Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream

by Diane Kelly

  I wasn’t, was I?

  Nick took my hand and pressed it to his lips now. “I’m not giving up hope yet.”

  I sighed. I didn’t want to be a pessimist, but I didn’t want to hang on to false hope, either. What good would that do?

  My firing had come at a bad time, too. I’d just been assigned two great cases. Both involved transnational criminal organizations and posed the possibility of foreign travel. They’d been primo assignments, the kind of cases that didn’t come along often. I’d been lucky to land the files, excited to embark on what would surely be complex and interesting investigations. Now they’d be in another special agent’s hands.

  I stepped back, careful not to step on Nutty lying sprawled on my doormat, and looked up at Nick. “Any idea who Lu gave my cases to?” It pained me to think of my cases being reassigned, of my coworkers vying for them like vultures pecking at the rotting carcass that had once been my career.

  Nick shrugged. “Lu divvied them up all around.”

  “I’m talking about the two big ones. Tokyo Discount Telecom and United National Debt Recovery.”

  Nick diverted his eyes, taking a sudden interest in the Christmas wreath hanging on the front door behind me.

  I crossed my arms over my 32As and narrowed my gray-blue eyes at him. “You? You took my cases?”

  I wasn’t so much mad at Nick as I was at the situation. The cases were some of the best to ever come through the office. Intriguing, intricate, high dollar. Sure to put an agent on the fast track for promotion.

  The Treasury Department and its foreign counterparts were buckling down on transnational criminal organizations, called TCOs for short. These organizations engaged in all sorts of sordid activities, ranging from extortion, to illegal weapons trading, to drug and human trafficking. Some even traded illegally in endangered species or their parts, such as rhino horns.

  The Treasury had designated a number of organizations and their members and was doing what it could to put an end to their violent, illegal reign, including freezing their assets and prohibiting persons in the United States from doing business with the TCOs. The U.S. government had recently imposed sanctions on members of the Brothers’ Circle, a multiethnic crime syndicate composed of criminal groups based in former Soviet republics, the Middle East, Africa, and Latin America. The Treasury had also set its sights on the Japanese Yakuza criminal network, as well as its largest clan members, the Yamaguchi-gumi and Sumiyoshi-Kai families.

  Of course the only way to successfully take down these groups was to work in conjunction with law enforcement in the countries where the organizations were based and operated. A multinational crime ring could only be defeated by a multinational crime-fighting force. As a girl who’d grown up in a small town in East Texas, I’d been proud Lu trusted me with cases of international importance.

  “Tara, the cases weren’t…” Nick trailed off. He’d probably been about to say the cases hadn’t truly been mine, that they belonged to the IRS, but he apparently thought better of it. You can’t fight an emotional reaction with logic. He took my hand again. “I’m sorry. It sucks.”

  I released a long breath. “I suppose if anyone had to get those cases, I’m glad it was you.”

  I’d already done some legwork on the cases. I’d spoken by phone with an agent from Immigration and Customs Enforcement about counterfeit electronics being shipped by Tokyo Discount Telecom. I’d also met with an assistant state attorney general about the collections fraud case. I’d been looking forward to working the investigations, especially because they’d involve foreign travel. The only international travel I’d done was an occasional trip to Mexico, standard vacation fare for Texans given the close proximity and relatively low cost. I’d been looking forward to visiting Asia. Now I’d be stuck at home.

  Or would I?

  “I’m going to Tokyo and New Delhi with you.” The airfare would put a huge dent in my savings, but I had to go along. These cases were mine, dammit. I needed to see them through.

  Nick dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Had a feeling you’d say that. Already bought your plane tickets.”

  The guy knew me well, huh?

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. We could use your help. Besides, I’ve got money in the bank and no one counting on me but a smelly old dog.”

  Nutty looked up on hearing the word “dog.” Not realizing he’d been insulted, he wagged his tail, causing it to thump-thump-thump against my door.

