The Taxman Cometh

By John Wayne Falbey

While Finn O'Casey is working late one evening during tax season, the IRS, led by a rogue agent, raids his home instead of his mob-boss neighbor's. O'Casey's wife and young son are accidentally killed in the raid. The rogue IRS agent tries to cover his tracks by placing a weapon in the dead wife's hand to create the appearance that he shot her in self-defense. The neighbor, a major crime figure, while sympathetic for O'Casey's loss, is not what he seems to be. Both the rogue agent and the neighbor thought O'Casey was a mild-mannered accountant. They thought wrong.

To escape the vengeful O'Casey, the agent tries to frame him for the murder of another IRS agent. Local, state, and federal law enforcement officials quickly accept O'Casey as the prime suspect. But the FBI's lead investigator, a young Native American woman named Marcie Billie, isn't convinced the CPA is the killer.

                                                                                       Moral: Be careful who you choose as a victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Falbey Group, LLC
• Release date: Aug 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9780998611785

John Wayne Falbey

John Wayne Falbey writes thrillers involving international espionage and geopolitical intrigue. His debut novel, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, has been endorsed by Compulsory Reads and became an internationally bestselling thriller. There now are eight books in the Sleeping Dogs series about a ruthless, patriotic black ops unit hunting and eliminating America's enemies. His latest novel in the Sleeping Dog series is Spare Me, Kill the Rest. He currently is working on the ninth book in the series. He also is the author of The Quixotics, an action-adventure tale of gunrunning, guerrilla warfare, and treachery in the Caribbean, and The Taxman Cometh, a story about a rogue IRS agent who tries to frame a former special ops warrior for murder.The writers currently at the top of his reading list include Brad Thor, Alex Berenson, Lee Child, Ben Coes, Brad Taylor, Robert Crais, John Sandford, and David Baldacci.A native Floridian and former transactional attorney, Falbey lives in Southwest Florida. He invites you to visit him at www.falbeybooks.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Life had hardened IRS Special Agent Desmond Wallace. He’d grown up in a gritty low-income part of town where fights were a daily occurrence and gang membership wasn’t optional. Unlike most of his childhood acquaintances, Wallace had been talented enough to earn a football scholarship to college. Life had toughened him, and fear was foreign to him. Mostly. Tonight, was a different story. He unconsciously slid his hand across his ballistic vest and touched the reassuring grip of the Glock 23 holstered under his left arm.

The temperature in Tampa this mid-October night was in the high 60s, but Wallace was perspiring. It dampened his black, long-sleeved shirt. The wetness felt cold against his skin despite the added layer of the vest. The black balaclava he wore absorbed the sweat from his brow and kept it from running into his eyes. But the palms of his hands were wet. Would it interfere with his use of the Glock if he needed it? Stress rose another notch.

Wallace was three months out of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia. He was in On-The-Job-Training, the fourth and final phase of completing the criminal investigator training program. The IRS assigned him to its Tampa Field Office for the OJT. Tonight would be his first major search and seizure operation. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use the Glock tonight. But Fred Marinelli, the Supervising Special Agent or SSA of the IRS Criminal Investigation unit involved in tonight’s raid, told him, Be prepared for shit to go south. It usually does.

Wallace leaned against the black Cadillac Escalade the IRS had confiscated from its former owner, a bookie and major tax cheat now serving a twenty-year sentence. Wallace squinted, willing his eyes to see through the darkness. There were lights on in the house the IRS had identified as the suspect’s. It was a half-block down Martinique Avenue and on the opposite side of the street. 

A voice behind Wallace startled him. You see anything, rookie? It was Marinelli.

No, the lights indicate someone might be in there, but the curtains are too heavy to see much of anything else.

Marinelli, his curly black hair slicked back with the usual overload of product and dressed in black with matching camo face paint, was almost invisible in the darkness. He said, That sonofabitch is in there. He rarely goes out anymore.

Why? Too elderly or frail?

No, he’s in good shape. Has a regular fucking gym in his home. But in his business, you never know when a competitor has put a hit out on you.

If that were to happen, Wallace said, couldn’t the hitmen just kill him at home?

Not likely, the place is like a fortress and has all the latest security technology. Then there’s the goon squad he keeps on hand twenty-four seven.

