Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers (9 page)

Evidence in hand, we drove the few blocks to the lawyer’s office and parked in the underground garage.

We rode the elevator up, the lights on the panel board ticking off our ascent. The higher we ascended in the building, the higher the rates charged by the law firms housed within, the dings of the elevator bell like a cash register ringing up the bill. Two hundred per hour, two hundred fifty, three hundred, three fifty, four hundred. The bell emitted a final ding as we came to a halt. Given that we stopped only two floors from the top, I’d put Pachuco’s attorney in the four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour range.

Although we were right on time for our appointment, Pachuco and his attorney made us wait the requisite ten minutes, a typical power play. No problem with me. The brief downtime allowed me to do some browsing on the Neiman Marcus Web site. The holidays were coming up and I wanted a kick-ass dress to wear on New Year’s Eve, when Nick planned to take me out for dinner and dancing, topping the night off with drinks at the bar atop Reunion Tower.

A seasoned secretary stepped into the waiting area to round us up. “Ms. Brunwald and Mr. Pachuco are ready to see you now. This way, please.”

We followed her down a hallway of offices far more plush and inviting than my plain office at the IRS building. But I supposed I couldn’t complain. Gotta use the taxpayer’s money wisely, right? And with all the time I spent out in the field, I wasn’t even in the office much. Nonetheless, it might be nice to have a little more square footage and a cushy rug to brighten up the place.

Brunwald’s secretary stopped at the open door of a small conference room, holding out her arm to indicate we should enter. After we stepped inside, she softly closed the door behind us.

The conference room, too, was plush, with a cherrywood conference table and a credenza topped with a sculpture that vaguely resembled an oversized frozen waffle standing on its side. Yep, I’m a real connoisseur of modern art.

After checking out the art, I took a gander at Pachuco. He was a slightly boxy guy with olive skin, brown hair, and a brown suit. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about him.

Seeing white-collar criminals in person was always a bit of a surprise, maybe even a letdown. I mean, I was fighting crime here. Was it asking too much to face down an intriguing villain like the Joker or Freddy Krueger or Cruella de Vil? But no such luck for me. White-collar criminals always looked so normal, so harmless, like someone you’d see in line at the grocery store or in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. Yet those standard, conventional façades hid evil creatures with black hearts, monsters who thought nothing of taking what wasn’t theirs, of leaving people’s lives in ruin. They basked in the spoils of their dastardly work without a second thought to the devastation they’d caused.

Were they sociopaths? Egomaniacs? Self-centered people with an overactive sense of entitlement?

Probably a little of all of those things, each to varying degrees.

Agent Ackerman introduced me and Eddie to Pachuco and his attorney. Nancy Brunwald wore a grayish-blue pantsuit with a short scarf tied around her neck. Like her secretary, she was seasoned yet attractive, falling somewhere between Ellen DeGeneres and Hillary Clinton.

We took our seats and Ackerman got right down to business. “Agent Holloway noticed some progress payments made out to Pachuco Custom Homes that were run through the Game Set Match corporate account. What can you tell us about those payments and the construction contracts?”

An open-ended question, designed to solicit information without immediately revealing our hand.

Pachuco’s eyes cut to the side, as if he were looking to the waffle art for answers. All he’d get there was the demand to “L’Eggo My Eggo.”

Brunwald glanced at her client before turning back to us. “Can you show us what you’re talking about?”

Smart move. They weren’t going to give us an answer until they saw the evidence they were up against.

I slid copies of the bank statements across the table to them, along with the construction contracts and requests for progress payments. Brunwald and her client carefully looked them over, slowly turning the pages as if reading every word of the documents, though I sensed they were taking their sweet time in order to come up with a viable defense.

Brunwald’s eyes narrowed slightly and her lips grew tight. My guess was this was the first she’d heard of the progress payments. Really, didn’t people realize they needed to be completely honest with their lawyers? An attorney couldn’t prepare a viable defense without the full picture.

Pachuco broke out in a sweat, anxiously chewing his bottom lip.

Neener-neener.

Brunwald looked up. “Why are you asking about these payments?”

That’s for us to know and you to find out,
I wanted to say. Maturity was not one of my virtues.

