“Wow,” I said. “What a transformation.”
Brett smiled. “You like it?”
“I love it!” I stood on tiptoe and gave him a warm, sweet kiss.
“I’ll be back with a crew in the next few days.”
The plants and materials alone would cost several hundred dollars. With a crew to install them, the job would run well over a thousand. This was the most generous, most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given me. What’s more, it must’ve taken Brett hours to sketch the plans. He’d captured my home in perfect, painstaking detail, even drawn Annie sitting in the upstairs window, licking her paw.
The guy was willing to do all of this for me, and I hadn’t even been willing to give him a hand job last weekend. I should be ashamed of myself.
“It’ll be nice to have a garden to tend to,” I said. “I’ve missed that. The only gardening I’ve done in months was planting a few petunias.” The second the words left my mouth I wished I were a vacuum cleaner so I could suck them back in.
Brett cocked his head, puzzled. “I didn’t see any petunias outside.”
Of course he didn’t. The petunias were at the crack house. Damn. Oh, well. It was too late now to take my words back. Besides, he had a right to know about my undercover assignment, didn’t he? If we were going to have a relationship, one with any chance of a future, I had to let him know what I was up to, at least the basics. It was only fair.
“I planted them at a house we’re using as a base for an investigation I’m working near the Cotton Bowl—”
“The Cotton Bowl?” Brett frowned. “That’s a rough part of town.”
“No need to worry,” I said. “I’ve got my partner with me at all times.” Not to mention my gun and pepper spray.
“Good,” Brett said. “I feel better knowing Eddie’s out there with you.”
“It’s not Eddie.” I told Brett the primary details about the case, including my new partner, the tacky clothing, the pink Cadillac. I left out the cockroaches, the fact that the neighbors thought I was a
puta,
the fact that I carried weapons.
“You’ve been hanging out in a former crack house, waiting to bust a drug dealer?” He stared at me for a moment in disbelief. “I know you’re smart and well trained, Tara, but that still scares me.”
“It’s not like TV, Brett. Most criminals surrender willingly.”
His expression changed from disbelieving to perplexed as he tried to process everything I’d thrown at him. “Is it normal for an IRS agent to do this kind of thing? Going undercover? Working with the DEA?”
Not normal for an auditor, but normal for a special agent. We were criminal law enforcement, after all. “Yep. All part of the job.”
“The DEA agent has a gun, right?” he asked. “Just in case something goes wrong?”
“Yes.”
And so do I.
Our gazes met and held for a long moment, and I noted the genuine care and concern in his eyes. Heck, I’d feel the same way if our roles were reversed.
“It’s sweet that you’re worried about me, Brett. But there’s two of us and only one of him. Besides, the guy we’re after doesn’t have a violent record. I’ll be fine.” At least I hoped so.
I stepped toward Brett and put a hand on his cheek, hoping to melt his defenses. Lucky for me, it seemed to work. He pulled me to him, held me tight, and kissed the top of my head.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Blips on My Radar
We made small talk as we drove to the ballpark, discussing normal topics like the new seafood restaurant that recently opened downtown, the never-ending road construction on the Dallas freeways, the beautiful azaleas beginning to bloom here and there around town.
I glanced over at Brett. “How are your plans for the Sheltons’ lake house coming?”
He signaled to change lanes. “Moving along. We’ve got the decks and pathways mapped out and partly completed. We’re still waiting on the oak trees to be delivered. The nursery’s late with the order.”
The mention of deliveries reminded me of the boxes from Stan Shelton. With any luck, I’d get a chance tonight to question Shelton about the foreign currency exchange program. But if he knew I was a Treasury agent, there would be no way he’d divulge anything to me. “Have you mentioned to Stan that I work for the IRS?”
“No,” Brett said. “He’s a busy guy. We’ve only had time to talk business.”
Perfect. “If the subject of my career comes up tonight, would you mind just telling people I’m a CPA?” It wouldn’t be a lie, after all. I was certified. Possibly certifiable, too.
Brett shot me a puzzled look. “Why?”
“Telling people you work for the IRS is like telling them you have herpes. Instant social death.”
He raised a brow. “That bad, huh?”
“People are intimidated by IRS agents. I don’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable. I just want to have a good time.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Okay,” he said. “CPA it is.”
The stadium loomed ahead and we pulled into the VIP parking lot. Brett rolled to a stop next to an attendant decked out head to toe in blue and red Rangers gear. He rolled down the window and handed the attendant a parking pass.
We found an open space a few lanes over. As we climbed out of the car, a couple walked by. Brett called after them.
The man and woman stopped and we caught up to them. I recognized the two as the couple Brett had been speaking with at the Arboretum’s charity fund-raiser. Stan Shelton was dressed in creased navy slacks and a gray knit shirt, his young wife in a skintight black miniskirt, black heels, and a sheer white blouse over a black bra.
Brett introduced me to Stan and we shook hands. When Stan turned to introduce his wife, I noticed a port-wine birthmark in the rough shape of a turtle on the back of his neck. He put a hand on his wife’s back. “This is Britney.”
I extended my hand to Britney then, noting the enormous diamond on her left hand, the gem the size of a thirty-eight-caliber bullet. “Nice to meet you, Britney.”
