Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers (12 page)

When I returned to my car, I removed the leg warmers and shoved them back into my duffel bag with my workout clothes.

I left a sticky note on Nick’s desk with the phone number from the
FOR RENT
sign in the yard down the street. I hoped the landlord would allow dogs. Nick would surely want to bring Nutty with him.

An hour later, Agent Ackerman, Eddie, and I paid a quick visit to Louis Featherstone and his attorney.

Featherstone, like Pachuco, was rather unremarkable. Average height, average weight. Light brown hair with light touches of white around the temples. A moderately attractive man and, I might add, an
unemployed
man. He’d been the loan officer on GSM’s mortgages, many of which were now delinquent. As a result of the bad loans, he’d been terminated by the mortgage company shortly after GSM filed bankruptcy.

According to Pachuco, Featherstone had kept the books for GSM. Judging from the records I’d reviewed, the guy was a master chef when it came to cooking the books, a regular Wolfgang Puck. His simmering pot would soon boil over, however. He’d had the gall to post the seven grand for his wife’s butt lift and eighty grand in transfers to his son’s college fund as charitable contributions. Sheesh. That kind of greed would not play well to a jury.

Featherstone’s attorney was a young black woman, a smart and sassy spitfire named Jacqueline Plimpton. When we told her that Jeffrey Pachuco had accused her client of forging his signature on both the requests for progress payments and the checks from the mortgage company, she leaped out of her chair. “That’s preposterous!”

Featherstone appeared shell-shocked. Seemed he hadn’t expected his friend to turn on him. Or had he expected to beat his friend to the punch? Regardless, the former doubles partners were no longer hanging together. It was every man for himself now.

Once he’d processed the information, he began to seethe. “Jeff lied,” he spat, virtually breathing fire. “He signed those checks himself. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“I figured as much,” Ackerman said, buddying up to Featherstone today. “What can you tell me about the loans?”

“Not much,” Featherstone said. “I worked entirely from my office at the mortgage company. As you know, loan officers don’t visually inspect the real estate they finance. We rely on the Realtors, contractors, and appraisers to supply valid paperwork. I trusted the other men. I had no idea the documentation they gave me was fraudulent.” Featherstone spoke slowly and clearly, as if he’d carefully rehearsed his response. “It would be entirely unfair to hold me responsible for the malfeasance of the other defendants.”

“Malfeasance,” huh? Interesting choice of words. Sounded like he’d been coached.

Ackerman shook his head in feigned sympathy and Featherstone visibly relaxed.

Rather than confront Featherstone directly about the shoddy bookkeeping and risk him passing the buck to one of the other Racketeers, I decided to take the same tack as Ackerman. Perhaps I could attract more flies with honey than vinegar, get more useful information, nail down the fact that he was the one who kept the books. “You know that Mr. Pachuco personally signed the checks because you took care of the banking and bookkeeping, right?”

Featherstone hesitated a moment but eventually said, “Yes.” He really had no choice but to be honest about that fact. He had to know the other three owners would point fingers at him.

I fought a smile. These guys were making things easy on us. If they’d hung together and remained silent rather than turning on each other and flapping their gums, the upcoming trial would have been much more difficult.

What’s more, the records indicated Featherstone had a degree in finance from Southern Methodist University in Dallas. His degree plan had included five accounting courses. No way would a jury believe he’d make such basic bookkeeping errors by accident.

Rather than gild the lily, we thanked Featherstone and his attorney for their time and for setting us straight—
ha!
—about the checks.

Featherstone’s attorney rose as we stood to leave, looking from Ackerman to me. “So we’re good, then?”

“Oh, sure,” Ackerman said, waving his hand dismissively.

“No worries,” I added. Not for us anyway. If I were Louis Featherstone or his attorney, I’d be worried as hell.

“About the plea bargain—” she began.

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Ackerman said, adding, “When hell freezes over,” in a soft whisper once we were out the door.

*   *   *

Lu met me at the Y, once again dressed in her leotard, the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, and the hot pink leg warmers. At least she’d had the sense to put on a pair of stretchy, out-of-date bicycle shorts over the leotard today, though the skin-hugging fabric left only slightly more to the imagination.

