Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria Read online

  She pushed past me into my place. “Got any of that peach sangria handy?”

  I closed the door. “Just made a fresh pitcher.”

  She turned in my foyer and held out her left hand. Her ring finger bore a huge diamond roughly the size of a shotgun shell. Surrounding the diamond was a circle of brilliant blue sapphires.

  “Oh, my God!” I cried. “Ajay popped the question?”

  Alicia shrieked, alerting Christina to her presence. I’d introduced the two of them weeks before and we’d all gone out together as couples several times since.

  Alicia rushed over and looked at the ring. “Ajay proposed to you?”

  Christina nodded.

  My mouth contorted, half of it trying to smile in congratulations at Christina, the other trying to frown in empathy for Alicia.

  “But you’ve only been dating a few months,” Alicia said, fresh tears forming in her eyes as she held Christina’s hand and took in the beautiful ring.

  “I know,” Christina said. “That’s the problem. It’s too soon, isn’t it? I told Ajay that, but he told me to wear the ring for a while, to see how it feels.” When Alicia released her hand, Christina held her hand up in front of her face and eyed the gorgeous ring. “I’m just not sure.”

  Alicia threw her ring-less hands in the air. “Oh, boo-fucking-hoo! Your boyfriend cares too much about you and wants to marry you! What a horrible, awful problem!” Alicia turned, snatched her empty glass from the coffee table, and stormed into the kitchen for more sangria.

  Christina raised a brow at me.

  “She and Daniel are having problems,” I said, keeping my voice low. “She’s ready to tie the knot and he’s not.”

  Christina grimaced, realizing that her timing, too, was off. “Sorry.”

  “This is life. We’ll deal with it.” With a little help from Nick’s mother’s sangria recipe and a mason jar of spiced Georgia peaches.

  The three of us sat at my kitchen table for the next hour, drinking peach sangria and taking turns lamenting our man problems.

  “Men,” I said, shaking my head. “You can’t live with ’em, and you can’t shoot ’em.”

  “You’ve shot men plenty of times,” Alicia said.

  “I’ve shot at them many times,” I corrected, “but I only actually put bullets in three of them.” I took the left nut off the first and got the other two in the leg. But don’t worry. They totally deserved it.

  When we finished off the first pitcher of sangria, I made another. Alicia drank most of the second pitcher herself. Before Christina prepared to leave she helped me drag Alicia and her overnight bag upstairs to my guest room.

  “By the way,” Christina said as she turned at my front door to go. “Ajay and I are planning a Halloween party at the rec room at his condos. Tell Alicia she’s invited. And you can bring Nick.… or Brett, or … whoever.”

  “Whoever” was right. With the luck Alicia and I were having, we might have to be each other’s dates for the party.

  chapter seven

  Pseudocelebrities

  Wednesday morning, I arrived at work only to have Viola, Lu’s gray-haired secretary, immediately summon me to the Lobo’s office. To my surprise, I found Trish LeGrande already seated inside. Trish was a butterscotch blonde with excessive tenacity and enormous tits. She worked as a reporter for a local TV station and had been a thorn in my side for several weeks now, not only because she’d put me on the spot and made me look like an idiot on camera but also because she’d openly flirted with Brett and inched her way into his life via volunteering for the same Habitat for Humanity project on which he’d been installing the landscaping.

  Damn! For the first time it hit me that if I told Brett I wanted to take time off from our relationship to give things a try with Nick, he might seize the opportunity to seize Trish. The thought of Brett with this pushy, brazen, big-breasted woman made me sick. Brett had assured me time and time again that he had no interest in Trish, but that could change after our talk, couldn’t it? All bets would be off then.

  Ugh.

  Seated next to Trish was a middle-aged man with muscular shoulders, a large black case at his feet. I recognized him as the cameraman who’d taken footage of me putting my foot in my mouth on a recent case against an errant minister. I fought the urge to kick him in the shins.

  Lu jerked her beehive-topped head at Trish. “Tara, you remember Trish LeGrande, right?”

