Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (27 page)

The first folder was marked “El Paso,” followed by a date two months prior. The file contained copies of checks the duped investors had made out, as well as a list identifying the names and addresses of those who had attended the seminar. Underneath were similar files which took us on a western trail from Las Cruces, New Mexico, to San Diego, California, and led us back in time from January of this year to the previous July. Gryder might be a cheat and a fraud, but he was a meticulous bookkeeper.

From the bottom of the box, Eddie pulled out a legal-sized document a hundred pages thick, held together with a binder clip. He laid it on top of the box in front of him and flipped through the pages. “Whoa. I found the smoking gun.”

I scooted closer to him and looked over his shoulder. The document was a spreadsheet detailing the names and addresses of XChange Investments’ investors with the amount invested and the so-called returns paid to them. The summary showed payments made to the first investors, enough to string them along and encourage them to tell their friends what a great investment they’d found and recruit the friends before the house of cards fell. The spreadsheet tracked the funds coming in and the funds going out. But nowhere on the page were any actual foreign currency exchanges accounted for. Clearly, the investors’ funds hadn’t been used to purchase foreign money. The funds were simply being shuffled around in Gryder’s financial shell game.

According to the addresses on the spreadsheet, Gryder’d also recruited investors in Florida, Arizona, and Nevada, all states with warm climates and popular with retirees, before moving on to Texas. How could Gryder live with himself, preying on the elderly, those least able to protect themselves or recover from a financial loss?

Per the records, Gryder had brought in over twenty-three million dollars over the last few years, a large portion of it during the final quarter of the previous year. Yet that income had not been reported on any tax return. No doubt about it, the guy had balls. It would be a pleasure yanking them off.

I handed the spreadsheet to Ross. “Here’s Treasury exhibit number one.” Okay, so that comment was admittedly a bit snarky. It was Ross, not me, who would determine how to present the case in court, if it got that far. But I couldn’t help myself.

While Gryder and his attorney watched, Ross set the paper on his lap and looked the spreadsheet over, running a finger down the columns and across the rows. Still looking down, he shot me a discreet look from under his brows, one that said, “Slam dunk.” Gryder’s fastidious record-keeping would make our case easier to prove.

We had more than enough evidence to justify his arrest now. I looked over at Gryder. He stared out the window, his eyes squinting against the early afternoon sun. I followed his gaze to the landscaping crew, wrangling a large oak tree into one of several deep holes dug in the backyard. We’d been trained not to unnecessarily antagonize a suspect, but I couldn’t help myself. “That’s what honest work looks like.”

Gryder didn’t turn around but his jaw flexed.

Eddie put the paperwork back in the boxes and stood. “Let’s take these boxes out to my van.”

Sounded good to me. My legs had grown stiff from kneeling on the floor. Eddie stuck the laptop in one of the boxes and he and Ross grabbed the others to carry them out to the car.

Since I was the primary agent assigned to the case, it was understood that I’d have the honor of reading Gryder his rights. I picked up my purse and pulled out my Miranda cheat sheet. I had the litany of rights memorized by now, but best not to take any chances. The last thing I wanted was for Gryder’s case to be dismissed on a legal technicality and all of our hard work to go to waste.

“You have the right to remain silent,” I began.

Gryder’s eyes narrowed and turned dark, but below them a smirk quirked his lips. He’d been through this routine before, several times, and come out virtually unscathed. If he thought he’d skate through another investigation, he was dead wrong. I vowed the XChange Investments scam would be his last. With his accumulation of transgressions and the public’s increasing awareness of financial fraud, no jury would let him slide again. Barring any unexpected events, Gryder would serve time.

When I finished reading Gryder his rights, I slid the cheat sheet back into my purse. “I’ll take a quick look around,” I told Eddie and Ross, “to make sure we haven’t missed anything.” I turned to Gryder’s attorney then. “I’m assuming your client would prefer to change clothes before we take him in?” Gryder wouldn’t last a second in jail in his paisley robe and black bikini briefs.

Gryder’s attorney nodded. “He’ll change after you finish your search.”

“Okeydokey.”

Gryder and his attorney followed me as I quickly went through the remainder of the upstairs. Since we’d already hit the mother lode, my search was cursory. The upstairs rooms were empty, other than the guest room being used by Michael and Chelsea. I peeked under the bed and in the drawers in the guest room as Chelsea snored. The only thing I noted was that the bottle of Viagra held fewer pills than before. I didn’t want to risk waking Chelsea and have to deal with that twit again, so I didn’t bother checking under the mattress.

