Death, Taxes, and a Shotgun Wedding

by Diane Kelly

  At each location, he smiled at the clerk and happily produced the money order and a counterfeit driver’s license, receiving cash in return. At one location, a female clerk shot him an annoyed look and said something while gesturing to his phone. Probably a politer version of “How about you stop being so rude and hang up your damn phone while I’m assisting you, jackass?” The clerk examined the ID, returned the license to the man, and cashed the money order, counting out the bills on the counter. As soon as the clerk finished, the man scooped up the bills, slid them into his wallet, and tucked the wallet into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. Out the door he went, his movements now recorded by an outdoor camera that picked up where the indoor camera left off. In most instances he simply walked out of camera range. Where he went from there was anyone’s guess.

  I continued watching the footage until the end, seeing the man exit door after door after door. In the second-to-last video, an outdoor camera picked up the man darting through the rain to climb into the backseat of a red GMC Acadia. A soccer mom turned part-time entrepreneur sat at the wheel, a bright yellow placard hanging from her rearview mirror identifying her as a Backseat Driver. Just as Detective Booth had told me, the camera picked up a partial license plate, enough for Dallas PD to figure out the rest of it.

  When the screen went blank, I removed the flash drive, slid it back into the protective sleeve, and closed the file. I sat back to think.

  Is there any clue that has been overlooked?

  Any angle that hasn’t been considered?

  Is there anything I can do that Detective Booth hasn’t already done?

  Given that she’d offered the police patrols to help keep me safe, I really wanted to help her out. If I couldn’t figure out a new angle, it wasn’t due to a lack of drive.

  Drive …

  That’s it!

  I could sign up to be a Backseat Driver to try to nab the guy! After all, I had a pretty good inkling that he lived somewhere in the Village. Many of his rides began or ended within a short walking distance of the neighborhood. He’d been picked up and dropped off in other locations, too. One in Plano. Two in Richardson. Another near the DFW Airport. But all of the locations were only a hop, skip, and a jump from a DART rail station. He could’ve easily climbed aboard a train on either the red line or orange line and ridden back to the Village.

  I picked up my phone and dialed Detective Booth to share my thoughts. “Take a look at the map you gave me, the one that shows where Backseat Driver picked him up and dropped him off. Several of the spots are within an easy walk of the Village. Some of the others are near the DART red and orange lines, which stop at the Village. Seems possible he lives in that area.” I pointed out that all of his victims had met with him outside standard business hours, and all of his rides with Backseat Driver had also been on weeknights or weekends. “I’ve got an alias I’ve used in several previous investigations. Sara Galloway. I could sign up with the service under my alias and take calls for evening or weekend rides that originate in or near the Village. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m glad I called you, Agent Holloway.”

  chapter six

  R.I.P.

  I signed up on the Backseat Driver site to work as a driver. Of course I’d only accept ride requests that began in or close to the Village. I had to keep the scope narrow to increase my chances of nabbing the rent scammer. Besides, the last thing I needed was to waste a bunch of time driving people all over town and sitting in Dallas traffic, sucking in exhaust and killing my brain cells.

  It would take a day or two for the service to process my background check and look over the required documentation to make sure my registration, vehicle inspection, and auto insurance were current. I planned to use my G-ride when I drove for Backseat. Because we agents ran undercover gigs in them, our vehicles were registered and insured in fictitious names so bad guys couldn’t trace them to the federal government. The fact that mine was a plain, four-door sedan could possibly give me away. It looked like a typical government vehicle. But maybe people would just think I’d gotten the car as a hand-me-down from my grandmother. Perhaps I should drape crocheted doilies over the headrests or put a Wayne Newton bobblehead doll on the dash, affix a bumper sticker to the back that read WORLD’S BEST MAW-MAW.

  I met Eddie, Nick, and Hana at the downtown YMCA at five-thirty to work out. I wanted to be in good shape for my wedding day. Also for the honeymoon in Cancún afterward, which I planned to spend mostly wearing my bikini.

