Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (2 page)

So here we were.

Nick and I climbed out of the car. The intense midsummer heat caused an instant sweat to break out on my skin. Nick shrugged into his bulletproof vest and a navy sport coat. I slipped my protective vest on over my white cotton blouse and secured my gun in my hip holster, covering them both with a lightweight yellow blazer. Standard precautions. After all, it wasn’t likely a couple of octogenarians would put up a fight. Right?

A hundred feet inside the gate sat a weather-beaten blue single-wide trailer in a thick patch of weeds. The house stood slightly cockeyed from settling unevenly into the reddish soil. The metal skirting had pulled away in places and there was no telling what manner of vermin had made a home under the structure. An enormous, outdated satellite dish mounted on a sturdy five-foot pole stood between the trailer and a lone, misshapen mesquite tree that struggled for life in the bare, dry dirt. An ancient pickup with faded two-tone brown paint sat on the far side of the dirt driveway. Two rusted tractors, a dented horse trailer, and a broken-down trampoline, its springs long since sprung, littered the yard.

Fifty yards beyond the house stood a series of long metal barns. The hot breeze blew toward us, carrying with it the faint sounds of clucking and the stench of bird poop. Over it all flew the Burnet flag, an azure background with a single gold star in the middle, the last flag flown over Texas when it was still an independent country.

Nick gave a whistle. “Boy howdy. This is quite the presidential palace.”

The collections agent stepped out of her car and met us on the asphalt. She was fortyish and slender, with short black hair. She wore a floral-print dress with sensible flats, and introduced herself as Jane Jenkins.

“This shouldn’t take long,” Jenkins said. “I’m not expecting to find much. Other than the trailer, twenty acres of scrubland, and the pickup, there’s no property in their name.”

“What about the chickens?” I asked. “They’ve got to be worth something.” After all, a two-piece meal at KFC ran about four bucks. I should know. I’d had some extra crispy for lunch.

Jenkins shook her head. “We’ve got a strict policy in collections. We don’t seize anything that eats and craps. Costs too much to care for animals.”

Made sense. Better to wait for the owner to sell the birds then seize the resulting profits. Problem was, the IRS had levied the Buchmeyers’ bank account years ago, garnering over six grand in one fell swoop just after the couple received a large payment from one of their customers. Since then, the couple had taken to operating on a cash-only basis.

Where the cash was being held was anyone’s guess. With any luck, we’d find some in their trailer today, maybe under a mattress or in their toilet tank. Eddie’d once collected ten grand from a delinquent taxpayer who’d hidden large bills in his bowling bag, including stacks of hundreds stashed in his bowling shoes under a pair of Odor-Eaters. When Eddie couldn’t find the cash he was sure the man had somewhere in his possession, he’d left the apartment and pulled the fire alarm at the complex. On hearing the alarm, the guy ran outside with the bowling bag. A dead giveaway.

Yep, sometimes being a special agent calls for creative tactics.

Nick, Jenkins, and I carefully stepped across the metal cattle guard and walked up to the gate. The opening was secured by two large, rusty padlocks joined with heavy-gauge chain thick enough to anchor an aircraft carrier.

I stepped forward and tugged on the locks. They didn’t budge.

Jenkins frowned. “I called ahead and told them to unlock the gate for us.”

It wouldn’t be the first time a taxpayer refused to cooperate. Wouldn’t be the last, either. For some reason, people didn’t like turning over their sports cars, big-screen televisions, and jewelry collections to the IRS. Not that we were likely to find anything like that here. The Buchmeyers’ profits had been modest. If they’d paid on time, their tax bill would’ve been paltry. But once three decades of interest and penalties were tacked on, those tiny tax bills had grown to over a hundred grand.

The three of us spent a few minutes searching for any keys that might be hidden about, turning over rocks, checking in and under the mailbox and behind the fence posts. We came up empty-handed.

I glanced back at the trailer. The faded blue and white striped bath towel serving as a curtain in the front window was pulled back, an older woman’s face visible. She raised a gnarled hand and gave me the finger. Wouldn’t be the first or last time that happened, either.

“Got their phone number handy?” I asked Jenkins.

She rattled it off and I dialed the Buchmeyers on my cell.

After five rings, someone picked up the phone. “Hello?” an old man’s voice rasped.

