AT FIVE O'CLOCK CHARLIE DROVE HOME to change his clothes for a drink at Mona Whi tman's house. He felt he'd hit pay dirt with the invitation to come to her home. Usually their residences were the last places taxpayers wanted agents to go. Whatever Mona wanted him to see there, however, Charlie knew he would learn a lot. In the last few days he was working overtime for the service, being more popular and having more dates than he'd had in months. He was doing fieldwork, and the field was coming to him. The only question was how much sowing he would have to do, and what kind of harvest he would get for his efforts.
The Sales case wasn't numbered for criminal investigation yet. As far as the district director and the regional commissioner were concerned, he was still doing background for a routine audit. But he could smell fear emanating from every corner of the case. There was so much quaking going on, he'd begun to think conspiracy. He had his eye on a bigger target now, Ira Mandel, accountant, adviser, and third-party record keeper to many high-profile taxpayers. If he was a rotten apple at Sales, he was a rotten apple elsewhere, too.
Mitchell Sales might be in the hospital, but the case of Sales Importers was spiraling on its own. Inside the company there was an informer, teasing, teasing, and not yet out of the closet. Whoever it was could get immunity if he or she came forward voluntarily with information leading to a conviction. Often, however, informants did not come forward and identify themselves, not for anything, even high fink fees.
Most people didn't know that the government paid up to 10 percent on recovered revenues in evasion cases. If the numbers were up there in the hundreds of thousands-or the millions-the fees could add up. But of the 1,200 plus informants who came forward every year, only a small minority attempted to get their money. Charlie had six cases right now with fink fees no one wanted to claim. It turned out that a lot of people ratted to get even but feared disclosure because getting even could go both ways.
The IRS picked different professions to target with audits every year. A few years ago when it was dentists, a nurse had tipped the service off to an oral surgeon she worked for who had several offices. He'd been cooking his books for fifteen years. She got her ten-thousand-dollar fink fee, but was blackballed and never got another job in a doctor's office again.
Charlie pondered Mona Whitman. He had his eye on her. Mona was a third party, and all third parties counted. According to Mona's own testimony, she was not a third-party professional record keeper, like Ira Mandel, or Mitch's various lawyers, banks, customers, and creditors. But as a partner in his business, as a friend, and maybe girlfriend, Mona was a non-record-keeping third party. She had intimate knowledge of his and the company's dealings and as such could quite possibly be a coconspirator in his activities. A conviction as a coconspirator in an evasion case would garner her a prison sentence up to five years and a $250,000 fine in addition to any unrecorded, unpaid additional income she had. Prosecution was a discretionary action that the Treasury requested and the Justice Department carried out.
All the way home to Lynbrook, in addition to feeling regret at being back in his own noisy, undistinguished car, Charlie pondered the question of how to protect Cassie Sales. From Long Beach it was not a long way. He drove down Lake Avenue, checking the rearview mirror every few minutes to make sure the Jaguar was not behind him. He didn't trust Mona Whitman and her own investigative techniques. His house came into view and he sighed with relief. No Jag behind him. No Jag was out front, either.
Lynbrook had a number of great old houses like his with its wraparound porch ringed with late-blooming peach azalea (showing now) and blue hydrangea that would flower later in the summer. The property border picket fence was covered with climbing roses, one or two flowers of which were already in bloom. He and his father tended the property with loving care, and though it was nothing compared with Cassie's, Charlie thought the property wasn't too bad at all. His real estate friend, Carol, who was heavier than she should be and whom he didn't find as attractive as she found him, was always telling him he could sell it in a heartbeat. On an early summer day like today, he thought it was probably true. But after owning the place for twenty-five years, even with the first $250,000 tax free, the capital gains tax would still take a big chunk. He didn't see how he could ever sell.
Upstairs, Charlie showered quickly, then hesitated in the closet for a long time, considering his wardrobe. Nothing he had was up to the tight pants and sweater Mona Whitman had been wearing. Finally he decided on a houndstooth jacket, a yellow shirt, and khaki trousers. Then he drove northeast to the other side of Long Island, where his possible informant, the girlfriend who probably had not a drop of blue blood in her veins and who was suing the wife he liked, said she lived.
ROSLYN WAS A WHOLE OTHER STORY from Long Beach and Lynbrook. Roslyn had a nice town park with a duck pond, real ducks, and many gracious old white houses with porches and peaked roofs and green shutters that were larger and finer versions of Charlie's. In this neighborhood, they'd be triple the price, too. Charlie drove down the hill into Roslyn Harbor, an even cuter little town without a grocery store that looked like it belonged on Cape Cod, or out in the Hamptons. Then he swung back up the hill taking a little tour of the neighborhood.
Halfway up the hill, before he reached Roslyn Heights, he saw the red Jag parked on the street. In light of the flashy car, Mona's place was nothing special, just a tiny brick attached town house, one of dozens in a complex called Beech Tree Hill that lined both sides of the street. From the outside, there appeared to be no special features. The long squat row of brick structures had small windows, nonexistent landscaping, no balconies or sun porches, and rows of ugly garages behind them. Compared with Cassie Sales's pretty house and superb gardens, it was a tenement. Charlie parked the Buick behind the Jag and got out.
