Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (36 page)

“Perfect,” Nick said.

“Perfect for what?” I asked.

Again he said only, “You’ll see.”

We made our way across town to Leah Dodd’s apartment complex. Just after the station where Fischer had bought gas, we turned into the development.

The place consisted of five buildings, each of which was three stories high and contained four luxury apartments. The buildings were painted gray with white trim. Garages comprised the first story of each building. A separate staircase with a black iron banister led up to the front door of each apartment, located on the second floor of each unit.

The landscaping was well maintained, as was the expansive pool area in which several residents relaxed on padded chaise longues. The speakers mounted on the corners of the small poolhouse filled the air with the sounds of soft jazz, presumably Kenny G. Wouldn’t he be the perfect spokesman for Preparation H?

My random thought for the day now thunk, we located Leah’s unit, which was at the left end of the central building. Black metal numbers affixed to her door identified her apartment number, 3D.

“Pretty swanky place for a stripper,” I noted.

“Those girls make a shitload of money,” Nick said. “You should’ve seen their W-2s.”

I glanced down at my 32As. If I tried stripping, I’d starve to death. Good thing I had a brain in my head.

Josh circled the lot, searching for a spot from which we could surreptitiously keep an eye on Leah’s front door. We finally found one in the shade along the side of another building in the complex.

Nick handed Josh the newspaper. “Go lean this against the wall by her garage,” he instructed. “Make sure the front page is showing.”

I shot Nick a puzzled look.

“You ever see that movie
Proof of Life
with Meg Ryan?” he asked.

And Russell
the-walking-orgasm
Crowe? Of course I’d seen it. “Yeah?”

“Well, we’re going to get a proof of life,” he said. “Or, more precisely, a proof of lust.”

“You think Fischer’s in her apartment?”

“Let’s just say it wouldn’t surprise me.” He grabbed his camera bag and unzipped it. “Leah could have picked Fischer up at the Ark site, or he could have taken a bus or a cab over here.”

“Wait.” I put a hand on Josh’s arm before he exited the car. “Give me the ads before you go.”

Josh pulled out the colorful advertising section and handed it to me before climbing out of the van.

“Do you think Leah knows who Fischer is?” I asked Nick. “I mean, what kind of woman would fool around with a married minister?”

Nick shot me a
duh
look. “Maybe the same kind of woman who’d take off her clothes and shake her breasts in men’s faces for money?”

He had a point. Still, there had to be a special place in the lower circles of hell for people like that.

“Besides,” Nick added, “I noticed a pattern in the financial records. Fischer always made a significant cash withdrawal a day or two before his trips to Shreveport. Usually in the four- or five-thousand-dollar range. I have a hunch Leah’s being compensated for her services.”

“You think she’s a hooker?”

“More or less,” Nick said. “I think Fischer’s making it worth her while to spend time with him.”

And for five grand he was probably getting more than standard sex in the missionary position. My guess would be something kinky involving spurs and a riding crop.

Josh weaved between cars and tiptoed up to Leah’s garage door, glancing around him to make sure there were no witnesses. He crouched down and leaned the newspaper against the wall between the bottom stair and the garage door. Luckily for us it wasn’t a windy day so we wouldn’t have to worry about the paper blowing away. Once the paper was in place, Josh walked down to the end of the row of buildings and carefully cut down the side of the parking lot before sneaking back to the van.

Nick began assembling the camera, pulling pieces from the bag and laying them on the dashboard. The camera was a fairly intricate model with interchangeable lenses for zoom and wide focus. When he finished, he rested the camera on his lap for quick access.

Then we waited.

And waited, and waited, and waited.

I looked through every ad in the paper, tearing out a few coupons and jotting down a shopping list. No Spaghetti-Os, though. I was sick of the darn things.

Everyone had long since left the pool area and the night had grown dark. Crickets chirped nearby and an occasional mosquito flew into the open window of the van in search of dinner. I swatted the nasty bloodsuckers away with the Target circular.

