Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (22 page)

When I could gather my cartwheeling wits I rolled my eyes. “Marriage is the least of my concerns right now,” I said, though the statement wasn’t entirely true and Lu probably knew it. “I just hope Nick comes back
alive.
”

“You and me both, Tara,” Lu said as the waitress set her plate down in front of her. “You and me both.”

Suddenly I had no appetite.

So much for this lunch cheering me up.

Several bites into her meal, Lu noticed I wasn’t eating. She stretched a hand across the table and patted mine. “Don’t worry about Nick. That boy will be fine. He’s smart and he’s strong. Ain’t nobody going to whoop his ass.”

I didn’t point out the fact that just minutes before she’d expressed concern about his safety and was now contradicting herself. Frankly, I liked this more confident approach. “I hope you’re right.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m
always
right. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

I raised my hands in surrender. “That you are.”

“If I were you,” she said, pointing at me with her fork, “I’d head over to the lingerie department and buy a little something special for when Nick gets back. An athletic guy like him, with all those muscles, he’s gotta be great in bed.”

I raised my hands again, this time to stop her. “I am not discussing my sex life with my boss.”

“Well, damn,” she said, slumping back in her seat. “This conversation was just getting interesting.”

Twenty minutes later, we left the restaurant and headed to the cosmetics counter.

A thirtyish woman with flawless makeup stepped up on the inside of the counter. “May I help you, ladies?”

“Sure can,” Lu replied, plunking herself down on one of the stools. “I need some new eye shadow.” She closed her eyes and pointed to her blue lids. “Got anything this color?”

The woman cut a glance my way. What could I do but raise my palms?

“We’re out of that particular shade,” the clerk said politely, “but I can fix you up with something else in a cool tone. Why don’t we try a few colors and see what you think?”

Lu opened her eyes and frowned. “I’ve been wearing this shade all my life. I doubt you’ll be able to do better.”

“Let’s just try, shall we?” The woman proceeded to pull several samples out from under the counter.

Ten minutes and fifteen samples later, the clerk and I had managed to talk Lu into trying a soft mauve that was far more up to date than her usual color. That was as far as she’d go, however. Her bright orange lipstick and clownish pink rouge were here to stay.

chapter twenty-two

A
ppraisal

Yesterday, after having lunch with Lu, I’d sent the fictitious Laurel Brandeis a friend request on Facebook. When I checked my computer on Tuesday morning, I discovered she had accepted my request.
Good.
That put me one step closer to catching the Facecrook.

I typed up a quick message to her.

You’re the Laurel Brandeis I went to summer church camp with in 1999, right? I think we were in crafts class together. I’m a bookkeeper now in Texas but I do missionary work when I can. How have you been?

I sent the message, hoping the crook wouldn’t see through my ruse. It sounded realistic enough, didn’t it? I hoped so.

I spent the rest of the morning wrapping up some paperwork on other, smaller cases. At one o’clock, Eddie and I headed out of the office for a quick lunch. Afterward, we drove to the Unic. We found a parking spot around the corner, and waited on the front sidewalk for Eddie’s children’s teacher to arrive.

“There she is.” Eddie lifted his chin in indication.

A white Corolla had pulled to the curb half a block down. A thin woman with wavy black hair climbed out of the car. She wore a fitted gray dress with high-heeled boots and chunky, square jewelry. She looked chic, sophisticated, classy, and artsy.
Perfect.

Eddie greeted her as she approached, holding out his hand. “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Windsor.”

She shook his hand. “Happy to advise.” She turned to shake mine. “Alexandra Windsor.”

“Special Agent Tara Holloway,” I said.

The three of us headed inside. Josette looked up from her desk, her smile fading when she recognized me and Eddie. “You are back, I see.” Her gaze moved to Alexandra, assessing, before returning to me. “You would like three tickets?”

“We’re on official business today,” I said. “We don’t need tickets.”

I didn’t wait for her to object. Instead, I headed into the exhibit space with Eddie and Alexandra following behind. The
click-clack
of Alexandra’s boot heels echoed in the room as we made our way in.

I handed her the brochure I’d kept from our last visit. “This will tell you a little about the pieces and the artists.”

