Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter

by Kelly, Diane

  Still, I couldn’t much fault Flo for her dress. I might watch an occasional episode of Project Runway, but I didn’t always keep up with the latest fashion trends. Besides, Flo owned the place and didn’t have to answer to anyone. And it’s not like her audience could see her over the radio waves. This wasn’t television, after all. Why not dress comfortably? Heck, if I were in her shoes they’d be slippers.

  “Hello, Miss Cash.” I extended my hand. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway.”

  “No need for introductions,” she said, ignoring my hand. “You know who I am and you told me your name on the phone.”

  No pretense at politeness, huh? Flo might be an even bigger pain in the ass than I’d expected.

  “Follow me.” She turned and headed back down a short hall. On the immediate left was a door with a unisex bathroom sign affixed to it. A small supply closet sat on the opposite side of the hall. Beyond that the wall was divided, the lower half being solid and the upper half being glass. The room on the left contained an abundance of tech equipment being tended by a twentysomething bearded guy in jeans and a T-shirt, a Styrofoam cup with a red straw sitting on the console, a green drip running down its side. He was drinking either toxic waste or some sort of lime- or apple-flavored slush.

  Flo turned into the room on the right. This room, too, contained some technical equipment, though far less than the other room. A large console was situated on the wall that faced the glass, looking like the dashboard of the Starship Enterprise. What all those buttons and knobs and dials were for was a mystery to me, though I suspected one of them shot lasers and another could send us rocketing into space at warp speed.

  Mounted on the wall over the console was a rectangular light with a white plastic cover that read: “ON AIR” in red lettering. Of course the light was off now that Flo wasn’t broadcasting live. A large microphone sat on a stand at the front of the console. As least I knew the purpose of that piece of equipment. It was also clear what the long panel of buttons was for. Sound effects. Each was marked with a sticker identifying the sound it would make. Moo. Slap. Crash. Game show buzzer. Bee. Old-timey car horn. Toilet flush. Applause. Crickets. Screeching tires. Ticking clock. Boing. Chickens clucking. Explosion.

  Alongside the microphone sat an oversized green ceramic coffee mug with the KCSH logo on one side and the words “TUNE IN TO THE FLO CASH CASH FLOW SHOW!” on the other. The handle was shaped like a dollar sign. Looked like some type of commemorative cup she gave away to the folks she hosted on her show. She’d kept this particular cup for herself, steam rising from the surface, a tea bag draped over the top. Lemon Zinger, if my nose wasn’t mistaken. To the right of the console sat a coffeemaker. Though the red light was on, the liquid in the carafe was clear. Looked like Flo used the machine not to make coffee but rather to heat water for her tea.

  A cushy rolling chair with an added lumbar support pillow sat in front of the microphone. Flo plopped herself down into the comfy seat, reaching behind her back to adjust the pillow. Once she was comfortable, she leaned back, intertwined her fingers across her abdomen, and stared at me, waiting for me to begin, not a bit of concern on her face or in her countenance. Total Zen.

  Though she had yet to invite me to sit, I took a seat on the only other chair in the room, a small rolling stool, and placed my briefcase on my lap. I opened the clasps—snap-snap—and removed a copy of the auditor’s report. “I trust you’ve read the auditor’s findings?”

  “That little piece of speculative science fiction?” she scoffed. “Sure, I read it.”

  “So you’re aware that the IRS has some unanswered questions. Such as how you’ve managed to pay the station’s bills and your own personal expenses given that KCSH has reported virtually no profits for several years and you’ve only paid yourself minimum wage.”

  She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told that squirrely auditor. The big days of radio are long gone. Everything’s gone Internet now. With music downloads and podcasts, listenership is way down. Which means ad revenue is way down. The only reason I even keep this station up and running is because it’s my family’s legacy.”