  How could I forget the bosomy bitch? “Sure,” I told Lu. I turned to Trish then. “Hello, Trish.” I didn’t bother saying, Nice to see you. A lie that huge would make my nose grow to the size of an anteater’s.

  Trish used to do the happy feel-good segment on the late news but had recently been promoted to a position as a business reporter. Now it seemed she was constantly up in my business.

  Trish cocked her head and looked me up and down, her lips quirking to indicate she was less than impressed with my poly-blend pantsuit. Hey, I wasn’t crazy about it, either, but it’s hard to say no to a half-price sale and it wasn’t like my job required me to dress like a supermodel. Besides, I hadn’t done laundry or made a run to the dry cleaner’s in a while and this was one of the few clean outfits I had left. I’d paired the suit with my cherry-red Doc Martens, my takedown shoes as I thought of them. They had thick rubber soles that provided good traction, as well as steel toes. Perfect for kicking or serving as a doorstop if the need arose.

  Trish finally raised her eyes to mine. “Hello, Tara.”

  “Trish has heard about our sweep of abusive preparers,” Lu said. “She wants to do a piece on the issue.”

  Was it actually possible that Trish and I could be on the same side for once? If she ran a feature on the news about abusive preparers, it could not only strike some fear into those who might be considering fudging their returns but also educate the public on the issue. Still, I didn’t trust the woman as far as I could throw her.

  Lu waved a hand. “Get her set up in the conference room and round up some agents for her to interview.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  “And don’t make any lunch plans for tomorrow,” Lu added. “You and Nick are coming with me to meet Carl.”

  Trish looked at me and raised an accusing brow.

  “This way,” I told Trish, ignoring the brow and jerking my head toward the door.

  Trish and her cameraman followed me down the hall to the conference room.

  “Good news about Brett’s contract with the city of Grand Prairie, right?” Trish said from behind me. “Landscaping all of the city parks is a huge deal.” Though her tone sounded innocent, the bitch knew exactly what she was doing. The question was her way of letting me know she was still in touch with Brett despite my recent request that he cut off contact with her.

  I was glad she couldn’t see my face, as I’m sure my expression showed the hurt and betrayal I felt. I managed to continue on, not breaking stride. “I’m sure Brett will do a great job.” If I didn’t kill him first.

  While they set up their equipment, I headed to the kitchen and offices, rounding up special agents and sending them down to the conference room to be interviewed.

  As I approached Nick’s office, I heard voices coming from within and stopped a few feet short of his door to eavesdrop on a conversation taking place between him and Josh. Apparently Nick had wasted no time and invited Shea, the cute Mavericks dancer, out for drinks last night. Although she was “smoking hot” with “a body that wouldn’t quit,” according to Nick, she’d seemed a bit immature. Not surprising since she was only in her early twenties.

  So Nick hadn’t made a love connection. I glanced upward. Thank you, Lord Jesus!

  “I e-mailed Kira,” Josh told Nick. “She asked me to meet her for coffee after work today.” The quiver in his voice told me the prospect had him quaking in his Buster Brown loafers.

  Nick must have noticed it, too. “Need a wingman?” he offered.

  “That would be great.”

  Gr
eat? Apparently Josh didn’t realize that having Nick along would only make him pale by comparison. Then again, Kira was a techie sci-fi nerd and anime enthusiast. Maybe a badass cowboy like Nick wouldn’t be her type.

  Aw, hell. Who was I trying to fool? Nick was every woman’s type.

  I stepped into the doorway of Nick’s office.

  He looked up and caught my eye. “Want to join us for coffee after work?” he asked. “Josh is meeting up with a woman from the Big D site and wants me to be his wingman. It’ll be less awkward if we’ve got another woman with us.”

  “So I’ll be your date?” I tossed my head coyly.

  His eyes narrowed. “In a manner of speaking.”

  I was thrilled by the thought of being Nick’s date, whether officially or not. “Count me in.”

