GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “By all means, Chuck, don’t wait until the dots are connected.”

  “Understood.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Arthur walked into his office minutes before his first meeting with Stu to discuss the newspaper’s strategy for the Tiffany Chambers murder investigation. He didn’t sleep well the night before, despite spending Christmas day lounging and reading his new autographed John Grisham novel, a gift from his wife, while drinking spiked eggnog. He hadn’t covered a major news story in more than thirty years, and his anxiety was getting the better of him. His neck felt like a steel plate had been fused to his vertebrae. He tapped his fingernails on his desk.

  Back in the mid-70s, a series of rapes occurred in the area over a six-month period. As assistant news editor, Arthur led the paper’s coverage from the initial crime until the final verdict and sentencing of the rapist. He knew journalism had changed over the past three decades, and he questioned his antiquated instincts. But his family legacy was at stake, and that motivated him.

  “Mr. Spanarkel, sir.” Stacy stuck her head in his office. “Stu Owens called to say he’d be a few minutes late. Apparently, his cat is sick and he had to take her to the vet.”

  “Vet?” Arthur mumbled. “Here we are, ready to embark on a mission to reclaim our leading position as the main watchdog in this community. Maybe Stu didn’t understand when I spoke to him on the phone.”

  “Maybe not, sir,” Stacy said.

  Arthur quickly raised his head, startled to hear a response. He thought he’d muttered those words to himself.

  Midway through the morning, Stu, wearing sneakers and some minor league baseball cap, stepped into the waiting area of Arthur’s office suite. Before Stacy could ring Arthur, he’d already spotted the reporter and motioned for him to enter his office.

  “Good morning, sir. I take it all is well with your, uh, animal?” Arthur asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Spanarkel. Pumpkin, my orange Tabby, got into some of our Christmas ribbon. Had to get her stomach pumped. I shouldn’t have left the presents under the tree. Poor girl,” Stu said.

  Arthur looked down at his notes and refrained from making another cutting remark.

  “Stu, my good man, we know Karina has been through a great deal. I can’t imagine the emotions she’s experienced with her husband being arrested for the murder,” Arthur said. “It’s up to you and me to get to the bottom of all this. Unfortunately, this might touch Karina. If so, I’m sorry, but our journalistic reputation is on the line.”

  Just before Stu could respond, Arthur’s assistant entered the office, rolling in a large, two-sided whiteboard. “Good timing, Stacy.” Arthur stood in front of the whiteboard, noting to himself that Stu hadn’t shown a great deal of energy in the first few minutes of their meeting. For now, Arthur would ignore it, hoping he’d see more engagement as they dove into the details.

  “Let’s list all the facts as we know them, with whom they are associated, and note if the source is reliable,” Arthur said. “Then, I’d also like for us to start a list of questions or concerns we think we need to chase. We can talk about our strategy on the flow of stories, and so forth. Acceptable?”

  “Works for me,” Stu said with little inflection.

  Arthur jotted down the facts as he and Stu understood them. Stu noted the issue in the coroner’s office on the cause of death. It had been a while since he had checked in with his source, so that might have changed, he said.

  “It’s good to hear you have a source in the coroner’s office. Nice work,” Arthur said with no visual reaction from Stu. “We’ll place that disagreement, for now, in the column of questions.”

  They continued documenting the questions for another five minutes. Surprised with how quickly they completed the exercise, Arthur took a step back and examined the whiteboard, wondering if they’d missed any obvious pieces to the puzzle.

  Stu adjusted his frayed cap. “Sir, I have one question.” Arthur motioned for Stu to continue. “How am I going to have enough time to work on this murder investigation and still cover the rest of the city beat? I make thirty thousand dollars a year, and I’m just not willing to give up my life for thirty K.”

  Arthur put his hands on his waist. He knew the money in print journalism was less than stellar. He had thought Stu would be invigorated by their joint mission and was surprised to hear this whining. Arthur ignored the question and instructed Stu to push for at least three stories a week on the investigation—more if they found additional branches to the tree, which he assumed they would. Arthur would edit the stories and compose the headlines. Also, he wanted to send a message to the community by writing an editorial for this Sunday’s paper.