  “Thanks, Nick. So much.” It was a generous, thoughtful gesture. I put my hands on Nick’s cheeks and stood on tiptoe to give him a final peck and a tight, warm hug. Nutty received an ear ruffle and a kiss on the nose. “Bye, boy.”

  The dog replied with three wags of his tail and a woof!

  chapter two

  Damaged Goods

  I couldn’t wait to visit Japan and India. When I was young, traveling from my small East Texas hometown of Nacogdoches to the big, bright city of Dallas had been like voyaging to Oz. And now I’d be going international! Who would’ve thought?

  Tokyo would be a blast, with its interesting contrast of ancient traditions and modern technology and architecture. New Delhi would be a study in Eastern culture and philosophy. Wow. I’d be so worldly when I returned. I might have to stop drinking boxed wine and buying slightly irregular socks at the dollar store.

  I spent a couple of hours Sunday evening performing research on the Internet, tracking down the hot spots to visit when I accompanied Nick on the trips.

  As for Tokyo, the new Skytree was a must-see, of course. At 634 meters, it was the tallest broadcasting tower in the world and the second-tallest structure on earth, bested only by the Burj Khalifa, a skyscraper in Dubai. Tickets to the Skytree observation deck cost twenty-five hundred yen. I had no idea how that translated into U.S. dollars, but there was probably an app I could get for my phone that would do the math for me. Of course we’d take in a show at a Kabuki theater and visit one or more of the many gardens located around the city.

  New Delhi boasted at least a dozen popular tourist spots, too. The Akshardham Temple with its musical fountain and lotus garden would be a spiritual place to visit. Lord knows my spirits were in need of a boost. Maybe if I had all of the Hindu gods pulling for me, too, things would turn around soon. The India Gate, a structure similar to the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, also went on my list. The Garden of Five Senses, with its cascading water and wind chimes, would be another great place to see.

  I hoped the weather would be kind in both places. According to my search, the highs in New Delhi averaged just under seventy degrees Fahrenheit in January, while Tokyo averaged a high of fifty. Those temps would be manageable, especially if I bought that adorable cobalt-blue peacoat advertised in the Neiman Marcus catalog. I’d dog-eared the page. Not that I could justify the expense—I didn’t have an extra $195 to drop on a coat, especially now that I was out of work—but a girl can still window-shop, can’t she?

  * * *

  Monday morning, I pulled my red BMW convertible into the underground garage at the downtown bank building that housed Martin and McGee’s offices. Following the sleek black Audi driven by my best friend, Alicia Shenkman, I circled down three levels. When she parked, I pulled into the spot next to her.

  Alicia had been ecstatic yesterday when I told her I planned to return to the firm. The two of us had met back at the University of Texas in Austin years ago, in our first accounting class, and had been BFFs ever since. She’d recently moved into my town house with me, though she’d be moving out again once she and her fiancé, Daniel, exchanged vows in June.

  Alicia stood behind her car, waiting for me. Her platinum hair framed her face in a short, asymmetrical cut, severe yet sophisticated. Her suit, makeup, and nails were impeccable, as always.

  My nails, on the other hand, were chewed down to nubs. My nail tech would surely flog me the next time I went in for a manicure. I wore a basic navy suit with loafers. No need
for my cherry-red steel-toed Doc Martens at Martin and McGee. Nope, unlike my job with the IRS, a position with the CPA firm posed no risk that I’d need to kick someone in the nards or block a door with my foot. A shame really. When things got physical it could be kind of fun. Then again, it could be downright scary, too.

  Alicia jabbed the elevator button and scrunched her shoulders, giddy with excitement. “It will be so great having you back! We can do lunch together, gossip with the girls over coffee, maybe even pull a prank on Nathan Jamison.”

  Nathan was an audit partner with whom I’d had a relationship years ago, just after I’d joined the firm. He’d led me on for weeks, then dumped me immediately once he’d bagged his prize. I’d been humiliated. Fortunately, I’d been able to even the score a few months ago when his clients, twin brothers, had been accused of securities and tax violations. But that’s a whole ’nother story.

