Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (17 page)

He shifted in his sleep, and had apparently turned his head, his warm breath now feathering the back of my neck, sending a sensual shiver down my spine. Lord help me, but I felt my body respond, my nipples hardening, a pleasant tingle erupting lower down.

He sighed and stretched behind me, apparently waking up. The next thing I knew a warm, wet tongue licked the back of my neck.
Mmm.
But as good as the sensuous touch felt, he’d taken things too far.

“Stop, Nick. Please.” I sat up and turned to face him.

But it wasn’t Nick. It was Nutty.

Urk! I’d been turned on by a dog!

There was a knock at my bedroom door and Nick pushed it open. He was dressed in navy pants and socks, his starched white dress shirt buttoned but not yet tucked in.

I felt a little exposed in my threadbare tee, especially since I wasn’t wearing a bra, but this wasn’t the first time Nick had seen me in my night clothes.

“Up and at ’em, lazybones.” He bore a cookie sheet loaded with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and a glass of orange juice. He glanced down at the tray. “I’m not much of a cook.”

“Good enough for me.” It was the gesture that counted, not the cuisine. My guess was this breakfast was his way of apologizing for taking over my case, for leaving me holding the metaphorical bag with all those callers yesterday.

I propped my pillow against the brass headboard behind me and pulled the patchwork quilt up to cover my chest.

“I couldn’t find a tray,” he said, carefully settling the cookie sheet on my lap.

“This was sweet of you.” It almost made up for the fact that I’d taken all the heat for Noah Fischer’s arrest.

“Sweet? You best keep your mouth shut, woman. I can’t have word getting out that I’m sweet. It’ll ruin my badass reputation.”

I gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He sat down on the bed next to me, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Nick smelled of the citrus soap I kept in the guest bathroom and his hair was still damp from the shower. I fought the urge to reach out and touch a wet tendril that had curled up behind his ear.

“Did I hear you talking to Nutty before I came in?” he asked.

I spooned up some cereal. “Yeah. He licked the back of my neck.”

“He’s a romantic, like me. I’ve taught him my best moves.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe you should consider getting yourself neutered, too.”

He chuckled but cut serious eyes my way. “I’m going to stay here another night or two. Until we’re sure none of Fischer’s followers is going to do something crazy.”

“No need,” I told him. “I think those people are all bark and no bite. Besides, I can stay at Brett’s place.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me last night. But I realized now that Brett’s house would be the perfect place for me to hide out temporarily. I knew he wouldn’t mind and I’d have no trouble getting in. I could use the spare key he kept hidden under the birdhouse on his porch.

Nick slid his legs off the bed and stood, his posture rigid. “All righty then. Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out and don’t need me anymore.”

I’d thought Nick would be relieved that he could go back home tonight but he seemed insulted, hurt even.

I climbed out of bed and grabbed his arm as he headed out of the room. “Nick, wait. I need to thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you last night.”

That little comment seemed to do the trick. His shoulders relaxed. His whiskey eyes bored into mine. “Anytime you need me, Tara, I’m just a phone call away.”

He chucked my chin and was gone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

God’s Pep Squad

I stopped for gas in the morning, eyeing the self-service newspaper stand as my tank filled. Fischer’s arrest was front-page news. The cover bore a full-color close-up of his face under the headline “They Know Not What They Do.” He’d managed to give the photographer his best tolerant-despite-unrighteous-persecution smile. I fought the urge to kick the machine.

It was ten minutes after nine when I turned onto Commerce Street.

Holy.

Moly.

Not only were there a dozen reporters in front of the federal building today, but there were also at least a hundred people carrying signs, marching back and forth on the sidewalk. Their mouths were moving, but with my Kenny Chesney CD playing I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

I jabbed the button to turn the music off, grabbed the golden-blond bob wig from the bag on the passenger seat, and plunked the wig on my head. The last thing I needed was these people recognizing me and running into the street, surrounding my car, maybe flipping it over with me in it or setting it on fire. With a full tank of gas it would burst into flame lickety-split. Okay, maybe I was being paranoid, but I didn’t know what these people were capable of. I certainly hadn’t expected this kind of demonstration.