  Eddie appeared in the hallway. “Ready to nab Richard Beauregard?”

  “Almost.” I told Eddie, Josh, and Nick about Trish and her cameraman waiting in the conference room.

  “How do I look?” Eddie asked, turning his face side to side. “Do I need some powder? How’s my hair?”

  I rolled my eyes and led the entourage down the hall.

  Trish had arranged two chairs in front of a bookcase that contained the seemingly endless volumes of the Internal Revenue Code and the extensive regulations promulgated thereunder. She sat in the chair on the left, leaving the right chair open for the interviewees.

  Trish ran her eyes down the most recent recruits, smiling up at Nick and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get you in the chair,” she said. “Your face was made to be on camera.”

  It was bad enough that she’d put the moves on Brett, but the bitch was flirting with Nick now, too?

  Nick cut his eyes my way, took in the pissed-off look on my face, and grinned down at Trish. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

  Grrr. Nick’s name was so going on my people-to-kill-today list, too.

  Trish asked Nick some remarkably well-prepared questions and Nick provided a series of sound bites in return, clever, witty comebacks sure to make us IRS special agents appear smart and sharp. Eddie performed well, too, explaining that fraudulent tax returns not only cost honest taxpayers hundreds of millions of dollars in unreported taxes due but also caused significant costs for enforcement personnel. Josh went next, but Trish quickly wrapped up his interview when Josh turned pink and began to sweat and stammer.

  As I slid into the seat, Trish said, “No need, Tara. We’ve got what we need already. Besides,” she scrunched her nose as she eyed my suit again, “cheap fabrics don’t film well.”

  I stood, doing my best to remain calm. “You’re right, Trish,” I said. “Cheap things look awful on camera.” I punctuated my words with a pointed look and a snide smile before raising my head high and walking out.

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket a few seconds later. I checked the readout. It was a text from Nick.

  Good one.

  I smiled to myself. He’d earned his way back off my list. He’d live to see another day.

  chapter eight

  Beau on the Geau

  The interviews now completed, Eddie and I hopped into our basic white G-ride and headed out to arrest Richard Wallace Beauregard III. Beau, as he was known, had been an exceptionally naughty boy. He’d sold his clients interests in a fuel company, which he claimed entitled them to fuel tax credits on their returns. Problem was, the fuel company didn’t actually exist and the interests were bogus.

  I supposed I couldn’t blame his clients for falling so easily for his song and dance. Energy companies had recently discovered they could use a fracturing technique to exploit the natural gas reserves trapped in the Barnett Shale formation that lay under the Dallas–Fort Worth metroplex. Thanks to “fracking,” the tight rock formation that had once been deemed too difficult and expensive to drill in could now produce natural gas at significant profits. Hundreds of oil and gas companies had descended on the area, offering property owners a pretty penny for leases on their mineral rights. Once the drilling began, property owners enjoyed further income in the form of royalties.

  Though the drilling had been a boon to some, others had suffered, claiming benzene and other carcinogens had seeped into their groundwater as a result of the gas companies’ fracking activities. A few lawsuits were making their way through the courts now. It wasn’t clear where the cards would fall at the end of the day. Still, North Texans overall had renewed their love affair with oil and gas, each expecting to become the next Jed Clampett. If you don’t own a well, went the wisdom, get one! Beauregard had apparently realized the gas fervor could work in his favor and devised the fraudulent scheme.

  As if ripping off his unsuspecting clients in the gas well scam weren’t bad enough, he’d also hijacked their personal data and filed amended tax returns in their names and Social Security numbers. The amended returns generated over seven hundred thousand dollars in phony tax refunds. Because Beau’d had the additional refunds directly deposited into his own bank account, most of his clients had no idea he’d amended their returns without their authorization.

