GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “Where you going?”

  “To meet a very frightened girl in Houston.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I'd accidentally set the alarm for eight, instead of six. I nudged Marisa, who took one look at the red digits, then flung off the covers and raced to the bathroom, muttering something under her breath about me needing glasses.

  My pace was much slower, due at least in part to my restless sleep the night before in the Baton Rouge hotel. I put one leg in my pants then tripped before the other leg found the hole. I heard a door open and shut. I guess Marisa really was in a hurry. Ten seconds later, with my foot still searching for the magic drop into my other pants leg, the back door opened and shut again. Marisa marched into the bedroom.

  “Forget your earrings or something?” I turned to look at her vanity, my junk still half out of my pants.

  Her hand grabbed me by the balls, literally, which caused my eyes to pop. I wasn't sure if I'd feel a sharp yank, or something more soothing.

  “Don't move.”

  I dared not.

  She gently touched her lips to mine.

  “That was nice. What gives?” I asked.

  “I forgot to tell you goodbye, have a good day, and give you a kiss.”

  “Sorry about the alarm.”

  “I'll have to walk into a meeting—which I set up—thirty minutes late.” Her serious look morphed into a warm smile. She kissed me again. “I forgive you.”

  “We could play hooky?”

  She took her hand off my junk. “Down, boy.” She shook a finger.

  “By the way, I think your editor is trying to reach you. I heard your phone buzzing away on my way back in. Ciao. Love you.”

  Now a bit more energized, I stepped up the pace, putting on shoes, socks, and a belt in no time. I'd heard a cold front was blowing through, so I slipped a sweater over my flannel shirt. In the kitchen, I grabbed a crunchy breakfast bar for the road, then looked at my phone.

  God love Ireland

  I snatched up my keys and computer bag and raced to the car. Four blocks from my house, I sat motionless, watching three road workers picking up rebar that had spilled off a long bed truck. Actually, two men with yellow helmets pointed fingers in every direction, while the other, manning the crane, ambled at the speed of a four-ton snail. Finally clear, I zoomed into work; fortunately, black-and-whites weren't out in force looking to fill their coffers.

  Three steps into the office I was met with a foul stench—rotten eggs or a dead animal possibly blowing in through the vents. Four more steps and I realized it wasn't contained to the back. I held my breath and headed for the glass house, but when I walked in, the room was empty. Only a loud hum greeted me. I turned, took in a deep breath, and pinched my nose—quickly picturing a skunk carcass rotting in a wall, maybe even the ventilation system—now on a single-minded mission to find Brandon and Stu. I darted through the sea of cubicles, mostly half empty, and heads down in the others. Finally, I caught Stu exiting the men's room holding a paper towel.

  “Have you seen it, read it?” I waved him on to follow me.

  “Seen what? I've been taking care of some personal business.” I would have laughed out loud if the subject matter wasn't so serious. Stu kept pace three strides behind me until we stopped at Brandon's office. Huddled behind the antique roll-top desk that he inherited from his grandfather, his eyes locked in a deep conversation with Andi, sat my editor.

  “I didn't see you the first time I walked by,” I said motioning to him.

  “I'm right in the middle of an important conversation with Andi here. I'll meet you in the glass house in two minutes.” I realized that would be more like ten minutes in Brandon time, but at least I'd found him.

  “Oh, Andi, nice series on the adoption process. I read your fourth and final feature this past Sunday. Well-written, succinct, factual.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Doy—I mean Michael.”

  I smiled, glad she was finally coming around to calling me by my first name, instead of using what I considered to be my dad's name: Mr. Doyle.

  Ten minutes later, Brandon shut the meeting room door then slid over hard copies of the latest email to Stu and me. Apart from the annoying hum that had now become embedded in my brain, the room was blanketed with silence. I lipped the words of the email then paused, wondering what it all meant.

  “Do you get it?” I looked at Stu, who shook his head.

  I turned to Brandon. “You?”

  “I have some ideas, but nothing solid.” I re-read the content once more then let out a breath.

