Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (14 page)

Nick raised a brow when I came up empty-handed.

“Buchmeyer,” was all I said. But he understood.

“You only had the one pair?”

“Yeah.” After all, it wasn’t like I was going after armed gangs on a daily basis.

Nick turned his attention back to Fischer and dangled his cuffs from his index finger. “Do I need to put these on you, Mr. Fischer? Or will you be a good little boy and cooperate?”

While part of me admired Nick for his ballsy style, another part of me worried that he came on too strong, that agents like him gave the IRS a bad name. Then again, other than Walters, Daniel, and Scott Klein, these guys were a bunch of assholes. Who cared whether we offended them?

The B and B attorney said, “My client will come willingly.” He turned to Noah. “Don’t worry. We’ll have you out of jail by the end of the day. You won’t have to spend the night there.”

I pulled out my cell phone. “I’ll call the marshals to come pick him up.” We couldn’t exactly put Fischer in the backseat of my BMW.

“No need,” Nick said. “I already put in a call. A marshal’s outside waiting for us right now.”

Grr.
Once again, Nick had usurped my position as the lead on this case. But I had to admit it would be nice not to have to wait for a patrol car to arrive.

I led the way outside with Nick taking up the rear like a cattle driver ready to round up any mavericks who tried to break loose from the herd. The marshal leaned against the front fender of the car. The back door hung open like an invitation to which any sane person would respond with regrets.

Fischer slid his designer sunglasses onto his face and slipped gracefully into the backseat as if taking his place in his limo.

Nick put a hand on top of the marshal’s car and leaned in. “Just a suggestion, Pastor Fischer. If you feel the need to pray in jail, I’d advise against getting down on your knees.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Wigging Out

Nick and I watched as the marshal drove away with Fischer in the backseat. The attorneys hopped in their cars and followed after them.

Although I was glad that our investigation was over, the whole thing seemed a bit anticlimactic, especially compared to the previous cases I’d handled. I hadn’t been slashed with a box cutter, or shot at, or attacked by a chicken. It just didn’t seem right to go home without some type of war wound. Dr. Ajay would wonder why I hadn’t been to the clinic lately.

“See?” Nick said, as we made our way back to my car. “I told you we make a good team.”

Things had turned out well, there was no denying that. And with Nick’s badass attitude and my less confrontational approach, we had a good cop/bad cop thing going. Still, I had conflicting feelings. Part of me appreciated his help, but I couldn’t quite let go of my irritation that he’d overshadowed me. Add that to the growing attraction I felt toward him and it became a game of emotional pinball with my feelings bouncing back and forth all over the place.

“Want to grab some dinner?” Nick asked.

It was close to five by then, and I was hungry. But I needed to get away from Nick, to sort through the events of the day, to try to put things in perspective. I simply couldn’t think straight around him. Not when he drove me so crazy in so many ways. “No, thanks. I can’t tonight.”

“Plans with Brat?”

“His name’s
Brett
.”

“Oops,” Nick replied, a mischievous grin quirking about his lips. “My mistake.”

“Brett’s out of town.”

Nick cocked his head. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. He got hired on a project in Atlanta. A big country club.”

“How long is he gone for?”

“A month.”

“Good to know.” A voracious smile crept across Nick’s face now and he looked intently into my eyes.

“Why’s that good to know?” I think I knew why. But, God help me, I wanted to hear Nick say it.

His eyes flashed. He lowered his voice to a seductive whisper. “You going to keep pretending there’s not something between us?”

My heart thudded against my rib cage and a warmth spread up my neck and cheeks. Heat spread down my body, too. I looked to the side, downward, anywhere but at Nick. I’d wanted to hear him say he was attracted to me, but now that it was out in the open, I realized it may have been a mistake. With it out in the open, it would have to be faced, dealt with, resolved. “There isn’t anything between us.” My voice was soft, shaky, utterly lacking in conviction.

Nick reached out a finger, putting it under my chin and lifting my face, forcing me to look into those whiskey-colored eyes. “There could be, Tara.”

