Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (26 page)

I might have been offended if I didn’t know he meant to express concern, not insult. “Things are a little tough right now.” I forced a smile. “But it’s great to see you.”

He tsked. “Oh, you poor, na
ï
ve, innocent little soul.”

“Excuse me?”

“This isn’t a social call, my dear. I’ve been hired to represent the Unic Art Space and the Fifty-Yard Line Foundation.”

Oooooh, shit.

Anthony Giacomo was someone you wanted on your side, not across the table. If I’d thought things were tough before, they’d be beyond tough now.

“Wait,” I replied. “Isn’t it a conflict of interest for you to represent them after you represented me?”

Anthony had recently saved my ass after I’d put several bullets in a target’s leg and been brought up on felony excessive-force charges. He’d defended me in my criminal trial. Thank God he’d been successful. If it weren’t for him, I might be sporting an orange jumpsuit today and eating lunch with my new prison girlfriend, Blunt Force Betty.

“It is a potential conflict,” he agreed. “but I’ve informed the Fowlers of my former relationship with you and they were okay with it.”

“Is that legal?”

“Of course. As long as the conflict is disclosed, a client can waive any objection. They know I’ll fight as hard for them as I fought for you.”

I knew it, too.
Damn.

“Two?” the hostess asked, retrieving menus from her stand.

Anthony nodded and the woman led us to our table.

Anthony pulled out my chair like the gentleman he was, then took a seat across from me, opening the menu to peruse the options. “Order whatever you like,” he said. “I’ll pass all the costs onto my client.”

“You’re awful,” I told him, at the same time eyeing the steak frites, the most expensive item on the menu. I supposed that made me awful, too. Still, as much as I’d like to stick it to the Fowlers, I couldn’t. Agents were not permitted to be wined and dined by taxpayers they were investigating, nor by their attorneys.

The waiter arrived and took our drink orders. While I stuck with iced tea, Anthony asked for a double scotch.

When we were alone again, he shot me a pointed glance across the table. “You know I’ve never lost in court, right?”

I shot him a pointed look right back. “Neither have I.”

“Touch
é
.”

As our drinks arrived, I took a sip of my tea, trying to figure out exactly where Anthony intended to go with this conversation.

After setting our drinks down, the waiter took my order and turned to Anthony. “What may I get you, sir?”

Anthony put a hand on his belly and eyed me across the table. “Not sure what I’ll have room for once I finish eating you alive.”

“Ha-ha,” I said. “You’re a regular Eddie Murphy.”

Chuckling, he held out his menu to the server. “I’ll have the steak frites.”

The waiter nodded, took the menu, and left.

Anthony tossed back a gulp of his drink and grimaced. “This stuff is liking drinking fire.”

“Then why do you do it?”

He shrugged and grinned simultaneously. “Maybe I like the taste of fire.”

I grabbed a roll from the basket the waiter had left on the table, slathered it in butter, and tore off a piece. “If I have surmised correctly, you brought me here to discuss a settlement?”

He winked at me. “You always were a smart cookie.”

If I were a cookie, I’d be full of nuts.

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved a copy of the e-mail I’d sent to Sharla and Rodney Fowler the night before. He held it up. “These are some mighty big numbers. My goodness! They even have commas.”

“I don’t deal in decimals,” I replied. “My time is too valuable.”

“I know that’s right.” He set the papers on the table and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lay out your case for me.”

“Why don’t you lay out your defense?” I knew from both experience and training that the first to speak in a negotiation often ended up at a disadvantage, inadvertently disclosing too much or suggesting settlement terms without first getting a good read on their opponent. Of course if this case went to court the IRS would have the burden of proof and thus would have to set out all its evidence and arguments. But I wasn’t about to let Anthony know I’d be willing to waive the taxes on the payments to Aly and the part of Sharla’s salary deemed excessive if he’d agree to the rest of the demand. I knew there was no guarantee the IRS would win if the issue were tried before a jury. Although the number I’d used in preparing my spreadsheet had been an average, compensation for museum directors varied widely and a number of them earned substantially more than Sharla. Who knows? A jury might find that she was entitled to her quarter-million-dollar salary.

