GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “Good location, although you might need to de-flea yourself after your stay.” Arthur chuckled, then wrote down the name of the motel. “We need to get to the bottom of this quickly. We don’t want any other threats.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “By the way, I just received two interesting calls. One was from Karina, who requested an extended leave of absence. The other was from our favorite police chief asking us to share all the information we’ve gathered. In so many words, I told him to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  After my entertaining call with Arthur, I sat on a lacquered wood chair in the corner of the motel room and wrote a text to Marisa. I asked if she could meet me at the Como Motel tonight. I didn’t go into details, only saying Arthur had suggested it.

  She replied in five minutes. It still sounded like the cold Marisa: K.

  We needed time to talk about our relationship, or what was left of it. But I could speak for hours without making one bit of progress if she didn’t open up and share with me what was churning in that elusive mind of hers.

  I stood alone in the motel room, thinking through the tumultuous last couple of days. The love of my life had seemingly turned schizophrenic. Then someone left a threatening note etched in the ice on my windshield. And on and on. The tension in my arms and shoulders now spread into my neck. I just wanted to solve this damn murder, so I could follow through on my pledge to Tiffany’s spirit, allowing Marisa and me to put this entire ordeal behind us and return to our uncomplicated lives.

  If it wasn’t too late.

  I called work and told them I wasn’t feeling well and to not expect me the rest of the day.

  My curious nature was torn. I desperately wanted Marisa to tell me who she had been with at the pub, and why, but part of me didn’t want to know. Besides, she may never tell me, and if that was the case, I didn’t want to dwell on the what-ifs. My thoughts tormented me, concerned that inaction might, somehow, allow our relationship to wilt away from neglect. But what could I do really? What if that man wasn’t family? What if he was someone special to Marisa, maybe more special than I? Massaging my temples, I took a few deep breaths.

  A hint of jealously had spawned inside of me. But Marisa’s mental well-being was my most prevalent concern. Someone doesn’t change into a she-devil with the flip of a switch…unless something or someone was influencing the behavior. I decided to give Marisa another opportunity to open up. For a moment, I thought I might want to take a chance and try to rekindle some of our romantic flare…a bottle of wine, a few scented candles…who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to get my hopes up before signs pointed toward reconciliation.

  I walked to my car parked directly under our second-floor motel room and dialed a number. “Stu, Michael here. How much progress have you made on the defense side of this case?”

  “Not much. I’ve tried to talk to Reinaldo, but he won’t meet with me. I finally had a conversation with his attorney. Gentry seemed frustrated Reinaldo won’t provide him details about what happened that night. He’s at a loss on what to do. He’s even considering trying to strike a plea that would allow Reinaldo to be found guilty by reason of insanity and then have him committed to a state institution. All off the record, of course.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you think you can make any progress, have at it. I’ve written my stories, and Arthur is thinking through the headlines before he blesses them and sends them to press. Meanwhile, I’ll be chasing those pencil pushers again. The zoning commission met in special session over the holidays, and now everyone’s in a frenzy because Raymond Williams hung himself.”

  “Will do, Stu. Thanks for the update.” I ended the call.

  The zoning commission member’s suicide made Stu’s story decision more salacious, but it still felt like his journalistic compass still pointed in an illogical direction. Or was it a direction I simply didn’t agree with? While I’d grown to appreciate Stu’s work ethic, I selfishly believed all of his time should be spent on the murder investigation.

  Given what Rosemary had told me about Tiffany’s seduction assignment, I decided to give Reinaldo one more chance for redemption. It had been a couple of weeks since we last spoke. In our conversation, he’d been all over the place, distant at times, unsettled, maybe confused in expressing his thoughts.

  I drove across town to the police station, signed in and waited for my name to be called. The same uniformed officer led me into the prisoner meeting room. My familiarity with the environment didn’t lessen the coldness of the atmosphere. I sat in the identical bent metal chair. To the left of the black phone, someone had scrawled something in pencil: Bitches die in prison! The phrase may foreshadow what lay ahead for those who had committed murder, the most permanent of crimes. My stomach clenched, wondering if Reinaldo would meet the same fate.

