3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  I telephoned the county sheriff’s department for backup, explaining we were federal agents trying to get onto the property. Luckily, an officer was already in the area helping a rancher round up an escaped mule.

  In minutes, a deputy drove up in a brown and tan patrol car and climbed out. He was tall and beefy with wavy brown hair. His bottom lip bore a telltale bulge of chewing tobacco.

  He put two fingers under his junk and adjusted himself. Classy. “They said federal agents needed help out here.” His eyes roamed over Nick and me, taking in our business attire, his expression skeptical. “You two feds?”

  I whipped out my badge and held it up for him to see. “We’re with IRS Criminal Investigations.”

  “IRS?” He gave a derisive snort.

  Nick stiffened beside me, but managed to keep his cool. Nick might not look so tough in his business attire, but underneath his clothing he was one hundred percent pure badass. He stuck out a hand. “Nick Pratt, senior special agent.”

  The yahoo ignored Nick’s outstretched hand, instead hooking his thumbs in his utility belt. “Special agent? Don’t seem too special to me. Can’t even get in a little ol’ gate.”

  My jaw burned as my teeth clamped tight, holding back the words straining to spill out of my mouth. I was dying to tell the deputy off, but we needed him to get us onto the property. I glanced over at Nick. Rage burned in his eyes and a low growllike sound came from his throat.

  The deputy reached in through the open window of his car and pulled out a bullhorn. “No need to get yourselves worked up. August Buchmeyer’s a crazy old fart, but he ain’t going to hurt nobody.”

  He put one foot up on the bumper of the cruiser as if posing for a stud calendar, gave his balls another adjustment, and raised the bullhorn to his mouth. “August, these people just want to take a look-see. If you don’t let us in, we’ll have to enter by force. Now get on out here and open your gate.”

  A few seconds later the front door opened and a thin, stooped man stepped out, brandishing a rifle.

  “Look out!” Nick yanked Jenkins down behind our car.

  I pulled my gun from the holster. Nick hunkered down next to me and jerked his gun from his holster, too. Our eyes met, exchanging unspoken messages. Slowly and carefully, side by side, we raised our heads and peeked over the hood.

  The deputy glanced over at us crouching behind the vehicle and shook his head. “What a bunch of pussies.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “I prefer to think of it as being smart.”

  The deputy raised the bullhorn back to his mouth. “August, you get on out here and open this gate right now. I ain’t gonna ask you again.”

  From the narrow porch, the old man made a show of shaking his head.

  The deputy lowered the horn. “Guess I’ll have to shoot the locks off.”

  He reached into the cruiser and pulled a gun from under the driver’s seat. It was a small ornate pistol, obviously from the deputy’s private collection. “Y’all didn’t see this.” The deputy beamed as if he were the first member of law enforcement to come up with the idea of using a personal piece to avoid the paperwork required when a government-issued weapon was fired.

  We plugged our ears with our index fingers.

  Bang-bang!

  Two quick shots later the chains lay in a heap on the gravel, the busted locks resting on top.

  The officer swung the gate open and turned to us. “See, I told you Buchmeyer’s all bark and no bite.”

  The retort of Buchmeyer’s rifle didn’t meet our ears until after the deputy’s windshield exploded into shards of glass showering down on the caliche.

  The deputy shrieked like a schoolgirl and dove for cover in the small drainage ditch flanking the cattle guard. I crept to my front fender, took aim, and fired.

  Blam!

  Buchmeyer’s rifle sailed out of his hands and into the dirt next to his pickup.

  So much for avoiding paperwork. At the rate things were going, internal affairs would have to devote an entire filing cabinet just to my firearm discharge reports.

  Buchmeyer threw two angry fists in the air. “Abuse of power!” he hollered. “Government oppression! Declaration of war!”

  Apparently the exclamations were enough to tucker him out. He plopped down on the top step of his rickety porch and crossed his arms over his chest like a pouting child.

  Beside me, Nick shoved his gun back into his hip holster. “You beat me to the punch.”

  I flashed a smug smile. “Anything boys can do, girls can do better.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is that a challenge?”

  “It’s a guarantee.”

