Tuesday, I decided to try a new strategy and tail Flow after she picked up her car at Ledbetter Cadillac. Maybe she’d do something that would tip me off, lead me to an undisclosed stash of cash somewhere or to a client who’d actually admit to trading products or services for on-air advertising.
Given that Flo had seen my government-issued car yesterday and her neighbors had likely reported Nick’s from the Friday before, I borrowed Josh’s G-ride to tail Flo. As the office tech specialist, Josh sometimes moved equipment and had thus been issued an SUV, which had much more cargo space than a sedan. Luckily for me, the black Yukon also had darkly tinted windows that would make it harder for Flo to see inside. Nonetheless, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, tucked it down the back of my shirt, and borrowed the white cowboy hat I’d bought for Nick months ago in order to disguise myself. Along with sunglasses and a fake mustache drawn on Scotch tape with a black marker and adhered to my upper lip, I’d appear to be a smallish man behind the wheel, compensating for my diminutive stature and a presumably undersized penis by driving an enormous gas guzzler.
I waited in the parking lot close to Ledbetter’s service center. Sure enough, at a few minutes after two Flo pulled up to the bays in the loaner car. A mechanic waved her in, helped her out of the car, and took the keys, moving the loaner to an outdoor parking space while Flo went inside to retrieve the keys to her Cadillac. She came outside a minute later and headed for her car. As she backed out of the space, I started my engine and eased out after her.
She turned out of the dealership and made her way down an entrance ramp and onto the freeway. I trailed her, staying a lane to the right and back several car lengths where she’d be less likely to spot me. A few exits later, she left the freeway. I followed along, continuing past a chiropractic clinic when she turned into the lot. I pulled into a dentist office across the street and turned left to find a good vantage point that would allow me to spy. A-ha! That spot under the tree would be shady and give me additional cover.
I parked and watched as Flo went inside the clinic. As I waited, I opened my briefcase and removed the list I’d compiled of businesses Flo had mentioned on KCSH. Sure enough, the name of the clinic appeared on my list. I had no doubt Flo was lying on a table right now receiving a complimentary spinal adjustment. If I didn’t have a bone to pick with this woman before, I sure as hell did now. A vertebra.
I waited ten minutes to give the staff time to call Flo to a treatment room. I removed the ridiculous fake mustache and cowboy hat but kept the sunglasses on. Leaving the Yukon in the lot, I walked across the street to the clinic. As I’d hoped, Flo was no longer in the waiting room. A thin, thirtyish man in blue scrubs manned the reception desk, and a middle-aged woman waited in a chair, thumbing through a magazine, but they were the only ones in the room.
I took a seat in the back corner and snatched a copy of Woman’s World from the magazine rack nearby.
The man at the counter called over to me, “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”
I shook my head. “Just waiting for a friend.”
Friend, my ass. I wouldn’t be friends with a woman like Flo Cash if she were the last person on earth.
I held the magazine at the ready near my chest. When the door to the back rooms opened, I held it up. False alarm. A man in nylon running pants and a fitted tee exited to the waiting area. He stepped over to the front desk and whipped out a credit card.
The man at the desk took the card and consulted his computer. “Looks like you’ve got a thirty-five-dollar co-pay.” He ran the card through the skimmer and handed it back to the man, along with the printout and a ballpoint pen. He pointed to a spot on the slip. “Sign here, please.”
The man signed the paper slip and handed it back to the receptionist. “Thanks.”
The clerk wished him a good afternoon before picking up a phone call.
When the door to the back rooms opened twenty minutes later, I raised the magazine to cover my face, peering around the edge.
Flo emerged and stepped to the front desk. “Got me down for next week?”
“I sure do, Miss Cash,” the man said. “See you then.”
She left without making a payment.
Tossing the magazine aside, I stalked to the desk. “Hello,” I said. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway from the IRS.” I pulled out a card and positioned it facing him on the countertop. “I have some questions about Florence Cash.”
The guy looked from me down to my business card and back up. He pointed a finger at the door. “Was she the friend you were waiting for? ’Cause she just left.”
