Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (3 page)

Once I’d gotten my kitten fix, I did my best to force my attention back to my work. It wasn’t easy.

At two in the afternoon, Eddie came down to my office to round me up. “Ready to go to the art museum?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

I’d spent all morning sick with worry, trying not to cry or throw up or kick my filing cabinet. Okay, so I’d actually kicked my filing cabinet, putting a big dent in the side that I’d then had to try to push back out. But I was damn upset. It was dangerous enough working for a cartel. After all, they killed their own members regularly if they screwed up. But if anyone found out that Nick and Christina were undercover law enforcement they’d be in for some unique and special type of torture. El Cuchillo might decide to try out his entire Ginsu collection on them, starting with a paring knife and finishing up with a meat cleaver.

What would I do if Nick were julienned to death?

Thanks to these lovely thoughts, I’d managed to force down only a single piece of sushi at lunch. The new pantsuit I’d bought at Neiman’s afterward hadn’t helped much, either, though the glittery Michael Kors cap-toe pumps I’d scored for a mere $97 on sale improved my spirits slightly. I vowed to wear them on my first date with Nick when he returned from working the cartel case …
if
he returned from working the cartel case.

Damn.

Should’ve bought myself a new purse, too. Maybe some earrings.

I’d looked over the selection of sunglasses, but none had looked as good on me as my Brighton knockoffs. I wasn’t willing to spend a hundred dollars on a pair of shades that didn’t totally knock my socks off.

Eddie eyed me as I grabbed my blazer and briefcase. “You okay?”

Eddie and I had been partners since I began at the IRS a year ago. He’d been the only special agent who’d agreed to train the newbie. We’d come to know a lot about each other over the months we’d worked together. While familiarity might breed contempt in some cases, our familiarity had somehow led to respect and understanding and the occasional good-natured ribbing. Each knew how the other worked, and we could sense each other’s moods.

“Okay?” I let out a long, loud breath. “Not really. Nick’s going deep undercover. He won’t be allowed any contact with anyone until the case is resolved.”

Eddie’s brows lifted. He knew without my saying that a deep cover investigation would be particularly risky. “So he’ll be completely out of touch?”

I nodded. “God only knows for how long.”

“That sucks. When does he leave?”

“Tomorrow. He’s over at the DEA right now being debriefed.” Of course Nick and I had planned our own type of debriefing for later tonight, one last good-bye boink before he disappeared into the underworld like Hades descending into his realm.

“You’ll just have to keep yourself busy,” Eddie suggested. “That’ll keep your mind off things.”

“Busy? No problem there.” I gestured to the towering stack of files on my desk. “Lu’s given me enough work to choke an elephant.”

Ironically enough, one of my cases actually involved an elephant. An auditor who’d been assigned to perform a routine records check on a tax-exempt animal welfare organization had referred the matter to criminal investigations when those operating the place hadn’t been able to produce any documentation. Eddie and I planned to drive out to the sanctuary tomorrow to see if we could get to the bottom of things.

Eddie and I made our way to the elevator, rode down in silence, and headed to his G-ride, our name for the plain sedans assigned to us by Uncle Sam. I understood that we had to use the taxpayer’s money wisely, but did the cars have to be so darn boring? Why couldn’t we have souped-up cars like the Dodge Chargers driven by Dallas PD? After all, I might get into a high-speed chase attempting to catch a tax evader. It could happen.

We climbed inside, snapped our belts into place, and settled into our usual routine in which the driver picks the radio station and the passenger plays navigator. Eddie, who had a penchant for easy-listening music, slid a Harry Connick, Jr., CD into the player while I used the GPS app on my phone to pull up directions to the Unic Art Space. The name was probably intended to be a creative way to spell “unique,” but my mind read it as “eunuch.” I supposed if you were a male who’d been castrated, you wouldn’t be distracted by sexual yearnings and your hands would have plenty of free time to finger paint.

“It’s in Deep Ellum,” I told Eddie, referring to the nearby entertainment district that featured numerous art galleries, restaurants, and nightclubs.

“Gotcha.” He backed out of the spot and headed out of the parking lot, taking a right onto Commerce Street, then easing over onto Main. In less than six minutes we circled back onto Elm and pulled up to the curb in front of the Unic Art Space.

