Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (17 page)

You might think con artists would be more discreet than to advertise on a Web site. But the truth is there were so many scams the government couldn’t keep up. We didn’t have time to go looking for trouble. Normally, it wasn’t until after we received a tip from an irate investor that the government began an investigation. Besides, these guys were savvy enough to use temporary addresses, untraceable phones, sometimes even multiple aliases.

The page encouraged sophisticated investors to apply for membership in XChange Investments’ exclusive investment program through an online application system. Only those deemed qualified to participate would receive a personal invitation to a seminar at a local hotel where they would meet “world-renowned investor Michael Gryder” in person.

World-renowned, my ass. But he might soon be notorious.

Conveniently, the Web site offered no physical address for the business, only an e-mail address and a toll-free phone number. Asking for a wiretap on the phone number was an option, but with all the flack the government was taking for the Patriot Act, an agent had to jump through flaming hoops before a wire would be approved. It would be easier to obtain information in person.

According to the site, to be considered as a potential investor, those interested must first attend one of Gryder’s in-person seminars. Hmm …

I sent Eddie an e-mail containing a link to the XChange Investments Web site, asking him to check it out and give me his opinion later that afternoon when we’d meet for a workout at the YMCA. Then I called Christina on her cell. “Want to help me out?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll buy lunch.”

“All right, then. What is it?”

“Come to my office when you get to the building.”

*   *   *

I took all of the information I’d printed out down to Lu’s office and showed it to her. Once she’d read through it all, she handed it back to me with nothing more than a nod. But it was enough. With that small gesture, she’d given me the okay to officially open a new case on XChange Investments and Michael Gryder.

Christina arrived at my office around noon. She flopped into my swivel chair and, at my direction, completed the online application on the Xchange Investments Web site, claiming to be a nail technician who’d recently inherited four thousand dollars from an uncle who died of a “microbial infartion.”

Christina looked up at me, her brow furrowed. “That’s not a real thing.”

“My point exactly. This guy claims to deal only with wealthy, sophisticated investors, but my hunch is he’ll take anyone’s money.”

She pushed the enter button to send the application. Since Gryder had already met me, Christina would have to attend the seminar. I had no doubt she’d receive one of his exclusive invitations. Sure enough, not two minutes later, a return e-mail, likely an automated response, popped up in my personal e-mail in-box, addressed to Redneckgirl963. Who would’ve thought there were 962 others like me?

I read the e-mail. “Wednesday at 7:00, the Sam Houston Salon at the Adolphus Hotel. You’re in.” And with any luck, I’d soon be taking Gryder out—of business, that is.

*   *   *

When we arrived at the crack house, Christina had a surprise for me. “I brought you a present.” She held up a thin, black yoga mat wrapped in plastic.

Thinking back on my quivering, achy muscles, I asked, “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

She bonked me on the head with the mat and shoved it into my hands. “You may not thank me now, but you will later when your ass looks as good as mine.”

“My ass already looks as good as yours.”

She glanced down at my backside. “Debatable.”

I save her from a rabid raccoon and this is the thanks I get?

We opened the windows to let in the fresh spring air. Given that most of the windows lacked screens, a few flies and a speckled gecko came in with the air. We’d hunt down tax cheats and drug dealers, no problem, but neither of us wanted to handle a slimy little reptile. The lizard ran unfettered down the wall, across the floor, and into a bedroom.

Christina pulled out her yoga mat and slid an exercise DVD into her laptop. I ripped the plastic off my new mat and rolled the mat out on the floor next to hers. Within minutes, we each had our arms and legs tangled around ourselves as if we were playing solitary games of Twister. While we exercised, we discussed our weekend plans.

“I’m going home to Nacogdoches for a gun show,” I told Christina, “but I can stay here tonight and head out in the morning.” Of course I couldn’t come back to the house tonight until after I’d met with Dave Edwards at the coffeehouse, got the inside scoop on the goings-on at First Dallas. But that shouldn’t take too long.

“Ajay’s taking me out tonight,” Christina said. “I’ll have him bring me here after. We’ll have ourselves a regular slumber party.”

“I’ll bring snacks.”

