Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries

by Diane Kelly

  He listened to my heart, looking in my eyes with a penlight, and took my blood pressure. “All of your vitals are good. Have you been any more tired than usual?”

  “No.” My job was exhausting, but I always managed to power through.

  “Nausea? Intestinal pain? Cramps?”

  “No, no, and no.”

  “Any blurred vision? Trouble hearing?”

  “Nope. None.”

  “Sore throat? Itchy eyes? Sneezing? Congestion?”

  I shook my head.

  “What about topical products?” he asked. “Are you using a new skin lotion or powder or shower gel?”

  “Nope.”

  He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at me. “You haven’t been using LuvLub again, have you?”

  A hot blush rushed to my cheeks. I’d once had an allergic reaction to a sexual enhancement product and Ajay had never let me hear the end of it. “Absolutely not.” Last I’d heard, the FDA had taken the stuff off the market.

  His face grew pensive as he seemed to be contemplating my dilemma. “Skin conditions can result from bacteria or fungus. Any chance you’ve been exposed to an unsanitary environment? Have you gone swimming recently or spent time in a sauna or steam room? Anything like that?”

  I was getting tired of all the questions, but I had to give Ajay credit. He was thorough. “I threw myself into a pond when I was trying to get away from the wasps.”

  “Was the water clean? Clear?”

  “Looked clean enough to me. Besides, it was on the grounds of a Catholic school and the Virgin Mary was keeping watch over it. Maybe it was filled with holy water.”

  He scoffed. “Yeah, and people bathe in the Ganges River to purify themselves, but the water is filled with the bodies and ashes of the dead. Raw sewage, too. You might wash away your sins, but you’ve got a good chance of catching dysentery, cholera, typhoid fever, or hepatitis.”

  Yikes. “You think I’ve got one of those diseases?”

  “Probably not,” he said. “You’d likely be having other symptoms. But I’m not ruling anything out yet. Anyplace else you’ve been?”

  “I also went to a tanning salon. But I only went inside to speak with the manager, and that was right before I came here. I didn’t use any of the tanning beds and I was already orange when I went in the place.”

  “It could be jaundice,” he said. “That would be indicative of liver or gall bladder problems. Would you say you drink alcohol to excess?”

  “No.” I had a drink every now and then, but no more than anyone else I knew.

  He cocked his head. “You being honest with me?”

  “I am.”

  “Okay, then. What about medications?” he asked. “Have you been on steroids or penicillin? Maybe taken a lot of acetaminophen lately?”

  “No.”

  “What about birth control pills. Have you switched prescriptions lately?”

  “Nope.”

  He ran his gaze over me once more before giving me a shrug. “That’s all I’ve got. We’ll have to see what your body fluids tell us.” He retrieved a clear plastic cup from the cabinet and handed it to me. “Take this to the bathroom and fill it. I’ll have the nurse draw some blood, too.”

  “Lovely.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a purple lollipop. “Here you go.”

  I took the sucker from him. “Grape. Yum!”

  I did as I’d been told, leaving the urine sample with the nurse outside, then sitting down to let her draw blood from my arm. I watched as the vial filled. My blood looked normal. Deep red, not orange. That had to be a good sign, right?

  “It’ll be tomorrow before we have your results,” the nurse said. “We’ll give you a call.”

  “Thanks.”

  With that, I returned to my car, wondering whether my days on earth were numbered. Would I survive until my wedding? And if I did, would I look like a circus peanut in a bridal gown?

  chapter twenty-two

  Missing Connections

  By the time I left the medical clinic, it was late afternoon. I tried Robin Beck’s cell number, but all I got was her voice mail. I didn’t bother leaving a message. If she hadn’t returned a call from the tanning salon, she sure as heck wouldn’t return one from the IRS. I’d try her back later.

  I slid my cell phone into the car’s cup holder. I had one more stop planned, at Thomas Hoffmeyer’s place. Before I could head out, my cell phone rang. The caller ID indicated it was Agent Castaneda calling.

  “How’d it go in court?” I asked.

