Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (15 page)

Just say the word.

Lord, it was tempting. I could imagine several situations in which Nick and I could put the handcuffs to creative use.

“If I get you off the hook,” Nick said, his tone deep and sultry, “you’ll owe me. Just so you know, I’m open to various forms of payment.”

My face burned. I’d like to say the blush was caused by embarrassment but more likely it was pure lust. “If you
don’t
get me off the hook,” I said, cutting my eyes his way, “your nuts will be in the Ark’s collection plate next Sunday.”

Nick slid me that chipped-tooth grin and I nearly turned into a puddle of goo in my chair.

The DFO arrived and held out his hand. I took it in mine and shook it. There was some slight resistance when he pulled his hand away.

His upper lip curled back. “You’re sticky.”

“Sorry, sir. It’s extra-hold hairspray.”

“You might want to cut back.”

No sense explaining that it was Lu who’d unintentionally doused me with the stuff. “Yes, sir.”

The hearing lasted all of thirty seconds. Nick told the DFO that Buchmeyer shot out the window of the deputy’s cruiser and that all I’d done was shoot the rifle out of the old fart’s hands to disable him and protect ourselves and the collection agent. Buchmeyer hadn’t been hurt, other than his pride, perhaps.

“I’ll rule this shooting justified,” the DFO said, though he gave me a pointed look. “But for the love of God, Agent Holloway, could you try to get through an investigation without using your weapon?”

“I’ll try my damnedest,” I promised.

*   *   *

In the late afternoon, Ross O’Donnell stopped by my office. Ross was an attorney for the Department of Justice who represented the IRS on a regular basis. His demeanor was so laid-back I sometimes felt tempted to check him for a pulse.

Despite his relaxed manner, he was a bright guy, a methodical thinker, and a persuasive arguer. With Ross assigned to the Ark case now, the judge was sure to rule in favor of the IRS. With a court order, we’d finally collect the long-overdue taxes. Fischer wouldn’t go scot-free, either, though as a first-time offender he’d likely receive probation only. Okay by me. We weren’t looking to ruin the guy, just to ensure he and his church played by the rules.

The fluorescent light reflected off Ross’s shiny, balding head. “Got the Ark files for me?”

I picked up a cardboard banker’s box from my desk and offered it to him. “Right here. Enjoy.”

It felt good to get the box out of my office. One less case to worry about.

“I’ll walk out with you.” I grabbed my purse from my bottom desk drawer. It was four o’clock. Close enough to quitting time, especially since I’d worked extra over the weekend. Besides, Nick had headed out early to hit the firing range. No sense being the last schmuck at my desk.

Ross and I headed down the hall to the elevator, making small talk about his kids, my cats, the cold spell we were having. Yep, the temperatures had hovered in the low nineties the past few days. We Texans feared frostbite from this prolonged cold spell.

We pushed open the double front doors and stepped outside. There, on the steps, stood a woman in a black suit and high-heeled pumps. Though she faced away from me, I’d recognize that butterscotch-colored hair anywhere, even if it was uncharacteristically pulled back into a tight bun. Trish LeGrande.

Trish normally wore casual clothes on her job, so I wasn’t sure why she wore a business suit today. She waved a hand when she noticed me coming out the door and clacked across the concrete steps in her stilettos, a cameraman jogging along behind her. Three other reporters noticed Trish coming my way and began making a beeline for me, too.

WTF?

“May I have a word with you, Agent Holloway?” Trish said in her typical girlie, breathless fashion. She shoved her microphone in my face, practically knocking out my front tooth.

“About what?” I asked.

“About the Ark case. Pastor Noah Fischer?”

How did these reporters know about the case? Nothing had yet been filed with the court. Then again, there was always a rookie reporter or two hanging out at the jails, hoping to be the first to catch the arrest of a serial killer or celebrity.

The other reporters had reached us and now four microphones were shoved in my face. Looked like the extra-hold hairspray wasn’t the only sticky situation I’d face today.

Ross looked my way and gave a small shake of his head, telling me to keep my mouth shut.

