Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter

by Kelly, Diane

  My eyes began to droop. “I need a latte if we’re going to be out here much longer.”

  “I could use some coffee, too.” Nick started the engine and we drove down the road a ways, picking up drinks at a coffeehouse drive-through.

  We returned to the barbershop to resume our surveillance, biding our time by watching sitcoms on my phone’s Hulu app. Finally, it was closing time. Patrons swarmed out to the lot. Engines revved. Headlights illuminated. Cars drove every which way, some exiting onto the main road in front of us, others circling behind the nightclub to exit the lot via a side street. In the mad shuffle of people and vehicles we lost sight of the Mercedes. But when things settled down it was no longer in the lot.

  “He’s gone,” I said on a yawn, the effects of the latte wearing off. I booted the tablet back up. “I’ll see where he’s at.”

  According to the screen, the tracking device was now a couple miles away. Once again it was stationary. “It’s not moving. Looks like he’s parked again.” Did Morgan Walker live here in Denton? Dare I hope the car be parked in front of his residence, where we’d be able to use the address to determine his true identity?

  As I navigated, Nick drove to the tracker’s new location. It was one of those twenty-four-hour gas station/mini-mart places with a dozen pumps, an extensive fountain drink array, and a high-pressure car wash. Despite the late hour, there were two cars at the pumps, three more parked in the spots fronting the store. None were the Mercedes.

  I eyed the tablet again to make sure we were at the right place. “I don’t get it. The GPS says the tracker is here.”

  Nick raised his hands from the wheel. “So where’s the car?”

  I scanned the lot, my eyes stopping on the car wash, where a stream of sudsy water flowed out, draining through a grate built into the asphalt. While no car was in the wash now, it was clear a vehicle had recently driven through. “I think the asshole washed the car.”

  “Aw, hell!” Nick shoved the gearshift into park, ripped off his seat belt, and bolted from the car, walking into the car wash despite the big red warning sign that read: “SAFETY HAZARD—VEHICLES ONLY.” He emerged a moment later with a scowl on his face and the small black device in his hand.

  Stupid undercarriage spray.

  * * *

  On Wednesday, I received a call from Max Brady.

  “The Trading Post site is down,” he said. “You know anything about that?”

  “I didn’t take it down, if that’s what you’re asking. But I did let Flo Cash know I’d learned about it. She must’ve taken it down herself.”

  “Darn it!” he snapped. “I had quite a few Barter Bucks accumulated. How am I supposed to recoup that money?”

  “You could sue Flo.” She claimed that the twelve grand in her safe was all she had to her name, but I still wasn’t buying it. She’d proved herself untrustworthy. Nothing she said could be taken at face value. “For what it’s worth,” I told Brady, “I’m sorry that happened. That’s not fair to you or anyone else who had a credit balance.”

  “I’ll chalk this up to a hard lesson learned,” he said. “From now on I do business the old-fashioned way. With cash or credit only.”

  As I discovered over the course of the day, Max Brady wasn’t alone in his discontent. Many of those who’d participated in exchanges on the Trading Post site were furious that their Barter Bucks had been rendered worthless. Flo Cash wasn’t honest with them, either. In fact, she told them I’d forced her to close the site down and gave them my number to call. My phone rang all week with irate people wanting to tear me a new one.

  “I was owed five grand!” screamed a caterer. “How am I going to collect that now?”

  “You’ll have to speak to Flo Cash,” I told the woman. “She’s the one who made the decision to take down the site. Not the IRS.”

  “That’s not what she says.”

  “She’s a bald-faced liar.” I wasn’t about to pussyfoot around the issue anymore. “Ask your accountant. They’ll tell you. Everything Flo told you about bartering being nonreportable and nontaxable was wrong.”

  As soon as I ended the call with the caterer, an auto mechanic called.

  “You’ve cost me over two thousand dollars! I’m taking that off my tax bill.”

  “That’s not how this works,” I told the man. “You need to speak with Flo Cash about the Trading Post. She alone made the decision to take down the site.”

