Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (26 page)

*   *   *

I returned Brett’s call later that evening. He told me his crew had been making quick
progress. They’d removed the infected trees and other plants, had the entire club
treated by an exterminator, and were waiting for replacement foliage from a different
nursery supplier. The good news was that the nursery that supplied the infested trees
had owned up to its mistake and agreed to pay Brett and Wakefield Designs all costs
that resulted from the blunder. Looked like Brett would be able to restore his reputation.

Brett asked about my work, whether there’d been any progress on my cases. I told him
how Eddie and I had narrowly missed capturing Beau at the campsite after Madam Magnolia
had suggested we look for him there. I also told Brett about Beauregard’s latest escape,
how Nick had almost been run down in the street.

“Nick’s working the case with you?” Brett asked.

“Unofficially,” I said.

Brett and Nick had met before and taken an instant dislike to each other. Admittedly,
their problems stemmed from me, from the fact that I was close to each of them, though
in entirely different ways. I supposed it was some type of innate, primal male thing.
It wouldn’t have surprised me if they’d both started beating their chests and grunting.

“Unofficially,” Brett repeated. “So you’re saying he volunteered to help you out.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s damn convenient.”

Fortunately, Brett let the subject drop there. I was glad. I didn’t want to discuss
this over the phone and apparently neither did he. Besides, if he kept pushing it,
I’d have to point out his hypocrisy. Trish had volunteered to help on Brett’s Habitat
for Humanity projects and he’d gladly accepted her assistance. Heck, I’d once come
upon him taking Trish for a ride in his wheelbarrow, her Texas-sized breasts jostling
as he rolled her across the uneven turf. The mere thought resurrected the mental image
and the sound of her girlish giggle and had me feeling angry and upset all over again.

After a few more minutes of idle chatter, much of it again about the country club’s
gourmet menu, we bade each other good night and ended the call. It wasn’t until I
was brushing my teeth a half hour later that I realized neither one of us had told
the other that we missed them.

*   *   *

Since my parents had taken over my bedroom, I started the night out sleeping on the
futon in my guest room with Alicia. When she threw her leg over me for the third time,
no doubt mistaking me for Daniel in her sleeping state, I rolled off the futon and
opted for sleeping on the couch downstairs rather than fending off her unconscious
lesbian advances all night.

A tongue on my face and whispering voices woke me at the butt crack of dawn.

The tongue belonged to Nick’s dog, Nutty, an ancient golden retriever mix with white
fur on his snout and cloudy cataracts in his eyes. The whispering voices belonged
to Nick and my dad, who were in my foyer packing for an early-morning fishing trip,
what would be the new boat’s maiden voyage.

I sat up on the couch, rubbing my eyes.

“Sorry we woke you, hon,” Dad said.

I noticed it was still pitch-black outside.

“What time is it?”

Nick glanced at his watch. “Five fifteen.”

“Ugh.” How anyone found pleasure in getting up at this hour and fighting off mosquitoes
while trying to track down elusive fish was beyond me. I pulled myself off the couch.
“I hope neither of you catch anything.”

Nick slid a grin my way. “You sure are grouchy in the morning.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I take back what I said about the fish. I hope you get
eaten by an alligator instead.”

The dog and the men left. I returned to sleepy land. They came back at noon with five
good-sized fish. By then we women were up and dressed.

“My,” said my mother as they brought their catch into the kitchen. “You two had a
successful morning.”

Mom looked down at the fish and didn’t see Dad and Nick exchange glances.

My mother grabbed a large pan, turned the oven on to preheat, and turned her attention
back to the fish. She picked up one of the fillets and immediately dropped it back
to the counter with a
thunk.
Putting a hand on her hip, she pointed a finger at my father and gave him the evil
eye. “Harlan Holloway, this fish is frozen solid.” She poked the fish with her pointer
finger and took a closer look. “It’s halibut to boot. This fish comes from the ocean.
In Alaska.
What do you have to say for yourself?”

Nick came to Dad’s rescue, pulling up a photo on his cell phone. “It was either halibut
from the grocery store or this.” I scurried over to take a look. The photo showed
my father holding up a four-inch baby bass. “That was all we managed to land today.”

