Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (29 page)

My quarry now cuffed, I sat back on my haunches to catch my breath. Chasing this idiot had winded me. Phew.

“Let me go!” Stanovich screeched at the top of his lungs. “Let me go!”

I levered myself to a stand and looked down at him. “Not gonna happen, buddy.”

From all around us came shushing sounds. A quick and efficient
Sh.
An elongated
Shhhhh.
An emphatic
Shh!
One bibliophile even offered a melodic and rythmic
sh-sh-sh-sh-sh,
like a human lawn sprinkler.

Keeping my voice low lest I be shushed to death, I read Peter Stanovich his rights.

“You have the right to remain silent,” I whispered. “I suggest you take advantage of it.”

The moron didn’t listen to my advice. “Let me go!” he shrieked again. “Let me go!”

A fresh medley of shushes came from all around.

“Let me go!”

Jeez.
If this guy didn’t have the sense to shut up, I’d just have to shut him up myself, wouldn’t I?

I grabbed a book from the shelf, a juicy Scottish romance featuring a man in a kilt with six-pack abs and a bare, waxed chest on the cover. I wouldn’t mind eating some haggis off his firm tummy.

“Good choice,” Will said, gesturing to the cover.

I cut him a questioning look.

“What?” he said defensively. “My wife reads those books and leaves them lying around.”

“Help!” hollered Stanovich, trying a new tactic. “I’m being attacked! Someone help!”

The library patrons were far less concerned with this man’s safety than they were about the noise level.

Sh!

Shhh!

Sh-sh-sh!

Opening the book, I ripped out page 56.
Rrrip!
I crumpled the paper and bent down to shove it in Stanovich’s mouth.
Ha!
Not only had I made him eat his own words, he was now eating those of author Rose N. Bloom, a pen name if ever I’d heard one.

Rrrip!
I ripped out page 57 and repeated the process, having to push a little harder to get this page into his mouth given that he was working his tongue, trying to expel the previous one. I continued to recite his rights. “Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

Rrrip!
“You have the right to an attorney,” I said, shoving page 58 into his mouth now. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

By the time I was done reading his rights, Stanovich’s mouth was filled to the choking point with all of chapter 4 and a portion of chapter 5. His gag reflex activated.
Hork! Hork! Hork!
The sound was followed, of course, by a chorus of
Shh! Shh! Shh!

A petite librarian wearing a pastel yellow dress, reading glasses, and a shocked expression sprinted up the aisle. “What is going on here!”

Her gaze traveled from the choking man on the floor to the book in my hand, a gasp leaping from her throat as she took in the evidence of my horrific act of bibliocide.

A warm blush spread up my cheeks, just like the time my elementary school librarian had caught me looking up the word “erection” in the dictionary. Prior to what I had just learned on the playground, I’d only heard a derivative of the word used in conjunction with the word “set,” as in “erector set.” “Um … is this available for checkout?”

Shh!

Shhhhh.

Sh!

Disregarding the pleas for silence, Stanovich turned his head to the side and—
hwaaak
—expelled what had to be the world’s largest spitball.

Will looked down at it and snapped a photo. “I’m sending this in to
The Guinness Book of World Records
.”

I pointed down at it. The words “swollen, engorged manhood” stared up at us. “You might want to shoot from a different angle.”

Will nudged the wad with his toe, rolling it until the words disappeared over the horizon, and snapped another shot.

Bending down, I pulled a wallet from the back pocket of Stanovich’s pants. He had nearly seven hundred dollars in cash inside, as well as a Michigan driver’s license identifying him as Stanley Peters. Like me, he’d chosen an alias not too different from his real name.

“Jig’s up, Stan my man,” I said. “That’s what happens when you let your greed get the best of you.”

While we waited for the marshals to arrive and haul Peters off to the klink, I sorted things out with the librarian. When she learned I was a federal agent, she waived the damage fee for the book. She didn’t spare me the disapproving look, however. “Next time might I suggest you choose a less popular genre with which to disable your perpetrators. A reference book, perhaps.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I did my best to look contrite. Actually, I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself. Not every agent would have been so resourceful. Luckily for me, I was a person who could think on her feet.

