Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (33 page)

“You know what you’re also telling me?” he boomed. “You’re telling me that you still
have feelings for Brett. That I might be your first choice at the moment, but that
you care enough about Brett to keep him in a fallback position. That’s what you’re
telling me.”

What could I say? He was right.

The doors opened onto our floor and Nick stormed out.

Viola looked up from her desk by Lu’s office down the hall, eyeing me and Nick over
her bifocals.

I gave her a friendly wave and forced a smile. “’Mornin’, Vi.”

She jerked her head toward Lu’s office behind her. “The Lobo wants to see you.”

Damn.
So much for trying to make Nick see things my way.

While Nick continued on to his office, I hurried down the hall to Lu’s digs, hoping
we could get our conversation over with quickly so I could go speak to Nick.

No such luck.

chapter thirty-four

Another Day, Another Case

I entered Lu’s office to find Eddie already seated in one of her wing chairs. Lu gestured
for me to take a seat in the other.

“I’ve already busted Eddie’s balls this morning,” she said. “It’s only fair I bust
yours, too.”

I was tempted to point out, once again, that I had no balls, but didn’t want to say
anything that would drag things out unnecessarily. I really needed to finish my conversation
with Nick, make him see that my feelings for Brett in no way diminished how I felt
about him. I supposed it seemed odd, but it was true. I mean, it wasn’t like I had
a limited amount of feelings to allocate and had to decide on a ratio, giving a certain
percentage to Nick and the remainder to Brett. I could care about both of them, deeply
and simultaneously.

The Lobo used her teeth to rip a bite off yet another Slim Jim. I could virtually
see her arteries clogging in front of me. “Eddie says you two still haven’t made any
real progress on the terrorist case.”

“I brought in another member of their ring last night,” I pointed out. And nearly
got shot doing it.

Lu waved her hand dismissively. “The guy you nabbed is as tight-lipped as the others.
He’s not going to give you anything new to go on. Besides, bringing in the terrorists
is the CIA’s and Homeland Security’s job. Your job is to find the money trail.”

Would I really get so little credit for my near-death experience? “We’ve made the
rounds of all the MSBs,” I said, adding that we planned to make a trip out to Homsi’s
mosque, apartment, and workplace today.

“When you’re done with today’s visits,” she said, “you’re done with the case. You
two have spent a lot of time spinning your wheels with nothing to show for it and
we’ve got a backlog I need to assign. I can’t loan two of my agents out indefinitely.
Our tax cases have to take priority.”

I slumped in my seat in shame. I knew it was unrealistic to expect we would nail every
bad guy we went after, but in the months I’d been with IRS Criminal Investigations
I had yet to leave a case unresolved. It wasn’t in my nature to give up or give in.

But, hell, what else could we do? Agents Zardooz and Wang hadn’t been able to find
the terrorists’ accomplice and they had received just as much training as Eddie and
I. I had no new ideas short of rounding up a bloodhound and seeing if the dog could
sniff its way to the person who’d helped them move their money.

“A bloodhound?” Lu repeated after I made the suggestion. Her false eyelashes accentuated
her look of incredulity. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I supposed I shouldn’t mention that I’d consulted a psychic about the case. The Lobo
would probably send me packing on the spot.

Lu pointed to a large stack of files on her desk. “Those are for you, Tara. Some new
cases.” She gestured for Eddie to take another stack. “You two take a quick look.
Let me know if you have any questions.”

I picked up the heavy pile, plunked them on my lap, and began to work my way down
through them. The first was a routine tax evasion case against a divorced community
college professor who’d claimed to be exempt from income taxes after having renounced
his U.S. citizenship and declaring himself a personal corporation, as if such a thing
actually existed. The goofball taught political science, including a course called
Anarchy in Action. The audit department had already built a complete case against
the professor and issued him seven demands for payment, all of which he’d refused.
The only thing I had to do was arrest the guy. It should be a slam dunk.