Eddie and I glanced up at the two-story red-brick building. While the commercial art galleries that flanked the museum on both sides featured colorful signs and displays to lure shoppers into their stores, the Unic’s front window bore only inch-high black lettering that read
THE UNIC
—
OPEN MONDAY THRU FRIDAY 1 TO 4
.

Sheesh.
That schedule made banker’s hours seem demanding.

Eddie’s brow contorted in skepticism. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“Didn’t expect it to,” I replied.

The museum was run by Sharla Fowler, the mother of former NFL player Rodney Fowler. A Heisman nominee, Rodney had played for various teams back in the 80s and early 90s, earning one of the league’s highest salaries, before retiring from the Dallas Cowboys. Rodney, now in his mid-fifties, was divorced with three grown daughters. Two years ago, he’d decided to follow in the footsteps of philanthropic professional athletes Troy Aikman, Tim Tebow, and Serena Williams, and formed a charitable foundation called the Fifty-Yard Line Foundation. The Fifty-Yard Line Foundation funded the Unic Art Space.

Although the organization’s mission statement claimed the foundation existed “to educate the public about the arts by funding a space where creative works will be displayed and contemplated,” I suspected the space truly existed for the purpose of enabling the former football player to shelter his income from high taxes by shifting it to family members and others to whom he or his family had close personal ties. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had established a sham nonprofit organization to evade taxes.

Eddie and I climbed out of the car and stepped inside. The interior was equally unimpressive, comprising primarily empty space with a piece of art hanging here and there on the vast walls or displayed on widely spaced pedestals. A wide staircase with white steps and chrome banisters led up to the second floor. A young woman with shocking red hair and contrasting black brows sat at a glass table in the foyer, a small cash register and credit card swiping machine within reach.

“’Ello,” she said with a French accent. “Welcome to the Unic. You would like to see the exhibits today?”

Eddie began to pull his badge from his pocket, but I stopped him with a nudge of my elbow. Perhaps we’d learn more from this woman if she didn’t yet know we had come to interrogate her boss.

“Yes,” I told the girl. “Two tickets, please.”

She held out a delicate palm. “Sixty dollars,
s’il vous pla
î
t.”

Eddie and I exchanged glances. As sparse as the offerings appeared to be, thirty bucks per person seemed a hefty price. Besides, the ticket income would only further pad the pockets of those involved in this sham. On the other hand, there appeared to be no one else here and I knew from my review of the museum’s financial records that it would be operating at a significant loss if not for the constant influx of contributions from the Fifty-Yard Line Foundation.

“Let me get this,” I told Eddie. This was my case, after all. My partner was along only as a sounding board and backup. I performed the same role when I assisted on his cases.

I pulled out my Visa card and handed it to the clerk. She slid it through the machine, and, in a feminine and genteel gesture, used her pinky to depress the print button. She ripped the paper tape from the machine and handed it to me along with a pen. “Your signature?”

After signing the slip, I returned it to the woman, who exchanged it for a couple of brochures. “This guide will tell you about the pieces on exhibit.” She offered a smile and extended the palm once again, this time to indicate the few pieces of art in the room. “If you have any questions, please to let me know. My name is Josette. Enjoy.”

After thanking Josette, Eddie and I walked into the room, our footsteps and voices echoing off the stained concrete floor and brick walls. Instinctively, we both began to tiptoe and whisper. We made our way to the first work of art, an enormous painting that hung on the left wall. Other than the artist’s signature in the lower right corner, the canvas appeared to be blank.

Eddie consulted his brochure. “This piece is called
There’s No Such Thing as a Good Cry.
”

“It should be called
Wasted Canvas
.”

Seriously, what was up with this? Wouldn’t an artist want to show off his or her talents by actually doing more than hanging what appeared to be an empty canvas? Then again, I didn’t have an artistic bone in my body. Not a single cell, even. Art to me was a velvet painting of dogs playing poker. Was it possible I just didn’t get it? That I was too unsophisticated?

Eddie held up the pamphlet. “Says here the entire canvas was painted with the artist’s tears.”

