GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “Anything else you recall?”

  “Heard them say a few words. Not sure English is their first language. It was quick. Don't think it was Spanish. Maybe French, Italian? I don't know. It was just a few words.”

  I licked my lips and could feel my heart thumping in my chest, my level of pain increasing with each beat.

  “So you didn't see it?”

  “You getting your head caved in, or out, as the case may be?” She gently touched my headdress. “No, I was on the other side of the city, snaking my way up to Mount Sutro, paranoid as hell someone was watching me, following me.“

  “You never know, maybe there was a third person.”

  Her dark eyes glanced away. “Hadn't thought about that. Michael's brain is coming back to life.”

  “In the worst circumstances, it appears.”

  I stopped and bent down to tie a shoe, a blue and red Nike. I felt dizzy, but I kept that to myself as I stood up. We kept walking.

  “I'm a runner. I recall running back in Texas, maybe some here?”

  “Hell, you told me you've run countless 5Ks, 10Ks and even a half-marathon. I think you're in the best shape of your life, by far.”

  I stuck out my chest and smiled.

  “Don't let that go to your head. I kept the same pace you did when we went running last week. Just so you know.” She grinned ear to ear, proud of her awesome female athleticism.

  We went on a jog together; I stayed in her freakin' hotel room. I think she was telling me we were, more or less, good friends. No one had held a gun to my head, so I must have knowingly allowed this to happen. Or, I guess it's possible I just needed a friend, and she was there. That was easy to imagine, given the vast emotional distance I'd put between myself and every other person I'd come in contact with since I headed west.

  We reached the top of Nob Hill, stopping at the corner of Sacramento and Mason. I turned back around to face north, looking down Mason to the Pacific in the distance, a mostly blue sky outlining a green and gray bump, otherwise known as Alcatraz, in the middle of the choppy ocean. I instantly felt a kindred spirit with the former prison, which now was only a tourist destination. I'd visited the island a month or so into my stay in San Francisco, and I could recount the swell of emotion from my visit. A desperate loneliness. Feeling unable, even unworthy, of bonding with another human. All of my emotions, all of what made me feel alive, human, I couldn't allow to be shared with anyone. I deserved a life of isolation. A life of self-imprisonment—that was the most prevalent thought that bubbled into my conscious state.

  My stomach twisted into knots recalling my mental state of mind. Was I any different now though? I closed my eyes briefly and looked inward. Something inside swirled through my veins, a pulsating desire to breathe in all that life could offer. But I wasn't sure what had created the change. I glanced to my left. Wind swept Andi's long, brown hair this way and that, but she didn't seem to care. Her gaze and thoughts were somewhere lost in the Pacific, just as mine.

  She must have felt my eyes on her.

  “What?” she asked with a puzzled look on her face, her cheeks and nose now cherry red from the cold wind.

  I felt a lump in my throat but not from loss. I felt like I'd re-emerged from a catatonic state. Without thinking, I brought Andi to me and hugged her. Tight. She paused just a second then circled her arms around my back and reciprocated the squeeze. I felt her warm breath against my neck. I could sense her emotional connection to me. I didn't hold on for long, just enough to let her know what her friendship meant to me. We locked arms and walked slowly toward the hotel.

  “You're a Nike person too, huh?” I noticed her green running shoes and the familiar silver Nike swoosh on the side.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “You run a lot, don't you?” I asked, still relearning my life.

  “Run, swim, even bike. Do you recall the triathlon I entered back when you were still running the paper?”

  “Damn, you're just a natural athlete, I guess.”

  Natural. I stopped in my tracks.

  She brought her hand up and squeezed my upper arm. “The Natural. I've got more to tell you. This part is going to be tough.”

  Chapter Eight

  Three Weeks Ago

  Ji held a fork of black cod while he chewed. Eating appeared to be a passion for the former San Francisco police detective turned private investigator. The whole experience for me felt a bit surreal. We sat at my square kitchen nook table, something I'd never done since moving in. The view of the apartment from this perspective was different, and it took me a second to feel comfortable and regain my typical observation mode.

