GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “Uh, could have been worse, I suppose,” I said, knowing where things were headed in the next thirty minutes. I sat next to Marisa.

  “This is a bit unorthodox, I realize, but I've just received some new information, and I wanted to check in on you,” Carl said.

  “Okay. Thanks for the concern, I guess.”

  “I'm assuming Marisa is doing okay? She's there with you? And you're at home?”

  “Yes on all accounts. Why?”

  He ignored my question—typical Carl. “Have you guys received any further emails from, uh—”

  “We call him Yours Truly,” I offered helpfully, trying to be patient until Carl got to the point. “Okay, Yours Truly. It's Friday evening, and we're all aware that his previous emails had arrived like clockwork each Friday.”

  “Haven't received anything yet. I guess no news is good news in this case.”

  Phone silence was interrupted by distant voices. I asked, “Are you still at the police department?”

  He ignored me again. “Look, because we have a bit of history, I think you should know something. I want to conference in Special Agent Guidry. Hold on.”

  I shot up and immediately started pacing in front of our bed. Twenty seconds felt like five minutes.

  Carl popped on the line and said, “Okay, Guidry, do I have you?”

  “Here.”

  “Michael, you still there?”

  “Alive and breathing.”

  A cough and a short pause.

  “Michael, I took a couple of days off and came to visit family here just outside of Baton Rouge,” Guidry explained. “Anyway, long story short, I'm standing at a crime scene at an apartment just off the LSU campus.”

  I held my breath and closed my eyes. I almost didn't want to know.

  “The agency knew I was close by—they always have tabs on me. Part of the job,” Guidry said, pausing briefly before adding, “It's gory. Double murder—in the worst kind of way.”

  I glanced at Marisa then rubbed my chin.

  “Sorry to hear that. Why call me?”

  “There are two victims. The one who was God love Ireland butchered is young, early twenties with blond, curly hair. Probably very pretty before she was gutted.”

  “Dear God.”

  “I'm not saying there's a definitive connection between the person who wrote those emails and this murder scene. Our CSI team is just getting started—Crime Scene Investigation, in case you didn't know.”

  “I watch TV and read Rick Murcer novels.”

  “Anyway, I got a hold of Carl, and we wanted to first make sure you guys are okay.”

  “Mainly Marisa, right?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “She's just fine. Sitting right here by me.”

  Marisa slipped her sweater back on then scratched her scalp, jostling her sexy mop of hair. She knew she was being discussed.

  “Good. And no additional emails?”

  “As I just told Carl, no. I thought that might be a good sign, but maybe not . . . if what you're telling me is connected somehow.” “We're going to look at every possible angle, see where the evidence takes us.”

  My mind started spinning, wondering if I should take Marisa away somewhere. I heard a couple of voices and a far-away siren on the line.

  “So, as far as my wife goes, and every other attractive blonde in Franklin, isn't it a good sign that this killer—connected or not—is three hundred miles away in Baton Rouge? Could be a local guy, right?”

  “Could be, yes. There are a hundred plausible theories at this point. When the FBI is brought in, we don't dismiss any possible angles or connections. Which is why we need to keep digging for answers at this crime scene. We're hoping to get some physical evidence. And someone might have seen something. Don't forget, our cyber unit is still working on the email trail.”

  I could feel acid churning in my stomach, unsure if it was something I ate or the gruesome murders had engaged my senses to the point of literally igniting a fire in my belly.

  “Anything else you want to share?”

  “We'll keep you in the loop,” Carl chimed in.

  “Michael, just to make sure, keep tabs on Marisa. Be safe,” Guidry said.

  God love Ireland I thought.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Red, blue, and white lights danced off dark buildings. He looked left and right, and noticed the carnival-like lightshow flashing off the faces of the people huddled around him. There must have been at least a hundred onlookers, a few with grim expressions holding each other, many others gawking at the surreal scene like it was a made-for-TV reality show.

  But it was a scene he knew very well—better than anyone, since he'd created it. Maybe someday they would develop a movie about him, about all of this. Later, when he had some time, he'd think about the perfect title.