Anthony grinned. “So you’ll show me yours if I show you mine?”

I grinned right back. “Sure. I’d love to hear how you’ll justify Sharla and Rodney paying forty grand for that macaroni piece. I mean, really. It didn’t even come with cheese. And you know the artist was Sharla’s grandson and Rodney’s nephew, right? And that he’s like two months old?”

Okay, so that was an exaggeration. But what fun was a negotiation without a little hyperbole?

“I’m aware of the facts,” he said. “But I’m surprised at your lack of taste. That piece was a work of genius. Hunter Gabbert is a prodigy in pasta, the Michelangelo of manicotti, the Renoir of rigatoni.”

“You don’t believe that for a minute.”

“Don’t I?” He batted his eyes at me.

“What were your thoughts on Jackson’s works?” I asked.

“The fan and hair dryer?” he replied. “They blew me away. Literally.”

“Now you’re telling the truth.”

“You’re right. But what do I know about art? And what do
you
know, hmm?” He arched a shaped brow.

“Not much,” I acquiesced. “Which was why we had an expert come in and take a look. An expert with a degree from Savannah College of Art and Design,” I added. “She also worked for several years as a curator at the Guggenheim.”

“Her pants sound quite fancy.” He intertwined his fingers and propped his chin on them. “What were her conclusions? Do tell.”

I realized I was giving Anthony a peek at my cards here, but this discussion wouldn’t move along unless each of us gave a little. “She thought Jackson’s and Hunter’s pieces were a joke.”

“What about the rest?”

“She agreed they showed some talent,” I said, “or at least some artistic inclination. But the fact remains that Aly is engaged to Rodney and was paid quite a bit for her work even though she had no prior sales. She hasn’t sold a piece since, either. The Unic is her only claim to fame. If you ask me, she’s an art groupie, a wannabe who wants to float around in art circles and pretend to be in the game, but who’s not willing to put in the time and effort it would take to become a real artist.”

Anthony seemed to mull that over for a moment. “Fair enough. Maybe instead of debating the value of her art, we should just talk numbers. What’s the smallest figure that would make you happy?”

“What’s the largest sum your clients are willing to pay to settle this?”

We sat in silence, staring each other down, neither of us willing to divulge our secret number as of yet.

I finally broke the standoff. “I’ll tell you this much. Any number they offer has to come with a laundry list of changes at the museum. They need to be open reasonable hours, maybe even offer an occasional class or something. They need to buy more pieces from legitimate artists and change their collection more often. They also need to install proper lighting.”

“All right,” he said. “Let me speak with my clients and get back to you.”

“Okeydokey.”

The food arrived then. Anthony picked up his fork, reached across the table, and snagged a cucumber slice from my plate. He held it aloft. “Always nice doing business with you, Tara.”

chapter twenty-seven

P
early Whites

When I returned to the office after my lunch with Anthony, I checked my Facebook page. Laurel Brandeis had sent me another message.

I hope you don’t mind that I contacted the U.S. Red Cross on your behalf to see if they could send someone to pick up your contribution check. They should be getting in touch with you directly to set something up. You’re so generous!

A second message had also arrived, sent by purported U.S. Red Cross fund-raising chairperson Peter Stanovich.

We appreciate your interest in our charity and supporting our efforts to help those who have suffered a natural disaster. I would be glad to meet with you ASAP to accept your donation.

Boy, this con artist didn’t waste any time, did he? He probably knew he had to strike while the iron was hot, or at least while my alleged lottery winnings were burning a hole in my pocket.

I sent a return message to the purported Peter Stanovich.

Since you got in touch with me so quickly this seems meant to be! Can you meet me at three tomorrow afternoon in front of the Dallas downtown library?

He sent a reply in less than fifteen minutes, obviously keeping a close eye on his inbox.
Works for me! Looking forward to meeting you.

That sentiment would surely reverse itself once I slapped cuffs on his wrists.

I messaged him back immediately.
How will I know you?
With any luck, the guy would send me a photo of himself.

Alas, luck was not with me. He responded with
I’ll hold up a sign with your name.

