Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte

by Diane Kelly

  “That bad?”

  She nodded.

  I took the cucumbers from her, but dipped them in my ranch dressing and ate them instead.

  She spread her napkin in her lap. “When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

  The night before the Lobo and George Burton assigned me to the Mendoza case. “About a week ago.”

  Alicia didn’t push me further. She knew I was working a highly sensitive case and couldn’t share the details. “When this case is over,” she said, “I’m taking you to the Four Seasons spa for a massage and facial. My treat.”

  “Wow, thanks.”

  “I’m a junior manager now. I can’t be seen with you looking like death warmed over.”

  I shot her a look across the table. “Feeling a little less grateful now.”

  She smiled for a brief moment then her face scrunched in concern. “Be careful, okay? I don’t want to have to find a new best friend.”

  I didn’t want her to have to find a new best friend, either.

  * * *

  The scent of menthol cigarettes and industrial-strength hairspray registered with my nose a split second before my boss stepped into my office later that afternoon. Lu sported a strawberry-blond beehive, heavy on the strawberry, along with false eyelashes over blue-shaded lids and bright orange lipstick. Her outfit today was a sixties-style pantsuit with a Nehru jacket in size twenty-two Velveeta-colored velveteen.

  Though Lu’s fashion sense was questionable, her other mental faculties remained acute. She’d reached the minimum retirement age and had previously planned to retire once the department collected a hundred million under her watch. But when Eddie and I had recently helped her reach her goal, she’d changed her mind, decided she wasn’t yet ready to throw in the towel.

  Lu closed my office door behind her. “Tell me you’ve got some solid leads on Mendoza.”

  “Wish I could, Lu.” I told her about our interview with the Pokornys, my futile calls to the check-cashing facilities.

  She chewed her lip in an uncharacteristic act of anxiety. It wasn’t like the Lobo to worry. But the Mendoza investigation wasn’t the typical case, either. No doubt George Burton was breathing down her neck, wanting it resolved ASAP.

  “They found more of Andrew Sheffield,” she said, pulling a cigarette and lighter out of her pocket. “His left hand turned up in the weeds near a rest stop outside Abilene.”

  “Oh God.” I put a hand over my mouth, hoping my salad would stay down. If not, well then it really didn’t matter that I hadn’t opted for the fat-free dressing, did it? “How’d they know it was him?”

  “Wedding ring. His initials were engraved on the inside.”

  When Andrew Sheffield vowed to love his wife till death do us part, I’ll bet he never realized just how short that time would be.

  Lu stuck the cigarette between her lips and clamped down, speaking out of the side of her mouth. “I don’t want any more dead bodies on my conscience.”

  “Sheffield’s death isn’t your fault, Lu.”

  “Oh yeah?” she spat. “Tell that to Sheffield’s widow. Tell that to his little boy. If we’d taken Mendoza down three years ago, Sheffield would still be alive.” Lu lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, then pointed it at me. “If you and Eddie don’t nail that bastard soon, the next body’s on your heads.”

  The stomach that had just threatened to spill its contents now shrank into a tight, painful ball. “Great motivational speech.”

  Lu ignored my sarcasm. “I’m counting on you, Holloway. Mendoza hasn’t just cost the government a bunch of money, he cost me the best special agent I ever had.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I replied dryly.

  “Don’t get your panties in a wad. You’re better with a gun, but Pratt was a workhorse. Smart as a whip, too. Brought in more money for this agency than any other agent in history.”

  Ironic, then, that he’d been bought off. I wondered if Mendoza would try to buy off me and Eddie, too, if he got wind we were after him. No amount of money was worth sacrificing my personal integrity, of course. Still, I was curious what personal integrity was going for these days.

  “How much do you think Mendoza paid Pratt?” I asked Lu. “Five million? Ten? More?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t have a clue.”

  “If Nick was willing to leave his entire life behind, it must’ve been a shitload.” Hmm. What was the exchange rate between shit and U.S. dollars?

  Lu looked down at the floor and took a slow, sad drag on her cigarette.

  I eyed her. “Seems like you took his leaving personally.”

