Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (12 page)

My phone vibrated in the pocket of my blazer as a text came in. I pulled out the phone and checked the readout. The message was from Nick.

BTW you looked mighty purty yesterday.

I felt a warm blush on my face. I felt Nick’s eyes on me, too. Not looking up, I hit the delete button and replaced the phone in my pocket, returning my gaze to the magazine even if my attention was now hopelessly elsewhere.

Nick stood and began to pace. The guy couldn’t sit still. He was like a fidgety child with ADD.

“Maybe you should cut back on the Red Bull,” I suggested.

Nick ignored me, instead stopping in front of the receptionist’s desk. “We’ve been waiting half an hour,” he said, more than a hint of irritation in his voice. “How much longer is he gonna be?”

The woman gave Nick an icy smile. “Let me check for you.” Nick hovered over her while she dialed Fischer’s office again. “Can you tell me when Pastor Fischer might be ready to meet with Mr. Pratt and his assistant?”

Nick’s assistant?

Ooh, that did it. Hot and bothered now, I stood, slapped the magazine back on the table, and walked over to take a place next to Nick in front of the desk. I could stare down the receptionist just as well as he could. Heck, even better. I had the added benefit of mascara.

“Thanks,” the woman said into the receiver before hanging it up. She looked up at us. “His executive assistant is on his way now.”

A side door opened and a fresh-faced guy in his early twenties poked his head in. “I can take y’all back now.”

We followed the guy to a door marked
CONFERENCE ROOM.
He opened it for us and gestured for us to step inside.

I took three steps in and instinctively took one back, stepping on Nick’s boot, my back colliding with his rock-solid chest.

Holy moly.

The room contained a virtual horde. Seated at the table were not only Pastor Fischer and Associate Pastor Walters, but also Scott Klein—the managing partner of Martin and McGee and my former boss—Alicia’s boyfriend Daniel, and five other stern-looking men in business suits, one of whom was Tim Haddocks, the pinched-faced former attorney general for the state of Texas.

Daniel offered an apologetic smile. I knew now why he’d declined to discuss his work with me at dinner the other night. This case was apparently the big one he’d alluded to. I had no problem going head to head with him. I knew we could both maintain our professionalism and not let the case interfere with our friendship.

My former boss gave me a respectful nod. Haddocks merely glanced up briefly before looking back down at the cell phone in his hands. He resumed typing on the tiny keyboard with his pudgy thumbs. The other suits bored holes in us with their eyes.

Nick put a strong hand on my back to steady me and stepped to my side. Given the unexpected squad of suits, I had to admit I was glad Nick was there with me. Still, we were outnumbered four and a half to one.

“Didn’t realize we’d be having a party here.” Nick smiled and stuck his hand across the table to Noah Fischer. “Senior Special Agent Nicholas Pratt.”

Pastor Fischer stood. The gray suit, white shirt, and red tie he wore today were more demure than the attire he’d worn during the church service yesterday, but I doubted they were less expensive. His flashy Cartier watch caught the light as he extended his hand to Nick. “Pleasure to meet you, Nicholas.”

Pleasure? As if.

“You can call me Special Agent Pratt.” Nick’s tone made it clear Fischer could also kiss his ass.

Nick had put the pastor in his place by refusing to accept the first-name familiarity. Yep, the guy played hardball. The strategy could be a good one, though occasionally a softer touch led to better results. As my mother always said, you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. But Fischer was more a vulture than a fly, feeding on the church as if it were a rotting carcass. He hadn’t exactly played nice so far, had refused to pay both the county and federal tax assessments sent to him. So, yeah, hardball was probably the way to go here.

A patronizing smile played across Fischer’s lips as his gaze locked on Nick’s. “Certainly, sir. Special Agent Pratt it is.”

I introduced myself next, noticing a chunky gold bracelet slip out from the cuff of Fischer’s suit jacket as he shook my hand. I also noted that his fingernails appeared to have been professionally trimmed and buffed. Cleanliness is next to godliness, as they say.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Klein,” I said, moving on to my former boss and shaking his hand.

“You, too, Tara.”

It was odd to face my previous employer now as not only an equal, but also an adversary. Ditto for my best friend’s live-in boyfriend.