Darn.

I phoned around the office, trying to find another agent who would be available to come with me tomorrow to bust this crook. Eddie was busy with a deposition, and Josh had already been corralled to help another of our fellow agents delve into the mainframe at a local company that had refused to turn over any physical records.

“We’re still on for the toga party tomorrow night, right?” he asked, excitement in his voice.

Poor guy. He’d probably been barred from frat parties when he was in college. He’d clearly never been one of the cool kids. Until
now,
I supposed. Our badges and guns provided instant street cred and a definitive cool factor.

“Sure,” I said. “We’re still on.”

“Can Kira come along?”

“Why?” I asked. “Do you two have a date planned for afterward?”

“No,” Josh replied hesitantly. “It’s just that she’s never seen me in action.”

Sheesh.
Trying to impress his girlfriend, huh? I supposed I couldn’t blame him. It was pretty damn sexy to see your guy successfully wrangle a target. As ashamed as I was to admit it, I’d been totally turned on recently when Nick had engaged physically with Brazos Rivers, the country-western singing sensation and tax cheat.
All that raw muscle and masculine power …

“Tara?” came Josh’s voice through the phone, ripping me out of my muscle-ripped memory. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” I said. “No problem. You can bring her.”

Heck, having Kira along would probably make us look more like legitimate college students. With her bleached hair and tendency to go heavy on the eyeliner, she’d fit right in.

I ended my call with Josh and tried William Dorsey, the newest agent in the office, next. Luckily, Will would be available tomorrow to help me bust the Facecrook.

“I’ll bring my Nikon,” he said. “Make it look authentic.”

“Great. Thanks.”

This would be the first chance Will and I had to work a case together, at least officially. Not long ago, I’d held a number of smugglers at bay in a truck yard while Nick, Eddie, and Will climbed atop an eighteen-wheeler for cover. Seemed I was always having to rescue my male coworkers. I turned that whole damsel-in-distress thing on its head.

My cell phone rang. The readout told me it was Anthony on the line. I accepted the call. “That was quick. Got an offer for me?”

“Sure do.”

“Better be a good one.”

“Oh, indeed it is,” he said. “Hold on to your hat.”

“I’m not wearing a hat.”

“Then hold on to your ass,” he snapped.

“All righty.”

“To make all of this ugly little business go away, the Fowlers are willing to pay a full twenty grand.”

“Twenty thousand?” I let out a laugh. “You must be joking. That’s chump change. The Fowlers probably have that much in their couch cushions.”

“Tara, my dear,” Anthony retorted, “being a nasty little bitch doesn’t become you.”

“It doesn’t become you, either.”

He chuckled. “Touch
é
, once again.”

“My time is valuable,” I told him. “Don’t call me back unless you’ve got a serious offer to put on the table.”

“Au contraire,”
he replied. “I suggest you consider the fact that if you refuse this offer you could end up with nothing. I’ll give you until the end of the day to accept.” With that, he bid me adieu and hung up.

“Kiss my derri
è
re,” I said to the phone before slipping it into my pocket. Hey, if he could speak snotty French so could I.

On my way home from work that evening, I decided to swing by the address listed for Terrence Motley in the DMV records. I don’t know what I expected to glean from my surveillance, but I hoped I might find another clue that could be helpful to Nick and Christina. At worst, the trip would just be a waste of gas, right?

The house was in south Dallas, in a slightly rundown yet conveniently located neighborhood that would probably be “discovered” by the gays or professionals soon and be cleaned up, remodeled, and gentrified, tripling home values. For now, though, the yards were unkempt, the shutters were missing or cockeyed, and the driveways bore evidence of oil leaks.

I cruised slowly by. There was no car in the driveway of the small blue house purportedly occupied by Motley. No vehicle at the curb, either. The front curtains were pulled shut. I spotted a tricycle on the front porch, though, along with three colorful plastic dinosaurs strewn about.

What kind of father would deal drugs? The thought both disgusted and disturbed me. It also made me grateful my parents had made their money the old-fashioned way, through hard work that they complained about every evening over dinner.