I shook my head, shaking his hand free, and stepped back, out of his reach. I could still feel the warm spot on my chin where his finger had been. “It would be a mistake. We work together. Besides, we’re too much alike.”

It was true. We were both type A personalities. Two type As in a relationship was a recipe for disaster, right?

Nick eyed me, his gaze assessing. “And, of course, there’s Brett.”

Oh, yeah. How could I have forgotten him? “That, too.”

He backed up a step now, too. “Well, darlin’, when you change your mind, just say the word.”

*   *   *

My mind was on mental overload Monday night. Too much had happened that day. Fischer’s arrest. Nick’s come-on. It was too much for a girl to deal with. And when I felt like I had too much to deal with, I did what I always did. I phoned my mother.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, there, honey! It’s good to hear your voice.”

Aren’t mothers great?

I told her about Brett leaving for Atlanta. She extended the proper amount of pity, promised to send me a tin of her pecan pralines, and suggested that with Brett gone it might be a good time for me to come home for an extended visit.

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Hey, I went to this church yesterday—”

“So glad to hear that, sweetie. It’s been a long time since you’ve been to church, hasn’t it?”

Okay, maybe sometimes mothers weren’t so great. “Well, yeah, but—”

“You ought to join a church out there,” she said. “The way things are going with you and Brett, you might be needing an aisle to walk down sometime soon.”

Mom knew good and well that when I got married it would be at the family church back home in Nacogdoches. Her comment about me finding a church here was simply her way of steering the conversation, trying to find out more about the status of Brett and my relationship. Maybe she’d stop that habit if I mentioned I’d bruised Brett’s balls riding him like a pogo stick.

Mom wasn’t subtle, but she wasn’t wrong, either. Brett and I had arrived at a critical dating juncture. We’d made it through the honeymoon phase and were beginning to settle into the relationship. Things had reached a point where we could evaluate our connection more objectively. We’d soon reach that make-or-break point.

Would we make it? Or would we break up?

Though I was crazy about Brett, enjoyed spending time with him, and felt a strong sexual attraction to him, I couldn’t say with absolute certainty that I’d fallen in love with him—at least not yet. But if I wasn’t yet falling, I’d definitely tripped in that direction and was still stumbling headlong that way. Even if we did fall in love, though, I knew love wasn’t all that was needed to have a successful, long-lasting relationship. A person could love someone who wasn’t right for them. Still, even though I wasn’t yet sure he was
The One,
he’d been the first guy I’d dated who’d made it onto the short list.

But with Nick in the mix now, I felt less sure about Brett. Though I hardly knew Nick, I seemed to innately understand him, to identify with him. It was as if we shared some type of instinctual link.

Then again, it could simply be primal lust.

I told Mom about Pastor Fischer, about the Ark funding his vacations, about the limo and the designer wardrobe and the eight-thousand-square-foot house and the domestic staff and the hot tub and the cross-shaped swimming pool. Whew!

“Well, now, that just seems wrong,” she said. “A man of God shouldn’t be so greedy.”

The parsonage at our church back home was a secondhand double-wide mobile home that looked out over the city landfill. Not exactly lavish. Yet our pastor hadn’t once complained about his modest digs.

Mom and I chatted for a few more minutes before I ended the call. It was time for a scheduled Skype with Brett.

I went to the bathroom and freshened up my makeup, even spritzed a little jasmine-scented body spray on my wrists. Silly, I know. It’s not like he’d be able to smell me through the computer and the picture quality wasn’t all that great, either. Nonetheless, I wanted to look my best for my man.

I logged on and attempted to call him, staring expectantly at his photo icon with a ready smile on my face as my computer attempted to establish a connection. When there was no response, the screen displayed a message.

Call failed.

My spirits sagged in disappointment. I waited a few minutes, sniffing my wrists and getting high on jasmine fumes before trying again. Still no response. I checked my e-mails. Yep, sure enough, there was one from Brett sent earlier in the day telling me he wouldn’t be able to talk tonight. The manager of the country club had invited him out for dinner and drinks. He wouldn’t be home until late.

Dang!

