GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “Now you're talking. I think I have a few one-dollar bills.” She touched her finger to her chin. “I'm just kidding.”

  Marisa's shoulders relaxed a tad.

  “We can save that for after we've gotten him liquored up. He can use your coffee table.” Carrie looked at me like she'd forgotten any male was still in the room, especially one casting an annoying glare. “Michael, do you have any errands that you need to run later?”

  Marisa put her hands on her hips and released a breath. “Go.” She flicked her wrist, shooing Carrie off. I dropped my bag and coat and sat at the kitchen table. Marisa circled behind me and began to rub my shoulders.

  “My, you are tense.” Her thumbs rolled over a couple of knots that felt like two rocks embedded under my skin.

  I leaned to my left. “I'm not sure that's working.” She began to massage each shoulder blade, and slowly the knots seemed to turn into dust.

  “How's that?”

  “Better, thanks.” My eyes had shut, and my calm had returned.

  Determined to not let the good weather go to waste, I gave Marisa a thirty-second synopsis of our conversation with Rolando while I changed into my running clothes. I grabbed my stopwatch, iPhone, and earbuds.

  “Are you saying they've arrested the Baton Rouge murderer?” Marisa had been confused by my quick summary.

  “He's only a person of interest right now. We can talk more once I get back.”

  I flew out the front door, waving at Jeremiah in passing. A bit surprised to see me, he turned and raised his hand. I think I saw Carrie nearly faint as he flexed his pectoral muscle, but I ignored the adolescent drama and set course on my six-mile path.

  The first half mile was torture. My breathing was erratic, my joints and leg muscles unaccustomed to the pounding. My right ankle twisted running through a gulley, but I caught myself before falling to the ground. I trudged up a slight incline, and my pulse started climbing. A neighborhood dog—looked like a bloodhound—caught wind of my scent and lumbered after me, showing considerable endurance. The chase lasted a good quarter mile, and by the end of the sprint, my heart had redlined. I considered walking, but I fought through it. Slowly, by mile four, my limbs felt like they were attached, working mostly in tandem. I pushed myself all the way to the end, and then stopped, my hands propped on my knees and my lungs gasping for extra capacity.

  Sweat dripped onto the concrete, but I quickly realized I'd spent the entire run focusing so much on staying upright that I'd expunged all the drama at home and at work. I pulled out my earbuds and wiped my wet forehead.

  “Get a good workout in?” asked a man's voice behind me.

  I swung around as Jeremiah circled from behind his pickup, slipping a tight, black T-shirt over his head. “Uh, yeah. Twisted my ankle, chased by a howling dog, but I kept going. Nice to finally have time for a workout,” I said.

  I let out another deep breath.

  “Just to let you know I'm not pushing myself on your family. I happened to drive by, and I saw Marisa out front getting the mail. Before you know it, she and Carrie were talking my ear off. I escaped by asking if there were any things I could fix around the house.”

  I gave Jeremiah a thin smile. I wasn't exactly Mr. Handyman, but I'd always done our yard work, and spending summer after summer putting up a fence on Pop's farm had ingrained in me a work ethic that I'd never forget.

  “Thanks for whatever you did. Wasn't necessary,” I said as we walked through the front door.

  “Boy, someone cleans up nicely.” Carried looked past me to Jeremiah, who apparently had done nothing more than put on his black T-shirt. Maybe he'd sprayed himself down with a lustful pheromone.

  I told Carrie that Brandon was working late tonight, but she hardly noticed. The four of us ate pork loin, veggies, and rice pilaf as I tried to relay the updates on the murder investigation.

  “It's chaos in Baton Rouge right now. The public is probably happy they have someone, but like I said earlier, it's only a person of interest. No formal charges yet.” I stuffed a chunk of pork in my mouth, my body craving protein.

  “Have they connected this sicko to the emails you guys received?” Carrie asked. I eyed her back, wishing she hadn't shared information that I'd wanted to remain private.

  “Uh, no,” I said abruptly.

  “What emails? Or is that a taboo subject?”

