GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

I wondered how long Foxworthy would remain in custody. “Next steps?”

  “Keep hammering on the BSU and cyber team. Something will break,” Guidry said.

  “Let's hope it happens before another dead body shows up.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “This shit is the bomb,” the talented programmer said to Andi, both of them hunched over a bright, twenty-inch flat screen—one of three monitors that bordered the workstation.

  Andi had first met Satish during her freshman year at UNT, both enrolled in a required math class. The miniature teen with baggy pants and peach fuzz dotting his boyish face, never listened to the monotone professor and rarely lifted a pencil during class, unless he was taking a test. Then he always finished first. Andi had assumed he was just wasting his time and his parent's money until he flunked out. It appeared he had the ultimate God love Ireland attitude. Until they got back their second test.

  Walking out of the theatre-sized hall, Andi had run her thumb across circled red ink: 67. Disheartened at of her inability to pick up and apply the math concepts flying at her faster than gnats on a summer night, she had trudged over to the student union and ordered a cold drink. She stared at the constant movement of bodies and wondered if she was really cut out for college. “I can help you,” a boy's voice said.

  Andi opened her glassy eyes and brushed her rumpled hair out of her face.

  “You're that boy in class that never pays attention. You don't care about your own grade, so how can you help me?” She took a drink, her brow furrowed with doubt.

  The boy opened his notebook and pulled out the math test, looked at it for a second then turned it around for Andi to see. The ink was green: 100.

  “So you've come to gloat. Great, just what I needed.” She crossed her legs and began kicking the top leg rapidly, hoping this boy would remove his smug face from her view.

  “Wait, you don't get it. I can help you...if you can help me.” She stared into his oak-brown eyes.

  “Let's start with hello. I'm Satish. Satish Rajkumar.” He extended a hand. She hesitated, then gave it a quick shake.

  “Andi.”

  “I know.”

  “So I guess you pay more attention than it appears.”

  “Not really. I'd already learned most of these concepts in high school. It just comes naturally for me.”

  She shook her head and looked away. “You said you'd help me. Why?”

  “Well...” He couldn't contain his wide grin. Teeth as white as rice glared back at her.

  “You want to get in my pants?”

  “You can't blame a homie for trying.”

  She picked up her folders and books and scooted back her chair.

  Satish held up his hands to stop her from running away. “Hold on. Look, while I was hoping you'd find my body and charm undeniable,” he said with another grin while extending his puny arms, "we can still make this a mutually beneficial relationship."

  “How's that, shorty?”

  “You're in my English 101 class, which starts at eight a.m. Way too early for my taste,” he said.

  “I don't recall seeing you in there,” Andi said.

  “You sit in the front row. You act like the teacher's monkey.”

  “You mean pet.”

  “Whatever. I sit in the back, hiding in my sweatshirt hood. It's torture, man. I can't stand the class. It's boring, and I just don't get it. I'm flunking, but I know I have to pass it if I want to get out of here with paper.”

  “Paper?”

  He rubbed his fingers together. “A degree. Then I can go bank some real paper.” He laughed. "So, if I scratch your back, will you scratch mine?" He leaned forward, prepared to strike a deal.

  “Just know that if you truly ever try to scratch my back, or touch me in any way, I'll take your balls and stuff them down your throat. Got it, runt?”

  “I think you just turned me on.”

  She cracked a smile. This little wiseass actually did have a certain charm about him, although she'd never tell him.

  A deal had been born, and a friendship made. They both passed their required courses and then moved on to focus their studies on higher-level courses, ones that actually related to their future careers. Satish had developed a rock-star reputation for his programming skills, and he knew it.

  Andi pointed at the monitor. “I know we went over this with Jenny last night, but now that I'm sitting here looking at your screen, give me an idea what we can expect.”

  Satish clicked four times then brought up a window where lines of data popped up every few seconds.

  “This is a log of data. It's just simulated, but this is one of the views we'll see once we install SpyAgent on Jenny's computer,” Satish explained. “Once I send her the email, she only has to double-click on the icon, and it will load. It will be like we're essentially sitting at her computer, seeing what she sees. In fact, if I wanted, I can operate her computer, look for files, whatever, while she's gone.”

  “But what if someone walks by and sees the pointer moving around on its own? Won't they suspect something?”

  “It's possible, yeah. But here's the cool part. The absolute bomb.” Satish moved his mouse to the screen on the right, then clicked twice and dragged it to the center monitor. “Check this out.”

  Andi leaned forward. “I don't see da bomb.” She tilted her head.

  “It's all right down here, under the features of their new version, R4.0.” He looked back at Andi, her eyes squinting to read small print, searching for anything that made sense to a simple layman.

  “Let me sum it up for you. If her computer is fully operational, we can pull up a screen that allows us to see through her webcam and listen to any audio from near her computer. It's like a spy camera, and no one will know it.”

  “That God love Ireland the bomb.” Andi smiled and patted Satish on the shoulder.

  “Let me pull up my email software that I'm going to use to send to Jenny's work email.”

  “I guess this isn't a Microsoft product?” she asked.