“Now you’re talking.”

When my stomach growled, I sat back on my mat and picked up my cell phone and the tattered phone book. “What sounds good for lunch?”

“How about pizza?” Christina said from behind her awkwardly crooked knee. “Order a vegetarian so we can at least pretend it’s healthy.”

I dialed the first major pizza chain on the list. After placing my order, I gave them the address for the house.

“Sorry,” said the girl on the other end of the phone. “We don’t deliver to that neighborhood. Four of our drivers got rolled there last year.”

I tried the next chain. Same response. After placing six more calls, I’d heard it all. Delivery drivers robbed of their cash and jewelry, delivery drivers carjacked, delivery drivers stripped naked and dumped on the outskirts of town.

“I’ve got a gun and pepper spray,” I told the last person to turn me down. “Does that help?”

The woman hung up on me.

The final listing in the Yellow Pages pizza section was “Wong-Fu’s Eggroll Express and Pizza.”

“Do we dare?” I asked Christina.

She shrugged. “Why not? We’re brave girls.”

While we waited for lunch to arrive, Christina showed me more yoga moves. She stuck one leg out straight behind her, the other bent to her side. “This pose is called the ‘King Pigeon.’”

“And this is called the ‘Funky Chicken.’” I flapped my arms and walked knock-kneed in a circle.

“Grow up.”

“What fun would that be?”

A half hour later, a silver Honda Civic hatchback pulled up to the curb, two young Asian men inside. The guy in the passenger seat ducked low, his eyes darting around the area for a few seconds before he threw open his door. He leaped out, lugging a metal baseball bat, and grabbed our pizza out of the hatchback the driver had just popped open. He dashed to our door, taking our three front steps in one long stride, banging hard and fast on the door.

When I opened the door, he all but threw the pizza and a handful of fortune cookies at me. I handed the guy a twenty, told him to keep the change, and watched him barrel across the front yard and dive into the open door of the car. Tires screeching, the two took off at warp speed, leaving tread marks and a small exhaust cloud at the curb.

Christina stood behind me, sodas in hand. “Wimps.”

We brought our food out onto the front porch and dug in, enjoying the unseasonably cool day. The guys who lived across the street weren’t outside today, but their dog was lying in his usual place under the tree. The dog sniffed the air, smelled our food and stood, dragging his chain until he’d pulled it taut. I hoped it would hold. With his wide mouth, pointy teeth, and rock-solid muscle, the dog looked scary as hell.

I took a bite of pizza. “At the rate we’re going, we won’t have Joe busted till Christmas.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Christina said, waving her hand dismissively. “We’re wearing him down.”

Surely Christina knew what she was talking about, but frankly I was going stir-crazy. Stakeouts aren’t as much fun as you’d think. Too much downtime for a girl of action like me.

When I finished my pizza, I cracked open my fortune cookie and pulled out the slip of paper. My fortune read “One cannot find true love without first being true to oneself.”

Freaky.

A few minutes later, we heard ice-cream truck music. Joe rolled slowly up the street, stopping at our curb. The two guys from across the street walked over, casting glances at me and Christina.

Christina put a hand on my arm, stopping me as I began to stand. “Wait,” she said in a low voice.

One of the guys took a quick glimpse back at us as Joe handed a small paper bag through the window to the other. They made no attempt to hide their transaction this time. Looked like we’d successfully pulled off our cover, convinced them we were nothing more than trashy slackers. I wasn’t sure whether to be proud or ashamed that I made such a convincing skank.

After the two guys returned to their house, Joe looked over at us. “Ice cream?” he called through the open service window.

Christina shook her head.

I didn’t exactly understand the dynamics here, but figured Christina knew what she was doing. She looked away from Joe, ignoring him now, cracking open a fortune cookie.

Joe watched her for a minute. “Come here,” he called.

Christina didn’t look up, appearing to be talking to the cookie in her hand. “Why should we?”

Joe put his hands on the top of the window, exposing sweat-stained armpits. “Just come here.”

Christina slowly stood, and took her time walking to the truck. I followed her lead, stepping slowly through the yard.

Joe glanced nervously up and down the street before bending down to speak to us. “What are you in the market for?”