  Betty Buchmeyer poked her head out the front door of the trailer. “Y’all might as well come in now,” she called.

  The deputy crawled out of the ditch on his hands and knees. Nick picked up the bullhorn from the asphalt where the officer had dropped it and stood over him. Pushing the talk button, he blasted the deputy with a hundred and fifteen decibels at point-blank range. “Who’s the pussy now?”

  The deputy’s hands flew to his ears. Nick handed the horn back to him as he stood.

  While the deputy dusted the burrs and dirt from his uniform, Nick, Jenkins, and I began to make our way up the short gravel drive. Seconds later, the deputy charged past us, took the two steps up to the front porch in one stride, and grabbed Buchmeyer by the front of his faded cotton shirt, lifting the old man off the ground. Buchmeyer thrashed and kicked his legs to no avail.

  “You crazy coot!” the deputy shouted. “You could have killed somebody. I’ve got half a mind to haul your ass in for attempted murder.” He let go of Buchmeyer’s shirt and the grizzled man fell back to the porch.

  Buchmeyer glared up at the deputy. “If I’d wanted you dead you’d be lying in a pool of blood on the road. But go ahead and charge me. The Nation will get me the best defense attorney money can buy. Besides, I’d be great in front of a jury. Watch this.” August crossed one eye inward and grinned like an inbred, backwoods idiot. “I had no idea it was the sheriff and the IRS,” he said in a feeble, shaky voice. “I’m eighty-three years old. I can’t see more’n two feet in front of my face. All I heard was someone shooting at my gate. My poor wife and I thought it was one of them home invasions!”

  Standing behind her husband, Betty Buchmeyer put on her best ’fraidy face and fluttered her hand at her chest, a performance worthy of an Academy Award. The two had their act down pat. Hell, if I hadn’t witnessed the events myself I’d vote to acquit.

  I whipped out my handcuffs, pulled the old man’s hands behind him, and slapped the cuffs on. While the deputy kept an eye on August, Nick and I entered the trailer with Jenkins following. The air-conditioned interior felt like heaven compared to the relentless hell outside.

  Nick stopped under an air vent, turning his face up to take full advantage of the cool air blowing out of it. His eyes were closed, an expression of ecstasy on his face. I imagined that’s what he’d look like if he were having an orgasm. He opened his eyes and caught me watching him. Damn. I turned away, feeling the heat of a blush on my face.

  Betty plopped down in a scratched wooden chair at the Formica dinette in the kitchen and picked up a can of store-brand grape soda from the table. “Been wondering when y’all’d catch up with us.” She nonchalantly took a sip of soda, picked up a remote control, and tuned the TV in the adjacent living room to a Bonanza rerun.

  I wasn’t sure why August Buchmeyer had put up such a fight. From the looks of the place, they didn’t have much to lose. The walls were thin, pressed-fiber paneling. Threadbare braided rugs covered dingy linoleum. The worn couch was a seventies-style tan and gold tweed, a foam square peeking through a split seam on one of the cushions. Plastic milk crates situated on either side of the couch served as end tables. The Buchmeyers had not only violated the tax code, they’d also violated every tenet of feng shui.

  Nick and I stood on either side of the doorway while Jenkins sat down at the kitchen ta
ble with Mrs. Buchmeyer. “Where do you keep the silver?”

  The old woman leaned to the side to keep an eye on the TV screen behind Jenkins. “Ain’t got none.”

  “How about your jewelry?”

  Mrs. Buchmeyer held up her left hand, showing us the tiny diamond chip and thin gold band on her ring finger. “This is all I got.”

  “Any furs?”

  From her seat, Betty leaned over and opened a lower cabinet. She pulled out three tan pelts, each of which looked to be the size and color of a tabby cat.

  I gasped. “Are those—”

  “Squirrels.” Mrs. Buchmeyer solved the mystery. “I make a mean squirrel stew.”

  Urk. My stomach seized at the thought.

  Jenkins’s gaze wandered around the room. “Any collectibles?”

  “Not unless you count dust bunnies.”

  “Antiques?”

  “Look around you,” Betty said, sweeping her arm. “The whole damn place is full of antiques.”