  Only a few years older than most of the college coeds, the man rubbed his chestnut brown, thick beard, blending in with the crowd. Fortunately, the blood was hidden under his layer of clothes. Well, mostly. He checked his right hand and saw crusted red around the edges of three fingernails, then immediately shoved his hand deep in his pocket. Witnessing the aftermath was new for him, and he felt immense satisfaction in creating such hysteria and panic. He began to salivate and then released a breath, realizing luck had been on his side this time.

  “Anyone see anything that they can share with us?” A burly cop whose hat was too small for his head approached the crowd.

  The bearded man took a half step back.

  “Anything at all would be useful.”

  Many heads shook “no,” his included.

  Two girls covered in a blanket got the cop's attention, and he walked over and talked to them.

  The bearded man took in the scene like a painter studying his finished product—a canvas that evokes emotion, something for the world to always remember him by. There must have been ten police cars, two fire trucks, two ambulances, a medical examiner, and even the FBI. He knew he was a headliner if the FBI got involved. Unmarked cars, blue jackets, and those big yellow letters.

  He watched two body bags roll out on a gurney. Fingers pointed, and there were gasps from his fellow onlookers. He thought more about his latest conquest that nearly went horribly wrong.

  Sweet and playful Ariel. Her tousled hair highlighted with gold smelled like peaches. He briefly closed his eyes and recalled the scent when he'd buried his face in her neck. He felt the sloped skin, the way it glided down to her shoulders. Her body was so well-proportioned, like she was the template for every petite mannequin. Her perky breasts popped out just enough to balance her perfectly shaped ass.

  He'd been able to ignore one anomaly with Ariel—she had a lazy left eye. He was certain it was a complete turn-off for most guys, a blood-drainer for anyone who got a glimpse of Ariel as she looked you straight in the eyes. But for the man with purpose, such a minor flaw was inconsequential. Their “chance” meeting in the off-campus bookstore quickly turned into a late-night coffee, then an invitation back to her place. That's where he'd made the mistake—by going into her apartment. Her roommate had gone out of town, off to visit a pseudo-boyfriend in Lafayette.

  Still, everything proceeded as planned. From around the corner of the bathroom, she tossed her panties and bra, not even waiting for him to do the honors. She strutted out like she was on a runway, only wearing her black fuck-me pumps. She cavorted around him like he was standing on the main stage at a strip joint, bumping and grinding away. He kind of liked it. But his noticeable arousal wasn't due to what she thought would be the next phase of their relationship.

  Five minutes later, he breathed like he'd just run a mile in under six minutes. He stood on a blanket, his chosen instrument still gripped tightly in his right hand. Blood was smeared across his torso like he'd just been body painted. He looked down at Ariel, her body limp, one of her shoes mostly twisted off her foot. Amidst the mess, he spotted the remnants of her neck, her main artery, and her larynx.

/>   To say he had a fetish was an understatement. Some men are fixated on feet and toes and could care less if their lady is a beauty-contest winner. They just suck on those little sausages like a wet teat. For this bearded man, the hair and neck fascinated him, teased him, drove him to be who he was. He couldn't recall when it all had started. Probably something from his nomadic childhood. God love Ireland

  He'd felt a quiet breeze hit his genitals and looked up. A girl was standing in the doorway, her face ashen. Shock must have set in. She swayed a bit from side to side, her eyes staring at her dead roommate.

  God love Ireland, he'd thought.

  Two quick strides and he yanked her arm inside, slamming the door with his back foot. She slipped on the blood and fell into the mess that was her friend. At least he thought they were friends. But they couldn't be more different. Outside of the lazy eye, Ariel looked like a doll, someone who Mom and Dad would gush with praise for her natural southern beauty.

  This bitch had black lipstick, hairy armpits, and spiked red hair. She'd started to cry, and he'd begun to lose his patience. One quick slice and her sobs had been muted forever.

