Over His Dead Body Page 27

  Deputy Archer sighed deeply. "We're treating this as a suspicious death," he told her.

  She chewed on her bottom lip. "But why? My husband was a very sick man. It's been touch and go for more than a month. His doctor can tell you that. No one expected him to live this long. And it hasn't been a quality month." She shut her mouth. What was she saying?

  "Still, we're going to have to investigate. Autopsy the body. The whole nine yards." Archer shrugged apologetically.

  Cassie gasped. "Autopsy? Why?"

  "To determine if he suffered another stroke, as you allege, or if something else happened to him."

  "I'm not alleging anything. Why are you taking it like this?" Cassie looked around wildly. Help, where was help?

  The detective shrugged again as though unwilling to put into his own words the kinds of things people did to hurry things along when their relatives were terminally ill and the stakes were high. He closed his notebook and assessed her affect. Was she upset? Was she a grieving widow?

  "Are you going to give us lie detector tests?" Cassie asked miserably. How would Teddy and Lorraine do on that?

  "Oh, well, we'll have to see about that, won't we?"

  Cassie felt as if she were trapped in a sea cave with the tide coming in. Would an autopsy show if someone had put a pillow over Mitch's head, if her own son was a murderer? What would Mark say about this? He'd signed the death certificate. What would Parker say? He was the family lawyer. She tried to remember if she'd told the fat cop that Mitch's remains would be ashes by noon. She wondered if it was against the law to say nothing about that now. She could always pretend later that she didn't know. She couldn't control her terror. The front doorbell rang, and she jumped a foot.

  "Someone's at the door," Archer said.

  Cassie swallowed a mouthful of saliva. I'm going to heave, she thought. I'm going to barf on the spot. She'd seen all this on TV a hundred times. The bell rang again. She studiously ignored it. She was convinced that outside her door were the cameras, the reporters waiting to tell the story that she was O. J. Simpson, Susan Smith, the Ramseys, Amy Fisher, Jean Harris, right here in quiet Manhasset.

  If she opened that door, her bloated, bleary face would appear on every channel. The images would be on the five o'clock news and the six o'clock news. At six-thirty, they'd be on the national news. She knew just how the story would play. Cassie Sales, wife of prominent wine importer, who'd bankrupted the family with her excessive spending, early this morning had boldly murdered her invalid husband to prevent him from leaving her for his mistress-the surgical wonder Mona Whitman, his partner in their thriving business. Just like Jean Harris, she'd be a dead duck.

  Mona's final check and mate.

  Cassie wanted to vomit. The doorbell rang a third time. Finally Archer got up to see who was out there, then shocked her by opening the door.

  "Hey, Schwab, right on schedule. You boys certainly don't let any grass grow under your feet. Come on in while the juice is hot." He lowered his voice, but Cassie had no trouble hearing what he said next.

  "As far as I know, only the body's gotten out of here. But the death occurred sometime in the earlyA.M., and we weren't notified until eight this morning. That gave them a few hours to clean the place out. It's pretty late in the day. Who knows what you'll come up with now-"

  "Jeez, the old man is dead? This is news to me." Charles Schwab came into the front hall.

  Cassie put a hand to her mouth and bailed out of the wing chair, plunging without a parachute. She staggered into the powder room and dropped to her knees in front of the toilet. "Oh God. Take me now," she moaned. "Just take me into that good night. I'm ready to go."

  But God must have been busy with other things. The sound of her vomiting traveled to the living room, where the sheriff and the revenue agent stood talking about sting operations. Seven minutes later, when Cassie staggered out of the bathroom feeling a little better, the living room was empty. She heard some banging around in the kitchen and stumbled into the dining room, where she immediately bumbled into one of the filing cabinets she and Teddy had stuffed in there just yesterday. She gasped. All of Mitch's records, right in plain view with Charlie in the house. Terror clutched at her again.

  Various branches of the government were crawling all over the place, and she had no idea what to do or how to stop them. As she tried to scramble out of the maze and get into the kitchen, her hip caught the edge of Mitch's desk.