She took the pamphlet from me and continued on, stopping at the first exhibit. She studied the canvas for a moment or two, read the entry regarding the piece in the brochure, then looked up at the ceiling. “There’s no light on this piece.”

Given that the canvas was blank, what did it matter? There wouldn’t be any more to see if it were illuminated.

My question must have been written on my face, because Alexandra said, “Museums and galleries typically light the work in some way. It’s odd that there’s not any special fixtures in here.”

I looked up and noted that she was right. The space contained only standard light fixtures placed at even intervals.

I watched Alexandra as she eyed
Picking at Scabs
. Her nose twitched in disgust. “The artist seemed to be going for shock value here. It’s a cheap way to get attention, in my opinion.”

She moved on to
Bad Hair Day,
an amused smile playing about her lips as her eyes took it in. “Now this one I can relate to.”

“The artist who painted this is engaged to the director’s son,” I said, keeping my voice low so that Josette, who was keeping an eagle eye on us from her desk, couldn’t overhear our conversation.

“Hmm.” Alexandra tapped a finger on her lips as she considered this information. “I do see some expertise with the color in this piece, though.”

“She trained in fashion design.”

“That would explain it,” she said.

As we continued around the museum, Sharla Fowler emerged from her office, no doubt summoned by Josette. She walked briskly toward us, not quite storming but right on the brink.

“Josette tells me you refused to pay for tickets,” she spat. “Need I call the police?”

Really, didn’t people realize it was stupid to piss off the IRS agents investigating them? Her overly aggressive demeanor was beginning to chap my ass.

“Need we return with a search warrant?” I replied.

That shut her up.

Sharla turned to Alexandra. “Who are you?”

Alexandra offered a quick bio. “I am a former curator of the Guggenheim, a SCAD graduate, and art instructor.” She offered a smile now, too. “My name’s Alexandra Windsor.”

“Alexandra Windsor,” Sharla repeated, as if committing it to memory.

“I’m curious,” Alexandra said to Sharla. “How often do you change the exhibits here?”

“We’ve had the same exhibit since the Unic’s inception.” Sharla’s eyes narrowed. “We are quite proud of the collection we put together.”

Alexandra was unfazed by Sharla’s behavior. Teaching schoolchildren and dealing with pushy parents undoubtedly made a person thick-skinned and unafraid of confrontation. “If the exhibit never changes, why would anyone come back?”

Apparently unable to cough up a valid explanation, Sharla chuffed in what was likely feigned indignation. “I refuse to put up with these boorish insults.” She spun on her heel and returned to her office, slamming the door so hard behind her it was a miracle the glass didn’t shatter.

Alexandra turned to me and Eddie. “Do the people you investigate act like that very often?”

“All the time.” I shrugged. “Sometimes they even shoot at us. You learn to live with it.”

We continued about our business. While Alexandra merely raised a brow at the fan, vacuum, and hair dryer, she laughed outright at the macaroni mosaic upstairs. “It looks like a child made this.”

“That’s because a child
did
make it.” I told her how I’d found Hunter’s birth certificate via my online research system. “The Unic paid Hunter forty grand for the piece.”

“Ridiculous,” Alexandra said, adding an eye roll for emphasis.

My thoughts exactly.

She moved over to the coffin and the syringe rocket. “Wow,” she said. “These are fascinating. I can definitely see some talent here. Also a dedication to the work. It would’ve taken hours and hours to glue all those pills to the coffin.”

When we’d navigated the entire space, the three of us nodded good-bye to Josette and stepped outside.

“What do you think?” Eddie asked Alexandra.

Her lips formed a slight frown. “Some of the pieces were quite good. Intriguing. But others? They belong on a fridge, not in an art museum.” She straightened her scarf. “Would you like a complete appraisal, or has today served your purposes?”

Eddie and I engaged in a brief discussion, deciding to hold off on an appraisal for now. No sense spending taxpayer dollars on something we might not need.

“Thanks so much for your help,” I said, shaking her hand again.

“My pleasure.”

Alexandra bid us good-bye and returned to her car. Eddie and I likewise headed to mine.

Once we were seated inside, I reviewed the evidence. “Okay. We know Sharla is way overpaid given that she only works part-time. The payment to Hunter was clearly a sham. I think I can easily prove that. Probably the payment to Jackson, too.”