“You forgot your leg warmers,” Lu said when I’d finished dressing.

I was about to protest, but realized there was no way I could tell her I didn’t want to wear the ridiculous things without insulting her. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt the Lobo’s feelings. For one, I kinda liked the old broad. For two, I knew there were some really crappy cases in the backlog. Unless I wanted them assigned to me, I’d better play along.

I smacked myself in the head. “How could I forget them?” I retrieved the leg warmers from my bag and slipped them on over my sneakers. “How do they look?”

“Fabulous.”

Nick and Eddie were pumping iron in the gym. As Lu headed for the group classroom, I made a quick stop to talk to Nick. He wasn’t scheduled to work at Guys & Dolls tonight so this was the only chance I’d have to see him today.

He gestured to my leg warmers. “Going retro, I see.”

“They were a gift from Lu.”

He fought a grin.

“I know. They’re ridiculous.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “On you they’re cute.”

A blush warmed my cheeks. What a pushover I was, huh?

“Did you call the number I left for you?”

“Sure did. Going by to check the place out tonight.”

With any luck, Nick and I would soon be neighbors. Living on the same street would have a lot of advantages. We’d be able to spend lots of time together. He’d be nearby if I needed him to open a jar or squash a bug. A short walk of shame in the morning.

“You free for lunch on Sunday?” he asked. “My mother wants to have you over.”

Nick’s mom was nearly as good a cook as my own mother. “It’s a date.”

I glanced toward the glass wall, noting the Zumba instructor had arrived. “I better get in there.”

“I’ll come with you,” Nick said.

“It’s Zumba,” I warned.

He cast me a sultry look. “I’ve got excellent rhythm.”

Was the guy trying to torture me?

We invited Eddie to join us. His response? “Dancing? You’re nuts.”

“You’re black,” I reminded him. “You’re supposed to be good at dancing.”

“Way to stereotype.”

As if he didn’t do the same thing to me all the time, calling me a redneck, making fun of my country ways. I regretted telling him I’d once eaten squirrel stew. It wasn’t all that bad, though I suffered a twinge of guilt every time I watched
Rocky and Bullwinkle.

In the room, the instructor led us through a five-minute warm-up during which we stretched our legs, arms, and necks. “Ready?” she called when the warm-up was completed.

“Ready!” we called back, the Lobo punctuating her words with an enthusiastic fist in the air.

The instructor cranked up a salsa number and began to demonstrate the steps, calling out, “One-two-three and turn, and kick, and step, and turn, and back, and one-two-three and do it again!”

Lu had no problem following the steps. Neither did Nick. I, on the other hand, had no better luck today than I’d had earlier. I seemed to be constantly two steps behind everyone else in the room. When Nick executed his second turn, I was still on the kick. Unfortunately, I kicked him right in the ankle.

“Damn, woman!” His words were angry, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. He was amused by my lack of coordination.
Ass.

I’d played both high school volleyball and intramural softball at the University of Texas, taking my team of accounting majors, the Bean Counters, to victory over a team of nerds from the physics department who called themselves the Irresistible Force. I could line dance as well as the next person, too. But while I excelled at sports and country-western dancing, these fast Latin moves were proving too much for me.

Tara Holloway was no quitter, though. I did my best, half-assing most of the moves but generally heading in the right directions. Lu kept up with the instructor, even adding some extra flair with jazz hands. Perhaps the hot pink leg warmers were magical, giving her extra energy and inspiration. If only my pair worked the same. Nick had no problem, either, executing all of the salsa and samba moves like a regular Federico Astaire.

As the last number wound down, Nick grabbed me and began a quick polka around the room, leaning me back in a deep dip at the end. While the workout had relieved some of the sexual tension that had built up, with Nick’s hands on me it returned with a vengeance. I looked up into his amber eyes. I knew it would be totally inappropriate for him to kiss me here at the Y with a dozen people watching, but that didn’t stop me from wanting it. Bad.

Thunk!

An oversized rubber ball bounced off our sides. We looked up to find Lu standing a few feet away with her arms crossed over her chest. “Your relationship isn’t going to get in the way of your work, is it? I’d hate to have to fire one of you.”