  "Ow." She rubbed the spot and kept moving. When she reached the other side of the dining room, her foot caught on a computer wire. She fell through the swinging door and crashed into the open overhead door of a kitchen cabinet. The flat front of the door hit her in the forehead and stopped her cold.

  "Oh God." Her legs turned to rubber and collapsed under her. She hit the floor and closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER 42

  CASSIE OPENED HER EYES to the smell of coffee. "Oh no," she groaned. She'd hoped she was dead.

  "How are you doing?" Charlie Schwab's blue eyes were laughing at her.

  She swallowed down a new wave of nausea. "I'm having a bad day," she murmured.

  "I heard your husband died last night," Charlie said with some show of concern.

  "Uh-huh. That sheriff tell you?" Cassie considered standing up.

  Schwab nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  "Well, thanks. That cop thinks I killed him. Where is he, searching the garbage for poisoned hypodermic needles?"

  Schwab laughed suddenly. "You're a funny girl."

  "Oh really?" Cassie snorted. She touched the little bump on her forehead where she'd gone into the door.

  "Looks like you tied one on last night."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Strong odor of alcohol. You know, you sweat it out of your pores. Unmistakable, believe me, I know."

  "Ugh." Humiliated, Cassie dragged herself to her knees, then to her feet. The coffee cup and saucer he'd handed her rattled dangerously in her hand. Charlie grabbed the cup out of her hand.

  "Where's that cop?" She peered around, looking for him.

  "Oh, he left."

  "He left? Really?" Cassie brightened.

  "Well, I told him he could go, I'd take over from here."

  "You? Take over from here?" The ridiculous feeling of always knowing less than everybody else overcame Cassie. She stumbled over to a kitchen chair and sat down with her back to the ascending sun. The radiance of morning killed. "Oh God, I can't take this."

  "You okay there?" Schwab asked.

  "No." Cassie put her cheek down on the table and tried breathing slowly enough to make the room stand still.

  "Go on, drink up." Schwab put the cup down in front of her.

  "There isn't any," she mumbled.

  "No, I made some more. How about some aspirin? Where is it?"

  "In the drawer there somewhere." She waved her hand vaguely. "One of those drawers."

  He found the bottle of Bufferin, tossed out two, and handed them over.

  "I'm not drunk," Cassie insisted. "I'm just a little nervous."

  "Take them anyway. They'll help."

  She picked up her head and swallowed the aspirin. "You're really some sort of cop, aren't you? People who do audits don't come into your house and take over police investigations."

  "Well, you know. In the Service we can do pretty much anything we want."

  Cassie shook her head. "Which branch of the Service are we talking about now?"

  "We bring in whatever branch we need." He appeared serious. He wasn't laughing now.

  "You're scaring me."

  "That's my job. Would you like to know about some of our powers?"

  "Maybe some other time."

  "I'll tell you anyway. We can get your bank records without you even knowing it. Anything we ask for is ours. My supervisor has given me carte blanche on this case. I can do anything I want."

  Cassie's heart thudded. "You checked my bank account?"

  He nodded.r />
  "But there's nothing in it."

  He nodded some more. "No juice there."

  "Well, you were looking in the wrong place. The juice is in the refrigerator." She really was cross-eyed with all this IRS spy stuff.

  "Most people put it in the bank." The twinkle was back.

  She didn't know what he was talking about. "They put the juice in the bank?"

  "Uh-huh. In safe-deposit boxes. You know what I mean, undeclared income." He repeated it patiently, watching her face closely. "We talked about this before. The IRS looks for undeclared income. I'm a finder, remember."

  "I don't have any of that kind of goddamn juice. Could I have a few more of those aspirin?" Now she was in a cold sweat. She knew she must stink unbelievably. Alcohol, vomit. Fear. And she was just a spouse. Imagine the fear real crooks felt.

  "No need to get testy." Schwab got the bottle for her and sat down again. "You can also find it in their canceled checks. Purchases. The whole lifestyle. I like to get the big picture before I form an impression."

  Cassie swallowed two more aspirin and waited for her brains to tighten up. They felt loose, like unset Jell-O. "My husband died last night. He handled the income and the taxes. I've told you this a million times. I didn't even see his body. Understand?"