  While I was able to convince some of them of the truth, others didn’t want to buy it. I did the best I could and, frankly, if the others wanted to believe Flo Cash over a licensed CPA/IRS agent, well, they could kiss my little round ass.

  * * *

  Despite the flack I was getting from some of those with credit balances, I was nonetheless beginning to receive responses from members of the Trading Post network and others who had done exchanges with Flo for promotions outside the Web site. The notices I’d mailed had put the fear of God—or the fear of Uncle Sam—in some of them, and they were beginning to cooperate. Woo-hoo!

  The mail clerk rolled his heavily laden cart into my office. “More mail for you. You must be working on something big.”

  “I am,” I said. “It’s that case you helped me with.”

  “When I delivered the pad thai?”

  “Yep.”

  He cocked his head. “So, do I get a cut of what’s collected?”

  I snorted. “No. I don’t, either. But I’ll put a good word in for you with your supervisor. Maybe you’ll get a big raise this year.”

  He dumped a pile of envelopes, some manila, some business sized, on my desk. “Have fun with this.”

  “I always do.”

  By the end of the workday on Friday, I’d amassed quite a collection of data. According to the documentation I’d received, a window-cleaning service had provided four hundred dollars in services at Flo’s home. An electronics store had given her a state-of-the-art curved television and surround sound system for her media room, all to the tune of ten grand. A flooring company had installed hardwoods in several rooms of Flo’s house. The value of the flooring and labor was nearly six thousand dollars. A multitude of restaurants had provided thousands of dollars—and thousands of calories—in meals to Flo. The woman probably hadn’t had to cook in years.

  As the information rolled in, I input the data into a spreadsheet. The amounts were really beginning to add up, and I’d barely scratched the surface. In virtually every instance, Flo had received personal items and services yet paid for them via KCSH Radio Corporation ads. None of the amounts appeared in KCSH’s financial records or on their corporate tax returns, and none of the income appeared on Flo’s individual income tax returns, either. As a financial expert, she knew these kinds of shenanigans weren’t kosher. I supposed she’d thought she was flying under the radar. Surprise! My radar begins at ground level and doesn’t stop until it reaches the stratosphere.

  * * *

  Friday evening marked Hana’s second date with Morgan. He’d taken her to a seafood restaurant. It seemed fitting a catfisher would want to eat there. After all, bigger fish often eat smaller fish.

  Tonight, Nick and I were driving a different car from the government fleet. We needed to mix things up a bit if we didn’t want to be spotted.

  I pulled up next to Morgan’s Mercedes, which sat at the back of the lot out of view of both the security cameras and the windows. His attempts to keep the car from being picked up on video had made our task of planting the device easier. Ironic, huh?

  Tonight, Special Agent Will Dorsey had agreed to back Hana up inside the restaurant. While he was married, his wife and kids were out of town for the weekend visiting her folks. The Lobo herself had agreed to accompany Will to the seafood restaurant. If we needed agents to observe Hana and Morgan without attracting notice I wasn’t sure a conservatively dressed thirtysomething black man going to dinner with a sixtysomething white woman sporting a polka-dot dress, go-go boots, and a strawberry-blonde beehive was t
he best way to go. But hey, maybe it’s just me.

  Nick and I drove across the street and parked behind a crepe myrtle tree, where we’d be partially hidden. I squinted at the building through the specs but could see nothing. The setting sun had set the sky ablaze and the restaurant staff had pulled down the shades over the windows. It was impossible to see inside. I tossed the field glasses aside. “I can’t see anything.”

  Nick picked them up and held them to his eyes. “Me, neither.”

  A Luke Bryan song came on the radio, and Nick turned it up, singing along. When a song by Brazos Rivers followed, Nick jabbed the button to turn the radio off. “I’m not gonna sit here and listen to that jackass and his caterwauling.”

  I fought down a laugh. Brazos Rivers had at one time been my celebrity crush. He’d also at one time been the subject of an IRS investigation for tax evasion led by yours truly. Long story short, Nick had been jealous then, too.