Daniel extended his hand to me. “Agent Holloway.”

“Mr. Blowitz.” I gave his hand a soft squeeze as I shook it, letting him know I bore him no ill will. He was only doing the job that had been assigned to him. Still, I felt a little shaky. I was a smart, savvy agent. But Daniel was no shirk, either. If there was any legal way to get Pastor Fischer and the Ark off the hook, he’d find it. He hadn’t lost a case in years.

Yep, Daniel was a workaholic, doggedly determined and ingenious, not to mention relentless. But so was I. And I hadn’t lost a case since I’d joined the IRS, either. Still, there was no way both of us could come out on top. One of us would suffer a blow.

Fischer introduced the rest of those at the table. In addition to the church’s bookkeeper, Associate Pastor Michael Walters, and the former state attorney general were the Ark’s outside CPA and two more attorneys. One of the attorneys was a partner with Benson and Brubaker, otherwise known as B and B. The other was a partner at Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz, the firm where Daniel worked as an associate and one which routinely hired CPAs from Martin and McGee to serve as consultants on cases requiring financial expertise. The firms were two of the largest and most prestigious law firms in Dallas. Also the most expensive. The ten seconds spent on handshakes had likely cost a couple hundred bucks.

The B and B attorney indicated he represented Pastor Fischer, while the partner from the Gertz firm said they represented the church. Due to ethical rules, an attorney could not represent both parties since there could potentially be a conflict of interest between the church and its pastor.

I looked at the former AG. “Whom do you represent, Mr. Haddocks?”

He glanced at me, then exchanged looks with the other attorneys. Sheez. The guy didn’t have a clue whether he represented the Ark or its pastor. Clearly he’d been hired onto the team merely as an intimidation tactic, another warm body to sit at the table, another waste of the Ark’s, and its members’, money.

Nick emitted a soft snort. “The name on your retainer check might give you a clue, Mr. Haddocks.”

“He represents Pastor Fischer,” spat the partner from B and B, shooting Nick an eat-shit-and-choke-on-it look.

Technicalities aside, all of this splitting hairs was silly, really. In actuality, the church and its pastor were virtually one and the same, the tax issues and their funds inexorably intertwined. Fischer sat at the table both as the pastor of the church and in his individual capacity as a taxpayer. Or should I say
non
taxpayer?

Nick and I took seats on our side of the table, flanked on each side by several empty chairs. But what the IRS team lacked in head count, we made up for in determination.

I figured I’d better jump in before Nick could completely take over. With so many people on the other side of the table, I wasn’t quite sure whom to address, but I figured I couldn’t go wrong with speaking directly to the pastor.

“Pastor Fischer,” I said, using what I hoped was a certain but reasonable tone. “Your outstanding tax bill with the IRS is now well over half a million dollars, with interest continuing to accrue daily. The government has been more than patient with you and the Ark, but we simply can’t let this go on any longer. When one taxpayer fails to pay their fair share, the burden falls on other taxpayers. It’s tantamount to stealing.”

Nick cut his eyes my way. Ha! I’d stolen his argument and, thus, his thunder.

“The time has come for you all to do the right thing,” I added, “and take care of this bill. Let’s get this settled today, shall we?”

When one of the attorneys down the table began to speak, Fischer silenced him with a raised hand. He then raised a white-blond brow at me and, though responding to my words, stared intently at Nick. “‘Render unto Caesar,’ you mean?”

Nick chuckled. “Found my card, did you?”

The brow lowered as Fischer’s eyes narrowed. He turned his focus back to me. “We beg to differ, Miss Holloway. We believe the time has come for the federal government to do the right thing and stop harassing this ministry. Those in power are clearly trying to restrict the practice of religion and the fundamental freedoms on which this country was based. That, Miss Holloway, is tantamount to oppression.”

Wow. Pastor Fischer was a master of spin. His bullshit sounded almost rational. No doubt his attorneys had spoon-fed him these responses, and no doubt much of the public would be swayed by this rhetoric.

As much as I hated to admit it, Nick had been right. The soft sell didn’t work with these people. Well, it might work with the associate pastor. His expression seemed more concerned and conciliatory than defensive.

