by Diane Kelly
I had no idea when Nick might wake, but I knew he wouldn’t mind being greeted by a full breakfast. I went all out, fixing home fries, biscuits and gravy, sausage patties, and scrambled eggs. The breakfast of champions. Champions with high cholesterol and heart disease. I also warmed up some of the black-eyed peas for good luck.
Nick wandered downstairs at noon to find me lounging on the couch with Nutty watching one of the day’s many college bowl games. He ran a hand over his stubbly cheeks. “Tara, about last night. I am so sorry—”
I raised a palm. “It’s okay. Not your fault. Besides, there’s always next year.” Assuming I wasn’t in prison, of course.
“Something smells delicious.”
“There’s a plate for you in the microwave.”
He stepped over to the couch, his eyes now clear and bright, the bags having packed up and moved on. “There’s something else I’d rather take a bite of first.” He bent down, eased the T-shirt I was wearing off my shoulder, and put his mouth to my neck.
Mm-m …
He pulled away—damn him!—and walked over to the suitcase he’d left in his foyer yesterday. He flipped the bag onto its side, unzipped it, and removed a plastic bag and a slightly crushed, slightly crumpled gift-wrapped box with Japanese characters on the outside. He carried the box over to the couch and held it out to me. “Here. I got you a little something on my trip.”
I took the package from him and ripped into it. Inside was a gorgeous red silk kimono embroidered with light-pink cherry blossoms. “I love it!”
Nick sat down next to me and gestured to the box. “There’s more.”
I riffled through the tissue paper and found a traditional Japanese fan.
Nick shot me a wink. “You’ll need that fan when I’m done with you.”
The final souvenir in the box was a white ceramic cat with a raised paw, looking as if it were ready to bitch slap someone, the same type of figurine seen in many Japanese restaurants.
“The store owner called him a maneki neko,” Nick said. “It’s supposed to bring good luck.”
I could definitely use some of that.
He handed me the plastic bag next. “These are for your nieces and nephews.”
I looked inside to find three small black-haired female dolls dressed in traditional Japanese garb as well as two colorful kites shaped like fish.
“Wow, Nick.” He’d gone above and beyond with these gifts. What a sweet, thoughtful gesture. “They’ll love them.”
I gave him a big kiss.
“Check out this little souvenir I bought for myself.” Nick returned to his suitcase and pulled something else from the bag. It was a long, thin, slightly curved blade with a black handle and a dragon encircling the guard.
I stood and walked over to him. “Is that a samurai sword?”
“Yup. Had a hell of a time getting it through customs. Had to play the federal agent card.” He gripped the sword and held it over his shoulder in a striking pose. “How do I look?”
Sexy as hell. “Almost perfect. All that’s missing is a black bun on top of your head.”
“Guess I’ll have to grow my hair out.”
Nick lowered the blade, sheathed it, and stared at me for a moment. “I really missed you in Japan, Tara. It went beyond missing you.” He put a hand on the back of his neck, a gesture I’d come to realize meant he was serious, upset, thinking hard. “I miss working with you.”
With complementary skills, Nick and I had made an amazing team. While he had the muscle to make taxpayers think twice about giving us trouble, I had the gun skills to hit a target on the first try. In addition, though we both had good investigatory skills, we tended to approach cases from different angles, taking different tacks, increasing our chances of success. In the few short months we’d worked together, we’d taken down a man running a gambling and credit card fraud scheme and laundering his illegally earned funds, a minister who’d been stealing from his church, an abusive tax preparer who also operated a deer-processing and taxidermy business, and Don Geils and his minions. We’d even put an end to a cockfighting ring.
We challenged each other, brought out the best in each other.
An uncomfortable realization dawned on me then. Much of our relationship had developed around our jobs as special agents. Although we enjoyed doing the usual things together—dinner, movies, and whatnot—what we both enjoyed most was working together to take down bad guys. We bonded while strategizing, planning, and pursuing, then achieving satisfaction with a takedown. Without that connection, without that thrill of a joint pursuit, was there enough left to keep us together?