As he started to approach the house, he had his second flash of the day to the car bomb on his muffler that hadn't detonated as planned. He didn't enjoy having feelings of paranoia, but frankly this didn't look like the kind of place where a girl like Mona Whitman would live. He had a sudden fear of being set up. The alarm bell clanged so loudly, he almost turned around to get back in the car. But Mona had seen him from the window and had come out her front door to welcome him before he could get away.
"That was fast. I didn't even have time to wash my face. Come on in," she said.
Too late. Charlie gave her a lame smile and hoped for the best. Inside, he was reassured by the furnishings. This was her taste all right. Everything was white, white, white. Neat. He'd seen enough places to know there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. He could tell without even running his fingers along the moldings. Immediately he was struck by the fact that there were no photos, no souvenir-like things. No books, no stereo. And then he knew she didn't really live here. Girls were messy. Even neat girls were messy. They had stuff from high school, from college. They had Valentine-shaped chocolate boxes from ten years ago in which they kept little odds and ends. They had stuffed animals. They had knicks and knacks. Mona had nothing.
"It's not much. Not a beautiful place like yours," she said, looking around at it critically.
"Mine?"
"You have a lovely home," Mona chirped, "but I wasn't so lucky. I had no inheritance. I started with nothing."
So she had followed him to his lovely home. "Well, this is just great!" he said, approving the house. "Very nice."
"Come on in, don't be shy."
Charlie wasn't shy. He just didn't like being manipulated.
She held out her arms to the place. "Come on, tell me the truth. What do you think of it, really?"
"Very nice." But Charlie knew she didn't live there.
"Well, let's just say I worked hard for it, and I did it on my own. Face it, it's not very impressive, considering the lifetime of work I put in. There are no closets at all, and real entertaining is out of the question."
"Well, it's small, but elegant. You've done a nice job with it." Well, maybe there was another story. Maybe Sales had been cheating on her, too. Planned to dump her, buy her out, return to his wife. And she was getting even by informing on him.
"No, it's tiny," Mona insisted angrily, one hand tapping furiously at her hip.
Then suddenly her mood changed. She dropped the annoyance about the house and sat on the sofa. "Seeing somebody so ill makes you want to celebrate life," she said, perky again. "Know what I mean?"
"Oh yes, definitely." Charlie took a seat himself. Right about now he was thinking about a drink. Someplace safe, far from here.
"Mitch was such a strong, vital man. Now he's on life support. It just makes you reconsider everything."
He nodded. He was thinking, give me the juice, babe, so I can bail out of here.
"You know, seize the day," she murmured. She was getting emotional, and he was yearning to be somewhere else with a different kind of woman altogether. He wanted her to squeal, not throw herself at him.
"I loved them so much, and now I'm totally out of the loop. I'm so afraid." Tears puddled in her eyes.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked. He knew what he was afraid of.
"Oh, murder is such a terrible thing," she moaned.
"Murder?" Oh, now they were on murder. He hoped she didn't mean his.
"I'm not going to burden you with it, Charles."
"Go ahead, burden me," he said magnanimously.
"No, no. I promised you a drink, and a drink is what you'll get. I have something I know you'll like." Mona jumped up and ran into the kitchen, which was only a few feet away. She returned with some delicate crystal champagne glasses and a bottle of pink champagne on a silver tray. "You know, Charles, there's no one else. I feel like you're all I have now." She popped the cork and poured expertly, handed him a glass, then raised hers.
"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case," he demurred.
"Yes, that woman is going to murder Mitch. She's going to take everything I have in the world. Would you let someone get away with murder, Charles?"
"Of course not," Charlie said.
"Good. Have some more. This is a very good vintage." Mona finished her glass of champagne and poured herself another.
"So give me what you've got," Charlie said.
"Uh-oh. I'm having an asthma attack. I need my inhaler." Mona was suddenly coughing uncontrollably, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing.
What now? Charlie thought he'd seen everything in his years of service, but he'd never seen this.
"Would you run upstairs and get it for me? It's in the drawer in the bedside table," she pleaded.
Good God. He was being tested today. Charlie charged up the stairs into her bedroom, then stopped short at the sight of the frilly white bed. He opened the bedside drawer. Inside was something called Kama Sutra massage oil, a number of smelly candles, and an asthma inhaler. Ventolin. That was it. He grabbed it. Then, before going downstairs, he stopped to examine the bathroom. In the medicine cabinet he found several bottles of NyQuil, aspirin, Motrin, Tampax, toothpaste, toothbrush, a hair dryer. Not a lot else. No birth control pills, no condoms, nothing of an intimate nature. She may have stayed here from time to time, but this woman didn't live here. He took a leak and washed his hands, checked himself in the mirror. He looked pretty good, if he did say so himself. He went back downstairs, ready to go. The woman wasn't spilling, and he wasn't hanging around to find out what the game was.
"Do you know how to give a back rub, Charles?" she asked, wheezing on the sofa when he trotted down the stairs.
"No, not really." He was out of there for sure.
"Could you just give me a little back rub, just so I can relax? I know I'll feel better in a minute. Then we can talk."
"Here's your inhaler."
"Charles, you're the greatest. The absolute greatest."
"Thanks for the champagne. Feel better now." He wouldn't sit down.
Mona's face went into a pout. "Are you going already? We haven't had a chance to talk," she complained.
"Yeah, well, my dad isn't feeling well. But thanks, I had a really nice day. I'll go through those papers you gave me. And if you have anything else you want to share with me, don't hesitate to call." Then he fled.