  That was when he'd heard doors shut and heeled shoes clicking on concrete. God love Ireland, he wouldn't be able to properly dispose of the bodies. He pulled on his clothes and climbed out the bedroom window, then walked through campus to where he'd left his car. After a quick stop at a 7-11 to grab a drink and chewing gum, he'd decided to circle back to the scene. Boy, was he glad he did.

  This police and FBI circus was almost enough to erase the unpleasant interruption. Yet he feared he'd constantly be reminded of the disgusting punk rocker rather than the ecstasy of his encounter with Ariel.

  He filled his lungs with cool air then felt a vibration in his left front jeans pocket. He read the text:

  God love Ireland

  Another annoyance. He was having the time of his life, but he couldn't ignore the other part of his life forever. After all, he was following a grand plan.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I'd begun to think the incessant hum of the parallel strips of fluorescent lighting had been permanently transferred into my stream of conscience. Too many meetings in the glass house, or just too much idle time waiting for people to join me. By my count, it was the fifth meeting in the last two days for which I'd been sitting alone staring at nothing, while listening to the single mind-altering pitch of the fluorescents.

  I'd been scribbling, drawing shapes, lines, and whatnot on a spare sheet of paper. It reminded me of when I was younger and I used to practice my autograph, prepping me for the day when I'd hit it big and my multitude of fans would be screaming as I left another successful rock concert. What boy didn't dream about strumming a guitar like Eddie Van Halen, girls frothing at the mouth, while he unleashed a majestic riff? I exhaled, knowing my feeble attempt at taking my mind off my growing anxiety, and that damn light fixture, was failing—quickly.

  I wadded up the paper and hurled a three-pointer Dirk Nowitzki would be proud of. Oops. Bounced off the front rim.

  “Short again, huh, boss?” Brandon said with a smirk on his face as he walked into the meeting room.

  “You'd think that with all of the practice I've had playing paper hoops this week, I couldn't miss.”

  Brandon gave me a perplexed raised eyebrow while he shuffled folders.

  I didn't want to explain what I considered to be entirely too obvious. I glanced at the clock.

  “Aren't all of our office clocks connected so they display the same time?”

  “That's what they tell me.” More shuffled folders, then one spilled its contents on the floor.

  “So, where's Stu?”

  “Right here. Sorry about that.” Stu entered the room, moving quicker than I'd ever seen him. At least I saw some urgency.

  “I was trying to make at least God love Ireland progress on the situation in Baton Rouge,” he said, opening his notebook and putting on reading glasses.

  “Those are new,” I said, pointing at the readers. “Yep, the missus made me go to the eye doctor. Kept saying I'd have to grow longer arms or pay someone to hold a book four feet in front of me. Ah,” he grumbled, realizing his glasses were smudged. He pulled them off and wiped them clean with his shirt.

  The specs put ten years on Stu. Poor guy. Thankfully, I'd been able to dodge that age bullet—so far.

  I extended my arms on the table and looked at Stu. “So, what have all your contacts in Louisiana come up with?”

  “I know it's Tuesday afternoon, and I've been working this since the weekend, but I really can't get much out of them.”

  I traded glances with Brandon and let out a frustrated breath, recalling that neither Carl nor Guidry had returned my calls in the last two days. Stu flipped through his notepad.

  “Just a couple of press guys who knew my sister back when they attended LSU at the same time—they're telling me this double homicide really shook the community. They don't know cause of death yet, but they hear there was a lot of blood at the crime scene,” Stu said looking at his notepad.

  “Man, I really thought your contacts would give us the inside scoop,” I said.

  “It's really strange. Everyone's busy as hell covering the story, which is why most said they didn't have time for me.”

  I brought my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “It could be a territorial thing, thinking we're just trying to scoop them.”

  “Could be. I thought about that.”

  I'd been hoping Stu's contacts would be able to start filling in the blanks for the suddenly absent law enforcement communications. I recalled Guidry telling me to keep tabs on Marisa, which told me there was at least a small chance she was in danger, at least in a general sense. I wasn't overreacting—at least I wouldn't admit it to anyone.