“Mr. Buchmeyer, this is IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway. We need you to come on out here and unlock your gate.”

An elderly man’s face appeared in the window. “I ain’t going to do that, young lady,” he spat. “I don’t recognize the authority of the United States government to tax me nor seize my property. This here place belongs to the Lone Star Nation. Didn’t you see the sign?”

“The sign doesn’t mean anything, Mr. Buchmeyer.”

“Like hell it don’t! If you all dare to enter my property, I’ll be obligated to defend it. Now you go about your business and let me go about mine.” With that, he hung up the phone and yanked the curtain closed.

CHAPTER TWO

Declaration of War

As well trained as we were, IRS special agents aren’t equipped to act as a SWAT team. But even though this old man was clearly crazy and possibly armed, I couldn’t bear the thought of having to drive all the way out here to BFE again later.

“Got any bright ideas?” I asked Nick.

“Let’s get us a local yokel,” he suggested. “Maybe they’ll know how to handle this guy.”

I telephoned the county sheriff’s department for backup, explaining we were federal agents trying to get onto the property. Luckily, an officer was already in the area helping a rancher round up an escaped mule.

In minutes, a deputy drove up in a brown and tan patrol car and climbed out. He was tall and beefy with wavy brown hair. His bottom lip bore a telltale bulge of chewing tobacco.

He put two fingers under his junk and adjusted himself. Classy. “They said federal agents needed help out here.” His eyes roamed over Nick and me, taking in our business attire, his expression skeptical. “You two feds?”

I whipped out my badge and held it up for him to see. “We’re with IRS Criminal Investigations.”

“IRS?” He gave a derisive snort.

Nick stiffened beside me, but managed to keep his cool. Nick might not look so tough in his business attire, but underneath his clothing he was one hundred percent pure badass. He stuck out a hand. “Nick Pratt, senior special agent.”

The yahoo ignored Nick’s outstretched hand, instead hooking his thumbs in his utility belt. “Special agent? Don’t seem too special to me. Can’t even get in a little ol’ gate.”

My jaw burned as my teeth clamped tight, holding back the words straining to spill out of my mouth. I was dying to tell the deputy off, but we needed him to get us onto the property. I glanced over at Nick. Rage burned in his eyes and a low growllike sound came from his throat.

The deputy reached in through the open window of his car and pulled out a bullhorn. “No need to get yourselves worked up. August Buchmeyer’s a crazy old fart, but he ain’t going to hurt nobody.”

He put one foot up on the bumper of the cruiser as if posing for a stud calendar, gave his balls another adjustment, and raised the bullhorn to his mouth. “August, these people just want to take a look-see. If you don’t let us in, we’ll have to enter by force. Now get on out here and open your gate.”

A few seconds later the front door opened and a thin, stooped man stepped out, brandishing a rifle.

“Look out!” Nick yanked Jenkins down behind our car.

I pulled my gun from the holster. Nick hunkered down next to me and jerked his gun from his holster, too. Our eyes met, exchanging unspoken messages. Slowly and carefully, side by side, we raised our heads and peeked over the hood.

The deputy glanced over at us crouching behind the vehicle and shook his head. “What a bunch of pussies.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I prefer to think of it as being smart.”

The deputy raised the bullhorn back to his mouth. “August, you get on out here and open this gate right now. I ain’t gonna ask you again.”

From the narrow porch, the old man made a show of shaking his head.

The deputy lowered the horn. “Guess I’ll have to shoot the locks off.”

He reached into the cruiser and pulled a gun from under the driver’s seat. It was a small ornate pistol, obviously from the deputy’s private collection. “Y’all didn’t see this.” The deputy beamed as if he were the first member of law enforcement to come up with the idea of using a personal piece to avoid the paperwork required when a government-issued weapon was fired.

We plugged our ears with our index fingers.

Bang-bang!

Two quick shots later the chains lay in a heap on the gravel, the busted locks resting on top.

The officer swung the gate open and turned to us. “See, I told you Buchmeyer’s all bark and no bite.”

The retort of Buchmeyer’s rifle didn’t meet our ears until after the deputy’s windshield exploded into shards of glass showering down on the caliche.

The deputy shrieked like a schoolgirl and dove for cover in the small drainage ditch flanking the cattle guard. I crept to my front fender, took aim, and fired.