“Huh?” I read the entry on my copy. Sure enough, the huge canvas had purportedly been swabbed end to end with tears. The statement provided by the artist, Aly Pelham, said she sought to unify art and spirit by using bodily fluids as a linking medium. I supposed it was creative, but I
knew
it was bizarre.

The pamphlet went on to describe Aly Pelham as “an emerging avant-garde artist” with “a brave, bold style sure to earn her a spot in the annals of modern art history.” As for me, I was just glad she hadn’t painted with anything that came out of an
annal
.

My partner took another gander at the exhibit. “What do you think she was crying about?”

“A man,” I said. “Only one of your kind could upset a woman enough that she’d cry the two gallons of tears it would take to fill this canvas.” Hell, as worried as I was about Nick I could probably paint ten of these canvases with the tears I was sure to shed over the next few weeks until he returned home.

Eddie and I shuffled along to the next painting. This one was a tiny canvas approximately the same dimensions as a wallet-sized photo. This canvas bore a small, cockeyed reddish-brown smear along the right edge.

“This is by the same artist,” Eddie said. “It’s called
Picking at Scabs
.”

“Ew!” I cringed and backed away lest I catch hepatitis.

“What’s next?” Eddie said. “Saliva? Earwax?”

I was almost afraid to find out. If the next piece was called
Wigglers, Conception on Canvas,
I was out of here. Fortunately the next piece contained neither saliva, earwax, or sperm, though it was nonetheless disturbing.
Bad Hair Day
was painted by the artist using brushes made from her own hair to apply the acrylic paint in an abstract pattern of tangled brushstrokes. Some of the artist’s hair had stuck in the paint and was clearly visible on the canvas.

Eddie leaned in for a closer look. “Aly Pelham’s a blonde.”

“A
bleached
blonde,” I said, pointing out a piece of hair with a dark end.

“Nah. That’s just brown paint,” Eddie replied. “Or is it?” He took another step closer to verify.

“This isn’t art,” I whispered. “This is a freak show.”

Wasn’t art supposed to make you think? I mean, at least to think something other than
what the hell?
The only thought I had about Aly Pelham’s art was that she seemed to be trying awfully hard to shock her audience, to grab attention with odd, disturbing images. Her art didn’t seem to me as much a personal expression as a cry for attention. But perhaps I was being too harsh. After all, who didn’t like a little attention now and then?

We turned and approached the three pedestals. Sitting on the first was a rusty oscillating fan, its cord plugged into the wall behind it. The fan chugged along on low speed, creaking as its jerking movements turned it first left, then right, then left again. The air blew across our chests as we stood watching.

Creeeeak … creeeeeak … creeeeeak.

“This fan could use some WD-40,” I said. “It’s creakier than the Tin Man from Oz.”

I read the entry in the brochure. According to the pamphlet, the artist was someone named Jackson T. Reavis. “This one is called
Winds of Change,
” I told Eddie. “Apparently the artist uses air as his medium.”

Interesting, perhaps, but shouldn’t it take more than finding a junky old fan at a garage sale and plugging it into a wall to prove your worth as an artist? If not, then I was making art every time I used the ancient harvest-gold hand mixer my grandmother had passed down to me.

As we walked to the next pedestal, Josette scurried up. “Let me turn on this piece for you. It is very loud so we do not leave it running.”

Josette plugged the cord into the wall and turned the dial on the stand to activate the 1950’s-era dome-style hair dryer. As the device forced warm air down toward our shoes, Josette shouted over the noise, telling us about the piece. “This exhibit is
The Portal to Hell.
Such creativity, no?”

“Such a load of crap,” Eddie muttered next to me.

Josette spun the dial to turn off the machine, putting an end to the warm air and racket. “What do you say, sir? I could not hear over the noise of the art.”

“I … um…” Eddie cleared his throat. “I said ‘such good craft.’”

“Oui.”
Josette offered another smile and led us to the next pedestal, where a vintage salmon-pink canister vacuum sat in repose. She retrieved the frayed cord, holding it aloft between her fingers as if it were a fancy cigarette. “The title of this piece is
Sometimes Life Sucks.
Such a true sentiment, would you not agree?”