Death, Taxes, and a Sequined Clutch Read online

  Nate’s cool blue eyes flickered from my gun to my face. Was it my imagination, or did he look a little flustered? It wouldn’t be the first time a guy had been turned on by my gun. I would’ve thought my weapon skills might be emasculating, but even Brett had found them titillating. I was beginning to wonder if every man had a secret dominatrix fantasy.

  “It’s nice to see you again,” Nathan said. “How are things at the IRS?”

  “Fast and furious.” Just like the sex had been with him. He’d spent mere milliseconds rounding the bases and slid into home while the fans were just taking their seats. A couple of grunts and groans later, he was done and I was left wondering whether he even cared about my pleasure. I wasn’t left to wonder long. He’d climbed out of my bed and, while slipping back into his pants, thanked me for “an amazing night.” Then he’d hightailed it out the door.

  I’d never felt so used and ashamed.

  Before that night, he’d spent weeks wining and dining me, bringing me flowers and other tokens of affection, making me feel as if I were something special to him. Postboink he’d immediately stopped calling and had avoided me at work. I was crushed to realize I’d been nothing more than a conquest to him, another notch on his belt. I later learned he had a history of preying on the new hires, trolling for hookups among the fresh crops of young girls who joined the firm each fall, choosing victims who had yet to learn of his seedy reputation.

  To be honest, though, I hadn’t been nearly so angry at him as I’d been at myself. I should’ve seen the signs. I should’ve known better. Instead, I’d let myself be overly impressed by his sophistication, stylish attire, and job title—junior manager. He’d been four years older than me and, compared to the beer-swilling, trash-talking college boys I was used to, seemed like a man.

  Well, I was a woman now. And this woman had a case to investigate.

  Sheila turned my way. “Mr. Jamison was in charge of H2’s audit.”

  Bully for him.

  Nathan motioned for us to follow him down the hall to the audit department. We walked behind him, trailing along in a wake of Drakkar Noir, his signature scent. Since our sexual encounter years ago, I couldn’t smell the damn stuff without wanting to flog myself. I much preferred Nick’s scent, a masculine blend of crisp soap and boot leather, or Brett’s, a natural mix of cedar and rainwater he picked up working as a landscape architect.

  Martin and McGee’s office space occupied the entire twenty-ninth floor. The audit department took up two-thirds of the space, while the tax department filled the remainder. A large file room was situated between the two divisions, with a window on each side allowing the file clerks to service personnel from each department.

  Martin and McGee was a fairly large firm, employing over a hundred CPAs. The tax accountants rarely saw the audit staff and vice versa. In fact, I might not ever have met Nathan if I hadn’t been working late, trying to impress my new bosses, and been forced to venture into the file room after the clerks had left for the day. Nathan was in the file room that fateful night, too, also searching for an elusive file. Our eyes had met through the stacks, over the files for Donovan’s Donut Depot. The rest, as they say, is history. But this was one piece of history that would never repeat itself.

  As we headed down the hall, a pretty young woman with light brown hair came toward us. When she looked up from the files in her hand and spotted Nathan, her eyes seemed to narrow, her features harden. I had a sneaking suspicion she’d once fallen victim to his wiles, too. I tried to send her a telepathic message: You’re not alone.

  She carried an oversized blueberry muffin in her hand. Martin and McGee hosted “Muffin Mondays,” a morale booster proposed by yours truly during a particularly demanding tax season several years ago. A damn shame I was no longer permitted to participate. I could really have gone for a banana nut muffin about then.

  “The muffins were my idea,” I told her as she passed by.

  “So I have you to thank for my fat ass?” she spat.

  She clearly hadn’t let go of her anger yet.

  Nathan led us into his office. He’d made partner a couple of years ago and, while he had yet to achieve corner-office status, he did have a window, a sure symbol of success in a downtown office. Another symbol was the oversized leather desk chair he slid into. The broad chair had cushioned arms and a high back with extra padding for his head, as well as an adjustable lumbar support lever. Much nicer than the cheap rolling chairs provided to the lower-level staff. How many nights had I gone home with a sore back after preparing tax returns all day?