  Hana and I lay down side by side on blue mats to perform crunches. She did three for every two I managed. I cut a glance her way. “Show-off.”

  She responded by grinning and picking up the pace even more, putting me to shame. No doubt about it. My recent sweet-potato-fry addiction had set me back. I’d also been a bit lax about getting my workouts in. I was paying for that now.

  A couple minutes later, Hana counted down to the end of her routine. “Four hundred and ninety-eight. Four hundred and ninety-nine. Five hundred.” She sprang up from her mat and grabbed her towel and water bottle. “See you later, lazybones.”

  “I’m not lazy!” I called after her. “I’ve just been busy!” It was a lame excuse, and we both knew it. But now, in addition to wanting to look good for my wedding, I had a special incentive to get in shape. Someone might be after me, might make another attempt on my life. I needed to be in peak physical form to increase my chances of survival.

  When I finished my crunches, I flipped over onto my belly for some push-ups. Upper-body strength had always been an issue for me, as it was for a lot of women. Better work on it in case I found myself engaged in hand-to-hand combat. One. Two. Three. Ugh …

  A few minutes later, I wrapped things up on the mat and headed for the treadmill. I slid my earbuds into my ears and ran three miles to some classic Emmylou Harris country tunes before moving on to the weight machines.

  Nick was in the free-weight area nearby, performing bicep curls. He slid a look my way. “You’re really pushing yourself today.”

  “That near-death experience yesterday gave me an incentive.”

  “Don’t overdo it,” he warned. “It could be counterproductive. You’ll end up stiff and sore.”

  “Not even married yet and you’re already telling me what to do.” I was teasing. I knew he was only trying to look out for my best interests and I loved him for it.

  An hour later, my muscles strained and my energy depleted, Nick and I left the Y. He positioned himself between me and the parking lot like a human shield as we walked to our cars. It was a loving gesture, but one that made me feel guilty, too. I didn’t want him getting hurt trying to keep me safe. But when I told him as much he said, “It’s a man’s job to keep his woman safe.”

  “That’s both the sweetest and most sexist thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  I drove my red BMW convertible, while he followed closely in his truck. Lest someone attempt to run me off an overpass, I stayed on high alert, fully aware of my surroundings. Fortunately, there was no sign of the truck that had nearly plowed me down yesterday. With any luck, an auto body shop would phone the Dallas PD soon and tell them someone had brought the truck in for repairs. We’d nab the driver, put him in the klink, and I could put this ugliness behind me.

  At home, I pulled my car in the driveway, keeping careful watch on my rearview and side mirrors to make sure nobody snuck into the bay with me. Nick parked his truck in the drive. He wasn’t about to let me go into my town house alone. He’d come in and help me make a sweep to make sure no boogeyman was hiding under my bed or in my closets.

  He came into the garage and I pushed the button on the wall to shut the door. We waited until it had rolled fully down before stepping into the house. My white cat Anne trotted daintily up to us, greeting us with a soft mew. Henry, my huge and haughty Maine coon, stood in the doorway to the kitchen, issuing a guttural growl that said If my dinner isn’t served in the next two minutes I’m peeing in your cl
oset.

  “Okay, boy,” I said. “I’ll get your dinner.”

  While I went to the kitchen and rounded up a can of food for Henry and Anne to share, Nick checked the hall closet. Pointless, really, given that it was so packed with coats and jackets and umbrellas and scarves and mittens that a mouse couldn’t squeeze into the space, let alone a full-sized human being. He peeked under and behind the furniture and curtains before heading upstairs. Having fed the cats, I ventured up behind him.

  We checked the guest room first. Nothing under the bed or in the closet. Ditto for the guest bath. Nobody in the cabinet or hiding in the shower. My room was clean, too. Well, clean of killers. There were the usual shoes strewn about the floor, clothes hanging from every doorknob, and dog-eared novels on every flat surface. Nobody was in my bathroom, either. If they had ventured in here, they would’ve been disgusted by the dried-up turd Henry had kicked out of the litter box. Seriously, that cat had no manners.