I had to admit that I found Nick most attractive when he was in action, putting himself at risk for the good of our country. It was selfless, heroic even. I knew he felt the same way about me. Could he still feel that way about me if I was no longer a special agent? How would I feel about Nick if he weren’t a special agent? It was hard for me to say. So much of how I felt about him was tied up in his work, because his work was what defined him. My work had once defined me, too.
I had no idea what defined me now. I hoped it wasn’t the fried baloney.
I forced the negative thoughts aside. Nick had done nothing to make me doubt whether he still cared about me. He’d merely said he missed working with me. With my emotions on edge lately, I was simply overreacting. Right?
Nick’s cell phone blared his current ringtone, Tim McGraw’s “Truck Yeah.” Nick handed the sword to me, scooped his phone off the coffee table, and checked the readout. He punched the button to take the call. “Senior Special Agent Nick Pratt.”
I looked the sword over, admiring it, as Nick began pacing in the room. I’d always been a gun girl, but I could see the allure of a blade. Not only would the wielder need good aim, they would also need physical strength and agility. Maybe I could take up fencing now that I’d be working regular hours.
“He did?” Nick said into his phone. “When was that?” He paused a moment. “Did he come by the gym in person?”
He paused again as I slid the sword back into its sheath and laid it on the couch.
“Great,” Nick told the caller. “Let me grab a pen and paper so I can get that number from you.”
Raising a finger to let Nick know I was on it, I scurried into his kitchen, found a pen but no paper in his junk drawer, and returned to the living room, where I tore a piece of gift wrap from the crumpled mess on the couch. Nick motioned for me to take dictation for him. As he repeated a sixteen-digit number, I wrote it down. “Thanks. If Sundaram shows his face at the gym, your staff knows to call me, right? Without alerting him?” Another pause. “I appreciate that.”
Nick ended the call and I held up the paper. “Credit card number?”
“You got it. Sundaram’s come out of the woodwork. He’s updated his credit card number with the gym. He must be planning on coming back to the U.S. soon or he wouldn’t have provided them a new card number.”
The gleam in Nick’s eye told me that, despite Lu’s concerns, he still had some mojo left. I was as excited as Nick that he had a new lead.
He rounded up his laptop and logged in to the IRS system. He gestured to the computer. “Get the bank info while I call Ross.”
Looked like we were working together again, even if it was in an unofficial capacity.
I turned Nick’s laptop to face me and entered the credit card number Sundaram had provided to the gym. The first few numbers indicated it was a MasterCard. The next six digits would identify the bank that had issued the card. “It’s a Chase account,” I said when the data popped up on the screen.
Nick nodded to me before speaking into his phone. “Ross, hey. Sorry to bother you on a holiday, but I need a hot-watch warrant ASAP.”
A hot-watch warrant required a bank to provide law enforcement with a play-by-play account of activity on a credit card. With that information, we would be able to track Sundaram’s movements and, with a little luck, track him down for an arrest. I’d nev
er been involved in a hot watch before. I hoped my auditing job wouldn’t get in the way.
Nick shared the details of the investigation with Ross, leaving out the fact that I had accompanied Nick to the boardinghouse, jewelry store, and gym. He answered a few questions, then discussed the procedure for getting the hot-watch warrant on a federal holiday. From Nick’s end of the conversation, I gleaned that Ross could get in touch with the judge who was on call to handle emergency matters, though with the banks also closed today Nick wouldn’t be able to deliver the warrant anyway. He’d have to wait until tomorrow, and he’d have to make it quick. He was scheduled to fly out to New Delhi in the early afternoon.
“Great,” Nick said to Ross. “I’ll swing by your office first thing in the morning.”
