3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  Eddie’s hand slid down to his forehead. “Barely nine o’clock and I’ve already got a migraine.”

  Poor guy. His temporary promotion was causing him headaches of both the figurative and literal variety.

  I reached into my purse and retrieved a small plastic bottle of aspirin. “Here you go, buddy.”

  “Thanks.” He shook out two tablets and returned the bottle to me.

  I walked to my office, stowed my purse in the desk drawer, and settled into my seat. The first thing I did was call the phone company to have my home landline service disconnected. The second thing I did was check my voice mail. Fortunately, there were no hate messages here. The Treasury Department’s automated call routing system was virtually impossible to navigate. For the first time ever I was glad about that.

  There was, however, a cryptic message from the mortgage banker. “Call me. I’ve got some bad news about your refi.”

  I dialed her number. “This is Tara Holloway. You called about my loan?”

  “Sorry, Miss Holloway. I’m going to have to reject your application.”

  “You can’t do that,” I said. “You can’t discriminate against me just because I’ve gone after the Ark Temple. That’s a violation of the equal lending laws.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I figured she’d seen my pay stub from the IRS and put two and two together, realized I was the one who’d arrested her beloved pastor. But when I explained, she was nonplussed.

  “I’m a Lutheran,” she said. “I don’t attend the Ark. I only advertise in their bulletin. It’s cheaper than advertising in the newspaper and reaches a lot of rich holy rollers.”

  Her words illustrated the point Nick and I had been trying to make. Big churches sometimes became big businesses. And when they did, they should be taxed as such.

  “What’s the problem then?”

  “The title company says there’s a lien against your home. We can’t make a loan on a property with an outstanding lien.”

  Lien? What was she talking about? When I’d bought the place a few years ago, the title company had done a thorough search of the property records and come back with a clean report.

  “What kind of lien is it?” I asked.

  “Not sure,” she said. “I’ll have the title company fax you a copy.”

  Probably the whole thing was some type of administrative error that could be easily cleared up. I hoped it wouldn’t take long, though. Rumor had it interest rates would soon be back on the rise.

  * * *

  An hour later, Vi stepped into my office and plunked a fax in my in-box.

  “Thanks.” I picked up the two-paged fax and flipped the cover page over to read the attachment. Across the top of the document was the seal of the Lone Star Nation, complete with the oversized five-point star the state of Texas was known for. The title of the document was “Judgment Lean and Arrest Warrint.” Jeez. They couldn’t even spell “lien” or “warrant” correctly.

  The language claimed that a duly appointed judge for the Nation had found me guilty of damage to and theft of government property. The property value and purported criminal fine together exceeded a quarter of a million dollars. The document further ordered my immediate arrest if I ever again dared to set foot on Lone Star Nation soil.

  Found guilty in absentia without prior notice or a chance to defend myself? Apparently those jackasses didn’t believe in due process. I should’ve known they’d try something like this. Was there no end to the bullshit I had to endure?

  I carried the fax across the hall to Nick’s office. He sat back in his chair, his boots propped on his desk. Today’s belt buckle was an enlarged silver dollar. Appropriate for a guy whose job it was to collect funds from deadbeats.

  “Get a load of this.” I handed the paper to him.

  He quickly glanced over it. “Hell’s bells, woman. You’re getting it right and left, aren’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  He stood and grabbed his cowboy hat. “Let’s go see Ross. Since this is related to your job, he’ll handle it for you.”

  Good. At least I wouldn’t incur any legal fees.

  Eddie spotted us as we made our way to the elevator, calling out to us from Lu’s office where he sat behind her enormous, paper-strewn desk, his dark face sagging with exhaustion. “Where are you two going?”

  “To see Ross O’Donnell,” I called back, holding up the piece of paper. “The Lone Star Nation filed a lien on my house.”

  “What?” Eddie stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “I’m going with you.”

  “No need,” Nick said, holding up a palm. “We’ve got this.”