  “I’m going to run down to my place, gather up some clothes and stuff, and round up Daffodil,” Nick said. “We’re staying with you tonight.”

  He wouldn’t get any argument from me. Not only did I appreciate the extra safety they’d provide, what woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to spend her night spooning with a guy like Nick?

  I walked him down the stairs and to the front door. When he opened it, a paper pamphlet fell to the ground. It was nothing unusual. The neighborhood pizza and take-out places were always leaving menus and coupons tucked into the doorjamb. But when I bent over to pick this one up, I gasped. It was a brochure for a coffin, the Peaceful Pine model with a champagne velvet interior that promised “soft slumber at rock-bottom prices.” Words were scrawled along the edge of the brochure in the same red ink that had appeared on the card that had been sent to my office. Plan ahead, Tara. You’ll need one of these very soon.

  Nick took one look at my face and knew something was wrong. “What is it?”

  I handed him the brochure and he looked it over, both his jaw and fists flexing with rage. “Whoever sent this has a death wish. I’m gonna rip the motherfu—”

  “It’s probably a meaningless threat. Detective Booth said that people who really intend to hurt someone don’t usually give them advance warning.” It made sense, of course. Giving a victim warning would only lead the victim to take protective measures, thus making it harder for the killer to achieve their aim. Still, Booth had been concerned when I mentioned the truck. I had no idea what to think at this point. Am I really in danger? Or is someone just screwing with me, trying to make me go crazy with worry? If the latter was their plan, they were doing a darn good job.

  Nick handed the brochure back to me. “I hope the detective is right and that this is nothing more than an empty threat. But until we figure out who’s doing this, you’re not staying here.”

  Again, no complaints on my part. As rattled as I felt, there was no way I’d be able to sleep a wink here tonight. My ears would be pricked until sunrise, listening for things that go bump in the night. “Where should we go?”

  Nick ran a hand over his head, as if trying to warm up his brain so that it could produce an idea. “We’ll stay at my mother’s.”

  “You sure she won’t mind?”

  “Mind?” he scoffed. “She’ll be thrilled.”

  He had a point. Bonnie always enjoyed our visits. My mother was the same way. She considered any time with her daughter a treat. Seems she’d forgotten what a pain in the butt I’d been during my teen years.

  Nick gestured down the street. “I’m going to leave my truck in your driveway and walk down to my place. That way it won’t look like you’re alone.”

  “Good idea.”

  As I walked him out onto the porch, a Dallas PD cruiser rolled slowly up, easing over to my curb. Booth had been true to her word and sent a patrol.

  The male Latino officer at the wheel unrolled his window. “Are you Tara Holloway?” he called.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I called back. I headed over to his squad car with the brochure. “Thanks for keeping an eye on things.”

  He raised a nonchalant shoulder. “It’s what we do.”

  “I assume Detective Booth filled you in?”

  “She says you’re a federal agent with more enemies than you can count. Had a near-miss with a truck. Got a written death threat. That sum things up?”

  “It did until a minute ago.” I handed him the brochure. “Here’s the latest development.”

  He looked over the pamphlet. “Only eight hundred dollars for this casket? That’s not a bad deal.”

  Economical or not, I had no interest in taking a dirt nap any time soon. Nor did I want to push up any daisies, kick any buckets, or serve as worm food. I was happy with my feet on the earth rather than six feet under it. “Can you pass that on to the detective?”

  “No problem.” He slipped the coffin ad into an evidence bag before looking back up at me. “I’ll swing by here every half hour or so. If I see anything out of the ordinary, I’ll get right on it.”

  “Thanks. I’m planning to go stay with my future mother-in-law. I figure I might be safer there.”

  “What’s her address?” he asked, whipping out a pen and notepad. “We’ll send extra patrols by there, too.”

  As I recited her address, he jotted it down. I thanked him a final time and stepped away from the cruiser.