He ended the call and immediately dialed Eddie to give him the update. “You’ll have to handle the hot watch until I get back from India.” He paused a moment. “If you’re tied up, maybe Dorsey can help out.”
William Dorsey had been a special agent only a matter of days and was already getting to handle a hot watch? No fair! And though I could count on Nick and Eddie to include me in the investigation, the new guy might be a rule follower and refuse to let me in on things. Ugh!
When Nick ended the call, he raised an excited fist. “We’re closing in. I can feel it!”
I forced a smile.
Did that “we” still include me?
* * *
I spent the rest of the day hanging at Nick’s place, watching him unpack the suitcase he’d taken to Japan and refill it with fresh clothes for his trip to India tomorrow.
“How’s William doing?” I asked, my curiosity and envy getting the best of me.
“Dorsey?” Nick said, glancing my way. “He’s a smart guy, but he’s not up to speed yet. Things are really bogging down.”
Part of me was sorry to hear about their backlog, but another part of me was glad they felt my absence.
We made love in the late afternoon. Nick was a man who kept his promises. I definitely needed that fan to cool off after the things he did to me.
We had an early dinner at an Indian restaurant. Nick wanted an introduction to Indian food so he wouldn’t be at a loss when he arrived in New Delhi. We started off with an appetizer of vegetable samosas, enjoying saag paneer and naan for the meal and rice pudding for dessert. Nick seemed less resistant to the Indian food than he had been to the sushi, probably because the naan resembled the more familiar tortilla. He picked the raisins out of his pudding, though. I hadn’t realized he wasn’t a fan of the shriveled suckers. Guess you learn something new every day.
He dropped me off at my place, saying good-bye with a hug and kiss. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I’ll be in touch.”
All I could do was nod.
When he walked away, I closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, my eyes closed. In hours, Nick would be back up in the air, on his flight to India. It felt as if everything in my life were up in the air at the moment.
I only hoped it wouldn’t all come crashing down.
chapter twenty-seven
Swish and Spit
Friday morning, I made the drive over to Fort Worth in record time. The traffic was light, many people opting to add a day of vacation to their holiday rather than return to work on a Friday. Not me, though. I’d started from scratch with the auditing department and had not yet accrued any vacation time.
When I arrived at Cowtown Candy Company, the receptionist told me Chloe wasn’t in. “One of her daughters is sick. Ear infection.”
It would’ve been nice if Chloe had bothered to let me know so I wouldn’t have wasted my time driving over here.
The receptionist summoned Jeremy, who appeared in the foyer moments later, Dennis trailing after him.
Jeremy apologized on behalf of his sister. “Sorry, Tara. I figured Chloe would have called you.”
“She was probably too worried about her baby to think about anything else,” Dennis said. “She’s a very dedicated mother.”
I made sure the two had my phone number in case of future problems. “I’ll come back on Monday.”
I drove over to the audit office and made my way up to my cage—I mean cubicle. Only one other auditor was in the bank of cubes. He must’ve been out of vacation time, too. An episode of The Big Bang Theory played on his smartphone while he looked over a spreadsheet. Nerds unite! I introduced myself and continued on to the small square that was my designated workspace.
After plopping my butt down in the chair, I pulled the Rosedale Dental file from the stack and looked things over. The previous auditor who’d been assigned to the file had reviewed documentation provided by the practice, including earnings and service-related expenses, such as toothbrushes, mouthwash, and nitrous oxide.
Unlike Cowtown Candy Company, which had unusually high expenses relative to their income, the dental practice’s expenses seemed unusually low compared to the revenues. Their CPA might have accidentally left some of the costs off their return, or they might have neglected to provide him with complete data. Might as well follow up, huh? Though, really, someone overpaying their taxes wasn’t nearly as much a problem as those who underpaid.
There was always the chance the return was correct, too. Though the earlier auditor had compared the data of this practice to dental industry standards, this practice could be especially cost-effective, particularly because it was a large practice in a lower-income part of town. Or perhaps they charged higher than average rates. That could explain things.