  “You want some good music?” I reached into my purse and retrieved the Carmen harmonica. I’d taken the thing apart and given it a thorough cleaning with a toothbrush, vinegar, and lemon juice. “Listen to this.” I put the harmonica to my mouth and blew. Twee-twoh-twoo-twee!

  That last high-pitched note made Nick’s eye twitch. “That is not good music.”

  I harrumphed. “I bet they’d love me in Appalachia.”

  The doors to the restaurant opened, and Lu and Will stepped out, looking like some kind of sugar mama and her boy toy.

  “We’ve got movement,” I said, dropping the harmonica back into my purse and pointing to the restaurant.

  We watched as Will and Lu returned to Will’s car and drove out of the parking lot. A minute later, we received a text from Will: Sitch normal. Nothing to report.

  I texted back: Thanks for the backup.

  His reply came a moment later: Thank YOU for the lobster.

  Lobster? My budget was soooo busted on this case.

  A few minutes later, Hana and Morgan emerged. Hana carried a take-out box in her hand. At least her meal had been on Morgan, not my account. I put the field glasses back to my eyes and spied as Morgan walked her to her car. They stood next to the car, talking for another moment. “I bet he’s asking her for a lunch date on Monday.”

  Finally, he bent down and gave her a quick peck on the lips. I snorted when both of them stiffened. “This date was no good for anybody.”

  Nick started the car and eased into position to follow Morgan. “Lead us home, you conniving bastard.”

  Unfortunately, Morgan did not lead us home. Instead, he led us on a forty-five-minute road trip back to the gay bar in Denton. I tracked him on the tablet. Several times the red dot indicating Morgan’s car disappeared, but it always popped back up a second or two later. Probably had something to do with the satellites or the tablet’s data provider network.

  Nick groaned as Morgan turned into the nightclub’s parking lot. “Been here, done this.”

  “Well, it looks like we’re going to be here and do this all over again.”

  Nick drove across the street and parked in the lot of a convenience store that sat next to the barbershop, taking a place along the side of the building where it was darker and we’d be less obvious hanging out for hours on end.

  I gestured toward the building. “Should we go inside? Give the clerk a heads-up that we’re out here?”

  Nick mulled it over for a moment. “I think we’re better off just lying low. We don’t know who knows who around here. As close as the bar is to the store, I’d hazard a guess that the employees and patrons of the bar stop in here on occasion. It’s probably better not to notify the store clerks and risk them giving the wrong person a heads-up.”

  I had to concur. There seemed to be more risks to giving notice than not.

  My phone rang with an incoming call. The caller ID readout indicated it was Hana.

  I jabbed the button to take the call. “Hey, Hana. How’d it go?”

  “He asked me to meet him for a late lunch on Monday at a sandwich shop in Addison.”

  “What time?”

  “One thirty.”

  No doubt he’d ask me for an earlier date when he got back to me.

  “Thanks,” I told her. “We’ll have this catfish on the line before we know it.” Then we’d fillet him and fry him up.

  “We better,” Hana said. “I’m not sure how much more of this I had can take. I’ve got much better things to do on a Friday night than be a beard for a thief.”

  We ended the call and I resumed watch on the bar. Nick and I had been sitting about an hour when dusk kicked in. Footsteps to our left caught our attention. A store employee carried a black garbage bag out to the Dumpster behind the store, lifted the hard plastic cover, and tossed the bag into the bin. When he turned around, he spotted us. He also spotted us spotting him. Nick and I immediately began to fiddle with things in the car, attempting to look nonchalant. Yep, nothing unusual here. Nothing at all. Just, uh, twiddling this dial here for no apparent reason.

  We sat there for another hour when movement to the right caught our eye. The same clerk carried a package of folded paper towels out to refill the dispenser mounted at the gas pumps. He cast another glance our way, alarm flickering across his face, but made no attempt to confront us.

  The night was completely dark by then. We could hear the faint notes of dance music drift across the road when patrons ventured in and out of the nightclub. Nick rolled up the windows to keep the hungry mosquitos from flying in to feast on us.