Once the marshals had taken Peters away, Will and I started our trek back to the IRS offices.

I turned to him as we waited at a stoplight. “
LeBron Tee?
What the heck was that?”

“It’s a cross between LeBron James and Mister T,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I wanted to sound like a badass black dude.”

“You
are
a badass black dude. Just because you don’t wear gold chains or a sports jersey doesn’t mean you aren’t as tough as they are.”

He sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But when I transferred over from the collections department, I guess I thought special agents would look different somehow. I’m wearing the same suits I wore then.”

“Being a badass isn’t about how you look on the outside,” I said. “It’s about who you are on the inside. But maybe you’re on to something. We could propose a uniform to Lu. Maybe something with tights and a cape printed with dollar signs?”

“Tights?” Will cringed. “I have a hard enough time with briefs.”

chapter twenty-nine

T
oga! Toga!

I returned to the office to find that the very last rose petal had fallen off the stem, dropping to its death on top of my Fifty-Yard Line Foundation file. Even though the only thing that remained in the vase were thorny, mold-covered stems, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. They might be the last flowers Nick ever sent me.

It was after five o’clock, well past quitting time, but I decided to take one last glance at my inbox. Good thing I did. To my surprise and delight, I found a manila envelope from Anthony Giacomo. The stamp on the outside indicated it had been hand-delivered by a courier.

Inside I found a certified check from Rodney Fowler in the amount of $100,000, less than my last, padded demand but far more than I’d hoped to settle for.

I threw a victorious fist into the air. “Score!”

The attached letter from Anthony, typed up on his law firm’s letterhead, read:

You drive a hard bargain, Agent Holloway, but I’ve managed to convince the Fowlers to bend, at least partially, to your will. Of course my upstanding clients admit nothing, other than that you were an immense nuisance, comparable to a bit of toilet paper stuck to one’s shoe, as well as an artistic neophyte with a pathetic and unenviable lack of discernment. However, it was worth the check’s sum simply to put this matter to rest.

As far as your list of suggestions regarding the operation of the Unic, the staff will implement them as soon as reasonably possible, but in no event later than two months from the date of this letter.

If you agree to these generous terms, please send us a settlement agreement for signature. If you do not agree, be advised that I will take you to court, shred you like an Enron financial report, and eat your remains for dinner, paired with an endive and radicchio salad and a lively, but not overly sweet moscato. Dessert as yet to be determined, though I’m leaning toward a hazelnut mousse.

Sincerely, lovingly, fondly, and platonically yours, forever and ever,

Anthony Giacomo, Esq.

I pulled out my cell phone and called his office, leaving a one-word response on his voice mail. “Deal.”

Two cases down, two to go. Things were looking up. All I needed now was to nail the frat rat running the phishing scam and catch the Kuykendahls selling animals for cash under the table. Then my work would be done.

Of course things always sounded so easy in theory …

*   *   *

I arrived home from work to find that my parents were already at my house. My mom, who was petite and chestnut haired like me, stood in the kitchen making chicken-fried steak, stewed okra, and mashed potatoes with gravy.
Yum!
My broad-shouldered, leather-skinned father wrangled a new air filter into my living room intake vent, God bless ’im.

I gave them both a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

My mother tossed a piece of breaded meat into the sizzling frying pan.
Tsssss.
“Anything for our little girl,” she said. “Though one of these times I wish you’d just ask us for something normal, like a loan. This whole lion-hunting business has got me all in a dither. What if those folks realize you’re out to get them? They’ll all be armed. Heck, they could fill you full of lead and feed you to that lion and nobody would be the wiser.”

“We’ll be fine.” Dad screwed the metal grate back into place and stood. “I’m the best shot in east Texas and I taught Tara everything I know.”

