Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (6 page)

“You’ve done enough for that agency!” she told Nick. “You haven’t even been home from Mexico a full year yet. There’s got to be someone else in that office who can handle this case instead of you!”

“They assigned me to the case because I know Spanish,” he said, giving her a peck on the forehead. “Besides, I’m the baddest badass on the force.”

“Oh, ho!” I called, stepping up behind him to give Bonnie a hug. “I beg to differ.”

Bonnie looked from one of us to the other. “You might both be badasses,” she said, “but you’re both crazy, too. Why don’t you two hang out a shingle and start a tax firm together? Pratt and Holloway, CPAs. It would be much safer than working for the IRS and I bet you’d rake in the dough.”

I’d asked myself the same question time and time again.
Why do we do this?
The IRS paid reasonably well, but the private sector would likely reward us better, with partnerships, perks, and client dinners at Dallas’s most exclusive restaurants. But it wasn’t about the money. Never had been. Never would be. Serving as a special agent wasn’t so much a job as it was a calling. And the call, once received, couldn’t be ignored. Sort of like a persistent bill collector.

Nick retrieved Daffy’s bed, toys, hairbrush, treats, and food from my car and brought them into his mother’s house. The dog sat in the front hallway watching him, a confused and frightened look on her face, like a child beginning to realize her parent was leaving her. Nick bent down, cupped her furry chin in his hands, and looked into her eyes. “It’s going to be okay, girl. Daddy will be back in a few weeks.” He gave her a kiss on the snout.

He stood and repeated the same basic process with his mother. Though it was clear Bonnie was trying her damnedest to fight back the tears, several spilled down her cheeks nonetheless.

“Look, Mom,” Nick said softly, putting a hand on her back. “I gave Tara a secret phone. I’ll check in with her when I can, let her know I’m okay. She’ll pass that information on to you.”

Bonnie turned to me. “You call me immediately when you hear from Nick, okay? No matter what time of day or night it is.”

“I will.”

She gave her son one last hug, clutching him so tight it was a wonder he could take in oxygen. “I love you, son.”

“Right back at ya’, Mom.”

I drove Nick over to the DEA office, pulling up to the curb near the front doors. “Get out.”

“That’s a fine good-bye.”

I said it again, this time through a fresh stream of mascara-tinted tears. Two days in a row the guy had ruined my makeup. “Get out.” My chest heaved with barely contained sobs. “And … come back.”

Nick tilted his head and cupped my face, rubbing his thumb back and forth across my cheekbone like a windshield wiper to remove the moisture. “I’m going to remember you just like this.”

I shook my head. “Don’t remember me like this. Remember how I looked on New Year’s.” I’d worn a fabulous, shimmery gold gown. Of course Nick had been so jet-lagged from working two international cases that he’d slept right through the midnight countdown.

“That’s a better idea,” he replied. “You’re kinda gooey right now.”

I narrowed my eyes at Nick, grabbed a napkin from my console, and wiped my eyes and nose.

“That’s okay.” He leaned in and pulled me toward him. “I’m not afraid of a little goo.”

We held each other for a long moment and I thought my heart would explode in my chest.

“I love you,” he said into my hair.

“I love you, too,” I mumbled into his warm neck.
Maybe too much.
Love was a double-edged sword. It could make a person happier than they’d ever been, but it could fill them with pure, raw misery, too.

He finally released me. “I’ll be in touch.”

Despite my best efforts to hold it in, a fresh sob escaped me. “You better.”

chapter six

W
elcome to Paradise

Later that morning, Eddie and I loaded into my G-ride and headed southeast out of Dallas.

I glanced over at Eddie. “Remember the last time we came out this way?”

He gave a mirthless snort. “I remember coming out here,” he said. “But I don’t remember coming back.”

He’d been unconscious and riding in a medical helicopter on his return. We’d tracked our target, a con artist running an investment scam, down to a lake house. Unfortunately, the creep had turned his gun on me and Eddie and put a bullet in my partner’s skull, taking part of his earlobe with it. I’d suffered a broken arm when I’d leaped out a window to avoid being shot.

Good times.

