Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (13 page)

“The Ark’s members have completed some very worthwhile projects,” Fischer continued. “The youth group has implemented an after-school peer tutoring program in several of the inner-city schools. The men’s club recently performed much-needed repairs at the downtown women’s shelter. A team of women from the Ark regularly serves meals at a facility for the homeless.” He raised his hands and eyes to the heavens. “To God go the glory.” His focus returned to us. “I’ve provided the leadership that made these things possible.”

According to the documentation I’d reviewed, Walters was the one who engaged in the hands-on ministerial work. He’d helped organize the volunteers, made arrangements with the schools and shelters. He was the one who deserved the credit. “Wasn’t it Associate Pastor Walters who led these projects?” I asked.

“Michael took care of some of the details, but he did so under
my
direction,” Fischer insisted.

Though Walters remained quiet, a subtle shadow seemed to cross his face.

Nick switched tactics, seeming to realize the current course of the conversation would lead only to further argument. “May I ask when and how were you saved, Mr. Fischer?”

I wasn’t expecting that question. Apparently neither was the pastor. He glanced at his attorneys, all four of whom exchanged glances and shrugged. Fischer seemed to mull the question over in his mind, realizing that refusing to answer the common question would be suspicious. However, he was clearly suspicious why the question had been asked.

Noah turned back to Nick, his expression wary. “I was saved when I was in my early twenties.”

“When you worked for the car dealership in Dubuque, right?”

“That’s correct.”

Nick shifted in his seat, leaning back and draping his right arm over the back of the chair next to him, giving the illusion he was relaxed and comfortable. But I knew better. His left hand was tucked into the pocket of his suit jacket, squeezing the bejeezus out of the stress ball hidden inside. “A minister came to the dealership and you washed his car, right?”

That tidbit came directly from Fischer’s file, from an interview printed a year ago in
USA Today
. I remembered reading it. But I wasn’t quite sure where Nick was going with this line of questioning.

Fischer nodded tentatively. “I come from humble beginnings. I wasn’t too proud to wash cars for a living, just as Jesus washed the feet of those he ministered to.”

Squeeze. Squeeze.
“You didn’t just wash the cars, you detailed them, right?” Nick asked.

“That’s correct.”

“Wax included?”

Fischer nodded.

“Vacuum?”

Another nod.

Nick made a wiping motion with his right hand. “Wipe down the tires and interior with polish?”

“What the hell does any of this matter?” spat the attorney from B and B, who’d momentarily forgotten he was in a house of God, representing its minister.

“I’m happy to answer.” Fischer shot the attorney a warning look, then turned back to Nick with a smile. “Yes, sir. Tires and interior were included. I did a good job, too.”

Hmm. Did I detect a hint of pride there?

Nick continued his questions. “You attend church with your family back then?”

“No. I’m sorry to say my parents weren’t religious.”

Squeeze. Squeeze.
Nick pursed his lips and looked up as if grasping for straws but, again, I knew better. Whatever he was about to say, he’d thought out well in advance. “So you found out that a car you were detailing belonged to a minister and, just out of the blue, you asked him about God?”

“Yes. The Holy Spirit moved me.” Fischer looked upward now, raising his palms as if to acknowledge God before turning his attention back to Nick. “I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. The best day of my life was when I was born again. It was when my life truly began.”

Puh-lease.
Even for a Holy Roller, the guy was laying it on a bit thick. Listening to him was like trying to swallow a mouthful of peanut butter.

“You’ll never forget that day, huh?” Nick cocked his head. “What was the minister’s name?”

“The Reverend Alton P. Rogers.”

“What church was he with?”

“First Methodist of Dubuque.”

Nick gave a whistle. “You weren’t kidding. You do have quite a memory.”

Noah offered a half smile. “God gives us all gifts of one kind or another.”

“That He does,” Nick agreed. “He hung me like a horse and for that I’ll be eternally grateful.”

Daniel barked an involuntary laugh, then tried unsuccessfully to mask it with a cough. His boss rebuked him with a stern look.

“First Methodist of Dubuque,” Nick repeated. “That was a big church, wasn’t it?”

“The largest in town.”