  While her explanation might have made sense in a vacuum, it didn’t jibe with the information contained in the KCSH tax returns for the time prior to her succession to ownership eight years ago. Up to that point, KCSH still showed healthy profits. In fact, Flo herself had enjoyed a six-digit salary as the advertising manager. And while it was true that people had more entertainment options these days, radio was still going strong. People listened to the radio in their cars, while working in their offices and garages. As for myself, I listened to a country station on my drive into work each day and tuned into A Prairie Home Companion on NPR every weekend for my fix of folk music and down-home humor. People even live-streamed radio broadcasts through their computers. Nope, radio wasn’t going anywhere.

  No point in debating the status of radio as an informational and entertainment medium, though. What this investigation came down to was numbers. I pulled out the ledger that detailed the ad revenue. “This is the detail on your advertising revenue. I counted seventy-three different advertisers when I listened to your station yesterday, but only a dozen or so clients are listed in your accounting records.” I arched an accusing brow. “The businesses that aren’t listed paid you in cash under the table, didn’t they?”

  She chuckled. “Sorry to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but they didn’t pay me at all.”

  Sweetheart? I ignored her attempts to insult me, maintaining my focus on the case. Why would she mention the businesses on her radio station if they weren’t paying her to promote them? “Care to explain?”

  “It’s easy.” She gestured to the report. “The ones listed are the paying clients that we run professionally produced commercials for. The other businesses I mention are simply personal recommendations, not paid ads.”

  “What do you mean, ‘personal recommendations’?”

  “Just like it sounds. I’m giving my own opinion on businesses whose products or services I’ve used.”

  Huh. My smoking gun seemed to have cooled a bit. “Why would you mention the businesses for free on air?” After all, that airtime could be sold to a paying customer.

  She gave me a patronizing smile. “Karma. If I put positive things out in the universe, give my listeners some good recommendations, maybe good things will come back to me.”

  I wasn’t buying her karma crap for one second, and she still hadn’t explained how she was keeping herself and the station afloat. “So how are you making ends meet?” Receiving some other type of unreported income, perhaps?

  She offered the same shrug she’d offered the auditor.

  I gave her a pointed look. “A shrug isn’t an answer, Ms. Cash.”

  She scoffed once more. “Well, if you must know—”

  “I must.” Unless you want to go to jail.

  “—I’ve been blowing through the money I earned when my father was still alive. When I was raking in the big bucks as the ad manager.”

  Hm-m. Savings could explain how she was able to pay the bills despite currently receiving only nominal income. Still, I’d seen no evidence of cash holdings or investments on her tax return. There’d been no interest, dividends, or stock sales reported. “Where is that money being held, exactly? A bank account? CDs? Stocks? Bonds?”

  She snorted. “You know as well as I do that if my money was in a financial institution they would have reported the earnings to the IRS.”

  “Of course,” I said. “So the fact that there’s been no reports means you’ve put the funds in foreign institutions or offshore accounts, or in the name of a nominee.” In other words, somewhere that the earnings could not be traced to her.

  “I’ve done no such thing!” she snapped back.

  “Then where’s your money?”

  She hesitated briefly before responding. “It’s sitting in a safe.”

  Now it was my turn to scoff. “A sa
fe? Are you kidding me?”

  Did she seriously think I’d believe that the woman who constantly advised her listeners to make your money make money for you would keep her funds in a safe, where they’d earn nothing? Have no chance of going up in value? The mere idea was preposterous. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t so much preposterous as purposeful. The IRS could levy a bank account, seize CDs and investments, put a lien on real estate. But cash? It could be hidden out of reach. And despite being made of paper, cash didn’t leave a paper trail. Ironic, huh?

  When Flo replied only with another shrug, I said, “Okay. I’ll bite. Take me to this safe.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the safe is in my house and my house is being treated for termites as we speak. You go inside right now, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  No, the last thing I’d do was drag her ass into the house with me.

  A smirk played about her lips. “Of course if you want to go inside on your own I’d be happy to give you the combination to the safe. Far be it from me to get in your way.”