The second was a high-dollar case involving a slew of people who’d conspired in a
mortgage fraud scheme. According to the notes, the case involved building contractors,
appraisers, Realtors, and mortgage brokers. Everyone involved was pointing fingers
at everyone else.
Ugh.
That case would be a certain pain in the ass.

The final case involved alleged unreported earnings by various people who worked at
a topless bar. Because the case involved both drugs and prostitution, the IRS would
team up with agents from the DEA and Dallas PD’s sex crimes unit. I skimmed over the
list of contacts and saw the name Christina Marquez. Knowing I’d be working with Christina
again was the only good news I’d had this morning.

Nick’s name was also on the list, I noticed. At the moment, I wasn’t sure whether
that was good or bad. Normally, I’d be thrilled to work side by side with him. But
with the mood he was in now, I wasn’t so sure that would be a good thing. After all,
the man was armed and I could admittedly be a royal pain in the ass. I couldn’t much
blame him if he decided to bust a cap in my butt.

“Nick’s assigned to the bar case, too?” I asked.

Lu nodded. “That’s a sleazy case if ever there was one. The investigation has the
potential to become dangerous. I wanted to put some muscle on it.”

“I’ve got muscle,” Eddie said, holding up his arm and flexing it.

Lu cocked her head. “Your muscles have two little girls that need a daddy.”

Eddie sighed and lowered his arm.

I supposed I should have felt insulted that Lu considered me more expendable than
my partner. After all, if something happened to me, my cats would be orphaned. But
as long as someone fed them they’d likely get over my loss in a day or two. Hell,
I bet Henry wouldn’t miss me at all, the furry little brat.

I crammed the paperwork back into the file. “Have you gone out with Harry yet?” I
asked Lu.

“Yes.” She pursed her lips. “Another bust.”

“What was it this time?”

“He’s still hung up on his ex-wife. She was all he talked about. Raylene this and
Raylene that. But I suppose I can’t complain too much. I got a lobster dinner out
of it.”

“Gonna give the coach a try?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Might as well. What have I got to lose?”

Armed with our new files, Eddie and I returned to our offices to drop them off. When
I glanced across the hall, I noticed Nick’s office was vacant. He was probably in
the kitchen snagging a Red Bull.
Damn.
I’d hoped to have a chance to smooth things over before Eddie and I headed out. Again,
no such luck.

This really wasn’t turning out to be my day.

Before leaving, I stopped by Josh’s office and gave him Kira’s note. He ripped through
the staple and read the page, a big grin spreading across his face. I had no idea
what she’d written, but it was clear she was giving Josh a second chance.

Josh looked up at me. “Thanks, Tara.”

I waved my hand, letting him know I’d been glad to help.

As I left his office, I had to wonder. Why was I so good at helping other people fix
their relationships and so bad at handling my own?

*   *   *

Both Agent Zardooz and Agent Wang accompanied us on our rounds today. We struck out
at Homsi’s mosque and apartment. One of his Islamophobic female coworkers said the
guy had always creeped her out, spoke too loudly in his “gibberish language” on his
cell phone, and had taken his coffee with two sugar packets, but that didn’t really
give us anything workable to run with.

Our final stop was the government impound lot, where we searched through the men’s
cars. Nothing incriminating or suspicious there, though I noticed Nasser’s auto insurance
card had expired since his arrest.

By mid-afternoon, we were done. The four of us stood at our cars and shook hands,
saying things like “it’s been nice working with you” and “you can’t win them all.”
We promised to contact each other if any of us came up with a sudden bright idea,
though I doubted any of us really expected to ever hear from the others.

I looked up at the sky. The sun was shining. Shining on us and shining on the person
who’d helped fund the terrorists, too. Yep, somewhere out there, someone was getting
away with aiding and abetting murder and mayhem.

*   *   *

I dropped Eddie at the office and decided to pay a visit to the community college
where Larry Horst, the tax-evading college professor, taught classes. I was tired
of feeling frustrated and incompetent. I needed an easy arrest and Horst was just
the ticket.

After the events that had taken place at the airport, I decided it was best to make
sure campus security knew I was on-site and that I’d be arresting Professor Horst.
I phoned the campus police and told them of my plans.

