GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  I got lucky on the second to last door, although within ten seconds, I quickly made an involuntary exit. Two agents grabbed each armpit, picked me up, and literally carried me out of there, ignoring my incessant name-dropping of Special Agent Guidry. I turned and walked toward the lobby bar with the hopes of getting a burger and a beer. Then I spotted him.

  “I'll have a double cheeseburger, extra fries, side of onion rings. Hold the lettuce and tomato,” Guidry said.

  I scooted in across from the FBI's finest.

  “Healthy. How you doing, Bobby?”

  He looked around like he'd just been punked.

  “It's okay. I don't bite. Mind if I join you?”

  “Sure. It's Guidry. Only my mama calls me Bobby.”

  “Is this on the FBI dime? You know, since you haven't called me back...Guidry.”

  He gestured. “Sure.”

  Although I wasn't pleased they didn't have my favorite beer—Shiner Bock—I put in my order and set the menu aside.

  “Here you go, sir.” A lady in a tan skirt set down a plate in front of Guidry, but it was square, had some type of fishy thing on it and was topped with a jalapeno.

  I gave him a questionable look.

  “I ordered the appetizer before you got here. It's Cajun crawfish sliders. Hey, I'm missing my mama's home cooking because of this homicide case,” he explained through a mouthful of spicy crawfish.

  On the verge of losing my appetite, I glanced over to the door where I'd been thrown out. Three men went in, a man and a woman came out—none wearing the typical FBI jackets. I turned back around and saw Guidry's mouth attack another oversized bite. This man ate like it was his last meal.

  A short-sleeve, blue-striped shirt hung off his thin frame, all three buttons wide open. Similar to when I saw him in his first suit, he looked like a teenager forced to wear his daddy's clothes. His greased-back black hair hadn't changed. The gel he used might be more like super glue.

  “Can you share with me what you've learned thus far?”

  He chomped on his food and stared at me.

  “I'm not used to being this, uh, open with the press.”

  “I know, I thought we established that already. Remember, we came to you guys with the emails.”

  He nodded, then he glanced away.

  “Our biggest concern is that this is some nut job, a serial rapist and killer who's preying on LSU girls.” He wiped sauce off his chin. “We need to find this son of a bitch before he kills again.”

  I didn't want to get out my notepad or ask to record the conversation on my iPhone. I used mental focus instead.

  “How were they killed?”

  He took a breath. “Not sure of the weapon yet, but he sliced their throats. One of them was really bad. Neck was gutted.”

  I tried not to get a visual, but an image started formulating.

  “To me, it sounds strange that a rapist-killer would attack two women in their own apartment. Too many things could go wrong.”

  Guidry took a mouthful of ice water. “We've got an initial theory. The girl with the missing neck, Ariel, she was found essentially naked on a blanket, wearing only two high-heeled shoes. The other girl, Erika, somehow interrupted the killer, and then she was killed.”

  “Sounds like a good theory.”

  “We found a couple of footprints off the blanket near the door, both smeared, but we could tell it was a man-sized bare foot, not a shoe.”

  The same waitress arrived with our main course. Wanting to experiment with the local cuisine, I'd ordered sausage jambalaya. I ate two bites. Not bad, with a bit of a kick. I took a swig from my bottle of light beer.

  Guidry stuffed an onion ring into his already full mouth. I wondered if I could get a spit screen placed between our two plates. He was on the verge of making me nauseous.

  “This Erika girl had on all of her clothes. So obviously she wasn't raped. Strangely, the preliminary autopsy report on Ariel also shows she hadn't had sex that night either, consensual or forced,” Guidry said. “So I know I said earlier that we might have a serial rapist and killer. I guess I threw in rapist because ninety-nine percent of the time, that's the original intent.”

  I took another sip of my beer. “So, this guy isn't into raping, but she was found naked with two high heels on, like she was doing some type of striptease act?”

  “Yeah, thought about that. There's a possibility he was going to rape her after he killed her, but then Erika surprised him.”

