Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream Read online

  Given that Lu had since reassigned my other investigations, it seemed Kerr should be speaking to the new special agent on the case. “If you’re not calling about Don Geils,” I asked, “what case are you calling about?”

  “The potential charges against you.”

  What?

  My heart performed a backflip in my chest. “Charges against me?” The elevator door opened on the floor where I was parked, but I was too taken aback to move. My throat threatened to close up. “What are you talking about?” I squeaked as the doors swung closed again and the elevator started another ascent.

  “Geils’ attorney claims you used your weapon unnecessarily. I know the IRS terminated you after an internal affairs review of your actions. Given the circumstances, we’re considering excessive force charges. I’d like to meet with you in person and talk things over.”

  Stunned, I fell back against the wall and sank to the elevator floor. Criminal charges? Against me? But I wasn’t a criminal! I was a crime fighter, for God’s sake! I was one of the good guys!

  Holy hell, what had my life come to?

  Before I could say anything else, Kerr said, “I want to get moving on this. You and your lawyer swing by my office at ten o’clock Wednesday.”

  My lawyer? I hadn’t hired an attorney to represent me in my internal affairs hearing and, in hindsight, that might have been a mistake. There was no way in hell I’d speak to the DOJ about potential criminal charges without legal representation. Still, it freaked me out to be in a position where I needed a lawyer to defend me. I’d always thought I’d be capable of defending myself.

  “Okay,” I managed, though my throat had constricted so tight I could barely breathe. The meeting with Kerr was only a little over forty-eight hours from now. I had to find an attorney to defend me, and I had to find him or her fast.

  “One more thing, Miss Holloway.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’d appreciate it if you’d stay in Dallas County. At least until we have time to make a decision on the matter.”

  Stay in the county? How dare this guy treat me like some lowlife poised to flee! Anger replaced my fear. “Christmas is in three days,” I snapped. “I’ve made plans to visit my family in Nacogdoches.” Not to mention my plans to travel with Nick to Tokyo and New Delhi. Dammit! This guy had me considering hari-kari.

  Kerr paused a moment. “I suppose that’ll be all right.”

  He supposed it was all right for me to spend Christmas with my family? What a Scrooge! I’d like to deck him in the halls, maybe shove a big old bah up his humbug. And the figgy pudding? Hell yeah, I’d bring it.

  “I’ve also got trips planned to Japan and India,” I said. “The plane tickets have already been purchased.”

  “Are the trips work related?”

  Technically, they weren’t. I no longer officially worked for the IRS, after all. In fact, my plans to remain involved in the investigations could get me in some hot water if the bigwigs up the chain at the IRS found out. But what could they do at this point? Fire me? Hell, they’d already done that. “Well, no. But—”

  “Do I need to get an injunction, Miss Holloway?”

  “An injunction?”

  “A court order,” he said, “preventing you from leaving the United States.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  His silence told me that no, he was not kidding. It also told me that yes, he was an a-hole.

  Choking back my fury, I said, “You don’t need to get an injunction. I’ll stick around.” I hoped the plane tickets were refundable.

  “Good. Cooperation is in your best interest.”

  “See you Wednesday.” I jabbed the button to end the call before I said something I’d regret, something like go to hell, you peckerhead!

  What was I going to do? An attorney would cost big bucks, a scary thought given that I had no income and nobody in their right mind would hire me. I couldn’t even file for unemployment benefits since my termination had purportedly been for cause. Only those laid off through no fault of their own were eligible for benefits.

  I supposed I could hang out a shingle and go into business for myself, start my own tax practice. After all, I held a CPA license.

  Whoa.

  Wait a minute.

  If I was convicted of excessive force, my CPA license would be at risk, too, wouldn’t it? The Texas State Board of Public Accountancy wouldn’t allow a convicted felon on their rolls. Ugh! If the board revoked my CPA license I’d be shit out of luck. I wasn’t qualified to do anything else. My only jobs had been in the tax field. Well, other than my high school job at Big Bob’s Bait Bucket. I’d sooner die than go back to sorting live worms.

