by Diane Kelly
Kerr glanced my way before returning his attention to the judge. “Bail of fifty thousand would be appropriate in a case like this.”
Fifty grand? Was this guy nuts? The bond would cost me seventy-five hundred dollars—money I didn’t have at the moment. Not since writing Giacomo the check for his retainer and buying this new blouse, which looked totally cute on me, by the way.
Trumbull turned to my attorney. “Any response?”
“Besides my eye roll?”
“Yes. Something verbal we can put in the record.”
“As you wish. Fifty thousand is ridiculous. Miss Holloway is no more a threat to anyone than I am. Had she wanted to use one of her personal weapons, she’s had ample opportunity already.”
Trumbull looked to me again. “You promise to behave?”
I raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Judge Trumbull notated her file again. “I’m going to let the defendant go on personal recognizance. No bail.”
Thank goodness. The last thing I wanted to do was have to pawn my guns or borrow bail money from my parents. How humiliating would that be?
“I’m assuming you all want this resolved as soon as possible?” Trumbull asked.
All of us at the bench murmured in agreement. I wanted it resolved quickly so I could either get on with my life or begin serving my sentence. Giacomo wanted it scheduled so he could accumulate more billable hours. Kerr wanted it to move along so he could land that judicial position when the federal judge retired in March.
“Okey doke,” Trumbull said. “Let’s get this trial on the calendar.”
She asked how long the attorneys expected my trial to last. They agreed it would take one full day, maybe two. Ironic that it would take hours for the attorneys to present evidence and the jury to make a decision about an event that had lasted only ten seconds, tops.
“You’re in luck,” Trumbull said. “One of my other scheduled cases worked out a plea deal. We can start this trial in three weeks.”
I realized that was a quick period, but it still felt like forever to me. I had twenty-one more days to agonize over my fate, to worry, to fret. By then my stomach would have dissolved in acid erosion.
Nevertheless, I thanked the judge. She looked down and gave me a pitying smile.
Ugh.
I didn’t want pity.
I wanted justice.
chapter twenty-one
Westward Ho-Hum
Trish and the other reporters dashed after us as my attorney, Eddie, and I exited the courtroom. Whaddya know? I had paparazzi. Now I knew how the Kardashians felt. I only hoped my photo wouldn’t end up on the front of the National Enquirer above the caption WORST BEACH BUTT EVER! Maybe I should cut back on the green tea ice cream.
Trish attempted to shove her microphone in my face, but my attorney stepped between us.
“We appreciate this opportunity to speak to the media,” he said, “to discuss my client’s innocence. Though other commitments require us to scurry along, rest assured I will see that Tara Holloway receives the justice she deserves.” He raised a hand and flashed a smile, like a president exiting a media conference. “Thanks, folks!”
Trish frowned as Anthony put a hand on my back and hurried me along.
Eddie parted ways with us on the courthouse steps. My attorney and I continued on to the lobby of his office building, where he stepped onto an elevator going up and I took one going down to the garage.
My mind spun as I walked to my car. Released on my own personal recognizance. What the hell does “recognizance” even mean?
Once in my car, I circled up out of the garage, paid the attendant the ten-dollar charge that had accrued, and took aim for Fort Worth.
As I headed west on Interstate 30, I tried my best to muster up some excitement about my new job as an auditor. No way could this new job be as thrilling as being a special agent had been. I suppose I’d be no different from most people now. After all, few people really enjoyed their work, right? Most simply put in their time, took home their paychecks, and lived for the weekends. I’d become one of them. A nine-to-fiver. A drone. A working stiff.
I stopped for an early lunch at a Chinese fast-food place on my drive, eating my vegetable lo mein and egg roll in a corner booth in the back. As I ate, I wondered what type of food they served in prison. It was doubtful the menu would have much variety. How would I survive without sushi and lo mein noodles and naan and green tea ice cream?