  “Grab the Polycom. Let's try to bring in Carl and Guidry for a conference call.” While I located their numbers and tried to get them on the line, Brandon took out his iPad and forwarded the email to both law enforcement officials.

  “Sent,” he said.

  I thought about the secret Rolando had shared with me, and concluded now was not the time to bring this up. I'd mull it over some more before I figured out how to get the FBI to connect the dots without me breaking my promise to Rolando.

  The Polycom conference-call system beeped throughout the room like we had surround sound. God love Ireland

  I must have fat-fingered it. I tried again and reached Guidry, but it rolled to voicemail. I called Carl, and I asked if he'd received Brandon's email.

  “Let me refresh my email. Not yet,” he said. “Can't you just tell me what the note says?”

  A muted, beeping sound. “Hold on, that might be Guidry. Let me try to bring him into our call.”

  “I was just dialing your number, Michael. Give me a sec.” His voice sounded like it was being flushed down a toilet.

  “Sorry, just doing some multitasking. I'm good. Go ahead.”

  “We got another email from Yours Truly this morning. Brandon sent it to your email box.”

  “Haven't seen it on my phone yet, but it could be hung up. My box might be full. I'm headed back to the war room now, so before I share my news with you, go ahead and read it to us.”

  God love Ireland

  God love Ireland

  God love Ireland

  I heard two deep breaths. They, like the rest of us, were likely pondering what the hell that meant.

  “So any thoughts you'd like to share?” I prompted.

  Carl spoke first. “I can't get a bead on this guy. For starters, it sounds like some type of response or reasoning related to the murders in Baton Rouge, if I had to guess. But I'm not the expert. Guidry?”

  “Who's to say this email is related to the Baton Rouge homicides?” Guidry offered.

  More silence. Perhaps Carl wasn't pleased with Guidry poking a hole in his theory.

  “If this person is connected, and that's a God love Ireland God love Ireland at this point...it really sounds like he's trying to explain his feelings, possibly his motive. This could be a good sign that he wants us to know who did it. Once I'm back at my computer, I'll forward it to our cyber unit and the BSU.”

  I rubbed the center of my forehead, knowing Guidry's logic made sense. I'd hoped, however, that this would all be swept away, disregarded as a simple prank by someone who couldn't harm a soul—and from what he said, it was still possible, maybe even probable. But I couldn't help myself, wondering whose instinct to trust. Feelings of helplessness swept over me again, wondering if I had the power to keep Marisa safe, although she'd yet to be personally threatened in any way. Was I overreacting...again?

  “It's my turn now.” Guidry's twang interrupted my thoughts.

  “The stage is yours.”

  “The cyber unit did get us feedback on the third email,” he said. “Hold on.” We heard a door shut and papers shuffle. My back began to perspire.

  “They still don't have a sent-from address yet, but they have found three other places that received the same email. Oddly enough, they're all newspapers—one in Baton Rouge, Oxford, Mississippi, and Tallahassee, Florida.”

  “Shit,” Brandon said.

  “Exactly.”

&
nbsp; Chapter Twenty

  Fans kicked in, and within seconds the rancid smell from the hallways and newsroom permeated the glass house. Both Stu and Brandon took turns swatting air and pinching their respective noses, while I simply held my breath and twirled a pen.

  “What is that crap?” Stu asked.

  “Smells like it,” Brandon said, deadpanned.

  “Huh?” Stu turned toward his younger boss.

  “Just saying I smell it too,” Brandon replied.

  “Care to share with us?” Carl asked over the open conference line.

  “I think a rat died in the walls or ceiling. The whole place is starting to smell...bad,” I said, still twirling my pen like it was propelling my brain to try to understand what Yours Truly was trying to communicate.

  We'd spent the last five minutes saying very little, each of us pondering what the latest Yours Truly email meant for our community, if anything at all.. We at the paper did have a responsibility to the people, regardless of our relationship with the police and FBI. That said, I couldn't hold back what I'd found out at the bookstore about F-O-X, although there was a possibility the FBI was one step ahead of me on that anyway, just like they'd been on the email being sent to the God love Ireland.