  Built like an oil drum, but at least a half-foot shorter than I, Ji consumed his food with tremendous focus, his eyes never leaving his plate. I could imagine him squaring up against a squatty opponent as a Sumo wrestler. I blinked my eyes and tried to remove images of the glorified thong that covered those athletes. Eating the tasty dish I'd prepared was now the last thing on my mind.

  “Her name is Camila.” Ji scooped up a mound of veggies and gobbled them down. He followed that up with a quick hit of Corona then swiped his napkin across his entire face.

  “Camila. The Natural.” I had to say the name out loud. It made her more real.

  I turned and faced the pudgy PI who'd invited himself to dinner. My portion of the meal remained untouched. Only five days earlier, after I'd bailed myself out of jail, I had casually mentioned to a colleague at work that I was looking for someone who could conduct some research...the kind that didn't involve servers or database tables.

  Turns out, his best friend's cousin knew a former San Francisco Police Department cop, Ji Ho, who had used his connections to quietly make a decent living doing work the real cops couldn't, or wouldn't do on their own. Up until tonight, I'd only spoken with Ji over the phone. He was straightforward, and his bluntness somehow gave me confidence that he could find out the name of The Natural, the girl who had witnessed her loved one's death a week ago, then run away after receiving a message on her phone. At least it seemed like she was running away.

  Honestly, the old Michael would have never taken the giant leap to hire a PI and dig into someone's life to find out who they were, what they were all about—not until my old friend, Reinaldo, was arrested for murdering his alleged lover three years ago. After that, I questioned everything.

  I exhaled, realizing ever since Ji had entered my apartment and sat down, he either focused on his diminishing plate of food or glared straight ahead. He'd yet to look at me directly, into my eyes. I wasn't exactly looking for an intimate connection, but I hoped he wasn't bullshitting me.

  “I think I recall her having an accent,” I said, trying to pull more information from Ji.

  “She's Brazilian. Born in Rio,” he said, staring at the wall in front of him, or nothing.

  I nodded then twisted my head. “Reinaldo was Brazilian.”

  “Who?” he asked with no emotion. A half-eaten piece of zucchini jumped from his mouth back to the plate. He stabbed it with his fork and shoved it into his mouth.

  “Oh, an old friend. Someone from my past.” I shook my head, thinking how ludicrous it was of me to even think about a connection between Reinaldo and Camila, The Natural.

  I opened my mouth, but Ji apparently had great peripheral vision and a quick mind—he answered my next question before I answered it.

  “Rosario. Camila Rosario. Moved to the States when she was fourteen and learned English while in high school.”

  He paused then actually glanced at me for a brief second. I almost shuddered, wondering if I'd said anything wrong. Then again, I was paying him, right?

  “She was an All-State hurdler then went to Cal-Berkeley on scholarship.”

  “Good athlete, smart as hell. You've got to be sharp to get into that school,” I said. “What's she doing now? Managing partner in a law firm, or maybe the Chief Operating Officer at eBay?“

  “Runs a massage parlor on Thir
d.”

  “Excuse me? Did you say massage parlor? The kind that—”

  “She owns the massage parlor. It's legit.” Ji paused all movement for a second, apparently emphasizing his seriousness.

  I nodded and kept thinking.

  “So a Brazilian girl comes to the States, picks up English, earns a track scholarship at one of the best schools in the country, and now runs a massage parlor.”

  “Actually, she calls it Swan Massage Therapy. At times I mix up terms from when I was on the beat.” Ji must have been recalling his days on the San Francisco Police Force. I couldn't tell if that brought him good or bad memories.

  “It's only her and three other part-time therapists, or masseuses.” His slight Asian accent struggled with the last word. I didn't know how to say it either. “She actually performs some of the massages herself.“

  “Still seems like a shame to waste that education on giving massages.”

  I saw Ji open his mouth, but this time I beat him to the next question.

