Return of the Dixie Deb
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Authors: Nina Barrett
Tags: #Contemporary, #Suspense, #Action-Suspense
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Return
of the
Dixie Deb
by
Nina Barrett
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Return of the Dixie Deb
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Nina Barrett
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Debbie Taylor
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Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-083-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-084-0
Published in the United States of America
Praise for…
MARRIAGE MADE IN HAVEN
Four-heart rating from the romancestudio.com
Dedication
To Greg and Lynne
Chapter One
She had that “deer in the headlights” look most people would probably have if they were facing a senior auditor for the Internal Revenue Service. Mac studied her from his seat in the corner. But it was more than the huge hazel eyes staring across the desk at her accuser that made him think of a cornered doe. Even twisted in her chair, white knuckles clutching her handbag in an attempt to shield herself, there was a graceful elegance about her, along with long legs and curves her sensible business suit couldn’t hide. Auburn hair framed high cheekbones and an oval face that looked like she’d had more than one sleepless night recently.
He watched as she swallowed hard. It wasn’t getting any easier for her. It was about to get much worse.
“Miss Thimmons, as the head of your own firm and an honors graduate of business school, it’s hard to believe such a gross underreporting of your income was a mere oversight on your part.” Gordon Andrews put down the last of the papers he’d been going through and looked at her over the top of his glasses. “Would you like to try and convince a jury of that?”
“No, sir, it’s just that…”
Her voice broke. She’d entered the I.R.S. office chin up, shoulders back, holding a file of papers he assumed were supposed to prove her innocence. As Andrews had outlined the government’s case against her, step by damning step, she’d stared at the floor, her fingers bending a file folder on her lap back and forth. She was still trying to sit up straight, but a foot was betraying her, nervously jiggling. He saw her close her eyes and attempt to gather herself.
Didn’t Andrews have any sense of decency? Not that it was all his doing. He suspected the I.R.S. analyst was no more enthusiastic about what was coming than he had been when they’d sprung it on him. His hands tightened on the armrests. Beside him, his F.B.I. superior glared as he shifted in his seat.
Their prey was trying again. “I can’t explain. I don’t understand it myself. B-but there were, have been some personal, some other things going on that well, might have, maybe did distract me somewhat. I guess.” Her voice trailed off as Andrews waited.
The silence stretched on. The I.R.S. man didn’t look convinced. He watched her dig for a tissue in her purse. Her shoulders drooped as she knotted it in her hand.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cheat the government.”
Damn, these men didn’t have any compassion. His hands balled into fists. He didn’t care Whittaker was giving him a warning look
again
. Just make it another entry on his list of career missteps. He’d had his fill of watching women suffer over the past year.
“The penalties under the sentencing guide of the U.S. Penal Code are clearly delineated, Miss Thimmons,” Andrews said briskly. Thin and balding with sloping shoulders, he looked like a professional pencil pusher. Certainly, he hadn’t worked his way up to his private seventh-floor, corner office by being sympathetic to the sob stories he must have heard over the years. “They call for repayment of money owed, punitive fines, revocation of your license as a C.P.A., and incarceration of two-to-five years in a federal facility.”
Dark shadows under her eyes showed this wasn’t news to her.
“With your professional expertise as well as your years in business, it would be hard to make a case for leniency.”
Looking defeated, Jan Thimmons stared down at the forgotten folder on her lap and seemed to nod. Over the years, he’d conducted enough interviews with suspects to recognize the moment they lost hope, the moment you had them. The man beside him knew it too. They both had probably been watching the pulse erratically jumping at the base of her throat. Whittaker rose ponderously to stand beside Andrews’ desk. It was like a predator moving in on his spent prey.
“Miss Thimmons, I am Warren Whittaker, the Assistant Director of the Southeast Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation here in Atlanta. With me is Special Agent Michael McKenzie.”
From the corner, he got up slowly and nodded at the girl as she lifted her head to look at him.
“The Internal Revenue Service apprised us of your case. Senior I.R.S. Analyst Andrews is a former agent of the Bureau himself.”
Jan Thimmons’ jaw line quivered as she looked at them.
“Agent McKenzie and I are here today to discuss a way to possibly mitigate the charges against you. If you’re willing to aid the Bureau in another investigation we’re pursuing at the present time, it could be to your benefit in the tax fraud charges against you.”
Snap.
Poor wounded doe. She had no idea that in escaping the looming headlights of the I.R.S. juggernaut bearing down on her, she was stepping into the steel jaws of a trap. He dragged his gaze away from her. There was always a point at which a cornered animal realizes there’s no escape and turns to face the inevitable. He lowered his head and took a deep breath.
****
Yesterday, she’d managed to listen in as Lena Willard, her F.B.I. instructor, had reported on her progress. Even limited to one side of the conversation, it was clear from Lena’s tone that her “grooming” was coming along slowly. Evidently, the no-nonsense government agent wasn’t happy with her reluctant recruit. Jan had rolled her eyes. It worked both ways. Grooming must be government-speak for teaching someone how to assume a new identity while prodding them into joining an undercover assignment. Prodding with the threat of prison time. She narrowed her eyes. The past week had been unpleasant and intense. Yesterday’s session had lasted past eleven p.m. Today was looking no better.
