Diane Capri - Don't Know Jack

“Want to stop and check out the P.O. Box question?” Gaspar asked.

“They’re too busy right now. Let’s put that on tomorrow’s list.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

At the south edge of town a village green similarly in need of an increased maintenance budget sported a statue of a long-dead city father on a flat patch of long-dead brown grass, dandelions, and overgrown hydrangea bushes. Birds had defaced the statue in the usual way making it difficult to identify the bronze under the white slop.

“Roscoe should take a lesson; the birds know how to handle those Teales,” Kim said, and Gaspar laughed.

Off one side of the statue’s roost, a residential street ran west. Beckman Drive, its barely visible green sign asserted. A tired white church with an empty gravel parking lot filled a larger unkempt circle between Beckman and Roscoe Place Drive, the opposite residential street pointing east, where a convenience store serving coffee and conversation adorned the corner.

When the GPS instructed, Gaspar turned left into near darkness brightened only by the moon. This had been farmland once. Roscoe said her family had lived in Margrave a hundred years, probably here on the farm once upon a time.

Roscoe Place Drive opened up to a quiet residential lane unbounded by hedges or fences. Lawns rolled from the pavement up to red brick homes settled on multi-acre parcels. Built within the past twenty years. Not ostentatious, but stately. Well kept.

Kim counted three driveways as they passed. Each with solar lights along the drive to mark the way, and mailboxes enclosed by brick housings at the road. Each box was numbered. 7, 17, 27.

The Crown Vic’s headlights revealed the house at the end of the road. Same vintage, similar construction. Number 37. Nobody home. Gaspar said, “Nice shack. A step up from what I can afford on my paycheck. Still think Roscoe didn’t pocket some of those Kliners?”

Kim said, “Lets get connected. Let’s find out what we can before Roscoe gets here.”

Gaspar popped the trunk and stood aside while she collected her bags. He stretched like a cat. Bent over at the waist in three directions. Walked around a little. Retrieved his stuff and plopped it down by the front walk. “You’ve got the key, Sunshine. Turn on some lights. I’ll stow the car.”

Roscoe’s key unlocked the double front door which opened into a wide carpeted hallway. Kim flipped light switches as she moved through. Fifteen feet in, French doors faced each other on either side. A formal dining room on the left, guest bedroom on the right. She placed her travel case just inside and continued through the archway entrance.

A staircase leading to the second floor rested against the guest bedroom’s wall, open rails and spindles on the great room side. The rest of the first floor was spacious openness.

Even uninhabited and chilly, the room was an inviting place to nest. On the right, a family room with hardwood floors, fireplace, and comfortable furniture. On the left, an expensively appointed kitchen. The two living spaces separated by a ten-foot cooking island containing a fashionable sink and pricey accoutrements. Big bay window on the front.

“Let’s meet back here in twenty?” Gaspar suggested. “I’ll make coffee. Whoever gets back first finds some food. OK?”

“Perfect.” By the time Kim pulled out her toilet kit, fresh clothes, and entered the guest bath off the kitchen, brewed coffee’s heavenly aroma floated everywhere. A shower, and the promise of coffee, food and sleep. She almost swooned in ecstasy. Ten minutes later she was dressed in black jeans, red sweater and ballet slippers, wet hair loose around her shoulders, holding a cup of black coffee and working at her laptop on the kitchen table. She barely registered Gaspar’s return.

“You’re fast for a girl,” he said. He opened his own laptop.

“So I’ve been told.” She didn’t look up from her work.

“My suit’s a goner,” he said. “We’ll have to stop for a new one somewhere in our travels.”

“How about Teale’s? They have a closeout, don’t they?” He’d dressed in casual clothes similar to hers, but lighter weights acquired for his Miami life.

“Find anything to eat?”

“Didn’t look. Got distracted.”

“By what?” He poured his coffee, opened the sub-zero fridge for cream and searched amid the neatly organized pantry until he found a bag of sugar and a measuring cup.

“Sylvia and Harry’s tax returns. We also have the Roscoe/Finlay Kliner Foundation testimony. And images of whole Kliner bills.”

“Where’d that stuff come from?” He continued searching cabinets for dinner, moving Roscoe’s staples around.

“I’m guessing the boss made it happen. I found them waiting when I opened up my secure connection.”

“So he’s got a guilty conscience?” Apparently Gaspar found nothing to his liking among the foodstuffs because he’d now returned his attention to the refrigerator.

“Or something,” she said, sourly.

“You know we can’t finish this job without his help. You don’t have to like it, but prepare yourself to make that happen.”

“That’s what I have you for, number two.” She returned to the screen, absorbed again.

After a while, enticing aromas. Her nose began to twitch. Stomach flip-flopped in happy anticipation. But she didn’t look away from her work until he put two plates on the table, refilled her coffee, and sat down beside her.

“I hate eggs,” she said.

“No problem.” He picked up her plate and scraped the eggs off onto his own, barely stopping the shovel to his mouth. “How’s that?”

She grinned. Snatched up his toast in one hand and hers in the other. Put the ham between the buttered bread. “Excellent. You’re a good cook.”

“I have many talents you’ve yet to discover,” he said between bites. He polished off the entire batch of eggs and returned to the fridge for more ham. “Tell me while I cook.”

“For starters, Sylvia’s prior name was Kent. Not the one she was born with, maybe. I’m running that down. And Mr. & Mrs. Harry Black’s joint tax returns are beyond silly. They even filed the short form because they didn’t have enough deductible expenses to itemize. Claimed only themselves as dependents.”

“Which means?” He remained at the stove, pan frying ham and eggs and working the toaster.

“Harry and Sylvia are practically begging to be prosecuted. Handing the IRS such an obvious fraud case doesn’t make sense.”

“Not everything makes sense, Sunshine. I’ve told you that before. Even when the crooks are cops, they’re not as rational as we give them credit for.” He winced slightly.

“You’re not listening. Harry and Sylvia, like all smart crooks, filed tax returns because they knew not filing is the quickest way to jail.”

“I’m aware. So what’s the problem?”

“Second quickest one-way ticket to Uncle Sam’s hotel-for-life is filing fraudulent returns. Might pass undiscovered for years. Harder to prove when suspected.”

“As I said, I’m aware.” He narrowed his eyes, watching something outside the bay window, but Kim barely noticed.

“Smart tax evaders make a plausible attempt to avoid obvious fraud so they can pay the fines and stay out of prison longer and maybe forever, even if they get caught.”

“I’m not sure how smart Harry was. He’s dead, right? Most of us smart people try to avoid that condition.”

She said, “He and Sylvia were clever enough to collect sixty-seven million in counterfeits and move them out of that house right under everybody’s nose.”

He moved to the window and lowered the translucent shades; stood to one side, lifted the shade from the frame slightly to see out. “So they laundered the Kliners somehow. We figured that.”