratch that. Fiona was now his wife. The thick band on her left ring finger told me they’d sealed the deal. Her beach-ball-sized baby bump told me that it had been none too soon. It also told me that she’d soon have to replace that cute little two-seater Miata with a mom-mobile.

  Fiona looked up from her seat behind the natural wood desk, her reddish-brown hair swaying as she tilted her head. The slightly puzzled look on her fair-skinned face told me she found me vaguely familiar, but couldn’t quite place me. “Hello,” she said, standing. “How can I help you?”

  Before I could answer, two distinct barks sounded at the closed door to Brett’s office behind her. Brett might not yet know I was here, but his Scottie Napoleon and his pit bull mix Reggie had scented me and wanted to say hello. Looked like they hadn’t forgotten the girl who’d rubbed their bellies and made them fried baloney sandwiches. With Fiona being a chef, I could only imagine what kind of gourmet treats the two were enjoying these days.

  The door opened and the dogs bolted out. They rushed over to me and I crouched down to pet their wriggling bodies. “Hey, boys! Good to see you!”

  Reggie gave my cheek a lick and Napoleon gave me an arf-arf in greeting before I stood to greet Brett. His green eyes met mine, sparking with surprise and—dare I think?—a hint of excitement. I had to admit I felt a little flutter in my belly, too. Nick was definitely the right and only man for me, but despite that fact, the undeniable chemistry Brett and I had once shared seemed to still be reactive. And, after all, it’s not like we’d broken up because we no longer had feelings for each other, because the physical attraction had died. We’d both simply realized we’d also been attracted to other people, and that we owed it to ourselves to see where those attractions might lead.

  Brett wasn’t tall, but his lean, muscular build, sand
y hair, and toothpaste-commercial smile could certainly turn a girl’s head. They’d once turned mine, and I had to admit they’d do it again if I hadn’t already been there, done that, so to speak. Like Fiona, he now bore a look that was mostly puzzled, though his befuddlement had nothing to do with trying to place me. He just didn’t have a clue why I’d driven all the way out to his business to see him.

  “Hey, Tara!” he said, stepping closer. “What brings you out this way?”

  “Work.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “I should’ve known. It’s always work with you.”

  My dedication to my job had been a sore spot in our relationship. More than once, my work had gotten in the way of our romantic plans. But such is the life of a special agent.

  I wasn’t sure whether to give Brett a hug or merely shake his hand given that his pretty new bride was standing five feet away, watching us. I decided to let him choose. Apparently he couldn’t make up his mind either, at least not quickly, as he came at me with both a hand and an arm outstretched. We engaged in an awkward half-hug handshake combo before separating.

  Brett turned to his wife. “Fiona, this is Tara Holloway.”

  A series of emotions played across her face. Surprise. Suspicion. Jealousy. Acceptance. I supposed the same emotions had played across mine when I’d walked in the door and spotted her at the desk. Silly, really. Brett and I had willingly separated so that he could pursue a relationship with Fiona and I could pursue one with Nick. We’d made our choices and never looked back. And, really, we were all adults here, right? Of course, we were also human. And humans aren’t always prone to rationale behavior. Still, once the emotions played out, Fiona gave me a sincere smile and stepped over to shake my hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Tara.”

  “Same,” I said. “You’re looking better than last time I saw you.”

  The puzzled expression returned.

  “At Chez Michel,” I said, “a few months back. The appetizer made you queasy.”

  “Oh, right! Those first few weeks, nothing seemed to agree with this little guy.” She smiled, pointing both index fingers at her belly to indicate the tiny person growing therein. “I had morning sickness all day long. That’s why I’m here, in fact. It’s impossible to work as a chef if you can’t look at food without—” She stopped herself, put a hand over her mouth, and whispered. “You know.”

  Such a lady. Being less genteel, I would’ve just put it out there. Tossing my cookies.

  I cocked my head. “You couldn’t work at the restaurant, but the smell of composted manure doesn’t bother you?”

  She laughed at that. “Oddly, no.”

  “You said ‘little guy.’” I looked from her to Brett. “So it’s a boy, then?”

  Brett beamed. “That’s what the doctor tells us.”

  “Picked out a name yet?” You could bet your ass it wouldn’t be Hank or Waylon. Unlike Nick and me, Brett wasn’t a big fan of country music.

  “We’re thinking Evan,” Brett said.

  “Or Spencer, maybe,” Fiona said. “We haven’t decided for sure.”

  “Wait a second.” Brett reached out and took my left hand, just as he had so many times when we were dating. “What’s this?” He held up my hand to show my engagement ring.

  I shrugged and grinned. “I’m getting hitched, too.”

  “To Nick?”

  “Yep.”

  Brett dropped my hand but gave me that easy, boyish grin that used to melt my heart. While my heart wasn’t exactly melting now, it had nonetheless grown soft and warm. “He knows what he’s getting himself into, doesn’t he?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah. He does.”