I put on my Brighton knockoff sunglasses for extra anonymity and drove slowly by. A large wooden cross on wheels had been erected in the center of the sidewalk. Have cross, will travel.

I took in the slogans scrawled on the signs the protestors carried.

IRS
=
INHIBITING RELIGIOUS SERVICE.

Puh-lease.

DON’T TAX OUR PROPHETS!

Okay, even I had to admit that one was clever.

UNCLE SAM—KEEP YOUR HAND OUT OF OUR COLLECTION PLATE!!!

I eyed the woman holding that sign, wondering if she was the overzealous congregant who’d called me Uncle Sam’s whore. If the three exclamation points were any indication, I’d say she was. While her mouth screamed the chant, the tight skin on her face screamed plastic surgery.

Another woman wearing a short skirt with a matching sleeveless sweater put a megaphone to her mouth and yelled, “What do we want?”

The crowd responded at the top of their lungs. “Religious freedom!”

“When do we want it?”

They raised their fists in the air. “Now!”

This mantra was repeated ad nauseam as my car crept slowly forward in the heavy downtown traffic.

I rolled my eyes. Nothing we’d done infringed on their right to worship as they pleased. All we’d done was try to make sure their pastor wasn’t using the church as his own private ATM. We were trying to protect the church’s coffers, make sure the money was spent where it should be, on religious programs. Heck, we were trying to keep contributors—and God himself!—from being ripped off.

But they’d never see it that way. Pastor Fischer had pulled the wool over the eyes of his sheep.

Oh, dear Lord. I was closer now and recognized the woman with the megaphone. It was Judy Jolly. She’d seemed so sweet last Sunday. Today? Not so much. The benign sock monkey had become a rabid gorilla.

Judy changed chants now, moving on to, “We’ve got the holy spirit, yes we do, we’ve got the holy spirit, why don’t you?” At the “why don’t you,” the crowd pointed up at the federal building.

Several Dallas police officers were making their way up the sidewalk. Ever since the bombing in Oklahoma City, law enforcement had been extra vigilant about protecting federal buildings. Such a large group of protestors would never be allowed this close. Clearly, these churchgoers were picketing without a permit.

I parked in my usual spot in the lot and hurried into the building, noting a lime-green VW Bug parked near the doors in the space historically occupied by Viola’s white Chevy Malibu. I left the wig and sunglasses on in case any of those loonies had managed to get inside.

The sheriff’s deputy working the security screening stopped me as I attempted to go through the expedited employee lane. He’d seen me nearly every weekday morning for several months now, but he didn’t recognize me today in my getup.

“It’s me, Special Agent Holloway,” I whispered, lowering my sunglasses. I jerked my head toward the crowd outside the front windows. “I didn’t want them to recognize me.”

“Gotcha.” He winked at me. “Don’t worry. They’ll be out of here soon.” His eyes flicked to the wig again. “You look good as a blonde.”

What was it with men and blond hair?

I rode the elevator up to my floor. Viola, Eddie, Nick, and Josh stood at the window near Viola’s desk, looking down at the crowd picketing below. Josh pulled something small and black out of his pocket and held it up to his eyes.

Nick glanced over at him. “Those some kind of miniature binoculars?”

Josh nodded. “They’ve got a built-in camera, too.”

The guy was a regular Inspector Gadget.

I stepped up beside them. They all did a double take when they noticed the blond wig.

“It’s for Lu,” I said. “I’m still trying to find a strawberry-blond beehive, but I thought this might hold her over.”

The new clerk from the records department walked up, a stack of files in her arms, a bright pink feather weaved into her black-dyed hair, skintight leggings hugging her slender thighs. I couldn’t say much for her choice of office attire, but given that she’d managed once again to snag Viola’s choice parking spot, the girl must be responsible enough to get to work early.

The clerk ignored the hairy eyeball coming from Vi and looked at me instead. “You going for the Gwen Stefani look? Christina Aguilera? Pink?”

“No,” I said. “Just trying not to look like me.”

