by Kelly, Diane
“Obviously, you’re on my radar now. I’d hate to see you end up in hot water, too. Cooperation is to your benefit.” I left my card on the counter. “Talk to your accountant,” I said as I backed out the door. “Unless you want to find yourself in the hot seat for misreporting.”
The door swung closed behind me. Though I had yet to get any concrete evidence against Flo Cash, I felt a small sense of satisfaction knowing I’d put a little fear into at least one of her advertisers.
As I walked back to the Yukon, I decided it couldn’t hurt to pay a visit to Ledbetter Cadillac and speak with the general manager. Maybe he’d give me some rock-solid evidence to nail Flo. Had he given her the blue Cadillac in return for ads? Or maybe given her a substantial discount off the price in exchange? Or had their deal only involved free servicing for her car? If this case went to court, it wouldn’t be enough for me to show that Flo had made some trades on behalf of herself and KCSH. The judge would want some proof as to the value of the trades. Without that proof, the court would rely on industry statistics. Given that KCSH had earned far more than the average radio station back when her father was in charge, I had a feeling Flo’s trades, too, generated much more income than the industry standard. She’d probably be thrilled if the assessment was based on average data.
I parked at the dealership, this time taking a spot near the front. My feet had just hit the pavement when three salesmen were on me like white on rice.
“Hi, there! In the market for a Cadillac?” asked the first.
The second eyed the Yukon. “Looking for an upscale SUV? The Escalade is pure luxury.”
The third merely scowled at the other two, turned around, and headed off to await the next potential customer.
“Sorry, guys,” I said, pressing the button on the key fob to lock the doors. Bleep. “I’m only here to speak to your general manager. Can one of you show me to his office?”
The men who’d been so eager to assist me only a moment before were suddenly too busy to help.
The first backed away. “I need to check on something. Steve can help you.”
The other, who had to be Steve, hurled eye daggers at his coworker. “This way,” he barked grudgingly, jerking his head toward the showroom.
I followed him into the space, which was glass on three sides and housed several top-of-the-line Cadillacs, one of each model.
He stopped just inside the door and pointed toward the back of the room. “The GM’s office is the middle one over there.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I headed across the room toward an office with a wide window built into the door to allow the manager to keep an eye on the goings-on. Though the door was closed, the mini-blinds mounted over the window were raised, offering a clear view into the space. A large man with faded rusty hair sat behind a desk talking with someone on his phone. The nameplate on his door told me he was Vince Conover. The squint of his eyes and the tightness in his jaw told me that either the caller or the topic of discussion didn’t sit well with him. He looked up as I approached, said some final words into the receiver, and hung up.
I rapped on the window. Rap-rap.
He stood and came to the door but opened it only a few inches, clearly not intending to invite me in. “Can I help you with something?”
I introduced myself and handed him my business card through the narrow opening. “I’d like to speak with you about Flo Cash and the free services your dealership has provided to her.”
He tucked the card into his breast pocket. “She told me the IRS has been tracking her whereabouts and harassing the people she does business with.”
“That was her on the phone? When I walked up?”
“Yes, it was.”
I didn’t like what this guy was telling me, but at least he was being up-front. It looked like Dr. Keele must have called Flo after I left his chiropractic clinic. Snitch. She must’ve realized I’d followed her to the clinic and wondered if I’d trailed her here to the car dealership earlier.
“What Miss Cash told you is not exactly true,” I said. I had tracked Flo, but I hadn’t harassed anyone. At least I didn’t consider it harassment. I considered it doing my job. Of course, Dr. Keele and the owners of Doo-Wop Donuts and the consignment shop would probably be inclined to agree with Flo’s take on things, but that’s only because they were engaging in shady financial shenanigans and didn’t like being called on the carpet about it. “I’m only trying to gather information,” I assured the man, “to ensure that proper tax reporting and payment is taking place.”
“Well, you won’t be gathering any information from me,” Conover said. “Not without going through the dealership’s attorney and not without a court order. Even then I can’t guarantee we won’t fight it.”
Ugh. I really wasn’t in the mood to waste two or three hours traipsing over to the Department of Justice, rounding up an attorney, and waiting in court until we could find an available judge to sign an order. But push was clearly coming to shove, and I had no choice but to shove back. “Looks like I’ll need to speak with your attorney, then. Who is it?”
The man stepped over to his desk, fished a business card from a drawer, and returned to the door to hand it to me. I glanced down at the card. The firm listed there was one of Dallas’ largest and most prestigious. In other words, they’d make things as hard on me as possible. Still, I had the law on my side. If third parties wouldn’t voluntarily give me information in a case, I could contact an attorney at the Department of Justice who could issue subpoenas and take depositions and get court orders requiring the third parties to provide the requested data and documentation. Unfortunately, these things took time and patience and I had little of both.
I slid the card into the pocket of my blazer. “You’ll be hearing from me again, Mr. Conover.”