Being stood up long distance sucked. I had so much I wanted to tell him. Plus, after Nick’s not-so-subtle proposition, I’d wanted to connect with Brett, get a read on my feelings. Guess it would have to wait until tomorrow.

I replied to his e-mail with a cyber raspberry.

Pfffft.

*   *   *

Tuesday morning, I stopped by Lu’s house on my way to the office. When she answered the door, she looked even more pale than before and had clearly dropped more weight. Her hair looked thinner, too. She’d lost another inch of her beehive.

I held up the wig and forced a smile I didn’t really feel. “Ta-da!”

She reached out and took the wig from me. “The color isn’t right.”

“It was the closest the wig store had.”

She turned and I followed her into her foyer. She stopped in front of a mirror mounted over a small table and slid the wig onto her head, tugging it down tight.

When she finished, I said, “It looks nice.” And it did. The shag framed her face well and the warm color of the wig made her skin look less sallow.

But it wasn’t the beehive we’d all come to know and love and sometimes fear.

Lu reached up and fingered the wig. “I doesn’t feel like my hair.”

“It’ll just take some getting used to.”

Lu picked up a teasing comb from the table and began back-combing the shaggy do, trying her best to form it into her signature beehive. Unfortunately, the hair wasn’t long enough to reach such heights and ended up sticking out on the top and sides of her head in triangular spikes, like a manga character’s hair.

She grabbed the can of extra-hold hairspray and pushed the nozzle, releasing a mushroom cloud of hairspray fumes. She waved the can around, coating the wig, and me, with spray.

When she finished, she set the can down. “At least now it smells like my hair.” She eyed herself in the mirror, turning her head from side to side. “What do you think?”

What did I think? I thought she looked like Elmo, that’s what. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her she resembled the giggling Muppet. “It’s cute,” I offered. “Sassy.”

She sighed in resignation. “I guess it’ll have to do.”

I couldn’t stand the dejected expression on the Lobo’s face. “I’ll keep looking, Lu,” I said. “There are a couple other wig stores I can try. Maybe one of them will have something better.”

She turned to me then and put her hands gently on my shoulders. “I’m sorry to sound disappointed. I really do appreciate your getting this wig for me.”

“The lady at the wig store said that wigs made of real human hair can be dyed and styled. I could get you one of those.”

Lu cringed. “I suppose wearing someone else’s hair wouldn’t bother some folks, but it’s a little too
Silence of the Lambs
for me.”

“I understand.” I’d found the concept a little creepy, too. What if the wig started channeling the other person’s thoughts or something?

She released my shoulders. “Got time for a quick cup of coffee before you head into the office?”

“Sure,” I said, following her to her kitchen. “Just don’t tell my boss. She can be a real bitch.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Always a smart-ass.”

Over coffee, I told Lu about the preceding afternoon’s events, how Nick and I had arrested Pastor Fischer. Of course I left out the part where he’d propositioned me.

“Hot damn, girl.” Lu raised her coffee mug in salute. “But watch yourself. There’s sure to be some backlash.”

“I can handle it.”

Lu smiled her first sincere smile of the day. “That’s the spirit.”

*   *   *

At the office later that morning, I stood at the table by Viola’s desk, faxing my tax return, bank statements, and W-2s to the mortgage broker’s office.

Vi’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver. I could only hear her side of the conversation. It was three “Yes, sirs” in a row. After she hung up, she hiked a thumb toward the conference room. “You’ve got a hearing on the Buchmeyer shooting in five minutes.”

“Piece of cake.” These internal affairs hearings used to terrify me. But once I’d survived several of them, not so much. “Can you round up Nick for me? I’ll need him as a witness.”

A few minutes later, Nick stepped into the conference room where I sat waiting for the director of field operations to arrive. He gripped a small paper bag in his hand and held it out to me. “For you.”

I took the bag from him, opened it, and looked inside. At the bottom of the bag was a new pair of handcuffs to replace the pair I’d used on Buchmeyer. But this pair came with fuzzy red covers on them.

“Good for all kinds of situations,” Nick said with a grin.

I shook my head. “You are absolutely shameless.”

“Just figurin’ that out, are ya’?”

The words he’d said yesterday echoed through my mind.