Goon squad? Wallace could feel the stress straining to reach a higher level. Are you saying we might encounter armed bodyguards?

Seems likely. There was something akin to anticipation in Marinelli’s response, as if he was looking forward to a confrontation.

Then the suspect should be classified as a Potentially Dangerous Taxpayer, Wallace said.

Right, he’s definitely classified as a PDT. That’s how we convinced the judge to issue a no-knock warrant for this operation.

But the Florida Supreme Court prohibited those warrants years ago.

We’re the fucking IRS, rookie. We operate under federal law and it’s paramount in all states and territories. If it eases your anxiety, a federal district court judge issued this warrant.

Do any of these bodyguards have a prior history of violent criminal behavior and the known ability to offer armed resistance to our entering the premises? Wallace said, quoting verbatim from the IRS manual on criminal investigations. 

Marinelli snorted. What do you think, kid? They aren’t exactly choirboys.

Then, according to Part 9 of the IRS manual, we should classify this as a high-risk situation. The manual prohibits CI special agents from entry into a premises or structure that presents a high-risk situation. Wallace felt a sudden sense of relief wash over him.

Yeah, you’re right, smart-ass. The manual says to use entry teams from other local, state, or federal agencies. Once they secure the premises, IRS special agents can enter and complete the search.

Wallace made it a point to look around the immediate area. I don’t see anyone here from another agency.

The local cops are running late. Their SWAT team members aren’t any more eager to engage in a high-risk entry than you are. But they’ll be here soon. And when they are, suck it up. We’re not gonna hang back like a bunch of pansies and let them have all the fun and glory.

Chapter 2

Finn O’Casey leaned back in his chair, rolled his shoulders, and stretched. He heard the familiar popping sounds along his spine and felt the growing discomfort in his lower back. How long had he been sitting at the computer? A glance at his watch told him. It was a little after ten in the evening. He’d been in his chair for four hours. He knew that was unhealthy for his spine and hip flexors. But it was a hazard for accountants during tax season; there were deadlines to meet and a lot of client money at stake.

Time for a coffee break. O’Casey pushed himself away from the desk and stood. He walked down the hall to the firm’s break room and dropped a K-cup into the coffee machine. Moments later, he was adding creamer to the steaming mug when Bill Jameson, a colleague, walked in.

You ever wonder what a CPA’s life would be like without java? Jameson said, as he selected a K-cup and put it in the machine.

For one thing, we’d sleep better, O’Casey said.

No shit. I keep myself jacked up on coffee all day, then gobble pills every night to get to sleep.

Sounds like a dangerous regimen.

But what the fuck am I going to do? I’ve got two ex-wives collecting alimony and two kids in college, He paused and took a sip of his coffee. As a result, I’m not in the kind of physical shape you are, Jameson said, patting his ample belly.

O’Casey nodded.

Do you even have any body fat? When you’re not in the gym, you’re training for or competing in those marathon things. 

Triathlons.

Jameson grinned. Have you no shame, no compassion for us poor normal dudes?

It’s not like that. Maybe I’m blessed with good genes, but the key for anyone is discipline. Eat healthy and go for that run or that workout in the gym whether you feel like it or not.

Discipline, huh? Easy for you to say. You’re ex-military. Discipline is a way of life for you guys. Jameson rinsed his mug in the sink and set it on the drainboard. I forget; what was that outfit you were with?

It didn’t have a name. It was just known as ‘The Group.’

Why no name? I thought it was like Delta Force or something.

It drew from the Deltas—that was my background—but it was an international group of special operators that included fighters from other countries like the British SAS and SBS, as well as Israel’s Sayeret Matkal and Australia’s Tactical Assault Group.

Man, that has a real international flavor. But no Ruskies or Chinese?

The warmth vanished from O’Casey’s eyes. No. He placed his rinsed mug on the drainboard next to Jameson’s and the two men walked down the hallway toward their offices.

Just outside O’Casey’s office, Jameson stopped and said, I have nothing waiting at home for me but an empty house and a stack of bills to pay, but your situation is different. You’ve got a gorgeous wife and a little boy to tuck in. Don’t these late hours upset things at home?