  My eyes began to droop and my face felt heavy. It had been a long, busy week. I sat up straighter, hoping the movement would revive me, but within seconds my head flopped forward. I jerked awake only to repeat the head flop a few seconds later.

  “Don’t fight it,” Nick said, reaching over me to pull the lever to recline my seat. “I’ll keep watch.”

  In a lying position now, I said, “Are you sure?” But my mind didn’t wait for his answer before drifting into oblivion.

  RAP-RAP-RAP!

  “What the—?” I sat bolt upright to see a Denton Police offer standing outside our car, tapping his flashlight on Nick’s window.

  Nick, however, continued to snore away. He’d somehow managed to fall asleep sitting up, his head bent back at an odd angle. No doubt he’d have a nasty crick in the morning.

  I reached over and shook him. “Nick! There’s a cop at the window!”

  “Whuh—?” Nick scrubbed a hand over his face and looked from me to the police officer shining the light through his window. “Oh, crap. I must’ve fallen asleep.”

  He raised his right hand to keep it in the officer’s sight while lowering the window with his left.

  The cop shined his beam over Nick before blinding me with it. “The store clerk told me you two have been out here for hours.”

  “We have,” I admitted. So much for lying low, huh? “We’re federal law enforcement.”

  “Feds, huh?” he said. “Which department?”

  “IRS,” Nick replied.

  “IRS?” The cop’s brow furrowed. “What is the IRS doing out here at this time of night?”

  “We’re working an undercover case,” I said.

  The cop scoffed, “You were both asleep.”

  “Deep undercover,” I said, as if that somehow explained anything.

  The cop shook his head.

  I gestured to my purse, which sat on the floor at my feet. “Okay if I reach in there and show you my badge?”

  He looked wary. “You got a gun in that purse?”

  “No,” I said. “My Glock’s here on my hip.” I raised my hands in the air and shifted in my seat to show him.

  “What about you?” he asked, shining the flashlight beam on Nick once more.

  “Same.” Nick, too, put his hands in the air so the guy would know we weren’t reaching for our weapons. He cocked his head to indicate the gun holster on his belt.

  “All right,” the officer said, “show me some ID.”


  As I went for my purse, my eyes spotted the time on the dashboard clock. 3:08.

  “Is that the right time?” My gaze moved across the street to the parking lot of the nightclub. It was dark. And it was empty. No Mercedes in sight. “Dammit!”

  Nick let out a frustrated huff. “I’m sorry, Tara. I was supposed to stay awake. I let you down.”

  “You didn’t mean to,” I said as I dug for my wallet. “Besides, we’re both tired from being out here late earlier in the week. I’m the lead investigator on the case. I’m the one who should’ve stayed awake.” Besides, the GPS tracker would tell us where Morgan had gone to now.

  I found my wallet and showed the officer my driver’s license and badge. Nick did the same.

  Satisfied, the officer let us go. “Next time you go undercover at night,” he said as he stepped back from the car, “you might want to take a nap first.”

  chapter twenty-eight

  Cashing Out

  Once the police officer had gone, I grabbed the tablet and logged into the GPS tracker app. There was no red dot to indicate the location of Morgan’s car. Instead, a message popped up that read: “SIGNAL NOT FOUND.”

  “Dammit!” I showed the screen to Nick. “What do you think that means?”

  “Hell if I know. The device was sitting in a puddle of water inside the car wash when I picked it up. I dried it off on my pants, but maybe some of the water had seeped inside. Maybe it’s shorted out.”

  Just my luck. It seemed the closer I tried to get to the catfisher, the more he kept slipping past me. I just hoped I wouldn’t end up like the proverbial fisherman, with no catch and only a story of the one that got away.

  * * *

  An e-mail from Morgan arrived in my in-box on Saturday: I’ve got an interview Monday afternoon, but there’s time for us to have lunch beforehand. How about 11:00?

  He suggested a deli in Lewisville. A quick consult with my GPS app told me the deli was in an area near several major branch banks. It was a safe bet that Sara Galloway would bank at one of them.