  "No. Explain me."

  "Explain you? Okay. Everybody takes care of things for me. My son took care of my husband's body for me. I never even saw it." She tried to get that across. This was the reason she was in so much trouble. No one let her do anything. She couldn't take control of her own life.

  "I met him at the warehouse, seemed like a nice young man," Charlie said about Teddy. Neutral, Cassie liked that. He didn't say her son was an asshole.

  "Well, looks can be deceiving," she murmured.

  Charlie laughed again. "Maybe he was trying to protect you."

  "Well, that's wrong. I don't want other people to mess me up. I can do it just fine by myself." She shook her head again.

  "You certainly can." Schwab put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "You know what else the IRS can do? We can give you summonses to appear anytime we want. We can search your house and seize your property. Your car, your house. Garnish your wages."

  "I told you already. No wages. I've always volunteered."

  "And speaking of garbage, we can go through your garbage," Charlie added.

  "Be my guest." Cassie waved her hand.

  "We can take all your records and documents. We can tap your phones. Want to know what else we can do?"

  "I'm very afraid already."

  He laughed. "You should be. Do you know why we have these powers?"

  Cassie heaved a sigh. He wasn't going away. "So you can hurt us?"

  "Private taxpayers fund about sixty-one percent of the country's budget." Charlie poured himself more coffee, then liberally added milk. He'd learned to make it, but didn't know how to froth. That gave her some satisfaction.

  "Did you know that corporate taxpayers fund only about eleven percent of the budget?" he asked, pointing the spoon at her.

  "Uh-uh." Could she take a nap now?

  "That's why the wage earner, the small-business taxpayer, is so important to us. You're our all."

  "That's interesting." Cassie had always wanted to be somebody's all.

  "Paying taxes is completely voluntary, but we have to ensure people don't think it's a joke. We want them to comply. That's the reason we scare you."

  She nodded, eager to please. "Believe me, I want those taxpayers to comply. If I had my way we'd all comply a whole lot more."

  "You're very funny, did you know that?"

  "This is not a funny situation; I'm really scared," she confessed. Voluntary tax payments, who was he kidding?

  "But I liked that one about Thorazine. I told it to my supervisor. My dad, too. They both liked it."

  "Your dad and your supervisor." Cassie frowned. Where was this going?

  "Did you know what we can do to a taxpayer who tries to resist or complain?" Schwab asked.

  "Charlie, my husband died today. Could you give me a break?"

  "You people! All you want is breaks. Come on, guess. What can we do to taxpayers who resist or complain?" Now Schwab waved his hands. "What?"

  Cassie guessed. "Kill us?"

  "Ha-ha. That's good. Another good one." He slapped his knee.

  "I wasn't being funny. Are you going to kill me? Just let me know. I had a bad night. I want to wash my face and brush my teeth before I go."

  "No, I'm not going to kill you," he said, a little testy himself now. "It's nothing personal. Personally, I like you. I more than like you. I think you're a very lovely lady. In fact, if the situation were different, I'd ask you for a date."

  "Look, forget the date," she said quickly. "Just kill me quick."

  "Oh come on, you don't mean that." His laugh was a touch strained now.

  "Oh, yes. Go ahead, kill me. I bet you have a gun. Shoot me now." Cassie kept at it.

  Schwab glanced around the room, then mugged a little for her. "You're a funny girl. You're kidding, right?"

  "No, go ahead, kill me. You have all these powers. Why stop at seizing property? Shoot me. No one will complain."

  Charlie wagged a finger at her. "I bet you didn't know that a lot of people try to kill us. This is a very hazardous line of work."

  "Don't turn things around, damn it! I don't give a shit about your problems. Just do what you have to do." Cassie put a finger to her head. "Boom."

  "Let's not get competitive. I'm not kidding, I do get hate notes every day. People send me things you wouldn't believe. I've had the windshield of my car smashed three times. They put water and sugar in my gas tank. I can't keep a decent car. You name it. People do it to me."

  Cassie was exasperated. "Well, you must be very good at your job," she said.

  He nodded. "I go for quality."