Mom shook her head. “That’s downright pitiful. I hope you let that poor little thing
go?”

Nick nodded. “Gave him a kiss and sent him back on his way.”

Oh, to be that bass.

Mom picked up the fillets and plunked them in the pan. “I have half a mind to let
you men starve to death.”

My father made a face behind my mother’s back and spoke to Nick in a stage whisper.
“Now you see where Tara gets it.” Dad shot me a wink to let me know he was only teasing.

The five of us enjoyed the fish along with a salad and rolls and glasses of peach
sangria on my back patio. The meal was nice, relaxing, comfortable. Nutty made the
rounds among us, begging for scraps and getting more than his share. Hard to resist
an old, sweet dog, especially when he sits patiently at your feet, happily waiting
for anything you’re willing to give.

My parents and Nick left mid-afternoon, my father having wrangled a commitment for
another fishing trip out of Nick.

“You might not be dating Nick yet,” Alicia said once the door closed behind them.
“But I think he and your father are going steady.”

*   *   *

Monday morning, Eddie and I stood in a courtroom before Magistrate Judge Alice Trumbull,
trying to convince her to let us run a triangulation on Richard Beauregard’s cell
phone so that we could track him down. Our arguments fell on deaf ears. Trumbull denied
our request, telling us that Beauregard seemed to be on the run now and unless and
until we could show that he was continuing to cause harm, we need not return.

Dang.

We kept a close eye on our surroundings as we walked back to the IRS office. We had
to stay on high alert. If I hadn’t noticed the explosives behind the tire of the car
the other day, neither of us would still be alive. It was horrifying to think about.
If I’d been blown to pieces at least my mother wouldn’t have had to worry about what
outfit to bury me in. Heck, they probably could have buried me in a Tupperware container.

Eddie stopped in front of a small coffee shop and pretended to read the menu posted
on the window. “Stay cool,” he whispered, “but we may have a tail.”

I pretended to read the menu, too, but saw a dark-haired, olive-skinned man approaching
in my peripheral vision. He wore dress pants and a white shirt, typical clothing for
a worker downtown, but the running shoes on his feet seemed odd, as if he expected
to have to make a quick getaway on foot.

He was about fifty feet from us and heading slowly our way in an odd gait, both hands
in the pockets of his dress pants. I shuddered to think what else might be in those
pockets. A gun? A knife? And why was he walking funny? Could he be a suicide bomber
with explosives strapped to his leg?

My heart began pumping in overdrive. Both Eddie and I had worn our Kevlar vests this
morning, but they only protected our torsos. Our heads and legs were still exposed.

The man came closer, only a dozen feet from us now. When he pulled his hand from his
pocket, the sun glinted off the metal object in his hand. Eddie and I had our guns
trained on him in an instant.

“Put it down!” Eddie yelled.

The man shrieked and dropped the object in his hand, which turned out to be nothing
more than a silver money clip. He turned and ran down the sidewalk, his hands in the
air, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“On second thought,” Eddie said, shoving his gun back into his holster, “maybe the
guy was coming to get some coffee.”

We retrieved the money clip, called the local police department, and in minutes had
turned the clip over to a cop on his way to take a statement from the man, who’d called
in an attempted robbery. The cop phoned us back a few minutes later. “He had surgery
on a hammertoe. That’s why he’s wearing sneakers and walking funny.”

Oops. Our bad.

chapter twenty-seven

Ring Around the Rosy Nosey

When Eddie and I arrived back at the office, a ruckus in the break room caught our
attention. We stepped inside to see what all the commotion was about.

Josh stood in the center of a cluster of male agents. I could only get a partial glimpse
of him.

“Did it hurt?” one of them asked.

“How hard was it to get in?” asked another.

“Dude, I think you caught an infection.”

Ew!
They weren’t talking about Josh losing his virginity, were they?

I elbowed my way into the inner circle. Nope, they weren’t talking about Josh’s virginity;
they were talking about his nose. It bore a shiny gold hoop that emerged from a severely
inflamed spot on the side of his left nostril, which had swollen nearly closed.