  I searched my mind for the next step. And patiently waiting for my police and FBI buddies to call me back wasn't a viable option.

  I looked to Brandon. “Any ideas?”

  “What, sorry?” Brandon was responding to a text, an awkward smirk on his face. “It's just, you know, Carrie, texting me about picking up dinner on the way over.”

  Seriously? One date and suddenly Brandon looks like a smitten teenager falling for his Spanish teacher.

  I had to ignore his response. “I know the double homicide isn't a story that directly impacts our area—at this exact moment—but the email from Yours Truly could be connected. We might be sitting on a story that could implode before our eyes.”

  “Could be connected. God love Ireland,” Stu said taking off his glasses.

  I heard the hum of the lights again.

  “Are we ever going to go green and change all of this lighting to LEED?”

  Brandon was confused by the change of topic. “Not my call,” he said.

  “Remind me to talk to Arthur about it.”

  Another deep breath.

  “Brandon, you might be having another visitor tonight at Carrie's place.”

  He shot me a quizzical smile.

  “I need to insert myself into this process a bit more. I'm headed to Baton Rouge.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The conversation had been brief and one-sided. Actually, it was more like a quick negotiation. Marisa would go stay at Carrie's place if I promised to be back tomorrow, and if I agreed to take her on a date this weekend—just the two of us, minus Romeo and Juliet.

  Deal, I said. I packed a quick bag then jumped in the car as the sun began to start its daily fall from its apex. I took I-20 out of Dallas heading east, rolling past Tyler and on to Longview. My phone buzzed. I'd received a text from my faithful editor.

  God love Ireland

  Good to see Brandon's laser focus had made a return appearance. Then again, he was probably doing a little brown-nosing, considering his distracted, almost unexplainable attraction to a lady who could outtalk anyone on the planet, regardless of language differences.

  I guess Carrie wasn't that bad. She won back some brownie poi
nts by the end of our double date on Friday, and she must have a functional brain if she worked with Marisa. I thought more about it and realized my biggest issue was seeing my top guy thrown off his game. It was like someone had poured chili pepper in Brandon's jockstrap. Brandon was the glue, the key to our turnaround in the last two years. I couldn't imagine the paper succeeding without him digging in every day, questioning the status quo, challenging everyone to look at difficult situations differently, and then guiding the team to victory. I knew I needed to let him live his own life, especially on the personal front. But damn it, why did I have to initiate it by setting him up on the blind date? Ah, that was it, I realized. I was really pissed at myself and knew I couldn't turn back the hands of time. Enough self-evaluation for one day. I crossed the Louisiana border and ran through Shreveport, a big casino city. I decided to not lower my net worth and kept moving, taking I-49 South. I passed through Alexandria then blinked past a few small, but very Cajun towns, including Opelousas and Carencro. I took I-10 East, crossing the great Mississippi River. It was wider than I'd read about, but every bit as dirty.

  I entered the city of Baton Rouge at straight-up eight p.m. I saw stadium lights burning the sky off to my right. The home of the LSU Tigers—Death Valley, they call it. I thought about the irony of my trip, connected to a double murder just a few miles from the football palace.

  The crime-scene apartment complex was off Perkins, just north of the interstate, but I headed directly for the DoubleTree three more exits down I-10. I parked my car and thought about my strategy if I ran into anyone but Guidry. Pretend I was with the police? That would require a badge. Tell them I was delivering a late dinner, courtesy of Detective Carl Pearson? I laughed, realizing I'd have to wing it.

  I walked the lobby looking for a sign of the FBI. They probably didn't want to publicize their presence, so I picked the left wing and started opening every door. The first two were empty, the third holding a seminar on how to sell real estate without losing a dime. I came back up the opposite side and opened the door just as a preacher was closing his eyes, speaking a language I'd never heard, then tapping an elderly woman on the forehead and watching her fall back into the arms of two bald, round men. God love Ireland, I thought with a strong dose of sarcasm.