O’Casey smiled and shook his head. No, not really. I have a wonderful wife and son. They’re my top priorities. Liam is only seven and doesn’t fully understand, so I try to make it home for dinner every evening then return to the office. Kayla gets it. She knows tax season doesn’t go on forever. I explained it all to her before I asked her to marry me.

In the spirit of full disclosure, huh?

O’Casey grinned. More like a fair warning. 

Do you ever worry about them when you’re putting in these late hours?

What’s to worry about? Kayla keeps the place locked until I get home. I’ve taught her how to use several firearms. We’ve got a state-of-the-art alarm system. Even better, we have Mac Tíre. He pronounced it mok cheer-a.

Jameson’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. What in the hell is a mok cheer-a?

It means wolf in Irish Gaelic.

The puzzled look remained. You aren’t telling me you have a pet wolf, are you?

No, he’s a one-hundred-twenty-pound German Shepherd. Intelligent, loyal, and intimidating as hell. Best of all, we live next door to Giovanni Rossellini.

"Johnny Ross? The mob boss, the capo di tutti capi?"

The same.

Holy shit, man! Special ops vet or not, doesn’t that scare the crap out of you? Why haven’t you moved?

Why? What neighborhood could be any safer than one with a top crime boss in residence?

  Jameson shook his head. I guess you know what you’re doing. You’re the smartest tax wizard I’ve ever met. That’s how you got your nickname. He pointed at a nameplate on O’Casey’s desk. It said Taxman.

Chapter 3

IRS-CI Special Agent Desmond Wallace had serious second thoughts. He’d endured a grueling, almost half-year basic training program. Now, he was halfway through its final phase, OJT. He could have done that at IRS headquarters in Washington, D.C. or any of its field offices scattered across the country. He’d requested the Tampa Bay office because it was in St. Petersburg, thirty miles from his hometown of Bradenton, Florida. It seemed like a good idea. His widowed mother was in poor health and still lived in Bradenton in the same house he had grown up in. 

But, Wallace thought, maybe he should have researched the field office and its personnel more closely. He would have learned that African Americans made up only four percent of the special agents assigned to the Tampa office compared to more than eight percent in the IRS overall. It made him sensitive to always follow the rules and be an unquestioned team player. His research also might have disclosed that Fred Marinelli, the supervisory special agent in charge of tonight’s operation, was a maverick. Marinelli had made it clear to Wallace that he had no intention of following IRS guidelines that prohibited agents from taking part in the entry of a location in high-risk situations. And tonight’s operation definitely was high risk.

It was a little after 11 p.m. as Wallace watched the heavily armed Tampa Police Department SWAT team members pile out of their dark, armored van and surround Marinelli. Like Wallace and Marinelli, the cops were dressed in black uniforms and wearing body armor, helmets, and balaclavas. They carried a variety of high-powered weapons, including assault rifles and shotguns. One especially burley officer looked like he could moonlight at middle linebacker for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. He was carrying a portable battering ram. It was forty inches long and weighed forty pounds. The ram was designed to be swung by two men, but this guy looked fully capable of going solo with it.

The temperature had dropped another degree or two, inching toward the mid-sixties. But Wallace’s clothing was drenched in sweat. He took a long swig from the bottle of water he was clinching too tightly and noticed a slight tremor in his hands. Shit, I’ll never live it down if these guys think I’m afraid. 

Led by Marinelli, the group approached the confiscated Escalade and gathered around Wallace who said, What about the house’s security system? Has it been deactivated?

You must be the newbie, one cop said with a wide grin.

Wallace swallowed hard. CI Special Agent Wallace, he said.

The cops laughed and one of them said, Yep, he’s the rookie.

This your first rodeo, kid? another one said.

Marinelli said, Wallace, here, is in the final phase of training. Tonight, is a big test for him.

You know how to use a firearm, rookie? a cop said. None of us wants to get hit by friendly fire. Everyone including Marinelli laughed. 

Wallace stiffened. I qualified as a Sharpshooter.

A cop said, What was your score?

After a moment’s hesitation, Wallace said, 89.

A few of the cops made scoffing sounds. One of them said, Shit, every one of us shoots Expert, or, like me, Distinguished Expert. You know what it takes to shoot Distinguished Expert, rookie?

Wallace nodded. A perfect score of 100.