It seemed like a small oversight at the time.

But now, in retrospect, it was the biggest mistake of my career.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Dirty Business

As I grasped the railing at the top of the stairs to head down to the first floor, Gryder excused himself to change. Frankly, I was glad to be rid of him, even if for just a few moments. The guy reminded me of the Joker from
Batman.
He gave me the willies with his slick hair and fake grin.

Gryder’s attorney followed me down to the first floor where I went from one end to the other, checking closets, cabinets, and the kitchen pantry. Other than the folding table in the breakfast nook, several takeout boxes in the fridge, and a few pots and pans in the cabinets, the downstairs was empty.

After I closed the last cabinet, movement outside the kitchen window caught my eye. Brett stood on the patio with his back to me, pulling pieces from a stack of white plastic lawn sprinkler pipe. He turned and our eyes met through the glass.

His face registered surprise and his mouth formed the word “Tara?” just before a bullet whizzed by me, passing so close to my head it took a few strands of my hair with it. The glass separating Brett and me burst into shards raining down on the patio.

Behind me, Gryder’s attorney shrieked, hurling his black leather briefcase at his client in an instinctual act of self-preservation. Gryder stood in the doorway to the kitchen, pistol poised for another shot. The briefcase hit Gryder broadside in the face, knocking him aside, buying his attorney enough time to sprint for the front door and me enough time to scramble onto the countertop and dive out the window.

As I fell to the ground, I instinctively put out my right hand to break my fall. Another mistake. My wrist snapped as it absorbed the weight of my body full force, the bones crunching, crushed by the pressure. I cried out in agony, rolling onto my back and holding my right hand in my left, writhing in pain among the pieces of broken glass.

Brett stood on the patio, looking down at me, his mouth gaping. His years of friendly competition on the golf course hadn’t prepared him for this type of violent, life-or-death confrontation. If he’d been involved in Gryder’s scheme, he clearly hadn’t expected things to end like this.

I needed to get up, get the hell out of there before Gryder could shoot again. I rolled onto my knees, but with only one functioning hand, I had a hard time getting to my feet on the slipping, sliding shards of glass.

Brett grabbed me by the arm and yanked me first to my feet, then off the porch, out of the line of fire. “What’s going on?”

“We came for Gryder!” I cried, unable to breathe and gulping for air, my right arm hanging limp and useless at my side. “To arrest him!”

Brett’s face registered surprise, then comprehension.

The landscape workers nearby had heard the gunshot, abandoned their equipment and scattered, some running along the lakeshore, others rocketing around the side of the house to the street. Only the guy operating the Bobcat down the hill continued to work, the noise of the machine having drowned out the sound of the gun’s blast. One of the other men ran toward him, frantically waving his arms.

Brett and I took off running along the back of the house. We were a dozen feet from the corner when Eddie came around it.

“Go back! Gryder’s got a gun!” I motioned with my left arm. The gesture threw me off balance.
Whump.
In my hurry to get the hell out of Dodge, I’d fallen into a four-foot-deep hole, one the crew had dug for the oak trees, and knocked the wind out of me. Brett pulled on my good arm, trying to help me out of the hole, but my feet kept slipping in the loose dirt. I couldn’t get enough traction to climb out. Bullets hit the dirt around us, kicking up small poofs of dust. It was only a matter of time before one of those bullets would find its mark.

I yanked my arm out of Brett’s grip and rolled onto my back inside the hole, fumbling with my left hand to free my Glock from my hip holster. Shrieking against the pain in my right wrist, I gripped the gun with both hands and fired back at Gryder. My shots went wild, none coming remotely close to the French doors from which he was firing. Gryder ducked back inside, probably to reload.

“Shit!”

Brett tried again to pull me out of the hole. If I had ever doubted his loyalties or his character, I sure as hell had no doubts now. He was risking his life.

For me.

Gryder’s face reappeared at the glass doors. He took aim at us again.

“Brett, go! I’ll be okay!” At least I had the hole to hide in. Brett was a sitting duck.

“I can’t just leave you here!”