  Lu was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was unusually soft. “You have no idea just how personally, Tara.”

  Nick Pratt had been assigned to the earlier investigation after U.S. customs agents made an interesting discovery during a routine border stop in Laredo. The agents found a large stash of Mexican five-hundred peso bills concealed in a box among others filled with children’s footie pajamas. The pj’s had been produced at one of the maquiladoras that cropped up in Mexico’s border towns after the enactment of the North American Free Trade Agreement in 1994. In the preceding presidential election debates, Texan candidate Ross Perot had warned voters that, if passed, the pending bill would result in a “giant sucking sound” of jobs heading south of the border. Bill Clinton was elected and had promptly signed the controversial bill. Then again, President Clinton was known for sucking sounds.

  The maquiladora factories were supposed to be a win-win situation, bringing jobs and money into Mexico while eliminating tariffs and thus keeping prices down for products imported into the U.S. Instead, the end result had been the exploitation of Mexican workers paid so little they were forced to live in slums, with the bulk of the profits going into the pockets of the factory owners on both sides of the border. The rich get richer …

  After the cash was found hidden among the pajamas, the customs agents did some research into the driver’s purported destination only to discover an abandoned warehouse was located at the address. After further interrogation, the driver admitted he’d been provided the warehouse address as a decoy and had been told he’d receive a call on his cell phone later that afternoon with instructions on where to deliver the shipment.

  When the call came in that afternoon, the agents intercepted it. Unfortunately, the call came from an untraceable prepaid cell phone. The caller asked the driver for his current location and, when the driver hesitated, the caller realized things were not right and terminated the call without giving a delivery address.

  The lackey driving the truck claimed to have no knowledge he’d been transporting cash. After several hours of interrogation, the agents determined he was telling the truth. Officials did more digging and linked the pajama shipment to a Mexican textile company owned by Vicente Torres. A little more digging linked Torres to AmeriMex in Texas. Unfortunately, Torres was on the wrong side of the border and there wasn’t enough evidence to arrest anyone in the U.S. The Mexican authorities were notified, though Torres asserted his innocence, claiming the driver must have been transporting the cash for someone else.

  The pajamas and funds were seized. No one showed up to claim them. The sleepers were sent to a local children’s charity, while the funds went into the U.S. coffers. Muchas gracias. Customs tipped off the IRS about the questionable cash and Pratt had been discreetly dispatched to investigate whether AmeriMex was engaged in financial shenanigans.

  Pratt discerned that, despite being listed only as an assistant manager for AmeriMex, Marcos Mendoza was really the head honcho of a vast financial enterprise. Unfortunately, that tidbit of information was all Pratt shared with the Lobo. He’d told Lu that he’d need to go undercover inside AmeriMex to obtain proof. He’d subsequently checked in a few times, indicated he was building a solid case, then poof! The traitorous asshole disappeared quicker than a man served with a paternity suit.

  Weeks later Pratt mailed back his laptop and cell phon
e from Cancún. But without the cooperation of Mexican authorities, there wasn’t much else the IRS could do at that point.

  So here we were, trying to resurrect a case against Mendoza, to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the previous investigation, to boldly go where one man had gone before. The only viable lead George Burton had been able to provide us was the Pokornys, and the only lead the Pokornys provided us was the post office box to which they’d sent their loan payments.

  “Eddie’s gone to the post office,” I told Lu. “Maybe he’ll come up with something.”

  “Keep me informed,” Lu said. “I want daily reports. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  The Lobo turned to leave.

  “Lu?”

  She turned back.

  “How about we go ahead with your party?” I said. “Even though you’ve decided not to retire, collecting a hundred million is still reason to celebrate. It’s a huge achievement.” Not to mention the fact that I’d called the country club and been told we’d forfeit our sizable deposit if we canceled.

  “What the hell,” Lu said. “Wouldn’t be right to be the pooper of my own party, would it?”

  I was glad she agreed to go ahead with the celebration. Something told me we’d need something fun to look forward to.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lie with Me, Not to Me

  Brett and I had standing dates each Friday night, though ironically, these standing dates usually ended with us lying down. We’d been dating for a few weeks and suffered a rough patch when I’d suspected he might be involved with a con artist. Thankfully, I’d been mistaken.