  “It was a mixed bag. The judge seemed convinced by the affidavits, especially since the men you tracked down were using the aliases found on the documents in Hidalgo’s rental car. He also seemed convinced Hidalgo could be a flight risk. But Hidalgo’s attorneys argued that there was nothing definitive linking him to anyone named Zaragoza or to any kidnappings or deaths. The judge compromised. He didn’t deny Hidalgo bail, but he put conditions on it. He’d have to turn over his passport and remain in the U.S. And he set the bail high.”

  “How high?”

  “A million dollars.”

  In the state of Texas, a typical bail bond premium cost 10 percent of the amount of the bail. In other words, someone would have to pay one hundred thousand dollars to spring Hidalgo from jail. Unless he had some rich friends or family, that wasn’t likely to happen. Heck, you could buy a house for that kind of money. Few people could spare such a large sum.

  “Looks like he’s staying put, then,” I said. Good. Now I could enjoy my time in Vegas without worrying whether he was leading more people to their deaths, like a heartless pied piper.

  “I’d say so,” Castaneda replied. “With Hidalgo in jail, we may be able to negotiate with him, maybe offer a reduced sentence if he tells us where the kidnapped girls are. Of course, he may refuse to talk at all. That’s what he’s done in the past.”

  I thanked him for the update. While the girls were still out there somewhere, at least it seemed like law enforcement might be getting closer to finding them.

  I drove out to Colleyville, a suburb that sat directly west of the Dallas–Fort Worth airport, and stopped at a condominium complex. The place was surrounded by an eight-foot-high wall of terra-cotta-colored stucco. Fast-growing ivy had made good headway crawling up the wall, obscuring most of the name, only the word Villas fully visible. I pulled up to the tall iron entrance gate and punched in the number for the Hoffmeyers’ unit at the security keypad. The sound of a phone ringing came over the speaker. After a couple of rings, a female voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi, there,” I called at the speaker. “It’s Tara Holloway from the IRS. Mr. Hoffmeyer is expecting me.”

  “I’ll open the gate for you.”

  A few seconds later, the gate slid open and I drove through. While the connected two-story units featured garages, a few vehicles were parked in driveways or along the narrow streets. All were high-end, late-model vehicles, ranging from a black Cadillac to a white Lexus. The immaculate Mediterranean-style buildings and well-tended grounds whispered luxury. Though the villas were connected and thus shared walls, they were as big or bigger than the average single-family dwelling. This looked like the type of place busy, six-figure-salary professionals would call home, where wealthy people might move when they retired and didn’t want the hassle of keeping up a yard they no longer used.

  I circled the interior road a couple of times before spotting the unit I was looking for tucked away between two narrow pine trees. I parked on the street, admiring the teal-toned Mercedes E300 sedan in the driveway. Nice ride. Thomas Hoffmeyer had clearly done well for himself. I went to the door and rang the bell. Ding-dong!

  Yip-yip-yip! Scratch-scratch. Yip-yip-yip!

  A male voice came from inside. “Hush, Fritz!” The door opened a moment later to reveal a white-haired man who appeared to be in his mid-sixties in khaki shorts and a striped golf shirt. He had a slight paunch on his belly and a squirming dachshund
in his arms. The dog’s reddish fur was only a few shades darker than my odd skin tone. The man’s golf clubs leaned against the wall just inside the door as if waiting for him. Behind the man stood a woman who also appeared to be in her mid-sixties, but who’d taken pains to preserve her appearance. Her perfect blond dye job offered not the slightest hint of gray at the roots, her stylish sheath dress showing off a body that was as well-maintained as the outdoor landscaping. She squinted at me, looking confused and concerned, but at least she had the courtesy not to ask about my ginger skin tone.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS. Are you Thomas Hoffmeyer?”

  “I am.” The dog squirmed even more and the man tightened his grip.

  Given that his arms were full of cute little dog, I didn’t bother trying to exchange handshakes with Hoffmeyer. But when his wife introduced herself, I held out my hand. She looked down at it, noted the odd color there, too, and hesitated. Ugh. Now I knew how those poor lepers felt.

