Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (6 page)

The church bookkeeper, the outside CPA, and the pastor had apparently forgotten one of the basic tenets taught in Sunday school.
Thou shalt not steal.

The parsonage was another big issue. Although tax law allowed a church to provide a reasonable housing allowance or parsonage to its minister tax-free, the Ark’s parsonage could hardly be deemed reasonable. At over eight thousand square feet with a heated swimming pool and Jacuzzi, high-tech media room, fully equipped fitness room, and gourmet kitchen, the place was a veritable heaven on earth.

What’s more, the church had bought top-of-the line furnishings for the place, including custom-designed window coverings, imported Persian rugs, and the largest 3-D TV on the market. The Ark also paid for lawn and pool service, along with a full-time maid and cook. Heck, the Ark even provided Fischer with a limo and driver.

Several years ago, the Dallas county tax collector had deemed the parsonage ineligible for a property tax exemption because the home was far beyond what was necessary for use as a residence. The tax office had issued an assessment to the church, but the church refused to pay. When the tax collector pressed the county attorney to pursue the unpaid property tax bill in court, the county attorney had balked.

In Texas, as in many Southern states, a wide variety of public offices are filled through elections rather than appointments. This system had been in place since just after the Civil War and was designed to keep power in the hands of the locals and prevent those pesky Yankees from appointing their cronies to office.

Problem was, the elected officials were now controlled by their financial supporters. In the case of the county attorney, a number of those who’d made significant contributions to his campaign attended the Ark Temple of Worship. Rather than risk alienating his supporters and losing his reelection bid, the county attorney wimped out and did nothing. Frustrated, the tax assessor had referred the case to the IRS, hoping the feds would take action.

After the case was referred, IRS auditors performed a thorough investigation and issued an income tax assessment of over five hundred grand to Pastor Fischer. Just as the Ark had ignored its property tax bill, Fischer refused to pay his federal income tax bill. Although collection action could have been taken, the head of the Dallas collections department realized he’d be in the hot seat if his department seized the pastor’s assets. The buck was passed once again and the case was moved up the Treasury’s chain to Criminal Investigations.

The case was sure to be a political nightmare for the IRS, just as the federal government’s raid at the cult compound in Waco, Texas, years ago had caused untold amounts of grief for people at all levels of government, from low-level agents at the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms all the way up to then Attorney General Janet Reno. But unlike those who’d come before her, the Lobo didn’t scare easily.

Neither did I.

The buck stopped here.

I reviewed the pastor’s dossier next. Actually, it was just a bunch of copies of personal documents crammed into a reused manila folder on which another taxpayer’s name had been crossed through and “Noah Fischer” written above it. But “dossier” sounds much more classy, doesn’t it?

According to the information in the file, Noah Fischer had been born in Dubuque, Iowa, and raised in government-subsidized housing. His father was a disabled Vietnam veteran, a former electrician for the Army Corps of Engineers who’d been injured in a fall and could no longer work. His mother was employed sporadically as a housekeeper. Their meager income was subsidized with benefits from government entitlement programs, including food stamps, Medicaid, and social security supplements.

Fischer had graduated in the bottom quarter of his high school class and engaged in no extracurricular activities, though he had been awarded an honorable mention in the school science fair his junior year for powering a low-watt lightbulb with an improvised potato battery. No doubt his father had helped with that project. Fischer’s senior high school photo showed a scrawny, bucktoothed boy with white-blond hair and a disproportionately large nose.

During his late teens and early twenties, Noah had floated from one menial part-time job to another, flipping burgers, delivering pizza, detailing cars at a Cadillac dealership. A slacker. Not exactly the kind of background you’d expect of a guy who’d successfully built and led one of the largest churches in the metroplex and whose sermons were broadcast nationwide every Sunday morning to hundreds of thousands of viewers.

Things had seemed to suddenly change for Noah when he turned twenty-two. He began taking classes at the local community college, was later admitted to Iowa State, and went on to divinity school.

Had he found God then?

Maybe.

Or perhaps he’d discovered something else.

He’d married his wife, Marissa, a decade ago, when both of them were in their late twenties and Noah’s career had just begun to take off. The couple had no children. Whether their childless state was by choice or due to fertility issues was unknown.