  “Don't tell me she has a bunch of big-name clients, and she became the target of affection for more than one at the same time. Kind of a triangular lovers' quarrel?” I was half-joking, but I wasn't sure if Ji picked up my sarcasm.

  “No.”

  “I was only joking.”

  He didn't laugh. “She used to work for Facebook. She was one of the first ten employees.”

  My heart skipped a beat. All sorts of thoughts and theories raced through my mind.

  “Apparently, she befriended a fellow engineer in her computer science lab at Cal-Berkeley, someone who partied with the Zuckerberg gang since they moved to the West Coast.”

  I shook my head, unsure how someone could be so lucky. Or was she just sharp as a tack?

  “Camila met the wonder boy at a beer bash, and they really hit it off. At least that's what my sources said.” Ji pounded his chest once, like he had to force back a belch, then knocked back another swig of Corona. I could now see creases around his eyes. I guessed he was in his mid-fifties.

  “I'm familiar with sources. Those relationships take time to build. Sometimes they feed you shit just to get you to think or move in a certain direction. It's not a perfect science.” I just realized I'd treated Ji like he was one of my rookie reporters back at the Times Herald. I winced slightly.

  Ji set down his beer, wiped his mouth, and then attempted to twist his barrel-like torso in my direction. The sound of his crumpling leather jacket was followed by a ten-second stare. His beady, brown eyes locked with mine for what felt like an hour. I wasn't lacking for connection any longer. I just hoped he didn't have a gun stashed under his jacket.

  Ji didn't say a word. He turned forty-five degrees and tackled the food remnants. A minute later he continued like I hadn't just interrupted his report.

  “Camila quickly became one of Zuckerberg's most trusted confidantes. Yes, she partied like the rest of the young crowd, but she could hold her own, whether she was partying or talking techie. From what I've learned, every other girl—person—was envious of how Zuckerberg treated her.”

  Camila, a confident, brilliant young woman. That's the girl I first observed at the Fairmont last week. But maybe her connection with Zuckerberg pissed someone off. Enough to kill her lover or husband...who knows?

  “How did she transition from Facebook phenomenon to massage therapist? Did she just cash in and take the easy path?”

  “Partially. From what I heard, it had as much to do with getting out of the rat race and finding peace in her life, at only twenty-eight years of age. Gotta admire that,” Ji said.

  For the first time, Ji appeared human as his prominent, black eyebrows popped up for a second, signaling his lack of trust in Corporate America, possibly any structured system that tended to use people as pawns just to line the pockets of those who likely already had deep pockets. His teeth became visible, and I was pretty sure I just saw a Ji smirk.

  The PI set down his napkin and rested his forearms on the side of the table. “Dessert?”

  I should have known he'd go there, given his self-invitation earlier to partake in the food that was originally meant for just me. I'd split the dish in half, but apparently Ji's appetite was craving for more. I looked at my plate, the food barely touched. I scooted it a few inches closer to the PI.

  He ignored my offering. "Dessert?" he asked again.

  I pushed back my chair then walked over and riffled through my pantry and fridge. "I appreciate all the background on Camila. Pretty amazing work." I glanced over, and he nodded his head and briefly shut his eyes, as if waiting for me to find a dessert.

  “So, were you able to find out what the hell happened to Camila's husband, boyfriend?”

  “Gustavo was her brother. That's all I know. That, and he's three years older than his sister. Was,” Ji said with less enthusiasm.

  For some reason my mind sharpened just a tad. Gustavo was her brother, not a lover or boyfriend.

  “Do you know if she's attached?” I asked, sounding more like a paparazzi reporter.

  “Can't say for sure.”

  I found an old package of Fig Newtons that were most likely stale and set them in front of Ji. He looked at the package then back at me.

  “What? This isn't the famous Postrio, and I'm not Wolfgang Puck.”

  Ji knocked back the last bit of his beer.

  “No more info on who killed Gustavo and why?”

  Ji appeared to bite the inside of his cheek, like he was annoyed with someone. “Don't think the SFPD knows anything. Either that or this investigation is the best kept secret since the escape from Alcatraz.”