“I’m sorry. I can’t discuss confidential taxpayer information or pending cases.”

Trish put the microphone back to her own frosty pink lips now. “So you’re refusing to tell us anything, Agent Holloway?”

The microphone returned to my chin. “I’m not refusing, I just can’t—”

A dark-haired female reporter elbowed Trish aside, jockeying for position. “The Ark’s attorneys claim this case is the government’s attempt to restrict religious freedom.”

The Ark’s attorneys are a bunch of dumb asses,
I wanted to say. Instead, I gave them, “No comment.” I tried to move to the side, but they moved with me, a mirror image, as if I were an aerobics instructor and they were students in my class. “Excuse me, please.”

They didn’t excuse me, continuing to block my path.

“Pastor Fischer says the government is trying to reduce the deficit by wrongfully taxing churches and nonprofits. What do you say to that?”

So Fischer had taken a preemptive strike and put his own perverse spin on the story, huh? His arguments were ridiculous. The government wouldn’t go after legitimate churches and charities in order to balance the budget. The reason charities and churches were given tax-exempt status in the first place was because they stepped in where government did not, providing services like literacy programs and low-cost health care, protecting children and animals and the homeless. Charities and churches saved the government money by supplementing federal programs. Imposing taxes on these groups would be entirely counterproductive.

Fischer’s argument made no economic sense. Which probably meant the public, who didn’t understand economics, would fall for it.

Hook.

Line.

And sinker.

“Any response, Agent Holloway?” the reporter demanded.

What part of “no comment” did these people not understand? “No comment.”

I finally managed to get around the group by faking right, then rushing down the stairs to the left. Junior high flag football had taught me some important skills.

A high-pitched shriek came from behind me, and I glanced back to see Trish falling to her hands and knees. She’d tripped over the last step.
Neener-neener.
While her cameraman helped her to her feet, the other reporters continued to tail me to the parking lot. With their equipment, though, they couldn’t quite keep up. I managed to hop into my car and start the engine before they could reach me.

Tires squealing, I floored the gas pedal and drove away, angry and frustrated.

Still sticky, too.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

That’s News to Me

After a few deep breaths, I calmed down. I shouldn’t let a few pushy reporters upset me. I was bigger than that, right?

Sure.

But they were still stupid, stinky doo-doo heads.

I made my way slowly through the developing Dallas rush hour gridlock to another wig store. This one had a more limited selection. Nearly all of the wigs were blond and nearly all of them were long. I had a feeling this store didn’t cater so much to women who’d lost their hair as to women who were into sexual role play.

The drive over had taken nearly an hour, though, so I wasn’t about to return home empty-handed. I chose both a golden-blond bob and a longer dirty-blond model for Lu. If nothing else, they would give her some variety.

*   *   *

I heard the answering machine clicking off as I walked in my door. My home phone began ringing again immediately.

I tossed the wigs and my purse onto the kitchen counter and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Tara Holloway?” asked a woman’s voice.

“Who’s calling, please?” Never admit who you are until you’re sure it’s not a salesman, right?

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” screamed the woman on the other end. “How dare you go after a man of God!”

Wow. Word travels fast, huh?

“You’re not worthy to walk this earth!” she continued. “You’ll get yours in the end!”

Seriously?

“Do you mean the end of time?” I retorted. “Or are you referring to my butt? Because suggesting sodomy is downright sinful of you. Pervert!”

I had to admit, it felt good to let loose. That whole “no comment” business had left me feeling emotionally constipated. I was willing to obey the rules on the job, but this was my personal phone line, in my private home, and this was America and, by God, I was going to exercise my First Amendment right of free speech and let loose all my pent-up anger on these buttheads.

As my grand finale, I inserted my thumb and index finger in the corners of my mouth and let loose the same shrill, earsplitting whistle I’d used as a girl to round up my brothers from the back forty for dinner.

THWEEEEET!

I hung up the phone.

Earlier I’d felt like Pastor Fischer’s arrest had gone too easily, had been anticlimactic. I supposed I’d asked for this, huh?