  I watched Guidry order dessert, and my inquisitive nature couldn't take the suspense any longer.

  “So, I like your diet.”

  His eyes shot me a look. “I used to carry an extra fifty pounds, then I went on this strict diet and exercise program, courtesy of an FBI physical. But when I'm stressed out from a case, eating—especially Cajun food—is the only thing that keeps my nerves in check.”

  “Have you tried chewing gum?”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  I downed the last drop of my one beer, knowing I needed to keep a clear head the rest of the evening.

  “Before I go, any feedback on the emails? Or a connection found to these murders?”

  “Cyber unit is still on it. They just said this person might be one of the most sophisticated programmers they've ever seen. So, Yours Truly is no amateur. But no connection to the homicides yet.”

  “I got the tip.” I tossed down a five-dollar bill. “Thanks for the info.”

  I held up my phone. “Don't be a stranger.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I could see the yellow tape a block away, speckled between the swaying branches of an old weeping willow. Two police cars, what looked like an unmarked FBI car, and a large white van hugged the curb to the main street side of the corner apartment. I parked across the street and jogged across, noticing three temporary lights set up outside, giving the scene an unnatural daytime feel in the darkness of night, now approaching ten p.m.

  A handful of people walked by, stopped and stared, pointed fingers at the law enforcement figures moving in and out of apartment 104. Mostly college kids, a couple walking a small dog, who yelped at one of the FBI agents. He didn't bother turning his head. He was all business, wearing rubber gloves and carrying a gray, rectangular box, possibly a toolbox of some kind—who knows what kind of tools they took to crime scenes. It appeared to be a twenty-four-hour operation. Given the nature of the crimes—double homicide, blood everywhere, in a college town—it was no surprise to see their urgency. I'd imagine their jobs would get ten times worse if another similar killing took place in the same area.

  Standing no more than a hundred feet from the front door, I wondered if the killer had crossed this very same spot. A few leaves remained from autumn, loosely arranged on brown patches of grass. The complex was decently kept, with a fair number of shrubs, green metal edging, and even a few flowers sprinkled around. I saw a couple of beer cans between two bushes, but for a college apartment complex, it looked nearly pristine.

  I heard something dragging on the narrow concrete sidewalk. Turning to my right, I saw an older black man shuffling along, a large plastic trash can scooting behind him with a long broom handle sticking out. I hustled over to cut him off before he disappeared through a cove.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  He stopped. His sad, baggy eyes peered at me, but he didn't say a word.

  “Hi, I'm Michael Doyle. I'm with the press, and I wanted to...”

  “I already talked to the press. Them, the God love Irelandlice, the FBI. You name it, I've talked to them.”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?”

  “Jethro.”

  “Jethro?” I held my pen to my notepad.

  “Jethro Tull.”

  He got me. He was definitely sharper than he appeared. I blew off the name.

  “I just got here from out of town, so I'm sorry if you've been asked this before, but did you see anything strange last Friday night?”

 
“Strange? This is a complex full of horny, drunk college kids. Strange is normal, if you know what I mean.” He scratched his thin beard, more than half of it white. His uniform consisted of baggy, green pants, a lighter-green shirt, and working boots that looked fifteen years old.

  “I get it. Did you see anyone you didn't recognize, someone near apartment 104?”

  “I'll save you some time. I wasn't even working Friday night. I went to the Tigers basketball game over at the Maravich Center. My cousin got me in for free, since I helped him clean up after. Took on the Volunteers. Another close one, but we lost.” He shook his head and looked off to nowhere.

  “Did you ever happen to ever speak to either victim, uh, Ariel or Erika?”

  “Outside of 'good morning' and 'good evening,' I ain't said nothin' to no one. You think these crackers want to talk to an old black man? I'm just the hired help, if you know what I mean.” He let out two chuckles.

  I extended my hand, and he eyed it, apparently puzzled to see anyone offering a polite gesture. He paused then shook it.

