Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (20 page)

I wandered past the harpist, giving the woman a smile to let her know I appreciated the beautiful music she was making, before moving on. On the raised platform at the front of the church stood three tables loaded with appetizers and finger foods for the crowd to enjoy. Though I’d eaten the delicious salad at Bonnie’s house, it would be silly not to sample some of the offerings here, wouldn’t it? I eased my way through the crowd to the front of the room and filled a plate with fruits, cheeses, spinach-filled pastry puffs, and more.

A loud, high-pitched titter drew my attention to my right. Aly Pelham, whom I recognized from her photos online, stood with a small group of people. She was every bit as polished and eye-catching as she’d looked in her pictures. Her sleeveless tangerine dress cascaded over her tall, curvy form like water over rocks. Her bleached-blond hair was swept up in an elegant twist, revealing dark roots and a pair of spiraling silver earrings dangling from her ears. The silver color was repeated in her five-inch heels. An enormous diamond nearly the size of a football graced her ring finger.

Behind her stood a man who could only be Rodney Fowler. He looked just like his mother, only with shorter, darker hair tinged here and there with gray. He wore a classic black suit, white dress shirt, no tie. His expression was bored yet tolerant. It seemed clear he was here only to indulge his much younger bride-to-be.

I meandered closer, drawing near enough to eavesdrop on the conversation and observe the couple with more scrutiny. Aly laughed a little too loudly at the others’ jokes, leaned in a little too close when they spoke, exclaimed a little too loudly in response to their comments, reached out to touch them a little too often. Truth be told, it was a little hard to watch. She was trying too hard to fit in with the other artists, working too hard to earn their respect, almost as if she knew she wasn’t really one of them. The harder she tried, the quicker the others slipped away to join other conversations.

“You must let me show you my exhibit at the Unic,” she told a woman who’d begun to edge away from the group. “I can arrange for a private viewing. You will absolutely love it!”

“Wonderful,” the woman said without conviction. “I’ll be in touch.”

When Aly’s group had dwindled and she was glancing around for a conversation to horn in on, I sidled up to her. “Hello, Ms. Pelham, Mr. Fowler. I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway, from the IRS.”

Rodney stepped up closer behind his fianc
é
e in a protective gesture. “What are you doing here?” It was more an accusation than a question.

“Just enjoying the art.” I lifted my plate. “And these cheesy, puffy things.”
Seriously, what’s in these yummy hors d’oeuvres? Crack?

Rodney looked around for a moment. “It’s entirely inappropriate of you to accost us in public like this.”

“I’m not accosting anyone,” I said. But given that his knickers were already in a twist, I figured I might as well ask them a question or two, see if I could obtain some information. Without waiting for a response from Rodney, I turned to Aly. “You seem to be more interested in art than Rodney. Was it your idea to create the Unic?”

Aly’s eyes grew wide and her lashes fluttered. She looked from me, to Rodney, then back to me. “Well, we—”

Before she could finish speaking, Rodney put a hand on her shoulder to silence her. “We don’t have to answer your questions.”

“That’s true.” Everyone had the right to claim Fifth Amendment protection, after all. “But if you give me a little information now, I might not have to take your deposition later.”

I knew to them I was coming off as an overbearing agent, but truly I was trying to keep this situation more casual and congenial, if such a thing was possible. My case wasn’t on entirely solid footing and I knew that. If they’d just give a little, we might be able to reach some type of acceptable compromise. Frankly, I was damn tired of all of my cases ending in shootouts or explosions or fistfights. “So, would you like to tell me now how the Unic got its start?”

Before Aly could get a word out, Rodney answered for her. “We came up with the idea together.”

“That’s very nice,” I said. I looked at Aly again. “I’d love to hear more about your art. What projects are you working on now?”

Her eyelashes fluttered again. “I … I haven’t done much lately. My muse seems to … have taken a long vacation.”

“Like writer’s block?” I asked. “Or the artistic equivalent?”

“Exactly. That’s why I go to events like this, to look for inspiration and be among my fellow artists.”