A recent photo of the couple from the Ark’s Web site showed that Fischer was indeed a much-changed man. Though he was still lean, he no longer looked scrawny. Gone, too, were the buckteeth and too-large nose, replaced by a perfect set of pearly whites and a schnoz in exact proportion with his other facial features.

Eddie Bardin, my usual partner, walked into my office. Eddie was tall and thin, with skin the color of black coffee. The guy was a sharp dresser with a sharp mind. Even his calculator was a Sharp brand model.

He plopped down in one of the two chairs facing my desk and grasped his head in his hands as if to prevent his skull from exploding. “Being director sucks.”

Only three weeks ago he’d been thrilled when the Lobo asked him to fill her shoes—or should I say go-go boots?—while she’d be out for her cancer treatments and recovery.

“What’s so sucky about it?”

“Everything!” Eddie rested his elbows on his knees now and slumped forward in the chair, his blue silk tie hanging like a cut noose from his neck. “I’m buried in paperwork, I rarely get to leave my office, and I have to listen to the staff whine all day about stupid shit.”

“What kind of stupid shit?”

“The stupidest. Viola’s on a rampage about parking. The new clerk in the records department has been parking in Vi’s usual spot. I reminded Vi that parking isn’t reserved, but she said she’s parked there for thirty years, everyone knows it’s her spot, and she wants me to do something about it.”

“She’s got a point,” I said. “Thirty years is a long time.”

Eddie frowned. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, buddy.” I hooked my two index fingers together in a sign of solidarity. “Always yours.”

He glanced at the clock on my wall, noted it was two minutes after five, and reached up to loosen his tie. “The second Viola left my office, Josh came in pitching a fit because someone stole a Twinkie from the box he keeps in his desk.”

I grimaced. “Sorry, boss. That was me.”

Eddie shot me a pointed look. “Tara, please. You know Josh gets his Underoos in a bunch when anyone touches his stuff. You can buy Twinkies from the vending machine in the break room.”

“I know,” I said. “But I was a nickel short.” Plus it was kind of fun to put Josh’s undies in a bunch. He could be a bit of a twerp sometimes.

Eddie pulled his wallet from his pocket, fished out a dollar bill, and laid it on my desk. “Do me a favor. Go buy him a Twinkie so he’ll shut up.”

“Will do.” I slid the dollar into my pocket. “I guess this isn’t a good time to tell you I had to fire my gun yesterday.”

Eddie threw his hands in the air. “You’re killing me, Tara.”

“August Buchmeyer shot at us first,” I said. “The hearing will be a slam dunk in my favor.”

“Let’s hope so.” He stood to leave. “By the way, I assigned Nick to work with you on the Ark case.”

My heart lurched in my chest. After the awkward conversation in the car last night, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for Nick and me to be alone together. In fact, I’d purposely avoided him all afternoon, waiting until I saw him walk into his office with his postlunch can of Red Bull before going to the kitchen to fill my coffee mug, timing my potty breaks just after his, keeping my door partially closed so our gazes wouldn’t accidentally meet across the hall.

“Why Nick?” I asked.

“Pastor Fischer and the church won’t go down without a fight,” Eddie said. “It couldn’t hurt to put more muscle on the case.”

If it was muscle we needed, Nick was certainly the agent to turn to. Still, I was insulted. Lu had appointed me as the lead agent on the investigation. The least Eddie could have done was consult with me before assigning a secondary agent. I told him so.

“Nick asked to work with you. Said he thought you two worked well together.”

Nick asked to work with me? Again?

Before I could fully process that information, Eddie turned and left.

*   *   *

After work Friday evening, I drove to Brett’s house. He was already home and had left the door unlocked for me, so there was no need to use the spare key he kept hidden under the decorative birdhouse on his front porch. Brett smiled and waved to me from his kitchen as I stepped inside.

While Nick was tall, tan, and dark haired, Brett topped out at five foot eight, with sandy hair and green eyes. Nick’s body was a weapon, carefully built and strategically sculpted with machines and weights, while Brett sported the lean, honest muscle that came with physical labor. Unlike Nick, who was all man, Brett had a sweet, boyish charm, like Brendan Frazier or Matthew Broderick. Not that I was comparing Brett and Nick. Oh, wait. I guess I was.