I don’t know about you other guys, but I think I’d feel safer if Special Agent Marinelli held the rookie’s gun tonight. Everyone except Wallace guffawed.

One cop grinned and slapped Wallace on the shoulder. Don’t take it seriously, kid, we’re just fucking with you. We do it to all rookies.

Yeah, another one said, it’s like an initiation. We rag on every newbie. It’s part of joining the club.

You don’t have to worry about anything, Wallace said glumly and glanced at Marinelli. Part 9 of the Internal Revenue Manual prohibits CI special agents from participating in entering a building in a high-risk situation like the one at hand.

So, one of the cops said with a big grin, are the two of you gonna ride this one out at Starbucks? That drew another big laugh.

Fuck that, Marinelli said with a snarl. You boys know me well enough to know that I’m always right at the front in these operations. He turned toward Wallace. Your ass will be front and center throughout. Understand, rookie?

Wallace paused before responding as if searching for the right words. He didn’t find any and finally said, I understand the meaning, purpose, and context of Part 9 and …

Shove Part 9 up your ass. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. You’ll perform like a man or I’ll wash you the hell out of the program.

Chapter 4

O’Casey looked up as Bill Jameson stuck his head in the doorway of his office. Calling it a night?

Yeah, I don’t think I can take any more abuse from the tax code tonight.

O’Casey chuckled and glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after eleven. I hear you. I won’t be far behind.

Jameson lingered in the doorway.

O’Casey leaned back in his chair. Something on your mind, Bill?

Yeah, I was wondering if you’d be living next to a mob boss if your wife hadn’t inherited that palace on Hillsborough Bay.

Kayla’s parents built the house on Martinique Avenue before Rossellini moved into the neighborhood. And it wasn’t like she wanted her dad to fly his plane into the side of one of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

No, I didn’t mean it that way, Jameson quickly said. I was just thinking you probably couldn’t have afforded a place like that on your own.

O’Casey grinned. So, now you’re suggesting I’m …what? A gigolo?

Aw, Finn, you’re twisting my words. I’m just saying what a lucky bastard you are—drop-dead beautiful wife, bayfront mansion in the most exclusive part of town. Dude, as the saying goes, the world is your oyster.

I’m very much aware of that, O’Casey said softly. Sometimes I just shake my head in wonderment at how good life is to me.

Just out of curiosity, what are houses in your neighborhood worth? Five million or so?

O’Casey smiled easily and said, That’s about what a homesite is worth. Improved sites are higher. For example, Rossellini’s place is at the top end of the spectrum; it’s worth north of fifty million.

No shit? Jameson shook his head. And it’s all dirty money.

So the story goes.

What did Kayla’s parents think when a gang boss moved in next door?

It upset her mom at first, but she got to know Mrs. Rossellini through the civic and charitable organizations they both were members in.

What about her old man, Kayla’s dad?

He and Rossellini became fishing buddies of sorts. Used to go out on each other’s sport fisherman.

And that didn’t bother him, being pals with a top crime figure?

Not really. It took a while to get used to having three or four beefy, armed men on board who knew nothing about fishing and couldn’t have cared less. They just gobbled Dramamine and kept an eye out for anything that might look like it was a threat to their boss.

Jameson appeared to think about that for a moment. Do you ever run into him …Rossellini … around the neighborhood?

I see him sometimes when I’m walking Mac Tíre, or when I’m out for a run or a training ride. He seems friendly enough. Can’t say the same for the bodyguards.

Have you and Kayla ever socialized with Rossellini?

O’Casey smiled. This is beginning to sound like an interrogation.

Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I can’t imagine what it would be like to have Vito Corleone living next door. I mean, my life is so boring. I eat, sleep, work and that’s about all. I guess I’m trying to find some excitement vicariously.

The answer to your question is yes. The Rossellini’s have invited Kayla and me over for cocktails.

Just you two?

No, he had several other neighbors over too.

Jameson pursed his lips and squinted his eyes in thought for a moment. Just out of curiosity, did he ever talk to you about doing tax work for him?

Without hesitation, O’Casey said, No. It came out flat and hard, almost a growl.

That’s too bad, I think. That dude must have some hellacious tax issues. You’d be the one he should work with. And it would be lucrative for the firm too.