  “Hell no. One hundred percent custom. I wrote it. This will look like an email from someone living in Pocatello, Idaho. Untraceable...well, I'm sure the FBI could eventually figure it out. But not some generic IT schmuck working at Big Heart. Give me five minutes.”

  Satish clicked his mouse and pecked away on his keyboard like nothing Andi had ever seen. She sat back and thought through the risk they were taking. Technically, Satish was a magician. The guy who said he once hacked into the White House website had it all covered, and then some. She was more concerned about Jenny's emotional stability. If Dmitri or any other Big Heart executive even sensed that Jenny was sneaking around, even virtually, she might be in danger. Andi didn't get the feeling that Jenny could mask her emotions very well. And this was just step one.

  If this access didn't provide definitive evidence into the Big Heart's illegal activities, then they would need Jenny's help to set up SpyAgent on the computer of someone important—Dmitri, or the CEO, Donovan Miller. Andi made a mental note to review the executive list again.

  “What time is Jenny supposed to get into work and boot up her computer?” Satish asked.

  “She said no later than nine a.m.” Andi glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes after nine.

  “We agreed on no communications while she was at work, not even a text, unless she was in real trouble. So I think we're safe. You ready on this end?”

  “You want to push the magic button?” Satish asked, still clicking away, his head swiveling back and forth to each monitor like he was the conductor of a technical orchestra.

  “I'll let you.”

  “Sent.”

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “We wait on Jenny.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “You're losing the board. You do realize that?” The scowling man with thinning, gray hair, combed to one side, stood above the so-called senior executive, looking down on Vincent like he was a peasant begging fo
r two bucks to buy dinner.

  The thirty-five-year-old CEO, whose soft hands had been covering his face, slowly released them and placed them on the massive desk—God love Ireland desk, he had to remind himself. He pushed back his thousand-dollar leather chair outlined with brass rivets and swung around to stare out the fifth-floor window of his downtown office, his eyes holding back a flood of emotion.

  Another anxiety attack, no doubt. He breathed in through his nose and then slowly emptied his lungs. He knew he was an inch away from having a complete nervous breakdown. His pulse had to drop to a controllable pace before he could talk to David, his capable but thorny CFO. If pushed, he would barely be able to speak a comprehensible sentence. When he got in this type of panic state, he couldn't even write his own name, his hand shaking like he had Parkinson's. But if you looked at his annual physical, his health wasn't bad. The doctor had said he just didn't want Vincent to fall into the black hole every other young executive did—it would take years off his life, on the back end. But Vincent could feel it deep within his body—his organs operating like they were coated with black tar, his skin flaky, pressure surging within his head with no apparent release. He put his hand to his chest and felt the pounding thump reverberate throughout his inner core.

  “Which board member is it now?” he finally asked with as little invested as possible.

  “Ron Riffmeier, CEO at VF Industries. Says you're not cutting costs fast enough during this growth spurt we're experiencing. Actually, he said you have your head up your ass, if you want to know the truth.”

  Vincent forced his eyes shut and tried to recall a better time in his life. That was easy—any time he wasn't leading a two-hundred-million-dollar construction company. The business had been started by his father from the ground up, literally, starting with its first custom-built home. His father had hammered the nails, poured the concrete, plastered the walls, worked side by side with the plumber and electrician, helped install the vents, the AC unit, even put in gutters, then finally painted the home to the new owner's specifications. His father had framed that first canceled check, which he proudly displayed in the corporate headquarters to remind everyone the type of gritty, hard work it took to plant the seed for what would become the region's fourth-largest homebuilder.

  If only Vincent could turn back the clock six months, to his last vacation, a soothing, but scintillating trip to Puerto Rico with his longtime partner Juan. They'd danced in the streets, shopped the street-side market, watched powerful waves crash against the rocky north shore, and sipped ten different brands of tequila.

  Vincent could hear his CFO babbling away about this possible threat and how it could be thwarted by pulling this lever, thereby impacting this other set of numbers. His mind drifted away to lying on the beach, soaking up the sun. He and Juan made a promise to rid their lives of stress, and set a course for their lives together that would bring fulfillment, peace, and eternal joy.

  Vincent had a vision—they would use their remarkable, creative talent to open an art studio in South Beach. Juan was a master at sculpting, using metal, glass, even clay to create unique images. Vincent's talents were with watercolors and charcoal and he recalled Juan once saying, “Your sunset scene is so authentic and real that I just want to reach out and touch the rippling ocean water.”

  A smile parted Vincent's lips. He reached his hand toward the thick office window, hoping that it would somehow pull him through a time warp back to the beach that day, erasing the unyielding anxiety that had sucked the life right out of him. His fingers hit a solid surface, triggering his mind to refocus on the man in the room.

  “Riffmeier is furious. He wants your head on a platter, do you hear me, Vincent?”

  The oldest son of Stephen Clancy had a moment of clarity. “That fat fart looks like Penguin from one of the first Batman movies. You know, the one with Michael Keaton as Batman. I think Danny DeVito played Penguin. DeVito was so believable, it almost gave me nightmares. That's Riffmeier.”