  Brett wasn’t perfect. He sometimes mumbled in his sleep and liked to watch golf on television. Somebody kill me, please! He also didn’t understand my enthusiasm for bargain hunting and target practice. But we shared a fondness for furry four-footed creatures, ethnic foods, and offbeat British comedies, not to mention incredible chemistry. Not a bad start for a relationship, right?

  Brett had suggested dinner and a movie out tonight, but I’d countered with pizza and a DVD in. After the long hours I’d put in all week, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay awake for an entire movie, and if I were going to fall asleep I’d rather it be on Brett’s couch than in a public theater where I might drool all over myself.

  I drove to Brett’s house and let myself in with the key he kept hidden under the decorative birdhouse on his front porch. Two wagging tails greeted me. One belonged to Napoleon, a small Scottie mix, the other to Reggie, a pit bull–Rottweiler cross Brett took in after I busted the dog’s owners and got stuck with the enormous beast. Given his large size and muscular build, Reggie looked scary as hell, but Brett’s doting care had transformed him from a wary and intimidating watchdog to a sweet, spoiled-rotten mutt.

  I gave each of the dogs a quick scratch behind the ears and took them out to the backyard for a potty break. After changing into my comfy red nightie, I flopped onto Brett’s overstuffed sofa, dug my cell phone out of my purse, and checked the screen. No messages. Eddie hadn’t yet called to tell me how things had gone at the post office. Either it had been another dead end or he was still there.

  As long as I had the phone out, I figured I might as well call my parents. It had been a few days since we’d last talked. I dialed my mom and dad’s number in Nacogdoches, my hometown back in East Texas.

  Mom answered, her voice coated with a sugary Southern accent. “Well, hi there, sweetie.”

  Given that I’d been a rough-and-tumble tomboy during my growing years and was now a gun-toting, ass-kicking federal agent, “sweet” wasn’t a word most people associated with me. But my mother would forever view her only daughter through rose-colored glasses.

  We chatted briefly. After she lamented the heat that had scorched her heirloom tomato plants, I told her about my upcoming trip with Brett to Florida, describing the beautiful chiffon dress I’d bought but neglecting to mention the sexy lingerie. No sense shattering those rose-colored glasses.

  “Be careful if you go into the ocean,” she warned. “Your father’s been watching shark week on the Discovery Channel. Those creatures like to scare me to death.”

  I didn’t fear the predatory fish nearly as much as the loan shark Eddie and I were after. But, again, no sense telling my mother something that would just cause her to worry. “I’ll be careful.”

  “I’d love to come out and see you,” she said. “Maybe do a little shopping?”

  Though Nacogdoches offered a relaxing pace and a small-town sense of community, it offered little in the way of retail. Mom routinely made the drive to Dallas, her frequent visits allowing us to bond while shopping for clothing, jewelry, and assorted housewares.

  “I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.” I hated to put my mother off, but until Eddie and I figured out how we’d bring Mendoza down I had no idea when I’d have time for a visit.

  Mom begged off then. She and Dad were off to a dance at the VFW hall, where they reigned as the king and queen of swing. Their jitterbug wasn’t bad, either.

  “Y’all have fun.”

  “Always do.” Mom made a kissing sound in the phone. “You take care, hon.”

  As I ended the call, I noticed my cell phone battery was nearly dead. I also noticed the dogs looking up at me with hunger in their eyes.

  “Who wants some dinner?”

  Their wagging tails said what their mouths couldn’t—we do!

  I carried my phone into the kitchen and plugged the device into an outlet beside the microwave to charge. Then I opened a can of dog food and split it between Napoleon and Reggie.

  A half hour later, the dogs and I were curled up together on the couch when Brett arrived with a warm, delicious-smelling pizza. With his sandy brown hair, sage-green eyes, and lean athletic build, Brett could certainly turn a woman’s head. He’d turned mine. And it hadn’t since turned elsewhere.