Our targets today were Quent and Kevin Kuykendahl, a couple of cousins operating an alleged animal sanctuary known as Paradise Park. Whether the two were running a legitimate wildlife sanctuary or something else remained to be seen. I only hoped Eddie and I would have better luck extracting information from the Kuykendahl cousins than we’d had with Sharla Fowler the day before. I had to admit I was curious, not only about the place, but about the two men running it. The auditor had described them in her notes as Charles Manson look-alikes.

The clouds broke on the drive, the sun shining through and reflecting off the moisture on the roads, creating a blinding glare that fried my retinas.

“I need to make a quick stop.” I whipped into a gas station and, while Eddie waited in the car, ran inside to buy a cheap pair of shades to replace the pair I’d lost at the barbecue joint the night before. The pickings were slim. I tried on several pairs, eyeing myself in the tiny mirror at the top of the revolving display, before settling for a mirrored aviator-style pair that, even at $4.99, seemed overpriced given how flimsy they were.

“I’ll take these,” I told the clerk, gingerly placing them on the counter next to the cash register along with a bag of Skittles. “And a scratch-off.”

When I returned to the car, Eddie smirked. “You trying to look like a motorcycle cop? Or a fighter pilot?”

“I’m just trying not to go blind.” I handed him the scratch-off. “Here. A little something to thank you for driving all the way out here with me.”

Eddie took the lottery ticket from me and fished a penny out of my cup holder to rub off the adhesive. “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” He waved the ticket in the air. “I won fifty bucks.”

“Damn. Should’ve kept that ticket for myself.”

“Too late now.” Eddie slid the ticket into his wallet and glanced over at me. “You gonna share those Skittles?”

“You’ve got fifty bucks. Go buy your own.”

He snatched the bag out of my hand, poured a dozen or so of the colorful candies into his palm, then held the package out to me.

I snatched it back from him. “You stink.”

“I’ll split my winnings with you. How’s that?”

“Better.” I could use the $25 to upgrade to a nicer pair of shades once we returned to Dallas.

We made our way through the small town of Kemp, then turned south on State Highway 274. As we ventured down the country road on which the sanctuary was located, I noticed the fence erected on the left side of the road was made of thicker wires than most and stood at least a dozen feet tall. No doubt the fence contained something that was either unusually big or could jump awfully high. With the trees impeding our view onto the property there was no way to tell.

I gestured to the fence. “What do you think is in there?”

Eddie cocked his head. “King Kong? Bigfoot? Dinosaurs replicated from mosquitoes stuck in tree amber?”

I had my doubts whether anything like Jurassic Park would fly in Texas, where playing God with DNA was considered a sin as treacherous as rooting for a team other than the Cowboys.

The GPS app on my phone interrupted our conversation. “In one-half mile the destination will be on your right.”

Eddie and I turned our attention away from oversized fictional creatures and back to the road in front of us. Other than trees, barbed-wire fencing, and an occasional gate, there wasn’t much to see. A couple minutes later, the disembodied voice announced, “You have arrived at your destination.”

I stopped the car and Eddie and I looked around. There was no mailbox. No numbers indicating an address. No sign marking the sanctuary property.

“You see anything?” I asked.

He pointed. “Just that rusty old gate up there.”

Thirty feet ahead a wide gate with a loose top hinge hung cockeyed from a rotted wooden post. A dirt road led back from the gate onto the property, turning left behind a copse of scraggly trees and disappearing from sight. No animals could be seen, nor was there any structure visible.

I turned back to Eddie. “Could that be the sanctuary?”

“Only one way to find out.”

We drove up to gate. I honked my horn three long times to get the attention of anyone who might be on the property. Venturing onto a rural property unexpected and unannounced was a good way to end up with buckshot in your ass, especially in Texas. Our residents loved their guns. After all, it was two guys from the Lone Star State who’d gone into a Chipotle restaurant waving their semiautomatics in a flagrant display of their rights under the state’s open-carry law. What a couple of shit-for-brains dumbasses. They were lucky someone with the sense to keep their weapon concealed hadn’t assumed they were there to rob the place and plugged them full of lead. If I’d been working the counter, those two would’ve taken a ladle of scalding refried beans to the face and a knee to their nards.

Hooonk. Hooonk. Hoooooonk.

Eddie and I waited a full minute with no response. I tried again.

Hooonk. Hooonk. Hoooooooooonk.

