The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “Isn’t that part of Saul’s job?”

  I slowly turned my head toward Cristina.

  Nick’s eyebrows popped up. “Wow, did she just say that?”

  “Oh yeah she did,” Stan said.

  “That’s not something you should be thinking about,” I said to her, then turned back to the fellas.

  “I do have a boyfriend…well, more or less.”

  “Has anyone ever given you the talk about the birds and the bees?”

  She exploded with laughter. “Do you not recall my background? Birds and the bees? I’ve been exposed to fucking snakes.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Not that this is the time or place, but my new teacher, Mrs. Foster, she’s given me a solid.”

  We all just stared at her.

  “Oh, that means she’s talked to me a couple of times about…you know, men stuff.”

  Men? I didn’t even want to go there. Yet, something about her going elsewhere for advice on such an important topic gave me pause. Maybe I felt a little underappreciated. Or jilted. Something like that. It just added a new layer of frustration on top of the other crap.

  42

  I looked at Stan, hoping he could rescue me from Cristina’s shock talk. “So, the fake kidnappings…”

  “Right.” He cleared his throat, flipped a few pages in his notebook.

  I noticed that his dexterity with his prosthesis had improved. He seemed more confident in using it. Or maybe he’d just come to terms with his situation and was making the best of it. That was one bright spot to cling to.

  “So, just to show how a good law-enforcement partnership works…” Stan said, momentarily glancing at Nick. “Working with the IT guys at the local FBI office, they’ve been able to narrow the scope of possible locations of the phone calls to fifteen.”

  “Just fifteen?”

  “Yeah.” He thumbed through a couple of pages in his notepad, apparently not noticing my sarcasm. “That’s an improvement of ninety-four percent.” He raised his eyes, a look of accomplishment on his face. I went with it.

  “Okay, so we’re down to fifteen. Seems to be a workable number. Where are the locations?”

  “Let’s see, one is in San Mateo, California—”

  “Near Silicon Valley,” Cristina said. “Could be a couple of young punks who are computer geeks and can hack into any system they want.”

  I heard a buzz, pulled my phone from my purse, and then set it face down on the desk. One drama at a time.

  “Well, that’s the basic profile we’ve compiled. But realize that when I say San Mateo, I mean anywhere within that general area. They’re still working to try to narrow it down further, possibly to a specific neighborhood.”

  “They could be on the move,” I said. “They could be in San Mateo one day, Vegas the next.”

  His mustache twitched. “It’s possible.”

  I could feel my neck getting stiff. I forced myself not to rub it. “The other locations?”

  “One in Idaho, one in Northern Virginia, one in—”

  “Isn’t the FBI headquartered in Quantico?” Cristina asked, looking at Nick.

  “Well, we have the FBI Academy there, as well as other operational functions.”

  “Maybe it’s someone there who’s turned to the dark side.”

  “Can’t rule anything out,” Nick said.

  “The next one is in…” I motioned my hand for Stan to continue with his list. My phone buzzed again. Now I was beginning to think I was being spammed.

  Stan turned a page in his notepad and continued. “One was in Austin, or they think more than likely in Round Rock, and then eleven more across the globe. I can read them all if you want, but it’s kind of a waste of time.”

  It seemed like this entire arm of the investigation was a waste of time, or just taking too damn long. Emptying my lungs, I set that notion aside. “Cristina, do you want to share with Stan what you learned about the victims?”

  I saw Stan’s eyes shift between Cristina and me at least four times.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “We’re all good,” Cristina said. “Don’t look so worried, Stan. It’s not like we’re felons or anything.”

  I took note of her including me in that statement, as well as using the term “felons.”

  Stan carefully lifted his fake arm and rubbed his nose. The way he concentrated on making that small move was as though he were disarming a bomb.

  To keep us focused on what really mattered, I went ahead and communicated the information Cristina had learned. I also shared the details on the Klein sisters—they appeared to be sisters—how Nancy was accused of giving patient information to Stonebrook Pediatrics, and how we found out that Lisa worked at that same medical group.

  Stan nodded when we finished, while Nick seemed to be in another world, texting on his phone.

  “What?” I asked Stan.

  He motioned to me and Cristina. “Have you asked Zahera the details of why she let Nancy stay on as an employee, or if she had actual evidence of data being given to this other company?”

  “She was out of town, and then her father died. Now that she’s back, I didn’t want to put anything else on her, especially if we’re not sure about the details. She might have a perfectly good reason for why she kept Nancy.”

  “Although, Kelly couldn’t think of one, right?” Cristina added.