  Neither his words nor his gesture stopped Eddie, who virtually sprinted toward us.

  “I’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Eddie whispered, glancing guiltily back at Viola, who stood at a filing cabinet trying to wrangle a folder into the tightly packed drawer. “I feel like a caged bear.”

  I knew just how he felt. I’d experienced that same sense of entrapment when I’d worked at the CPA firm. One of the perks of being a special agent was that our work took us out and about. We weren’t forced to stay inside and ride a desk all day. Since Eddie had been filling in for Lu, though, he’d been stuck at the office, buried in paperwork. Poor guy.

  As the three of us rode the elevator down, I slid back into the blond bob wig and sunglasses just in case any stragglers remained outside. I lucked out. By that point, all of the protestors had either left voluntarily or been hauled off to the city jail. In all likelihood a jailer was giving Judy Jolly a body cavity search about now. I hoped she was getting hers in the end.

  Nick and I waited on the sidewalk as Eddie made a quick run into a nearby coffee shop. As tired as he looked, he clearly needed an extra-large cup. I couldn’t blame him for bypassing Viola’s bitter brew back at the office. That stuff was nasty.

  I looked up at Nick. “What do you think of me as a blonde?”

  He cocked his head one direction, then the other, considering. “It ain’t bad,” he said. “But it ain’t you.” He reached out and pulled it off my head, gesturing for me to tuck it into my purse. “I happen to like you just the way you are.” He paused a moment before adding, “Even if you are stubborn and ornery.”

  “Hey!”

  Eddie returned with his coffee, offering the first smile I’d seen on his face in weeks. I hoped Lu would recover soon, not only for her sake but for Eddie’s as well.

  The three of us continued on to the Department of Justice office, making our way inside and up to Ross’s office on the fifth floor. He sat at his desk perusing case law online.

  He looked up when I rapped on the door frame.

  “Got a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure. I was just about to call you anyway.” He motioned for us to come in.

  Once we were all seated, I explained the situation and handed the fax to him.

  “Don’t worry,” Ross assured me. “The judges are familiar with these secessionist folks. It won’t be any problem getting an order removing this lien from the deed records.”

  “Great.”

  “We do have another problem, though.” He laid the lien aside and picked up another document, a thick one, and held it out to me. “There’s been a major development in the Ark case.”

  I looked down at the first page of the document. Nick and Eddie leaned in from their seats on either side of me to take a look, too. Centered across the top was the caption “U.S. v. Noah Fischer and the Ark Temple of Worship,” along with the assigned criminal case number and court reference. The title underneath read “Motion to Dismiss.” I didn’t bother reading the document, knowing it wouldn’t make sense to me anyway and that Ross could give us the gist without all the incomprehensible legalese. I did, however, flip to the last page.

  “Respectfully submitted, Daniel Blowitz.”

  “Damn.” This didn’t bode well at all.

  “Damn, indeed,” Ross agreed. �
��The Ark’s attorneys were well prepared. Apparently they figured a case might eventually be filed and they’d already done the legwork to develop a defense.”

  “Defense?” Nick snorted. “What kind of defense can they have?”

  “Yeah,” added Eddie. “The expenses were clearly extravagant and personal.”

  “That’s not the issue.”

  Nick’s brows drew together. “Say what?”

  “They’re going the constitutional route, invoking the equal protection clause. They claim that the Ark and Pastor Fischer have been singled out and denied equal protection of the laws because the IRS hasn’t pursued other churches and pastors in similar circumstances. They’ve put together a list of over thirty megachurches across the United States that provide similar housing and benefits to their ministers. They’ve verified that the IRS hasn’t pursued any of them for taxes.”

  Ross pushed a piece of paper across the desk to Nick. Eddie and I read it over his shoulder. It was a printout listing the other churches, as well as the names of their pastors and an accounting of the salaries and benefits paid to them. Given that tax-exempt organizations were legally required to allow the public access to their financial records, such information could be easily obtained.