  Rather than worry the woman that I was carrying some type of contagious disease, I lied. Probably not the nicest thing to do, but I needed these people to focus on the matter at hand, not on my skin. Fortunately, I had a convenient excuse at the ready. “I realize my skin looks funny,” I said. “The self-tanning cream I used turned me this strange color.”

  “Oh!” Her features relaxed in relief. “I was wondering, but didn’t want to be rude and ask. Come on in.”

  I stepped into their condominium and she closed the door behind me. Now that the dog’s escape plan had been foiled, he quieted, defeated. Hoffmeyer bent down and released him onto the tile floor. The dog’s toenails clacked as if he were performing a canine tap dance as he skipped over to sniff the hem of my pants. No doubt he smelled Anne and Henry. I couldn’t seem to make it out of my town house without their fur on me somewhere.

  I knelt down and stroked his long back, my hand appearing even more orange when up against his fur. “Hello, there, Fritz.”

  His tail whipped back and forth so fast it was an auburn blur.

  “Take a seat,” Hoffmeyer ordered, gesturing to a nearby easy chair. Clearly, he was used to bossing other people around. “Let’s get to the bottom of things. I’ve got nine holes to get in before sunset.”

  As I dropped into the chair, Hoffmeyer plopped down on the sofa. He jerked his head to indicate his wife should join him. While she settled in, I took a quick glance around the room. Frozen on the screen of their television set was the face of Isidora Davila, her eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line as she plotted her next act of vengeance against her husband, whom she was staring down. Apparently, he’d dared to use his catchphrase on her, his words immortalized in the subtitles below. Isidora, put in your batteries!

  I must’ve caught the Hoffmeyers in the middle of watching the episode, and they’d paused it to resume watching once I’d left. I turned back to the couple. “You watch Amor y Vengaza, too?”

  “Not me,” Hoffmeyer snapped, derision dripping from his words. He hiked a thumb at his wife. “That’s all her.”

  Mrs. Hoffmeyer offered a sheepish smile. “It’s a silly show, but I’m hooked on it.”

  “Me, too,” I replied. “Seems like no matter where I go, everyone’s watching it.” I pulled out a pad of paper and pen to take notes and turned my attention to Mr. Hoffmeyer. “I’ve got some questions for you.”

  “Questions?” He scoffed. “I was hoping you’d have answers.”

  I fought the urge to scoff right back at him. “Questions lead to answers. That’s how an investigation works.” You old blowhard. “The key to solving this case is figuring out what the link is between you and the other victims, what you all have in common.”

  He raised an arrogant, argumentative brow. “What if there’s not a link? What if whoever did this just picked our names haphazardly? It could just be some hacker playing games.”

  I had no choice but to admit he might have a point. “The culprit may have done just that. Picked victims willy-nilly with no real reason behind it. Nonetheless I believe it’s likely, even probable, that the culprit obtained your names, social security numbers, and home addresses from the same source. I’m trying to figure out what the common source might be. It could be a financial institution, a doctor’s office, a school.” I reached down to scratch Fritz, who’d flopped onto his side and was now lying at my feet. “Even a veterinary office. Anywhere you provided those pieces of information.”

  “That covers a lot of ground,” he said. “I have multiple investment accounts. We own quite a bit of real estate.”

  “Tom sees several doctors, too,” Mrs. Hoffmeyer added. “He’s got an ophthalmologist for his cataracts, a cardiac specialist for his high blood pressure, a rheumatologist for his arthritis, a proctologist for his—”

  “She doesn’t need to know all that!” Hoffmeyer barked. “She just needs their names and phone numbers.”

  His wife shrunk back on the couch, speaking much quieter now. “I was only trying to help.”

  It irked me to see the woman cowed by her overbearing husband, but I was here to get information about a pending tax fraud case, not to serve as a marriage counselor. Besides, what did I know about marital relationships? I’d only recently become engaged. I knew being married would require some sacrifices and compromises. I only hoped this woman was content with the ones she’d made.

