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

stoop.
    “How does this whole undercover thing work?”
    Christina stretched her long legs out in front of her. “Basically, we pretend to be users, try to gain the dealer’s trust, then make a buy.”
    Not too complicated. “How long does it take?”
    She lifted one shoulder, noncommittal. “It varies. Some of the bigger stings take months, years even. A small operator like this guy? Three, maybe four weeks, tops.”
    Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a pencil and a notepad. “If we’re going to be stuck in this dump for weeks, we’ll have to do some shopping.” I began to make a list, starting with air freshener and roach spray.
    “Don’t forget the disinfectant,” Christina added. “Antibacterial soap, too. And a toilet seat.”
    When I finished adding her suggestions to the list, I slipped the notepad back into my purse.
    A police cruiser rolled slowly up the street, windows down, a tall, black officer at the wheel. He pulled to a stop in front of our house. “Got a report of a gunshot in the area,” he called. “You girls hear anything?”
    “Nope,” I said. “Not a thing.”
    Christina shook her head.
    The cruiser rolled on.
    “Lying to cops,” Christina muttered. “Our karma is so screwed.”
    We were about to climb into the pink Caddie again when we heard the warbling bars of ice-cream truck music in the distance.
    My gaze met Christina’s. “Joe Cool?”
    She bobbed her head affirmatively.
    I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet. No bills. Shoot. Given that cash was virtually obsolete these days, I rarely bothered to carry any. “Got any singles?”
    Christina rummaged through her purse and checked her wallet. “ ¡Ay caramba! I’ve only got sixteen cents.” She held up a Visa card. “You think he takes plastic?”
    Some undercover agents we were.
    We searched the Cadillac’s ashtray and floorboards. Nothing. The attendant at the impound lot had likely cleared out anything of value in the car.
    The music grew louder and several blocks down an ice-cream truck came around the corner, its once-red paint now oxidized to a flat, rusty orange in the Texas sun. The truck headed slowly up the street toward us. At two o’clock in the afternoon on a school day, only a handful of customers presented themselves. A thin black woman in a flowered housedress came out of a house five doors down and waved at the van. A toddler wearing only a diaper followed her to the truck, wobbling on his chubby legs. A few seconds later, the woman backed away holding two ice-cream bars and handed one to the kid.
    Christina hopped onto the trunk of the Cadillac, putting her feet on the bumper and leaning back suggestively. I didn’t have time to strike such a seductive pose, and even if I had, with my short build and flat chest I could never achieve quite the same effect. I chose to simply lean back against the fender.
    The ice-cream truck started up again, rolling toward us at the whopping rate of three miles per hour. A pair of black speakers mounted on top of the truck continued to blare the silly children’s tune.
    I snapped my fingers as recognition kicked in. “I know that song. My kindergarten teacher taught it to the class.”
    “Mine, too.”
    Christina and I launched into song. “‘Do your ears hang low? Do they wobble to and fro?’” We added the motions we’d learned years ago, pretending to tie knots and bows.
    Finally, the truck rolled up to our house. The driver glanced over at me and Christina and slowed, the truck’s engine sputtering, its brakes giving off an earsplitting screech as it came to a stop.
    The driver turned his face to us. Sure enough, it was Joseph “Joe Cool” Cullen, complete with the zit-pocked face and greasy mullet he’d sported in the photo we’d seen earlier. He flashed a sleazy grin as his gaze locked on Christina’s breasts.
    I leaned her way and whispered, “Bet his ears aren’t the only thing he’s got that hangs low and wobbles to and fro.”
    She