Ackerman dialed up the photos of the empty lots on his cell phone. “Because the progress payments relate to construction on these lots.” He held the phone up facing them, using his index finger to page through the images.

The attorney’s brow wrinkled in question. “The lots are empty.”

Way to state the obvious.
“Hence our questions,” I said, trying not to sound snide. I didn’t try very hard, though. Hence, I was not successful.

Brunwald cut me an irritated look and angled her head. “Exactly when were these photos taken?”

“This morning,” Ackerman replied.

“I’ll need a moment alone with my client.”

I hoped she’d spend that moment spanking his sorry ass.

Brunwald picked up the stack of documents and gestured for Pachuco to follow her out into the hall.

The two left the room, closing the door behind them.

Ackerman chuckled. “We’ve got the Tennis Racketeers by their fuzzy yellow balls.”

“Think they’ll ask for a plea deal when they come back?” Eddie asked. “Maybe agree to some jail time?”

The FBI agent shrugged. “You never know.”

While we waited, I pulled out my phone and logged back on to the Neiman Marcus Web site. Not that I could actually afford any of the evening gowns the store offered, but the selection gave me some ideas. Should I forgo my signature red and maybe try a gown in a different color for a change? A gold one might be striking. My stylist could streak some golden-blond highlights through my dark curls for added effect. One thing was for sure. I’d buy a new pair of heels. When it came time for the midnight kiss, I wanted my lips to be as close to Nick’s as possible for quick and easy access.

The door opened a few moments later and the attorney and client returned. Pachuco’s sweat seemed to have dried.

Brunwald slid the documents back across the table and took her seat. “Mr. Pachuco knows nothing about these payments,” she said, answering for her client. “Although he was a party to the original construction contracts, he didn’t sign the requests for progress payments or the checks issued by the mortgage company.”

My jaw tightened. “Who signed them, then?”

Pachuco raised his palms and spoke for himself now. “You’d have to ask the other shareholders. One of them must have forged my name.”

Looked like the doubles partners were beginning to turn on each other. Par for the course when people join together in a shady game. Of course, I was using a golf metaphor to describe tennis players, but, hey, Lakewood Country Club offered both sports. Not that I knew anything about either of them. My experience with sports was limited to softball, volleyball, and drinking games. I’d been the quarters champion of my dorm back in college. If the drinking game was ever added to the Olympic repertoire, I’d surely make the team.

I had a feeling Pachuco would pass the buck on the shoddy bookkeeping, too, but it couldn’t hurt to nail his story down. “The bookkeeping contained a multitude of wrongly classified entries,” I said. “Hundreds of thousands in personal expenses were run through the corporation, including sixty thousand in auto loan payments for your car, eleven thousand in utility bills for your personal residence, and eight grand for your son’s orthodontics. None of those personal expenses were reported to you or the other shareholders as income.”

I further noted that, as a result of the shady bookkeeping and understated tax reports, GSM and each of its owners owed the IRS a buttload of money. It irked me that we’d see only pennies on the dollar. We’d recoup some on the Ferrari, sure, but it’s not like we could seize Pachuco’s son’s teeth and sell them at auction.

Pachuco raised his palms. “Again, I don’t have any information about that. You’d have to ask Louis Featherstone. He’s the one who kept the books for GSM.”

This guy may not have built anything on the lots, but he sure could shovel the bullshit. Though I wanted to call the man out, Ackerman was the lead on the case so I deferred to him.

To my surprise, Ackerman didn’t argue with Pachuco and Brunwald. Instead, he thanked them for the information, slid the documents back into his briefcase, and stood to go. “See you two in court, then. Together we’ll bring those other guys down.”

What! He hadn’t actually fallen for their ridiculous song and dance, had he?

I turned to Eddie. He appeared as confused as me.

“About the plea bargain—” Brunwald began.

Ackerman held up a hand. “There’s no need to discuss that. You’ve made it clear Mr. Pachuco is totally innocent.”

Before Brunwald could say anything further, Ackerman waltzed out the door, leaving the attorney and her client to exchange bewildered glances.

