Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte Page 5

  I looked up to see a salesclerk unburdening Alicia of the enormous load in her arms. We headed to the shoes and accessories next. A pink pillbox hat complete with a gaudy silk flower and netting sat on a shelf, along with a matching pair of gloves.

  I slid into the gloves, then slapped the hat onto my head at a jaunty angle, pursed my lips, and did my best Queen Elizabeth impression. “Charles dear, you simply must stop boffing Camilla on the dining room table, especially during breakfast. You’re causing my poached eggs to jiggle in an uncomely fashion.”

  Alicia giggled and grabbed the hat off me, placing it on her head now. “Camilla, you detestable, boorish whore. How dare you soak your soiled naughties in the kitchen sink!”

  We shared another laugh and Alicia put the hat back on the shelf. I returned the gloves, too. That set was a little too much. I was trying to avoid attention, not attract it.

  I found a pair of black leather ankle boots with silver chains in my size, as well as a studded leather belt. I also found a blue-and-yellow-print Vera Bradley purse that would go well with the maternity outfit.

  A few feet away, Alicia checked the tags on a colorful silk scarf. “Hermès for six bucks? Unbelievable! This place is a gold mine.”

  We left the store a half hour later, loaded down with bags. Alicia had twice as many as me, as well as a zippered garment bag that contained a gorgeous Monique Lhuillier wedding gown she’d scored for the ridiculous sum of seventy-five dollars, a mere fraction of its original price.

  “You better hide that dress from Daniel,” I warned as we headed to our cars. “If he finds out you’ve bought a wedding dress he’s going to freak.”

  Alicia was determined to one day marry her boyfriend, Daniel Blowitz, even if she had to drag him down the aisle kicking and screaming. Though Daniel was nuts about Alicia, he suffered from a chronic case of commitment phobia, no doubt brought on by interactions with the divorce attorneys at the law firm where he worked as a litigator. Of course we all assumed he’d come around eventually, probably when his hair began to thin and his middle began to thicken. Maybe then he’d realize he wasn’t a kid anymore and it was time to man up.

  “You’re right,” Alicia said. “If Daniel saw the dress, he’d think I was trying to send him a message. It’s going home with you, then. You’ll keep your cats off it, won’t you?”

  “Sure.” We’d been friends for years. The least I could do was sacrifice some closet space for her.

  She followed me to my car and laid the dress across the backseat. I stowed my bags in the trunk and slammed it closed.

  Alicia headed to her car with her remaining bags, looking back over her shoulder to toss me a cheeky “Ta-ta!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Big Whoop

  Eddie and I spent the next week doing twelve-hour tag-team shifts watching the post office box. I took the noon-to-midnight shift so that Eddie could spend the evenings with his wife and daughters, while he took the midnight-to-noon shift.

  The post office where the Pokornys’ payments had been sent was a neighborhood branch in the northwest Dallas suburbs. The building was located on a corner across from a strip mall containing a convenience store and a Laundromat. An elementary school sat next door, the sounds of children at recess drifting over from the playground. Ready or not, here I come!

  In movies, stakeouts are portrayed as exciting events, a team of agents set up in a tricked-out van or vacant building using the latest hi-tech gear to spy on the bad guys, tap into telephone conversations, collect evidence.

  This stakeout was nothing like that.

  I performed my surveillance from a musty, nondescript white rental car. The tightasses in the IRS accounting department would only spring for a subcompact, so there was no room to stretch my legs. The best I could do was lean the seat back in an attempt to create more space. What’s more, the entire car seemed to be made of plastic. I suspected the word “Mattel” was engraved on the car’s undercarriage.

  I sat in the car for hours at a time with a pair of my dad’s oversized field glasses, staring through the plate-glass window of the post office, waiting, hoping to see someone stick a key in box 1216.

  I went on high alert early one evening when a large, middle-aged man in a trench coat and fedora-type hat entered the post office. Nobody dressed like that in North Texas, especially when it wasn’t raining. He headed for the section containing box 1216.