Nick jumped in now and, damn me, but I was grateful. “You’ve taken a number of extravagant vacations on the church’s dime, Pastor. Spent the church’s funds on a luxury mansion and limousine and servants. ‘For where your treasure is, there will be your heart also.’”

I wondered what flavor of jelly bean Nick had received for learning that verse.

Fischer blinked several times in quick succession. “None of these expenses are unusual or unreasonable for an operation with the size and resources of the Ark.”

“Well, now it’s we who must beg to differ,” Nick replied. “Most churches do not operate this way.”

It was true. Despite the rise in nonprofit fraud over recent years, the vast majority of tax-exempt religious organizations were legitimate and spent their funds on appropriate programs.

“How do you think the people in your congregation would feel if they knew how their hard-earned money was being spent?” Nick was offering my arguments now, playing the publicity card as I’d suggested.

The sound of birds chirping and a pig oinking came from the former AG’s phone. Looked like he’d finished his texts and moved on to playing Angry Birds. I surreptitiously tossed a glance in Daniel’s direction. He discreetly rolled his eyes, letting me know he agreed the AG’s presence was pointless.

Fischer leaned forward, glancing down the table at his extensive legal team before continuing. “The Ark is transparent. We review our financial statements in detail at our biannual business meetings. Not a single person has expressed concern about how the Ark chooses to allocate its funds.”

“And just how many people attend those meetings?” I asked, knowing full well that only a handful of parishioners bothered to show up. In this busy day and age, who had the time? Besides, most people avoided any discussion of numbers like the plague. Budgets, balance sheets, and profit-and-loss statements were indecipherable to most people. They trusted those in charge to do the right thing. In this case, however, their trust was misplaced. And the few who might have concerns about Fischer’s expenses were probably too intimidated to rock the boat. Questioning a beloved pastor, a purported man of God, could result in alienation or worse.

“You can’t deny that my salary is reasonable,” Pastor Fischer said, ignoring my question and going on the offensive now.

“True.” Nick dipped his head in agreement. “Problem is, the Ark is covering personal expenses you should be paying out of that salary.”

Nick noted that, in addition to paying for the extravagant vacations and covering the wages of the domestic staff, the Ark paid the utility, insurance, and repair bills for the Fischers’ residence. Because the Ark covered many of the Fischers’ personal expenses, the couple had been able to accumulate quite a nest egg. Not only had they made the maximum contributions to their retirement accounts, they’d amassed a portfolio of stocks and bonds with a market value in excess of two million dollars. According to the Bible, a camel would have an easier time passing through the eye of a needle than the Fischers would have getting into heaven.

Fischer gave Nick a patronizing smile. “Surely you can understand that having a household staff frees more time for Marissa and me to pursue God’s work. Besides, the parsonage is used for church purposes. It’s not only our home, Mr. Pratt, it’s an extension of the Ark’s facility.”

“Not buying it, Mr. Fischer,” Nick replied. “The documentation collected during the audit clearly showed that the vast majority of the Ark’s functions were held here in the church building. In fact, the only church-related events you’ve hosted at the parsonage were Christmas parties for the Ark’s major contributors.”

Three thousand dollars’ worth of Cristal champagne and two grand in caviar had been enjoyed last year alone, every ounce on the Ark’s tax-exempt dime. The events were essentially a taxpayer-subsidized cocktail hour for the wealthiest church members.

“Those contributors are critical to the Ark’s success,” Fischer admitted. “Without their funds, we wouldn’t have this beautiful facility for our congregants to worship in. I assume you saw the huge crowd we drew at yesterday’s service?”

“It was a boatload,” Nick said.

I tried not to groan at his lame pun.

“Then you saw the success the Ark is having,” Fischer said. “We’re giving people hope here, Agent Pratt. Hope helps them manage in what is otherwise a dark, scary world.”

The guy had a point. Disregarding the fact that Fischer had screwed the federal government out of half a million in tax revenue and was living high on the hog thanks to his parishioners, he had managed to draw a large number of people into his ministry. Though I didn’t necessarily agree with his methods, he made people feel good about the world, happy, optimistic.