The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “Just do it.”

  I snatched up my purse, set my gun inside.

  The man was shaking as Stan turned him over and felt his pockets. He paused at the left-side pocket and quickly looked up at me. He pulled the object out, but the man quickly grabbed it from Stan’s meaty paw and brought it to his mouth.

  It was an inhaler.

  A few seconds passed.

  “Satisfied?” the man said, moving to a sitting position while holding up the inhaler.

  “He put his hand on me. He made the first move,” I said.

  Stan tapped the guy on the shoulder.

  “Okay, okay,” the man said, his head buried between his legs. “I shouldn’t have given her a hard time. I just wanted some attention, that’s all. I didn’t know I was messing with some psycho bitch.”

  “Next time, you might want to assume every woman is a psycho bitch. Got it?” Stan lifted to a standing position, then cinched up his trousers. “I think we’re done here.”

  “Hey, aren’t you going to arrest her? She threatened my life. She could have fucking killed me.”

  “She could say that about you, buddy. I think it’s best we call it a draw and move on. Learn from it and don’t do it again. Got it?”

  “Okay,” the man said dejectedly.

  I turned to walk away.

  “Ivy?”

  I stopped and turned around to face Stan. “What now?” My pulse was still clocking faster than a speeding jackrabbit.

  “Learn from it and don’t do it again, right?”

  I tried to let the tension out with a loud exhale. “Right. Can we get a drink now?”

  “Yep, and I’ll even buy the first round.”

  Stan had my back.

  10

  The mood in Ernesto’s was lively. Even in a space no larger than my living room, two couples danced to a version of Latin pop music. A number of the patrons clapped and cheered them on. I wasn’t one of them.

  “Have your nerves settled down yet?” Stan asked, sipping his beer. As usual, he left suds on his bushy mustache, and I gestured with my napkin. He wiped it off. “Your nerves?”

  I twirled the stem of my martini glass as I replayed how I’d responded to the man on the street. “I’m better. Thanks for asking.”

  “Hey, I don’t want you to think your reaction wasn’t warranted, at least the first part. But I know you’ve been on edge the last few weeks. I’ve been worried about you. All of us have.”

  I smiled. “Stan, I didn’t know you had a soft side.”

  He sat back, patting his belly. “I’m soft all over, getting softer by the day, if you ask my wife.”

  I chuckled politely, finally relaxing some more. A moment later, Zahera walked in the door, and every guy’s head turned as she sauntered toward our table. I wasn’t sure what they noticed more, her drop-dead-gorgeous looks or the bling shining on her wrist and neck. It didn’t really matter. She was my best friend, even if we were polar opposites. She reached down and hugged my neck. “I didn’t know Dr. Z would be this late,” I said. We’d met on my first visit to her office. She was my gynecologist.

  She blew a lock of silky, black hair off her face. “This poor woman was in labor for thirty-six hours. Finally, I just said I’m going to pull until we get him out.”

  I could see Stan contort his face.

  “How did it turn out?” I asked.

  “The dad freaked out when the baby had a cone head, but I told him it would slowly get back to a normal shape.”

  Stan turned away, his expression still a grimace, as if he either had an ulcer or was about to lose his last meal. I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Gotta run to the little girl’s room. Get me one of those,” Zahera said, pointing at my drink before fluttering away.

  “We stopped talking about birthing babies, Stan. You can face the table again.”

  He shifted in his seat. “Just getting into the salsa dancing,” he said, gulping down another mouthful of his beer. “So, it’s good to catch up with you, Ivy, but if I know you, there’s a motive around this invitation.”

  I showed him a smile full of teeth. “You know me pretty well.”

  “Ditto,” he said.

  The waiter dropped by, and I ordered Zahera’s drink and another round for Stan and me, as well as chips and salsa. “I’ve got this next round.”

  “I’ll take it, as long as you tell me the real reason you want to get me liquored up.”

  “Does the name Dillon Burchfield mean anything to you?” I asked.