  “We've come this far. Can you keep digging?”

  “Can't. Going out of town. New client hired me to conduct background checks on execs living in Hong Kong. I'll be gone two, three weeks, maybe more.”

  “I guess I'll have to go at it alone then. I've got some experience in digging for dirt back in Texas.”

  “Not sure that will do you a lot of good on this case. New city and no contacts. It'll be tough for you.”

  I knew he was right, but I wouldn't admit defeat before trying. Something about The Natural, Camila, had drawn me to her. Maybe I was supposed to be her guardian angel?

  Ji held out his hand. I reached out and shook it.

  “Thanks, Ji. Really appreciate your work on this one. Keep in touch, huh?” I noticed his hand was still extended.

  I turned my head like a curious dog. Then it hit me. "Hold on." I jogged back to my bedroom, opened the top drawer to my dresser, and pulled out an envelope. It was heavily padded with the contents. I jogged back to the front door and smacked the envelope in his hand.

  “All hundreds?” he asked.

  “Straight cash and all hundreds, just like you asked.”

  He stuffed the envelope inside his jacket. He then dug in his front pocket and, with a quick twitch of his wrist, flipped a toothpick into his mouth from a foot away. Did he practice that? He was like an Asian miniature version of Jack Reacher. Cool, and a man of few words.

  Ji turned and walked through the doorway, then he spun back around.

  “I can tell you have some interest in this girl, Camila. Don't let it blind you. It's not every day that someone is stabbed in the back. And I've seen a lot in my days.”

  I didn't doubt Ji. But he hadn't walked in my shoes either.

  Chapter Nine

  Today

  My legs burned, but I kept moving up the hill at a brisk pace. I knew my cardiovascular stamina could outlast just about anyone, including the two gentlemen who'd taken more than a passing interest in Andi and me back at the wharf. After seeing both of them follow me once Andi and I had split up, I purposely took them on a winding path in the general direction of Coit Tower. I weaved back and forth, picking up speed every half block, and after four blocks, my head was still on a swivel. But no sign of either guy. They were either dumbfounded with my whereabouts or, more than likely, doubled over, hands on knees wondering w
hy God put so many hills in one city.

  Still, my pulse clocked faster and faster, not as much from the brisk walk—or should I call it what it really was, an escape—but more from the rising level of anxiety from the series of events that had turned my life upside down the last few weeks. I paused at a corner and scanned the crowd of humans scurrying around like a throng of ants whose mound had just been destroyed. I thought more about my life over the last month, first witnessing a man die, crashing down on top of my table at one of the nicer hotels in town. Okay, I wasn't just a witness, but I only wanted to do the right thing, and it all started when the petite, blond girl with a toned back and an engaging spirit entered my life. The Natural. Camila, so beautiful, but seemingly so tormented. Something about her aura pulled me closer. Maybe it was the wings of Marisa pushing me from behind? Some sort of magnetism existed with The Natural. I just couldn't explain exactly what that was.

  I'd already been targeted once that I know of, although at the time I thought I was being paranoid. So, this wasn't the time to overanalyze the events. I had to stay focused. I could save the deep thoughts for later and do a little brainstorming with my new San Francisco sidekick, Andi.

  I took in a breath and licked my lips. I was thirsty. A storefront two doors down was calling my name. I stepped inside and viewed the eight or ten heads across the aisles. No sign of Barney or Fred. I grabbed a G2, swiped my credit card, and strode out the door. I decided to take a right down an alley, before I headed south just beyond Coit Tower. Walking at a snail's pace, I hugged the plastic bottle under my armpit as I struggled to find the slot in my wallet for my credit card. Dammit! The wallet slipped through my fingers, and it rained plastic cards.

  I kneeled down and cursed myself for letting credit card companies own my life. As I reached for the gold AMEX, a brown suede boot appeared two feet in front me. My heart exploded, because I knew I'd let my guard down. Slowly, I lifted my head, hoping to see a homeless person asking for a handout or a tourist asking for directions to Ghirardelli Square.