Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria

by Diane Kelly

  I walked around the desk where Beau’s laptop sat open, his screen displaying a list of e-mails. I hit the space bar to keep the machine active and took a seat in his rolling chair.

  The man with the ball cap had followed me back to Beauregard’s office. He stood in the doorway, his head cocked. “You know anything about taxes?”

  “I work for the IRS,” I said. “So, yeah, I know a little about taxes.”

  He pulled a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt. “Can you tell me what this mumbo jumbo means?”

  I took the paper from him and read over the notice he’d received from the IRS. It informed him that his fuel tax credit had been denied.

  “It means Beauregard duped you.” I offered him a consoling smile. “That gas well he sold you? It doesn’t actually exist. Sorry.”

  “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I paid good money for that well.” He glared at the open window, then looked back at me. “What are the chances I’ll get that money back?”

  “Honestly?” I said. “Slim to none.” I opened the drawers to Beau’s desk and found a dollar and thirty-seven cents inside. I handed it to the man. “Here. Buy yourself something from the vending machine.” Maybe some chocolate would cheer him up.

  After the man left the room, I rummaged through the rest of the drawers. I found more pamphlets detailing the benefits of financial planning, as well as application forms for insurance policies and forms to open investment accounts. I’d never heard of the insurance company, Alltex Allied Mutual Incorporated, or the investment company, Gulf States Portfolio Management. Chances were good they were bogus companies, too.

  Eddie came into the office then, a pissed-off look on his face. “I lost him,” he said. “I’ve called Dallas PD so they can keep an eye out for him.”

  I returned my attention to the computer, looking over Beau’s e-mail in-box. Eddie stepped up behind me to read over my shoulder. Most of the e-mails were typical spam from businesses trying to sell him promotional items. An e-mail from his cell phone provider reminded him that his bill was past due. A communication from his bank warned his account was overdrawn. He’d racked up over three hundred dollars in overdraft fees. Some financial planner he was.

  I looked up at Eddie. “How can the guy be broke?” After all, he’d cheated the government out of over half a million dollars in the last year alone. That was like, what, forty thousand dollars a month? “What could he have spent all that money on?”

  “My guess would be drugs, gambling, or hookers,” Eddie said.

  As I continued to scroll down Beau’s e-mail in-box, we found an e-ticket for a flight from Dallas to Las Vegas.

  “That narrows it down to gambling and hookers,” Eddie said.

  The flight was scheduled to leave late in the day on the October 15 extended tax deadline. Beau planned to treat himself to some fun after the mad rush, huh? Too bad for him that Eddie and I had come along to play party poopers.

  While I forwarded all of the e-mails to my account at the IRS, Eddie looked through the filing cabinet. Other than a few paper copies of tax returns, there wasn’t much there. Together Eddie and I packed up Beau’s things. We instructed the receptionist to give us a call immediately if he returned to his office.

  After we carried his things out to the car, I pulled up directions to Beau’s house on my phone. Our search warrant gave us the right not only to seize evidence from his office but to search his home as well.

  We climbed back into our G-ride and headed farther south into the suburb of Duncanville. A few turns and the blue dot on my phone indicated we were getting close. The blue dot met up with the red dot right as we pulled up in front of a trailer park. A hand-lettered sign in the front window of the first trailer read: “MANAGEMENT.”

  “Here we are,” I said.

  Eddie turned in. While many trailer parks were well kept and tidy, this one was not. Broken toys and trash bags sat in the yards of many of the homes, some of which were unanchored travel trailers. We slowly made our way down the cracked asphalt drive, looking for space thirteen.

  “There it is,” I said, pointing.

  A rusty mailbox sunk into a plastic bucket filled with cement marked the spot. The spot, however, was empty. Well, not totally empty. A cheap red barbecue grill lay on its side at the back of the space, alongside a faded canvas lawn chair and a metal TV tray. Beau’s former backyard cookout spot, no doubt. Several gray cinder blocks lay at odd angles to the sides of the space, as if they’d been slung aside in haste.