  A chair scooted out, and Zahera slipped into it with the grace of a swan. “Tall, charming, attractive in an earthy way. And he’s got more money than he could spend in fifty lifetimes,” she said with a wink. “If he wasn’t married, I’d be all over that, sista.”

  “Thanks for the visual,” Stan said.

  “Just sayin’,” she said. The waiter arrived with our drinks, taking away the empty glasses. “I’ve got some catching up to do. You guys go ahead and talk. I’ll just sit here and ogle any attractive man who walks through the front door.”

  “Only if you let me have your second choice.”

  “Here’s to sloppy seconds,” Zahera said, raising her glass. We clinked glasses as Stan rolled his eyes.

  “Okay, sorry about my temporary immaturity.” I sat up straight, clasped my hands in front of me, trying my best to be “proper,” but my smirk gave me away.

  “No problem. It’s just good to see you happy for a change. You and Z are quite the pair.”

  She lifted her fist, and I gave it a bump without even turning my head.

  Stan got back to the real point of the meeting. “So, Ivy, you want to know about Dillon Burchfield because he was brought in to headquarters earlier today and charged with sexual assault of a minor.”

  Zahera’s jaw fell open.

  Before she could comment, he continued. “You obviously knew that. The question is how did you know that. Then after that, you need to tell me why you want to know.”

  “So now who has all the questions?” I said with a playful smile.

  “I’m programmed that way. Then again, you are too, which is why I keep asking if you’ll go to the police academy and work your way up to become my partner.”

  My hand slapped the table. “Funny, Stan.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Me working for the SAPD, or any PD, is a big joke. After one week, I’d break so many rules they’d kick me out. It’s better if we work this way,” I said, waving a hand between us.

  “You want inside information.”

  “Bingo.” I lifted my martini and slurped.

  He shifted his eyes left and right, leaning in closer. “From the little I heard, this guy’s a real piece of work.”

  “So you think he did it, sexually assaulted a little girl?”

  He set his beer on the table. “The evidence is pretty damning. Might be a very cut-and-dry case, at least that’s what I’ve been told. But it’s not my case, so I can’t say for sure. And this guy is richer than twenty third-world countries, so anything is possible if you create enough smoke to hide the facts.”

  “Who’s the lead detective?”

  “Your favorite guy, Moreno.”

  Omar Moreno, who dressed liked a pimp and even had a similar, cocky swagger, seemed to enjoy needling me. “What evidence is so convincing?”

  Stan extended one sausage-like finger. “First of all, the victim ID’d him in a lineup.”

  “Wait, you guys asked a little girl to pick out her perpetrator in a lineup? That had to be traumatic for her. And can we even trust her judgment since you typically throw in people who look similar?”

  Zahera rose up from her chair. “Hey, guys, hate to interrupt, but I’m just heading over there for a few minutes. Back soon.” She walked over to a man a few feet from our table and started chatting with him.

  Stan and I looked at each other and shrugged. Then he leaned over the table, scrunching his eyes—his serious l
ook. “Do you know the age of the victim?”

  “Not exactly. Nine or ten maybe?”

  “Sixteen. She’s a minor by nineteen days. Burchfield would have been charged regardless of the female’s age, but fortunately this girl is old enough to be able to pick someone out of a lineup.”

  I could imagine a teenage girl easily being smitten by Dillon and his charm. My gut tightened. I could feel my tenuous belief in Dillon’s innocence dip toward the side of doubt. Or was my original belief more of a hope, given our decision to work for him?

  Stan pulled out his phone, thumbed through a few pictures. “Just remember, you never saw this, right?” He turned the phone to his chest until I nodded confirmation.

  He showed me four pictures, each one more disturbing than the last. One eye was swollen shut, black and blue bumps all over her face. Her clothes looked like they’d been put through a shredder and then draped back over her body. And then the last image—her thighs had claw and bite marks.

  “What the…?” I’d been where this girl was, beaten, raped, made to feel less than zero. I didn’t know her, but I hurt for her. I could feel a rage boiling inside.