  “Who’s Kelly?” he asked.

  I told him, then said, “You’re right about Kelly, Cristina. She couldn’t. She thinks Nancy should have been fired. But Zahera takes her business very seriously. I can’t imagine her blowing this off and giving her a second chance.”

  “Yeah,” Cristina said. “She’s acting as if Nancy might have just taken a pen from the office supply cabinet.”

  My phone buzzed three times, all in short stabs. I began to lift the edge of the phone when Stan said, “Maybe this Nancy person has something on Zahera.”

  I dropped the phone. “Do what?”

  “You’ve got my mind thinking about every possible conspiracy theory out there with Zeke and this Udovenko creature. I’m just sayin’ there has to be a logical reason, even if it’s a little seedy.”

  Again with the I’m just sayin’.

  Stan went on to say that a crime could have likely been committed, and he wanted to know more. We agreed to give Zahera one more day to grieve, and then we’d have no other choice but to have a discussion with her.

  “Now,” he said, his fake arm swaying back and forth between me and Cristina. “How did you get this information?”

  “Don’t answer that.” I pointed at Cristina, then turned back to Stan. “Do you really want to go there?” Stan growled. He knew me. He knew he could trust me. But he also knew I would do anything to protect my friends and my clients. I then said, “The point is, a majority of the victims intersect at Stonebrook. I think we need to take a deeper look at this Nancy Klein, for starters.”

  Stan said he would do just that and get back to us. I waited to hear more, but that was it. I’d hoped he would say that the SAPD would raid the Stonebrook offices, confiscate all data and communications, and arrest Nancy Klein on suspicion of conspiracy. But that wasn’t going to happen. Another lesson learned for me, even at age twenty-eight.

  He pulled his stuff together while having a quiet conversation with Nick in the corner. I finally turned my phone over and looked at the screen. There were a dozen text messages, all from Megan. The last two said: I’m devastated, and then, I’m going to kill that SOB.

  I grabbed Cristina and ran out of the office.

  43

  As we sprinted for the Civic, Megan texted her location, followed by a string of curse words. She wasn’t making a lot of sense. When I turned the ignition key, my phone dinged again. Cristina plucked it out of the cup holder and read the message out loud: “If something happens to me, then take care of my kids.”

  “What the hell?”
I felt a jolt at the base of my skull at the exact time I hit the gas. Tires screeched off the hot, dry pavement.

  “I don’t know, Ivy. What should we do?”

  “Text her back. Keep her talking. While you’re doing that, tell me where to go. Never heard of Flying Arrow Drive.”

  She pulled out her phone and punched in the address. “Go north on 281 for now.” She then used her left hand to type something on my phone as I rolled down the windows. The damn AC seemed to be blowing out warm air.

  “What are you saying to her?” I quickly asked.

  “Asking her if she knows of a good swimming pool to go to.”

  With one eye on the road, I turned in her direction. “What the—”

  She gave me a forced giggle. “Too much pressure. It’s all I could think of. I figured it might be so strange that it would take her mind off whatever was stressing her out.”

  “I like the strategy. Hope it works.”

  Cristina took another look at the address. “It’s in Stone Oak, that ritzy area. I think it might be her home, or her former home.”

  We zipped up Highway 281 north of San Antonio, where all of the rich folks lived. As the wind rippled through the open window, I worried about what might be going on with Megan. Even though it was only midmorning, Megan could have already downed a bottle of vodka, returned to her home, and…what? I couldn’t take my fears to that next step. I’d seen heartbreak from Megan that was tough to stomach. Frankly, I felt like she had the capability of doing anything in a drunken state.

  I increased my speed above seventy, and we crossed Loop 1604 in no time. I exited at Evans and headed west. We entered a gated community where there were numerous signs warning us to slow down to twenty miles per hour.

  “Where’s Flying Arrow?” I asked, increasing my speed up to twenty-five. Then, I saw a mom pulling her two kids in a wagon, and I lifted my foot off the gas.

  “Left, then right at the corner, then another left. Oh, then one final right.”

  “It seems like they’re purposely trying to get us lost in the maze. But it’s all just one big box of streets with houses packed in here like it’s an inner city. Do these master planners think people have forgotten they live in one of the largest states in the country?”

  For once, Cristina held off on her response, so I replied to my own question. “Apparently.”

  I executed the final right-hand turn, then dodged about a dozen cars parked along the curb. “That’s dangerous as hell. I’d think the Homeowner’s Association would take away the first-born child with an infraction like that.”