  We drove back to the entrance and pulled to the side, parking near the manager’s trailer. Three quick raps on the door frame rousted him.

  He yanked his door open. “Yeah?”

  The manager wore a short-sleeved shirt hanging open over his pasty, hairless chest and belly, along with a pair of boxer shorts and ratty house slippers. Unusual sounds came from the television playing in the background. Lots of “oohs” and “aahs” and cheesy music.

  Sheesh. The guy was watching porn in the middle of the afternoon? Ew.

  Eddie and I flashed our badges. “We’re from the IRS,” Eddie said. “We’re looking for Richard Beauregard.”

  The man chortled. “You and everyone else,” he spat. “That deadbeat’s been served with lawsuits three times in the past month.”

  “His space is empty,” I said. “You know anything about that?”

  The man nodded. “He hooked up his camper and hauled out about an hour ago. Saved me the hassle of evicting his sorry ass. He owes me two months’ rent plus late fees.”

  Eddie and I exchanged glances. “Any idea where he might have gone?” I asked.

  The man raised a finger. “Just a minute.” He disappeared and came back a few seconds later with a piece of paper in his hand. He held it out to me, but I didn’t want to touch it. Who knew where the manager’s hands had been before we knocked on his door?

  Eddie shot me a look and took the paper, holding it where I could read it, too. It was Beau’s rental application. In the emergency contact blank he’d listed his mother, who also lived in Duncanville. I plugged her address into my phone’s navigation system.

  “Thanks,” Eddie said, handing the paper back to him.

  “You find him,” the man called after us, “you tell him to bring me my rent!”

  “Will do!” I called back.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Eddie and I pulled up to Beau’s mother’s house, a two-story redbrick home in a respectable, though modest, neighborhood. She was a tall woman, her once-dark hair now much more salt than pepper. Though she was open and friendly, she was no help.

  She rolled her eyes. “I know a mother shouldn’t say this about her own son,” she said, “but Richard just can’t seem to get it together. He’s borrowed over sixty grand from me over the years and hasn’t paid back a penny. I’m seventy-two and still having to waitress at the Waffle Hut just to keep my bills paid.”

  “Any chance you’ve got a photograph of him handy?” I asked. If we were going to have to pursue the guy, we’d need to know what he looked like. The auditor who’d referred the case had described Beau as looking like Woody from Toy Story. Unless Beauregard had a pull string in his back, I wasn’t sure that was enough to go on.

  Beau’s mother removed a large framed photo from the foyer wall. “Here you go.”

  The photo was a picture of a man who indeed looked like Woody. Unlike Woody, though, this man had a virtual unibrow. They hadn’t quite grown together, but the two wide, flat brows sported a distinct tuft in the middle, as if they were spelling out the letter K in Morse code. Beau was dressed in a tux and stood at an altar next to a tiny blonde in a puffy-sleeved white wedding dress with a wide, bell-shaped skirt.

  Mrs. Beauregard waved her hand. “You can keep that. Richard’s wife left him years ago after he lost all their money at that Indian casino just over the Oklahoma border. Damn shame. She was a sweet girl, craz
y about him. He managed to screw that up, too.”

  So Beau was single. Perhaps he had indeed spent some of the money he’d stolen from Uncle Sam on hookers. With those gangly limbs and that unibrow, Beau probably wasn’t getting laid for free.

  chapter nine

  Double Date, Double Espresso

  Since we were already out, Eddie and I figured we might as well pay a visit to a few of the money transmitters on the lists Wang had given us.

  The first was a payday loan place that ran a brisk business despite the outrageous interest rates and fees they charged. The business was part of a chain with a corporate headquarters that implemented strict procedures and kept a close eye on its branches. As expected, everything was in order there.

  The second was a jewelry store that paid cash for gold jewelry. Everything was in order there, too, though I was a bit disturbed by the man next to us who’d produced a handful of teeth and asked how much he could get for the gold fillings. Eddie and I had made a note of his license plate and put in a discreet call to local law enforcement.