  A fellow citizen sat two slots to my right, his Texas Rangers cap pulled down and his hand partially covering his face. He spoke in subdued tones. These types of visits weren’t proud moments for anyone.

  The guard escorted Reinaldo to his chair on the other side of the scarred glass. Reinaldo’s temperament was similar to my previous visit, but after he’d settled into his chair, he seemed happy to see me.

  “You’re my only visitor, besides my lawyer,” Reinaldo said into the oversized black phone receiver, both hands in cuffs.

  I knew Reinaldo wasn’t completely telling the truth. Stu had put in a request to meet with Reinaldo, who turned him down. But now wasn’t the time to question him on his social itinerary.

  “I’m glad to see they’re feeding you.” He appeared thinner than before.

  “They’re not home-cooked meals, but they’re okay.”

  I decided to stir the pot a bit.

  “Have you and your attorney decided on your defense strategy yet?”

  He looked up.

  “I really don’t have anything to say to him, to you, to anyone. I wish they’d just get this over with and send me away.”

  Talk about depression. I mulled over whether to tell Reinaldo anything I’d learned from my visit with Tiffany’s mother.

  “Look, Reinaldo, there are a lot of things you may or may not be aware of, but I’ve thought about it and you should probably know what I know, if you don’t already,” I said. He slowly refocused his attention on me.

  “I made a trip to Oklahoma this past weekend,” I said, observing no change in his demeanor. “I had a nice long chat with Rosemary…Rosemary Chambers, Tiffany’s mother.”

  He put his hands on his face. “She told me a lot about Tiffany. She was quite a girl.”

  He swallowed hard. “Did she say Tiffany was a home wrecker?” he asked, his white crooked teeth now visible.

  Confused, I titled my head. I was completely caught off guard by such a puzzling statement, especially when he was in the middle of the sordid mess. “Look, Reinaldo, Tiffany told Rosemary she was sent down here by officials with Omaha Gas to…to seduce certain influential men.”

  “Not surprising,” he said matter-of-factly, his dark eyes staring blankly over my shoulder.

  I blinked and looked away. Reinaldo knew something, and I couldn’t stop until I found out what.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  Reinaldo’s black eyebrows pulled together, his forehead crumpled like frying bacon, as if he was struggling to let it all out.

  “I…She…”

  “What is it, Reinaldo? You can tell me. You should tell me.”

  He clutched his thick hair with both fists.

  “Tiffany was having an affair with more than just men. She was having an affair with my Karina. My wife.”

  The statement created an instant emotional reaction. His eyes became red, swelling with tears, but he said nothing.

  Instantly, I stopped breathing, then I let out a slow breath. I tried to remain calm on the outside, but my mind raced with theories.

  �
�How did you know?”

  “Karina was changing, in how she looked at me, loved me. Then I found text messages, and I just couldn’t believe it.”

  “I’m really sorry for—”

  “For thinking I cheated on Karina? Tiffany was beautiful. That’s what most people would think.

  “Do you know how humiliating it is to think of your wife cheating on you with another woman? No one can. It made me feel like I’m not even a real man.”

  Reinaldo’s voice shook, and tears bubbled in his eyes.

  I felt his pain and I wondered if I had just heard a motive for murder.

  “Did your hurt turn into anger?”

  “It’s part of the cycle of grief, isn’t it? Of course I got angry. I found out where Tiffany lived, and I went over to her place that night.”

  I leaned forward another few inches, knowing I sat on the precipice of hearing how a human life came to end. Actually two lives.

  “The door was slightly open. I walked in and shit was everywhere. I found blond hair and blood. I figured it had to be Tiffany’s.”

  Our eyes locked for a brief second.

  “I tried to understand what had happened. I looked around, then I found Tiffany’s cell phone, and I looked through it. I found all sorts of shit. I just couldn’t believe it.”

