GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  I popped two knuckles and put my hand to my chin, looking at both Brandon and Stu.

  “Guidry, this is Stu. Have you looked at any connections our Baton Rouge editor might have to the Oxford area or the university itself?”

  “Good question, and yes, we're chasing that down. We don't like dead bodies, but it would be helpful if this editor, Foxworthy, had killed this Oxford girl a couple of weeks back and then murdered the two girls in his hometown.”

  “Why?” asked Brandon

  “Why? Because we already have Foxworthy in custody. He might be a serial killer, but he's behind bars. If we can't make the connection, then it suddenly gets tougher to piece any of this shit together...the murders, the emails from Yours Truly, including the last email where talks about being Mr. Nasty. We're crossing our fingers. We should be able to verify Foxworthy's whereabouts over the last two weeks by close of business today, as well as narrow down the time of death.”

  I leaned back and heard my spine pop against the chair. A little relief. I tried not to immediately jump to illogical conclusions.

  “Guidry, do you guys have a team on the ground here?”

  “You're right outside of Dallas, a major hub office for the FBI. There haven't been any missing persons that come close to this MO.”

  “In our last conversation you advised me to keep a close eye on Marisa. Has that changed for some reason I'm not aware of?”

  “If she was related to me, I wouldn't let my guard down. I just can't go on TV and ask every blond-haired lady in Dallas under the age of forty to carry pepper spray and not go out at night. We're not in the panic business.”

  I realized Marisa was thirty-three, a full ten years older than the oldest of the victims. But—and I knew I was at least slightly biased—Marisa was stunning. An extra line here or there couldn't mask her beauty...or her blond-highlighted hair.

  “Stu, let's work this like Baton Rouge, at least initially. Look into your bag of contacts and see what you can find at the Oxford paper.”

  “It's the God love Ireland. I think one of my old schoolmates might have a beat on that paper. I'll look into it.”

  “I feel like we're listening in to your conversation through a wiretap,” Guidry said.

  “That's the NSA.”

  “Good one, Michael. I appreciate you going the standard press path for your information and not simply relying on us to feed you the story. That just won't happen.”

  “You can't forget we've helped you out, as well. I located the girl at the café who knew Ariel, and she gave us the F-O-X clue. By the way, did Patricia ever ID Foxworthy?”

  Guidry coughed. “We put him in a lineup, and she picked a different guy. Not surprising, given she only caught a quick glimpse. But we're still hoping other evidence comes through.”

  My team exchanged glances, all of us realizing that the failed identification threw the whole case back into uncertainty.

  “Look, my peers are looking at me kind of strange, so I need to go pretend I'm adding value to the crime scene. Anything else?” Guidry yelled over a new round of dogs barking.

  “You never said how the vic, Whitney, died,” Brandon said.

  “Slashed throat. A chunk of it was cut out, just like with Ariel in Baton Rouge. Never can get used to seeing that kind of brutality.”

  We disconnected. “I think I need to pass on lunch. I just lost my appetite.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Marisa thought about answering her vibrating cell phone, but instead reached her hand inside her oversized, tan leather purse and pressed the lower of two metal buttons, forwarding whomever to voicemail. She'd had one of those mornings at the bank—histrionic customers, moody boss, peers and her team members just not on the same page. If ever she needed one of those infamous two-martini lunches, today might be the day.

  She wasn't a lush, and she wasn't about to start now, just six months after her promotion to manage the bank's loan business. She couldn't move any higher without them placing a VP title before her name. Not that her life would end without it, but the recognition would be nice. She'd worked long hours, put up with her fair share of good ol' boys, fending off a few wayward advances—nothing to worry Michael about. She waved across the restaurant and walked over to her lunch date. Jeremiah got up and gave her a warm hug.

  “Oh, so nice of you to meet me for lunch, Marisa.”

  “Of course. Believe me, I needed a break today,” she said, zipping up her purse and tossing it next to her on the blue leather booth.

  Jeremiah didn't look anything like the rugged handyman who'd now visited their home twice—the last time creating a bit of a frenzy. Carrie was captivated by his masculinity, his ability to use his hands, and especially his appearance minus the T-shirt. Marisa thought she might have had to put a paper bag over Carrie's nonstop trap to fend off hyperventilation. Then again, Marisa wasn't blind, and blood still ran through her veins. Admittedly, the speed of said blood might have increased just a smidge when Jeremiah had tossed his shirt off to the side just before clipping the hedges.

  “Would you like some bread? I understand it's fresh out of the oven.” Wearing a warm smile, Jeremiah extended the basket. She reached in and grabbed a biscuit, which appeared to have peppered spices mixed in.

  He reminded Marisa of someone, she just couldn't put her finger on it. Not anyone she knew, but possibly an actor or singer. He had star looks, no doubt. It would come to her.

  Jeremiah's tan blazer nearly matched his golden hair. A collared, sky-blue, button-down shirt complimented his hazel eyes. Flat-front brown slacks and leather, buckle-strap shoes rounded out the ensemble. This man knew how to dress. You would have thought he was interviewing for a VP job at one of the New York equity firms.