  Our final stop was a convenience store operated by a pleasant middle-aged Muslim couple. Like Zardooz, they’d suffered bigotry thanks to the radical terrorists. After 9-11 someone had spray-painted “Go home, towelheads!” on the side wall of their store.

  “I was born and raised in Texas,” the man said. “I am home.”

  Their records were in good order, fully compliant, nothing suspicious. There was no flicker of recognition when I showed them the photos of the local men who’d been arrested, either.

  “Sorry we couldn’t be of help,” the wife said as I slid the photos back into my briefcase.

  I thanked them and bought a Lotto scratch-off and a package of peanut butter crackers.

  On the drive back to the IRS building, I shared my crackers with Eddie and took a penny to the scratch-off ticket. “Hey! I won five bucks!”

  “Don’t forget to report the winnings on your tax return,” Eddie said.

  “Party pooper.” I put the winning ticket in my wallet to redeem later and called Wang to update him on our investigation. He’d had no luck with the money transmitters he’d visited, either.

  Whoever had helped the terrorists move their money was still out there, waiting to be discovered. I pictured him as a bearded man with dark hair and squinty eyes that reflected a crazed rage. Sheesh, even I was falling for the stereotypes and I should know better. After all, most of the people we arrested for tax evasion looked like normal, upstanding citizens.

  Back at the office, I logged into the tax-reporting system and suspended Richard Beauregard’s e-filing privileges. We may not have brought the cheat in, but at least we could prevent him from filing any more fraudulent returns and stealing further from the government’s coffers.

  At a quarter after five, Nick stepped into my office. “You ready to head to the coffee shop?”

  I looked up at Nick. “No flowers or candy?” I quipped. “Way to make our first date special.”

  Of course he had no way of knowing that this was, in fact, sort of our first date. He had no idea I planned to put Brett on the back burner for him.

  “If you put out,” Nick replied, a sexy grin spreading across his lips, “I’ll bring you all kinds of flowers and candy.”

  At least he was flirting with me again rather than acting angry. That was a step in the right direction.

  We rounded up Josh and the three of us headed out to Nick’s truck, an older, hail-dented pickup that I’d bought to smuggle Nick out of Mexico a few months ago. He’d taken the thing off my hands when we’d returned, even paid me a premium for it. The truck might not look like much, but it ran well and had enough towing power to pull a bass boat, an item that was on Nick’s wish list.

  I sat between Nick and Josh on the bench seat. Josh fidgeted with nervous energy the entire way.

  “Relax,” I told him. “Everything will be fine. It’s just coffee. No big deal.”

  Easy for me to say. He had a lot riding on this date. While Nick had received more than fifty additional inquiries today—dammit!—no other women had responded to Josh’s ad on the dating site. It was Kira or nobody.

  Nick parked the truck in the side lot of the coffee shop and we made our way inside. Josh carried his personal laptop bag with him.

  “You’re bringing your computer?” I asked.

  “I thought I’d show it to Kira,” Josh replied.

  Sheez. What a hopeless geek.

  The three of us stopped inside the door and scanned the area. No blue-eyed blondes in sight.

  “She’s not here,” Josh said, his voice tinged with panic.

  I checked my watch. “It’s not even five thirty yet. She’ll be here.”

  We got in line and ordered drinks, Nick’s treat. I went for a caramel macchiato. I’d work off the calories by spending an extra twenty minutes on the exercise bike at the gym tomorrow.

  We took seats at a square table in the middle of the room where we could keep an eye on the door. As we waited for Kira, I told Nick and Josh about Richard Beauregard, about our visits to his office, the trailer park, his mother’s house.

  Nick snorted. “Sounds like Beau’s the family fuckup.”

  The front door opened then, and a young woman stepped inside. She was tall, with white-blonde hair. Although she was clearly the Kira from the dating site, she looked almost nothing like the innocent-eyed girl in the photo.

