Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (25 page)

I went into the bathroom and took a look at myself in the mirror.
Urk.
Big mistake. Whatever good the glycolic treatment had done had since been undone by stress and worry. The bags under my eyes were back, carrying their own second set of bags. The worry lines on my forehead were so deep and pronounced it looked like my eyebrows were playing a skin accordion. Poor Nick. If he came back, he’d come back to
this
? I decided then and there to schedule another glycolic treatment. Maybe I’d buy some of those teeth-whitening strips, too. With all the coffee I’d been drinking lately to fuel my late hours, my teeth had lost their sparkle.

After cleaning out the litter box and picking up the stray turds Henry had kicked across the bathroom floor, I took a shower, fixed my hair, and dressed for work. Downstairs, I set the coffee to brewing and fed my cats. Anne expressed her appreciation for the meal by performing figure eights around my ankles, while Henry expressed his disdain by sniffing the wet food, flicking his tail to indicate his disgust, and waltzing off.

“You’ll be back!” I called after him.

I fixed myself a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and decided to take it into the living room so I could catch up on local and world events by watching the morning news. I’d been so busy lately I hadn’t had time to glance at a newspaper or watch TV. Finagling the remote out from between two couch cushions, I clicked on the television and plopped down on the sofa.

A handsome male anchor filled the screen. “In international news this morning, the bodies of three people who disappeared in the Mexican city of Culiac
á
n last month have been found in shallow graves twenty miles outside the city. Though the bodies were largely decomposed, medical examiners were able to determine from marks on the victims’ bones that the throats of all three had been slit. All three victims were suspected members of the Sinaloa drug cartel, which has experienced a power vacuum since the arrest of its leader in early 2014. Mexican police believe the killings were carried out by a well-known member of the cartel known as El Cuchillo.”

My cereal stuck in my throat, refusing to go down. My hands shook so violently that milk sloshed over the edge of the bowl and onto my pants, the sofa, and rug. I forced the cereal down, set the bowl on the coffee table, and put my head between my legs, trying not to hyperventilate.

If El Cuchillo had no qualms about slitting the throats of fellow members of the cartel, what would he do if he suspected Nick and Christina were undercover agents out to nail him? That Alejandro, his trusted ally, had double-crossed him? I didn’t even want to consider the possibilities.

Thankfully, before my mind could go too far down that horrific trail, a buzz sounded from the coffee table.
Bzzz.

The secret phone!

I grabbed the device from the table. My heart soared when my eyes took in a text.

Hope to see you soon. XO.

What?

See me soon?

Was that Nick’s way of telling me they’d made quick progress on the case and he’d be returning shortly? Dare I hope that was the case?

Though it was only seven
A.M.
, I immediately phoned Bonnie and gave her the news.

“‘See you soon,’” she repeated. “Do you think that means he’s coming home?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope so.”

To be honest, I was afraid to get my hopes too high lest they be dashed. And the last thing I wanted to do was give Bonnie false hope. If something went wrong, it would only be that much harder to take.

“These investigations can change on a dime, though,” I cautioned. “You might think you’re making progress, then
bam,
you hit a wall.”

“My, aren’t you a killjoy?” she snapped.

I hated to be negative, and I hated to renege on my promise to Nick that I would remain strong for his mother, but anything could happen. We should hope for the best but expect the worst. We had to be prepared for anything.

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I’m just trying to be realistic.”

“I know, honey.” She sounded deflated now, which made me feel guilty. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry about that. I just—” Her voice broke and it nearly broke my heart. “I want my boy home.”

Tears rimmed my eyes. “I want him home, too.”

Hell, I didn’t just
want
him home, I
needed
him home.