I had my doubts whether any jury in Texas would consider air to be an art medium. If it were, that would mean anyone who burped or made armpit fart noises was creating art.

“But Alexandra thought the other art was the real deal.” I mulled everything over another moment. “It’s like they’re cheating, but in a half-assed way.”

I was used to my cases being black-and-white. Either someone was doing something wrong or they weren’t. This case was more gray, at least where the women’s art was concerned.

I turned to my partner. “Where do I go from here?”

Eddie had been an agent much longer than me and often served as my mentor. When I was in doubt about something, he was my go-to guy.

Though it was only half past three, Eddie tugged at the knot in his tie, apparently ready to call it a day. “Set an appointment with Sharla and Rodney Fowler,” he advised. “Tell them to have their CPA or attorney present if they wish. Then negotiate.”

“Okay. The payment to Hunter has to be reclassified as a gift, no question,” I replied, expanding on Eddie’s suggestion. “Same for Jackson. Rodney had no right to claim a charitable deduction for gifts to his family.”

“Right,” Eddie said, “so work up a figure for that. The payments to Aly Pelham will be your bargaining chip. Tell Rodney you won’t reclassify the payments to Aly if they agree to pay tax on the others. Then tell Sharla she either needs to start earning her outrageous salary by running a real museum, keeping it open longer hours and changing the exhibits, or you’ll treat her salary as a gift, too. If they don’t meet you halfway, send Rodney a bill for the whole shebang. If he still doesn’t pay, you’ll have no choice but to see that criminal charges are filed.”

“Good plan. Thanks, Eddie.”

“Thank me by buying me a beer,” he said, unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt now. “It’s close enough to quitting time.”

chapter twenty-three

Y
ou Can Bank on It

At seven the next morning, I waited at the door of Farmers Bank and Trust in the moist morning air, my hair expanding like a sponge. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, reminding me that I had yet to replace the sunglasses I’d inadvertently weed-whacked. A fiftyish woman in a pantsuit approached, eyeing me warily. Given that the bank wouldn’t be open for business for another half hour, I couldn’t blame her. For all she knew, I was here to rob the place.

“Are you the bank manager?” I asked.

“I am.” She took the business card I held out and glanced down at it.

I extended my hand. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with IRS Criminal Investigations. We’re trying to catch an identity thief who’s targeted several banks in the area. I’m hoping you and your staff might be able to help us.”

“I’m glad law enforcement is doing something about this problem.” She gave my hand a firm shake. “We’ll certainly do what we can to help your investigation.”

It was nice to have an ally. Most people weren’t all that happy when the IRS showed up on their doorstep.

She dug around in her purse for her keys. “This kind of fraud costs us dearly, and frankly, I’m sick and tired of customers acting like it’s our fault their bank account got emptied. Everyone knows they shouldn’t share their personal information online. They’re the ones who give away the key to the candy store.”

I could see her point. Still, it was hard to fault the victims too much, especially in this case. The e-mail did look pretty darn convincing.

“My partner and I will be waiting in the parking lot.” I handed her a copy of the reply e-mail Josh and I had sent to the con artist in which we purported to be Thelma Puckett. Pointing to the fictitious account number, I said, “When someone tries to make a withdrawal from this account, the teller needs to call me on my cell phone number immediately. The tellers also need to be very careful not to give the person any hint that something’s up or they could blow the case.”

The last thing we needed was to sit here all day, then have the thief become suspicious and make a quick getaway before we could follow him.

I wrapped up my directions. “After I’ve been notified, the teller should inform the person that the account is already overdrawn so the withdrawal can’t be made.”

The manager took the page from me and nodded. “I’ll make sure all of the tellers receive proper instruction.”

“Thanks.”

While she unlocked the door to the bank, I returned to my car. I’d backed into a spot that faced the drive-thru lanes where I’d have a good vantage point on the activity. So as not to arouse the thief’s suspicion, I put up an accordion-style reflective sunshade in the window that would hide me and Josh and make it look as if my car belonged to an employee and was parked for the day. I situated my cell phone in easy reach on the dashboard, ready to grab it when it rang.