Think about what you’re saying, Bill. If Rossellini is ‘The Godfather,’ he’s into any number of illegal activities. As his accountant, I’d have intimate knowledge of them. I know you’re aware that under the Internal Revenue Code a federally authorized tax practitioner, like each of us, doesn’t have the benefit of an accountant-client privilege in criminal matters. If I was Rossellini’s accountant, and he was the subject of a federal criminal tax investigation, I don’t doubt I’d be one of the first guys the Feds would subpoena.

Yeah, I guess I see your point.

If I refused to testify, I’d be subject to contempt proceedings. And if I agreed to testify, Rossellini’s goons would harm Kayla and Liam.

Chapter 5

The night was particularly dark. If there was even a sliver of moon, it had been imprisoned behind a thick layer of low, scudding clouds. Wallace, steaming from the humiliation of Marinelli’s threat delivered in the presence of the Tampa PD SWAT team members, was wrestling with a second dilemma. Accompanying the cops on their forced entry violated Part 9 of the IRS manual. He was still in training. The act could get him fired. Worse yet, it could get him shot by Rossellini’s goons.

They approached the target residence with caution. SWAT team members, weapons at the ready, fanned out on either side of the large, well-landscaped dwelling. Some of them headed toward the rear of the homesite to cut off any squirters—suspects who attempted to escape through the home’s rear entrance. The team leader, Lieutenant Garza, led two other team members toward the front door. One of them, the burly cop, was carrying the heavy battering ram with ease. Wallace and Marinelli were right behind them. Both had unholstered their service Glocks.

Wallace studied the house as they neared it. He estimated the two-story building was at least six thousand feet under air plus a three-car garage. He didn’t doubt there was a pool and wide rear yard overlooking the expansive Hillsborough Bay. But as large as the target residence was, it and the other homes in the exclusive neighborhood were dwarfed by the three-story behemoth next to it that sprawled across two large homesites.

Pointing to it, he said to Marinelli, Whoever lives in that house must have even more money than Rossellini. Any idea who it is?

Without looking at Wallace, Marinelli said, No, and as long as he pays his taxes, I don’t give a shit.

Another disturbing thought crossed Wallace’s mind. We’re sure the target house is Rossellini’s, right?

This time Marinelli stopped and looked at him. From the expression on the SSA’s face, Wallace knew he should have kept his mouth shut.

What the fuck do you think, Wallace? The Service goes off half-cocked, raiding any house that’s handy? You think we throw a fucking dart at a map or something? Marinelli shook his head in disgust and started walking. Over his shoulder he said, Not that you need to know, but I have an informant inside Rossellini’s organization.

Two wide stone steps ascended to an entryway in front of oak double doors. The five men crouched in the darkness while Garza used his tactical commo gear to check with the SWAT team members posted on the sides and at the rear of the house. When he finished, he grinned and whispered, Police! Open up!

Marinelli softly said, That takes care of the required announcement.

Garza nodded at the muscular cop. Without hesitation, the big man stepped up to the doors and swung the portable battering ram at the lockset area. 

The doors were sturdier than they appeared, and it took three powerful smashes before they sagged inward. On edge to begin with, the noisy delay only heightened the SWAT team members’ nervousness. They feared the clamor would alert the occupants and enable them to be better prepared, including access to, and use of firearms. That explained the sound of breaking glass as members of the team hurled stun grenades, also known as flashbangs, through several of the windows. Almost instantly, there was a series of loud explosions and blinding flashes.

Marinelli shoved Wallace through the opening between the two damaged doors. You have the lead, rookie. Let’s see what you got.

Wallace stumbled forward expecting a fusillade of bullets from Rossellini’s hired muscle. Instead, he heard a deep, blood-chilling growl, a sound Hell’s worst demon might make. He saw an enormous black and tan German Shepherd hurtling toward him, its huge fangs bared and dripping with saliva. Wallace cringed in panic and fired wildly. 

The animal’s body slammed into him with such force it knocked Wallace backward into Marinelli, who shoved him aside and snarled, Congratulations, cupcake, you shot a damn dog.

Garza, Marinelli, and the two other cops rushed through the entranceway and into the large foyer, nearly trampling Wallace. Because of the