  Stu nodded through the rest of the meeting.

  Arthur sensed this “team” effort would require more wrangling with Stu than he’d imagined. He sent Stu off to restart the investigation. Then he sat alone, elbows propped on his inherited mahogany desk, attempting to think outside the box.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  I struggled to button my pants. Too much buttermilk pie and homemade comfort food over the long holiday weekend. Outside of the bizarre interaction with Karina, the time off with Marisa had been relaxing and stress-free. I’d been able to mostly suppress my thoughts about the murder and the uncertainties at work, knowing I’d have to deal with reality today.

  In the half-full parking lot, I locked my car and strode toward the office. Before I reached the back door, I was compelled to keep walking. I stopped at the end of the alley, staring at the scene where I’d discovered Tiffany’s body.

  The picture etched in my mind from that dreadful day was far different than the view before me. Today, the clear blue sky allowed the sun to light up the top half of our building. Two birds fluttered overhead, as if one was chasing the other. Trash still littered the alley, but the driving rain, muddy gravel, and sheer gloominess had been removed like a Hollywood set change. Sitting perfectly parallel to the wall, the dark-green dumpster was in the same location. I could have walked down the alley to try to conjure up memories of the pungent odor and my emotions from that day, but I would gain nothing by putting myself through the experience. The alley no longer had power over me. I emptied my lungs and my body relaxed.

  The office atmosphere was laidback, only a handful of colleagues working to complete projects prior to the end of the year.

  Before I dropped by Paula’s office, I pulled out today’s edition of the Times Herald from my computer bag and spread it across my desk. Eager to see to if Arthur and Stu had made their first strike, I found the article hidden on page two, about a four-inch story. The main theme: formal charges against Reinaldo Silva would be filed tomorrow. It also noted that Reinaldo’s attorney, Brian Gentry, was not available for comment.

  I pondered why Stu couldn’t have pushed Brian, or someone in Brian’s office, for a response, even if they didn’t want to go on record. I sighed, thinking I needed to keep my expectations in check. I should give Stu a chance to ramp up and start taking ownership of the story and not regurgitate police press releases. I sounded like I’d received a graduate degree from the Woodward & Bernstein Investigative College.

  I examined the rest of the paper in case I’d overlooked a more in-depth story. Not today. Only typical grip-and-grin chamber of commerce photos and mundane stories on city council and zoning commission meetings. Stu might as well just ask for a copy of the minutes and publish those. At least that would give him more time to focus on the most significant story in the region.

  Happy to see Paula sitting behind her desk, I approached her door. Kamal gave me a passing nod as he walked out. He held folders and papers and crossed the wide hall to his new digs. Kamal had transformed one of our precious few conference rooms into his office.

  I ignored Kamal, and when he was out of earshot, said to Paula, “Good morning, co-boss.”

  “I could say something back, but I’m trying not to be cynical today.” Paula looked healthy and full of energy. W
e asked about each other’s holiday, starting with her recovery from the episode in the breakroom.

  “I stayed at the hospital only a few hours. I had a mild fainting spell, that’s all. I needed some food and hydration. It was no big deal,” she said, brushing off what had appeared to be serious at the time of the incident. “You’ll find this interesting. I received get-well flowers from Turug, of all people.”

  “Ah.” I wondered if he’d use the same bunch of flowers on Paula’s grave once they fired her.

  Paula asked me to shut the door. My mind instantly filled with theories. Was she going to beat Kamal to the punch and give the new regime the middle finger? Selfishly, I prayed not. We needed Paula, and I hoped she knew we’d all drown without her.

  “Michael, I didn’t think I’d ever say this again, especially at my age.” Paula leaned back in her burgundy, high-back leather chair. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Okay, uh, wow.” I tried not to show my shock, though my stammered response defied me.