A bullet hit the ground just inches from us as Brett continued to try to wrestle me out of the hole. Brett would be killed trying to save me. And I would be killed because I couldn’t get myself out of this hole with my broken wrist.

Another bullet hit the loose soil in front of us. I pointed my gun up at Brett’s face. “Go or I’ll shoot you myself!”

Brett’s eyes met mine over the barrel of my gun. He glanced back at Gryder and finally seemed to realize the hopelessness of our situation. “I’ll get help!” He turned and ran, a bullet lodging in the dirt where he’d just stood.

I ducked down into the hole and made myself as small as possible as the bullets flew over me. I could have used some of Alice in Wonderland’s shrinking potion about then. I heard cars start up and roar off, tires screeching, as the landscape workers fled.

Gryder squeezed off another shot, this one hitting the top edge of the hole, sending a cascade of dirt into my eyes. I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. When Gryder paused to reload again, I peeked out from the hole and squeezed off another round, taking out a chunk of wood trim two feet to the left of the back door. Dammit! With my shattered wrist, I couldn’t aim for shit.

Where the hell was Eddie? Why hadn’t he taken Gryder out yet? He wouldn’t have run away and left his partner in danger. He was probably crouched nearby, gun drawn, waiting for a clean shot and thinking what a great character-building experience I was having down in this hole with bullets raining down on me.

“I have all the character I need!” I screamed to the cloudless blue sky, all I could see above me.

I hoped someone had called for backup. My cell phone was in my purse back on the kitchen floor where I’d dropped it.

“Nowhere to run to,” Gryder’s voice was coming closer. “Nowhere to hide.” Another bullet lodged in the dirt just above my head, showering more loose earth down on me.

I stuck my hand up over the edge of the hole and fired off a few rounds toward the voice. I squeezed again but nothing happened.

My clip was empty.

And I didn’t have another.

A panicked cry tore from my throat. Ross or Gryder’s attorney would surely have called the local cops by now, but out here in this secluded location it would take precious minutes for help to arrive. For a few seconds, everything was quiet. Had I hit him? Was Gryder dead? My breath came in loud gulps and white sparks twirled around my vision.

A dark shadow fell over the hole. I looked up to see Gryder smiling his shit-eating grin down at me. His belt had come undone and the paisley robe hung loose, revealing the too-tight bikini briefs that barely contained his guy parts. I would’ve been disgusted if I hadn’t been so terrified.

The shit-eating grin turned even shittier as Gryder pointed his gun at my face. “They say there are only two sure things in life. Death and taxes. I say there’s only one sure thing.” The smile morphed into a nasty leer. “Death.”

I was going to die. No doubt about it. At least by dying I’d avoid all the paperwork this shootout would generate. With that realization, something in me snapped. Funny how staring death in the face can make a person bold. Really, what have you got to lose at that point?

I eased myself onto my elbows and glared up at Gryder. “You’re a scumbag. My partner will have to fill out a bunch of forms after you kill me. He hates filling out forms as much as I do. Your wife’s a skank and you’ve got the second-worst hair I’ve ever seen.” Hey, I only said facing death made me bold, I never said it made me eloquent.

Gryder sniggered down at me. “Forms? Bad hair? You really want those to be your last words?”

“No. She doesn’t.” Brett stepped into my field of vision. In his left hand he held a Glock. In his right he held an eighteen-inch section of PVC pipe. He swung the pipe and smacked Gryder upside the head with it.
Whack!

If this had been a movie, Gryder’s grin would have melted away, the evil gleam in his eyes would have gone dull, and he would’ve fallen face-first into the hole. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a movie and the plastic pipe to the head only stunned him momentarily. But a moment was all we needed.

Brett flung the pipe aside and held the Glock out to me. “They didn’t teach us how to shoot at the country club.”

I dropped my empty gun and took the weapon from Brett, wincing as the movement sent shooting pains up my arm. Wait. This was Eddie’s gun. What was Brett doing with Eddie’s gun?

Putting a hand under each of my armpits, Brett hauled me out of the hole. A few feet away, Gryder staggered to his feet, his robe dusty, his gun still grasped in his hand. With an improvised war cry, I crouched and hurled my entire body against Gryder’s legs, knocking the man backward into the dirt. As Gryder fell, he got off one last shot that hit the rooster-shaped weather vane on top of the house, sending the bird spinning with a resounding
ping
.