“No way.” Nick let go of me and I fell to my butt on the mat.

I frowned up at him. “Thanks a lot.”

He reached down a hand and helped me up, giving me a pat on the rear. “Hit the showers, Holloway.”

Nick rejoined Eddie in the weight room, while Lu and I returned to the locker room.

I dabbed at my face with a towel. “That was quite a workout.”

“Let’s try the Pilates class tomorrow,” Lu suggested as she slid out of her leg warmers. “I’ve never worked out with a ball before. It sounds like fun.”

chapter fourteen

Hey, Big Spender

I pulled into the parking lot of Guys & Dolls and took a spot near the back. I noticed two delivery trucks parked near the receiving bay. The first was a refrigerated van labeled Michelson’s Meat and Seafood Supply. Could the drugs be coming in or going out with the meat shipment? Next to the meat van was a slightly dilapidated truck with a variety of fruits and vegetables pictured on the side. Although the logo on the truck’s cab read
VALLEY PRODUCE—EDINBURG, TEXAS
, the words on the boxes being unloaded read
“Producto de Mexico.”
I wondered whether any illegal
productos
might have been smuggled across the border, hidden among the innocent avocados and tomatoes.

The crowd at Guys & Dolls on Thursday night was noticeably bigger than it had been earlier in the week. Either the customers were getting a head start on the weekend or they were getting in one last hurrah on their business trips before heading back home to their wives and children for the weekend.

Justin Timberlake’s “I’m Bringing Sexy Back” played through the speakers. Donald Geils stood at the bar flirting with one of the cocktail waitresses, his pelvis moving along with the song’s throbbing beat. Ew. Don Geils wasn’t bringing sexy back. He’d driven sexy out to the woods and shot it in the head.

I walked into the dressing room, greeting the dancers and bouncers scattered about, and deposited my purse in my locker. Minutes later I joined Merle in the cash office.

“You’re just the girl I wanted to see,” he said, handing me a stack of envelopes to tally. “I’m a little behind.”

“Sara Galloway to the rescue,” I said with a smile, plopping into my chair and opening the first envelope to begin counting.

Geils stepped into the cash office shortly after I arrived. “Got the cash for Michelson’s and Valley Produce?” he asked Merle.

“Right here.” Merle handed Geils two unsealed envelopes that contained cash and a copy of the distributors’ invoices.

Geils counted the cash to make sure the amounts were correct and left the office.

Many suppliers of perishable food items required cash payments since there would be nothing of value to repossess if a customer’s check bounced, so the fact that Geils paid the deliverymen in cash wasn’t necessarily unusual. However, it would be fairly easy for Geils to slip some extra cash in with one of the payments.

Cash to cover the cost of crystal meth.

I stood from my seat under the guise of adjusting my chair, but glanced through our small window. Geils didn’t reenter his office. He walked out the main door and into the club. I supposed he could have extra cash tucked in his pocket, but I didn’t think he’d pull it out in front of potential witnesses in the club or kitchen.

Hmm …

Bernice came into the office for another foot rub at the end of her shift. Given that she catered to the early crowd, she wrapped up her day by seven-thirty or so. While Merle ran a loving thumb over her instep, I counted her tips.

“Seventy-eight bucks,” I said, holding up the stack.

Bernice sighed. “There was a time when my tips were three times that much.”

When was that time?
I wanted to ask.

Merle began working on the ball of her foot now. “I didn’t see Bob out there tonight.”

“He’s back in the hospital,” Bernice replied. “The old ticker’s acting up again.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

As I put the cash in the safe, Bernice retrieved her shoes and stood.

“When are you going to be my girl, Bernice?” Merle asked, just as he’d done yesterday.

Just as she’d done the day before, Bernice put a hand on his cheek. “Someday, Merle. Someday.” She gave him another soft kiss on the forehead.

How long had these two been performing this daily ritual?

A commotion inside the club caught my eye. I stepped up to the glass. One of the bouncers had a dark-haired dancer by the arm, while another escorted a man out. The door leading from the club into the hallway banged open, and we could hear sounds of protest from the dancer as the bouncer banged on Geils’s door across the hall. More loud voices followed, primarily Geils’s, but I couldn’t quite make out the words.