Despite my attempts to maintain my independence in our relationship, I realized then that I’d become dependent on Nick in so many ways. While my parents had once been my rocks, that role had shifted to Nick over the past few months. He was the person I counted on to be there for me no matter what crazy things were going on in my life. He provided me with an emotional release, letting me vent on him like an active volcano. While I used to take my problems to Alicia, since she’d become engaged to Daniel I’d done so less and less, instead taking those problems to Nick. On a more base level, when the stress of my job and life in general needed an outlet, Nick provided me with a physical release. The stair-stepper at the Y was a poor substitute, though it did provide a similar up-and-down motion and used many of the same muscle groups, such as my quads and glutes.

The epiphany that I needed Nick in my life made me feel vulnerable and frightened and alone and incomplete. He was no longer simply my favorite toy and a sexy accessory, he was as vital to me as one of my organs. Not a kidney, though, because apparently a person can live with only one of those. He was more like a heart or a liver, something you only have one of and will certainly perish without.

Ugh.
The thought of organs led me back to El Cuchillo and the numerous victims he’d gutted. What kind of person could kill with a blade like that? I’d been forced to shoot people before, but firing a gun at a human target from a distance was much less personal than shoving a blade into another human being at point-blank range while looking them in the eye. Besides, even when I’d fired my gun previously, I was a good enough shot to know that none of the bullets would be lethal. Pulling a trigger was much easier when you knew it would only stop someone temporarily, not end their life.

I did my best to force those disturbing thoughts from my head as I bid Bonnie good-bye. As soon as we ended our call, I texted Ajay and told him I’d heard from Nick. Ajay texted me back in less than ten seconds.

Thanks. When they get back let’s do something special.

My first thought was to get tickets for opening night of the Texas Rangers baseball season. Nick and Ajay would enjoy the game and the bratwurst, while Christina and I would enjoy the frozen strawberry margaritas. But opening day was next week. I doubted they’d be back by then.

Rather than suggest the baseball game, I simply typed back
Great idea.

*   *   *

Though I parked in my usual spot in the federal lot, instead of heading into the Federal Building I trotted over to the Department of Justice to see if I could round up an attorney. Even if I went to the toga party Friday night, the chances of me recognizing the guy who’d dressed in the mop and flowery shirt at the bank were slim to none. After all, the photographs of the frat rats I’d reviewed online hadn’t narrowed things down any. What was I supposed to do? Make my way around the party, sidle up to the guys and say, “Hi, I’m Tara. I’m a Sagittarius. Which one of you drunks is the A-hole who ripped off a bunch of people through a phishing scam?”

Not likely.

Fortunately, Ross O’Donnell, our usual counsel, was in his office. The stack of files on his desk was high enough to rival my own, though Ross never seemed to get flustered. He was either naturally calm or hooked on quaaludes. Given that he managed to get to work every day and successfully prosecute the majority of his cases, my money was on naturally calm.

I rapped on his door frame. “You busy?”

He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to be at the courthouse in half an hour to argue a pretrial motion, but I’ve got time for a quick chat.”

In other words, he’d appreciate it if I got right down to business.

“I need a search warrant.” I gave him a fast rundown of the phishing case and how Josh and I had tracked the pickup truck to the frat house. “The thief might live in the frat house. We just don’t know his name or which room is his.”

Ross tilted his head one direction, then the other, as if tossing ideas back and forth in his mind. “It’s going to be a hard sell. You know how Judge Trumbull is. But I’m willing to give it a shot. The worst she can do is say no, right?”

An hour later, Ross and I were standing in front of Judge Alice Trumbull, arguing why she, in her infinite judgely wisdom, should give me a search warrant for the Gamma Gamma Theta house. Judge Trumbull was a diehard liberal, a leftist who’d engaged in war protests and bra-burning back in the 1960s. Though I knew she took her duties seriously and respected her for that, I had to admit that her refusal to rubber-stamp our requests made our jobs infinitely more difficult.

“I’m not asking to search the entire frat house,” I told her, hoping to make my request appear limited in scope. “Just the bedrooms.”

After all, the thief was likely to keep his computer and other evidence of the crime in his bedroom. I doubted he’d leave such things around in their common living area or kitchen.