The LED call counter on my answering machine flashed “99.” I had a sneaking suspicion the call count exceeded the two-digit readout, but 99 was as high as the counter could go. I poured myself a full glass of sweet moscato wine, steeled my sphincter, and pushed the play button.

Most of the messages were similar to the call I’d just taken, but a few used surprisingly un-Christian language. One caller said I deserved a good, hard spanking, while another suggested I should be lynched. I was called a Jezebel, which didn’t seem quite apropos, as well as a she-devil, a minion of Satan, a plain old bitch, and, my personal favorite, Uncle Sam’s whore. I had trouble seeing Uncle Sam as a pimp. Then again, he did wear the bright clothing and funky hat pimps were known for.

Where did these people come up with this stuff? It was like they were speaking in tongues.

Religious zealots. Yep, for better or worse there were plenty of them in the Southern Bible Belt. They often had knee-jerk reactions, such as the group who’d gotten up in arms when one of the suburban school districts sought a federal grant to implement an Arabic studies program. Though the program was designed to give students the opportunity to learn about a language and culture with increasing relevance in today’s world, perhaps even give the students a highly marketable job skill given the scarcity of Arabic speakers in the U.S., ultra right-wing parents were sure the program was the district’s attempt to convert their children to Islam. For such a small group they raised a mighty big stink and the program was never implemented. But give these same people a devastating natural disaster like a flood or tornado and they responded with equal fervor, organizing food and clothing drives, providing shelter and comfort to those affected.

I’d questioned their ways, arrested their pastor. Yep, I’d sure enough asked for trouble. I was beginning to have a better understanding why the other government agencies wimped out on pursuing Pastor Fischer and the Ark, why Lu had sat on this case for years. But frankly, I was more than a little miffed that here I was, taking all kinds of shit, when Nick had virtually stolen the case from me. Some of this shit belonged to him. It wasn’t fair.

After I listened to all the messages, I went into my living room. Henry lay sprawled on top of the armoire, his eyes at half-mast. I patted his furry head and grabbed the remote to turn on my television. I plopped onto the couch with my wine to watch the six o’clock news. Annie crawled out from under the couch and jumped up into my lap where she turned in a circle twice before settling in.

The arrest of Noah Fischer was a top story on the evening news, not only locally but nationally. Video footage showed the pastor walking out of jail yesterday. He was flanked by his four attorneys as if they were bodyguards protecting an innocent victim. On screen, Trish asked him about the criminal tax evasion charges.

Fischer flashed his best angelic smile. “Our Savior was wrongfully persecuted, too,” he replied. “These trumped-up allegations are the government’s attempt at a modern-day crucifixion.” He looked directly into the camera now. “‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”

Ooh. Them’s fighting words.

The screen changed to a close-up of my face from earlier today. Compared to Trish, I looked washed out. If I’d known I was going to be on camera I would’ve put on some lipstick.

My name appeared in white print over a blue banner on the bottom of the screen. IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway. Sheez, why didn’t they just print my address and social security number while they were at it?

“No comment,” my bare lips said on the TV screen.

Damn. I appeared annoyed, evasive. Of course I had been annoyed and evasive so it only made sense.

I picked up the remote and flipped through the channels. There I was. Again, and again, and again.

No comment.

No comment.

No comment.

My phone rang once more. I tossed back a good chug of wine and picked up the receiver. “Uncle Sam’s Whorehouse,” I said. “She-Devil speaking. And, just for the record, I need no forgiveness for I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Tara?” It was Brett. He sounded confused. Understandable. I’d be worried if he actually thought I was making sense. Maybe I was the one speaking in tongues now.

“Hey, Brett.”

“Did you say ‘Uncle Sam’s Whorehouse?’”

“Yep.” Another chug of wine made its way down my throat. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

I told him all about the arrest of Pastor Fischer the previous day, about Trish and the other reporters accosting me on the front steps of the federal building earlier today.

“Trish mentioned she was filling in for a reporter who’s on maternity leave,” Brett said. “Funny that her first story involved one of your cases.”