  This woman was getting on my last nerve, but I fought the urge to slap the smirk off her face. “When will the treatment be completed?”

  “Seventy-two hours.”

  How convenient that she’d scheduled the termite treatment for today of all days, knowing that I’d likely ask to see the cash. “Seems risky to leave a safe full of cash in the house. What if there’s a fire? Or if someone breaks in while you’re out?”

  “I’ve got an alarm system. Besides, it’s a big safe. Weighs a couple hundred pounds and it’s bolted to the floor. It’s not going anywhere. It’s fireproof, too.”

  She’d certainly thought this through, hadn’t she? “How much money is in the safe?”

  She raised a palm. “Couldn’t say. I don’t keep count.”

  My gut clenched in exasperation. Why tax evaders thought we agents would be stupid enough to believe their ridiculous stories was beyond me. “You expect me to believe that a woman who hosts a financial talk show has no idea how much cash she has on hand?”

  Another shrug, this one halfhearted and single shouldered. “You can believe what you want to believe, Miss Holliday. Makes no difference to me.”

  She’d likely misstated my name in an attempt to show further disdain and disrespect, so there was no point in rising to the bait and correcting her.

  “I live by that Latin motto,” she said. “Carpe diem. When the money’s gone, it’s gone.”

  That would be carpe dime rather than diem, wouldn’t it? “And when it’s gone, what will you do then?”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  This woman would do well to learn two other Latin phrases, “mea culpa” and “habeas corpus.” I was more determined than ever to prove her guilty of tax evasion and throw her lying ass in jail. If she’d thought being obstinate and difficult would discourage me, she was wrong. The bullshit she’d tried to feed me today only motivated me all the more to see justice done.

  I shoved the paperwork back into my briefcase, closed it, and stood. “I expect you to meet me at your house on Friday to show me the safe.”

  “It’ll have to be after six,” she said. “I work until five and then I’ll need time to drive home.”

  “Six it is.” With that, I showed myself out.

  Back in my car, I fumed. Flo was wasting my time. Hers, too. Of course she seemed to have much more time than I did, so wasting it must not be a big deal for her. I, on the other hand, never had enough of it and it chapped my ass to have to spend it chasing after uncooperative people like her. Why couldn’t they just come clean and pay up? The few who did usually got little more than a slap on the wrist. Really, it was such a better way to go.

  I cranked the engine and punched the button to turn on the radio, which was still tuned to KCSH. Flo’s voice came over the airwaves. As if I weren’t sick of listening to that woman already.

  “You listeners might be curious to know that Special Agent Tara Holloway from the Internal Revenue Service was just in my office here, making a bunch of wild accusations and demands.”

  Wild accusations and demands? All I’d done was try to get Flo to be honest with me. At least she’d gotten my name right this time. No more “Miss Holliday.”

  “But I’m not scared,” she continued. “I’m not going to let some little power-hungry pipsqueak railroad me.” The toot-toot of a train whistle followed her words.

  Power-hungry pipsqueak?

  Railroad?

  Toot-toot?

  Flo Cash better be careful who she messed with or she’d no longer have to worry about her cash flow. She’d have to worry about her blood flow.

  chapter four

  On the Hook

  When I left the station, I aimed directly for Flo Cash’s house to verify whether it was actually being treated for termites. As I drove, I continued to listen to KCSH. While one of the syndicated shows now played, Flo took advantage of the commercial break times not only to promote several local businesses but also to let callers berate the IRS on the air.

  “The American tax rates are sky-high!” one man exclaimed. “Between income taxes and Social Security taxes, I’m lucky to get home with half of my paycheck.”

  Even though I knew the jackass couldn’t see or hear me, I nonetheless glared at my radio and responded to the caller, “Feel free to move to Belgium, Germany, or Denmark.”