  I leaped from my car and hurried inside, the floral church-lady dress swishing around my legs. So as not to rouse suspicion, I had a stack of mail under my arm, letters I’d written while sitting in the car. My aunt Darlene would be thrilled to finally get a thank-you note for the check she sent me years ago for college graduation. It’s not that I’m ungrateful. It’s just that correspondence is at the bottom of my to-do list and I never get to the bottom of my to-do list.

  I approached the man slowly, pretending to be sorting through my letters when in reality I was looking at him from under my bangs. The guy was Caucasian, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard concealing the bottom half of his face. Turned out the man was only buying stamps from the automated machine situated nearby.

  Damn. So close yet so far.

  I went ahead and mailed my letter to my aunt. Also one to my congressman proposing a tax exemption for pets. Heck, I spent as much money on my spoiled cats as most people did on their children.

  After slipping my letters through the mail slot, I headed back to the door. The guy held it open for me.

  “Thanks.”

  He noted my prim, prissy dress and offered a toothy smile. “My pleasure.”

  I returned to my car, the only one in the lot now. I’d just settled in the seat, locked my door, and cracked the window a couple of inches for ventilation, when a tap sounded at the glass. I turned to find myself face-to-face with the man in the raincoat. Well, not face-to-face exactly. More like face to exposed genitalia.

  The trench coat suddenly made sense.

  Now you might think I’d scream or gasp, but this wasn’t the first penis I’d encountered on the job. Just last month I’d cuffed a guy around the ankles with his pants down. After a while, you grow immune. Besides, if this guy tried anything, he’d be sorry. My Glock was in my purse on the passenger seat, within easy reach.

  Ignoring the man, I picked up the mystery novel I’d been reading earlier.

  The guy bent down and spoke through the window opening. “Hey, lady. I think you missed something.”

  I flipped through the book, looking for the dog-eared page that marked my spot. “Nope. Don’t believe I missed a thing.”

  He emitted a frustrated huff. “Come on. Look!”

  “At your wiener? Urk. No, thanks.” There we go. Page eighty-seven.

  He knocked again. This guy did not take rejection well.

  I contemplated calling the cops, but didn’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to myself. Besides, I had bigger fish to fry than this neighborhood exhibitionist. “Go away,” I said. “I’m busy.” I turned my back to him.

  “Just a quick peek?” he begged. This pervert was persistent.

  “If I take a quick peek, will you go away?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  I turned to the window and looked. Mostly all I could see was his round, hairy belly. The guy had obviously indulged in a little too much beer and barbecue. I motioned at his stomach. “You’re going to have to lift your belly.”

  He put a hand under his gelatinous abs and lifted. There it was. His junk. Big whoop. Actually, average-sized whoop at best.

  “Okay, I looked.” I waved him away with my hand. “Now shoo.”

  His shoulders slumped. “But you didn’t scream or anything.”

  “Screaming wasn’t part of the deal. If you wanted a scream, you should’ve negotiated for it.”

  He curled his fingers over the top edge of the window now and peered in at me. “Please? Just once?”

  This guy was really starting to annoy me. What did he think it
was, be-kind-to-perverts day? Still, it was clear he and his middle-aged man parts weren’t going anywhere until I showed the proper amount of alarm and dismay.

  I put a hand on either side of my face and emitted a high-pitched scream like Macaulay Culkin’s famous scream in Home Alone. There. Shock and ew.

  The guy leered at me now.

  “I screamed,” I said. “Now go. That was the deal.”

  Unfortunately, the perv breached our agreement. He didn’t go. Instead, he pressed his junk firmly against the glass. Guess I should’ve gotten the terms in writing.

  Now the only thing more disgusting than a saggy scrotum is a saggy scrotum smashed flat against glass only inches from your face.

  “That’s it.” I jabbed the button to roll up the window, trapping him by his fingers.

  “Hey!” he hollered.

  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911, giving the dispatcher my location.

  The guy tried to pull his hands out of the window, but couldn’t. “I can’t feel my fingers!”

