Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) Read online

  I turned on Lu now. It took every bit of my restraint not to rip off her false eyelashes and beat her with them. “There’s gotta be someone else,” I said. “Another special agent who could handle this. What about…”

  I racked my brain. There was my usual partner, Eddie Bardin, of course, but he had two young girls and a wife to think about. No way could I suggest him as a replacement for Nick. The new guy, William Dorsey, was smart and capable but he, too, was a family man. Josh Schmidt would also be a poor choice. Though his cybersleuthing skills were top-notch, he was a total wimp when it came to the physical aspects of our job. Hell, he’d probably wet himself if he just heard the name El Cuchillo.

  “Me,” I said finally. “Put me on the case instead.”

  “Tara,” Nick said in a tone probably meant to be soothing but which instead struck me as patronizing. “Come on.”

  “I mean it.” My gunmetal-gray eyes locked on his whiskey-colored ones. “You’re an only child and your mother is already a widow. If something happened to me my parents still have each other and my brothers.” I turned back to Lu. “Please, Lu,” I pleaded. “Please. Assign me instead.”

  Lu offered no acquiescence, only a feeble smile rimmed in bright orange lipstick. “Nick’s a big boy, Tara. He can take care of himself.”

  “Not always,” I spat. “He was getting the shit beat out of him at Guys and Dolls until I showed up and saved his ass.”

  Nick, Christina, and I had worked undercover together on a previous prostitution and drug case at the strip club. Three of the club’s bouncers had attacked Nick and, despite his impressive efforts to fight the trio off, he’d been seriously injured. If I hadn’t shown up and shot each of the bouncers in the foot, who knows if he would have survived the ordeal.

  Nick scowled, his eyes aflame now. “Hell, Tara, why don’t you just kick me in the balls? What went down at Guys and Dolls wasn’t a fair fight and you know it.”

  I slammed my fists down on his desk and leaned over it to stare him directly in the eye. “And you expect drug lords to fight fair?”

  Without taking his eyes off mine, Nick addressed Lu and Christina. “Could you two excuse me and Tara for a moment?”

  Lu nodded. “We’ll be in my office.”

  With that, she and Christina stood from their seats and headed to the door.

  Christina turned in the doorway and looked back at me. “For what it’s worth, Tara. I’m sorry to have to involve anyone in this.”

  The sincerity in her words and expression cut right through me, taking my emotions down several notches.

  “For what it’s worth,” I replied, my voice quavering. “I hate that you have to be involved in this, too.”

  She offered me a feeble smile and left.

  Once we were alone, Nick and I stared at each other for a long moment. The flame in his eyes flickered out and cooled. He walked around his desk and enveloped me in his strong arms, wrapping a warm hand around my head to tuck my face against his chest. He gave me a soft kiss on the top of my head. “I’ve got to do this, Tara.”

  I let out a long sigh, grabbed fistfuls of his white dress shirt, and turned to bury my face between his rock-hard pecs. “I know.”

  Fighting bad guys was our job, after all. We’d willingly signed up for this. Still, the fact that we’d volunteered to put our safety at risk didn’t mean it didn’t suck sometimes. Besides, this separation was coming at a bad time. Nick and I had just gone through a rough patch in our relationship when I became all starry-eyed over a country-western singer I’d been assigned to pursue. We’d only just patched things up, and were still enjoying make-up sex. I’d hoped to parlay the make-up sex into a make-up changing of the air filters in my town house. I tended to neglect the darn things and the dust always made me sneeze when I replaced them. Looked like I’d just have to tough it out.

  Nick reached down and put a finger under my chin, lifting my face to his. “I love you, Tara.”

  Tears pooled in my eyes. “I know that, too.”

  I was glad he loved me, but a fat lot of good that love would do me if he was killed. I clung to him for a moment longer, then finally mustered the courage to extricate myself from his embrace. Time to man up. Or, in my case, woman up.

  He chuckled. “You made a mess of my shirt.”

  I glanced back to note a smear of Plum Perfect gloss on his chest, along with a smudge of beige foundation. “That’s nothing compared to what a knife could do.”

  chapter two

  Art … Or Not?