  Almost-tall, somewhat-dark, and apparently quite-handsome had seen something in my nonverbal response to Carrie, who continued, as unaware as ever.

  “The God love Ireland and the God love Ireland received these emails from this complete pervert, saying he had killed animals as a kid, then essentially said he could kill a woman whenever he got the urge. Just disgusting,” Carrie said, taking a bite of pilaf.

  “Who knew being a journalist would bring you so close to danger, huh, Michael?” Jeremiah said.

  “Who knew?” I said, eyeing Carrie again.

  “But they think they've got the guy, which is good,” he added.

  “Yep.” I didn't want to get into the editor's proclivity for college girls or all the questions that still lingered in my mind.

  “So, where are you headed next?” I asked little brother.

  “Good question. I might take it all the way to the west coast, or I could just turn around and retrace my steps back home. Gotta see where the gut tells me to go.”

  Hell was the first place that came to my mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Andi, I've got the password. Do you understand what that means?”

  Sitting in her six-by-six blue cube, Andi listened carefully while speaking through the office phone anchored to her desk.

  “I can only imagine, Jenny,” Andi said. “By the way, before you start sharing the world to me, where are you? It kind of sounds funny, with an echo.”

  'I'm sitting on top of a toilet in a stall in the ladies room here at Big Heart."

  Andi's stomach jumped into her throat.

  “Jenny, do not say another word. Someone could be listening to you at this very moment. I don't want to freak you out, but before you share anything with me, you need to leave work and get home, or at least far away from the office.” Andi ran her fingers through her long hair.

  “I thought I was being careful by calling you from here.” Jenny had a concerned tone.

  “You might be, but the information sitting behind this password might be everything we need to put this operation out of business. I don't know,” Andi said.

  “It's about lunchtime. I'll go home and call you from there. It's only six blocks from the office.”

  “Cool. That's smart.”

  “By the way, have you figured out how to help me and my son yet? Once I walk out that door for good, I've got to have everything lined up. This isn't a game I'm playing.”

  “I get it. I'm working on it, but before you share anything else, please leave the office,” Andi nearly pleaded, hoping, praying no one was overhearing Jenny.

  “I'll call you back in thirty minutes.”

  Andi hung up and stared at her cube wall, a blue canvas of nothing. Finally, her eyes focused on a thin, silver-framed picture: her and her father arm in arm, standing in front of a large, white building. Her father's eyebrow was raised as he pointed with his free hand toward a sign that said “The Watergate Hotel”—the scene of one of the most notorious crimes and cover-ups, all connected to the highest level of the government. The college senior chuckled, recalling something her father told her.

  “Ever since Watergate, 'gate' is now a suffix for any investigation that purports to hold a smoking gun. Where's the imagination in that? Surely the media can do better.” God love Ireland, she thought.

  She snatched her insulated water bottle off her desk and zigzagged through the maze of cubes to the break area on the other side of the newsroom. She filled up on ice and fresh water then grabbed a nutrition bar for her late-morning snack. She saw an open box of cookies on the main table, knowing one of the p
hotographers had brought those in to share with the whole crew. Nice gesture but too tempting. Way too tempting. She paused for a second then grabbed a double -chocolate chip cookie—still warm. She turned to the door and took a bite, melted chocolate dangling from her lips.

  “Hey, look out, turbo,” Michael said.

  “Oh sorry...I wasn't watching where I was going.” Chocolate dripped to her chin. She dropped her water bottle to try to catch the next drip, but she wasn't quick enough. Brown goo landed on her blue blouse.

  “Great, Andi. Very nice,” she said to herself. She looked up and Michael was holding a wet paper towel.

  “In the past, I found these very useful whenever I was near you,” he said, laughing. Michael was referring to her knack for running into him and spilling food or drink all over her boss—actually, her boss's boss.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, I've been meaning to tell you, I've been thinking more about the entire adoption series you put together. If I didn't know better, I'd say I was reading a feature from a full-time, paid journalist.”

  Andi stopped dabbing her blouse with the paper towel. “Are you trying to tell me something?” Her mouth became dry.