  I took notes as Hoffmeyer rattled off the names of his doctors, dentist, and periodontist. “Do you attend church?” I asked, looking up.

  “Of course,” he said. “First Baptist, here in Colleyville.”

  Good thing he’d clarified because there had to be a dozen or more First Baptist Churches in the Metroplex. Everyone wants to be number one.

  I noted the name and location of the church. “You mentioned that you golf. Are you a member of a country club?”

  “Timarron,” he replied, referencing a country club in the adjacent city of Southlake.

  “Who’s Fritz’s vet?” I asked.

  Hoffmeyer looked to his wife. Obviously, she was the one who took primary care of the cute little dog. She provided the veterinarian’s name and I jotted it down.

  “Have you attended any schools recently?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Hoffmeyer scoffed again. “I haven’t set foot in a classroom in forty years.”

  “Just making sure I’ve covered all the bases,” I said in my defense. I’d hazard a guess that when he’d been a student all those years ago, he’d been the class bully, doling out a fair share of wedgies and wet willies. “Are you a member of a gym?”

  “No. Those places are for brainless muscle-heads.”

  All righty, then. “You mentioned that you have multiple investment accounts and own real estate. Can you tell me which financial institutions you’ve dealt with?”

  He ran through a litany of banks, brokerage houses, mortgage companies, and title companies, his memory surprisingly thorough.

  “I understand you’re retired now,” I said, “but at the time the 1099 was filed two years ago you were working as the controller for Snippy’s Barber Shops Incorporated. Correct?”

  According to my research, Snippy’s was a relatively new franchisor that provided opportunities for those wanting to open an independent hair salon under a recognized name. While there were only a couple of Snippy’s franchises in the Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex, the stores were much more common in smaller towns and had quite a toehold in Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Missouri. The company’s revenues had skyrocketed in recent years as more and more people signed up to become franchisees.

  “That’s correct,” Hoffmeyer replied. “I was in charge of the entire accounting department. Had a staff of six working under me at the time I left.”

  “And how was your relationship with those six?” If he was half as abrasive with them as he’d been with me, he’d likely had a lot of unhappy people answering to him.

  He snorted now, apparently tired of scoff
ing. “If you’re asking whether my workers liked me, the answer is no. When it comes to my work, I can be a real hard-ass.”

  He could be a real hard-ass about everything, it seemed, though I didn’t bother to correct him. “It seems likely that whoever filed the fraudulent 1099s is a financial type who knows something about tax forms. Was there anybody at Snippy’s you had trouble with? Someone you fired, maybe, or who you gave a poor performance report?”

  He offered a patronizing smile. “Managing people isn’t for sissies, Miss Holloway. If I didn’t upset at least one person every day I wasn’t doing my job. We had a lot of numbers coming in from a lot of franchises and it was critical things be accounted for accurately. I didn’t tolerate mistakes. Sure, I issued some bad reviews, but they were deserved.”

  “I need you to be more specific,” I said. “Name names.”

  “We had an entry-level girl a few years ago,” he said. “Hired her to help out when we were making a big push at conventions and getting a lot of interest from potential franchisees. She was supposed to run credit checks, verify assets, and work up the numbers so that I could make a decision on whether to approve an applicant. She wasn’t bad at what she did, she was just too damn slow, couldn’t handle the volume. We needed someone who could handle the backlog, so I let her go.”

  He seemed to be just as demanding a boss as Isidora’s husband, ordering everyone to put in their batteries. How do you say that in Spanish? I racked my brain. Oh, yeah. ¡Ponte las pilas!

  I was tempted to remind him of the old adage that you could have a job done fast or you could have it done right, but not both. There was no sense in antagonizing the guy, though. He’d probably just complain to Congress again and I’d be the one ending up with a bad performance report. “Did she take it badly when you terminated her?”

  He shrugged. “She cried a little at first, but then she said it was probably for the best because she didn’t like working for an asshole anyway. That rude little twit got twenty weeks of unemployment insurance out of us.”

  “Did she handle tax matters for the company?” I asked.