  The IRS had caught on to his identity theft ploy when a taxpayer had responded to a notice questioning an entry on his amended return. When the taxpayer indicated he’d filed no such amended return, the audit department had looked to the preparer for explanation. The one Beau offered the auditor had been flimsy and evasive. Thus the case had been transferred to Criminal Investigations. A little bit of digging into the amended returns, a few phone calls to his clients, and we’d built the case against him easy peasy without his knowledge. Yep, our visit to his office today with our arrest warrant would be a surprise.

  I pulled into the parking lot of a three-story stucco office building painted the color of pistachio ice cream. A yard sign stuck in the empty flower bed let potential tenants know “Executive Suites Available—First Month Free.” We exited the car onto a parking lot covered with oil stains and cigarette butts.

  A beat-up beige Chevy Suburban was parked near the doors. The windshield was cracked and the back bumper was held on by baling wire. The tires appeared mismatched. The driver’s door featured a magnetic sign that read:

  BEAUREGARD FINANCIAL SERVICES

  TRUST YOUR FUNDS TO US

  (555) 837-BEAU

  The door buzzed as Eddie and I entered. I glanced around. The building appeared to be a typical arrangement. A dozen office suites on each floor, most housing small one-man or one-woman operations. The tenants shared a common copy room, conference room, and kitchen, as well as the services of a receptionist/secretary.

  The receptionist didn’t look up from her built-in horseshoe-shaped desk as I approached. From the top of her graying head all I could tell about her was that her part was crooked and that she suffered a mild case of dandruff.

  I stepped up to the desk. She still didn’t look up from the National Enquirer she was reading. I couldn’t much blame her, though. The article about alien remains found in the freezer at a grade-school cafeteria looked intriguing.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  She glanced up, a slightly annoyed look on her wrinkled face. “Can I help you?”

  Eddie and I slid our cards onto the countertop in front of her.

  “We’re looking for Richard Beauregard,” I said.

  She turned and glanced down the hallway behind her to a door marked with black stick-on letters that spelled “BEAUREGARD FINANCIAL SERVICES.” “His door’s closed, which means he’s with a client. But I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  While she buzzed Beau on the intercom, Eddie and I took seats on the cheap vinyl couch.

  “Some people from the IRS are here to see you,” the receptionist said into her phone. She paused a moment as she listened to Beauregard’s response. “Okay.”

  She hung up her phone and turned back to us. “He said he’ll be with you shortly.”

  Eddie nodded. “Thanks.”

  We waited for a moment or two. Eddie used th
e downtime as an opportunity to read conservative political blogs on his phone while I played another game of Scrabble. Despite my double word score with the word “violin,” the program beat me with a triple word score for “quizzes.”

  Eventually the door to Beauregard Financial Services opened and a man in dark-blue work pants and a short-sleeved blue work shirt emerged. He had a ball cap in his hand and a perplexed expression on his face. He walked up to the receptionist’s desk. “I don’t know what the hell happened in there,” he said. “One minute I’m talking to Mr. Beauregard about my taxes and the next minute he’s climbing out the window.”

  Eddie and I leaped from our seats. “You check the office,” Eddie said. “I’ll head outside.”

  Eddie ran to the building’s doors and yanked them open. The sound of tires squealing came through loud and clear, followed by the stench of dust and burning rubber. Eddie turned around and I tossed him the keys to our fleet car. He ran back outside, hopped into the car, and took off after Beauregard. I headed down the hall to see what I could find in Beau’s office.

  The space was spare. A basic wood desk sat in the middle of the room with a lateral filing cabinet stretching across the wall behind it. Two cheap metal chairs with black vinyl seats faced the desk. The built-in white bookcases were mostly bare, the only items on them an outdated copy of a tax primer, a stack of pamphlets promoting the fictitious fuel company, and a glass candy dish containing a handful of plastic-wrapped peppermints.

  The windows consisted of a large plate-glass rectangle with narrow vertical glass panels on each side. For safety reasons only the vertical panels could be opened. The one to the left of the center panel was ajar, the screen punched out. I stepped to the window and took a quick look. How the heck a grown man had wriggled out through the ten-inch space was beyond me.