“What do you got?” Christina asked, raising a brow.

“I can get my hands on just about anything.”

Christina jutted out her chin, using it to gesture across the street at the house the two Latino guys lived in. “What did you get for them?”

Joe snorted and cocked his greasy head. “Girl, you couldn’t handle something like that.”

Whoa. Had he just admitted something? His words were probably too vague for Judge Trumbull to issue a search warrant. They’d communicated, sure, but they’d talked around the subject. We needed some hard evidence or, better yet, probable cause. With probable cause we could search the truck on the spot. But we had to be very careful. One false, premature move and any evidence we seized could be challenged, the case thrown out of court.

Christina crossed her arms under her breasts, forcing them up and out for maximum effect, and stuck out her bottom lip in a sexy pout. “I can handle anything.”

Joe watched her for a moment, his eyes flicking from her chest to her face. “You like crank?”

What the heck was crank?

“Hell, yeah, if it’s pure,” Christina said. “Nothing like it.”

“I can hook you up next week,” Joe said.

“Promise?” Christina put a hand on Joe’s forearm and had a suggestive tone in her voice. “I don’t like to be let down.”

Joe glanced down at her hand and grinned. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll come through for you.”

She gave him a sultry smile.

Joe’s tone turned businesslike now. “One hundred. Cash.”

Christina nodded. “I’ll have it.”

We bought two ice-cream sandwiches and walked back into the house. Once the door shut behind us, Christina began jumping up and down and clapping her hands. A couple of pom-poms and she’d be right at home on a football field. “We’ve got him!”

“We’re going to get him,” I admonished her. “Don’t count a chickenshit until you’ve got him by the nuggets.”

*   *   *

Ajay planned to bring Christina to the house later that evening after their date, so I drove Christina back to the DEA office in Pinky, dropped her off, and took the car to the Y. After I’d stripped down to my bra and panties in the ladies’ locker room, I stepped onto the scale and slid the register to its usual position. The balance remained fully tilted to the right. Uh-oh.

Slowly, I edged the weight higher until the balance leveled out. Dang. I’d gained four pounds. Had to be all that ice cream. We’d better bust Joe before I busted out of my pants.

I slid into my shorts, thankfully stretchy black spandex, and threw on a wrinkled blue T-shirt. I gathered up my novel and towel and went in search of Eddie. He’d already logged eight minutes on the stationary bike where he sat pedaling and reading the
National Review
. He squirted water into his mouth from a clear plastic bottle.

I climbed onto the bike next to him, adjusted the seat, and cranked the resistance up three levels higher than usual, having to push extra hard on the pedals to get the machine going. I glanced over at Eddie. “You get a chance to look at that link I sent you? The one for XChange Investments?”

He nodded.

“And?”

He put one bent arm out in front of him, the other behind, Egyptian-style. “Pyramid scheme.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

He put his hands back on the bars. “What’s going on with the ice-cream man?”

“We’re close to nailing Joe. He’s supposed to get us some crystal meth next week.” Christina had explained to me earlier that “crank” was the street name for the popular methamphetamine, so called because it was often hidden in a car’s crankcase. Once Joe sold us the drugs, Judge Trumbull would have to issue a search warrant for his apartment, bank records, all that stuff. Chances were such a search would turn up more condemning evidence.

After the bike, I dabbed the sweat from my forehead and headed to the elliptical machines. I spent an extra ten minutes on the equipment, cranking the machine up to the most difficult level. Needed to keep in shape so I’d look good for Brett once I’d relieved my suspicions. My suspicions would be relieved, right? God, I hoped so.

My huffing and puffing earned me odd looks from those exercising nearby.

Eddie walked over from the free weights. “Easy, girl. You sound like you’re having an orgasm over here.”

I didn’t break stride. “How would you know what a woman having an orgasm sounds like?”

Eddie put a hand over his chest. “That hurt.”

“Sorry.” I slowed to a stop and tried to catch my breath. “I’m just a little grumpy. Thanks to all the ice cream I’ve downed this week, I’ve put on four pounds.” The fact that I’d been battling doubts about Brett didn’t help my mood, either.