“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “And I notice she made no payment. Could you tell me why?”
“Um-m-m…” He grimaced with reluctance. “I don’t know if I can do that. Let me check with the doctor.” He picked up his phone and dialed a two-digit number. “There’s someone from the IRS at the front desk. She’s asking about a patient’s account.” He listened for a moment before saying, “Okay,” and returning the receiver to the cradle. “Dr. Keele will be right up.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later, a stocky man with short gray hair appeared behind the receptionist. He, too, wore scrubs. “I’m Dr. Keele. How can I help you?”
I put my index finger on my business card and pushed it closer. “I’m with the IRS. I need to know why Florence Cash is receiving free services here. Is it in return for advertising?”
The doctor opened his mouth as if to say something but then seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth. “I’m pretty sure the HIPAA laws prevent me from disclosing anything to you.”
“I’m not asking about her health information,” I said. “I’m asking about her bills. Whether she had any.”
The man chewed his lip, appearing to vacillate. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’d like to help you out, but I can’t risk a HIPAA violation. The board could take my license. But if you get Miss Cash’s consent I’d be happy to provide the information to you.”
Thanks for nothing. Of course I supposed I should have expected this type of response from a health-care provider. I should’ve thought this through first. Still, to ensure that the day wasn’t a total loss the least I could do was put a little fear in the doctor, leave him shaking in his blue paper booties.
“Just so you know,” I said, “if you’re trading chiropractic care for advertising on KCSH, you need to reflect those transactions in your reports to the IRS.”
Of course, even though reporting would be required, such swaps in a business context would result in no net taxable income so long as the services or products provided were equal in value to those received. The income would be offset by an equal deduction. But in a personal context, such as Flo Cash receiving a spinal adjustment in exchange for advertising, things were much more complicated. KCSH would have to report the value of the care as advertising income. KCSH could then take a deduction for its transfer of the care to Flo for her personal use. The value of the services transferred would be reported as compensation to Flo and would be subject to income and Social Security taxes, just like salary or wages paid in cash. Flo would be required to pay income tax on the in-kind income. Of course, given the financial records I’d seen, none of these transactions were being accounted for. Instead, Flo was engaging in some off-the-books bargaining.
“Obviously, you’re on my radar now. I’d hate to see you end up in hot water, too. Cooperation is to your benefit.” I left my card on the counter. “Talk to your accountant,” I said as I backed out the door. “Unless you want to find yourself in the hot seat for misreporting.”
The door swung closed behind me. Though I had yet to get any concrete evidence against Flo Cash, I felt a small sense of satisfaction knowing I’d put a little fear into at least one of her advertisers.
As I walked back to the Yukon, I decided it couldn’t hurt to pay a visit to Ledbetter Cadillac and speak with the general manager. Maybe he’d give me some rock-solid evidence to nail Flo. Had he given her the blue Cadillac in return for ads? Or maybe given her a substantial discount off the price in exchange? Or had their deal only involved free servicing for her car? If this case went to court, it wouldn’t be enough for me to show that Flo had made some trades on behalf of herself and KCSH. The judge would want some proof as to the value of the trades. Without that proof, the court would rely on industry statistics. Given that KCSH had earned far more than the average radio station back when her father was in charge, I had a feeling Flo’s trades, too, generated much more income than the industry standard. She’d probably be thrilled if the assessment was based on average data.
I parked at the dealership, this time taking a spot near the front. My feet had just hit the pavement when three salesmen were on me like white on rice.
“Hi, there! In the market for a Cadillac?” asked the first.
The second eyed the Yukon. “Looking for an upscale SUV? The Escalade is pure luxury.”
The third merely scowled at the other two, turned around, and headed off to await the next potential customer.
“Sorry, guys,” I said, pressing the button on the key fob to lock the doors. Bleep. “I’m only here to speak to your general manager. Can one of you show me to his office?”
The men who’d been so eager to assist me only a moment before were suddenly too busy to help.
The first backed away. “I need to check on something. Steve can help you.”
The other, who had to be Steve, hurled eye daggers at his coworker. “This way,” he barked grudgingly, jerking his head toward the showroom.
