Free Death and Taxes by Susan Dunlap

eighth-of-a-ton-er who looked like an over-the-hill Hell’s Angel. The kid and the woman were seated as far away from him as possible.
    But planted in front of him, only slightly taller than the seated Angel, was a sandy-haired guy in an expensive chocolate-brown suit wagging a finger at the bearded face. “ They call it tax evasion. But you don’t have to put up with that crap. We’d label it tax avoidance. Avoiding taxes is every citizen’s right under the Constitution.” He turned to look at me. “Smith?”
    If I hadn’t seen the scene, hadn’t known the background, I would have assumed from his tone that he’d had his secretary summon me here to his meeting.
    Before I could answer, he turned back to the ersatz Angel. “Get yourself a good accountant. You can’t afford me, but you can do a lot better than what you’ve got now.” Then he made for me, grinning anxiously. “Come on. My car’s double-parked.”
    “You double-parked in front of the police station?” I asked, amazed. “Did you want to save us the tow?”
    “I won’t have a ticket. Trust me.” He was already three stairs down.
    Anyone else I would have cut short, but I wasn’t about to miss the scene by his car, or more likely the empty spot where his car had been. At the front door I caught up with him, racing through like an engine with the idle turned up too high. He was a little guy, not quite my height, and his face had an aerodynamic look: light-brown hair blown back, narrow face, sharp cheekbones, long nose, slash of eyes yellow as a cat’s—a sports car of a man.
    He hit the street not running but with one of those Manhattan walks that could trample six unwary tourists and still break the four-minute mile. He made a sharp left. I didn’t have to ask where he was headed. The crowd was already there—five or six uniformed officers huddled around a red sports car. Closer up, it was clear that this car, designed to look like it was going sixty sitting still, was the automotive equivalent of Lamott. When we were within ten feet of it, he slowed and strolled proudly forward, ready to accept kudos.
    What he did accept was a parking ticket. Berkeley is a city of many inefficiencies. Delivery of parking tickets is not one.
    I was still laughing when he grumbled his last answer to the uniformed enthusiasts. He held open the door of the red convertible, and I swung in.
    “While the cat’s away, Smith?” It was Redmon, from Vice and Sex Crimes, Howard’s detail.
    “Research,” I said and shut the door, a not wholly effective move since the top was down. But then the cat had only the afternoon off. He wasn’t likely to be farther away than the nursery buying another azalea.
    “Lotus Elan SE,” Lamott said, starting the engine. “Zero to sixty in six point seven seconds.”
    “Great. The guys on Traffic will appreciate the chance for as close a look as Parking Division had.” Lamott revved the engine, obliterating the quiet of the noon hour.
    Ignoring the patrol car pulling into the parking lot, Lamott hung a U and headed south toward Ashby. I’d done that maneuver often enough myself, but it was class-A illegal, and I hated to think that Traffic was letting Lamott off because he was with me.
    “Tell me about TCMP,” I said.
    “Taxpayers Compliance Measurement Program, or how the IRS uses you to screw others.” He hung a left onto Martin Luther King Jr. Way, raced through the yellow light at Bancroft, and jammed on the brakes at Haste. In front of a funeral home. It seemed apt.
    “How so?”
    “Well, Jill, they’ve got to know who to audit, right? How would ol’ Phil Drem, the defunct, know if you claimed too much for, say, casualty and theft losses? How does Drem know whether to believe you when you tell him you’ve had leather coats stolen out of your car six times this year because your job takes you into bad neighborhoods?” He hit the gas and then had to brake before the next corner.
    “The lights are staggered