Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure Read online

  “Stan and his wife asked me to design the landscaping for a property they acquired on Cedar Creek Lake.”

  Ever notice how rich people don’t buy things? They acquire them.

  “Sounds great.”

  “The best part about it,” Brett said, “is that they’re giving me free rein. They didn’t specify the style or anything, just a budget.”

  “So you get to surprise them?”

  “Essentially. Of course, they’ll want to approve the plans before we put in anything permanent, but I’ll get a lot of creative freedom.”

  My job offers a lot of creative freedom, too. For instance, when restraining an unruly suspect, I get to decide whether to use a full or half nelson.

  Alicia glanced around, waving her cocktail napkin in the general direction of the bulb garden. “I’m going to take another look at those pink things.”

  I knew she had no interest in the “pink things,” she just wanted to give me the chance to hook up with a nice guy. It had been a while.

  She wandered away, leaving me and Brett alone. He gestured toward the double doors leading out to a patio, raising an eyebrow in question. I nodded, gladly surrendering to the sweet destiny that brought the two of us to that same spot, on the same night, at the same time.

  Brett led me outside onto a flagstone terrace where we spent a few minutes in quiet conversation among the magnolias, enjoying our wine, lingering in the fresh winter chill. When he noticed me shiver, he slipped out of his tux jacket and draped it over my shoulders. The fabric was still warm from his body heat, the collar bearing his crisp, clean deodorant-soap scent. I shrugged deeper into it. Mmm.

  Brett was just as intoxicating as the merlot. As a gardening buff and a single female, I was impressed not only by his extensive knowledge of trees and plants, but also by the way his well-formed bicep flexed each time he raised his wineglass for a drink. And the way he looked at me made me feel more beautiful than the colorful blooms inside the greenhouse.

  “I still haven’t heard the story,” he said. “How did you ‘not intentionally’ give blood today?”

  I tossed back the remaining wine in my glass, fished out the wine-soaked cherry, and set the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “I had a little run-in with an uncooperative taxpayer today.” Okay, so calling the exchange “a little run-in” was an understatement. But that sounded better than telling him a hairy, deranged criminal had tried to send me to the Eternal Revenue Service in the sky. I popped the wine-soaked fruit into my mouth, noticing Brett’s gaze follow my fingers to my lips.

  I told him about my day, about reviewing the financial records for the auto parts store, Battaglia attacking me with the box cutter, Eddie jumping on the guy’s back. I left out the part where I shot the blade out of Battaglia’s hand. I wasn’t ashamed of my ass-kicking side. It’s just that right then, as I stood there in my beautiful sequined dress, with my perfect nails and carefully coiffed hair, I felt soft, sensuous, feminine. That’s how I wanted Brett to see me, at least for now. If this went anywhere, there’d be plenty of time to introduce him to my other side later.

  As I told Brett the story, his expression morphed from intrigued to shocked. “Does that kind of thing happen often?”

  “Thankfully, no.”

  “I hope the judge throws the book at him.”

  “Me, too.” And I hoped the book was the tax code. All five volumes of it.

  He took a sip of his wine. “So a special agent is like an investigator?”

  “You got it.” My job was to kick ass and take Social Security numbers.

  “Been with the IRS long?”

  “Only a few weeks.” I’d been thrilled to land the job. After years sitting in a cubicle at the accounting firm, I’d grown soft and hadn’t been certain I’d make the cut. I’d all but killed myself during my special agent training, losing six pounds and achieving six-pack abs in the process. I’d returned briefly to Martin and McGee to wrap up some projects, clean out my desk, and give two weeks’ notice to the managing partner, Scott Klein.

  Brett’s eyes roamed over me, sizing me up. “So if I don’t get my taxes filed on time, would you come after me?”

  “Yep.” My gaze locked on his for a moment, then I let my eyes roam up and down his body in return. “I might even seize your assets.”

  His eyes flashed as his pupils dilated. “That could be fun.”

  A classy guy with a naughty side. I knew right then I had to have him.

  “What about you?” I asked. “How long have you worked for Wakefield Designs?”