Blam!

Buchmeyer’s rifle sailed out of his hands and into the dirt next to his pickup.

So much for avoiding paperwork. At the rate things were going, internal affairs would have to devote an entire filing cabinet just to my firearm discharge reports.

Buchmeyer threw two angry fists in the air. “Abuse of power!” he hollered. “Government oppression! Declaration of war!”

Apparently the exclamations were enough to tucker him out. He plopped down on the top step of his rickety porch and crossed his arms over his chest like a pouting child.

Beside me, Nick shoved his gun back into his hip holster. “You beat me to the punch.”

I flashed a smug smile. “Anything boys can do, girls can do better.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a guarantee.”

Betty Buchmeyer poked her head out the front door of the trailer. “Y’all might as well come in now,” she called.

The deputy crawled out of the ditch on his hands and knees. Nick picked up the bullhorn from the asphalt where the officer had dropped it and stood over him. Pushing the talk button, he blasted the deputy with a hundred and fifteen decibels at point-blank range. “Who’s the pussy now?”

The deputy’s hands flew to his ears. Nick handed the horn back to him as he stood.

While the deputy dusted the burrs and dirt from his uniform, Nick, Jenkins, and I began to make our way up the short gravel drive. Seconds later, the deputy charged past us, took the two steps up to the front porch in one stride, and grabbed Buchmeyer by the front of his faded cotton shirt, lifting the old man off the ground. Buchmeyer thrashed and kicked his legs to no avail.

“You crazy coot!” the deputy shouted. “You could have killed somebody. I’ve got half a mind to haul your ass in for attempted murder.” He let go of Buchmeyer’s shirt and the grizzled man fell back to the porch.

Buchmeyer glared up at the deputy. “If I’d wanted you dead you’d be lying in a pool of blood on the road. But go ahead and charge me. The Nation will get me the best defense attorney money can buy. Besides, I’d be great in front of a jury. Watch this.” August crossed one eye inward and grinned like an inbred, backwoods idiot. “I had no idea it was the sheriff and the IRS,” he said in a feeble, shaky voice. “I’m eighty-three years old. I can’t see more’n two feet in front of my face. All I heard was someone shooting at my gate. My poor wife and I thought it was one of them home invasions!”

Standing behind her husband, Betty Buchmeyer put on her best ’fraidy face and fluttered her hand at her chest, a performance worthy of an Academy Award. The two had their act down pat. Hell, if I hadn’t witnessed the events myself I’d vote to acquit.

I whipped out my handcuffs, pulled the old man’s hands behind him, and slapped the cuffs on. While the deputy kept an eye on August, Nick and I entered the trailer with Jenkins following. The air-conditioned interior felt like heaven compared to the relentless hell outside.

Nick stopped under an air vent, turning his face up to take full advantage of the cool air blowing out of it. His eyes were closed, an expression of ecstasy on his face. I imagined that’s what he’d look like if he were having an orgasm. He opened his eyes and caught me watching him. Damn. I turned away, feeling the heat of a blush on my face.

Betty plopped down in a scratched wooden chair at the Formica dinette in the kitchen and picked up a can of store-brand grape soda from the table. “Been wondering when y’all’d catch up with us.” She nonchalantly took a sip of soda, picked up a remote control, and tuned the TV in the adjacent living room to a
Bonanza
rerun.

I wasn’t sure why August Buchmeyer had put up such a fight. From the looks of the place, they didn’t have much to lose. The walls were thin, pressed-fiber paneling. Threadbare braided rugs covered dingy linoleum. The worn couch was a seventies-style tan and gold tweed, a foam square peeking through a split seam on one of the cushions. Plastic milk crates situated on either side of the couch served as end tables. The Buchmeyers had not only violated the tax code, they’d also violated every tenet of feng shui.

Nick and I stood on either side of the doorway while Jenkins sat down at the kitchen table with Mrs. Buchmeyer. “Where do you keep the silver?”

The old woman leaned to the side to keep an eye on the TV screen behind Jenkins. “Ain’t got none.”

“How about your jewelry?”

Mrs. Buchmeyer held up her left hand, showing us the tiny diamond chip and thin gold band on her ring finger. “This is all I got.”