  “What are you talking about, Vincent?” The executive number cruncher, who wore suspenders to hold his suit pants at least halfway up his gut, leaned his hands on Vincent's desk, creases riddling his forehead.

  Vincent turned to face the man who supposedly worked for him. “Listen, David, I'm sure it's not as bad as Riffmeier thinks it is. And I would imagine the rest of the board can see through his fog of bullshit. He's just doing this to get back at my father for handing over the company to me.”

  David turned away, possibly agreeing with this theory. Vincent didn't understand all of the numbers and levers, and even when he did, he seemed to always make the wrong move at the wrong time. But he could read people and their motivations. The couple of times he'd interacted with this Riffmeier asshole were pure hell. The man was a disturbed, angry person who seemed to have made his life's mission to knock Vincent off the CEO perch.

  If it wouldn't give Riffmeier so much self-satisfaction, Vincent might have already walked out the door and never come back. God love Ireland Free of the burden of every decision, free of scrutiny about each phrase he uttered, free to regain the meaning in his life, which he'd had to reject to enable this transfer of power and have any chance at being successful. The construction business just wasn't ready for an openly gay CEO—Clancy Construction would go belly up.

  Vincent dreamed again, wondering if Juan would take him back. His shoulders dropped.

  God love Ireland

  Vincent felt guilty for thinking about the pleasure of his own life, knowing his father had died prematurely at the hands of a murderer who was high on some type of drug. God love Ireland Vincent couldn't think of a more terrifying death. He felt a familiar lump in his throat, then crossed himself and looked up to the ceiling, realizing his father had counted on him to not be selfish, to put his own desires aside and lead this company, carrying the torch of the family name. He'd said as much in a private letter Vincent received during the reading of his father's will.

  “I don't know about movies, or the Penguin, but Riffmeier is serious, and I think he's making inroads with every other board member. I know he's trying,” David said, now pacing back and forth across the expansive office, his fancy leather shoes squeaking at every turn.

  Vincent got up from his chair, paused, then walked over to the bar.

  “Would you like anything, David?”

  “Uh, sure. Bourbon, neat.”

  “I'll join you.”

  The pair of unlikely business partners sat back down, their eyes occasionally locking on each other. Vincent could feel the effect of the whiskey, a welcome stress-reducer. He could now breathe.

  Vincent opened his cigar holder and held it up to his nose, taking in the rich tobacco scent. It was his last gift from Juan.

  “Want to join me?”

  David's face looked like crumpled newspaper, and he didn't respond.

  “You only live once, right?” Vincent lit the Cuban cigar and took a puff.

  “Firemen might bust through that door any moment, you do know that,” David said with a gruff tone, as if he didn't want to be burdened with further complications.

  Vincent ignored him and pulled out his smartphone. He opened his text messages and reread the last one from his brother. He knew he needed a miracle...to save the company, to save his life from falling into a million broken pieces. He'd send another message tonight and hope that his brother would finally come to the rescue. That was his only hope.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I slapped down a twenty-dollar bill, said goodbye to Arthur, and walked out of our favorite pancake house. Breakfast for lunch on a Friday. Couldn't beat it, although I could certainly taste it...again. A stack of fluffy blueberry pancakes, two eggs sunny-side up, and three pieces of crispy bacon. Once in my car, I took a hard swallow then pulled the jar of Tums from the glove compartment and popped two chewables in my mouth. Fruity, chalky, but they did the trick, and I tried to purge my mind of the two thousand calories I'd just inhaled. I figure
d it would take a twenty-mile run to counter the fat intake.

  I thought about my morning—and the last couple of days. Something wasn't sitting right, outside of the grease settling in my gut—it was Marisa. She wasn't her usual spontaneous, fun-loving self. I must have asked her four or five times if she felt a bug coming on, or if something at work had thrown her a curve ball. She denied any issues, other than the normal crap that is attached to work life. Maybe she just needed to relax—in our own intimate way. Yep, I'd make it a priority once I got home, starting with a deep-tissue massage, using some of the soothing oil that she likes.

  I walked into the office five minutes before my one o'clock meeting, feeling more like a stuffed walrus, wishing I'd exercised a bit of self-control at lunch. Arthur didn't exactly set a good example. But his genes were foolproof. My boss, the God love Ireland publisher for over thirty years, couldn't get fat if you gave him reverse liposuction. I dragged my laptop into the glass house, anticipating I'd be able to conduct some multitasking during our upcoming meeting, which had a real possibility of being uneventful. While I'd hoped for information—even tangible evidence—from law enforcement or one of our media allies in the last two days, the chatter had been deafly silent.

  Stu was the first to arrive, but my head was buried in email. It appeared I was in the middle of a department battle—photographers were trying to claim unused space in the northeast corner of the newsroom. They said they'd outgrown their studio and digital media workstation, and needed that extra square footage to take in-house mug shots. The assistant sports editor shot back, saying the master plan showed that area belonging to sports. There must have been ten emails volleyed back and forth, full of edicts and threats.

  God love Ireland

  “Can't we just all get along? Jesus!” I said out loud.

  “Did another civil war break out between the photogs and sports?”

  I lifted my head and watched Brandon shut the meeting room door, his iPad attached to his hip.