I supposed the muse thing made sense. But if someone truly wanted to make a creative field their profession, didn’t they have to hunt down their muse and drag her back, kicking and screaming, if she failed to show up?

At that point, I honestly had no idea what else to ask them that might be helpful. There was one thing, however, that I was curious about. “What do you think the purpose of art is, Ms. Pelham?”

She blinked again, her expression bewildered, as if she’d never considered this critical question. “The purpose of art?”

“Right,” I said. “Is it supposed to be a means of personal expression for the artist? To send a message to those who see it? To make us think or feel? To simply give us something pretty to decorate our houses with? Or is it something else entirely?”

She tilted her head, as if considering my words. “I guess art is supposed to connect us with other people somehow.”

Not a bad answer. The art I’d most enjoyed were the pieces I could somehow relate to, like
Life’s Compost.
Maybe Aly wasn’t a total fraud. Maybe she was just insecure and lazy.

“Thanks for speaking with me,” I told them. “I’m leaving now. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

I felt their stares bore into my back as I made my way to the door.

chapter nineteen

M
istakeout

On my drive home from the gallery, I decided to swing by the apartment complex near Town East Mall where Terrence Motley had gone after picking up the backpack from the Waffle House. Maybe he’d show up again tonight. If I could figure out which unit Motley went into, I could pass that information along to Nick. After all, the more information I could gather, the quicker the DEA could resolve the cartel case, right? And if there was anything I wanted, it was a quick resolution. With my nerves on edge and my mind constantly consumed with worry, it felt as if Nick had been gone forever, the seconds passing like centuries. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

I waited at the curb fifty yards from the entrance until a car turned into the complex. Hurriedly, I started my engine and drove up behind the other car, staying close on its tail as it went through the open gate. I hoped my behavior wouldn’t seem suspicious. When Alicia and I had lived at a gated apartment complex after college, people regularly followed other cars through the gate and nobody thought twice about it. As big as the complex was, this kind of thing probably happened all the time.

Having made it through, I circled the parking lot, looking for the pickup but not spotting it, before I settled on a parking space near the exit. From that vantage point, I could keep an eye on the entire lot, plus execute a quick getaway if needed. Throwing my gearshift into reverse, I backed into the space and cut my engine.

I’d been sitting in the dimly lit lot for an hour, keeping a lookout for Motley’s truck and watching a romantic comedy on my phone, when my eyelids and head began to feel heavy. Between working virtually nonstop on my cases and not getting enough good sleep, I was beyond tired. Still, I couldn’t afford to take the power nap I craved. If I sat out here and missed Motley, my efforts would be for naught, and Nick and Christina would have to spend even more time undercover with the cartel.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I
wouldn’t
let that happen.

I blinked, performed a dozen seated jumping jacks to get my blood moving, and slapped my own face for good measure.
Ow!
That ought to keep me awake for a while. But just in case things went awry, I set the timer on my phone to go off in fifteen minutes.

Things went awry.

Despite my efforts to stay awake, a thick mental fog rolled in. My head nodded forward, snapped back, and nodded forward again.

Rap-rap-rap.

I jerked awake.
What the heck?

Glancing frantically around me, I spotted a man in lounge pants and a T-shirt standing next to my car window. When our eyes met, he made a motion for me to roll the window down.

“I’m the onsite property manager,” he said. “I got a report that someone was sleeping in the lot.”

Looked like
I
was that someone.

“Sorry.” I offered him a smile. “It’s been a long week.”

He glanced at my window. “You don’t have a parking decal. Are you a resident?”

Damn.

“No.”

“Then what are you doing out here?”

Think quick, Tara.
“My … uh … ex owes me over twenty grand in child support.”
Nice lie. Good for me!
“I thought I saw his truck pull in here the other day, so I came back to see if I could find him. He moves all the time. You know, trying to stay one step ahead of me and the process servers.”

“A deadbeat dad, huh? What’s his name?”

“If I tell you, are you going to tip him off?”

“Hell, no. My father still owes my mom years of back support. If I can help you out, I will.”

Thank goodness.
“His name’s Terrence Motley.” I spelled it out for him. “M-O-T-L-E-Y.”