  “As you can see, this wasn’t just a matter of a he-said, she-said incident,” Stan said, pocketing his phone. “The person who did this is a beast. A danger to anyone he interacts with.”

  Zahera had just sat back down. “Did what?”

  “Show her.”

  Stan arched an eyebrow.

  “Show her. She knows Dillon. You know she’ll keep it between us.”

  He pulled out his phone, gave her a quick view of all four pictures.

  Her round eyes went wide. “Dillon Burchfield did that?”

  “He’s been charged. Evidence points in that direction. But I know that he’s worth a billion dollars, and he’ll bring in the best spin masters that money can buy.”

  Zahera rubbed her forehead with one hand, her expression doubtful. “I know what I just saw, but I can’t connect it with Dillon. That’s just not his nature. I couldn’t see him harming any living creature. He talks so much about the continuation of life on other planets. He values life.”

  “Sounds like he’s already hired you to run his PR campaign,” Stan said.

  Zahera crossed her arms. “Really? I’m just telling you what I know about him.”

  As the pair eyeballed each other, my thoughts drifted back to something Stan had noted earlier. “A danger to anyone he interacts with.” My mind went straight to Emma, Dillon’s daughter. He cherished that little girl. Even if he was guilty of this crime—and I knew that there were always two sides to a story—there was no way he would harm her. But how well did I or Zahera really know Dillon Burchfield?

  “You’re in one of your catatonic stares, Ivy. What are you thinking? And why are you so involved with this?” Stan asked.

  “Don’t you recall us finding Dillon’s daughter at the truck stop a week ago?”

  “Of course I remember. I even sent you a text, congratulating you.”

  “Yeah, the one where you suggested the CIA might want to hire ECHO to locate the top ten terrorists.”

  “Funny, right?”

  “As a heart attack,” I said.

  Stan scooped chips and salsa into his mouth. “So you feel like you know him, and you probably are thinking about the safety of his little girl, since his wife is in the loony bin.”

  “Something like that,” I said with a slow nod.

  “You’re not telling me something.”

  I swirled my martini, debating how much I should share with Stan. “Cristina and I have been hired to watch after Emma.”

  “You’re working for Dillon Burchfield?” Stan’s eyes didn’t blink.

  “I never came right out and endorsed his innocence, but I want to make sure Emma is safe, yes.” The thought that the Italian businessman, Claudio Belsito, might be a danger to Emma or in some way was connected to this girl who claimed Dillon raped her, sounded too ridiculous to mention at the moment. Not until I could back it up with at least a hint of evidence. And in my mind, an idle threat made after an emotional, failed business negotiation didn’t count.

  Stan rubbed his scruff, which was considerable at this hour of the night. “This might not be a bad thing.”

  “Why do you say that?” Zahera asked.

  Stan briefly glanced at her, then shifted his sights to me. “You’re on the inside, so to speak.”

  “Well, just until his parents get into town. Two or three days. And we’re really only responsible for picking up Emma from preschool and staying with her for a few hours afterward. Lots of crazy media. We don’t want her exposed to any of this, as much as we can help it.”

  “Still, if you were to keep your eyes and ears open, and then let me know…”

  “You want me to spy on the man who’s paying us?”

  “Spy. That’s a strong word. I’m just saying if you happen to see anything or hear anything noteworthy, you could pass it along. If he’s guilty of this crime, you do want him behind bars, right?”

  And just like that, he’d put me in an uncomfortable situation: my client in one corner of the ring and me in the other. I couldn’t disagree with the premise, though. If Dillon committed this crime, I wanted his ass to fry. I could deal with the ethical aspect as long as we stopped a predator.

  “I’m on board, Stan, but this goes both ways. If you learn anything new, please let me know.”

  He started to say something but seemed to catch himself. Instead, he crammed more chips into his mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to put you and Cristina in a dangerous situation.”

