Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers (3 page)

Though Madelyn had yet to finger Geils, it seemed obvious he had supplied her with the meth. When she’d overdosed, she’d been terrified Geils would do something to keep her from being able to talk to law enforcement or testify against him.

“She was ashamed and scared,” Bernice said. “She doesn’t have any family, at least none that cares enough about her to help her out, so I used some of my savings to send her to a rehab center. She’s still there now. I managed to convince CPS and the foster parents to allow me to take her daughter there for short visits once a week. God willing, Maddie will stay clean and get her daughter back. She regrets ever trying the stuff. If she hadn’t been so exhausted she never would have taken drugs.”

I’d probably never understand what drove Bernice to a career as a stripper, but one thing was obvious to me. Her heart was as big as her silicone-enhanced breasts.

chapter three

Moonlighting

Aaron leaned forward and looked around the table. “Maddie won’t talk to law enforcement even though the district attorney offered her immunity. I’m hoping she’ll eventually break and agree to turn state’s witness. Until then, we’ve got to work on obtaining more direct evidence.”

Nick cocked his head. “Why isn’t Dallas PD handling the drug case, too?”

“The drugs go way beyond Dallas,” Christina said.

The DEA suspected that Guys & Dolls, while making some sales locally, served primarily as a distribution center for meth on its way to dealers in Oklahoma. When a dealer in Oklahoma had recently been arrested by state troopers, the phone number for Guys & Dolls was found in his cell phone’s contact list. The cops probably wouldn’t have thought much about it if not for the fact that the address for Guys & Dolls had appeared in the GPS of another dealer who’d been arrested several months before. The local cops figured the two connections to Guys & Dolls had to be more than coincidence. Because they didn’t have jurisdiction beyond the Oklahoma border, however, they’d turned the case over to the DEA. Presumably a new dealer had taken over after the arrests. Who that new dealer might be was anyone’s guess.

“There might even be multiple dealers,” Christina said.

She went on to tell us more about the drug. Crystal meth, also known as speed, chalk, ice, and glass, was very popular, especially among the twentyish crowd. After a rash of explosions at meth labs in Oklahoma and the deaths of several law enforcement officers at the hands of meth producers and users, the Oklahoma legislature was the first in the country to enact laws restricting the sale of pseudoephedrine, the drug’s key ingredient. The impact was profound and the state’s illegal labs dried up virtually overnight.

Unfortunately, the demand for the drug didn’t dry up with the supply. Colombian and Mexican drug cartels stepped in to fill the void, as did entrepreneurial East Texans who could easily and inexpensively manufacture the drug in trailers hidden in the thick and difficult-to-access woods of the Big Thicket.

Our goal was to obtain evidence that Geils and his cohorts at Guys & Dolls were moving drugs, pimping out dancers, and cheating on their taxes. All in a day’s work, right?

“What’s the plan?” I asked. I knew we’d be going undercover, but that was all I’d been told so far about the operation.

Menger glanced my way. “Employee turnover has been high since Geils took over the club.”

Not surprising. The guy sounded like an A1 a-hole.

“I’ve already landed a job there, tending bar. The rest of you will apply for jobs, too. The club is looking for dancers—”

“No way!” Christina said. “I am not shaking my boobs for a bunch of horny men.”

Menger rolled his eyes. “Nobody’s asking you to.”

Nick chuckled. “I might.”

Apparently he didn’t want to live much longer. I kicked him under the table. He shot me a wink back, giving another to Christina, letting us know he’d only been joking.

“They’ve got an opening for a cocktail waitress.” Aaron pointed at Christina. “That’s where you come in.”

“Much better,” she said.

“Nick,” Aaron continued, “you’ll apply for a job as a bouncer.”

Nick cracked his knuckles. “I’m on it.”

“What about me?” I owned a perky but small pair of breasts, 32As. Surely they wouldn’t expect me to take a job as a dancer. Besides, the only formal dance experience I had was a year of ballet when I was five. My parents still had the home video of my recital. I spent half my time onstage scratching my ass. Damn itchy tutu. And while I could mix up a mean batch of Nick’s mother’s peach sangria recipe, my mixed-drink repertoire was severely limited. I’d make a lousy bartender. “Will I apply for a waitress job, too?”