Leah’s porch light remained dark. Around the edges of her drawn curtains, however, we could see soft lights on in the apartment, along with an occasional flicker, probably from her television. Too bad we couldn’t tell whether she was alone or with someone.

My bladder began to feel full. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“You’ll have to go to the gas station.”

“Ew.”

Nick shot me a look of irritation. “If you don’t want to use the gas station, go try the poolhouse.”

I hopped out of the car and made my way to the pool area. Unfortunately, the gate required a key. I glanced around quickly and, seeing no one, pulled myself up and over the fence. Unfortunately, the poolhouse was locked, too. Looked like it was either the gas station or crouching behind a tree. I was seriously considering the tree until I remembered the mosquitoes. Not sure I wanted to bare my ass with a swarm of insects ready to sink their proboscises into it.

I used the gas station bathroom, buying and using a full box of antibacterial wet wipes on my hands afterward. I bought a box of Hot Tamales, too, as well as a beer for Nick and some Twinkies for Josh. I returned to the van a hero.

Two hours later, the night was fully dark. The sugar high from the candy had peaked and I was now in the throes of a sugar crash. I yawned.

Nick glanced back at me. “Stay with us, Tara.”

I sat up straighter in my seat. “I will.”

When he turned his head away again, though, I slouched. Surveillance is unbelievably boring. I had no idea how full-time spies and private detectives could do this type of work day after day.

Another yawn escaped me. Then another.

Shortly after midnight, the clicking sound of Nick’s camera woke me. I sat up and looked out the window, having trouble seeing much across the dimly lit parking lot. Leah still hadn’t turned on her porch light and my eyes, which had been closed for who knows how long, hadn’t yet acclimated to the darkness.

A cab waited at the bottom of the stairs that led to Leah’s front door, the headlights on and the engine idling. Fortunately, the taxi driver had pulled up far enough that the newspaper was visible behind the car.

Nick released a soft chuckle. “Well, hello there, Pastor Fischer.” He raised his camera to his face and snapped several more shots as a man scurried down Leah’s steps. He wore a dark hoodie pulled out around his face, shadowing his cheeks. He looked like a gangster grim reaper. We couldn’t see his face, but his build was definitely Fischer.

He rushed up to the cab and yanked the door open. The interior light illuminated Fischer’s face for only a split second before he jumped in and slammed the door.

But a split second was all Nick needed.

Click.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Hell Hath No Fury like a Woman Scorned

Just after Fischer’s cab pulled out of the complex, we sent Josh up the dark stairs to Leah’s door. He knocked three times, loudly and in quick succession, the self-assured knock of someone familiar with the resident. We hoped Leah would assume it was Noah at the door, that perhaps he’d forgotten something and had come right back for it.

She fell for it.

She opened the door wearing only a skimpy black satin robe. Her long red hair appeared tousled and tangled, as if she’d just climbed out of bed after a rousing bout of sex. When she found Josh on her doorstep, the expectant look on her face quickly changed to confusion. Nick shot several photos of Leah in rapid succession, the apartment number 3D clearly visible on the opened door behind her, while Josh apologized for the unintended intrusion. He pretended to have mistaken her unit for another inhabited by a friend.

After Leah shut the door, Josh descended the stairs and made his way back to the minivan. “Did you get the pictures?”

“Oh, yeah,” Nick said, a broad smile spreading across his face as he reviewed the photos on the camera’s screen. “Noah Fischer isn’t going to know what hit him.”

*   *   *

First thing Tuesday morning, Nick and I left the federal building and walked to the downtown post office. Nick had loaded the photos he’d shot last night onto a flash drive. The twenty-six shots showed a quick but telling chronology of events.

A cab arrives. A man, clearly trying to obscure his face with a hooded sweat jacket, emerges from a doorway marked 3D and dashes down a flight of stairs. Said man steps past a newspaper strategically positioned against the building to establish the date, opens the taxi’s back door, and climbs in, his face illuminated for one brief moment before he yanks the door closed.

Thanks to the zoom lens, the clarity of the photos was exceptional. The identifying image contained only part of Fischer’s face and what was shown was in profile. But it was enough for our purposes. Someone close to him, someone who’d been intimate with him, could certainly recognize him from the photo.