Still nothing.

“Do we risk it?” I asked. If it were solely up to me my answer would be yes. But after what Eddie had gone through on the earlier case, it was only right for me to give him a vote in the matter, even if I was the lead investigator on this gig.

“We’ve come all this way,” Eddie said. “Might as well go in.”

I slid my gearshift into park, hopped out of my car, and opened the gate. After I drove through, Eddie slid out of the passenger door to close the gate behind us.

We proceeded slowly along the dirt road, bouncing in our seats as we hit the ruts caused by recent rains. As we rounded the bend, a small trailer came into view. It was a basic beige model with metal stairs and no ornamentation, the type often used as a temporary office on construction sites. Its windows were covered in a thick layer of dust. One of them was cracked. An enormous black barrel grill stood off to the side, the top gaping open like a mouth ready to take a big bite. The grill was dirty, chunks of burnt meat stuck to the surface, flies swarming about. Bones of various shapes littered the ground around the grill, some of them surprisingly large. What the heck had these Kuykendahls been cooking out here? Antelope? Feral hogs? Tyrannosaurs?

Eddie snorted. “This is
paradise
?”

“Definitely not what I envisioned, either.”

A muddy army-green ragtop Hummer was parked in front of the trailer. Behind the building sat a dilapidated wooden shed probably used to store animal feed and supplies. Next to the shed was a rusty horse trailer that had been modified to include metal bars over the windows. The trailer must be used for more than horses.

I gave my horn one more quick push to announce our arrival.
Honk!

Seconds later a hairy face appeared in the dusty, cracked window.

“I was wrong,” Eddie said. “Bigfoot doesn’t live back at that other ranch. He lives here.”

chapter seven

W
hat Kind of Game Are They Playing?

The front door opened, giving us a better look at the man. While it was clear now that he wasn’t an ape, the amount of coarse, dark facial hair he sported put him on par with those furry-faced dudes from
Duck Dynasty.
He had crazy eyes, too, the wide, wandering kind that seem to be taking in something surprising no one else could see. It was clear now why the auditor had compared him to Charles Manson. There was definitely a likeness, though he was too far away for me to tell whether he sported Charlie’s forehead swastika tattoo.

Long-limbed and lanky, this man wore a khaki canvas hat with a chin tie that disappeared under his beard, a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, camouflage pants, and black rubber boots. A hunting knife that looked big enough to fillet a rhino was strapped to his belt next to a walkie-talkie. Looked like El Cuchillo wasn’t the only one with a blade fetish. Two orange and white hunting dogs stepped up on either side of him and began barking in stereo.
Woof! Woof-woof!

“Hello!” I called, raising a hand in a friendly wave. “Is this Paradise Park?”

The guy eyed me, then ran his gaze over my car, his eyes narrowing as he apparently realized it was a government vehicle. “Who wants to know?”

“We’re from the IRS. Just need to talk to you a bit.”

“Is that so.” It was a challenge rather than a question. The man cocked a wild and woolly brow. “’Bout what?”

“About your financial records,” I said, easing myself from the car. More precisely, I was here to talk about their
lack
of financial records. Every business should keep good documentation regarding their income and expenses, but recordkeeping was even more important for nonprofits, the records of which were required by law to be open for public inspection. What’s more, these guys had filed only the electronic postcard return, intended for small nonprofits. Without records, it wasn’t clear whether their organization qualified for the simplified form or whether they should have filed a full-fledged report detailing their board members, programs, and activities.

“We already done talked to the IRS.” His crazy eyes narrowed so that they virtually disappeared between his brows and beard. “I thought we was all done with you folks.”

I closed my car door behind me. “We have a few follow-up questions.”

Eddie followed me and we stepped up to the trailer with our briefcases in our hands. At this range, I noted the man had worked up quite a stench. I also noticed that the man’s lips were dry and cracked, as were his knuckles. The guy must spend a lot of time outside and neglect to properly hydrate. I was tempted to offer him a swipe of my Plum Perfect gloss and a squirt of the vanilla-scented hand lotion I always kept in my purse, but figured he’d turn me down. Or worse, that he
wouldn’t
. No way would I use the products again if he touched them. I wasn’t about to risk getting his stinky cooties.