  “What? What, Reinaldo?”

  “I found a text saying she had slept with the editor of the paper, and she had her in the palm of her hand.” He held up finger quotes then rolled his eyes. “I also found more personal texts that, frankly, made it seem like Karina and Tiffany actually were in love. Maybe they were.”

  He wiped his face.

  I forced out another breath.”What did you do next?”

  “My mind was swirling. I couldn’t think straight, and I was torn up about everything. I knew something had gone down at Tiffany’s place.”

  “And?”

  “I thought Karina was somehow mixed up in it, and I couldn’t let her go to jail. As crazy as it sounds, I loved Karina—still do.” He licked his lips and blinked his eyes. “I grabbed a kitchen knife and cut my hand, and dripped my blood on the floor, mixing it in with the other blood I assumed was Tiffany’s. I dropped the knife and left, knowing my prints were all over her place. I figured if it was meant to be, I’d get arrested for a murder that Karina committed.”

  “But why would Karina kill someone she loves?” I said the last word softly, trying not to add to Reinaldo’s conflicting pain.

  “I’ve asked myself that question a hundred times. I don’t know. Maybe she found out that Tiffany was setting her up.”

  Images flashed through my mind, recalling Karina’s fragile state of mind when Marisa and I visited her, then her strange disposition on Christmas day, and finally the romantic dinner she shared with her new lady friend in Stillwater. I couldn’t imagine Karina killing anyone, especially someone she supposedly loved.

  “Why, Reinaldo? Why haven’t you told the police, your lawyer? You don’t deserve this.” I looked at the sterile filth that surrounded us.

  “The kids need her more than they need me. I guess I took blame for not being man enough to keep her satisfied…as strange as that sounds now.”

  Perspiration trickled off his thick, brown sideburns. He put his head between his legs, gagging as if he might vomit. The guard gave him some water, and after a minute or so, Reinaldo calmed his breathing, apparently holding his bile at bay.

  “I didn’t want anyone to die. I never would have harmed Tiffany. I was more mad at myself, and I guess Karina too.” Reinaldo covered his face and began to sob, his head and upper body shaking. He looked up and liquid drained out of every orifice on his face.

  “I’m working with Arthur at the paper now, trying to figure out who murdered Tiffany. I can’t sit on what you just shared.”

  “Michael, please just let it go. I just told you because I couldn’t keep it inside any longer. Any of it.”

  I scratched my chin, and tried to think through everything I’d just heard.

  “I’ll promise you this. I won’t bring up Karina’s name for now. Not until we have more facts.”

  He nodded, then the guard appeared and took Reinaldo by the arm.

  “If you see the kids, tell Ricky and Brent I miss them and I love them. And Karina too.”

  I withheld the urge to shout out loud what I’d seen from Karina since Reinaldo had been arrested. It would only hurt more. But I knew he didn’t deserve to be in prison.

  I put up my hand and waved goodbye to my friend and former colleague. Strangely, I felt a bit of relief, believing Reinaldo’s claim that he didn’t commit murder. But I still couldn’t get myself to make the leap that Karina had killed Tiffany.

  I called Stu on my way out.

  “Stu, let Arthur know you have a new story for the paper,” I said. “Reinaldo just told me he didn’t kill Tiffany.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Not a bit. Once I told him Tiffany had been instructed to seduce other men on behalf of the gas company, he opened the floodgates.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  He backed his 1994 navy-blue Ford F-150 into the open parking space nearest apartment 129. His pickup had seen better days, but Bartholomew “Pop” Doyle had spent the last few hours cleaning out the dented truck to make it suitable for Ms. Rosemary Chambers. He wasn’t privy to all the details, but given the direct nature of the earlier phone call, he could tell his son was serious. The Q&A session could wait. Bart had remembered to bring bungee cords to tie down any equipment or luggage, as well as a stepstool to help boost Rosemary into the truck. Most importantly, the heater in the cab of his F-150 was warmer than a hot cup of coffee. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Rosemary appeared at the doorway of her apartment, escorted by a man in a suit. Bart met them halfway.