“Hey, Tara.” Brett met me in his foyer, cupping his free hand behind my neck, giving me a warm kiss. As the kiss deepened, he twined his fingers in my hair, my stiff locks giving off an odd crunching sound. When he stepped back, he found his hand hopelessly stuck in my hair.

“What’s so sticky?”

“Lu’s extra-hold hairspray.”

“Hairspray? Feels more like glue.”

While he wiggled his fingers, trying to work them loose, I turned my head one way then the other, cringing as the action pulled at the sensitive hairs at the nape of my neck. He finally managed to free his hand from my hair. Thank God. I was beginning to think we’d have to use scissors.

A half hour later, Brett and I sat on his sofa, enjoying Indian takeout while watching back-to-back episodes of our favorite British sitcom,
Peep Show,
on the BBC America channel. Remembering the cute speckled chicken at the Buchmeyers’ place, I’d forgone the tandoori chicken in favor of the channa paneer.

Brett wore his chili-pepper-print lounge pants and a green T-shirt. I had slipped into the red satin spaghetti-strap nightie that made a home in Brett’s top dresser drawer, next to his boxer briefs. Napoleon, Brett’s furry black Scottish terrier mix, lay next to his master, his front paws and small head draped over Brett’s leg. He watched every bite Brett put into his mouth, waiting for the nibbles he knew Brett would give him.

Brett’s other dog was also black, but with an entirely different physique. Reggie, an enormous pit bull-Rottweiler mix, sat on the couch next to me, his brisket-sized head only inches from mine, his eyes on my mouth, his warm doggie breath on my cheek. With his square jaw and large teeth the dog looked mean as hell, but under Brett’s constant doting he’d grown into one of the sweetest, most loyal dogs you’d ever meet. Of course the fact that Brett had relieved the dog of his pendulous nuts and the doggie testosterone they created may have contributed to the beast’s new mellow temperament.

Reggie smacked his lips every time I took a bite. When I could take his stares no longer, I held out a big piece of bread to him. He grabbed the naan, hopped down from the couch, and lay down on the rug to eat it, thumping his tail against the floor in appreciation.
Thump-thump-thump.

“How are things coming along at the Habitat house?” I asked Brett.

Though he’d grown up in one of the more exclusive parts of Dallas and had never wanted for anything, he was no spoiled brat. His parents supported several local charities and had instilled in him a sense of responsibility to his community and others. Brett had recently become involved with Habitat for Humanity, donating his landscaping design services, as well as grass, plants, and trees.

“The heat’s been tough,” he replied. “Not many people want to work in hundred-degree weather. We’ve had a hard time getting volunteers lately, but Trish has put some feelers out for new recruits.”

At the mention of Trish’s name, I felt my inner bitch rear her head. Trish worked as a reporter for a local television station. With butterscotch-blond hair, a bubbly personality, and equally bouncy, oversized boobs, she handled the happy-feel-good stories for the ten o’clock news. “Tune in for Trish at ten!”

Not long ago she’d done a piece on Habitat for Humanity. Brett happened to be landscaping the worksite when she arrived and she interviewed him for the piece, commenting in her airy way on the
size of his equipment
and
how skilled he was with his tools
. I might have been able to let her flirtatious comments go if she hadn’t subsequently volunteered to work on the project with him, if I hadn’t seen her hop into his wheelbarrow for a giggly, breast-jostling ride.

Although the exposure she’d given Brett had been great for his landscaping business, I sensed she had a few more questions she’d like to ask him, such as “Your place or mine?” and “Was it good for you, too?” Still, I didn’t want petty jealousy to ruin my evening with Brett so I dropped the subject.

When we finished our dinner, Brett gathered up our plates and silverware while I collected the napkins, cardboard containers, and bags. I followed him to the kitchen and tossed out the trash while he rinsed our dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher.

He turned and leaned back against the counter. “I’ve got some news.”

His posture was relaxed, but the fact that he’d waited until after dinner to tell me this as-yet-undisclosed information made me suspicious.