  A notation on the spreadsheet indicated it had been compiled under the direction of Scott Klein, managing partner of Martin and McGee. The CPA who’d prepared it was none other than my best friend, Alicia Shenkman. The spreadsheet was well organized and detailed. I’d expect nothing less of Leesh. When we’d lived together she’d been invariably anal, maintaining a joint calendar on the fridge so that we’d know each other’s whereabouts, sorting the bills by due date and filing them in neatly labeled manila folders, making grocery lists divided into separate columns for “fresh,” “frozen,” and “other.”

  Sure enough, like the Ark, the other churches on Alicia’s list had paid an exorbitant amount in personal expenses for their celebrity pastors. And, likewise, none had reported the expenses as taxable income, nor had their pastors paid any income tax on the veiled compensation.

  With limited staff and tight budgets, IRS Criminal Investigations simply couldn’t go after everyone who failed to pay their taxes. The director of each region was forced to pick and choose which tax evaders to pursue. In all likelihood, the directors in the other regions let the churches slide to avoid the type of repercussions we’d experienced the last couple of days. But Lu had bigger balls than the other directors—metaphorical ones, that is.

  “Just because other churches and ministers are getting away with not paying their taxes,” Eddie said, “it doesn’t make the Ark and Noah Fischer innocent.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Ross agreed. “But it means I’ve got one hell of a legal battle ahead of me. They’ve not only filed this motion to dismiss the criminal case, but they’ve also sought an injunction to prevent the collections department from seizing Fischer’s assets. There’s a hearing on the injunction Friday afternoon. If the judge rules that the income taxes were not legally assessed, the criminal case will be thrown out. If there was no tax legally due, then there was no tax to evade.”

  Nick and Eddie both glanced at me, anger burning in their eyes. Heck, I felt the same way. None of us liked being made fools of.

  I gestured toward Ross’s computer. “Have you found any cases in our favor?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “And?” Eddie asked.

  “It’s not looking good.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Attack from All Sides

  On our way out of the building, I texted Alicia and Daniel. Saw your spreadsheet and brief. U 2 suck.

  Alicia came back with Sorry! Still BFFs, right?

  Daniel’s response was more pragmatic. Just doing my job.

  As we headed down the sidewalk, Nick exhaled sharply. “Lu’s going to be damn disappointed if we lose the hearing on Friday.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Eddie said. He momentarily closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, his migraine apparently making a comeback.

  Even though Eddie wasn’t working the Ark case himself, the case was being handled under his watch. Clearly, he felt responsible for how things turned out. I didn’t want to disappoint Lu, and I didn’t want to let Eddie down, either. Guilt and frustration battled inside me.

  Eddie opened his eyes, his gaze locking on mine. “I know you two will do the best you can.”

  Nick and I would do our best. No doubt about that. But would our best be enough? I didn’t mind putting time and hard work into a case and I could even get past the offensive phone calls, but I couldn’t face it all being for naught. That just didn’t sit well with me, what with my being a type A personality and all.

  Apparently it didn’t sit well with Nick, either. As Eddie headed on down the sidewalk, Nick stepped in front of me, blocking my path, and put his hands on my shoulders. He looked into my eyes. “We can’t let them get away with this, Tara. If we don’t win in court we’ve got to find another way to bring Fischer down.”

  “How?” I suppose I should’ve been asking myself that question. I was the lead agent on the case, after all. But if the law wasn’t on our side, I had no idea what to do next.

  “If we can’t attack from the outside,” Nick said, “we’ll have to bring him down from the inside.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Fischer’s willing to cheat the government,” Nick said, “I’d hazard a guess he’s involved in some other shenanigans, too.”

  “What kind of shenanigans?”

  Nick shrugged and dropped his hands from my shoulders, leaving two warm, lonely spots behind. “I don’t know. I still think there may be something between Fischer and Amber Hansen.”