  I wished I could be as excited as Alicia about my return to Martin and McGee. The place did have its perks—a competitive compensation package, free muffins on Mondays, name-brand coffee in its pots—but it was a tame place, a safe place. Though I’d sometimes feared the risks of my job as special agent, I’d thrived on them, too. And I missed carrying a gun. I felt underdressed without my Glock and holster. They were the ultimate female accessory.

  The elevator dinged as it stopped on our floor. We stepped off and Alicia greeted the receptionist, whom I didn’t recognize. Not surprising. The job was a springboard position for administrative staff. Most of the young women who started off at the reception desk ended up being promoted to an administrative assistant position after a few months.

  “Tara’s back!” Alicia called out in a singsong voice.

  The young woman smiled, though I knew Alicia’s words meant nothing to her. She had no idea who I was.

  Alicia and I made our way down the hall, passing several of my former coworkers. Alicia informed everyone we passed that I was returning to the firm.

  Several expressed excitement.

  “We’ve missed you,” said the young woman who’d occupied the cubicle next to mine. “Nobody’s brought a beach ball to bounce around the cubes since you left.”

  Two of the guys who were the office pranksters caught us on their way out of the break room.

  “I heard about the shoot-out at that strip club,” one of them said. “How many people did you kill? Two? Three?”

  I rolled my eyes. Once again the rumor mill had taken the truth and rolled it around until it didn’t resemble the truth at all anymore. “Don’t believe it. I didn’t kill anyone. I just shot four men who deserved it, that’s all.”

  The other guy snorted. “Oh. You ‘just shot four men,’” he said, making air quotes with his fingers. “‘That’s all.’”

  I didn’t bother arguing the point further. Even I had to admit it sounded a bit extreme, especially in the tame environment of the CPA firm.

  As the two walked on, Alicia turned to me. “I hope Mr. Klein will put you in the empty office on my hall.”

  “I’ll request it.”

  Alicia gave me a hug as she reached the turnoff for her wing. “Let’s do lunch, ’kay?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s on me today!” she called over her shoulder. “Having you back here is cause to celebrate!”

  I split off and headed down the partners’ wing, where offices were bigger, the power was concentrated, and the ratio of penises to vaginas skewed significantly toward penises. You could almost feel the dollars adding up as I walked. Cha-ching, cha-ching.

  When I reached Scott Klein’s office, I peeked inside. He sat at his desk, mulling over the contents of a tax file.

  I rapped on his door. Rap-rap.

  He looked up, a flicker of surprise moving across his face before he offered me a smile and a welcome. He stood. “Hello there, Tara. Please don’t tell me you’re back to investigate another one of our clients?”

  I raised a palm. “Not this time. I come in peace.”

  He offered a chuckle but hesitated a brief moment before offering me a seat.

  Once I’d sat, he looked at me expectantly.

  I smiled. “Good news. I’ve decided to take you up on your offer and return to the firm.”

  The smile faded from his face and he fidgeted in his chair as if suddenly uncomfortable.

  He hadn’t forgotten the offer he’d made, had he? Just in case, I figured I’d jar his memory. “You phoned me a few months ago, remember? You asked me how things were going at the IRS, and you said if I ever wanted to come back to Martin and McGee you’d have an office waiting for me.”

  “Yes. I remember.” He exhaled a long, loud breath and slumped back in his chair, putting a mechanical pencil to his lips and chewing on it in a childlike action with which a psychologist would have a field day.

  When Klein didn’t continue, I said, “I’m no longer with the IRS. I know Martin and McGee can always use an extra hand during tax season, so my return will be good for both of us.”

  When he still failed to say anything, a sense of unease flared up in me. “I can start as soon as you like.”

  Ugh. I sounded desperate and I hated that. It was embarrassing. But why wasn’t he saying anything?

  “Tara, I … we…” His voice trailed off; then he seemed to gather his thoughts and his courage and sat up straight in his chair, leaning slightly toward me. “The firm can’t take you back, Tara. Not under the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?” Was the firm having financial trouble?

  “We’ve all seen the news,” Klein said. “We know you were fired from the IRS because you killed those people at the strip club.”