  I looked at his fingers. Even in the dim light of the parking lot, it was clear they were beginning to turn purple. Still, I didn’t want to risk him running off and I sure didn’t want to engage in a physical confrontation with him unless absolutely necessary. This stupid dress would impede my movement.

  I jabbed the cigarette lighter. When it ejected seconds later, I held the orange glowing surface a few inches from his fingertips. Not close enough to burn him, but close enough to determine whether his fingers really had grown numb.

  “Shit!” he shrieked. “That’s hot!”

  I shoved the lighter back into its slot. “Your fingers are fine.”

  Grunting now, the guy tried to force the window downward. Given that the car was a cheap P.O.S., he’d likely be successful.

  “Stop that,” I ordered. “You’ll break the window.”

  He didn’t stop. The window gave a squeak, about to give way.

  Out of options, I took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and shoved it open with all my might. The outside door handle hit the guy square in the nards. Howling in pain, he hunched over and instinctively tried to step backward, but couldn’t with his fingers still trapped in the window. He collapsed against the door, slamming it shut again.

  I locked it.

  “My balls!” he screamed. “I’ll sue!”

  Fortunately, a squad car pulled up then. A butch-looking female officer climbed out. Despite his pain, the man turned to the cop and kicked his leg out, opening his coat and exposing himself to her, too. She rolled her eyes. Clearly not her first on-the-job encounter with a penis, either.

  I unrolled the window to release the guy’s fingers. He turned to run, but the officer was ready for him, sticking her foot into his path. He tripped, falling to his hands and knees on the pavement, his coat riding up on his back, exposing his bare buttocks. She put a foot on his ass and shoved. The naked man sprawled forward. Before he could gather his wits, the officer had his hands jerked up behind him and cuffed.

  I climbed out of the car in case she needed assistance, but this officer was self-sufficient. She shoved the perv into the back of the squad car, took a quick report from me, and left.

  I turned back to the rental car, noting a scrotum-shaped smudge on the glass. Ick. I wasn’t sure if the rental company would charge extra to clean the glass, but I sure as hell wasn’t touching it myself.

  Alone again, I resumed my surveillance.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Stakeout’s More Fun with a Friend

  Watch duty was nothing short of miserable. Besides the cramped car and the itchy cast on my wrist, I had to deal with the discomfort of infrequent potty breaks. I suppose I could’ve worn an adult diaper like that crazed female astronaut who’d driven nonstop from Houston to Florida after learning her boyfriend was cheating on her, but I just didn’t have it in me. Then again, she’d been trained to pee in zero gravity so she had an advantage.

  I wondered how long we’d have to watch the box before someone would come to pick up the contents. We assumed that payments for loans other than the Pokornys’ were being sent to the box, too, but we couldn’t be certain. For all we knew Mendoza could have multiple boxes at multiple post offices, maybe even a single box for each loan. After all, renting a box was cheap, less than a hundred bucks for an entire year. Compared to the huge profits the loans generated, the box rental fees were chump change. The Pokornys had made a payment only a few days earlier. It could be weeks before the box was checked again.

  Every day it was harder to stay awake, despite the caramel lattes. I’d pick up two extra-large cups on my way to the post office each day, drinking one right away, pouring the other into a thermos to drink later when my concentration began to wane.

  I’d checked in with my parents by phone several times, for once not minding when my mother rambled on with the small-town gossip from my hometown. She’d continued to press me for a good date to come visit, growing suspicious when I kept putting her off, her maternal instincts telling her that her daughter was working a big and dangerous case despite my insincere assertions to the contrary.

  I’d searched party supply Web sites and ordered decorations for Lu’s upcoming party. I’d watched a dozen DVDs on my laptop, finished nearly as many mystery novels, and given myself a mani/pedi, twice, all the while keeping one eye on the post office. I’d read each day’s newspaper, cover to cover. I’d never been more informed. Or more bored. Or more lonely.