  “So Jeremiah does have a different look than rugged and outdoorsy?” Marisa smirked and raised an eyebrow.

  Jeremiah's hand had been sifting through the bread basket, but it paused for just a second. Then he chuckled.

  “I thought you said you'd take any job as long it didn't include an office,” Marisa said.

  “I did say that. And I believe it. Just because my parents taught me how to dress, doesn't mean I enjoy working in that environment,” he said. “I've tried it before. Too much politics, too much ass-kissing, excuse the language.”

  “No apology necessary. I've been there. It's hard to escape.”

  “I literally felt my airways constrict when I walked through the office door. After six months of it, I retired most of my fancy clothes and instead got a job at the millwork shop. Just what I love doing.”

  He nodded his head and looked off to the corner of the restaurant, as if he was lost in his own dream, like a sailor who couldn't live without the sea.

  “It's great to have a passion. I can't say mine is my work,” Marisa admitted. “Maybe mine is reading books...of all kinds. I can live vicariously through any number of characters, risk my life, eat the forbidden fruit, die, and come back to life.”

  “But I hear you're doing great at the bank, just got a promotion, moving up the chain. Before you know, you'll be running the place.” They both chuckled.

  Lunch arrived. Marisa had ordered a simple avocado salad, while Jeremiah went with a grilled pancetta and arugula sandwich, with a side of tomatoes and cottage cheese.

  God love Ireland, she thought.

  Marisa touched her napkin to her lips as her eyes reviewed the décor—subtle lighting around the ceiling, dark material on the walls, carpeted flooring, hushed voices.

  “How did you know about this place?”

  “It's kind of strange, I just have this knack for picking unique places. Probably says something about me.”

  “That you have good taste?” Marisa asked.

  “No, I think I'm just lucky.”

  Marisa felt refreshed by Jeremiah's seemingly positive outlook on life. He drove an old pickup and was a carpenter by trade—not a lot of money in that business—but he seemed to look at the world through an unble
mished lens. Still, he looked like a million bucks. Maybe his parents left him some cash. That type of cushion would allow anyone to chill out and stay clear of stress.

  “Marisa, I don't mean to put you in an awkward position, but do you know why Michael is...well, why he isn't happy to know I exist? Really, I feel hostility from him,” Jeremiah said, sadness in his eyes.

  A deep breath. “Jeremiah, I really don't think it's you. It could have been anyone who showed up at our door, and Michael would have questioned it, resented it.”

  “I keep telling myself that. Maybe I should have called ahead.” He tilted back his head and took in a mouthful of iced tea, then set down the glass laden with condensation. Marisa thought she noticed a glassy eye, and her heart sunk for her brother-in-law.

  “Look, last year Michael and I both went to hell and back, all because of this horrible drug cartel that invaded our lives. It killed people very close to us,” Marisa swallowed hard but held back any tears.

  “Oh, Marisa, I'm so—”

  “There's more, and I realize now that it impacts you.” She pursed her lips.

  “After years of denial, even with his father, Michael admitted that his mother was a meth addict. In fact, her death—falling down the staircase—happened only because she was high.”

  Jeremiah's head dropped, his long fingers encasing the cold, icy glass. She wondered if he was holding back his own set of tears.

  “All these years, I'd been wondering what it would have been like to know my mother, to be raised by her.” He bit his lower lip and exhaled. “I guess things happen for a reason. I was raised by two upstanding people. They were my mom and dad.”

  Marisa instinctively reached out and put her hand on top of his. Jeremiah then squeezed it and released an appreciative smile.

  They made small talk as the waiter cleared dishes, and then they ambled out of the darkened restaurant. Marisa dug for her sunglasses when the day's glare hit her in the face.

  “I lost track of time in there.” She searched her purse for her keys.

  “Thank you, Marisa. For opening up, sharing everything with me.”

  She leaned in and felt his chest against hers, his protective arms wrapped around her body. She thumped his back, and then she was able to breathe.

  As he slung his jacket over his shoulder, the images finally flashed into her mind. The face of a young Kris Kristofferson—back when he starred in the romance of the decade, God love Ireland, with Barbara Streisand. God love Ireland, she decided, the scruffy look, the high cheekbones and chiseled chin. His body? That was Brad Pitt all the way.

  She got in her car and drove back to work with the air conditioning on high.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Final numbers are in for fourth quarter. You ready for this?” Our director of advertising and sales, Walt McCutcheon, pushed his brown, square glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “Hit me.” I swiveled in my office chair, feeling like a child on Christmas morning. But I wasn't kidding myself. In this industry, two pieces of coal were just as possible as a stocking full of gadgets and candy canes—in fact, that was the trend for newspapers across the country, even the ones attached to larger conglomerates where they pinched pennies just to make ends meet.

  “All the numbers are year over year, keep that in mind.”

  I waved my wrist.

  “Print advertising, including classifieds, was up 2.3 percent.” Walt looked up, waiting for my approval. Just then, he sneezed all over the report he was holding. He wiped his nose with his sweater sleeve and his hand. He then blew on the report, trying to dry the spit spray.

  I nodded and checked the edge of my desk to see if the mucus had made a splash landing. No visible evidence. “I'll take that number. Keep going.”