  On my way back inside, I passed the FOR SALE sign in my yard. I should probably call my Realtor and warn her of my death threats. Didn’t want her taking a client into my place for a showing only to get their heads blown off by a killer lying in wait. As much as I didn’t want to die, I’d feel even worse if an innocent person were killed on my account.

  I dialed her number. After we exchanged the usual greetings, I said, “Be careful when you show my town house. Someone might be trying to kill me.”

  There was a long pause before she said, “Did you say someone is trying to kill you?”

  “I said ‘might be.’”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better, Tara.”

  Me, neither. “I’ve received death threats,” I told her. “One at work and one was left on my door today. I also had a near-miss with a truck on Sunday near my place. I’ve spoken with the police. The truck incident could just be a coincidence. We’re not sure. The detective says most people who truly intend to kill someone don’t give their victims advance notice that they’re coming, but I figured I better warn you, just in case.”

  “Are you still planning to stay at your town house?”

  “No. I’m moving into an extended-stay hotel.” It was a lie, of course, but I wasn’t sure what the wannabe killer might do to try to off me. If he or she called the Realtor’s office under some guise and tried to wheedle information out of the staff, I didn’t want them to know my actual whereabouts and inadvertently spill the beans. The fewer people who knew where I’d be, the better.

  “If it was obvious you’d moved out, do you think that would reduce the risk of someone trying to get into your place? You know, to kill you?”

  “Probably.” After all, whoever was after me had shown no interest in damaging my property. He or she could have smashed the windows at my place or scratched up my front door when they’d brought the coffin brochure by today. Maybe even spray-painted the brick. But they hadn’t.

  “Why don’t you move your things into storage?” she suggested. “I can leave the curtains open so everyone will be able to see the place is vacant. It might even make the unit sell faster. Someone looking to make a quick move will know they can get in right away.”

  “Good idea.” I could call my brothers. Under the circumstances, they’d be more than willing to help move my stuff this weekend. We gave each other a lot of crap—that’s what siblings do—but we were always there for each other. “I’ll get everything out this weekend.”

  We ended the call and I set to work, packing up a few days’ worth of clothes and grooming essentials. With a heavy si
gh and a heavy heart, I unlocked my gun cabinet and packed the weapons to take with me. Among them was my long-range rifle. The cherry red Cobra CA380 pistol I’d bought at a pawnshop during an investigation that had put me in the hospital with a major head injury. My shiny shotgun. Hard to miss with that one, the way the shot sprayed all around when the gun was fired. Not that a sharpshooter like me needed an easy weapon like that, but if nothing else the shotgun rounded out my collection.

  When Henry and Anne saw me dragging their plastic pet carriers inside from the garage, they scattered like cockroaches when the light comes on. To them, the carriers meant terrifying car rides followed by poking and prodding by a veterinarian, maybe even a shot or two. They didn’t realize there’d be no pokes, prods, or needles tonight, just a warm bed at Bonnie’s. Heck, she’d probably greet them with a saucer of warm milk or a can of tuna.

  I was still trying to coax Anne out from under the couch when Nick arrived with both Daffodil and a duffel bag in tow.

  “C’mon, girl,” I said softly, making another futile attempt to lure her out. “Come to Mommy.”

  Nick had a more efficient method for rounding up the cat. “Get ready,” he told me, bending down in front of the couch and sliding his fingers under it. “One. Two. Three.”

  On “three,” he raised the front end of the couch two feet off the floor. Anne looked up in shock. Where had her safe haven disappeared to? What powerful god was this who had opened the heavens?

  I took advantage of her split second of surprise to grab her and shove her into the carrier. I slammed the door shut and locked her inside. She came to the metal bars and looked out at me, mewing pathetically. How could you do this to me, Mommy? Don’t you love me?

  I stuck a finger through the bars and scratched her under the chin. Yes, Mommy loves you. This is for your own good, baby.

  Nick glanced around. “Where’s Henry?”

  I looked around but saw no sign of the furry beast, either. “Your guess is as good as mine.”