  I missed Brett and Alicia. I missed my cats. I missed my normal life.

  It chapped my ass that Marcos Mendoza was free to go about his business while here I sat, growing stiff and uncomfortable. What’s more, due to our tag-team schedule, Eddie and I weren’t able to perform our usual afternoon workouts at the Y. I could feel my butt growing wider, the blood congealing in my veins, my muscles beginning to atrophy. How long would it be before I developed hemorrhoids? To make matters worse, the Lobo demanded daily updates on my progress. She wasn’t happy to hear there’d been none.

  “You and Eddie need to step it up,” she barked. “Mendoza’s probably planning to kill another one of his associates as we speak.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Really, please! I didn’t need any more pressure.

  * * *

  On Thursday I dressed in the blue hospital scrubs. At least I’d be comfortable today. The things felt like pajamas.

  The post office had no benches outside or inside, probably to discourage the homeless from loitering. But it was simply too damn hot to sit in the car all day.

  I went inside and stood at one of the workstations where patrons could assemble their packages for mailing. I’d bought a few things to send to my mother, big-city luxuries not available back home. A bottle of her favorite gardenia-scented hand lotion. An organic plant fertilizer made from bat guano. A patented, secret-formula antiwrinkle cream, which I also suspected was made from bat guano. These gifts were the least I could do for her. After all, she’d recently sent me a tin of her homemade pecan pralines.

  Working slowly, and clandestinely keeping an eye on the nearby P.O. box, I wrapped each of the items in newspaper and placed them carefully in a red, white, and blue flat-rate box. As I wadded more newspaper to further cushion the gifts, an auburn-haired woman in a clingy, low-cut purple dress walked up to me.

  “Are you a nurse?” she asked.

  “Nurse?”

  Her eyes flickered to the Baylor Medical Center logo on my scrubs. The soft cotton set was so comfortable I’d forgotten I was wearing the things.

  “Uh … yeah,” I said. “I’m a nurse.”

  “Does this look infected to you?” She turned her back to me, hiked her dress up over her hip, and pulled down one side of her panties, exposing a pasty, tattooed butt cheek. The tattoo was a red heart with the name Ricky in the center. If an ass tattoo with your lover’s name on it didn’t spell true devotion, I didn’t know what did.

  The skin around the tattoo was swoll
en and pink and—ew!—was it oozing? The latte and pralines in my tummy threatened to make a reappearance. “You should definitely get that looked at.”

  She pulled up her panties and dropped her skirt. “Thanks.”

  I received more health care questions as I finished assembling the package. An older man asked me to look in his ear, tell him whether the wax buildup he’d accumulated was normal. Urk. A young woman with an infant wanted to know if the baby should be producing three bowel movements a day. Double urk. A middle-aged woman asked my opinion on vaginal rejuvenation.

  My opinion on WHAT?!?

  I made up vague answers, hoping I wouldn’t be arrested for practicing medicine without a license.

  Another man tried to stop me on my way out the door, but I held up a hand. “Running late! No time for questions!”

  The free medical clinic was now closed.

  * * *

  Early Thursday evening, I phoned Christina Marquez, a rookie DEA agent with whom I’d recently worked on an undercover case against a drug-dealing ice cream man. Nothing bonds two women like bringing down a sleazebag together.

  “Hey, Tara.” She sounded like her always bubbly self. “What’s up?”

  “I’m on a stakeout,” I told her. “Come hang with me?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Spying on a post office.”

  “Oh God.”

  “It’s even more boring than it sounds.”

  “Good thing you didn’t go into sales as a profession,” Christina said. “You’d have starved to death.”

  “Come on,” I begged, scratching an itch on the back of my neck. “If I have to sit here by myself for another minute I’m going to self-combust.”

  She sighed. “All right. Nothing good on TV tonight anyway.”

  “Thanks. And speaking of starving to death, could you pick me up some dinner on the way?”

  * * *

  Christina showed up half an hour later, pulling up next to me in her sporty Volvo and giving me a friendly wave through the windshield.