“Whatever,” she tossed over her shoulder as she continued down the hall. “It looks hot.”

“Thanks … I think.” Was it good to be complimented when you didn’t look like yourself? Not sure about that one.

Eddie looked down at the mob on the sidewalk. “Can you believe this?”

Viola shook her gray curls. “In all my years with the IRS I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Below, an officer had hooked his hands under the armpits of Judy Jolly, who’d gone limp and was being dragged to the paddy wagon. A couple other protestors had taken a similar tack and lain down on the sidewalk. The cops paired up to deal with those people, one picking up the person’s arms, the other grabbing the person’s legs. Meanwhile, the reporters and cameramen caught it all on tape. No doubt the arrests would be the top story on today’s newscasts.

Eddie put a worried hand on the top of his head. “This is out of control. The police are arresting those people.”

“It’s their own damn fault,” Nick said, squeezing the stress ball in his hand. “The cops told them to leave and they didn’t do it.”

Eddie’s hand slid down to his forehead. “Barely nine o’clock and I’ve already got a migraine.”

Poor guy. His temporary promotion was causing him headaches of both the figurative and literal variety.

I reached into my purse and retrieved a small plastic bottle of aspirin. “Here you go, buddy.”

“Thanks.” He shook out two tablets and returned the bottle to me.

I walked to my office, stowed my purse in the desk drawer, and settled into my seat. The first thing I did was call the phone company to have my home landline service disconnected. The second thing I did was check my voice mail. Fortunately, there were no hate messages here. The Treasury Department’s automated call routing system was virtually impossible to navigate. For the first time ever I was glad about that.

There was, however, a cryptic message from the mortgage banker. “Call me. I’ve got some bad news about your refi.”

I dialed her number. “This is Tara Holloway. You called about my loan?”

“Sorry, Miss Holloway. I’m going to have to reject your application.”

“You can’t do that,” I said. “You can’t discriminate against me just because I’ve gone after the Ark Temple. That’s a violation of the equal lending laws.”

“What are you talking about?”

I figured she’d seen my pay stub from the IRS and put two and two together, realized I was the one who’d arrested her beloved pastor. But when I explained, she was nonplussed.

“I’m a Lutheran,” she said. “I don’t attend the Ark. I only advertise in their bulletin. It’s cheaper than advertising in the newspaper and reaches a lot of rich holy rollers.”

Her words illustrated the point Nick and I had been trying to make. Big churches sometimes became big businesses. And when they did, they should be taxed as such.

“What’s the problem then?”

“The title company says there’s a lien against your home. We can’t make a loan on a property with an outstanding lien.”

Lien? What was she talking about? When I’d bought the place a few years ago, the title company had done a thorough search of the property records and come back with a clean report.

“What kind of lien is it?” I asked.

“Not sure,” she said. “I’ll have the title company fax you a copy.”

Probably the whole thing was some type of administrative error that could be easily cleared up. I hoped it wouldn’t take long, though. Rumor had it interest rates would soon be back on the rise.

*   *   *

An hour later, Vi stepped into my office and plunked a fax in my in-box.

“Thanks.” I picked up the two-paged fax and flipped the cover page over to read the attachment. Across the top of the document was the seal of the Lone Star Nation, complete with the oversized five-point star the state of Texas was known for. The title of the document was “Judgment Lean and Arrest Warrint.” Jeez. They couldn’t even spell “lien” or “warrant” correctly.

The language claimed that a duly appointed judge for the Nation had found me guilty of damage to and theft of government property. The property value and purported criminal fine together exceeded a quarter of a million dollars. The document further ordered my immediate arrest if I ever again dared to set foot on Lone Star Nation soil.

Found guilty in absentia without prior notice or a chance to defend myself? Apparently those jackasses didn’t believe in due process. I should’ve known they’d try something like this. Was there no end to the bullshit I had to endure?

I carried the fax across the hall to Nick’s office. He sat back in his chair, his boots propped on his desk. Today’s belt buckle was an enlarged silver dollar. Appropriate for a guy whose job it was to collect funds from deadbeats.

“Get a load of this.” I handed the paper to him.