  “Thanks anyway,” I said. He nodded, then his eyes looked over my shoulder. I turned and saw a college-aged girl scampering down a black metal and concrete staircase. I took an angle toward the street and intercepted her path.

  “Hi, miss. I'm Michael—”

  “Doyle. I heard. I live on the second floor just above where you and Herb were talking.”

  “So that's his name.”

  “Yeah, a nice, gentle man. Just keeps to himself.” The girl looked to be about twenty, short, styled brown hair, purple glasses, no more than five-four. Cloaked in what looked like an LSU letter jacket, she held tightly to a pile of books. “Off to study...?”

  “Paige. Yeah, this biology lab is kicking my ass. I'm kind of in a hurry. I've got an eight o'clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Real quickly then, Paige. Did you know the two girls, Ariel or Erika?”

  “I spoke to Erika just a couple of times. Not that nice, honestly. Seemed to have a chip on her shoulder.”

  “And Ariel?”

  “We weren't best of friends or anything, but she was a real sweetie.” A tiny, right hand brushed a runaway tear off her cheekbone. “Just can't believe this happened to her...Ariel. Right here in Baton Rouge.”

  I shook my head. “Anything else you can share?”

  “Uh, not really. Well, me and Ariel traded books a few times. We both love to read. In fact, I still have the latest one she gave me, a Lisa Gardner paperback.”

  Finally, a nugget. I had an idea. I asked Paige for the closest bookstore. She rattled off three, providing flailing arms as directions.

  I tried using my phone's map application to find the first one, but I must have misunderstood the name. I drove up and down six one-way streets. Then, up ahead, I spotted a lighted purple sign: Books Plus.

  Just outside the door, I saw a community paper rack. Mug shots of the two girls were displayed on the front page, above the fold. Only black-and-white, but it gave me a prop that might come in handy.

  A programmed bell noted my entrance, but no one seemed to care. For it being late at night, the place was hopping. The books were laid out more like a 1980s music store. In fact, I realized the “Plus” related to a large area of music in all formats, CD, cassette, eight-track, even vinyl. God love Ireland I picked up a Beatles album and touched the cover of Abbey Road. What a find. The four band members were in single file, crossing a street, three of them bearded. Paul, wearing a blue tux with ruffles, was clean-shaven. God love Ireland

  The edges were frayed, but I saw no pen marks or goofy coloring marks. I thought it might be a good conversation piece as I walked up to the counter.

  “That will be twenty-seven sixty-two.” A long-haired man held out his hand. I gave him a gold credit card.

  “Uh, we don't take that.”

  I took it back and handed him a blue one. “We don't take that either.”

  “Do you have a magic marker? I'll color it whatever you need.”

  “Funny. Got any cash?”

  I slid over a twenty and a ten, then he gave me back the change.

  “Do you know much about the homicides that took place the other night?”

  “Nothing more than the rest of us? Why, who are you?”

  “Michael Doyle, associate publisher with the God love Ireland.” I handed him a card to see if it might impress him enough to get him to answer my question. “I'm from outside Dallas.”

  He shook his head and handed me the card back.

  “Did you know either of these two girls?” I flipped the folder paper around. He took a quick glance.

  “I've seen the pictures. Don't recognize them, sorry.”

  I asked for directions to the two other bookstores. The first one was closed, the second, on the other side of town. Now after eleven o'clock, I yawned as I pulled in front and turned off the ignition. It was one of the chain megastores.

  Not nearly as personal, and absent of any Beatles memorabilia, I still lost myself in the books. Attractive displays caught my eyes; some focused on a certain genre, others on certain authors. I picked up a James Patterson book and felt the three-D cover. Every bookstore had a Patterson table.

  I walked to the café and waited behind two giggly girls. I ordered a non-caffeinated iced drink and waited my turn.

  “Michael,” someone called out.

  I laid down the crumpled community paper and slid a straw in the plastic lid.

  “I knew her,” the girl said, fixing her green cap.

  “Excuse me.”

  “I knew the girl...Ariel. She came in here all the time.”