  “Have you guys reached out to the newspapers in question?” I asked.

  “As we speak. Fellow agents and cyber teams are either at or on their way to each office. After the homicides here in Baton Rouge, we're taking this very seriously,” Guidry said with the most concerned tone I'd heard from him. “Technology certainly helped us on this one.”

  “I took a more simplistic approach last night.”

  “Excuse me?” Guidry said.

  “Well, after watching you devour food like it was your last supper, I dropped by the crime scene, just to get a feel for what might have taken place.”

  “Did the spirits talk to you?” Brandon joked. I didn't smile.

  “Uh, no. But I did find out that Ariel, the older girl, enjoyed reading quite a bit. So, I hit all the bookstores I could find in the area.”

  I only heard a throat-clearing cough.

  “Long story short, after eleven o'clock last night, I got to the last one, the megastore on the northeast side.”

  “That's odd. That's not anywhere close to her apartment or campus,” Guidry pointed out.

  I hadn't really thought about that. Hmm. Something to ponder later.

  “I ran into an employee, Patricia, who recognized Ariel from the mug shot in the local paper. I asked a few questions, and she had a good memory.”

  “Young minds are the sharpest,” Brandon said, like he was bragging. I questioned his timing and content, and wondered if the Carrie factor had infected his thought process.

  I half-rolled my eyes and spoke to the Polycom.

  “Apparently, they'd gotten to know each other pretty well. Patricia would take breaks, and they'd discuss books, and even boys on occasion, but mostly books,” I said.

  “She recalls seeing Ariel last Friday night, without a doubt. She even remembers what they ordered: Vanilla Latte Grande.”

  “I'm sorry, but you said God love Ireland?” Carl interjected.

  “Uh, yeah. That was my reaction too. Ariel was with another person, a man.”

  “Holy cow,” Stu said.

  “Batman,” uttered Brandon. I gave my editor the eye, wondering what extraterrestrial being had taken over his brain.

  “Michael, did you get a name, a description?” Guidry asked.

  “F-O-X,” I spelled out.

  “Sorry?”

  “That's what Patricia said Ariel kept repeating. F-O-X. Apparently, they were joking around up at the counter while he was over at a table checking out the latest best sellers. Ariel giggled and nodded toward him, and Patricia figured it was the man's name.”

  “Why did she think that?” “Other than the two lattes, she saw the man leaving the store, but just the back of him. Not a good look, but she knows it was a man.”

  “Wow, great work, Michael. I appreciate it. We'll look up Patricia and get her on the record, maybe see if she can provide further physical description.”

  “Cool.”

  I took a deep breath, knowing there was still one more elephant to bring up.

  “Guys, I know you've got your hands full with an investigation that may or may not be expanding exponentially, depending on whose theory we should believe,” I said. “But our reading public has no knowledge of these emails—only those of us in this room know—and we're concerned. By not telling the public, are we putting people's lives at risk? Particularly pretty ladies with blond-highlighted hair.”

  “Don't forget about the punk rocker,” Guidry said. “I say that because we can't solely focus on the one description Yours Truly gives in the email. He might have put that in there to throw us off, who knows. However, I understand your concern. We might need to take our plea of vigilance national, or at least regional.” Guidry appeared to be thinking out loud.

  The “V” word again. Now we were really making progress.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Okay, okay. Try to slow it down just a bit, if you can,” Andi said, trying to comprehend the rapid-fire data points being tossed at her. "At a high level, I think you're saying the owners are in the kid trafficking business and essentially using this adoption agency as a front?"

  More tears. Guilt tears, she could see. Andi handed Jenny two more tissues as heads turned to catch a glimpse of the female train wreck that had arrived about fifteen minutes prior.

  “Let's just focus on breathing for a minute. We have plenty of time to catch up on everything else.” Andi found herself using her hands to demonstrate a proper method for breathing in and out, trying to encourage Jenny to match the same pace.