“Just the bedrooms?” Judge Trumbull snorted, causing her loose jowls to jiggle. “Honey, there are numerous bedrooms in that house that belong to boys who are not under suspicion in this case. You’re not even sure your target lives in the house. No way am I going to let you engage in an all-out panty raid. The IRS is not going to become the NSA, stomping on the rights of American citizens. You want a search warrant? Narrow down your list of suspects, determine where he resides, and give me more evidence.”

Though I was tempted to stomp my foot and throw an all-out hissy fit, I knew it would do no good. Once Judge Trumbull made a decision, she didn’t waffle. She banged her gavel—
bam!
—and called her next case.

I thanked Ross for making an effort and headed outside to walk back to my office. On the way, I thought things over some more. I’d attend the frat party tomorrow night. Not that I had high hopes anything would come of it, but what could it hurt? Besides, I needed some fun. And if going to the party didn’t help me better identify my suspect, I could always try to draw the culprit out again, send him another fake bank account number, take a second stab at nabbing him.

Second stab.
Ugh.
Once again, I found myself thinking about El Cuchillo.

*   *   *

At the office later that morning, I followed my usual routine. Check my phone messages. Check my inbox. Log on to my computer and read my e-mails. There was one from my mother saying she and Dad couldn’t wait to see me, along with a question from my father:
What gun is best for pretending to shoot a lion? I can’t decide which rifle to bring.

I sent a reply.
Bring them all. We’ll look them over tomorrow and decide.

Once I’d finished with my e-mails, I pulled up my Sara Galloway Facebook page.

Bingo.

Laurel Brandeis had sent me a personal message.
Congrats on winning the lottery! If I were you I would donate the money to the U.S. Red Cross. They help so many people.
Heck, she’d even sent me a link to the phony charity’s page with instructions on how to make a donation.

But this little cat wasn’t quite done playing with her mouse just yet. Besides, I had to act like a reasonable person would under the circumstances. If I’d actually won the lottery and was considering donating money to charity, I wouldn’t necessarily donate the funds to the first charity someone suggested to me. I’d put some thought into the decision before making a move.

I sent Laurel a reply message.
Thanks for the suggestion. I’m leaning toward a local charity, though. My mother wants me to get a photo with someone from the organization to put in the newspaper back home. Mothers, huh?:)

With any luck, that message would draw the crook out from his lair in cyberspace into the real world. And if and when it did, IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway would lower the boom.

chapter twenty-six

Y
ou Win Some, You Lose Some, You Settle Some

Later that morning, my cell phone rang. My readout indicated the call came from Anthony Giacomo.

Anthony was a tough-as-nails attorney who, despite being only slightly bigger than me and dressing primarily in lavenders and soft pinks, could put the fear of God in his opposing counsel. His brain was so nimble it could perform a round-off back handspring triple flip and stick the landing every time.

I jabbed the button to take his call. “Hi, Anthony.”

“Hi, yourself. You got lunch plans?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you do now. What’s your pleasure?”

“How about the Pyramid in the Fairmont Hotel?” The place was one of my favorites. It was quiet and private and served good food. They had a new kale and watercress salad, as well as a wedge salad. Perfect lunch choices. Yummy, but not so heavy they weighed you down for the rest of the day.

“Half an hour?” he asked.

“See you then.”

I worked a few more minutes until I reached a good stopping point. I grabbed my purse and headed out the door. The Fairmont was only a short walk away. It felt good to get out into the crisp spring air and clear my head. It had been much too smoggy in my skull lately.

I pulled open the door to find Anthony waiting for me in the lobby. He looked as dapper as ever in a gray suit with a peacock-blue dress shirt and silvery tie with matching pocket square. His dark hair was perfectly coiffed and a sapphire gleamed from his earlobe.

He gave me a hug, then stood back, one hand on each of my shoulders. “I’d like to say you’re looking well, but we both know that would be a lie. You look like something the cat dragged in. And then chewed on. And then coughed up. And then took a crap on.”