When I finished eating what I could force past the lump in my throat, I cracked open my fortune cookie and unfolded the white paper slip inside. You will reach new and unexpected heights. Huh. I was definitely experiencing some new and unexpected lows. I wondered what kinds of new and unexpected heights I might reach.
I crunched my way through the cookie, followed it with a breath mint, and tossed out my trash.
A short drive later, the skyline of Forth Worth appeared in the distance. The city was smaller than Dallas, with a population of 750,000 compared to the 1.2 million people in Dallas. Forth Worth had far fewer skyscrapers, but it also had less traffic.
I exited the freeway and drove past the convention center and Water Gardens to the IRS office on Taylor Street. I parked in the underground garage, made my way through the security checkpoint, and rode up to Clyde Hartford’s office. His administrative assistant was away from her desk, so I knocked on his door frame. He summoned me in.
Clyde had thick dark-gray hair, and wiry brows that could really use a trim. The things looked like they were trying to reach out and grab me. But he also had a wide smile and a warm temperament. “Welcome to Cowtown, city slicker.” He motioned for me to take a seat.
I slid into a chair. “I appreciate you offering me a job, Mr. Hartford.”
“No need to thank me,” he said. “Lu says you’re a hard worker and smart as a whip. As many audits as we’ve got pending, I could use ten of you.” He leaned forward across his desk. “I gotta know, though. Lu told me what happened. Why on earth didn’t you just kill the guy?”
I made a mental note to buy some rope and a cinder block on my way home later, but for now I forced a smile. “Death would’ve been too good for him.” Hey, not a bad line. I’d have to remember it for next time.
Hartford gave me a quick primer on office procedures, then stood and led me to a bank of six cubicles down the hall. Though Christmas was over now, a green garland and a strand of multicolored lights still draped the cubes, a sign that my new coworkers had some personality. Good to know.
After briefly introducing me to the only other auditor who was in the office today, a round, middle-aged woman with white-blond hair, he stopped at the last cubicle. “Here’s your spot.” He gestured to a tall stack of files piled on the modular desktop. “There’s a few cases to start with.”
A few? The stack was three feet high!
“They’re all small-business cases,” he said. “Figured those would be more up your alley.”
“Thanks.”
He gestured to another file folder sitting by itself to the side. “All of your employment-related forms are in that folder. Once you get those filled out, drop them on my assistant’s desk.”
“Will do.”
After my new boss left, I dropped my purse in the bottom drawer, took a seat in the rolling chair, and pulled myself up to the desk. I looked around me, feeling like a soldier stuck in a foxhole. I fought the feeling of entrapment the small space gave me, forcing myself to power through.
“Hey, you look familiar.”
I looked up to see my new coworker eyeing me over the top of the cubicle wall that separated the two of us. She probably recognized me from the newscasts and newspapers. My photograph had been shown all over the Dallas–Fort Worth metroplex.
She squinted at me. “You’re that special agent who was in the shoot-out at the topless bar, aren’t you?”
No point in denying it, though I was sick and tired of the shoot-out being the event that defined me. “
Yep,” I replied. “That was me.”
“Wow.” Her eyes went wide now. “How many people was it you killed? Eight? Nine?”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten before opening them again. “None.”
Her light brows drew together. “None?”
“None.”
“Huh.” Disappointment dulled her eyes. “Guess I’ll let you get to work.” With that, her face disappeared from view.
I opened the personnel file first and spent a half hour filling out the documentation. Name, address, Social Security number, phone number. It probably wasn’t legal to list my cats, so I designated my parents as the beneficiaries of my life insurance policy. I signed various acknowledgments regarding the allowable and prohibited uses of government property, the same forms I’d signed when I’d joined Criminal Investigations.
Once I’d completed all of the personnel forms, I carried the file over to Hartford’s assistant. He took them, input some information into his computer while I waited, and issued me both a laptop and a key for my new G-ride.
Properly equipped now, I returned to my desk and began to look through the audit files.