“Rogers was quite a successful man, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed I would. The Reverend Rogers saved thousands of souls before he retired.”

“Sounds like business was good.” Nick paused a moment before cocking his head. “So, Mr. Fischer, what kind of car was the successful Reverend Alton P. Rogers driving?”

Fischer’s face flared red, his hair looking far more white than blond in contrast to his pink skin. Clearly Nick had struck a nerve, backed Fischer into a corner. The man couldn’t pretend not to know what kind of car the minister owned after saying he’d never forget that day and had been bestowed by God himself with the gift of good memory.

Fischer shifted in his seat, crossed his arms on the table in front of him. “An Eldorado.”

“What color?”

“White.”

“Six or eight cylinder?”

Fisher exhaled slowly before replying. “Eight.”

“Fully loaded, I bet.”

Fischer offered no response. Then again, Nick hadn’t phrased his words in the form of a question. If this were
Jeopardy!
his response wouldn’t count.

Nick rephrased. “Was the car fully loaded?”

“Yes.”

Nick chuckled. “If I were a minimum-wage grunt washing cars and discovered I could get myself a big ol’ Cadillac by becoming a preacher, boy howdy, I reckon I’d see the light, too.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Eat, Pray, Love, Post Bail

Fischer’s face blazed but otherwise he maintained his composure.

I jumped in now. No sense letting Nick have all the fun. “So after you met the Reverend Rogers, you decided to go to college, correct?”

Fischer nodded.

I pulled his personal file out of my briefcase and riffled through the contents, pulling out a sheet of paper and pretending to peruse it. The paper had nothing to do with his college attendance, but he couldn’t tell that from his vantage point across the table. “Who paid your tuition and expenses?” I was operating on pure gut instinct now.

“I received a number of scholarships,” Fischer said.

“Based on your family’s income, I presume?” I said. “Given your lackluster academic performance in high school I can’t imagine you were a contender for merit scholarships.” It was more a statement than a question. A statement meant to bring the pompous ass down a peg or two.

He offered a smile. “You are correct, Miss Holloway.”

I glanced back down at the paper. “You received grants, too, didn’t you?”

He nodded.

“Federal government grants, right?”

He nodded again.

“Free money, that you didn’t have to pay back?”

The smile remained on his face, but his eyes were aiming poison darts in my direction. “That’s correct.”

I was getting to him and, God forgive me, but I was enjoying giving the pastor a little hell. “You know where the federal government gets the money to fund those grants, don’t you, Mister Fischer?”

When he didn’t respond, I supplied the answer for him. “From honest taxpayers who pay their fair share. People like me and Senior Agent Pratt.” I looked down the table and gestured at the men seated there. “People like your accountants and attorneys and Pastor Walters.”

I’d dug into Walters’s tax filings, too. The guy was squeaky clean. He’d taken no extravagant vacations on the Ark’s dime nor financed any personal expenses from the church collection plates. Heck, the guy had even reported the six bucks he’d earned serving a day of jury duty.

Still Fischer said nothing.

“You owe the taxpayers and Uncle Sam a big ‘thank you.’” I left it there. I could’ve pointed out that his mother currently lived in a Medicare-subsidized nursing home, but if I pushed any harder, his attorneys might raise a stink.

“This is your last chance, Fischer.” Nick sat up straight in his chair. “You gonna pay up or not?”

Fischer’s eyes narrowed into little slits. “I am not.”

“All righty, then.” Nick stood. “Noah Fischer, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be held against you in a court of law.”

Wait. Nick had launched into the Miranda warnings. Nick was arresting him? Taking Fischer to jail had been the plan if he refused to cooperate, but
I
should be the one reading Fischer his rights, not Nick. This was my case, dang it! And if anyone would be reading Fischer his rights, it would be IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway.

I leaped to my feet, placed my palms on the table, and leaned forward. “You have the right to consult with an attorney.” Duh. He had a whole slew of them at the table, including the pinched-faced former AG who’d done nothing the entire time but send text messages and play games. The next warning also seemed nonsensical under the circumstances, but nevertheless we were legally required to state it. “If you cannot afford an attorney—”

“Just get your church to hire a whole team of lawyers for you.” Nick grinned at the legal team across the table.