  "That's just great. When are you going to shoot me?"

  He clicked his tongue, disgusted. "I told you I'm not going to shoot you."

  "That's too bad." Cassie wanted a bath. A bubble bath. She needed to sleep for eternity. She didn't want to think about death or taxes. Ever. She wanted to be obliterated. The idea of making calls to tell people that Mitch was gone was terrifying. She didn't want to do it, didn't want to think about it. Schwab startled her out of her thoughts.

  "I bet you didn't know that informers make ten percent of the government's take."

  Of course she didn't know that. How would she know that? Cassie's eyes glazed over. "I can't take any more of this right now."

  "I'm going to level with you. Someone gave us a tip about your husband."

  "Oh no." He was going to keep at it.

  "An anonymous person," he said, teasing now.

  "Really?" That was interesting. Cassie's eyes cleared. The fog in front of her turned into the attractive man with a strong chin and humorous blue eyes. Today he had another really nice outfit on. Cassie had the thought that Mitch would appreciate that. The man who'd come to bury them both was wearing good clothes. Schwab always came early in the morning. What about that? Suddenly she was trying to form an impression. He had a ratty car because people poured things into its gas tank. The big picture. What did he want from her?

  "Usually informers just want revenge. They don't collect. The only way they can collect the money is to help gather the necessary information to take to Justice."

  Cassie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to follow. Who was they? What was justice? The word reminded her of Mitch again. She opened her eyes and glanced at her watch. Eleven o'clock on the dot. It seemed as if she and her husband were still in some kind of contact. Mitch was scheduled to slide down that chute at Martini's crematorium at eleven o'clock. Teddy and Lorraine were probably there to send him off. Cassie thought about the juice in the wine cellar. She wanted a drink but told herself, no juice until dark.

  "So tell me about justice," she said, working hard to hold her head up.

  "The Ju
stice Department decides whether to institute criminal proceedings on evasion and fraud cases. Evasion can be hard to prove, since the taxpayer can always claim he was just trying to avoid paying taxes, which is legal. Evading taxes, however, is not legal."

  "You just lost me, Charlie."

  He smiled. "What's not crystal?"

  "Avoidance is legal, evasion is illegal. What's the difference?" Cassie's eyes crossed.

  "The Service expects people to pad their business expenses, and shelter their income. It's avoiding taxes on reported income. The taxpayer reports income. If we happen to disagree about the deductions on reported income, adjustments are made. The taxpayer pays more. That's it.

  "What makes a criminal case is when the taxpayer does not report income and uses illegal means of sheltering it, like taking it out of the country, cooking the books, reporting losses in phony companies, that kind of thing. The Treasury has to prove intent in fraud cases. Are you following me?"

  "You have to prove intent in fraud cases," Cassie mumbled.

  "About a third of fraud cases are prosecuted and convicted."

  "Uh-huh." Cassie propped her head in her hand to keep it from flopping over.

  "Convicted felons pay penalties and fines, and they go up the river. Deals can always be made, though, and people can plea down. Got it?"

  "I'm not pleading down."

  "Now, in evasion cases-that's just hiding income, as I explained-Treasury can be satisfied with penalties, fines, and, of course, full collection of the unpaid revenues. What do you say?"

  Cassie hesitated. "I'd really like a bath and a nap."

  "I mean about helping us." He gave her a big, friendly grin.

  "What?" This caught her by surprise.

  "You told me you'd think about it. Haven't you been listening? I might be able to get you immunity."

  "From what?" she said numbly.

  "Well, I found your box," he said tilting his head engagingly.

  Cassie blinked. The safe-deposit box with the receipts of Mona's extravagant lifestyle in it? What did that have to do with anything? Outside, a car horn honked. Sounded like Aunt Edith. But maybe it was Teddy and Lorraine returning from Martini's. They had tasks, telephone calls to make, official mourning to do. She wanted that hospital bed out of the office and Mitch's personal belongings removed from the house-the old magazines, the ancient computers. She wanted some more of that nice juice in the cellar, and she wanted this maniac to go away. The receipts in the box weren't even hers. What crime had she committed? No crime.