  “Print circulation, up 2.5 percent.” Another look, another nod.

  “Digital advertising...you ready for this one?” He couldn't contain his smile.

  “Holding my breath.”

  “Up 6.8 percent. That's where the money is, Michael. Go digital or go home.” That was Walt's way of suggesting we drop our print editions and switch to online only. He had a point, but our numbers said we were holding our ground in both areas.

  “Great, Walt. You and your team are doing a fantastic job. Take the team out to lunch and expense it. They deserve it, and so do you.”

  The little man, who appeared to have dandruff flaking onto his sweater, leaped up and stuck out his hand. I hesitated, wondering how I could avoid the germ transfer.

  I saluted him. “Thanks again, Walt.” He didn't seem to mind, and he stood at attention and saluted me back.

  Stu, moving twice his normal speed, nearly knocked over little Walt, squeezing through my office door.

  “Did you hear?”

  “What?”

  I looked down at my computer screen and spotted an IM from Brandon. God love Ireland

  I typed in a quick response. God love Ireland

  Stu and I headed west to the meeting room with nothing but glass walls. “I guess Arthur got the note to find someone to clean up the smell in the attic,” I said to Stu, touching my nose.

  “That or the wild varmint dropped a deuce and left the building with the warm weather. Just wait until it turns cold again, and we'll know for certain.”

  I didn't have time to deal with it, so I assumed the best.

  Seated in our regular chairs, Stu and I clicked our pens and glanced at the clock, about five times each. Where was our editor?

  “Sorry, guys.” Brandon nearly stumbled into the room. “Damn printer got jammed. Then I had to change out the ink. Doesn't anyone notice this stuff besides me?” Brandon slid hard copies to both Stu and me. We took our time reading it—I read through it twice.

  “Make any sense to you?” I looked at Stu.

  “No more than the last one. Yet, they are really different, like it might have been written by a different person.”

  “It's gotta be a response to the latest murder out of Oxford, don't you think?” I held up a folder copy of today's edition, where we'd included a small story below the fold.

  “A different personality perhaps?” Brandon tossed in his opinion.

  I nodded. “Let's get the good guys on the phone and review it with them, just like the first round. Then, they can give us an update on what the BSU has come up with from the first post-murder email.”

  Five minutes later, the three of us popped open carbonated beverages. I took a loud slurp.

  “Hitting the hard stuff early?” Carl asked from the Polycom sitting in the middle of our meeting table.

  Guidry got straight to the point as usual. “Have you sent the email yet, Michael?”

  I nodded at Brandon.

  “Give me one minute to log in and forward it,” my editor said.

  “No need to wait, Michael, You can go ahead and read it,” Guidry said.

  God love Ireland

  God love Ireland

  God love Ireland

  I moved my chair left and right, all kinds of theories and questions bouncing around my mind. But I wasn't the expert. We needed the people with the knowledge and the know-how to step up and start putting their stamp on this case...quickly, before someone else came up dead.

  Silence followed more silence.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  “I'm thinking,” Guidry said.

  “Can you think louder?” I responded.

  I exhaled deeply.

  “I'll give everyone my two cents,” Carl said, like he was auditioning for the FBI. “The one after the Baton Rouge email sounded remorseful, like he was trying to explain what caused him to kill those girls. This second one is the polar opposite. In this one, in a strange way, it sounds like he's being interviewed and he's responding to some questions, sharing all of the things that made this relationship with...what was her name, Whitney, special.”

  “Glad to see you have a softer side, Carl...albeit one that relates to a serial killer,” I said,
drawing a smirk from my two journalists.

  “Frankly, Carl's analysis makes a great deal of sense. But you know my answer to all of this,” Guidry said.

  Brandon spoke up. “You've got to get this to the BSU and the cyber unit.”

  “You got it,” said Guidry.

  I bit the inside of my cheek, annoyed at more red tape and the lack of progress from the Feds.

  “Guidry, don't you guys have anything substantive on all the other emails? Savvy email hacking aside, don't the BSU guys have some type of profile they can share?” I asked.

  “I've seen an initial report. Let's just say the net is too wide right now. They use a lot of computer programs and such, and it's not a perfect science. They need more data. Maybe this love-struck email will put us over the edge and narrow it down.”

  “The real question is, how could Foxworthy have sent this email? He's in custody.” Stu pointed out the obvious, but it needed to be said. So many presumptions and theories were polluting the black-and-white facts. I wondered if the authorities could keep it all straight.

  “That was really my first thought. Analyzing the emails...that's hit or miss. But Foxworthy couldn't have sent this. Damn it!” Guidry sounded pissed. “Hold on a sec.”

  We heard voices, shouting, then what sounded like the phone brushing against clothing.

  “Okay, I'm back...and it's not good news, at least not the news we were hoping to see.”

  “What's that?”

  “Just got a personal update on Foxworthy's whereabouts the last two weeks. We have verified accounts of him being at work each day then at home each night. A neighbor, church friend, or golfing buddy vouched for him on every other non-work day. We even checked the times of day to see if he had enough time to drive or fly to Oxford, commit the murder, and get back. Just not possible. Damn it!”