Though many people feared an audit, audits were actually quite rare. The IRS audited only 2 to 3 percent of taxpayers each year. An individual taxpayer would be selected for audit if the revenues reported on the tax return were less than those reported on W-2s or 1099s. A business taxpayer would be selected for audit if the return’s Differential Income Factor or DIF score, which evaluated income relative to expenses, exceeded certain thresholds. I could tell you what those thresholds were, but then I’d have to kill you. Neither of us wants that, right? To encourage accurate reporting by taxpayers, a certain percentage of returns were also selected randomly for audit. It was kind of like playing spin the bottle with Uncle Sam, but without the kiss and risk of herpes transmission.
There were three types of audits. The simplest was a correspondence audit in which a taxpayer would provide requested documentation and information via mail. The second type of audit was a field office audit, where a taxpayer would meet with the auditor at the IRS office to review documentation and discuss the return at issue. The third type of audit was an on-site audit, which involved the auditor going to the taxpayer’s home or place of business to perform an extensive review. Sometimes what began as a correspondence or field office audit would evolve into an on-site audit if the auditor discovered widespread inaccuracies or if the person being audited was particularly attractive. Hey, I’m not saying I’d ever do it. You just hear things.
Working my way down from the top of the stack, I performed triage on the files, separating them by the size of the business, then by level of complexity. Some of the files were new cases. Others were audits already in progress that had been reassigned to me.
A large dental practice on East Rosedale had been randomly chosen for audit. I set that file in the priority stack. A quick glance at the file told me the practice was highly profitable. The return didn’t raise any immediate red flags. I could probably work through that case in a day or two and impress my new boss with my productivity.
A file for Cowtown Candy Company also caught my attention. Though the company’s gross revenues had been increasing by leaps and bounds, its net profits had been on the decline due to rising costs. The business owners might be able to explain the situation, though things seemed a bit questionable at first glance. The auditor who’d initially been assigned to the file had planned on merely performing a correspondence audit and had sent a request to the company last month for data regarding some of the expense accounts. There was no data yet in the file, though the company had three more days until the deadline. Although my initial impulse was to set the file aside with a note to myself to follow up in a week, my plans changed the instant I saw the signature line on the tax return.
Chloe Marie Aberdeen-Jennings, CFO.
My blood heated instantly to its boiling point. Chloe “Dean’s List” Aberdeen had been my secret archrival back at the University of Texas, the Washington Redskins to my Dallas Cowboys, the Angelina Jolie to my Jennifer Aniston, the grilled steak-Gruyère panini to my fried baloney on white bread sandwich. All of the other students had adored Chloe. I did, too, at first. She was delightful and enchanting, with the tall, trim physique, thick dark hair, and innocent doe eyes of Anne Hathaway. As far as I was concerned, she had Anne Hathaway’s acting skills, too, though everyone else believed Chloe’s charm was natural and genuine rather than affected.
But I knew better.
She was too perfect to be real.
Chloe had always been one step ahead of me. If it took me two hours to complete my accounting exam, it took Chloe only one hour and fifty-nine minutes. If I was in line at the counselor’s office trying to snag that last spot in the cost-accounting class, Chloe was right in front of me, exclaiming with glee when she got the seat, leaving me to suffer through the class in summer school. And if that hot blond guy who’d flirted with me in Accounting 101 had thought I was cute, the minute Chloe Aberdeen floated through the door I was nothing more than a frustrated blur in his peripheral vision.
Chloe had always worn revealing, form fitting clothing, though she’d managed not to look slutty because of clever pairings. She’d wear a low-cut tank top, but it might have a cartoon of a kitten lying on its back in the sun with the logo I ♥ SUNSHINE! Rumor had it that though she’d dated enough boys to fill a fraternity house, she never let any of them past first base. Chloe Aberdeen had been a virginal vixen, defending her hymen until she scored the hyphen and became Chloe Aberdeen-Jennings. Of course, her refusal to put out made her a conquest the boys wanted all the more, each sure he’d be the one to finally break through her defenses.