“Good luck,” said the officer on the phone. “That Horst is one bizarre bastard.”

I sent Nick a text next.
Plz don’t B mad.

I didn’t receive a reply.
Damn.

I parked in a visitor spot and ventured onto the campus. An enormous concrete fountain
graced the entrance, a cascade of water billowing from the top, its huge bowl filled
with pennies, nickels, and dimes students had tossed into the water as if it were
a wishing well. If I had to hazard a bet, I’d say each and every one of the coins
represented a wish for an A
+
. Or maybe to get laid. I wondered how many of those wishes had come true.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering around the campus, I eventually stumbled
upon a dark brick building with a sign outside identifying it as the shared home of
the poetry and political science departments. Looked like they’d chosen to divvy up
space by alphabet rather than discipline.

A glass-enclosed bulletin board near the elevators contained a list of the professors
and their office numbers. According to the list, Horst’s space was in room 214B. I
took the elevator up with two skinny college boys who were discussing the basic tenets
of Marxism, apparently for an upcoming test next week. They climbed off on the second
floor and I ventured out behind them.

I found room 214 with no problem. Not easy to miss a door spray-painted with a red
circle A, the symbol for anarchy.

The room was divided into two cubicles, one for Horst, another for a poetry professor,
judging from the framed portrait of Maya Angelou hanging on the wall on that side
of the space.

A large black flag was draped over the wall of Horst’s cubicle. Blue books, potato
chip wrappers, and paper coffee cups, many still containing liquid, were scattered
haphazardly over the desktop. His in-box overflowed with unopened mail, some of it
having fallen to the floor.

Clearly, Horst had attained tenure.

On his bookshelf rested copies of classic political science books. Writings by Plato,
Aristotle, John Locke, and Friedrich Nietzsche.
The Communist Manifesto.
Even an English translation of
Mein Kampf.
While his desk and bookshelf were cluttered, the chair in his cubicle remained empty.

I stepped over to the other cubicle. “Hello,” I said to the black woman sitting there.
“I’m looking for Professor Horst. Any idea where he might be?”

“Where he might be,” she repeated, raising a hand and sweeping it through the air.
“He might be here; he might be there.” She clenched her fists in front of her chest
and boomed, “What might he be if he be mighty?”

Although I was glad to have inspired this woman’s freestyle flow, I had a job to get
done and no time to dally in sonnets or iambic pentameter. “So, yeah,” I said. “That
poem was inspiring and all, but can you be more specific about Horst’s whereabouts?”

She hiked a thumb, indicating I should continue the way I’d been headed. “Professor
Horst is in class now. Three doors down. Room Two-Seventeen.”

chapter thirty-five

You’ve Been Schooled

I walked down the hall to room 217, stopping to peek through the vertical pane of
glass in the door. At the front of the class stood a man with wild salt-and-pepper
hair, gesticulating flamboyantly and ranting loudly about the tyranny of big government.

I quietly opened the door and slipped inside.

There were only ten or so students in the class. Rather than sitting in neat rows,
the students had arranged their desks at haphazard angles, apparently placing them
wherever they chose. One student had turned his desk sideways so that he faced the
window. Another student was asleep in his seat, his face slack against the fake wood
fold-down desktop, a string of viscous drool hanging from his open mouth. A third
student, this one a girl, had totally foregone a desk and was lying on her back on
the floor, her legs stretched up the wall, earbuds in her ears.

Professor Horst stopped ranting as I entered. “What are you doing in my classroom?”
he demanded, sounding quite like the tyrants he’d been condemning only seconds before.
“Are you a student?”

I ignored the second question, figuring I’d wait until class was complete before approaching
Horst about his overdue tax returns and payments. No sense tipping my hand now. As
for the first question, wasn’t it ironic for him to be asking? Excluding me from the
class would go against everything he was ranting about, wouldn’t it?

The students all turned to look at me. Well, other than the drooling guy, that is.
He just continued to sleep and produce mucus.