She took my hand, but instead of shaking it she turned my hand up and examined my nails. “Cute manicure. Love the baseballs.”
“Thanks.”
The four of us wove our way through incoming traffic and tailgate parties, Britney bringing up the rear since she could take only baby steps in her tight skirt and heels. Not that I had any room to call her trashy after the getup I’d worn most of the day.
I debated trying to wheedle information about the currency exchange seminar out of Stan on our way in, but decided it was too soon. I’d wait until he’d had a drink or two and was more relaxed, then I’d catch him with his guard down and grill him for information.
I glanced back at Britney. “Your lake house is beautiful. The stone and granite are a wonderful combination.”
Britney shrugged. “I’m not going out there until the wet bar and hot tub are up and running.”
We handed our tickets to the usher and proceeded through the turnstile. Inside, Brett purchased two programs, handing one to Stan, rolling up the other and tucking it under his arm. We made our way to the escalator to ride up to the box.
Teetering on her heels, Britney took hold of the escalator’s handrail and glanced at Stan. “You made sure they’re going to have Cuervo tequila, right? That cheap crap they served last time gave me a hell of a headache.”
“Sure it wasn’t the fact that you downed eight shots of it?” Stan skewered Britney with a look that said he was having second thoughts about his second wife.
We followed Stan and Britney through the special entrance to the skyboxes. First Dallas Bank’s box sat in a prime location behind home plate, next to the announcer’s booth, affording us a spectacular view of the field. At the back of the box was a bar, its surface covered with bottles in all shapes, sizes, and colors. A dark-haired woman dressed in a blue and red uniform stood at a buffet table, laying out a dainty spread of cocktail shrimp and crab-stuffed mushrooms, along with a heavier selection of bratwurst and sauerkraut. Something for everyone.
“This looks delicious,” I said to the attendant. She looked up and smiled.
Stan, Brett, and I loaded plates with food. Britney turned up her nose at the offerings. “Cuervo shots,” she barked at the server before wobbling her way down the steps to look out on the field.
Brett took my hand and helped me down the rows of padded seats. The box provided a much better view than the nosebleed section in which I usually sat. We were so close I could easily read the names on the backs of the players’ shirts. I took a seat, while Brett stood on the steps, talking with Stan. Britney flopped into the seat next to me, crossing her legs and swinging the top one impatiently.
I attempted conversation. “Do you work, Britney?”
Britney snorted. “Stan works me hard enough in the bedroom every night. That’s all the work I intend to do.”
Too much information. I choked down the bite of bratwurst lodged in my throat. “How did you and Stan meet?”
Britney flipped a lock of hair over her shoulder with a coral-tipped fingernail. “I used to do his first wife’s hair.” Then Britney started doing her client’s husband, apparently.
Britney glanced up at Brett and Stan, then leaned toward me. “You should dump your boyfriend and find an older man. They’ve got lots of money, their kids are grown, and the best part about it is their parents will either be dead or too embarrassed to acknowledge you. Either way, no in-laws to deal with.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
Small talk with this small-minded woman had proved pointless. I turned my attention to the field below.
“Gawd, I hate sports,” Britney muttered. “The only way I can get through these games is by getting plastered.” She proceeded to do just that as quickly as possible, downing in rapid succession the three tequila shots handed to her by the server. Britney returned the empty shot glasses to the tray and snapped her fingers at the woman. “Keep them coming.”
The waitress glanced at me. I discreetly crossed my eyes and she discreetly smiled back.
By that time, a few other couples had entered the box. I wondered if any of them were involved in the Forex investment program. I also wondered if any of the men were Dave Edwards, the informant who’d been working with the OCC, the man I was scheduled to meet with the following night.
Stan introduced Brett and me to those in the box. Many were high-ranking bank employees and their spouses. A few others were clients, no doubt invited due to the substantial balances in their accounts judging from the Rolex and Piaget watches on their wrists. Edwards wasn’t here. Either he wasn’t high enough on the bank’s food chain to warrant an invitation or he was otherwise occupied.
We resumed our seats, standing when the national anthem began to play. Britney swayed, her bare shoulder bumping mine. At the rate she was putting away the liquor, Stan would be dragging her back to the car by her ankles at the end of the night.
When the anthem ended, we settled in for the game. From his seat on the other side of me, Brett draped an arm lightly around the back of my chair. He ran his thumb down my upper arm, leaned toward me, and stole a cheese-topped nacho from my plate. A devilish grin tugged at his lips as he whispered, “Too bad they’re not serving fondue.”
His touch and innuendo ignited a spark of desire in me, resurrecting that unsatisfied lust. I wanted Brett. I wanted to connect physically with him, enjoy the more primal side of the male-female relationship. With any luck, I’d be able to get the information I needed soon, free myself of my suspicions, and satisfy this sweet ache within me.
Halfway through the first inning, another couple walked in. The man was middle-aged with a double-breasted suit and the sleaziest shit-eating grin this side of the Red River. So much gel slicked back his hair it appeared to be made of plastic. The guy had salesman written all over him. Hanging on his shoulder was another young blonde, this one in skintight low-slung black jeans, a low-cut V-neck top in a zebra print, and high-heeled black leather ankle boots, her skank quotient rivaling that of Britney.