“The name Motley doesn’t ring a bell,” the guy said, shaking his head. “But this is a big place and we’ve got people moving in and out all the time. Let me take a look at our official tenant list to be sure.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and swiped his finger upward, apparently looking over the list. He shook his head a second time. “There’s no Motley on a lease here. Of course he could be shacking up with another tenant. People do that all the time. The tenants are supposed to notify us if they get a new roommate but not all of them do.”

“Thanks for checking. Okay if I wait out here a little longer, see if he shows up?”

“Sorry,” he said. “The woman who reported you is a total pain in the ass. If you don’t leave, she’s liable to call the cops and report you for trespassing.”

Damn busybody.
“All right.” I sat up straighter in my seat. “I’ll go now, turn the matter over to my attorney.”

“Good idea.” He backed away from the car. “And good luck.”

With one last nod his way, I started the engine, drove to the exit, and left the complex, the gate clanging shut behind me.

*   *   *

At five
A.M.
Sunday morning, the secret cell phone played its rumba tune, waking me once again. I grabbed it off my dresser, opened it, and croaked, “Hey.”

“Sorry to wake you,” Nick said, sounding hurried. “What do you have for me?”

I’d left my notes right next to the phone. Sitting up, I turned on my lamp. “The guy in the Toyota went to the Waffle House on Jupiter Road. He set a backpack on the floor and left it behind after he paid his bill.”

“You could see that from the parking lot?”

I didn’t want Nick to get angry with me, but I didn’t want to lie to him, either. “I went inside.”

“Dammit, Tara! I told you to stay in your car! These thugs make the dealers in
Breaking Bad
look like characters from
Barney.
”

“It was safe. There were a bunch of people inside. Besides, I figured I’d look more suspicious if I was sitting in the lot in my car.”

“You weren’t supposed to do that, either! You were just supposed to see where the Toyota went.”

I exhaled a huff. “You can punish me when you get back if you’d like.”

“I just might do that.”

I explained that the backpack was picked up by a tall white guy. “He drove a pickup.” I gave Nick the pickup’s plates. “The truck’s registered to a Terrence Motley. He’s got two convictions for marijuana possession. I followed him to an apartment complex near Town East Mall.” I gave Nick the address of the complex, neglecting to mention my aborted stakeout last night. No sense getting him all riled up over nothing. “The complex is gated so I couldn’t tell which unit he went into. But I wasn’t the only one following him.”

“Are you saying he had another tail?” Nick’s voice held surprise.

“Yep. Two men in a Dodge Avenger.” I rattled off the license plate number. “The car’s registered to a Carlos Uvalde with a San Antonio address. His driver’s license data matches the car registration. He’s got priors for selling heroin and assaulting a cop.”

Nick was quiet a moment, probably processing the information and making notes. “Thanks, Tara. This gives us a couple of new leads.”

“Good.”

“But I’m still going to punish you.”

“I’m counting on it.” Hell, I was looking forward to it.

chapter twenty

H
old the Onion

First thing at work Monday morning, I brushed the fallen rose petals off my desk and added some water to the vase to give the waning flowers a fresh drink. The second thing I did was venture back to Josh’s office for an update on the e-mail phishing case. If he’d been able to track down the computer from which the e-mails had been sent, that would go a long way in helping us identify and catch the culprit or culprits.

I stepped into his doorway. “Hey, Josh.”

He gestured for me to come inside and take a seat. “Word around the water cooler is that you hit a home run Friday night.”

“Yep. I credit Nick’s lucky bat.” And a burst of motivation fueled by my desire to see El Cuchillo vanquished. I plunked myself down in a chair. “Speaking of luck, did you have any?”

“Oh, I’ve had lots of luck. All of it bad.” Josh slid frustrated fingers into his curls. “I couldn’t track the e-mails to their source. Whoever sent them used an onion router.”

“An onion router?”
What the heck is that?
I knew my way around guns and could disassemble, clean, and reassemble one with my eyes closed, but where technology was concerned I was a total cavewoman. When my eyes glazed over and drool pooled in the corner of my mouth, Josh realized further explanation was necessary.