I could feel his cold gaze like a frozen laser on my back as I turned and headed out of the showroom.
When I was seated in the SUV, I closed my eyes and mulled things over. The fact that Flo now knew I was contacting the advertisers would make things even harder on me. Catching one of them by surprise was no longer an option. They would be on notice that I was coming. No doubt she’d advise them all that they could find themselves in trouble for misreporting, and would suggest they keep mum. She had to know the IRS had limited resources and couldn’t run down every rabbit hole. Damn!
I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was half past four. Ross O’Donnell, an assistant U.S. attorney who regularly represented the IRS, would likely still be in his office. I started the car and drove to the DOJ offices.
Minutes later, I stood in Ross’ doorway. Ross had the pale skin that came with long hours in an office and the receding hairline of a man who’d been around the block a time or two. But despite his high-stress job, Ross somehow managed to always keep his cool. He must do yoga or meditate. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie hanging loosely from his neck, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. His desk, like mine, was piled high with files. A male paralegal scurried about the room, sorting through and organizing documents. And people think government employees are shirkers. Sheesh.
“Hey, Ross,” I said by way of greeting. “Can you make some time for your favorite special agent?”
“Always,” he said. “Come on in and join the fun.”
I glanced around the room. Box after cardboard box sat on his floor, while stacks of documents and accordion files stuffed full of exhibits covered his credenza. Next to them towered a stack of DVDs of children’s shows. One of the shows was playing on a laptop, an animated butterfly fluttering through a garden, stopping to have a conversation with a ladybug. “Watching cartoons?” I asked.
“It’s evidence,” he said. “I’m working a huge DVD piracy case.”
I gestured toward the laptop. “My nieces love that show.”
“Lots of kids do,” Ross replied. “Unfortunately, bootleggers violated the production company’s copyright and
stole over six million in sales.”
Crooks were everywhere, huh? Even in butterfly gardens.
I plunked myself down in one of his wing chairs. “My latest investigation involves Florence Cash. She hosts a radio show on KCSH.”
“Flo Cash’s Cash Flow Show?” he said. “I listen to that program on my drive to work sometimes. ‘Make your money make money for you,’ right?”
“Right,” I said. “Only she doesn’t take her own advice. She’s got no investment accounts, not even a checking or savings account that I can find. She inherited the house she lives in, as well as the radio station and the building it broadcasts from. She’s got around twelve thousand dollars in cash in a safe, but she claims that’s everything she owns. She pays herself minimum wage but is somehow managing to keep herself afloat. She says she’s been living off cash she accumulated before her father passed away and left the station to her. The station’s financial records indicate that advertising revenue has decreased significantly since she took over, but the station is somehow staying afloat, too. It’s not adding up.”
Ross sat back in his chair. “Any theories?”
“Yep. I think she’s trading on-air advertising for products and services. Taken things off the books.”
His head bobbed as he appeared to weigh the idea and find it possible. “Got any proof of that?”
“I followed her to a chiropractic appointment today and she made no co-pay when she left. She also got her car serviced for no charge at Ledbetter Cadillac. She’s promoted both the chiropractic clinic and the car dealership on air, though neither of them would admit to making a trade with her. I stopped by some of the other businesses she’s mentioned, too, but nobody would tell me anything. They’re all playing innocent, like they have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“Typical.”
“Can you get some kind of court order for me? You know, something that forces these businesses to disclose any transactions they might have had with Flo Cash?”
“I can,” he said, “but only if you get some proof first to support it. You’d need witnesses from the businesses to testify that they’d made deals with her to do in-kind swaps. Two or three should be sufficient to show a pattern of behavior on Flo’s part.”
Two or three? I groaned. I hadn’t been able to get a single one to come clean so far. Though the clerk at the dealership had admitted they hadn’t charged Flo for the maintenance and the delivery boy for the Chinese restaurant had told me he’d never collected a cent for the food he’d brought to the station, neither of them had said outright that charges had been waived in return for on-air promotion. “So I have to somehow gather evidence in order to get a court order that will allow me to gather more evidence?”
Ross offered an empathetic groan. “Ironic, huh?”
Ironic and frustrating. “Flo’s on to me. She’s been contacting the businesses and warning them I’m running an investigation. They’re starting to clam up and lawyer up. Getting even one of them to cooperate will probably be difficult.”
Ross offered me a soft smile. “Has your job ever been easy, Tara?”
Since I’d joined the IRS, I’d been shot at, knocked unconscious, tackled to the ground, and very nearly blown to smithereens by explosives placed under my car. I could reply with an unequivocal and emphatic, “No. Never.”
“Your job being difficult has never stopped you before,” Ross said. “So get on out there and keep doing what you do.”
As much as I’d hoped he would offer me a quick and easy solution rather than a pep talk, I knew he was right. This wasn’t my first rodeo, and I’d learned—the hard way—that there were no shortcuts when it came to enforcing tax law. I stood. “Thanks for the encouragement. And the legal advice.”