  Jenkins ignored the jibe. “Cash?”

  The old woman chuckled and shook her head. “Hon, any cash comes in goes right back out. The IRS ain’t the only ones after us. We got no money. We keep telling everyone that but nobody wants to believe us.”

  “How do you afford the satellite TV?”

  “Our son pays for that.”

  Jenkins stood up. “I’m going to poke around a bit.” She motioned for Nick to follow her, leaving me alone with Betty.

  The two of us sat in awkward silence for a few moments, the only interruption being the occasional sound of Jenkins pulling open a drawer or rummaging through a closet, searching for undisclosed valuables or cash.

  Despite the fact that they’d neglected to pay their fair share to the government, my heart felt for the Buchmeyers. Obviously, they were barely getting by these days, any profits from their chicken-farming operation spent on basic necessities, yet here we were, snooping through their closets.

  Mrs. Buchmeyer eyed the name badge on my chest, then looked up at me. “What do you carry, Agent Holloway?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She pointed to the bulge under my blazer. “Your gun. What kind is it?”

  “Glock,” I said. “Forty caliber.”

  “Long or short barrel?”

  So the woman knew her guns, huh? “The twenty-two model,” I said. “I like the longer barrel. It’s more accurate.” The longer barrel also made the gun somewhat heavier, which is why my workouts at the downtown YMCA always included several reps on the bicep and tricep machines.

  Her gaze ran over my petite form. “I saw what you did out there, shooting that rifle out of August’s hands. You’re a good shot.”

  My eyes met hers. “They don’t call me the Annie Oakley of the IRS for nothing.” I didn’t bother telling her the appellation had been recently replaced by a new one after I’d relieved Mendoza of his nut. My coworkers now deemed me the Sperminator.

  Jenkins and Nick returned to the kitchen.

  “Nothing in the house,” Jenkins said. “Let’s check the barns.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Preparing for Armageddon

  Nick, Jenkins, and I stepped outside to find Buchmeyer and the deputy sitting on the lowered tailgate of Buchmeyer’s old pickup, both of them with a bulge of snuff inside their lower lips. His arms still shackled behind him, Mr. Buchmeyer aimed a stream of mucus-coated tobacco at our feet as we walked past. Fortunately none landed on my shoes. While I owned a pair or two of fuck-me heels, my work shoes were more of the fuck-you variety, leather loafers with thick soles and steel toes, perfect for preventing a stubborn target from shutting a door or for disabling an attacker with a quick kick to the nads.

  I settled for shooting Buchmeyer a nasty look this time instead of a bullet and continued on. A duo of filthy but friendly coonhounds wriggled out from under the trailer, following as we gingerly picked our way to the chicken barns through a minefield of doggie droppings, some fresh, some dried.

  Off in the distance, a cloud of dust rose as a pickup drove across the back of the property.

  Nick must have noticed it, too. He turned to Jenkins. “Is there an easement on this land?”

  She waved a pesky horsefly out of her face. “Not that I recall. There is a back gate, though. It exits onto a fire road.”

  We reached the first barn. A black-and-white-speckled chicken strutted up to the wire fencing and cocked her head, looking up at me with her innocent, shiny black eyes.

  While Nick and Jenkins took a cursory glance inside the barns, I knelt down next to the fence. “Hey, there, little speckled hen.”

  She tilted her head to the other side.

  “You’re kinda cute.”

  She spread her wings and flapped them once, as if trying to communicate with me.

  I made my best clucking sound at her.

  She clucked back.

  That was it. I’d never eat chicken again.

  “Hey,” Nick called. “Quit flirting with that bird and come here.”

  “I wasn’t flirting,” I called back. “It’s a female bird.” Not to mention that it was a bird.

  Nick stood in front of the last barn. Unlike the others, this barn was closed up, no chickens in sight. The structure was surrounded by four-foot-high loops of barbed wire, a barrier clearly intended to discourage entry and one that just as clearly meant we had to take a look inside.

  “We need wire cutters,” Nick said.

  Another pickup raised a dust cloud at the back of the property while I used my cell to call the Buchmeyers’ house phone again. When Betty answered, I told her we needed to get into the back barn and asked if there were any wire cutters around.