I looked up at Nick and shot him a shut-up look. I turned back to Fischer. “If you cannot afford an attorney,” I repeated, “one will be appointed for you.”

Fischer slowly stood, his eyes burning with fury, his blue pupils virtually crackling with flames. Clearly he hadn’t anticipated being arrested. He’d probably thought his team of high-priced lawyers would scare us off as they’d successfully done with other government officials in the past.

Neener-neener.

Nick and I didn’t scare easily. We’d faced tax cheats far more formidable than Pastor Fischer in the past and lived to tell about it.

Nope, Fischer’s legal team hadn’t done jack crap for him today. But really, what could they do? No matter how good they were at lawyering, the IRS clearly had probable cause to arrest Fischer. We’d had it for years. The best they could hope for was to spring the pastor on bail and somehow convince a judge and jury that his personal vacations and living costs were valid church expenses.

Good luck on that one.

Then again, it wouldn’t entirely surprise me if a judge or jury let this guy off the hook, regardless of how many tax laws he’d violated. Fischer was a celebrity in local circles and if there was anyone America worshipped it was their celebrities. Seemed if you were famous enough and rich enough in America, you could buy your way to freedom no matter how guilty you might be, or at most receive a slap on the wrist. Americans continued to buy Chris Brown CDs after he beat the crap out of Rihanna. When Charlie Sheen’s boozing put an end to his role on a hit TV show, they still paid a pretty penny for tickets to see the guy make an ass of himself on stage. Any lame excuse was acceptable. No one was held to account for their sins anymore.

Don’t get me wrong, I was all for second chances. But not at the price of justice.

Oh, well. No sense worrying about something that wouldn’t be my problem, right? Our job was essentially done now. When this case went to court, Nick and I would be mere witnesses, though critical witnesses. It would be up to the lawyers at the Department of Justice to see that Pastor Fischer received the sentence he deserved.

Walters stood. “Just a moment, please. Can’t we work out some kind of settlement here? Maybe pay the taxes out over time?”

Nick threw his hands in the air. “Hallelujah! Finally someone on your side of the table is showing some sense.”

“No!” The lawyer from Benson and Brubaker jumped from his seat. He shot a warning look at the associate pastor. “Sit down, Michael. And don’t you dare say another word!”

Sheez. They spoke to Walters like he was a disobedient child when, in fact, he was the smartest guy on that side of the table. If they’d let him speak, if they simply worked out a deal with us today to pay the taxes and straighten up their act, Fischer could avoid going to jail. We didn’t really want the hassle of sending anyone to the klink, especially someone who was sure to generate a backlash against us. We just wanted to collect what was owed and ensure they’d play fair in the future.

Once the associate pastor had taken his seat, the lawyer turned his attention back to Nick. “Walters doesn’t speak for the church.”

“Neither do you.” Nick quirked a brow at the lawyer from B and B. “You represent Pastor Fischer, remember?” He pointed to the other attorney. “He represents the church.” He pointed at Haddocks next. “And the former AG will let us know who he represents once he checks his bank statement.” Nick chuckled again.

Daniel bit his lip to fight a smile. I fought a smile myself. The relationship between the pastor and the church was so entangled even the attorneys couldn’t keep it straight.

The Gertz partner addressed Walters now. “Please remember, Pastor Walters, that you are here only as an observer.”

“And now, Mr. Walters, you can observe my partner and me taking Noah Fischer off to jail.” Nick pulled back the flap of his jacket to retrieve his handcuffs from the inner pocket, making sure to pull it back far enough so that all of those at the table could see the gun holstered at his hip.

Oh, no he didn’t. If anyone was going to haul Fisher off to jail in handcuffs, it would be the lead agent on this case—me. I shot Nick a pointed look. “My case, my cuffs.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

I reached into my purse to retrieve my cuffs, rummaging around in the various pockets when I failed to find them in their usual spot. Pulling my purse open, I looked inside. No cuffs. Then I remembered. I’d used my only pair of handcuffs a few days ago on August Buchmeyer, after he’d shot at us. Stupid old fart.