  Brett told me he’d worked for Wakefield for six years, since he’d earned his degree in landscape architecture from Texas A&M, a rival university. “I’d like to see you again,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I teased. “I’m not sure I can date an aggie.”

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest in mock exasperation. “Should’ve known better than to ask out a snooty tea sip,” he said, tossing out the antiquated, but still used, slur for UT students and alum. He shot me a wink and my body temperature soared. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, asking for my phone number and programming it into the device as I rattled it off.

  Alicia wandered outside then, teetering slightly on her heels. She’d apparently forgone the flowers and instead returned to the bar for another glass of wine or two. As much as I would’ve liked to stay and talk more with Brett, I could tell Alicia was as bored as I’d been when she’d dragged me to the modern art museum. No sense testing the limits of friendship any further. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to leave him wanting more, right?

  Brett and I bade each other good-bye, and Alicia and I headed out.

  She glanced back. “He’s checking out your ass now.”

  “And?”

  “He’s smiling.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Men of My Dreams

  When I returned home, I slipped out of my jewelry, dress, and heels, and walked into my bathroom. The white tile floor was covered with cat litter, Henry having kicked most of it out of the box as usual. After sweeping up Henry’s mess with a whisk broom, washing my face, and brushing my teeth, I donned my standard not-the-least-bit-sexy sleepwear—old gray gym shorts with an unraveling hem and an oversized burnt-orange T-shirt with the head of a longhorn steer, my college mascot, emblazoned across the front.

  My days at UT had been hard work, but they’d also been a blast. I’d shocked my fellow accounting majors by joining the campus chapter of the NRA. While the other students relieved their stress with shots of tequila at local bars, I’d head over to an indoor firing range near campus to take some shots of a different variety. Nothing like squeezing off a few rounds to take the edge off prefinals jitters. I still hit the firing range on a regular basis, partly to keep my aim accurate, partly to relieve the stress of my job.

  I climbed into bed, snuggling under the soft quilt with Anne curled up under the covers beside me. As I settled in, the cut on my arm began to throb again and my mind replayed the day’s events over and over like ESPN after a ninety-yard touchdown.

  I could’ve been killed today. As in dead. As in my ghost forever roaming among the bargain racks at Neiman’s with unfinished business, still searching for that perfect pair of red stilettos.

  Grabbing a novel from my night table, I read for a few minutes in a vain attempt to take my mind off Jack Battaglia and his box cutter. Eventually I turned out the light and stared up at my ceiling fan through the dim moonlight coming through the window, hoping to bore myself to sleep. I finally drifted off, only to spend a fitful night in dark, frantic dreams, fumbling to free my gun from its holster while fighting off dozens of huge, hairy men wearing green jumpsuits and wielding box cutters.

  * * *

  Sunday afternoon, when Mom and Dad would have returned home from church, eaten lunch, and finished cleaning up the dishes, I called home. Annie climbed onto my lap as I sat down on the couch with the phone. I scratched her unde
r the chin and she thanked me with a soft purr.

  After the usual preliminaries, Mom said, “You met someone, didn’t you?” Mom was a regular Madame Cleo.

  “How can you tell?”

  “You sound happy, honey.”

  “Don’t I usually sound happy?”

  “Okay. Happier, then.”

  I told her all about Brett. Well, I told her everything I knew about Brett, which really wasn’t much. He was a landscape architect. Grew up in Dallas. Had gorgeous green eyes that could cause a girl’s panties to burst into flame. Of course that’s not precisely how I put it. Nice eyes, I said.

  “How’s work?”

  I snorted. “You’ll get a kick out of this.” I told my mother about Battaglia, the box cutter, my perfect shot.

  Mom was quiet a moment. When she finally spoke again, equal parts worry and sarcasm tainted her words. “What part of that story was I supposed to get a kick out of?”

  Annie rolled over onto her back so I could scratch her chest now. “Come on, Mom. No need to get yourself worked up. The attack was a fluke thing.”

  “Lord, I hope so.”

  “Put Dad on the phone.” He’d understand.