  After the incident in Nick’s office, I went to my office, fished my broken sunglasses out of the breast pocket of my blazer, and tossed them into my trash can.

  Thunk.

  Plunking myself into my chair, I logged on to my computer and Googled the words “El Cuchillo” and “Sinaloa.” Many of the Web sites that came up were in Spanish, which I could not comprender. Stupid me. I’d taken French in high school. Growing up so close to the Louisiana border, I’d thought it was a bon idea at the time. Besides, several of mes amies had signed up for French, too. We’d planned to one day take a trip together and go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. The closest we’d come was the time we’d climbed the windmill in Junior Huffnagle’s parents’ cow pasture.

  The sites that were in English offered gruesome details. Until recently, El Cuchillo often worked with a man known as Motosierra, or “Chain saw.” The two were suspects in dozens of brutal murders in Colombia, Guatemala, Mexico, and the United States. They had split ways due to disruptions caused by the arrest of El Chapo. Police suspected that each had taken control of an arm of the Sinaloa cartel, thus moving up in the ranks.

  There was only one photo of El Cuchillo online and it caused my sphincter to clench so tight I’d need a triple dose of Ex-Lax to compensate. The man’s dark hair was shorn to the scalp in an extreme, military-style cut. His face was a roadmap of scars earned in knife fights. He looked directly into the camera with eyes as hard and cold as a glacier as he licked a victim’s blood from his blade.

  “Oh, God,” I whispered. “Oh, dear God!”

  I slammed my laptop closed and shut my eyes. I willed my mind to erase the image, but it was seared into my brain as if branded there.

  There was only one thing that could take my mind off what I’d just seen.

  Kittens.

  Cute, cuddly ones.

  And lots of them.

  I opened my laptop and hurriedly went to YouTube, pulling up video after video of adorable, playful kittens romping in a yard, batting a ball of yarn, licking the camera lens. My sphincter relaxed a little. Maybe a mere double dose of Ex-Lax would do me now.

  Once I’d gotten my kitten fix, I did my best to force my attention back to my work. It wasn’t easy.

  At two in the afternoon, Eddie came down to my office to round me up. “Ready to go to the art museum?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  I’d spent all morning sick with worry, trying not to cry or throw up or kick my filing cabinet. Okay, so I’d actually kicked my filing cabinet, putting a big dent in the side that I’d then had to try to push back out. But I was damn upset. It was dangerous enough working for a cartel. After all, they killed their own members regularly if they screwed up. But if anyone found out that Nick and Christina were undercover law enforcement they’d be in for some unique and special type of torture. El Cuchillo might decide to try out his entire Ginsu collection on them, starting with a paring knife and finishing up with a meat cleaver.

  What would I do if Nick were julienned to death?

  Thanks to these lovely thoughts, I’d managed to force down only a single piece of sushi at lunch. The new pantsuit I’d bought at Neiman’s afterward hadn’t helped much, either, though the glittery Michael Kors cap-toe pumps I’d scored for a mere $97 on sale improved my spirits slightly. I vowed to wear them on my first date with Nick when he returned from working the cartel case … if he returned from working the cartel case.

  Damn. />
  Should’ve bought myself a new purse, too. Maybe some earrings.

  I’d looked over the selection of sunglasses, but none had looked as good on me as my Brighton knockoffs. I wasn’t willing to spend a hundred dollars on a pair of shades that didn’t totally knock my socks off.

  Eddie eyed me as I grabbed my blazer and briefcase. “You okay?”

  Eddie and I had been partners since I began at the IRS a year ago. He’d been the only special agent who’d agreed to train the newbie. We’d come to know a lot about each other over the months we’d worked together. While familiarity might breed contempt in some cases, our familiarity had somehow led to respect and understanding and the occasional good-natured ribbing. Each knew how the other worked, and we could sense each other’s moods.

  “Okay?” I let out a long, loud breath. “Not really. Nick’s going deep undercover. He won’t be allowed any contact with anyone until the case is resolved.”