I dialed the dentist office and spoke with the bookkeeper who’d sent the documentation, notifying her that I’d be coming by their office on Monday.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Nothing major,” I said. “I just wanted to get out of the office.” I chuckled, but she remained silent.
She really needed to lighten up.
“The ratio of revenue to expenses seems to be better than usual,” I explained.
“The doctors keep a close eye on the bottom line,” she said, a defensive tone in her voice.
Good thing I was used to being treated like this or I might have taken personal offense.
“Well then,” I said, “my visit shouldn’t take long.” With that, I ended the call.
I selected another file involving a suburban trophy store operated by a married couple. The two certainly wouldn’t win any awards for their bookkeeping. The records they sent over were disorganized and incomplete. Their record-keeping system seemed to consist of jotting down notes on gum wrappers and sticky notes. How the heck could they even tell how their store was doing?
Back at the audit department, I sat at my desk, staring at the wall of my cubicle, wishing I had a magical time machine that would fast-forward me through the next few weeks until after my trial was over. How would it turn out? Then again, maybe I could use that time machine to go back to that fateful night at Guys & Dolls. If given a second chance, I’d put a single bullet right between Don Geils’ eyes. Then I’d still have my job as a special agent, still have my freedom, still have my gumption.
I’d have a different identity, though.
Killer.
I forced myself to look over another file or two, but I couldn’t concentrate. The numbers danced around on the pages, taunting me. If I was convicted, how many years would I serve in prison? Two? Three? Four? More? How old would I be when I was released? Thirty? Thirty-one? Thirty-two? Older? What were my odds of winning in court? Twenty-five percent? Fifty percent? Seventy-five percent?
* * *
With Nick in India, my weekend was relatively uneventful. I found myself bored, anxious, antsy, like a kid with ADHD. Maybe I should get myself tested.
I phoned Eddie on Sunday afternoon to check in. “How’s the hot watch going?” I asked. “Any action?”
“Still cold,” he said. “The card hasn’t been used yet.”
“Maybe things will pick up soon. Sundaram might rent a car or
make a stop at Starbucks.”
“I hope so,” Eddie replied. “I don’t know how else we’re going to track that guy down. He could be anywhere in the world right now.”
Heck, for all we knew Nick could pass him on the street in New Delhi. Sundaram would be much more difficult to spot in a country full of Indians.
“Let me know if you hear something,” I said.
“You know you don’t even have to ask, right?” Eddie said.
“I appreciate that.” It was big of Eddie to keep me in the loop. But he had my same work ethic, my same dedication to duty. He knew my termination was killing me. I hoped William Dorsey realized what a wonderful partner he had in Eddie.
* * *
When I climbed out of the shower Monday morning, my cell phone screen indicated a voice-mail message waited for me. I put the phone on speaker and listened.
“Hi, Tara. It’s Jeremy Aberdeen. We just got a call from Chloe that her daughter is still sick. Okay if we postpone things until tomorrow?”
Sheez. My nieces and nephews had suffered ear infections as babies, and while they’d run high fevers and shrieked in agony at first, they’d recovered fairly quickly once the antibiotics took hold. I was beginning to think Chloe was jerking me around.
Was there something in those records she didn’t want me to see?
I had a hard time believing it. I mean, Chloe came from a well-to-do family and had married into one that was even weller-to-do. She was paid a pretty penny to serve as CFO of the candy company, and per her father, she’d also made a killing in the stock market. She had no need to cook the books.
Right?
Still, I wanted to get this audit wrapped up.
I punched the button to call Jeremy back. I reached his voice mail. He was probably out messing with the cows or taste-testing a new product in the candy lab. Maybe he’d decided to expand on their popular cow patties and develop a whole line of chocolate-flavored animal scat. Piggy Poo. Donkey Doo. Ewe Ew.
At the tone I left a message telling him I’d be in first thing tomorrow.