  So much was at stake. My identity, my livelihood, my personal freedom. I could find myself in prison! My cats would have to go live with my parents and I’d spend my best reproductive years behind bars. I’d die a bitter, barren woman.

  The elevator opened on the ground floor and three women carrying paper coffee cups climbed on, chatting companionably. They glanced down at me sitting on the floor and became quiet, exchanging glances with one another before apparently deciding I was harmless and resuming their conversation. I stood, stuffed the phone into my purse, and rode up with the women to the fourteenth floor, envying their lighthearted chatter, tempted to climb off with them and start a new life here, become someone else. Other than making love with Nick, being Tara Holloway hadn’t been any fun lately.

  But no. I’d never run away from my problems before and, no matter how tempted I was to run away from them now, I had no choice but to deal with them.

  Then again, it was only 450 miles to the nearest border crossing into Mexico and I loved me a good margarita.…

  I punched the button to return to the garage. Numb with shock and fear, I stepped out of the elevator, shuffled to my car, and climbed in, sitting in the driver’s seat and staring at the cement wall in front of me as I tried to think, to focus, to sort through the shit that had just been slung at me.

  Who could help me?

  Daniel.

  Although Alicia’s fiancé handled only civil matters, the law office he worked for was a full-service firm that employed dozens of attorneys. Surely Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz had a criminal defense division.

  I retrieved my cell phone from my purse, pulled up Daniel’s work number on my contact list, and dialed him. The receptionist transferred me to his extension.

  “Good morning, Tara.”

  I cut right to the chase. “I’m in big trouble, Daniel. The Department of Justice is considering an excessive force case against me for shooting Don Geils.”

  “Criminal charges?” His voice was incredulous. “Are you shitting me?”

  “I wish I were.”

  He exhaled a long breath. “That’s rough.”

  “Rough” was an understatement. I was in deep doo-doo here. Over my head. “I need a good defense attorney. A real ballbuster. Is there someone at Gertz you’d recommend?”

  “Anthony Giacomo,” Daniel said without hesitation. “The guy’s somewhat unorthodox, but he’s experienced and tough. Lots of hair on his ass.”

  Hairy assed, huh? Giacomo sounded like just the kind of lawyer I was looking for.

  “His name sounds familiar,” I said, searching my memory banks for information but coming up empty.

  “He represented that woman accused of trying to electrocute her husband for the insurance money.”

  I remembered the case. The woman had taken out a $3 million life insurance policy on her husband shortly before tossing an electric bug zapper into the hot tub where he was relaxing. Fortunately for her husband but unfortunately for her, she’d misjudged the hot tub’s distance from the socket and the zapper came unplugged as she hurled it. She should’ve used an extension cord. C’mon. Plan ahead, people! Giacomo had managed to get her off on a specious temporary insanity defense allegedly caused by a bad reaction to Chantix.

  Given the attorney’s high success rate,
Daniel said Giacomo was in big demand and might not be able to take me on. Even more unfortunately, his rates ran four hundred an hour. Sheez, I’d spent less than that on my last laptop.

  “Hold on a second while I buzz him and see if he’s got time to meet with you.”

  I sat on hold, trying not to break down into tears like a little girl. A minute later, Daniel returned to the line. “He can squeeze you in tomorrow morning at nine thirty.”

  “Great.”

  As if. Nothing in my life was great at the moment.

  chapter four

  When a Stranger Knocks

  I drove home to my town house and went inside.

  Anne, my creamy short-haired cat, didn’t meet me at the door as usual. My fluffy brown feline, Henry, wasn’t in his usual spot atop the armoire that housed my television, either. Rather, the two lay entangled in the middle of the floor. Annie lounged on her back on the rug, basking in the sunlight pouring through the front window. Henry lay draped over her, licking her under the chin and nibbling at her neck while she purred, her eyes half-closed in bliss.

