Free Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers by Diane Kelly Page B

large cardboard box covered by a dusty red tablecloth. The melted nubs of several candles sat on top of the tablecloth. On the wall behind the altar was a spray-painted, downward-facing pentagram, the symbol of Satan.
    I stopped in my tracks. “Holy crap.”
    Had someone worshipped the devil in here? A chill invaded my body, causing me to shiver. I genuflected and crossed myself.
    Eddie glanced over at me. “Aren’t you a Baptist?”
    “Yeah,” I said, “but it can’t hurt.”
    I pulled out my phone and logged in to the app store.
    “What are you doing?” Eddie asked.
    “Looking for a crucifix app.” It might just be my imagination, but the air around me felt colder, too.
    Eddie rolled his eyes. Or at least I assumed he was rolling his eyes. For all I knew Satan had taken control of his body and the eye rolling was an effect of demonic possession.
    We stepped closer to the altar. Several small bones lay scattered among the candles.
    My hand flew to my chest. “Oh, my God! Do you think they sacrificed animals in here?”
    “No.” Eddie pointed to a to-go box from Chili’s that had been tossed against the wall. “I think they wanted their baby back ribs.”
    The place gave me the total creeps. “Let’s get out of here.” Before the devil steals our souls.

 
    chapter ten
    Building Our Case
    We left the room and met up with Ackerman in the hallway. He took a dozen photos of the house and a few more of the yard before glancing at his watch. “Time to head over to the attorney’s office.”
    We climbed back into the car and returned to downtown, swinging by the IRS office so I could pick up the construction contracts and requests for progress payments the bank had faxed to me. I also retrieved the spare sweater I kept in my desk. Call me superstitious, but I hadn’t been able to warm up since we’d left the Satan shack. My bones felt like icicles inside me.
    Evidence in hand, we drove the few blocks to the lawyer’s office and parked in the underground garage.
    We rode the elevator up, the lights on the panel board ticking off our ascent. The higher we ascended in the building, the higher the rates charged by the law firms housed within, the dings of the elevator bell like a cash register ringing up the bill. Two hundred per hour, two hundred fifty, three hundred, three fifty, four hundred. The bell emitted a final ding as we came to a halt. Given that we stopped only two floors from the top, I’d put Pachuco’s attorney in the four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour range.
    Although we were right on time for our appointment, Pachuco and his attorney made us wait the requisite ten minutes, a typical power play. No problem with me. The brief downtime allowed me to do some browsing on the Neiman Marcus Web site. The holidays were coming up and I wanted a kick-ass dress to wear on New Year’s Eve, when Nick planned to take me out for dinner and dancing, topping the night off with drinks at the bar atop Reunion Tower.
    A seasoned secretary stepped into the waiting area to round us up. “Ms. Brunwald and Mr. Pachuco are ready to see you now. This way, please.”
    We followed her down a hallway of offices far more plush and inviting than my plain office at the IRS building. But I supposed I couldn’t complain. Gotta use the taxpayer’s money wisely, right? And with all the time I spent out in the field, I wasn’t even in the office much. Nonetheless, it might be nice to have a little more square footage and a cushy rug to brighten up the place.
    Brunwald’s secretary stopped at the open door of a small conference room, holding out her arm to indicate we should enter. After we stepped inside, she softly closed the door behind us.
    The conference room, too, was plush, with a cherrywood conference table and a credenza topped with a sculpture that vaguely resembled an oversized frozen waffle standing on its side. Yep, I’m a real connoisseur of modern art.
    After checking out the art, I took a gander at