Free Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria by Diane Kelly Page B

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     filing cabinet stretching across the wall behind it. Two cheap metal chairs with black
     vinyl seats faced the desk. The built-in white bookcases were mostly bare, the only
     items on them an outdated copy of a tax primer, a stack of pamphlets promoting the
     fictitious fuel company, and a glass candy dish containing a handful of plastic-wrapped
     peppermints.
    The windows consisted of a large plate-glass rectangle with narrow vertical glass
     panels on each side. For safety reasons only the vertical panels could be opened.
     The one to the left of the center panel was ajar, the screen punched out. I stepped
     to the window and took a quick look. How the heck a grown man had wriggled out through
     the ten-inch space was beyond me.
    I walked around the desk where Beau’s laptop sat open, his screen displaying a list
     of e-mails. I hit the space bar to keep the machine active and took a seat in his
     rolling chair.
    The man with the ball cap had followed me back to Beauregard’s office. He stood in
     the doorway, his head cocked. “You know anything about taxes?”
    “I work for the IRS,” I said. “So, yeah, I know a little about taxes.”
    He pulled a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt. “Can you tell
     me what this mumbo jumbo means?”
    I took the paper from him and read over the notice he’d received from the IRS. It
     informed him that his fuel tax credit had been denied.
    “It means Beauregard duped you.” I offered him a consoling smile. “That gas well he
     sold you? It doesn’t actually exist. Sorry.”
    “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest.
     “I paid good money for that well.” He glared at the open window, then looked back
     at me. “What are the chances I’ll get that money back?”
    “Honestly?” I said. “Slim to none.” I opened the drawers to Beau’s desk and found
     a dollar and thirty-seven cents inside. I handed it to the man. “Here. Buy yourself
     something from the vending machine.” Maybe some chocolate would cheer him up.
    After the man left the room, I rummaged through the rest of the drawers. I found more
     pamphlets detailing the benefits of financial planning, as well as application forms
     for insurance policies and forms to open investment accounts. I’d never heard of the
     insurance company, Alltex Allied Mutual Incorporated, or the investment company, Gulf
     States Portfolio Management. Chances were good they were bogus companies, too.
    Eddie came into the office then, a pissed-off look on his face. “I lost him,” he said.
     “I’ve called Dallas PD so they can keep an eye out for him.”
    I returned my attention to the computer, looking over Beau’s e-mail in-box. Eddie
     stepped up behind me to read over my shoulder. Most of the e-mails were typical spam
     from businesses trying to sell him promotional items. An e-mail from his cell phone
     provider reminded him that his bill was past due. A communication from his bank warned
     his account was overdrawn. He’d racked up over three hundred dollars in overdraft
     fees. Some financial planner he was.
    I looked up at Eddie. “How can the guy be broke?” After all, he’d cheated the government
     out of over half a million dollars in the last year alone. That was like, what, forty
     thousand dollars a month? “What could he have spent all that money on?”
    “My guess would be drugs, gambling, or hookers,” Eddie said.
    As I continued to scroll down Beau’s e-mail in-box, we found an e-ticket for a flight
     from Dallas to Las Vegas.
    “That narrows it down to gambling and hookers,” Eddie said.
    The flight was scheduled to leave late in the day on the October 15 extended tax deadline.
     Beau planned to treat himself to some fun after the mad rush, huh? Too bad for him
     that Eddie and I had come along to play party poopers.
    While I forwarded all of the e-mails to my account at the IRS, Eddie looked through
     the filing