  As expected, Dad was far more impressed than Mom, probably because he was the one who’d taught me how to handle a gun and figured my unerring aim was the direct result of his skilled instruction. “You shot the box cutter out of his hand? You shitting me?”

  “I shit you not.”

  “Atta girl.”

  I beamed. An “atta girl” was the highest compliment a father could bestow on a daughter.

  As we ended the call, Mom made me promise to keep my doors locked at night and to let her know how things progressed with Brett. Dad made me promise to shoot the next guy who pulled a weapon on me. I made the two of them promise to cut back on fried foods.

  * * *

  Monday morning, along with what seemed to be millions of other commuters, I slowly eased my way through the rush-hour gridlock on the one-way streets of downtown Dallas. The bright and blinding morning sun lit the streets running east-west, while those running north-south were shaded by the towering skyscrapers that formed the impressive skyline. I yawned, as much from the auto exhaust that was slowly asphyxiating me as from sleepiness. I turned onto Commerce Street and continued on to the Earle Cabell Federal Building that housed the Treasury Department’s main office and various other federal government agencies. I pulled into the parking lot at 8:45, zipping into my usual spot at the back next to Eddie’s minivan.

  Once inside, I headed straight to the break room for coffee. I desperately needed a caffeine boost and I’d downed the last of my breakfast blend at home the previous morning. I suppose I could’ve made a run to the supermarket last night, but I’d been too busy daydreaming about Brett to think about groceries. Unfortunately, when I’d gone to bed, the happy daydreams left and the terrifying nightmares returned.

  When I’d taken the job with Criminal Investigations, I’d known it posed some risks. Though rare, attacks on special agents had occurred before. A small number had even been killed in the line of duty. Not long ago, a man who’d accumulated a large tax bill had intentionally crashed his single-engine plane into the IRS building in Austin, killing himself and an IRS employee. People could be unpredictable and dangerous. All the more reason to make sure my blood supply contained an ample amount of caffeine for maximum performance.

  Eddie and two other male agents stood in the kitchen, sipping coffee and discussing basketball, lamenting the Mavericks’ loss to the Utah Jazz over the weekend. Eddie declared the Mav’s performance “downright shameful.”

  Lu swept into the room with a cigarette dangling from her bright-orange mouth, the smells of smoke and industrial-strength hairspray sweeping in with her. With all the shellac on her beehive and a lit cigarette mere inches away, it was a miracle her hair didn’t go up in flames. She’d outdone herself today, wearing a bright yellow crocheted vest over a purple turtleneck and purple-and-white striped flares. She held a roll of tape in one hand, a piece of paper in the other. She spoke from the side of her mouth to prevent her cigarette from falling. “Outta the way, boys.”

  The men stepped aside while Lu taped the paper to the fridge. The sheet featured a crudely drawn thermometer, like those used at telethons to indicate the progress of fund-raising. The current level showed ninety-seven million dollars. The thermometer topped out at a hundred mil.

  “What’s that?” I asked as I poured coffee into my stainless steel travel mug.

  One hand now free, Lu plucked the cigarette from her lips. “An incentive. The agent who gets me to retirement will be paid a ten-grand bonus.”

  Ten grand, huh? I could do a lot with ten grand. Pay off my student loans. Take my mother on a cruise to Mexico. Buy lots of treats for my cats. Heck, ten grand would cover a lifetime of manicures.

  Better get to work then, huh?

  Thus incentivized, I took my coffee and headed to my office. Once I’d settled at my desk, I dialed the number on the business card the Lobo had given me the previous Friday.

  After a few rings, a woman answered the phone in a singsong voice that sounded more like a sorority girl’s than a DEA agent’s. “Agent Marquez.”

  “Hi, Christina. It’s Tara Holloway, from the Treasury Department.”

  “Tara! I’m so glad you called.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and gagged on the bitter brew. I remembered now why I’d stopped drinking the office’s cheap swill. “Tell me what you know about our ice cream man.”

  “Well, his name’s Joseph Cullen, but he goes by ‘Joe Cool.’”