  I put my purse down on the table in the foyer and fisted my hands on my hips. “Is this what goes on when I’m at work? Kitty-cat porn?”

  Anne looked up briefly, then dismissed me and returned her attentions to her lover. And to think all these years I’d thought the two had a platonic relationship. They’d done a good job of hiding their romantic involvement. Oh, well. They were both fixed. Might as well let them have their fun. I just hoped Henry didn’t cough up a hairball later.

  I walked to the kitchen and glanced at the clock. Ten twenty-seven AM. Rats. Definitely too early to start drinking. Then again, mimosas were served at breakfast, right?

  I poured myself half a glass of orange juice, opened the bottle of champagne I’d already bought for New Year’s—pop!—and made myself a mimosa. I carried my drink back to the living room, kicked off my shoes, and plopped down on my couch. I laid my head on the back of the couch, eyes closed.

  How the hell had everything gone so wrong?

  A month ago my life was perfect. Nick and I had just begun dating and I’d wrapped up both the investigation against Don Geils and another against a group running a mortgage fraud scheme. I was flying high.

  I should’ve known it was too good to last, that everything would come crashing down.

  I suppose I should try to look at the bright side, though, huh? Having been fired, with no viable job prospects in sight, and now facing criminal charges, I’d surely hit rock bottom. At least I knew things couldn’t get any worse, right?

  My doorbell rang, followed by two loud knocks on the door. I dragged myself off the couch, went to my front door, and put my eye to the peephole. I couldn’t see a thing. The festive holiday wreath hanging on my front door blocked my line of sight. Oops.

  “Yes?” I called through the door. I’d watched Oprah. I knew not to open my door for strangers.

  “Delivery for Tara Holloway,” came a husky female voice.

  I decided to take my chances and opened the door. At this point, an axe murderer would be a welcome sight.

  Alas, no crazed blade-wielding maniac stood on my stoop, only an auburn-haired woman in a white oxford shirt and gray pants with a manila envelope in her hand. “Are you Tara Holloway?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  She handed me the envelope. “You’ve been served. Have a nice day.”

  I looked down at the envelope in my hand. “I’ve been what?”

  No sense waiting for a response. The woman had hightailed it back to her car and was climbing in, apparently not one for conversation.

  I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the contents. The first page of the document contained a “Civil Action” case number and the caption DONALD J. GEILS, PLAINTFF, V. TARA HOLLOWAY, DEFENDANT. The document went on to inform me that Don Geils had filed suit against me for assault and battery. He’d requested compensatory damages in the amount of $2,842.39 for his health insurance deductible and out-of-pocket medical bills, along with punitive damages in the amount of $10 million dollars.

  Holy mother of God.

  My hand trembled as I read on. According to the summons, I had twenty-one days in which to file a response.

  Oh yeah?

  Well, I didn’t need to wait twenty-one days. I responded right then, by flipping the bird at the process server’s back window as she motored off, punctuating it with an emphatic, saliva-spewing raspberry. PF-F-F-F-FT!

  Remember when I said my life couldn’t get any worse?

  I take it back.

  chapter five

  All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go

  For the first time in years, I had a weekday afternoon off with no plans. Frankly, I had no idea what to do with myself. It felt strange, as if I were playing hooky from school. Not that I’d know what that felt like. Okay, truth be told, maybe I would. Sometimes a teenage girl just needs a day off to go drink beer with friends in the woods. But surely the statute of limitations had run out on my occasional truancy.

  Oh crap. I really was a criminal, wasn’t I?

  As upset as I felt, I was tempted to hop online and order that beautiful blue coat from Neiman’s to cheer myself up. But no, I couldn’t. Who knew when I’d find another job? And now I’d have a buttload of legal fees to cover.

  Ugh!