  “I plead the Fifth,” she said.

  “It’s not illegal to own wire cutters,” I told her.

  She hung up on me. Not feeling so sorry for her at that moment.

  I snapped my phone shut. “No luck on the wire cutters. But I can guarantee there’s something in here they don’t want us to find.”

  Ironically, the fact that Betty invoked the Fifth Amendment was an admission on her part. Whatever was stashed away in this barn, she knew about it.

  Nick walked along the barrier, visually inspecting the coils until he found an end. Jenkins and I stepped back as he carefully reached in and grabbed the wire. He slowly pulled back on the fencing, emitting an occasional curse when an errant barb nicked him. Eventually, the sections of fencing separated and an opening appeared. The three of us stepped through and walked up to the door of the barn.

  “Damn,” Nick muttered.

  My partner and I exchanged glances. Like the front gate, this door was secured with padlocks. And, like the deputy, both Nick and I carried a personal weapon in addition to our Glocks. But with Jenkins there as a witness, neither of us was inclined to use our private guns. I could justify my earlier shot at Buchmeyer, but no way could I justify discharging my Glock simply to disable a lock. Internal affairs would deem it reckless. Never mind that it would save us time. Safety over efficiency.

  Jenkins opened her purse and fumbled around, whipping out a .38 special. “Can you two keep a secret?”

  I raised my palms and looked around innocently. “Gun? What gun?”

  Nick positioned the locks and stepped back. “Be my guest.”

  Bang. Bang.

  Once again, two locks dropped to their deaths in the dirt. Score one for efficiency.

  Nick pulled the chain off the door and swung it open. We stepped into the barn, pausing for a moment as our eyes adjusted from the bright outside sunlight to the relative darkness inside the barn. When they did, we found ourselves surrounded by a dozen wooden pallets stacked high and covered with tightly lashed blue vinyl tarps.

  “What have we here?” Jenkins wondered aloud as she stepped forward and worked at a rope securing one of the tarps.

  Nick pulled a Swiss army knife from the front pocket of his pants and cut through the rope. Jenkins worked the rope loose so she could lift of
f the tarp.

  Under the covering was case after case of Spam. Why the heck would anyone need so much canned meat?

  Under the next tarp sat a tall stack of economy-sized cans of baked beans. The next tarp covered a pallet stacked with toilet paper. Gotta have TP if you’re gonna have beans, right? Cases of bottled water were stacked on another pallet, while another supported radios, flashlights, and batteries, all still in boxes. Yet another pallet contained a dozen pup tents in nylon drawstring bags along with four propane-powered generators and several propane tanks.

  “Reminds me of the seizures after Y2K,” Jenkins said. “We had an entire warehouse filled with survival gear.”

  Nick cut the rope on one of the two remaining pallets and pulled the tarp away. “Whoa, doggie. We’ve hit the mother lode.”

  Box after box of ammunition stood in tall stacks on the pallet, everything from small-gauge shotgun pellets to cartridges for long-range rifles. Nick quickly sawed through the rope and pulled the tarp off the last pallet. Guns of every size, still in the manufacturer’s packaging, lay stacked on the wood frame.

  Nick’s eyes met mine. “Looks like they’ve been preparing themselves for Armageddon.”

  We may have arrived just in time, which was something I didn’t want to contemplate too intently. One on one, I had no doubt I could outshoot an opponent. But if we were outnumbered? The odds wouldn’t be nearly so good.

  Jenkins didn’t bat an eye. She simply pulled her cell phone out of her purse and punched some buttons. “Send a truck.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My, What a Big Cock You Have

  An hour later, a young male intern arrived in a rental truck, slowly making his way over the uneven terrain to the barn. Jenkins, Nick, and I helped the college kid load the boxes into the cargo bay, then crowded into the truck’s cab to ride back to our cars at the front of the property.

  The truck, now loaded with the spoils, bounced over the field, then rumbled slowly down the gravel drive, the loose rocks plink-plinking as the tires kicked them up against the undercarriage. As we drove past Buchmeyer’s pickup, the old man made one last desperate stand, diving from the tailgate into the path of the moving truck.