“Anytime,” he said. “Come back when you’ve got something.”
“Will do.” Of course I wondered if his “when” should be an “if.” Will I ever be able to prove that Flo Cash is up to no good?
chapter sixteen
The Lost Art of Conversation
I hit the ground running on Wednesday, hoping that by the end of the day I’d have two or three advertisers willing to spill the beans. Surely some of them would cooperate, see the value in being on the side of the government. Right?
My first stop was at Jitter Juice, a small neighborhood coffee shop that also served smoothies with a caffeine additive. Their paper cups featured their slogan—Jitter Juice Gets You Going—in a lime-green font with lines next to the Js to give the illusion that they were shaking.
A blond female barista met my eye over the pastry display case. “What can I get you?”
“Your boss,” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m with the IRS.”
The young woman took a look at my badge, walked to a door in the back wall, and knocked. When a male voice called, “Come in!” she stuck her head through. “There’s a lady from the IRS here to see you.”
I couldn’t see the man speaking, but I could hear him clear enough. “Tell her I’m out.”
Sheesh.
The barista turned back to me and cringed. “Um … he’s out?”
I didn’t fault the young woman. She was between a rock and a hard place here.
Better take matters into my own hands. “I heard you back there!” I called to the owner. “I know you’re there.”
“Then I’m busy!” he shouted back.
“I’ll come back another time, then!” I hollered. “When are you free?”
There were a few seconds of total silence as the man apparently tried to come up with a response. “I left my calendar at home! Leave your card and I’ll call you!”
I sighed and met the barista’s eyes over the display case. “He’s not going to call, is he?”
She cringed again, lifting her shoulders. I slipped her my card. These people might not have spilled any beans, but they could at least grind some for me. “Give me a large toffee latte to go.”
I sipped my coffee on the way to my next stop, a high-end paint store. As I walked inside, a weathered man in his late forties approached me. If his skin was a shade of paint, it would be called Southern Sunburn. He must not only sell the stuff but also perform some of the outside painting work as well.
“You looking for interior or exterior paint?” he asked.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m looking for the owner of the store.”
The man dipped his head. “You’ve got him.”
I handed him my card.
He read it over and frowned, but he didn’t seem surprised.
“I need to ask you a few questions about KCSH and the promotions they’ve run for your store.”
“Can’t help you there,” he said, holding out my card as if to return it to me.
I didn’t take it back. “Why not?”
“I have no control about what some person says or doesn’t say on the radio. You’ll have to talk to the people at the station about that.” He jabbed the card at me, as if he could wash his hands of things by ridding himself of it.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You traded some paint to Florence Cash in exchange for advertising, didn’t you? Sent a crew out to her house? I’ve seen it. It’s beautiful. Your guys did a good job.”
When he failed to respond, I stepped over to the color display, running my eyes over the selections until I found one with a color family that matched the walls in Flo’s home. “These are the colors you used,” I said, pointing to each in turn. “Beautiful Burgundy in her living and dining rooms. Magnificent Merlot in her study. Rustic Rosé in her foyer.”
The man turned reddish now, too. A color I’d called Pissed-Off Purple.
“Like I said,” he growled. “You’ll need to speak with Flo.”
My brows rose. “So you two are on a first-name basis.”
“I’m only repeating what you said.”
“I referred to her as ‘Florence.’”
He sputtered for a moment before coming up with an excuse. “Everyone in Dallas
knows who Flo Cash is. You’d have to live under a rock not to have heard of her. That’s the name she goes by. Flo.”
Ugh. Didn’t seem I’d get anywhere with this guy, and the tinkling bells on the door told me that he had customers on their way in. “Keep my card,” I said, “and think things over. You’re not the only business I’m talking to. The first two or three to come clean will be in a much better position to get any penalties waived.” I raised my palms. “I’m just sayin’.” With that, I turned and left.
My third stop was a wine store. This time, I was stared down by both a husband and wife, who owned and ran the place together.
“You want information,” the man spat, “go through the proper channels.”
Damn, these people were chapping my ass! “There’s nothing improper with me coming to your place of business to speak with you. Not every conversation I have with taxpayers requires legal representation or a court order.”
“Any conversation you have with us does.” The woman tapped the corkscrew in her hand against the palm of the other.
Is she threatening me? Two could play that game. I put a hand on my hip, easing my blazer back to casually reveal the gun holstered at my waist. Neener-neener. A Glock trumps a corkscrew. “If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”
As I pulled to the curb in front of a gourmet cheese shop twenty minutes later, the lights went off inside and the blinds came down. Whoever was inside must have identified my car as a government vehicle. I climbed out and headed to the door, only to hear a click as it was locked. A hand reached from behind the closed blinds to turn the sign on the door from “OPEN” to “CLOSED.”
I banged a frustrated fist on the glass. Bam! Bam! Bam! “I know you’re in there!” Wuss. “You’re only making things worse for yourself!”