  “Like Snoopy?”

  “Uh-huh.” She giggled. “We got a tip from an elderly woman who claims Joe sold her grandson a joint.”

  “Any priors?”

  “Two. One misdemeanor for stealing an American Pie DVD from Blockbuster—how tacky is that?—and one felony DUI he’s on probation for. Nothing violent.”

  “Good to know.” I’d dealt with enough violent men lately. “What part of town is he working?”

  “Southside, near the Cotton Bowl.”

  Not the best part of town. “Let’s meet, formulate a game plan.”

  “My office or yours?” she asked.

  “Does yours have decent coffee?”

  “God, no. It’s sludge.”

  I suggested a bagel shop downtown. The DEA office was only a few blocks from the IRS, so the shop would be convenient for both of us. Plus, the place served high-quality coffee, the kind that slid easily down your throat and into your veins.

  “How will I know you?” Christina asked.

  “If you see a tall blonde with big hair and big boobs,” I said, “that won’t be me. I’ll be the flat-chested brunette who looks like a librarian.” Or so I’d been told, more than once. But better bookish than bimbo.

  “You’re so funny!” she squealed.

  “And you’re so … lively.”

  On my way out, I passed Eddie in the hall. “I’m meeting the DEA agent at Benny’s. Want me to bring you something back?”

  “How about a cheese and jalapeño bagel?”

  “No problemo.”

  Eddie put his arm around me and gave me a sideways hug. “You take such good care of me.”

  I elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “I owe you. You’ve always got my back.”

  Josh, another special agent who was both a technical wizard and a total weenie, breezed past us, his spongy blond curls still damp from his morning shower, leaving a wet mark on the collar of his light blue dress shirt. “If Eddie’s got your back, Holloway, that means he’s putting you on the front lines, making you take the risks.” Josh pretended to take aim with a machine gun and emitted a bam-bam-bam before continuing on his way.

  Despite the melodrama and cheesy sound effects, Josh had a point. I crossed my arms over my chest and shot Eddie a pointed look.

  Eddie threw his hands in the air. “You’re in training! How are you go
ing to learn if I don’t let you get in there and mix it up? Besides, adversity builds character.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Well, if that’s how you feel,” Eddie said, “I’ll tell the Lobo to reassign you to work with Josh.”

  He had me again. “Oh, hell no.”

  Josh was a perpetual thorn in the side of the other special agents in the office. Whiny, wimpy, yet fiercely competitive, Josh did not work well with others. The twerp had the sniveling attitude of an overzealous hall monitor. The men claimed he threw his weight around to compensate for a pitifully small penis. I hoped never to verify that claim.

  Then again, the other agents hadn’t exactly welcomed me with open arms, either. When Lu first introduced me to the team, she’d requested a volunteer to train me. There’d been no immediate takers. Nobody wanted to babysit a rookie who might slow them down. Besides, I could tell from their assessing glances that they weren’t impressed by what they saw.

  As the agents sat there stone-faced, I felt the heat of an angry blush on my cheeks, a flashback to gym class where nobody wanted the short, scrawny girl on their team. Until I spiked a volleyball down their throats, that is. I turned to the Lobo. “They must have heard about my incredible marksmanship.” I’d tossed my head defiantly. “They’re afraid I’ll show them up.” I peered back at the agents with a determined glare.

  From the back row, Eddie’d snickered and stood. “The girl’s got game. What the hell, I’ll take her on.”

  He’d never regretted his decision. Okay, maybe once or twice he had, like last Friday when he’d had to rescue me from that hairy blade-wielding ape, but he’d been nice enough not to tell me so.

  As I walked to the bagel shop, my cell phone chirped from inside my purse. I pulled it out and checked the caller ID. The readout indicated the call came from Scott Klein, the managing partner of Martin and McGee.

  I flipped the phone open and held it to my ear. “Hi, Mr. Klein.”

  “Hello, Tara. How are things at the Treasury Department?”

  Tough question to answer, at this point in particular. “Let’s just say there’s never a dull moment.”