  Three men were seated in chairs facing Nathan’s desk. Only one of them, a man with thick white hair and brows and wearing a gray suit, stood. Sheila shook his hand and introduced him to me as the Hildebrands’ attorney, Jerry Macklin. I shook his hand and gave him my business card.

  I looked down at Hunter and Tanner Hildebrand, who remained in their chairs. The twerps hadn’t offered up their seats to us females. Any mother would be ashamed of these sons’ boorish behavior.

  The two were identical twins. Their reddish-brown hair had been carefully tousled to give it a carefree look. They both wore stylish rectangular glasses, green dress shirts, and distressed designer jeans. Their shoes were slip-on loafers in tan leather. The look was casual chic and no doubt cost them a small fortune. While parents often dressed their young twins in matching clothing, it seemed odd that grown men would choose to dress exactly the same. The brothers sat in identical poses, too, their right legs crossed loosely over their left, their fingers interlocked over their right knees. They stared at me with two pairs of identical green eyes. They even blinked in unison, as if controlled by a single brain.

  Creepy.

  They made no move to stand or shake our hands, instead remaining in their chairs like a couple of spoiled, sulking brats. Tweedledee and Tweedledotcom.

  Frankly, I was surprised to find the Hildebrands here. Most defense attorneys advised their clients to show their faces only when absolutely necessary. The wary look in the men’s watchful eyes told me the two didn’t trust anyone, though, not even their accountant and counsel. In my experience, those who found it difficult to trust others were often not trustworthy themselves.

  Macklin gestured for Sheila to take the seat he’d vacated. I debated plopping myself down on one of the twins’ laps to prove a point, but decided to choose my battles more wisely and remained standing.

  “How can we help you ladies?” Nathan asked.

  “You were the partner in charge of the H2 audit,” Sheila said. “You know that company better than anyone, save Hunter and Tanner Hildebrand here.” She hiked a thumb in the twins’ direction. “You issued a clean opinion on financial statements that painted an awfully rosy picture.”

  Though she hadn’t come right out and accused Nathan of wrongdoing, the implication was clear. If he’d helped to perpetuate a fraud, he’d face charges, too.

  Sheila stared intently at Nathan as if she were trying to see inside his head, get a read on whether he played any role in the alleged pump and dump scheme. It gave me no small amount of pleasure to notice Nathan squirm under her scrutiny.

  Nathan’s face turned a brilliant shade of reddish purple. If he were a Crayola crayon, the name of the color on his wrapper would read “Blushing Bastard.” I fought a snicker. This case just kept getting better.

  “I’ve done nothing unethical,” Nathan said, speaking with a forced calm belied by his rigid posture. The guy was peeved. Perturbed. Pissed.

  Neener-neener.

  Nathan had once laid claim to my nether regions, but if he’d intentionally botched H2’s audit, this time his ass would be mine—metaphorically speaking. Still, as much as I didn’t want to believe his claim of innocence, I did. Nathan Jamison might be a womanizer and a lousy lay, but he was a top-notch auditor, a by-the-book guy who had a reputation for being the most fastidious and anal retentive of the firm’s higher-level staff. He treated Generally Accepted Auditing Standards like
the Ten Commandments. I doubted he’d knowingly participate in fraud. Nonetheless, Sheila and I would need to review the audit files to verify whether my belief in Nathan was justified.

  Call me a vindictive bitch, but part of me hoped I was wrong about him and that we’d find he’d engaged in wrongdoing. He’d never paid for what he did to me and the other unsuspecting new hires. I’d love to even the score.

  Macklin stepped in now. “As I’ve said before, Ms. Simms, your allegations are unfounded. H2 is still doing well. The stock has maintained its value.”

  “True,” Sheila said. “But it seems highly suspicious that Hunter and Tanner were in such a rush to sell off their interests. And why squirrel the money away in a Swiss bank account? Why not keep the funds in their bank here, where it would be more easily accessible?”