Here I was, faced with a chance to finally have one up on Chloe. God help me, but I was going to take it. As beaten-down as I’d felt lately, I needed this.
I picked up my phone and dialed the number for Cowtown Candy Company. “Chloe Aberdeen, please,” I said when the receptionist answered.
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Tara Holloway. I’m an auditor for the IRS.”
Thirty seconds later, Chloe came on the line. “Good morning,” she said in her perfectly polite, perfect diction. “Chloe Aberdeen-Jennings speaking.”
On hearing her voice, a hot blush of shame rushed to my face, the absurdity and immaturity of my seeking revenge on Chloe hitting home. This was silly, stupid, petty. So what if Chloe Aberdeen was prettier, smarter, and richer than me? I still had a lot going for me. Well, not so much at the moment. But usually I did.
“Hi, Chloe. It’s Tara Holloway. From U.T.” I figured I’d tell her I ran across her name in the file and was calling to catch up. I’d let her mail in the requested documentation as planned. No need to put her through an on-site audit, right?
Seven seconds of silence came over the line, as if this truly were a game of spin the bottle and I was the greasy-haired kid with BO whom she didn’t want to kiss.
“We had some accounting classes together,” I said to jog her memory. Five classes to be exact. I’d sat directly in front of her in Managerial Accounting. She’d looked over my head for four months straight.
More silence.
“You lived two doors down from me in the dorm freshman year?” My room had been right across from the elevator, the constant dings and chatter as girls climbed on and off the elevator driving me nuts as I tried to study. Chloe’s room, however, was at the end of the hall, in a nice, quiet corner where she not only had privacy but also an extra window that looked out over the campus and provided a spectacular view of the university’s signature tower in the distance.
“I’m so sorry,” Chloe cooed through the phone, “but I can’t seem to place you.”
Can’t seem to place me? I’d shared my notes with her numerous times when she’d missed class, including one time when she’d purportedly been fighting a short bout with the flu. Odd that she’d been tagged in Facebook photos
at a Taylor Swift concert that same night. I’d shared my mother’s pecan pralines with Chloe when Mom had sent me a tin in the mail. I’d even helped Chloe carry her heavy things out of the dorm on move-out day. Or, more precisely, I’d helped the fraternity boys who’d been helping her. Later, when I’d needed help with a box of books, she’d begged off, claiming she had an appointment at the hair salon. I’d seen her half an hour later hanging with friends at a coffee shop on the Drag, her hair looking the same as ever. Gorgeous, sure, but not freshly coiffed. Meanwhile, I’d tripped down the stairs with the box of books and skinned my knee.
Those old feelings of resentment came rushing back.
Time for a change of plans.
Whether she wanted to or not, Chloe was going to kiss me. Metaphorically speaking, that is.
“I’m an auditor with the IRS now,” I told her. “I need to meet with you tomorrow afternoon to discuss the candy company’s tax returns.”
“Gosh, it’s short notice,” she replied. “I have a full calendar the next few days.” She spoke with the conviction of a woman who was used to getting her way.
“No problem,” I said with the conviction of a woman who might soon be convicted. “I don’t need your time, just access to the Cowtown Candy Company’s financial records.”
She was quiet again for a moment. “Let’s reschedule for after the new year. I’m sure you can allow that. After all, we’re old friends, right?”
Nice try. You had your chance. The only thing I’d let you kiss now is my ass. “So sorry, Chloe, but my calendar is really busy, too.” With civil and criminal trials looming, I was indeed busy. “I’ll be there at one thirty. If you aren’t available, have someone else who’s familiar with the accounting system there to meet me, okay?” I ended with a quick, “Great-thanks-bye!” before she could offer further protest.
Neener-neener.
chapter twenty-two
Who’s Calling?
I snuck out of my cubicle at four thirty, hoping not to get caught by my new boss and to beat the rush-hour traffic on my new thirty-five-mile commute. What I wouldn’t give for some decent public transportation. But given that I lived in Texas, where cars and oil are king, I was shit out of luck.