  “I’m assuming your condition might have something to with your fainting spell last week?” I gave her a half smile.

  “It did, which is why I didn’t stay at the hospital long. They did an ultrasound to ensure the baby’s heartbeat was okay. Then they kicked me out.”

  She explained she was in her first trimester, and depending on the day, she could be tired, nauseous, hungry, or agitated. Her moods were unpredictable. At least, that’s what Greg had told her over the long weekend. For now, she asked me to keep it a secret. She was hesitant to share any personal news with the new command.

  Maybe talking babies with Paula will be a nice distraction over the next few months, I thought.

  “I guess you do have a certain glow,” I said, trying to act like I noticed.

  She giggled. “Oh do I now? Thank you, but you’re probably reciting a script you’ve heard, huh?”

  “Is it that obvious? I don’t really know much about women and pregnancy, and…all of that.” My hands moved all around, trying to pull an intelligent thought out of my mind.

  “Don’t worry, most men don’t. I’m sure Marisa could give you some starter lessons.”

  I nodded, then flapped my arms, realizing I’d been perspiring. Apparently, the whole pregnancy topic didn’t agree with my system.

  “You can see I’ll need you at some point, but I don’t know exactly when. Kamal knows I’m not feeling well, and I trust you to help.” She looked out her window for a moment. “It won’t be easy. We might be asked to do some tough things. Are you in this with me?”

  “Yes.” I released a stress breath.

  Startled to hear three rapid door knocks behind me, I turned to see a beady-eyed, rabid Kamal push open the door, ready to pounce.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  No taller than a Mini Cooper, our new co-general manager carried himself like the anointed one, knighted by Turug to execute the PHC acquisition plan. Despite lacking knowledge about J&W’s operations, Kamal had already begun pronouncing his decree on every issue, according to Paula. That’s how business in the modern day worked, I suppose—the acquiring company’s dictators ruled, even if they couldn’t find their asses with both hands.

  Kamal marched into Paula’s office like he owned the place, including her.

  “I need to speak with you in my office.” Without acknowledging my existence, Kamal spun back toward the door, clearly expecting Paula to be one step behind him.

  “Kamal, please give me five more minutes with Michael.”

  Kamal squinted, obviously shocked Paula would provide any response other than an immediate “yes sir.” The door rattled shut.

  “I have to put my foot down just because I can, at least for now,” Paula said.

  Paula’s rebellious attitude was refreshing. She wasn’t poisoned by her years in upper management.

  “I’m one morning sickness away from not being at the disposal of Sir Kamal, so stay close and be ready to jump in,” Paula said. “I’ll push him to start including you, and that could start in the next ten minutes, or it might be in two days. Sorry about the uncertainty, but that’s the game we’re playing right now.”

  “I’m okay with it. I’m a little anxious, but I’m sure I can pick up any signals from you.”

  Paula gave me an assuring pat on the shoulder as I followed her out the door.

  For a minute, I considered myself fortunate. I wasn’t the first person in corporate America to go through this type of coup. I’d watched friends experience this upheaval, and as a result, I hoped I was better prepared for these games and cut-throat tactics.

  I was jarred slightly by my office phone ringing. Jeanne Greenberg, Tiffany’s former employer, was on the line.

  “Michael, I’d like to discuss a couple of important issues at your earliest available time,” she said in her usual straightforward way.

  That was code for “get my ass over to her office ASAP.” Admittedly, in the past, I’d been able to conjure up a few pathetic excuses to avoid getting drilled by Jeanne. Once, I even claimed I was running out the door because Marisa had been in a car wreck. But, on this day I welcomed Jeanne’s directive, which provided me an opportunity to breathe unpolluted air. I walked by Kamal’s opulent office, where he and Paula were buried in papers and laptops. Neither looked up. I didn’t need a permission slip to leave the premises. I went out the front door and turned left into the cutting north wind. Within a couple of minutes, the cold penetrated the insulation of my coat and new scarf from Marisa. But I still scooted across town to Greenberg & Associates as giddy as a kid who just escaped from school in the middle of the day.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Tony stretched his arms above his head, then rubbed his stiff back as he sat in front of his computer. The years and physical abuse had begun to catch up to him, and he knew it. He continued a regular exercise regimen—stretching, resistance training, and conditioning—even while being restricted to his efficiency apartment.