The photos of Leah followed, the final shot being a wide-angle picture taking in both Leah at the door and the newspaper positioned at the bottom of her staircase. Nick had cropped Josh out of the photo.

Though we hadn’t managed to get a shot of Leah and Noah together, the message was clear. Both of them had been inside the same apartment last night.

We had no intention of sending the photos to Fischer this time. He’d find some way to spin them in his favor. Instead, we decided to disarm him with the element of surprise and take an entirely different tack.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Given Noah Fischer’s flagrant indiscretions in Shreveport, my doubts whether he’d sired Amber Hansen’s son had been all but eliminated. Obviously, the guy couldn’t keep it in his pants. Besides, if Amber was still engaged in a sexual relationship with Fischer, she had a right to know what he was up to. The guy could expose her to venereal disease, genital warts, crabs, or some other kind of crotch cooties.

Once inside the post office, we slid the flash drive and the copy of the
Shreveport Times
into an express mail envelope along with a typed note to Amber suggesting she ask Noah what he was doing at a stripper’s apartment Monday night.

Tossing his net, perhaps?

I wrote Amber’s name and address on the front of the envelope. For the sender’s name and address, I wrote:
Your Guardian Angel, 1 Fluffy Cloud Way, Pearly Gates, Heaven 00000
. Luckily for us, the postal employee paid no attention to the return address, last decade’s anthrax scare only a distant memory.

We paid the astronomical overnight delivery fee in cash and headed back outside.

I looked up into the sky.
It’s up to you now, Big Guy.

*   *   *

Per the U.S. Postal Service’s online track and confirm system, the mailman left the package at Amber’s house at 3:48
P.M.
Wednesday afternoon. Hopefully she’d open it before heading out to the evening’s choir practice.

At a quarter after six, Nick, Josh, and I parked yet again in the Ark’s lot. We watched as members of the choir streamed into the building, along with parents bringing their children to the Wednesday night activities.

The white limo pulled up to the curb but only Marissa Fischer emerged tonight. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. Amber Hansen, who’d seemed a devout churchgoer, failed to show, too. The choir would be short one soprano tonight.

Operation Iceberg appeared to be moving full steam ahead.

Nick turned around from the front seat. “Shall we see what’s up at the parsonage?”

“Why not?”

Nick instructed Josh to take the long drive to the mansion. Josh circled along the right side of the fountain and pulled to a stop at the closed gate.

The three of us looked through the iron bars. There were no telltale piles of clothing on the front lawn, no bonfires fueled by bed sheets. Still, something told me that, behind the closed doors of the parsonage, all hell was breaking loose.

Nick must have had the same gut feeling. When Josh began to drive away, Nick stopped him. “Wait a few more minutes.”

Sure enough, ten minutes later, the garage door rose, revealing the back of Noah Fischer’s Infiniti. The white reverse lights came on and Fischer backed out of the driveway at warp speed, turning too soon and taking out a potted hydrangea with his back bumper. He zoomed up to the closed gate, his car packed full of clothing and personal items that appeared to have been loaded in haste.

When he spotted Josh’s car in the drive, his face flashed alarm.

My gaze met Fischer’s through the black bars as the gate slowly slid open. Pure hatred burned in his eyes, along with something else.

A promise of retribution?

Nick jabbed the button to roll his window down. “Why, hello, Pastor Fischer,” Nick called loudly over the sound of the gate, waving his hand in a mock-friendly manner. “How’s tricks?”

Fischer didn’t respond. He didn’t wait for the gate to finish opening, either. He gunned his engine and pulled through the too narrow space, the metal lock mounted on the brick gate support gouging the driver’s side of his car from fender to fender as he forced the vehicle through, the contact giving off a tinny, earsplitting
screeeeeech
.

Tires squealing, Fischer circled around the fountain and roared off.

“This is the day the Lord has made!” Nick hollered after him. “Rejoice and be glad in it, asshole!”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The Fires of Hell