  Eddie’s brows lifted. He knew without my saying that a deep cover investigation would be particularly risky. “So he’ll be completely out of touch?”

  I nodded. “God only knows for how long.”

  “That sucks. When does he leave?”

  “Tomorrow. He’s over at the DEA right now being debriefed.” Of course Nick and I had planned our own type of debriefing for later tonight, one last good-bye boink before he disappeared into the underworld like Hades descending into his realm.

  “You’ll just have to keep yourself busy,” Eddie suggested. “That’ll keep your mind off things.”

  “Busy? No problem there.” I gestured to the towering stack of files on my desk. “Lu’s given me enough work to choke an elephant.”

  Ironically enough, one of my cases actually involved an elephant. An auditor who’d been assigned to perform a routine records check on a tax-exempt animal welfare organization had referred the matter to criminal investigations when those operating the place hadn’t been able to produce any documentation. Eddie and I planned to drive out to the sanctuary tomorrow to see if we could get to the bottom of things.

  Eddie and I made our way to the elevator, rode down in silence, and headed to his G-ride, our name for the plain sedans assigned to us by Uncle Sam. I understood that we had to use the taxpayer’s money wisely, but did the cars have to be so darn boring? Why couldn’t we have souped-up cars like the Dodge Chargers driven by Dallas PD? After all, I might get into a high-speed chase attempting to catch a tax evader. It could happen.

  We climbed inside, snapped our belts into place, and settled into our usual routine in which the driver picks the radio station and the passenger plays navigator. Eddie, who had a penchant for easy-listening music, slid a Harry Connick, Jr., CD into the player while I used the GPS app on my phone to pull up directions to the Unic Art Space. The name was probably intended to be a creative way to spell “unique,” but my mind read it as “eunuch.” I supposed if you were a male who’d been castrated, you wouldn’t be distracted by sexual yearnings and your hands would have plenty of free time to finger paint.

  “It’s in Deep Ellum,” I told Eddie, referring to the nearby entertainment district that featured numerous art galleries, restaurants, and nightclubs.

  “Gotcha.” He backed out of the spot and headed out of the parking lot, taking a right onto Commerce Street, then easing over onto Main. In less than six minutes we circled back onto Elm and pulled up to the curb in front of the Unic Art Space.

  Eddie and I glanced up at the two-story red-brick building. While the commercial art galleries that flanked the museum on both sides featured colorful signs and displays to lure shoppers into their stores, the Unic’s front window bore only inch-high black lettering that read THE UNIC—OPEN MONDAY THRU FRIDAY 1 TO 4.

  Sheesh. That schedule made banker’s hours seem demanding.

  Eddie’s brow contorted in skepticism. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “Didn’t expect it to,” I replied.

  The museum was run by Sharla Fowler, the mother of former NFL player Rodney Fowler. A Heisman nominee, Rodney had played for various teams back in the 80s and early 90s, earning one of the league’s highest salaries, before retiring from the Dallas Cowboys. Rodney, now in his mid-fifties, was divorced with three grown daughters. Two years ago, he’d decided to follow in the footsteps of philanthropic professional athletes Troy Aikman, Tim Tebow, and Serena Williams, and formed a charitable foundation called the Fifty-Yard Line Foundation. The Fifty-Yard Line Foundation funded the Unic Art Space.

  Although the organization’s mission statement claimed the foundation existed “to educate the public about the arts by funding a space where creative works will be displayed and contemplated,” I suspected the space truly existed for the purpose of enabling the former football player to shelter his income from high taxes by shifting it to family members and others to whom he or his family had close personal ties. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had established a sham nonprofit organization to evade taxes.

  Eddie and I climbed out of the car and stepped inside. The interior was equally unimpressive, comprising primarily empty space with a piece of art hanging here and there on the vast walls or displayed on widely spaced pedestals. A wide staircase with white steps and chrome banisters led up to the second floor. A young woman with shocking red hair and contrasting black brows sat at a glass table in the foyer, a small cash register and credit card swiping machine within reach.

  “’Ello,” she said with a French accent. “Welcome to the Unic. You would like to see the exhibits today?”