  He moved aside the sheer curtains and looked out his one window, a process he repeated several times a day. This time, he spotted someone leaving 216 West Main. He picked up his government-issued binoculars, a memento he’d claimed from his stint in the Marines.

  “Well, who do we have here?” he spoke out loud to no one. “Mr. Doyle is out for a stroll on this cold day, it appears.”

  Tony looked at Michael’s mug shot on his target board. As a mid-level manager at J&W, a position he’d held for several years, Michael had earned the trust of his colleagues and customers alike. Tony studied the pictures of the key stakeholders in the operation. The target board kept him sharp and allowed him to think through the project scenarios, as well as any potential threat he might not see without the visual aid.

  He poked his finger at a photograph on the board. “And then we have the neighbor, our favorite newspaper editor, Mrs. Karina Silva.” He laughed at the trauma she’d recently experienced.

  Extensive research going all the way back to Karina’s college days had uncovered a piece of gold. Karina had experimented in college, not just with recreational drugs, but with girls. In fact, he learned that she had secretly dated one girl for six months, just before she met her future husband, Reinaldo. Tony had devised the plan to have Tiffany Chambers seduce Karina. Unfortunately, he hadn’t considered Reinaldo’s employment at J&W, and Tiffany’s death certainly wasn’t part of the original strategy. Some things just can’t be avoided.

  Tony drew a line connecting Michael and Karina, then Michael and Reinaldo. He knew Reinaldo had seen a visitor at the jail matching Michael’s description—Caucasian, medium height, dark wavy hair, neatly dressed. According to his source, the nature of the conversation centered on Reinaldo’s well-being, although Reinaldo’s depression and mental instability had derailed the apparent fact-finding mission.

  Every man had his weakness, his Achilles heel, and Tony knew this as much as anyone. Viewed by everyone who knew him as an even-keeled guy, Michael wasn’t likely to be infl
uenced by a blond bombshell. Tony had two shots of Michael out with his longtime girlfriend, a lady named Marisa. It was possible Michael’s love for her was his most exposed weak point, but it was difficult to know for certain.

  Tony had used his night vision goggles just once, the evening of the Taylor Christmas party, a last-minute idea to take photos of key players with an enhanced digital camera he’d recently purchased at a gun show. He always enjoyed a challenge, and the covert nighttime maneuver gave him a rush.

  Hidden behind a row of red-tip photinia, Tony had surveyed the area south of the mansion, spotting Victoria, the big mouth bitch who had too much input into their operation. Talking on her cell phone from her third-floor balcony, practically staring right at Tony, she had no idea her picture was being taken.

  Tony thought about what it would be like to set up wrinkle-faced Victoria in a seamy seduction. It made him laugh. For now, Chuck would deal with her know-it-all attitude and the associated political crap. He was a pro at it.

  While not considered a target, Marisa also had a spot on his board. He had seen her waltz up to the front porch of the mansion. The picture captured an alluring woman wearing a black dress and red heels. Tony lusted for a beautiful lady. Marisa wasn’t as young and pure as Tiffany or as seasoned as Carol, but neither of those ladies was around. One had died and one had abruptly left town after the fiasco with Raymond Williams. Tony had a growing itch, one that could be scratched only by the woman of his desire.

  Knowing Chuck would call at any moment, Tony refocused his attention on the email to Raymond. The wording of this email was different, a tad more threatening because of the violent nature of their previous interaction. He attached two graphic JPEG files. One had Raymond holding a whip, sitting on top of Carol with her hands cuffed to the headboard. The other, taken from the opposite angle, showed Raymond punching Carol in the face.