  I might not be able to go shopping, but I could go shooting. That would cheer me up.

  At the bottom of my closet sat the trunk that housed my gun collection. I retrieved three of my handguns from the trunk, as well as several boxes of ammo. Nothing cleared my mind like hitting the firing range.

  As I backed out of my driveway, it dawned on me that I was no longer eligible to practice at the law enforcement firing range. Luckily, I’d hit a public range on a regular basis when I’d worked at the CPA firm, particularly during the hectic spring tax season, so at least I knew where a shooting range was located.

  I drove to the facility and went inside the building, which resembled a concrete bunker.

  The attendant, a lanky man with a long, dark mustache somewhere between Fu Manchu and Yosemite Sam, looked up as I entered. “Hey there, Tara. Haven’t seen you in months.” He stood from his seat behind the counter. “I heard about that shooting at the titty bar. How many men was it you killed? Four? Five?”

  I gritted my teeth. “None.”

  “None? The way the news reporters told it bullets were flying everywhere.”

  I didn’t respond, afraid if I opened my mouth again I’d scream in frustration.

  The attendant eyed me warily for a moment as if evaluating whether I posed a risk on the range. I must’ve passed muster, because he eventually handed me a stack of paper targets and let me into the secure area.

  I slid into my noise-reducing headphones, prepared the target, and loaded a clip into one of my guns. I raised the weapon and took aim, visualizing Don Geils’ face on the target.

  Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Damn, that felt good.

  Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

  When I finished, the target was nothing more than confetti. I should’ve done the same to Geils back when I’d had the chance.

  I loaded another target onto the clip, readied a smaller handgun, and let the bullets fly.

  Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!

  I was beginning to relax a bit, entering that zen-like state that accompanied my acute mental focus. When I finished, I eyed my target. All shots dead center, as usual.

  Maybe I could teach a firearms course or get a job as a sniper or mercenary. Surely Uncle Sam had some secret agents on his payroll who were needed to take out a target or two. Of course my skills with long-range weapons were a little rusty. I didn’t own a long-range rifle and hadn’t practiced on one in a while, since my job as an IRS special agent was unlikely to require long-range skills. If I didn’t get one for Christmas, I’d borrow one of my father’s hunting
rifles when I went back home for the holidays, bring it back with me to bone up on my skills. I’m sure the deer population in East Texas would be glad to hear my father had one less rifle in his arsenal this hunting season.

  As the end of the afternoon drew near, my shaking arms told me it was time to put the guns down, but the rest of my body told me it was time to go to the YMCA. Just because I was no longer a federal agent who needed to stay in shape for her job didn’t mean I should let myself go, right? Besides, I’d eaten nine Oreos for lunch today. I’d better get a workout in before all those cookies settled on my ass and thighs.

  I headed over to the Y and suited up in stretchy yoga pants, T-shirt, and sneakers. Grabbing my water bottle and a towel, I left the locker room and made my way to the machines.

  My boss—make that my former boss—was seated on one of the Lifecycles. Lu wore pink tights under a purple leotard, with a gray off-the-shoulder sweatshirt topping things off. She’d bought the ensemble three decades ago, back when Flashdance was all the rage. Until I’d been fired, Lu and I had worked out together. She’d dropped quite a few pounds and, though still pear-shaped, didn’t test the seams of her leotard like she had only a few weeks ago.

  On the bike next to her sat her boyfriend, Carl. Carl wore a pair of too-short navy blue shorts trimmed in red, with knee-high white crew socks over equally white, spindly legs. His feet sported a pair of what were probably original Converse All Star high-tops. Hard to say for sure since the shoe’s style hadn’t changed much, if at all, over the years. He wore a plain white undershirt, too. As usual, he’d glued his long, thinning hair in place in a crisscrossing basket weave pattern on top of his head, a style that always gave me the urge to whip out a pen and play tic-tac-toe on his scalp.