  Her white-blonde hair didn’t hang in pigtails today. Rather, it was shaved short over the ear on one side, the rest of it hanging in chunky clumps around her face. Not quite dreadlocks, but close. The wide blue eyes from the snapshot were now rimmed with black smudges, the uniformity of the circles indicating they were intentional. Her lipstick, likewise, was black. She was thin, almost painfully so, with long, gangly limbs, like a Tim Burton character come to life. Gone was the sailor suit, replaced by a tight black belly top, a black leather miniskirt with white netting underneath, torn fishnet hose, and thigh-high black leather boots.

  “Boy howdy,” Nick said, giving a low whistle and turning to Josh. “That girl is going to eat you alive.”

  Josh emitted a sound like the whimper of a puppy.

  Kira’s flat chest was crisscrossed by the straps of a laptop bag draped diagonally over one shoulder and a messenger bag. She removed the laptop bag and glanced around the room, her eyes stopping and locking on Josh. She stood there for a moment, her head tilting first one way, then the other as she assessed him. Her eyes narrowed for a moment. Was she thinking about turning around and walking back out the door? For Josh’s sake I hoped not. Or maybe for his sake I should hope she would. Heck, I had no idea what to make of her.

  Finally, she stepped forward and came to our table.

  “Uhh … h-h-hi,” Josh said, his voice breathy and weak as he looked up at her.

  Josh’s trepidation brought an openmouthed smile to Kira’s dark lips, as if she enjoyed the fact that he was afraid of her. In contrast to her ebony lipstick, her teeth appeared an almost blinding white, with oddly long and pointed canines.

  Kira laid her laptop bag on the table and followed it with the messenger bag. Up close, additional features were apparent. Her belly button was pierced, as were her nose, one brow, that little dimple under her bottom lip, and her tongue. Given all that metal, it was a wonder her face wasn’t constantly drawn to magnetic north. She had a small tattoo on her upper hip, the standard yellow happy face wearing a black hood and carrying a sickle. What the hell was that? The grin reaper?

  Nick and I stood, introduced ourselves, and shook her hand. Josh just sat there, his mouth hanging open, dumbfounded.

  Given that Josh was totally dropping the ball, Nick asked Kira what she’d like to drink and set off for the bar to place her order for a double espresso. I invited her to take a seat, giving Josh a nudge with my knee as I sat, trying to dislodge him from his stupor.

  “Nick and I work with Josh at the IRS,” I told Kira, explaining that we
were special agents who pursued tax evaders. “Josh is the department’s cybercrimes specialist.”

  “A crime fighter,” she said in a slightly nasal voice, turning her gaze on Josh. “Cool.”

  At her eye contact he made the puppy whimper sound again. I half-expected him to drop to the floor, roll over onto his back, and pee on himself.

  She turned to me. “He seems nervous. What’s his deal?”

  “He hasn’t dated much,” I said. “Plus, he’s a virgin.”

  “Tara!” Josh shrieked, turning purple with embarrassment. But at least he was talking now.

  Kira laughed. She probably assumed I was joking. She leaned across the table toward Josh. “I don’t bite, you know. At least not on the first date.” She ran her tongue over her lips, laughing again when Josh turned an even darker shade of purple.

  Josh said little for the next minute or so while Kira and I got to know each other. Although we clearly had totally different tastes in fashion, we hit it off, having other things in common. We were both nonconformists with a rebellious streak. We both thought iced coffee was an abomination. Coffee should be taken hot, the way God intended. We were both cat lovers. She had three to my two. COBOL, Delphi, and Fortran, all named after computer languages.

  Nick returned with Kira’s espresso and the three of us chatted amiably. Josh simply stared at Kira the entire time. She pulled an artist’s sketchbook out of her messenger bag and showed us some of the logos she’d designed for her clients’ Web sites, including one for a local punk rock band called the STDs. The shape of the T was somewhat phallic and the pink D was suspiciously reminiscent of a woman’s nether regions, but I suppose you have to give the clients what they want, huh?

  She pulled up some of the Web sites on her iPad. Most of the others were less provocative, though no less unique. She’d designed a cute site for a vegan restaurant that featured a singing carrot, as well as one for a shoe repair service with a dancing cobbler. The woman not only knew computers and HTML; she was a creative genius, too.