"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 Justice 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.

"I know this may sound evasive to you, but could you come back tomorrow?" she asked. She needed to do a little research.

Charlie shook his head. "By tomorrow there could be nothing left."

CHAPTER 43

ILOVEDHIMIHATEDHIM. ShouldIhelphimShouldInothelphim? Cassie's brain was whirling again. But now it was whirling around two men instead of one. The dead one whom she wished she could mourn, and the living one who wanted her to inform for the IRS. The breathing one was sexy. Even when he was threatening her she found him pretty devastating. But right now the dead one was going up in smoke and she didn't want confusion. She wanted the whirl to stop, and the world to be simple. There was no chance of that, so she left Charlie doing whatever he did when he was alone with other people's stuff, and went upstairs to bathe and dress.

As she climbed the stairs, she wished for a quiet moment in which to experience some emotion appropriate to the occasion. Whatever happened to basic values? A human being who happened to be a close relative had just passed on. She wanted that to be the primary event. She was still deeply caught in the myth of marriage and didn't want to give it up until the very last moment. Let me love Mitch for just a few moments one last time, so I can feel the loss, so I can mourn, she told herself.

She'd tried to pinpoint her feelings about the marriage a million times since Mitch had become ill, and she'd been hopeful until the day he'd keeled over. What she thought of now was the excitement with which she'd anticipated the arrival in the mail of each of her orchids. They came from Florida, California, Hawaii, the Philippines, Thailand. So many exotic places. She always ordered them in spike. When they arrived, she watched impatiently for the spikes to bud, and the buds to flower. The day a new plant fully unfurled its first bloom, her personal achievement felt as remarkable as the bloom itself, as if each were her very own creation.

Orchid societies preached the simplicity of orchids, and the growers all promised on the Web that the blooming-age specimens they offered for sale would definitely bloom. But the truth was, orchids were not so very easy. They were like the male member: not particularly attractive when dormant, unpredictable producers or unproducers, all according to whim. Orchids were pretty much Cassie's metaphor for life.