“No,” Aaron said. “They’re looking for evening help in their cash office. That seems more up your alley.”

Bookkeeping. No problem. The job would also put me in a better position to determine if there was any financial hanky-panky going on. The money trail often led to other evidence. My work could be critical to cracking the case. But I had to admit I was a little miffed they hadn’t mentioned the possibility of me dancing. My A cups were offended. I might not be able to fill a bra, but that had never stopped guys from trying to get in my pants. I suppose my unconventional, rebellious ways made them think that what I lacked in boobage I’d make up for in enthusiasm.

“Once we’re inside,” Menger said, “we’ll try to get closer to Geils and his goons, the dancers, too. Whatever it takes to gather evidence.”

We all stood to go.

Bernice offered us a weak smile. “See you all at the office.”

chapter four

Alter Egos

Nick and I returned to the federal building, running into Lu in the lobby. Our boss was no longer wearing the pinkish beehive wig I’d bought for her after she’d lost most of her hair to chemotherapy treatments. Though her natural hair had yet to fully grow back, it had rebounded remarkably fast. She was able to tease what hair she had into a puffy strawberry-blond helmet. No doubt her locks would be back to their full height in a few months.

Though her hair was still in recovery, Lu had regained all the weight she’d lost and then some. She’d quit smoking and, as often happens, put on the pounds. Her purple polyester pantsuit strained at the seams.

“How’d the meeting go?” Lu asked as we climbed into the elevator.

“Good,” I said. “We’ve got a plan in place.” I told her the details as we rode up.

She wagged a finger at me. “Be careful, Tara. Don’t let your guard down for one second.”

As if I needed to be reminded. “I won’t.”

The elevator opened on our floor and we climbed out. Lu’s secretary, a gray-haired, eagle-eyed woman named Viola, came up the hall with the day’s mail, sorting through it as she walked. An envelope slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor at our feet.

“I’ll get it.” Lu bent over to retrieve the letter.

Rrrrrrrrip!

The seam holding the back of Lu’s pants together gave way, releasing an avalanche of cellulite-pocked sexagenarian butt cheek clad in white nylon granny panties.

I didn’t want to look, but hell! It was like a train wreck. I couldn’t turn away from the spectacle.

There was just so!

Much!

Ass!

Lu glanced back over her shoulder. “Rats. This was my favorite pantsuit.”

Nick raised a brow suggestively. “Now it’s
my
favorite.”

Lu pointed the corner of the envelope at Nick. “Hush, you.” She turned the envelope on me next. “Round me up before you head to the Y tomorrow. I’m going to get myself in shape.”

“Will do.” Exercise would do her good. Me, too. I’d been slacking off lately and if Nick and I were going to get naked together soon, I wanted to look my best.

Lu turned to Viola now. “Find the heavy-duty stapler. I’ve got to fix these pants.”

Nick and I headed to his office together to draft our fake resumes, enlisting the office tech expert, the cherubic Josh Schmidt, to help us create new identities and believable backgrounds for ourselves. Mine was fairly easy. I chose the name Sara Galloway since it was similar enough to my own to be memorable. I typed up my resume, listing my home address as that of a real apartment complex fifteen miles east of Guys & Dolls, though I provided a unit number that didn’t actually exist. I purported to be a freelance bookkeeper. My story would be that my largest client, the one that had been my bread and butter, was a plumbing-supply outfit that had fallen on hard times and closed its doors. Hence the reason I was looking for work. I dubbed the imaginary business Pappy’s Plumbing and invented a make-believe boss, Pappy Henderson, whom I listed as a reference.

Josh had a slew of prepaid, untraceable cell phones at his disposal and rattled off the number of one of them for me to use for my reference. In case he wasn’t available to answer the phone when it rang, he recorded a greeting. “Howdy, folks,” he said in a thick Southern twang. “You’ve reached Pappy Henderson. Tell me who ya are and how I can reach ya, and I’ll give you a call back when the cows come home.”

I frowned. “You laid it on a bit thick there, didn’t you?”

Josh shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s so hokey they’ll believe it.”

He had a point.

For additional authenticity, Josh set up Facebook pages for both Pappy’s Plumbing and Galloway’s Bookkeeping Service and added reviews on Yelp.com. Though Pappy’s pipes sometimes leaked, my imaginary client said I did good work at a reasonable price. Thanks, Pappy!

