Under Cover of Darkness Read Online Free PDF

the ones who took all the gold away—”
    â€œRoosevelt era. Before you were born.”
    â€œAnd then let the taxpayers play with it again years later! They didn’t need it! What would they have to gain from a few murders?”
    â€œWhat do any of us have to gain? Rich people don’t fight each other. They’ve got too much to protect.”
    â€œAnd yet wars happen.”
    â€œWoody, there are other suspects. What if Congress—”
    Woody snorted. “Congress. The Army. The President. Mel, those people are all chosen for mathematical illiteracy. They can’t tell a million from a billion. When they pay eight thousand bucks for a hammer, where do they think the money goes?”
    â€œMaybe it’s Customs Collection,” I suggested.
    â€œThey’re too small.”
    â€œIt turns them mean. Jealousy.” I stood up. “I need to see Marion.”
    â€œI’ll come with you. After that, we’ve got better search programs at the office. Let’s see if the victims had anything in common.”
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    Marion was awake. We had to shout; the blast had left her a little deaf.
    â€œI wasn’t that close,” she told us. “I was watching the entrance for you, Mel. I saw him come in.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œDon’t know. He didn’t look like one of us. He looked like a backpacker.”
    â€œBackpacker? The guards should have got him.”
    â€œYeah. The maître d’ stopped him, and then boom.” She tried to wave her hands, then let them fall.
    Woody said, “Marion? Is IRS serious about Bev Hills?”
    She smiled wearily. “Beverly Hills belongs to Sales Tax. Playing tourist there isn’t a hassle. Of course that’s just me talking. Mel, I’m tired.”
    I kissed her and started to leave.
    â€œHe had a funny T-shirt logo,” she said. “A propeller with too many blades.”
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    The hypersonic subway from Oregon into Washington, DC, ends at the tenth subbasement of the Watergate. Security was a hassle; it has been ever since Nixon’s CREEP squad tried to burgle our secrets. The elevator took us down to the forty-second.
    Down the hall they were questioning a huckster. We listened for a few seconds.
    These days there are programs to keep track of sales tax. The only judgment a merchant needs involves where to apply it. This Martin Massoglia was a dealer at conventions, a traveling show, and that left him more chance to make mistakes.
    Glyer is a huge man, a mountain looming over the little huckster. Massoglia looked bravely up at him. “Doesn’t it strike you as crazy, turning every shopkeeper and restaurateur into a tax collector? We’re not all math whizzes like you guys. We only want to buy and sell.”
    Mike Glyer belly-laughed. “Internal Revenue turns every citizen in the country into an accountant, and jails him if he won’t play. Is that unfair?”
    Massoglia said, “Yeah!” and Mike chortled. Woody and I kept walking. We’d heard the argument too often.
    Gatherers, tax collectors, have to be good with numbers. We get more than our share of mathematical genius. Woody was a little worried about putting our programs to work in the office computers. Someone might notice.
    â€œTell them it’s a game,” I said. “Maybe even get them involved.”
    â€œI’m running just these five victims,” Woody said.
    I got us coffee at the hidden pot, avoiding the coffee we keep for taxpayers.
    â€œThey were all married,” Woody said. “In fact, they were all married to taxpayers.”
    â€œMean anything?”
    â€œLet’s see if . . .” He typed. By and by he said, “Last two months, four suspicious deaths in Sales Tax, two married—but not to taxpayers—and two singles. Harry Tanner just disappeared.”
    â€œMaybe they all cheated?”
    â€œLet’s see if Tanner had a significant other . . .