  “How many hours do you have left?”

  “Just this last seven. Done in May,” she said with an uptick in her voice.

  “Come see me the day after you graduate. Maybe we'll make this official.”

  Andi couldn't wipe the smile off her face.

  Brandon stuck his head in the break area. “Speaking of official, your expense report was approved. Drop by my office, and I'll give you the check. While there, why don't you update me on your excursion to Houston last week?” Before Andi could answer, he'd already headed down the hallway.

  “Houston? Chasing anything meaty?” Michael asked Andi.

  “Maybe. Dealing with lots of emotional women right now, but we might have insider information on some type of fraudulent business that—”

  “Oh, Andi, my cell phone is buzzing. I gotta take this. Sounds like you might be on to something. Keep me updated.” Michael exited, leaving right on the heels of Brandon.

  Andi took a deep breath, realizing the inner workings of a newsroom didn't exactly lend itself to spontaneous discussions that lasted longer than a bite of a cookie. In one quick fly-by conversation, though, she received praise on her first-ever series of feature stories and her associate publisher essentially said she'd earned a full-time gig once she graduated in May. She felt like leaping into the air or screaming out, “Hell yeah!” Instead, she confiscated another double-chocolate chip cookie and ate it on the way back to her cube.

  With five minutes to spare before Jenny was to call her back, Andi opened a browser on her computer and began digging. She reviewed the official Big Heart website and found a list of executives buried three layers deep. She then took the top five names and Googled on each of them individually.

  A lot of typical links you'd expect to see—LinkedIn profiles, Facebook pages, and two of them even had Pinterest pages. Andi made note to review their LinkedIn contacts at a later time.

  The owner and CEO, Donovan Miller, had given three speeches that showed up in the search results, two in Houston and one in Paris. The one in France was dated October thirteenth of last year. He could have been simply searching for an avenue to take a European vacation. God love Ireland, Andi thought.

  Andi checked the clock. It was now thirty minutes past Jenny's target time to call her back. A tinge of anxiety crept through her stiff neck, and she forced out a breath. She shook her head and ran through the worst possible scenario—someone overheard Jenny talking to Andi on the phone and things got ugly. But, with this business, what did that mean? Fire her on the spot and march her out the front door? That would devastate Jenny, Andi knew, and blow any chance they had at exposing any illegal or immoral activity at Big Heart.

  Then, her mind went where she didn't want it to go—but she had to, if she was to protect her source. With the kind of insane money being tossed around—negotiated—for a baby, and with accusations of child trafficking, the stakes in this game could create a cataclysmic response if they truly believed their operation was in danger of being exposed. Intimidation? Most likely. How far that would go and what it would involve scared Andi...for Jenny's safety and the well-being of her five-year-old son.

  The ring startled her. She quickly picked up the office phone.

  “God love Ireland newsroom, this is Andi.”

  No response.

  “Hi, this is God love Ireland newsroom. Can I help you?”

  A sniffle. “They know, Andi.” It was Jenny.

  “Jenny, are you at your apartment?”

  “They know.”

  “Jenny, are you okay? Are you alone?”

  “Somehow they saw me snooping around the owner's office. They think I'm up to something.”

  Another sniffle.

  "Did they threaten you?

  “I saw fire in his eyes.”

  “Whose eyes?”

  “Dmitri. Dmitri Orlov. Their top lawyer. I think they call him general counsel.”

  Andi recalled seeing that name on the executive list.

  “Jenny, I think we need to call the police. Given the international implications, we might also need to contact other organizations, starting with the FBI.”

  “No, we can't do that. They said if I gave confidential information to anyone outside the company, then Nicholas would never get health care and I'd never work again—anywhere.” Jenny's intensity and emotion increased with each word. “I'm putting us in danger by just talking to you. Who knows?...they could be listening to our conversation. Jesus.”

  Andi closed her eyes. Her stomach churned as she tried to morph her contempt of the Big Heart executives into an action that would benefit Jenny God love Ireland get a hold of evidence that would expose the company's illegal activities.