  “You her ride?” the man in the suit asked.

  Bart nodded and adjusted his lucky Mickey Mantle Yankees cap.

  “I have to ask, who sent you?”

  “Besides my son, I guess you’d say Arthur did.”

  Rosemary took Bart’s arm, as if they were walking down the aisle in church.

  “Mr. Doyle, thank you so much for your generosity,” she said. “I think this might be a big to-do about nothing.”

  The howling wind hit them in waves. Rosemary pushed her tousled hair aside and clung tighter to the elder Doyle.

  Bart helped her into the truck, then worked with the man in the suit to secure the rest of her luggage and medical equipment.

  “Have your nurse call me at this number, and I’ll give her directions to the location.” Bart handed the man in the suit a piece of paper. “I’ll expect her first visit to be in the morning.”

  Bart escaped from the frigid prairie winds and climbed into the warm cab, then slowly rolled out of the parking lot. They had a three-hour trip ahead of them, unless Rosemary needed to stop along the way, which was entirely possible. That was okay with Pop, who had few other chores in the middle of the winter. He was happy to be involved in an important mission with his son.

  Pop phoned his son twenty minutes outside of Stillwater. “Hey, Michael. Pop here,” he said. “Ms. Chambers and her belongings are in the truck with me and we’re headed to the farm.”

  ***

  I tossed my cell phone on the beige, cloth passenger seat and leaned back in my car in the parking lot at the police station, staring across the mass of black-and-white vehicles. I hoped Tiffany was smiling down on us, knowing we were protecting her mother and making progress on finding her killer. She’d been mixed up in something pretty seedy. The theory about Karina lingered in the back of my mind, but I still couldn’t forget about Tiffany’s original mission, and wonder how Omaha Gas and this Tony person fit into the whole scheme.

  Regardless of who was involved, I was more determined than ever to piece together how Tiffany became the victim of a murder.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  I picked up Chinese takeout and a six-pack of Miller L
ite, then drove east of town to the Como Motel. A purple dusk sky was fading behind a cluster of trees across the lonesome highway from our interim home.

  The blue-and-red neon motel sign flickered as I made my way up the outdoor stairs to the second floor. I tripped on a dislodged piece of black metal, part of the frame for the concrete steps. All of my weight fell on my left shinbone, but I caught the food and beer just before they splattered down the stairs.

  “Piece of shit!” I was in a surly mood.

  I locked the door behind me and threw my keys on the forest-green, laminate-covered dresser. The red digital clock on the nightstand read six fifty-three p.m. I texted Marisa again, saying I had food and drink and looked forward to seeing her in room 236 after she’d finished work. I took off my shoes and carefully sat on the bed, realizing the slick, paisley bedcover had probably not been washed in weeks, if not months. The mattress squealed like a pig as I got myself comfortable. I caught a whiff of a new-car smell and pinched my nose. Under the bed I found a scent pack, like one you’d see dangling next to a couple of dice on some cheeseball’s rearview mirror. I wrapped the stink bomb in a towel and threw it in the tub. The only things missing in our room were fake-wood paneled walls and a mass-produced landscaping picture hanging over the circa-1973, low-rider bed.

  I needed a diversion. I propped up three pillows and clicked the remote control. First stop, CNN. Too much yelling and finger-pointing. One guy actually said his counterpart “would burn in hell” if he didn’t see the light and change his view. The thought of hell led me to wonder where Tiffany’s spirit was. I cursed at the TV and redirected my thoughts.

  Over to ESPN to watch a one-sided NBA game. I leaned to grab my beer wrapped in a new koozie I had also purchased because it had a zipper. These days, the smallest things made me happy. I did a double take. A rebel flag on the side of the koozie? Nice. I’d toss that in the trash with the rest of the Chinese food—if Marisa would ever show up.