Brett pounced. Straddling the older man in the dirt, Brett pounded Gryder’s face with his fists, bloodying his nose. A string of expletives spewed from Brett’s mouth as he wrapped his hands around Gryder’s neck, squeezing and banging the older man’s Pez Head against the hard-packed earth.

If I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, I never would’ve believed Brett was capable of such violence. I scrambled across the dirt, stuck the Glock in my waistband, and picked up Gryder’s gun, which he’d dropped when Brett took him down.

I debated letting Brett bang Gryder’s head against the ground until his skull caved in, but letting Brett take care of my problems for me would only cause more problems for him. What would the Rotary Club think if they learned Brett had killed someone with his bare hands? He might be forced to resign his membership.

I stepped over to the two men. “Stop, Brett. We’ve got him. He can’t get away now.”

Hands still around Gryder’s neck, Brett turned to look at me. “Just one more?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Why not.” And a pinch to grow an inch.

Brett punched Gryder’s swollen purple face one last time then let go, dropping his head back to the ground where it bounced slightly. Gryder turned his head to the side and spit out a bloody bicuspid. “Thit!”

As Brett and I stood, a door above us banged open. Chelsea stepped onto the balcony wearing nothing but a drunken scowl and a pair of pink panties. “Keep it down! Some people are trying to sleep.” She turned and staggered back inside.

Sirens wailed out front. A few seconds later, a police officer rounded the corner of the house with his gun drawn. The officer pulled Gryder to his feet and fitted him with handcuffs.

Everything in me wanted to burst into tears right then. Not only was my wrist sending sharp bolts of pain up my arm, but I was emotionally shattered, as well. Still, there was no way I’d let Gryder see me cry. I wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction.

As Gryder was led to an ambulance in his dirty paisley robe, he glanced back at me, his shit-eating grin now an eat-shit glare.

With the con artist now in custody, my focus shifted to Eddie. Where was he? “Let’s go find Eddie,” I told Brett. “I’ve got a bone to pick with him.”

Brett’s face clouded. He gently grabbed my shoulders, his eyes locking on mine. “Tara,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge a mental image. “Eddie was hit.”

Eddie? Hit? “What?” My mind didn’t want to go there, refused to go there. “No. No? No!” I ran to the corner of the house where I’d last seen Eddie, frantically looking around for my partner.

I could see Ross crouched in the open hatch of Brett’s SUV. I ran to the car to find Eddie lying in the back. Ross had his suit jacket pressed to the side of Eddie’s head to stanch the flow of blood from what I feared was a bullet wound. Eddie’s eyes were closed, his face slack. A red smear of blood ran along the floor of the cargo bay.

My brain whirled and my hands reflexively went to my face. “Ohmigod!” I struggled into the space. Putting my left hand to Eddie’s neck, I felt a slow, weak pulse. “Eddie?” I croaked. “Eddie?”

No response.

Ross met my gaze, his eyes wide. The unflappable attorney was flapped now. I took Eddie’s right hand in both of mine and, despite the pain it caused my wrist, squeezed it, holding it to my cheek while I prayed, tears streaming down my face. Brett leaned into the trunk, his hand on my back, the warmth of his touch letting me know he was there for me.

Whup-whup-whup.
A medical helicopter appeared overhead, searching for a place to land. The pilot set the chopper down next to the house, kicking up a tornado of dust and pebbles that plinked off the car while we shielded our faces. In minutes, the medics had loaded Eddie’s limp form onto the helicopter and flown off.

I collapsed on the tailgate, watching the helicopter disappear into the empty, cloudless sky. Brett sat next to me, his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders, pulling me to his chest when I broke into uncontrollable sobs.

Ross sat on the other side of me. He ran a trembling hand through his thinning hair and filled in the blanks for me. He said he and Eddie had found the front door locked when they returned from loading the boxes in the van. Gryder must have locked them out of the house. Eddie’d gone to try the back door and was headed around the house when Gryder had fired, hitting Eddie in the head. Eddie’d dragged himself a few feet before he lost consciousness. While I’d been stuck in the hole out back, Brett had pulled Eddie out of the line of fire, possibly—
hopefully
—saving Eddie’s life. Brett and Ross carried Eddie to the Navigator. Brett had then grabbed the pipe and returned to rescue me. My God! How brave of him.