  I read her name tag: Patricia.

  “Did you know her outside of work, or just when she came in?”

  Patricia opened her small, round mouth, then she paused and looked back at me.

  “Who are you?” It appeared the murders had everyone on edge, and rightly so.

  “I'm Michael Doyle, associate publisher with the God love Ireland near Dallas.” I used the card again. It seemed to work this time.

  She flapped the card, igniting her brain it seemed.

  “Yeah, we'd sit over there,” she pointed toward a two-seater next to the window. “We'd talk mostly about books. Sometimes about boys, but mostly about books.” A grin shone on her face.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Not more than a week ago. It was crowded. I worked the late shift. I remember her laughing at all the stains on my apron.”

  I chuckled to keep her talking. “Was that Friday night?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess it was. I didn't work Saturday or Sunday, so it must have been.”

  “Do you recall what she ordered?”

  She flapped my card against her hand. “Let's see, her typical, a Vanilla Latte Grande.”

  “I like those,” I said, taking a sip of my iced drink.

  “Two, actually.”

  “Sorry?”

  “She got two, one for her and one for her friend.”

  “Girl or guy?”

  “Just saw the back of him walking out the door, but a guy.”

  I nodded, wondering if I was gleaning information the FBI had yet to learn. A bartering card.

  “F-O-X,” she said. “It was silly and all, but that's what Ariel and I were giggling about. She just kept restating those letters, F-O-X. She nodded over in the direction of a guy thumbing through some books. I figured that was her new friend. Mr. F-O-X.” She shook her head and started to wipe the counter.

  A man named Fox. The hunt was on.

  Chapter Seventeen

  God love Ireland

  The early-morning text from Marisa gave me a quick smile. I rubbed my crusty eyes then reached for my lower back. It felt like a jackhammer had been doing double duty all night. I lumbered out of bed and released an audible groan. I looked back at the mattress—the culprit—and wondered how some hotels stayed in business with their main product creating more pain than relief.
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br />   I put my head under a scalding shower for two minutes, threw on some deodorant, slid my black bag over my shoulder, and exited the room. Immediately, I was hit with a smell so foul I winced, nearly retreating into my prison cell. Fingers clinched my nose, and I made a beeline for the elevator. On the way, I noticed two trays outside a door with remnants of last night's fish. Note to self: avoid cheap hotels.

  Having received a text late last night from Guidry saying the FBI would be giving an official statement today at eight a.m., I glanced at my watch—I had twenty-five minutes. I ate standing up at a breakfast bar, scarfing down a cinnamon bagel with cream cheese and grapes, while sipping black coffee with two heaping scoops of sugar. The cream smelled questionable.

  I picked up the latest edition of God love Ireland and glanced at headlines. On page twenty, in the state-by-state summary section, I spotted a two-inch story about the Baton Rouge double homicide. It had gone national already, and no one even had a clue about the emails—if they were connected, I had to remind myself.

  With two minutes to spare, I walked into a different banquet room at the DoubleTree. This one was set up with a podium, microphone, and a table for reporters to set down their recording devices. Rows of padded chairs faced the front, while a handful of expensive cameras sat on tripods, lens being twisted this way and that. Other still photographers elbowed each other for the best seat on the floor. Nicely dressed men and women stood behind a roped off area away from the leering press, talking, riffling through manila folders. I took the opportunity to use my iPhone and take a wide shot of the entire spectacle. That was far more telling than a close-up mug of an FBI agent, especially Guidry's.

  I took the closest open seat possible, fourth row, three chairs in, and nodded to my journalism colleague on my right as I leaned back. Elbow room was at a premium.

  I briefly replayed the conversation with Patricia the barista. F-O-X. Realizing I might be sitting on a pot of gold, I pondered when—if—I should tell Guidry and company. I felt privileged to know what Guidry had already shared with me, yet I wondered how much they would communicate to the general public or if there had been any newsbreak overnight. Five people approached the microphone, Guidry amongst them, wearing the same blue, oversized suit from last week.