I followed him into the space, which was glass on three sides and housed several top-of-the-line Cadillacs, one of each model.
He stopped just inside the door and pointed toward the back of the room. “The GM’s office is the middle one over there.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I headed across the room toward an office with a wide window built into the door to allow the manager to keep an eye on the goings-on. Though the door was closed, the mini-blinds mounted over the window were raised, offering a clear view into the space. A large man with faded rusty hair sat behind a desk talking with someone on his phone. The nameplate on his door told me he was Vince Conover. The squint of his eyes and the tightness in his jaw told me that either the caller or the topic of discussion didn’t sit well with him. He looked up as I approached, said some final words into the receiver, and hung up.
I rapped on the window. Rap-rap.
He stood and came to the door but opened it only a few inches, clearly not intending to invite me in. “Can I help you with something?”
I introduced myself and handed him my business card through the narrow opening. “I’d like to speak with you about Flo Cash and the free services your dealership has provided to her.”
He tucked the card into his breast pocket. “She told me the IRS has been tracking her whereabouts and harassing the people she does business with.”
“That was her on the phone? When I walked up?”
“Yes, it was.”
I didn’t like what this guy was telling me, but at least he was being up-front. It looked like Dr. Keele must have called Flo after I left his chiropractic clinic. Snitch. She must’ve realized I’d followed her to the clinic and wondered if I’d trailed her here to the car dealership earlier.
“What Miss Cash told you is not exactly true,” I said. I had tracked Flo, but I hadn’t harassed anyone. At least I didn’t consider it harassment. I considered it doing my job. Of course, Dr. Keele and the owners of Doo-Wop Donuts and the consignment shop would probably be inclined to agree with Flo’s take on things, but that’s only because they were engaging in shady financial shenanigans and didn’t like being called on the carpet about it. “I’m only trying to gather information,” I assured the man, “to ensure that proper tax reporting and payment is taking place.”
“Well, you won’t be gathering any information from me,” Conover said. “Not without going through the dealership’s attorney and not without a court order. Even then I can’t guarantee we won’t fight it.”
Ugh. I really wasn’t in the mood to waste two or three hours traipsing over to the Department of Justice, rounding up an attorney, and waiting in court until we could find an available judge to sign an order. But push was clearly coming to shove, and I had no choice but to shove back. “Looks like I’ll need to speak with your attorney, then. Who is it?”
The man stepped over to his desk, fished a business card from a drawer, and returned to the door to hand it to me. I glanced down at the card. The firm listed there was one of Dallas’ largest and most prestigious. In other words, they’d make things as hard on me as possible. Still, I had the law on my side. If third parties wouldn’t voluntarily give me information in a case, I could contact an attorney at the Department of Justice who could issue subpoenas and take depositions and get court orders requiring the third parties to provide the requested data and documentation. Unfortunately, these things took time and patience and I had little of both.
I slid the card into the pocket of my blazer. “You’ll be hearing from me again, Mr. Conover.”
I could feel his cold gaze like a frozen laser on my back as I turned and headed out of the showroom.
When I was seated in the SUV, I closed my eyes and mulled things over. The fact that Flo now knew I was contacting the advertisers would make things even harder on me. Catching one of them by surprise was no longer an option. They would be on notice that I was coming. No doubt she’d advise them all that they could find themselves in trouble for misreporting, and would suggest they keep mum. She had to know the IRS had limited resources and couldn’t run down every rabbit hole. Damn!
I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was half past four. Ross O’Donnell, an assistant U.S. attorney who regularly represented the IRS, would likely still be in his office. I started the car and drove to the DOJ offices.
Minutes later, I stood in Ross’ doorway. Ross had the pale skin that came with long hours in an office and the receding hairline of a man who’d been around the block a time or two. But despite his high-stress job, Ross somehow managed to always keep his cool. He must do yoga or meditate. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie hanging loosely from his neck, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. His desk, like mine, was piled high with files. A male paralegal scurried about the room, sorting through and organizing documents. And people think government employees are shirkers. Sheesh.
