Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure by Diane Kelly Page A

dragon with a beehive. “’Course he did. But rules are rules. You’re officially on administrative leave until we can hold a hearing and get this mess straightened out.”
    Dang.
    “But we can’t spare you,” she said, “so don’t stop working.”
    Sheez. “Some leave.”
    She waved her hand. “Get out of here and get back to work.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    I retrieved Eddie’s bagels and Christina from my office, and we headed down the hall to Eddie’s digs. Eddie glanced up from his desk where he sat virtually buried in Battaglia’s records. His CPA license hung on the wall behind him next to a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader calendar featuring a woman with a pair of large pom-poms in her hands and another pair nearly bursting out of her tiny halter top. I tossed the bag to him.
    He caught it in midair. “Thanks.” He set the bag on his desk, then stood as Christina stepped forward with her hand out. I introduced the two.
    “Nice to meet you, Christina.” Eddie shook her hand, then turned it over and raised her wrist to his nose. “Wow, you smell nice.”
    Christina giggled. “Thanks. I went to one of those places that make personalized fragrances. I call this one ‘Christina in Bloom.’”
    Eddie grinned. Although he was happily married, Eddie was also a hopeless flirt. “It suits you perfectly.”
    I picked Eddie’s framed family photo off his desk and held it up to Christina. “These would be Eddie’s wife and kids.”
    “She’s pretty,” Christina said, taking the frame out of my hand, “and your girls are adorable.”
    “Thanks. I’m a lucky guy.” Eddie sat back in his rolling chair and pulled a bagel out of his bag. He fished around in the bag with his hand and, coming up empty, pulled it toward him and peeked inside. “What? No cream cheese?”
    “Oops.” I shrugged sheepishly. “I forgot.”
    Eddie shook his head. “It was only a matter of time before the love died.”
    Christina returned the photo to Eddie’s desk and we headed out the door.
    “Take pictures of the takedown,” Eddie called after us. “Two-on-one action, I don’t want to miss that.”
    Urk. Men.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
    Playing the Part
    We headed out to the parking lot and climbed into my BMW, putting the top down to enjoy the pleasant spring day. As we left downtown, I changed lanes on Elm Street just past the historic book depository. Something about driving over the big X painted on the street, marking the spot where President Kennedy had been shot, gave me the creeps. A handful of tourists stood on the infamous grassy knoll, looking over at the road then up at the old building, no doubt wondering if there was any credence to the second-shooter notion advanced by conspiracy theorists.
    An hour later at a trendy store at the Galleria, Christina and I searched through racks in the juniors section for appropriately inappropriate attire to wear on our upcoming undercover gig. Though it was only March, daytime temperatures already reached the low eighties and the summer stock was out and primed for purchase.
    Christina sorted through a rack of colorful tops, sliding the hangers aside as she looked over the offerings. “See anything that’ll make us look like slackers?”
    I held up a skimpy black T-shirt that read DIVA in glittery silver lettering across the front. “How about this?”
    She scrunched up her nose. “It’s totally tacky, so it’s totally perfect. What do you think of this?” She held a pair of hot-pink hot pants up to her waist.
    The tiny shorts looked to be a size three. They also looked like they’d fit her perfectly. I fought the urge to bitch-slap her. “Trashy. Get them.”
    She added them to the stack accumulating on her arm.
    “How far do we have to take this whole undercover thing?” I asked. “I want to look the part, but I’d draw the line at a tramp stamp or belly button ring.”
    “So I should cancel the appointment for the nipple piercing?”
    The mere thought had me hunching my