  The twins’ gazes met so briefly and subtly, I might have missed the exchange had I not been watching them closely.

  “It’s not a crime to sell stock,” Macklin said, evading Sheila’s questions.

  “True again,” she said. “But it is a crime to trade on insider information.”

  “I assure you, my clients did no such thing,” Macklin said. “They merely failed to report the transactions.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mr. Macklin,” she replied. “Our jails are crowded enough already.”

  Another look passed between the twins, this one neither so quick nor subtle. They were furious; that was clear. But why, exactly, were they furious?

  Because they were guilty and might be found out?

  Or because they’d been wrongfully accused?

  Chapter Three

  Sixteen Square Feet of Hell

  Sheila pulled the search warrant out of her briefcase and handed it to Nathan. “We need to see H2’s audit files.”

  Nathan read over the document, returned it to Sheila, and phoned the file room, instructing the clerk to pull the files and put them in the empty cubicles by the supply room. He returned the receiver to its cradle and stood. “Follow me, please.”

  Macklin and the Hildebrand brothers remained behind while Sheila and I trailed Nathan out of his office. The smell of his Drakkar Noir was now mixed with a hint of nervous perspiration. Good. Let the guy sweat a little.

  Another young woman walked past, this one a voluptuous African-American with mocha skin and dark, loose curls.. Her brown eyes darted to Nathan, then flung virtual darts at him. No doubt she was yet another of Nathan’s conquests. He sure did get around at the office. The guy was like a sexual bumper car.

  He led us down the hall to two vacant cubicles situated in a windowless nook. When I’d worked at the firm, these particular cubicles were used by the summer interns. Of course, with it being September now, the interns had since returned to college.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said.

  As if. The only way I could feel at home in such a tiny, cramped space was if I were a chipmunk.

  A male file clerk strode up, pushing a cart loaded with a dozen thick files. Finally, someone who hadn’t slept with Nathan. Or at least I assumed he hadn’t. The way Nathan plowed through the new hires, he might have run out of women and been forced to turn to the young men for new partners.

  The clerk moved the files to the modular desktop in the first cubicle and rolled the cart away. Sheila slid into the cubicle, divided the stack of files in half, and handed one of the stacks to me. “See what you can find.”

  I took the heavy files from her. I knew how to investigate a tax fraud case, but insider trading was something new to me. “What am I looking for exactly?” Maybe a spreadsheet titled “Dirty Little Secrets”?

  “Any evidence the financial statements and audit weren’t on the up and up. The information included in the IPO made it appear as if the company was doing well, but I’ve got a hunch the glowing reports offered to the investors were pure hogwash.”

  “Got it.” As I stepped inside the tiny four-by-four cubicle, my mind flashed back to the miserable years I’d spent caged in a cubicle when I worked at the firm. An instant and overwhelming sense of claustrophobia enveloped me. My heart raced. I felt trapped. The cubicle might as well have been a closed coffin. There wasn’t enough air!

  I dropped the files on the desk and retreated to the hallway, gulping oxygen like I’d never get enough.

  Sheila rolled her chair backwards and stuck her head out of her cube. “You okay?”

  Sheesh. I was acting neurotic, wasn’t I? I nodded, clenched my fists in an effort to fortify myself, and returned to the cramped space. You can do this, I told myself. It’s only temporary. It’s more afraid of you than you are of it. Okay, that last part made no sense, but it nonetheless made me feel better. Thus resolved, I plopped myself down in the chair, grabbed a file, and set to work.

  As I flipped through the pages, my ears picked up a barely audible screech coming from below. I looked down to see the bottom drawer of the cheap modular desk slowly rolling open. I pushed the drawer shut with my foot and waited a second. It seemed to be holding now. Good.

  I set back to work.

  Another screeeeech followed a few seconds later, this one a little louder. The damn thing sure could use a spritz of WD-40.

  This time I kicked the drawer closed hard, causing the entire cubicle to shake. I waited a few seconds again, and again the drawer seemed to hold. I turned back to the files.

