Free A Beautiful Heist by Kim Foster Page A

wondering who it could be—I wasn’t expecting anyone.
    Mel swung open the door. In the hallway stood Bradley, my neighbor from across the hall. Bradley, my fortysomething, balding (but in denial), personal-injury-lawyer neighbor. I cringed when I saw him. What now? I wasn’t in the mood for interruptions; I was keen to get going. Mel folded her arms and leveled Bradley with a caustic stare. “What do you want?” she asked.
    Bradley ignored Mel. “Good evening, Cat!” he said, using his cheerful and important tone. This was the one that was like a cheese grater on my mental state. His smile was oily car salesman. I could see his eyes flicking about my apartment, noting the dishes piled in my sink, the damning heap of laundry parked by my front door. He held out an envelope with a flourish. “This registered letter was being delivered to you yesterday, and you weren’t here, but it seemed to be an urgent matter, so I agreed to take it and deliver it personally . . . .”
    I strode over and snatched the letter. “Thanks, Bradley. That’s really helpful,” I said in monotone. I glanced at the envelope: registered, government-looking.
    Mel closed the door and I tossed Bradley’s letter on top of the stack of mail.
    “Aren’t you going to open that?” asked Mel.
    “It looks important,” Sophie said with concern. She picked up the letter and studied it.
    “Nah. I’ll look at it later,” I said. “Let’s get going.”
    I stood in front of the hall mirror and touched up my mascara. There. Ready. When I turned back, Mel was opening the envelope with a knife.
    “Mel, what the hell?” I stared at her with outrage.
    “What? I can’t help it. I can’t stand it.”
    She started reading the letter before I had a chance to stop her. As I walked toward her, ready to snatch the letter away, a small prickle of warning crept up my neck. Her eyes opened wide.
    “Um, Cat, I think you should look at this.”
    “Why?” Her face was ripe with worry. Mel never worried, so I took the letter from her. The seal at the top read: Internal Revenue Service. The IRS? What did they want with me? Mel tucked in behind me, reading over my shoulder, as I scanned the words.

    Dear Miss Montgomery:
    We have recently conducted an audit at Anderson, Bradford & Taylor Inc. You are registered there as an employee and have been receiving wages for the past five years. Our records, however indicate that you have not filed income tax returns for the past ten years. We have calculated your income taxes for the last five years, using the data provided by AB&T, and we have assessed your amount payable below This includes delinquent taxes plus interest plus fines.
    You are herewith advised of 30 days to pay the following, or we will be forced to levy your assets. We would like to take this opportunity to remind you, Miss Montgomery, of the grave nature of tax evasion and fraud. Certain crimes are punishable by incarceration.

    My eyes zipped down to the dollar amount at the bottom of the page. I gasped and clenched the counter for support.
    “What?” Sophie had been frozen to her bar stool, watching this whole thing. “What is it?”
    “Looks like I’m in some trouble with the IRS.” My voice sounded faraway, in someone else’s apartment. I was still staring at the letter, crumpling slightly in my sweaty hand.
    “Trouble? With your last tax return?” Sophie asked.
    I looked up at them. “Um, no. It’s—well . . . I’ve never actually filed a tax return.”
    “What do you mean? Never filed?” Mel said, staring at me incredulously.
    “Well, I’m a criminal,” I said with exasperation. “I really didn’t think criminals did that sort of thing.”
    Mel snatched the letter from me. “Okay, but your organization clearly files tax returns. Didn’t you know that? Do you remember signing something when you were first hired?”
    I pressed back in my mind, trying to remember. “You know, that sounds familiar . . . .”
    A fuzzy memory