  Jenny blew her nose and tossed the mangled, wet tissue on the tiny table, a growing soggy mound. Her eyes bugged out, but she hid the expression from her new, seemingly unstable source.

  Suddenly a giggle. Then another.

  “Did I make a funny face?”

  “Kind of. You blowing in and out reminded me of the exercises moms are taught when they give birth. Except, your version was ten times funnier, like a God love Ireland skit.” Jenny laughed through more tears. Andi relaxed her shoulders and laughed at herself, relieved that Jenny had regained a degree of emotional normalcy.

  Andi took a sip of her Starbuck's usual: Cinnamon Dulce Latte, hoping to recoup some energy after a long trip—humming down I-45 in her ancient minivan, dubbed the Mystery Machine—to Houston that afternoon. She'd called Jenny from the road, catching her just before the work day ended, and convinced her that as a friend of Dawn's, she was eager to hear Jenny's story of life at Big Heart, as well as how she was managing her special needs child. Another bit of advice from Dad: relate to your sources—they're not pieces of meat, they're people too.

  Jenny swallowed some ice water and wiped under her eyes to ensure makeup hadn't started leaking. Then she began talking—unplugged. Just three years older than the reporter, Jenny, at age twenty-five, had already lived a long life. After years of watching her alcoholic father abuse her mother, he turned his rage on Jenny. She only put up with it for six months—about five months and twenty-nine days longer than she should have, she told Andi. She left home at age sixteen.

  “You'd think I would have learned the lesson of my life.” Jenny's dark eyes penetrated Andi's soul. Andi opened her mouth, her mind swirling with more questions, but Jenny held up a hand and continued reciting her biography.

  Living off the street for the rest of her junior year in high school, Jenny moved in with a friend and graduated. It was a proud moment for her, although neither of her parents attended. In fact, she'd not spoken to either of them since she left. She couldn't tell Andi if they were happy or even alive. A school counselor saw a lot of promise in Jenny and was able to get her a partial scholarship to the Art Institute of Houston, a small private school off Yorktown in West Houston. She worked nights at Wal
mart to supplement her scholarship...until she met Alec.

  “My knight in shining armor.” Jenny rubbed the side of the chilled plastic cup. Then she continued to share her life story.

  A recent graduate from Rice University, Alec was uber intelligent and full of dreams, but short on drive, Jenny said. Still, he doted on Jenny and gushed over her artwork. She felt love like she'd never felt before...safe, taken care of. She moved in with him, and for the first time in her life, she felt anxiety release its ugly grip on each muscle in her body. Money didn't come easily for the young couple—Alec never held a job longer than two months, usually blaming a colleague or boss for sabotaging his career. Then Jenny got pregnant, and everything changed.

  Alec became withdrawn, at first not paying her much attention, then ignoring her altogether, including her needs as a young, pregnant girl.

  “He started drinking, and I feared that I was watching my mom's life repeat itself.”

  Four months into her pregnancy, he came home drunk one night and unleashed a barrage of insults at Jenny. She felt devastated and locked herself in the bathroom. He kept drinking, adding fuel to his rage. He crashed open the door—ripping the hinges out of the frame—and smacked her around. She fell into the tub, and he reached down and started choking her, his eyes bloodshot and possessed. Seconds before she was about to black out, he let go, walked out of the apartment and never returned.

  All alone with no one to offer help or support, especially financial, Jenny moved into a smaller place in a questionable part of town, quit school, and started working at a daycare facility, hoping they'd provide a discount once her child was born. At age twenty, Jenny gave birth to a seemingly healthy and chunky eight-pound boy.

  “But Nicholas was different, as much as I didn't want to admit it. There was something wrong...very wrong,” Jenny said.

  Andi felt a lump in her throat, but tried not to be overcome with emotion—that might derail the whole interview.

  A single tear rolled out of the corner of Jenny's eye, but she didn't waver in finishing her story.