  Screeeeech.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I muttered. I tried a different tack this go-round, pushing the drawer shut with my foot while simultaneously lifting up on the desktop, hoping the action would cause the drawers to realign. I waited a full ten seconds to see if the problem had been remedied, counting slowly to myself.

  Eight. Nine. Ten. Good. The issue appeared to have been rectified. My attention turned back to the paperwork.

  Screeeeech.

  The drawer fell slowly open again. Fuming now, I opened the overhead cabinet and drawers, searching for something I could lodge under the cheap modular desk to level it. The only thing I could find was a half-used pack of Post-its. I shoved them under the trim beneath the bottom drawer and waited a few seconds. The Post-its seemed to have done the trick.

  I returned to the file and resumed scanning the data.

  Screeeeeeeeeech.

  The drawer rolled open yet again, the grating noise threatening to give me an aneurysm.

  “Dammit!”

  This time I scurried to the supply closet and grabbed a roll of tape. I couldn’t find a dispenser, so I was forced to yank lengths from the roll and tear them with my teeth. Classy, huh? I adhered five long vertical rows of tape up and down the drawers.

  Take that, cubicle!

  I stepped back, holding my breath. The tape seemed to be doing its job. Thank God.

  I tossed the roll of tape into the overhead bin and began looking over H2’s files once again. A few seconds later, an earsplitting screeeeech came from the drawers. All three of them slid open together now.

  I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, cube. You win.” I gave up trying to fix the drawers and simply pulled them out of their tracks and stacked them under the desk before getting back to work.

  An hour later, my urge to kick down the cubicle walls told me that my decision to leave the firm for the IRS had been a good one. The rumbling in my stomach told me it was time for lunch. Sheila had packed a sandwich in her briefcase and planned to eat at her desk. I was free to make my own plans.

  I took off across the tax department, stopping for a quick catch-up chat with a couple of former coworkers. I showed off my badge and gun, while they showed off wedding rings and baby pictures. Although I hoped to get married someday and have a baby or two of my own, I’d stick with my gun for now. I wasn’t nearly as afraid of a bullet as I was of the icky things a baby discharged.

  Eventually I reached Alicia Shenkman’s digs, a small office down a side hall. Alicia and I had been best friends since we met in Accounting 101 years ago at the University of Texas in Austin
. We both accepted jobs at Martin and McGee upon graduation and moved to Dallas together. We’d shared an apartment until she met an attorney named Daniel Blowitz, fell in love, and decided to shack up with him instead. I couldn’t blame her. His place was newer, more conveniently located, and had far more closet space, especially once she’d thrown out his clothes she didn’t care for, which was pretty much all of them.

  Alicia was promoted to a management position shortly after I’d left the firm to join the IRS. She didn’t yet have a high-backed chair or a window but she did have a door, which gave her far more privacy than a cubicle. Her office had far more square footage than the cubes, too, as well as real furniture rather than the modular crap. Her white walls were adorned with Georgia O’Keeffe prints, poppies in bold shades of red and orange. Her bookshelf served as a virtual shrine to her boyfriend, supporting an eight-by-ten framed portrait of Daniel standing in front of a collection of legal texts, his arms crossed in a don’t mess with me, I’m a tough lawyer stance. Situated around his portrait were candid photos of the two of them at a black tie dinner, the two of them on a trip to Cozumel, the two of them on the balcony of their downtown loft.

  Alicia obviously didn’t suffer the type of relationship uncertainties I did. She knew without a doubt that Daniel was the right man for her. The two of them weren’t yet officially engaged, but it was just a matter of time.

  Alicia’s back was to me as she rummaged through a file cabinet.

  I tiptoed inside, put my hands over her eyes, and said, “Guess who,” in a singsong voice.

  “Tara?”

  I removed my hands from her eyes, holding them out to my sides, palms up. “Surprise!”

  She turned around, a smile on her lips. As always, Alicia’s appearance was impeccable. Her platinum blond hair framed her face in an angular, asymmetric style. Très chic. She wore a satin blouse with a fitted black skirt and sling-back pumps. The look was classic, in a trendy sort of way.