My new persona now in place, it was time to work on Nick’s undercover identity. He decided to use the same strategy I had with his new name, choosing one close to his real name. Mitch Platt. On his resume, he claimed to have served in private security for several years, most recently for an emerging indie rock band named Ruckus.

Josh used stock images he found online and doctored them with Photoshop to create a realistic Web site for the alleged band, complete with a colorful tour bus, a schedule of appearances over the preceding three months, and a CD cover for their debut album,
Rock Us, Ruckus!
Now that the band’s fictitious tour had wrapped up, Mitch found himself temporarily out of work until the band produced a second album and went on tour again.

Josh programmed another cell phone, one with a Los Angeles area code, to serve as a decoy number for the band’s fictitious manager. He faked us up a couple of Texas driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, and birth certificates.

Once we’d finished, Josh drove us to the vehicle impound lot and dropped us off. Nick and I entered the lot and strolled down the rows of cars, trucks, trailers, and RVs that had been seized from deadbeats who’d been given multiple opportunities to pay their taxes but stubbornly refused.

We bypassed a white Mazda 3. While the car was relatively new and clean, the up-curved grill made it look as if it were smiling. I found that fact both cute and creepy at the same time. A silver Ford Focus caught my eye, but the potentially incendiary bumper stickers turned me off.

DISSENT IS THE HIGHEST FORM OF PATRIOTISM.

IF YOU’RE NOT OUTRAGED, YOU’RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION.

I’M AGAINST THE NEXT WAR, TOO.

DROP ACID, NOT BOMBS.

SAVE A TREE—EAT A BEAVER.

Nick stopped in front of a bright yellow Hummer H2, a 2008 model. “Oh, yeah. This is my ride.”

I frowned. “These things get, what, two or three miles to the gallon? Those tightasses in internal accounting will never reimburse you for all the gas this thing will use. Mother Nature isn’t going to be very happy with you, either.”

Nick cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face against the driver’s window to take a look inside. “What’s more important? Putting drug dealers and pimps out of business or saving the environment?”

“Can’t we do both at the same time?”

He stepped back, reached out a hand, and playfully rumpled my hair. “You’ve got your head in the clouds again, Tara.”

My head tended to always be in the clouds when Nick was around. But he had a point. Driving a car like an H2 would show Donald Geils that Nick had expensive tastes and could potentially be persuaded to engage in some less-than-exemplary behavior in return for cold, hard cash. Maybe it was time to trade in my rookie idealism for reality.

I decided to make up for the H2’s excessive emissions by selecting a small and presumably fuel-efficient Mini Cooper with a British flag motif. I pointed to the car. “This one’s right jolly good, ay?” I asked in my best fake British accent. “I’ll bet it doesn’t use much petrol.”

When Nick offered only a small chuckle in return my heart twitched. Speaking in horribly faked English accents was something I’d done with Brett as we watched episodes of
MI-5
and British comedies on the BBC America channel. But those days were probably over now. Unless Nick did something horrible and unexpected, I couldn’t see myself going back to Brett when the trial period was over. Still, giving up my fake English accent was a small sacrifice compared to what I’d get in return. A badass with rock-solid pecs who could two-step like he’d been born with boots on.

Nick and I found the lot’s attendant in the prefab building that served as his office, filled out the paperwork to borrow the cars, and obtained the keys.

“We’re still on for dinner, right?” I asked as we wove our way back through the lot to the cars we’d selected. “I’m making my mother’s chicken-fried steak.”

“Sounds delicious.” Nick slid me a sly smile. “But I’m much more interested in what’s for dessert.”

I slid him a sly smile right back. “It’s a secret,” I said, “but it involves caramel sauce, whipped cream, and cherries.”

“Mmm. Can you work in some chocolate sprinkles, too?”

“For you?” I replied. “Sure.”

When we reached the cars, Nick helped me into the Mini Cooper and leaned down to kiss me through the open window. This kiss was soft, warm, and relatively innocent, though it still set my heart pumping like a piston. I would’ve loved more, though I supposed it would have been inappropriate for the two of us to engage in an all-out make-out session while we were on Uncle Sam’s time, huh?