  All three of those countries had higher income tax rates than the United States, as did Hungary, Austria, Greece, and the United Kingdom. Those nations with the lowest tax rates tended to be oil-rich countries in the Middle East, such as Kuwait, Qatar, Bahrain, and Saudi Arabia. Macedonia also had a very low tax rate, though its public debt had more than doubled in the last decade. At some point, the system would have to be rethought or it would implode.

  Another caller suggested that Flo “should’ve tossed that IRS agent out the door!”

  I would’ve liked to see her try.

  As I turned onto Flo’s street, my eyes were nearly blinded by lights so bright there must’ve been a nuclear explosion. Blinking and squinting, I finally managed to make things out. A yellow van sat at the curb, a big plastic bug on top with disco balls for eyes. The mirrored eyes reflected the sun, which sat low on the western horizon, the rays refracting like laser beams. Seriously, those bug eyes were a public hazard.

  I pulled to a stop in front of the house, which was fully enclosed in a blue nylon tent. Yep, Flo Cash was indeed getting a termite treatment. Or maybe she was hosting a circus or a tent revival instead. Both of the latter would require a tub of water, either for the animals to drink from or to perform impromptu baptisms.

  The van at Flo’s house featured the logo for Cowtown Critter Control. Cowtown was a nickname for Fort Worth, Dallas’s country cousin that sat a half-hour drive to the west. Surely there were dozens of exterminators in the city of Dallas. Why would Flo have hired an outfit from the next town over?

  Two technicians decked head to toe in hazmat gear came around the corner of the house, carrying tanks of chemicals. They headed to the van, opened the back, and stashed their gear inside.

  I climbed out of my car and walked over the van. “Hello there,” I said, raising a hand in greeting. “Just wondering what Cowtown Critter Control is doing all the way over here in Dallas.”

  One of the men glanced my way. “We go where the boss tells us to.”

  That was something we had in common. But I bet their boss didn’t sport a beehive. A beehive on an exterminator would be ironic, huh? “Do you do many jobs in Dallas?”

  “No,” he said. “This is the first one I’ve ever done. Our usual territory is Fort Worth and the surrounding suburbs.”

  Hm-m … “So what’s special about this particular job that you were sent all this way?”

  “I didn’t ask.” His tone indicated he’d become impatient with my barrage of questions. “I just do what I’m told. If you nee
d an exterminator out this way I’d suggest you look online.”

  With that, the man I’d been speaking with closed the back doors of the van—Slam! Slam!—and circled around to the driver’s seat. The other tech climbed in on the passenger side.

  If I wanted answers, looked like I was on my own.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, I woke more determined than ever to see Flo Cash get her due. On the entire drive home from her office the day before I’d listened to caller after caller phone the station to make disparaging remarks about the IRS and the “unfair tax system.”

  What a big bunch of whiners.

  The 1 percent thought the graduated tax rates were inequitable. Those who lived paycheck to paycheck resented the lower capital gains rates that benefited only those fortunate enough to have disposable income to invest. The middle class, who benefited little from tax programs designed to help the poor or to encourage the wealthy to invest their excess funds, believed they shouldered too much of the burden. Nobody on any point of the earnings spectrum thought the tax system was equitable.

  Fortunately, though, I didn’t have to deal with Flo Cash today. A good thing, too. I wasn’t sure I had much restraint left. One more toot-toot or pipsqueak and I’d poke her in the eye with my mechanical pencil or drive my G-ride through the wall of her radio station and provide a real-life sound effect. CRASH!

  This morning I was working on another case, one involving a catfishing Casanova who’d met several local women on a dating Web site known as the Big D Dating Service and duped them out of thousands of dollars. Many such victims felt horribly embarrassed that they’d been so naïve and went only so far as to notify the dating service and file a police report. But not so in this case. Three of this particular catfisher’s victims had found one another online after each went public with their stories in the hopes of tracking down the man who’d ripped them off. They’d banded together and approached the Texas Attorney General’s Office, the FBI, and the IRS, hoping one of the agencies would take on the case and help them nail the bastard.