“Brit!” the woman squealed, clattering down the steps in her spike heels.
“Chelsea!” Britney shrieked, leaping from her seat. “Look at you!”
“Look at
you
!” Chelsea shrieked back.
Chelsea’s skin was even more tanned than Britney’s, though Chelsea’s tan appeared natural.
The two women hugged. “I’ve missed you,” Britney said, hanging on Chelsea’s shoulder, probably as much to maintain her balance as a gesture of friendship.
“Me, too,” Chelsea said. “I’m so glad to be back. San Jose is a total drag. Nothing to do but hang around by the pool and drink all day.”
Such torture. Sheez. I stuck out my hand. “Hi, I’m Tara Holloway.”
“Chelsea Gryder.” Chelsea’s fingers barely touched mine before she released my hand. Guess she didn’t find me all that interesting.
“Did you say you’ve been in San Jose?” I asked. “I love California.” My family had driven to Disneyland once when I was six and I had fond memories of the costumed characters, the Dumbo ride, my oldest brother puking up funnel cake after riding the teacups.
“Not San Jose, California,” she said. “San Jose,
Costa Rica
.” She rolled her eyes. “Big difference.”
Costa Rica? Funny, I had never given much thought to Costa Rica until recently. For years, Switzerland and the Caribbean islands had been known as places where banks could be trusted to hide funds for customers all over the world. The IRS had caught many a tax evader who’d wired funds to Swiss or offshore banks and failed to disclose the income and transfers. The developing Third World countries in Latin America were joining the game now, wanting a piece of the action, and the profits, too. Costa Rica was a new blip on the IRS radar.
That odd tingle started up again, my instincts kicking in, telling me something was up. Then again, Costa Rica was a popular tourist destination. The country’s beautiful beaches, lush rain forests, and low cost of living attracted quite a few travelers. Maybe Chelsea and her husband had been in Costa Rica on vacation. Just because I hadn’t had an urge to travel there didn’t mean that something was up. Maybe my instincts were wrong. Maybe that tingle was for naught.
Before I could inquire further, Chelsea Gryder summarily dismissed me. She and Britney launched into a mutual admiration session, complimenting each other’s clothing choices, jewelry, perfumes. There was no way I could ask Chelsea more questions now without seeming intrusive.
Brett and I gave up our front-row seats so the women could sit together. As we headed up the steps, I noticed Shelton standing by the bar at the back of the room with Chelsea’s husband. The two stood so close they could have been in a football huddle.
I looked up at Brett. “Do you know the guy who’s speaking with Stan? Chelsea’s husband?”
Brett glanced over at the men. “Yeah. That’s Michael Gryder. Let’s get another drink and I’ll introduce you.”
So Brett knew Chelsea’s husband. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, did it? I wondered if Chelsea and her husband were Shelton’s guests at the lake house, the ones who had sent the box of checks and cash back to Shelton. The ones with the luggage marked SJO.
Fresh drinks in hand, Brett led me over to Stan and Michael. They stopped speaking immediately. Brett put a hand on my back. “Michael, this is my girlfriend, Tara Holloway. Tara, this is Michael Gryder.”
I shook Gryder’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Are you a banker, also?”
Gryder shook his head, offering no further information, instead taking a huge bite of bratwurst.
As if that were going to stop me. “What line of work are you in?”
He glanced away, spent several moments carefully and thoroughly chewing the meat, then finally swallowed. My eyes were still on him, my expression expectant, when he turned back. Was it my imagination or did he seem to stiffen?
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Investments,” he said softly.
“Oh?” I tilted my head in a gesture of mock innocence. “What kind of investments?” Foreign currency, perhaps?
Gryder and Shelton exchanged glances, then Gryder forced a smile at me. “I focus on specialized investments designed exclusively for qualified, high-net-worth individuals.”
A vague answer with undertones of “butt out,” but, hey, I was always up for a challenge. “Sounds interesting. What investment firm are you with?”
“I have my own private firm.”
“Really? How fascinating.” I took a sip of my wine. “What’s the name of your company?” No way could he avoid such a direct question.
He tossed back his scotch on the rocks, ice and all. He eyed me as he crunched down hard on an ice cube. “XChange Investments.”
I ducked my chin. “Exchange? As in foreign currency exchange?”
Gryder gave a small nod.
“Foreign currency seems to be a popular investment trend. I’d love to hear more. Do you have a business card?”
“No,” Gryder said, much too quickly. As if realizing he’d sounded short he mumbled, “Sorry.”
What legitimate businessman doesn’t carry cards and jump at the chance to land a new client? Now my suspicions felt like more than a hunch. Something fishy was going on and it wasn’t just the cocktail shrimp. But my behavior was already bordering on pushy and rude. If I asked any more questions, the men might realize I was up to something. I’d have to find another way to obtain more information. A forced smile spread across my lips. “It was nice meeting you, Michael. I’ll leave you men to your guy talk.” I gave them a wink and left them at the bar, returning to my seat.