Urk.

The piercing didn’t fit Josh at all. He now looked like the Gerber Baby crossed with
Pink or Lenny Kravitz. But while Pink and Lenny had the personalities to pull off
a nose piercing, Josh simply looked goofy, like a wannabe hipster, like he was trying
too hard to be someone he wasn’t.

Nick wandered in.

I jerked my head toward Josh and spoke under my breath. “Check out Lord of the Nose
Ring.”

Nick took a quick glimpse and whispered his reply. “He looks like a fish with a stuck
hook.”

Yep, Josh looked ridiculous. Still, though the piercing didn’t fit Josh, it was nonetheless
a bold romantic gesture, his attempt to venture into Kira’s world, to show her how
committed he was to making their relationship work. Surely she’d be flattered—once
the infection cleared up, that is. Until then she’d probably just be disgusted.

Lu stepped into the kitchen to refill her empty coffee mug. As she poured, she glanced
my way. “My date with Fred was a bust.”

“Sorry to hear it. Not your type?”

She took a sip of her steaming brew. “Too horny. We went to dinner and when I came
back from the ladies’ room I caught him popping three Viagra.”

Three?
The guy was lucky he didn’t go blind. “What did you do?”

“I told him I was not that kind of girl and if that’s all he was looking for he could
take me right home.”

“How did he react to that?”

“He took me right home.”

Sheesh.
“Harry had potential. Maybe you should give him a nod.”

“Good idea.”

After completing a few routine tasks at the office, I dragged Josh to the minor emergency
clinic to pay a visit to Ajay. The hole in Josh’s nose had begun to seep and the skin
had grown more red and swollen. Josh appeared flushed and was sweating, too, as if
he was running a temperature.

The things we do for love, huh?

Ajay took one look at the piercing, cringed, and prescribed an antibiotic cream. He
also gave Josh a shot of penicillin and suggested he take a couple of ibuprofen for
the pain and fever.

I dropped Josh back at the federal building and headed out to visit three more MSBs
near the end of my list, keeping a careful eye on the traffic around me in case I
was being followed.

Nothing suspicious cropped up at the first location I visited, which was a gold and
silver exchange. Every large transaction was properly documented. I knew I shouldn’t
feel disappointed the staff had actually complied with the laws, but I had grown increasingly
frustrated over the days as visit after visit proved futile.

I wanted to find the person who had helped the terrorists move their money.

And I wanted to find him
now.

My second stop was Cohen & Sons, a combination kosher deli, catering service, and
convenience store tucked in a narrow space between a martial-arts studio and a discount
dentist office in a working-class neighborhood. The place sold kreplach and candy
bars, pastrami and Pepto-Bismol, matzo ball soup and Powerball tickets.

Given that it was now lunchtime, the place was hopping and I had to stand in line
with a dozen people from nearby businesses who were picking up lunch for themselves
and their coworkers. I inched forward along the refrigerated glass case, peeking inside
at the offerings. The case featured a variety of meats and side dishes, including
potato salad, coleslaw, macaroni salad, and carrot salad with raisins. I’d never liked
carrot salad with raisins. Raisins belonged in oatmeal cookies along with brown sugar
and vanilla, not paired up with a vegetable, pretending to be some type of treat.
It was unnatural.

Behind the case worked Avram Cohen and his two sons, all three wearing stained white
aprons over their clothes and yarmulkes over their dark-brown hair. The men moved
quickly and efficiently, the two sons preparing the food while their father rang up
the purchases and made change.

By the time I reached the front of the line, the delicious smells had taken their
toll and my stomach was growling. I decided to nosh on a knish while I performed my
review.

“Spinach or potato?” Avram asked.

I engaged in a brief mental debate. They both looked good, but I had another stop
to make later today and didn’t want to risk getting spinach stuck in my teeth. “Let’s
go with the potato.”

He called my order out to his sons, rang up my purchase, and took the cash I offered
him. When I identified myself and told him the purpose of my visit, he glanced down
the long line of people waiting behind me and gave me a sour look. “Your timing stinks.”