“Hey, slow down,” Lena called to her from the other side of the room. From her tone, she’d guess her “handler” had military service somewhere in her past. “You’re not running the hundred-yard dash here, Jan. It should be slow, leisurely—as though you’re savoring the spotlight, eating up the attention. Now go out and try it again from the top. Think of it as a performance.”
Or penalty for being an idiot when you filed your 1040. She gritted her teeth and clamped her lips together to keep from making the situation worse. She strode back to the door, shut it, and squared her shoulders.
“Come on, Jan,” she told herself. “You’ve done harder things, right?”
She drew in a slow breath, held it, and counted to ten. Then another ten. She’d made it through the last year after all.
She grasped the knob and opened it deliberately, pausing at the entrance. Take control of the situation. Lena had stared at her, raising an eyebrow as she’d drilled the words into her at their morning briefing.
At a side table, the big F.B.I. agent they’d paired her with in this lunacy was bent over a folder with the I.R.S. auditor. Mac was tapping a pen on the tabletop, absorbed in whatever they were discussing. Apparently, he was more at ease with all this than she was. But no one had poured him into a pencil skirt and three-inch heels.
Lena nodded at her.
Step two, three. Step two, three. Step…
“Better. Jan, but put some shimmy into it. Bring up the heat. Let’s see some hip action. We want everyone looking at you. You’re the star of this production. Time to sizzle and shine.”
Okay, they’d get hip action if that’s what her federal government wanted.
She started again. Shimmy two, three. Shimmy two, three. Lena broke into a grin. From their table, Mac and Andrews had paused in mid-conversation to watch.
As she reached the far end of the room, her coach gave two quick claps.
“Yes, Jan. Way to go, girl!”
It seemed she had passed shimmying.
****
The robbery wasn’t going well.
“It’s Stella Purvis,” the bank manager whispered. She cast a glance at the small, gray-haired, older woman slapping the door with her palm. She was obviously disregarding the closed sign the manager had flipped over as she locked the door after he and Jan had made their grand entrance. Red-faced in the July heat, the woman on the other side had cupped her hands about her face and was peering in through the glass.
Beside him, he could tell the bank official’s nerves were fraying.
“This must be the week for her hairdresser. I forgot she usually comes by about this time to cash a check before she goes over to Sue’s Stylings. Stella’s not going to give up, because Sue doesn’t take plastic and tonight is the dance down at the Legion.”
He caught an angry mumble of words beyond the door as Stella resumed pounding. Jan Thimmons was staring at him from the counter where she held the briefcase open for their teller.
Had the surveillance cameras caught enough? Maybe it was time to cut and run. Something had to be done about the woman outside. Any minute now, passers-by would begin to wonder what was wrong.
“I know you’re in…” The door rattled as the woman kicked it with one of her sensible oxfords. Across the street, he could see someone’s head turn in their direction. At the counter, Jan was breathing hard.
“Let her in.” With the empty gun in his pocket, he motioned toward the door. “Go on.”
The manager rolled her eyes in relief and pulled a key ring from her pocket.
“Okay, Stella. Just a minute. Just a minute.” The bank manager mouthed the words exaggeratedly as she cracked the door open and held it as Stella pushed her way in. Once the offender was in, the manager re-secured it.
“Don’t know what you’re doing, closing up in the middle of the day when folks have business to tend to, Miranda Henson. If you girls want to take a long lunch break, that’s all well and…”
“It’s a robbery.” The bank manager sounded exasperated. “A robbery, Stella. The Farmers’ First Mercantile is being held up by these fine people. I was trying to keep you out of it.”
The other woman’s round eyes widened above her rouged cheeks as she took in the scene, her jaw sagging. At the counter, Jan closed the briefcase and nodded at him in relief.
He swiveled back around as the bank manager gasped.
“No, no, Stella. Stop. For pity’s sake, put that thing away…”
He held up his hands in protest, but Stella had her pepper spray aimed and ready.
Chapter Two
Jan held on to the steering wheel with one hand and dug in her purse for another wet wipe. She passed it over to him. Twenty feet away at the counter, she and the teller had watched transfixed as the bank manager had passed out and McKenzie doubled over. Briefcase in one hand, she had grabbed Mac’s arm and pulled him out the back door to their getaway car as he coughed and gagged. Pure adrenaline had powered her.
Her nose tickled. She rubbed it and looked over at her partner in crime as he wiped his face and leaned out his window to inhale the dusty air.
“Are you going to be all right?” She checked the rearview mirror again. On the graveled backcountry road, it didn’t look like they were being followed.
“I’ll live. I’d forgotten how awful this stuff is. Ah…” Mac covered his mouth and bent forward, coughing as if his lungs would come out.
Sitting back up, he used a handkerchief to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. “We had exposure to pepper spray back at Quantico during training, but I never took a direct hit. I think she was aiming for my eyes.”