  “He’d never hurt us. We’re there to protect his daughter. If anyone’s safe, we are,” I said, my mind briefly recalling my sudden and harsh response earlier when I’d thought I was being attacked. “And let’s not forget that CPS could end up taking her out of the house, given the seriousness of the charge.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. Money, influence, and a lawyer who’s mastered the art of public manipulation could easily buy some more time with a fledgling agency like CPS.”

  I didn’t debate it, although I knew that when I worked for the agency, no one had been able to overturn one of my decisions on a child’s disposition. Many tried, but I didn’t play that game.

  “We have a deal, then.” I extended my hand. Stan started to do the same, but quickly brought it back and wiped it on his shirt. Then we shook hands.

  “It’s like you just signed an international peace accord,” Zahera said, laughing into her napkin.

  “Allies agree to share information all of the time,” Stan said. “It’s more like a US-British intelligence agreement.”

  Zahera lifted her martini. “I’ll drink to that. Cheers.”

  11

  I’d spent the last thirty minutes filling out forms, having my picture taken, even providing a fingerprint. It felt like I was being booked into the Bexar County Jail. That was the process for being granted the authority to pick up Emma Burchfield at her preschool, where kids had access to a full-size basketball court, any number of electronic portable devices, a two-thousand-square-foot library, tennis courts, and a small outdoor water park.

  “This is the life,” Cristina said, using a wipe to clean the ink off her finger. “If I could only turn back the clock, this is where I’d go to school if I were four years old.”

  I would have made a comment about Cristina needing to focus on getting her high school diploma, but she would have rolled her eyes for the hundredth time since I’d known her. The principal had just approached me to review the daily pickup procedures. I nodded, but I was distracted by Cristina, who stood behind Mrs. Lambert. Something about my ECHO employee seemed different today. She’d let her long hair fall straight down, and she usually wore it pulled back.

  Is she wearing makeup?

  I blinked, wondering if the fluorescent lighting was playing tricks with my eyes. That had to be fou
ndation she was wearing. Her complexion looked too flawless, especially for a teenage girl who ate fast food and drank soda as if she owned stock in the companies.

  “And while we love interacting with our parents and the caregivers of our students, we believe it’s best if everyone followed the same procedure for picking up the children.” Mrs. Lambert clasped her hands in front of her blue skirt. “You can pull your car to the side circle and when you pull up, we’ll bring Emma out to your car.”

  Thankfully, I’d remembered to get the car seat from the Burchfield home earlier. The only person there at the time was another legal assistant who worked with Saul. It seemed as if Wilson, Mendoza, and Ross had set up permanent residence inside the Burchfield mansion. Some might wonder if they were keeping an eye on their high-dollar client to ensure he didn’t leave the country before paying their fees, as well as making sure he stayed out of trouble.

  A series of questions suddenly swooped into my frontal lobe: Where had the assault allegedly taken place? How did Dillon know this girl? It wasn’t like he was a high school coach or someone who interacted with kids on a daily basis. Had it happened right there in Burchfield Manor?

  I wondered if Stan knew and had forgotten to tell me. Or maybe he had conveniently avoided those details. Couldn’t really blame him, considering I hadn’t been an open book either. But I also wouldn’t forget to ask him at the next opportunity.

  Cristina bumped my arm and then headed toward the door. Whenever I tried to catch up, to get a closer look at her face, she would turn away.

  A few minutes later, we were back in the car and waiting in the pick-up line. I said, “Trying to take that leap into womanhood finally?”

  Cristina looked out the passenger window as we coasted another few feet before stopping behind a mammoth luxury SUV, the ultimate suburban-soccer-mom car. “What are you talking about?”

  “The makeup. I didn’t notice it at first. Whoever put that on you should be doing it professionally.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No need to get defensive. Just saying you have a more refined look.” I glanced down and noticed her black jeans had two well-placed holes at her knees. Maybe refined didn’t really fit. While she chose to live on the streets, she didn’t have to look like she did. I paid her a decent wage, but for some reason, she continued to eat like crap, sleep wherever she could find a warm bed alone, and not put any effort into revamping her appearance in any way.