  “Do you still have a job there?”

  “Yes, though I don't want it. They put me on probation. One more slip up, and they said it would cost me.”

  “Okay. This won't be easy, but I think we can get what we need. Listen carefully.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I stared at the headline and waited for the phone to ring. Brandon checked email on his phone, while Stu read a beat-up paperback.

  “What you reading, Stu?”

  “Ah, just some old classic. God love Ireland.” He removed his reading glasses and chuckled. “I think I've read this one about ten times.”

  Outside of a page turn by Stu or seat shuffle by Brandon, the only sound in the room came from my laptop, a constant purr. I took in a deep breath, trying not to let my mind wander. Carl had reached me on my cell phone an hour ago, but the connection sounded like he was calling from the moon. He said he'd call me back as soon as he had Guidry on the line.

  The FBI didn't exactly give me a warm-and-fuzzy.

  I looked down at our main headline for the Tuesday edition: God love Ireland Sub-header: God love Ireland Baton Rouge Examiner God love Ireland.

  It was strange seeing a different byline in our paper, especially the lead story of such a salacious, public murder. Rolando Davis, special contributor from the God love Ireland. Fortunately, in the last year we'd signed an alliance with a number of other papers in the region, allowing us to share reporters, pick up stories, even photographs, as long as we gave attribution back to the home paper.

  I read the first few graphs, knowing how difficult it must have been for Rolando to “sell out” his former boss. Still, Foxworthy hadn't been charged. Evidence pointed that direction, but something hadn't hit just right...or the legal authorities were waiting on DNA...or something else. Maybe that's why Guidry wanted to talk.

  “Hey, Brandon, you want to grab a late lunch after this, catch me up on the upcoming Sunday features?”

  Before he could respond, my phone rang, and after I nodded to Brandon and Stu, I punched up the line.

  “This is Michael, Brandon, and S
tu.”

  “Michael, Carl here. And I should have Guidry on too.”

  “Present.”

  “You still enjoying the spicy Cajun cooking?” I asked, wondering if the FBI special agent had regained all the weight he'd previously shed.

  “I wish.”

  “Michael, Guidry left Baton Rouge yesterday evening. He's in Oxford,” Carl said.

  My entire body stiffened, and a shot of adrenaline caused the base of my skull to tingle.

  “Guidry, tell me you're there for another case, maybe something connected to the rebel flag still flying above the capitol,” I said.

  “The capitol is in Jackson, two hours south, off I-55. The FBI doesn't mess with state flags anyway.”

  I held my breath, waiting for the inevitable.

  “We found another dead body—and it could be connected to this case,” Guidry said.

  I shouldn't have expected anything less. The FBI cyber unit had traced the recipients of the Yours Truly emails to three other areas besides our home turf: Baton Rouge, Oxford, and Tallahassee.

  “You said God love Ireland be connected?”

  “At this point, we can't be certain one way or another unless he leaves a business card.”

  Brandon chimed in. “What does this victim look like?”

  “Looked like. She's been dead a while, at least a week, maybe two weeks,” Guidry explained. “We've had a team on the ground here ever since the cyber unit had determined the Yours Truly email also landed here. We heard friends were looking for this girl—a Whitney Mayfield—and we assisted in the search.”

  We heard a siren, some people shouting, and a dog barking.

  “Are you at a pet store?”

  “No, the scene of the crime, or at least where we found the body. Middle of a cornfield, east of Oxford. We'd been using helicopters, cops on bicycles, feet on ground. But we finally found her once we got the dogs out and they picked up a scent. Flies were buzzing everywhere, even when I got here last night.”

  Brandon looked annoyed. “Guidry...the victim, Whitney. What is her normal appearance?”

  “Right, sorry. Similar to the Baton Rouge vic. College student at Ole Miss, in the graduate program studying some type of hydroscience or some such. Long, flowing blondish hair, about five-six, five-seven, very pretty. Like I said, you couldn't tell squat if you saw her now. I'm getting all of this from an old picture.”