  When Brett and I had dated, he’d routinely expressed concern about the dangers of my job, even going so far as to suggest I return to my safer tax preparation job at Martin & McGee, the CPA firm where I’d worked before joining the IRS. I’d downplayed things so he wouldn’t worry. How could I quit the job I felt tailor-made for? There weren’t many people out there who could handle both a spreadsheet and a Glock with equal skill.

  Nick, on the other hand, fully understood why I loved my job, why I willingly assumed the risks, why I couldn’t turn my back on the work that made me feel so satisfied. He understood the desire to seek justice, especially in cases where innocent people had been deprived of their hard-earned savings by unscrupulous bastards. He worried about me, sure. But he knew I’d never be happy doing anything else. Neither would he. Nick and I were cut from the same cloth, two peas in a pod, two sides of the same coin, and a dozen other such clichés.

  Niceties complete, Brett got down to business now. “Uncle Sam need some landscaping? Maybe a hedge maze in the shape of a dollar bill?”

  “I’m actually here to talk about a tax matter that involves your business.”

  He stiffened, the easy smile disappearing. “Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good. Am I in some trouble here?”

  chapter fourteen

  Who We Are

  Was Brett in trouble? Honestly, it depended on how he answered the questions I planned to ask him. If he’d taken the birth certificates, social security cards, and voter registration cards at face value and assumed his workers had the right to accept the jobs, he’d be in good shape. But if he had reason to believe the documentation was fraudulent, it would be a different story. I assumed it would be the former. Brett had reported all the income he’d paid the men and collected all withholding taxes due. That was a sign of good faith, right? Besides, everything I knew about the guy told me he was a rule follower, an upright guy who obeyed the law. Heck, he was a Rotarian, for goodness sake.

  Nonetheless, Fiona’s eyes were bright with worry. I supposed it was never good to be questioned by the IRS, even if you knew the agent personally and thought you’d dotted all your Is and crossed your Ts.

  Might as well cut to the chase, huh? “We have reason to believe several of your workers provided you false documentation to obtain employment here.”

  “False documentation?” Brett repeated, his forehead wrinkled in concern. “What do you mean? That my workers aren’t who they say they are?”

  “It’s unlikely.” I laid my briefcase on Fiona’s desk, unlocked the clasps—click-click—and removed the copies of the documentation. I handed the copies to Brett. “Multiple copies of these documents were found in a rental car driven by a man named Salvador Hidalgo. He’s a suspected coyote.”

  “Coyote?” Fiona looked from her husband to me. “What’s a coyote?”

  “A human smuggler,” I clarified. “I’m working with agents from Border Patrol. They’ve performed several emergency rescues in recent months when smugglers abandoned migrants in the desert without food, water, or shelter. Others were not so lucky. They’ve found bodies, too. They were able to rescue a toddler who survived when his parents succumbed to the heat, but he’ll live his life as an orphan.”

  “Oh, no!” Fiona wrapped her arms instinctively around her belly as if to protect her child. “That’s so sad!”

  “It gets worse,” I told them. “Three girls who were on their way to the U.S. are missing. The kidnapper contacted their aunt and demanded a ransom. We think Hidalgo had something to do with their disappearance, that the kidnapper is part of his smuggling network.” I gestured to the papers in Brett’s hand. “There are several people working around the U.S. under those same names and social security numbers. Because that paperwork was found with Hidalgo, we believe he smuggled your workers into the country. Of course, he’s claiming that he had no idea the paperwork was in the rental car and that it’s not his. Without more concrete evidence and witnesses, the prosecutors won’t be able to get a conviction, and Hidalgo will continue killing innocent people. I need to speak with your workers, see if they’d be willing to testify against Hidalgo.”

  Brett looked down at the paperwork in his hand and thumbed through it. “Julio. Pablo. Miguel. Diego.” He looked back up, concern clouding his eyes. “These
are some of my best men, Tara. They work their asses off all day in the heat and never complain.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Many undocumented migrants did their best to stay on their employer’s good side, to lie low, to behave in a way that would keep them out of trouble, under the radar. The last thing they wanted after risking their lives to come to America was to be deported back to the place they’d taken extreme measures to escape.

  I watched him closely. “Did you ever have reason to think they weren’t who they said they were?”

  He looked me right in the eye, unflinching. “No. Never.”

  He was telling the truth. I didn’t just know it, I felt it.

  “Will they be deported?” he asked. “Sent back to wherever they came from?”

  “Depending on their situation,” I said, “and whether they cooperate with the government in its attempt to nail Hidalgo, they might be able to avoid deportation.”

  “Might.” Brett’s face clouded as his concern began to border on anger. Clearly he felt protective of the men who worked for him, and I’d become a threat. “You realize these guys have families, don’t you? Wives and children who count on them? If they’re deported, this will be devastating, for all of them.”

  I couldn’t much blame Brett for his concerns. Hell, I had the same ones. “Look,” I said. “I feel for these guys. I really do. That’s why I want to help stop unscrupulous smugglers like Hidalgo. Can you imagine what it’s like for the people he left to die in the desert? For their families back home? Big Bend is a big place. There could even be bodies that haven’t been found yet. Can you imagine not knowing what happened to your loved ones? To just have them disappear?”