  I forced myself to remain calm. “I didn’t kill anyone, Mr. Klein. I shot three bouncers who were attacking one of my fellow agents, and I shot the owner after he fired a gun at me. All of my shots were nonlethal,” I said. “Intentionally nonlethal,” I added a second later. I wasn’t a crazed killer. I was saving the lives of my coworkers. Sheesh!

  “Nonetheless,” Klein said, “it wouldn’t look good for the firm to have a person on staff who had been terminated from the IRS, especially when it’s public knowledge. How would I explain that to clients?”

  My anger got the best of me. “You could tell them I was doing my damn job; that’s how you could explain it.”

  When he offered only a slowly shaking head in return, I realized there was no point in trying to continue the conversation. And again, I couldn’t blame him. He had a lot of people counting on him and he had to do what was best for the firm.

  I stood. “I understand. Thanks for your time.” You ball-less wimp. Just because I didn’t blame him didn’t mean I couldn’t mentally berate him. Wuss! Chickenshit!

  Klein stood, too. “I’m really sorry, Tara.”

  I was sick of everyone telling me how sorry they were. A fat lot of good it did to have everyone feeling bad for me. I didn’t like being the object of pity.

  I raised a hand. “No need to be sorry. Martin and McGee was the first place I thought of. I’m sure I’ll find another job soon.” At least I hoped I would. The seven grand I had in savings would carry me for a couple of months, but it wouldn’t give me time to dillydally.

  Klein stepped around his desk, having apparently found his balls now. “I’d be happy to provide a reference for you.”

  I held out a hand. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  We shook hands and I left his office, taking a back way through the audit department so my former coworkers wouldn’t see me slithering out in shame. I knew I probably should have given Alicia a heads-up, but I was afraid if I went to her office I’d end up in tears. I settled for texting her. Make other lunch plans. I didn’t get rehired.

  Her WTH? popped up a few seconds later as I stepped into the elevator.

  I punched the button for the garage and sent a reply. I’m damaged goods.

  chapter three

  Send Lawyers, Guns, and Money

  When m
y cell phone bleeped a few seconds later, I didn’t bother checking the readout. It had to be Alicia wanting the dirty details of my discussion with Scott Klein. I punched the button to accept the call and immediately began venting. “That’s totally jacked up, right? I mean, who makes someone a job offer and then reneges like that?”

  I heard only silence in response. Must be a bad connection. “Alicia?”

  A male voice greeted me. “Is this Tara Holloway?”

  “That depends,” I said. “If you’re trying to sell me aluminum siding, no. If I won the lottery, maybe.”

  The caller took a moment to digest my words. “I’m Troy Kerr, an assistant U.S. attorney.”

  A lawyer from the Department of Justice? He was probably calling about one of my former cases. “Sorry about that. I was expecting a call from someone else and didn’t check the screen first. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Donald Geils.”

  “Sure. Are you helping Ross O’Donnell on the case?” Ross was an assistant U.S. attorney who routinely represented the IRS in court. He’d been assigned to handle the drug and money-laundering charges against Don Geils. The DOJ had also considered bringing charges for assault on a federal officer, but since I’d been undercover and Geils didn’t know I was with the IRS they didn’t think the charges would stick. The state prostitution charges would be handled separately by the Dallas County district attorney’s office.

  “I’m not calling about the charges against Don Geils,” Kerr said. “Those are being worked out.”

  “Worked out?” I asked. “You mean a plea deal?”

  “Yes,” Kerr replied. “Nothing’s been nailed down yet, but there’s an offer on the table.”

  “How long will the asshole be in jail?”

  “Fourteen years if the deal goes through.”

  Had I been the U.S. attorney assigned to the case, I wouldn’t have settled for anything less than eternity times ten. But who was I to second-guess Ross O’Donnell’s decision? After all, I didn’t appreciate being second-guessed. I’d be a hypocrite if I did the same to someone else. Besides, I knew the Department of Justice was just as backlogged as the IRS. Sometimes you had to move things along even if the resolution was less than ideal.