True, and at some point the pupil had surpassed the master, though my father wasn’t likely to admit it. Far be it from me to rub it in his face, either. Especially when doing so would mean I’d have to figure out how to change my air filters.

“Dad’s right, Mom,” I said. “We can take care of ourselves.”

She grabbed the potato masher and began pulverizing the spuds, probably as much to work out her anxieties as to prepare dinner. “You two think you’re so tough. I have half a mind to let you cook dinner.”

She’d never do that and we all knew it. I couldn’t cook to save my life, and the only thing my father could make was chili or grilled meat on his backyard barbecue.

I went upstairs and changed out of my work clothes and into a pair of shorts and a tank top I could wear under the toga later. When I returned downstairs, my mother handed me a glass of sweet tea.

“I’m almost afraid to ask.” She took my hand. “Have you gotten any word from Nick?”

I’d told her about the secret phone, too. My mother had a way of wheedling information out of me. “His last text said he hoped to see me soon.”

Her eyes brightened with hope. “He’s coming home?”

“I don’t really know,” I said. “I wasn’t sure how much to read into it. He might have meant they were about to wrap up their investigation and make arrests, or he could have simply meant that he hoped things would move quickly. Who knows?”

She gave my hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Nick’s tough. He’ll be back before you know it.”

I knew my mother only meant to be supportive, but her words made me want to scream. My hands formed involuntary fists, my nails digging into my palms. Nick might
not
be back before I knew it. He might not ever be back again. I was sick of everyone trying to cheer me up and act like this wasn’t a big deal, because it was. It was the biggest deal that had ever happened to me. I couldn’t just whistle “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” and pretend that it was a wonderful day, because my, oh, my, it sure as hell was not.

But I supposed I couldn’t fault my mom. I’d have been just as annoyed and upset if she’d done the opposite, pointed out the danger he was in and the real possibility that he, like other undercover agents before him, could lose his life to the cause. I should cut her some slack. There was nothing anyone could say to me that would be right.

My parents and I ate dinner on my back patio. Mom caught me up on the gossip from back home in Nacogdoches. “You remember Esther and Vernon Littlefield?”

“That old couple who owned the farm down the road?”

“That’s them. The sheriff found two acres of wacky weed growing on their back forty. Arrested ’em both. ’Course they claim they had no idea what it was, that it just cropped up naturally. But Linda over at the post office says she heard from Juanita at the doughnut place who heard from Gwendolyn at the hair salon that the Littlefields were selling it to one of those medical marijuana stores in Seattle.”

“Growing a crop of Mary Jane.” Dad jabbed his fork into a bite of meat. “I suppose that’s one way to supplement your social security.”

Mom went on to tell me that she’d run into one of my old high school friends at the grocery store. “I remember when you two used to have those sleepovers. You’d stay up all night giggling and carrying on.”

Life sure had been easy and worry-free back then.
Sigh.

“Clara Humphreys sends her regards.”

“How nice,” I replied. I’d always liked Clara, even if she tended to prattle on about her health problems for hours on end. “Send my regards right back to her.” And, while I was at it, why not send some to Broadway and Herald Square, too?

When we’d finished our meal, my mother served us heaping helpings of her homemade blueberry pie for dessert. When I finished, I felt as swollen and engorged as the “manhood” referenced in Rose N. Bloom’s romance novel.

Later that evening, as my parents settled in front of my TV downstairs for the night, I went upstairs to get ready for the toga party at the Gabba Gabba Hey house. I loaded on the makeup, hoping the excessive eyeliner and blush might make me appear more like a coed vying for male attention than a federal agent who’d graduated from college more than half a decade prior and was attending the party only with the hope of nailing a suspect, not looking to get nailed.

When I went to fashion a toga from my sheets, however, I realized that the dark green color wouldn’t look quite right. The sheets on my guest room bed were no better. They were light blue with a striped border. Looked like I’d have to make a quick stop by a department store on my way to meet Josh and Kira.