“Hey, Ross,” I said by way of greeting. “Can you make some time for your favorite special agent?”
“Always,” he said. “Come on in and join the fun.”
I glanced around the room. Box after cardboard box sat on his floor, while stacks of documents and accordion files stuffed full of exhibits covered his credenza. Next to them towered a stack of DVDs of children’s shows. One of the shows was playing on a laptop, an animated butterfly fluttering through a garden, stopping to have a conversation with a ladybug. “Watching cartoons?” I asked.
“It’s evidence,” he said. “I’m working a huge DVD piracy case.”
I gestured toward the laptop. “My nieces love that show.”
“Lots of kids do,” Ross replied. “Unfortunately, bootleggers violated the production company’s copyright and stole over six million in sales.”
Crooks were everywhere, huh? Even in butterfly gardens.
I plunked myself down in one of his wing chairs. “My latest investigation involves Florence Cash. She hosts a radio show on KCSH.”
“Flo Cash’s Cash Flow Show?” he said. “I listen to that program on my drive to work sometimes. ‘Make your money make money for you,’ right?”
“Right,” I said. “Only she doesn’t take her own advice. She’s got no investment accounts, not even a checking or savings account that I can find. She inherited the house she lives in, as well as the radio station and the building it broadcasts from. She’s got around twelve thousand dollars in cash in a safe, but she claims that’s everything she owns. She pays herself minimum wage but is somehow managing to keep herself afloat. She says she’s been living off cash she accumulated before her father passed away and left the station to her. The station’s financial records indicate that advertising revenue has decreased significantly since she took over, but the station is somehow staying afloat, too. It’s not adding up.”
Ross sat back in his chair. “Any theories?”
“Yep. I think she’s trading on-air advertising for products and services. Taken things off the books.”
His head bobbed as he appeared to weigh the idea and find it possible. “Got any proof of that?”
“I followed her to a chiropractic appointment today and she made no co-pay when she left. She also got her car serviced for no charge at Ledbetter Cadillac. She’s promoted both the chiropractic clinic and the car dealership on air, though neither of them would admit to making a trade with her. I stopped by some of the other businesses she’s mentioned, too, but nobody would tell me anything. They’re all playing innocent, like they have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“Typical.”
“Can you get some kind of court order for me? You know, something that forces these businesses to disclose any transactions they might have had with Flo Cash?”
“I can,” he said, “but only if you get some proof first to support it. You’d need witnesses from the businesses to testify that they’d made deals with her to do in-kind swaps. Two or three should be sufficient to show a pattern of behavior on Flo’s part.”
Two or three? I groaned. I hadn’t been able to get a single one to come clean so far. Though the clerk at the dealership had admitted they hadn’t charged Flo for the maintenance and the delivery boy for the Chinese restaurant had told me he’d never collected a cent for the food he’d brought to the station, neither of them had said outright that charges had been waived in return for on-air promotion. “So I have to somehow gather evidence in order to get a court order that will allow me to gather more evidence?”
Ross offered an empathetic groan. “Ironic, huh?”
Ironic and frustrating. “Flo’s on to me. She’s been contacting the businesses and warning them I’m running an investigation. They’re starting to clam up and lawyer up. Getting even one of them to cooperate will probably be difficult.”
Ross offered me a soft smile. “Has your job ever been easy, Tara?”
Since I’d joined the IRS, I’d been shot at, knocked unconscious, tackled to the ground, and very nearly blown to smithereens by explosives placed under my car. I could reply with an unequivocal and emphatic, “No. Never.”
“Your job being difficult has never stopped you before,” Ross said. “So get on out there and keep doing what you do.”
As much as I’d hoped he would offer me a quick and easy solution rather than a pep talk, I knew he was right. This wasn’t my first rodeo, and I’d learned—the hard way—that there were no shortcuts when it came to enforcing tax law. I stood. “Thanks for the encouragement. And the legal advice.”
“Anytime,” he said. “Come back when you’ve got something.”
“Will do.” Of course I wondered if his “when” should be an “if.” Will I ever be able to prove that Flo Cash is up to no good?