  I yet harbored doubts, but I wasn’t willing to throw in the towel until we’d explored all of the options. We owed it to the honest, hardworking taxpayers who were subsidizing Fischer’s luxurious lifestyle and personal round-the-world tour.

  “It’s Wednesday,” I noted. “There’ll likely be some midweek church activities going on tonight. Want to meet at six o’clock to do a little spying?”

  “It’s a date.”

  * * *

  Nick and I caught up to Eddie at the corner and continued on back to the office. As the three of us approached the federal building, we noted yet another horde of people gathering out front with signs, though this was a much smaller horde. Unlike the well-heeled Ark members from earlier that morning, this group was dressed in jeans, boots, and matching blue T-shirts with a gold star in the middle. But these weren’t Dr. Seuss’s Star-Bellied Sneetches. Nope, these were True Texans from the Lone Star Nation.

  Their signs, though plentiful, lacked proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation.

  UNCLE SAM STOLED OUR SPAM!

  Not quite as catchy as “green eggs and ham,” but as far as rhymes go it wasn’t half bad.

  NO TAXATION, WITH OUT REPRESENTATION!

  Betty Buchmeyer was in the bunch, wielding a piece of poster board on which she’d written THE IRS SHOT MY HUSBAND!

  That was a lie. I’d only shot at him. And, besides, he’d started it.

  “Twice in one day?” Eddie muttered. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He pulled me into a doorway where we wouldn’t be visible while Nick dialed 911 to summon local police. No sense in us facing those crazies head-on.

  We peeked around the wall, watching as a Dallas police car pulled to the curb moments later. The group scattered like billiard balls, disappearing before the police could get their hands on them. Perhaps they weren’t quite as stupid as they looked.

  Once the coast was clear, we emerged from our hiding place in the doorway and continued on toward the building. Seconds later, a rumbling, mud-coated pickup truck pulled out of an alley and approached us. Two men sat in the cab, both wearing blue T-shirts with gold stars, both looking our way as they passed us. In addition to the Lone Star Nation tee, the driver sported a handlebar mustache.


  When Nick noticed them, he stepped between me and the truck, a protective gesture that gave my heart a little flutter.

  “Shit,” he said. “I can’t read the license plate. It’s covered with mud.”

  No doubt mud created from the sovereign soil of the Lone Star Nation.

  * * *

  I left work early and stopped by Lu’s on my way home to take her the blond wigs.

  When she answered the door, she looked even more pallid and drawn. Patches of her pale white scalp were clearly visible through her thinning hair now. She wore only a faded yellow bathrobe and house slippers, no jewelry or makeup, not even her usual false eyelashes.

  Not a good sign.

  Lu’s normal clothing might be hopelessly out of date, but she nonetheless took pride in her appearance and normally coordinated her outfits and accessories carefully. The fact she hadn’t bothered to dress today worried me.

  I held the long-haired wig out to her. “I know it’s not right, but I’m still looking for a wig that looks like your hair. I thought this might be something different to try in the meantime.” I forced a jovial tone into my voice. “You know what they say. Blondes have more fun.”

  She looked down at the tangled mess in my hands. “That looks like a rat’s nest.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “My cat got a hold of this one.” Henry had shredded the darn thing to bits. I’d found clumps of synthetic hair all over my kitchen and living room this morning. I shoved the long-haired wig back into my purse and offered her the golden-blond bob.

  She shot me a skeptical look as she took the wig from me. She stepped to the mirror in her foyer and slid the hairpiece onto her head. She took a moment to properly position the wig, then picked up her teasing comb and did her best to fluff it. She grabbed her can of extra-hold hairspray and gave it a thorough shellacking. With all the spray Lu used, I was beginning to think she’d single-handedly caused the hole in the ozone layer.

  The blond bob wasn’t Lu, of course, just like it wasn’t me. But it wasn’t bad, either. She looked like an updated and more sophisticated version of herself, a version that might drink Grey Goose martinis and shop at Nordstrom’s and belong to a book club that read critically acclaimed literary fiction.