  He shifted the pizza box in his hands and gave me that special smile, the one where he cocked his head, locked his gaze on mine, and just slightly raised one side of his mouth. “Hi, honey. I’m home.”

  “How was your day, dear?”

  It was a silly, clichéd spiel, but what the heck. What we lacked in originality we made up for in sincerity.

  Brett slid out of his suit jacket. “My day was long and hard.”

  “Long and hard, huh?” I pointed a finger at him. “That’s just how I like you.”

  He gave a lustful groan.

  “I’ll give you two minutes to get out of that suit and into me.” I lifted my nightgown and playfully flashed my lace panties.

  He all but threw the pizza box on the coffee table and dashed to his bedroom to change out of his work clothes.

  I wanted Brett, sure, but I wasn’t quite the sex-crazed skank I may seem to be. The fact was, I was tired to the bone and if we didn’t get the sex out of the way first I was afraid I’d be too tired later. Wouldn’t be right to leave my man disappointed, would it? Besides, he might be offended if I fell asleep and started snoring in the middle of the act. This stretch was the longest we’d gone without making love since our first time a few weeks ago. I hoped Eddie and I would bust Mendoza soon. The case was costing me too much sleep and seriously impeding my orgasm quota.

  While Brett changed out of his suit, I grabbed a couple of plates and napkins from the kitchen, as well two stem glasses and a bottle of our favorite wine from the stash he kept in his pantry. I’d learned to manage pretty well despite the darn cast on my wrist. Nothing was going to slow Tara Holloway down.

  Napoleon and Reggie had followed me back into the kitchen, and now sat side by side on the tile floor, patiently watching me with their big, brown eyes, their expressions hopeful. Arf? asked Napoleon. Reggie followed up with a husky, Woof?

  “You got it, boys.” I retrieved two crunchy dog biscuits from the cookie jar on the counter and tossed them to the dogs.

  Reggie wolfed his down, while Napoleon caught the biscuit in midair, wagged his tail in t
hanks, and carried his treat into the living room to eat it on the rug. I followed the dogs, my arms full, and arranged everything on the coffee table.

  Brett returned from the bedroom, now wearing only a pair of soft cotton lounge pants, black with bright-red chili peppers printed on them. Yep, I’d bought the tacky things. Hot pants for my hot boyfriend. He took the glass of wine I offered him, his eyes darting from me to the pizza. “Hmm. Not sure which one I want to devour first.”

  What a tease. I gave an indignant grunt. I could give as well as I could take. I sat down on the couch, leaned back against the cushions, and ran a lazy finger up and down my thigh. “Does this help you make your decision?”

  Brett moaned with desire. “I’ll take you hot and the pizza cold.”

  Take that vegetarian supreme.

  * * *

  Brett pounced on me and we rolled around on the couch for a moment, him chuckling, me giggling. He shifted so that he lay to my side and I turned toward him, all silliness gone now. I slid one foot up along the back of his leg until my thigh draped over his.

  Brett brushed my hair back from my face, his rough fingertips leaving warm, sensitive trails on my cheek. He leaned in to kiss me, softly, sweetly, a gentle warm-up promising much more. Seconds later, the kiss deepened, growing hotter, more demanding.

  I was fully prepared to meet his demands. And I had some of my own, as well.

  I ran my fingers up his chest, running my red-tipped nails over his pecs, through his coarse chest hair. Maybe it’s just me, but I have no idea why men shave or wax their chests. I like my man to look and feel like a man. And Brett definitely felt like a man, from his downy chest to the rock-hard, ready arousal pushed against my inner thigh.

  My fingers continued up over his bare chest, over his shoulder, around the back of his neck, and up into his hair. He shifted, positioning himself on top of me now, my left leg crooked around his waist. His mouth left mine, traveling down my neck, his breath hot against my skin. His hand ran down my side, his thumb grazing my alert nipple through the fabric of my nightshirt, his palm coming to rest, cupped around my hip bone. He ran his thumb lightly back and forth over my bare abdomen, tracing a line just above the waistband of my panties. Mmm. He knew exactly what to do to get me going.