Eddie and I followed the agent back to the elevators. Once we’d climbed into the car and the doors had slid closed, he let out a snort. “Ignorance? Forgery? Do they really think we’d fall for that crap?”

“So you didn’t believe them?” I asked.

“Not for a second. But it’s fun to screw with assholes like Pachuco.” Ackerman said he’d round up the original documents from the bank and turn the paperwork over to their forensic handwriting specialist for analysis. “I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts the signatures were authentic.”

I glanced at my watch. Time to meet Lu at the Y for our workout. Damn. My bones still felt icy. I’d hoped to swing by the cathedral on Blackburn Street to have the demon evicted from my body. I supposed the exorcism would have to wait.

chapter eleven

Swingers

As if my confidence weren’t tenuous enough after the baseball bat incident, Lu forced me to endure a Zumba class with her at the Y that afternoon. While I could two-step, jitterbug, and perform the Cotton-Eyed Joe as well as the next girl, I had a hard time mastering the salsa, merengue, and samba moves the instructor led us through. Apparently there wasn’t a drop of Latin blood in me.

Lu, on the other hand, had no problems whatsoever, revolving her arms in a backward circular motion, shaking her barely covered butt as she lifted one hip then the other, crossing her legs as she performed a sideways grapevine maneuver in her hot pink leg warmers. Her enthusiasm was as bright as her clothing, and she offered an occasional “Ay-yi-yi!” as she made a turn. The others in the class cheered her on.

Lu dabbed dots of perspiration from her upper lip as we headed back to the ladies’ locker room when the class was over. “I haven’t felt this good in years!”

I wished I could say the same for myself. I had a fresh demon inside me and was still feeling a little insecure about the stupid baseball bat incident. But if I could manage to bust Donald Geils and help put the Tennis Racketeers behind bars without pulling my gun or anyone getting hurt, I’d feel really good then.

In the locker room, Lu rummaged around in her yellow gym bag and pulled out a pair of pink leg warmers still in the packaging, a yellowed-with-age Woolworth $2.98 price tag on the front. There hadn’t been a Woolworth in Dallas since the stores closed in the nineties. Lu held the package out to me. “Here. I found these in my bag. Maybe they’ll help with your dance moves. You were pathetic.”

“Gee. Thanks for the pep talk,” I snarled, taking the package from her.

Lu slid me a knowing grin. “I know how to motivate my people. You, for instance, do your best work when you’re angry and fired up.”

I would’ve debated the point, but there was no denying she was right. Besides, the leg warmers might not improve my rhythm, but they might help fight the eerie chill dogging me.

I took a quick shower and put my work clothes back on, slipping the leg warmers on under my pants. Time for my first shift at Guys & Dolls.

*   *   *

As I stepped out of my car, a white delivery truck turned into the parking lot and drove past me. The vehicle bore Oklahoma license plates and a liquor distributor logo on the side—
STILLWATER SPIRITS
spelled out in fancy script underneath two large, entwined
S
s. The vehicle made its way around the building to the receiving dock at the back.

Nick was working the front door with Tarzan as I approached. While both Nick and Tarzan wore the black security team T-shirts, Nick had paired his with a nice-fitting pair of faded jeans and black cowboy boots. Tarzan wore sweatpants and sneakers.

Tarzan lifted his chin in greeting. “Sara. Yo.”

“Hey,” I said.

Tarzan held out a hand for my purse and rummaged around inside. He unzipped the coin pocket on the outside of my wallet and fished out a nickel and three pennies. “You’ve got eight cents in here.” His tone and look were so accusatory you would’ve thought I had Jimmy Hoffa or yellowcake uranium in my wallet.

I held out my hand. Tarzan put the coins in them and I dropped them into a nearby trash can. The paltry sum wasn’t worth walking back to my car.

Satisfied I was now in compliance with Don Geils’s no-cash rule, Tarzan returned my purse to me and jerked a thumb at Nick. “This is Mitch.”

“Hi, Mitch.”

“Hey,” Nick replied, opening the door for me.

As I headed off in the direction of the dressing room, I heard Tarzan’s voice behind me. “Sara don’t got much up front, but ain’t that a fine little caboose?”