  Eddie began to pull his badge from his pocket, but I stopped him with a nudge of my elbow. Perhaps we’d learn more from this woman if she didn’t yet know we had come to interrogate her boss.

  “Yes,” I told the girl. “Two tickets, please.”

  She held out a delicate palm. “Sixty dollars, s’il vous plaît.”

  Eddie and I exchanged glances. As sparse as the offerings appeared to be, thirty bucks per person seemed a hefty price. Besides, the ticket income would only further pad the pockets of those involved in this sham. On the other hand, there appeared to be no one else here and I knew from my review of the museum’s financial records that it would be operating at a significant loss if not for the constant influx of contributions from the Fifty-Yard Line Foundation.

  “Let me get this,” I told Eddie. This was my case, after all. My partner was along only as a sounding board and backup. I performed the same role when I assisted on his cases.

  I pulled out my Visa card and handed it to the clerk. She slid it through the machine, and, in a feminine and genteel gesture, used her pinky to depress the print button. She ripped the paper tape from the machine and handed it to me along with a pen. “Your signature?”

  After signing the slip, I returned it to the woman, who exchanged it for a couple of brochures. “This guide will tell you about the pieces on exhibit.” She offered a smile and extended the palm once again, this time to indicate the few pieces of art in the room. “If you have any questions, please to let me know. My name is Josette. Enjoy.”

  After thanking Josette, Eddie and I walked into the room, our footsteps and voices echoing off the stained concrete floor and brick walls. Instinctively, we both began to tiptoe and whisper. We made our way to the first work of art, an enormous painting that hung on the left wall. Other than the artist’s signature in the lower right corner, the canvas appeared to be blank.

  Eddie consulted his brochure. “This piece is called There’s No Such Thing as a Good Cry.”

  “It should be called Wasted Canvas.”

  Seriously, what was up with this? Wouldn’t an artist want to show off his or her talents by actually doing more than hanging what appeared to be an empty canvas? Then again, I didn’t have an artistic bone in my body. Not a single cell, even. Art to me was a velvet painting of dogs playing poker. Was it possible I just didn’t get it? That I was too unsophisticated?

  Eddie held up the pamphlet. “Says here th
e entire canvas was painted with the artist’s tears.”

  “Huh?” I read the entry on my copy. Sure enough, the huge canvas had purportedly been swabbed end to end with tears. The statement provided by the artist, Aly Pelham, said she sought to unify art and spirit by using bodily fluids as a linking medium. I supposed it was creative, but I knew it was bizarre.

  The pamphlet went on to describe Aly Pelham as “an emerging avant-garde artist” with “a brave, bold style sure to earn her a spot in the annals of modern art history.” As for me, I was just glad she hadn’t painted with anything that came out of an annal.

  My partner took another gander at the exhibit. “What do you think she was crying about?”

  “A man,” I said. “Only one of your kind could upset a woman enough that she’d cry the two gallons of tears it would take to fill this canvas.” Hell, as worried as I was about Nick I could probably paint ten of these canvases with the tears I was sure to shed over the next few weeks until he returned home.

  Eddie and I shuffled along to the next painting. This one was a tiny canvas approximately the same dimensions as a wallet-sized photo. This canvas bore a small, cockeyed reddish-brown smear along the right edge.

  “This is by the same artist,” Eddie said. “It’s called Picking at Scabs.”

  “Ew!” I cringed and backed away lest I catch hepatitis.

  “What’s next?” Eddie said. “Saliva? Earwax?”

  I was almost afraid to find out. If the next piece was called Wigglers, Conception on Canvas, I was out of here. Fortunately the next piece contained neither saliva, earwax, or sperm, though it was nonetheless disturbing. Bad Hair Day was painted by the artist using brushes made from her own hair to apply the acrylic paint in an abstract pattern of tangled brushstrokes. Some of the artist’s hair had stuck in the paint and was clearly visible on the canvas.

  Eddie leaned in for a closer look. “Aly Pelham’s a blonde.”

  “A bleached blonde,” I said, pointing out a piece of hair with a dark end.