  “You sound like me,” Cristina said.

  “Just calling it like I see it.” I nudged her arm to get her attention. “Sound familiar?”

  She gave me a mocking smile. “Ha.” Then she looked up. “Stop here.”

  I pressed hard on the brake, and we rocked to a stop. I jumped out of the car and took a quick gander around us. The neighborhood oozed money. The landscaping alone on any one of these two-story brick McMansions was worth more than ECHO. Even the gas light hanging near the front door was probably worth a thousand bucks.

  “Should we ring the bell?” Cristina asked.

  “Text her,” I said, realizing she still had my phone.

  “No response,” she said after about ten seconds.

  “Give her a minute.”

  “A lot can happen in a minute.”

  “Technically, she’s not supposed to be here.” I pressed the door handle. It was locked. I tried looking through a vertical window next to the door. A sheer curtain reduced my visibility, but I didn’t see any movement. “We can’t be sure who is here with her. Let’s take a quick run around the house. We might find an unlocked door or possibly see her inside.” I led the way around the house, pausing every few feet to look into windows. An empty bedroom. An empty office. Another room with closed shutters.

  We made it to the back and entered the gate to the backyard. Once inside, I felt like I was being held captive. The fence, which looked like it had been handcrafted and stained by a world-famous Italian designer, was about ten feet high. I spotted at least twelve landscape lights on the fence. At nighttime, I was sure this gave homeowners a feeling of security, but the way I was seeing the scene, they seemed more like prison lights. Was it all set up to keep bad people out…or to keep good people in?

  I wondered the same thing about all of these types of gated communities.

  A glint of light from inside the house drew my attention.

  “It’s Megan,” Cristina said, pointing.

  I ran up to the window to get a clear view, and my flats crunched over broken glass. I looked up to see Megan disappear down a hallway before I could call out her name. “I think I saw a knife in her hand.”

  “What? Are you sure?” Cristina leaned closer to the window. “Yell for her, dammit.”

  “Hold on. Not sure who else is here.” We spotted a broken pane in the window. “Wonder if that’s how Megan got in.”

  “Doesn’t she have a key?”

  “I’m guessing Carlos had a locksmith change out the locks.”

  “On top of the court order. Dickwad,” she said. “He really knows how to kick a person when they’re down.”

  “Yeah, I know. Even though Megan’s a client, I guess we have to look at it from his perspective too. I mean, she’s kind of gone off the rails. He might be afraid for the kids. Or maybe just sick of her alcoholic episodes.”

  “Wow, who’s the cold-hearted one?”

  I ignored her and walked around about thirty potted plants—most filled with plants so vivid with color they looked fake, somewhat like the neighborhood. I got to the back door. It was locked.

  Cristina pulled up next to me. “How the hell does she expect us to get to her when she’s locked herself inside?”

  We locked eyes as realization hit us.

  “You don’t think she brought us here to find her dead—”

  I put my hand up to her mouth. “Don’t say it.” I flipped around and banged on the door. “Megan, please open the door. It’s Ivy and Cristina.” I paused, cupped my hands to the window in the door. Cristina did the same. “See anything?”

  “No,” she said, shifting down the long bank of windows. “Still nothing. Where did she go?”

  She couldn’t kill herself. We couldn’t let it happen. “Follow me.” Fear ignited an extra burst of energy, and I sprinted across the porch and into the yard. Around the far side of the house, I ran into another gate. I pushed down on the lever, but it didn’t move.

  “It’s locked,” Cristina said, putting an eye to the crack. “Looks like Carlos has a padlock on it. Combination padlock.”

  I retreated five steps to look over the great wall. I could see the top of a framed window on the other side. “I think she’s in that room. Come on.” We had to run all the way around the house to travel about ten feet in real distance. Once there, we only saw the lining of a curtain. We both used open palms to bang on the window, yelling and screaming her name. That went on for a good minute. But no one came to the window.

  “Ivy, what if—”

  “Hush.” I panted like I’d run a mile. “Crap. I think we’re going to need to break the window.”

  “Let me find a rock.”

  “My gun. It’s in the glove compartment.”

  “I’ll get it,” she said.

  “No, you won’t. Stay here.” I ran to the car, unlocked the glove box, and pulled out the gun. I didn’t bother loading it with bullets. I stuck it inside my jeans and covered it with my shirt. I was sure that if any unsuspecting soccer mom saw me racing across the lawn with a gun—having pulled it from my beat-up car—she would call in some private SWAT team. So far so good, from what I could tell.

  I made it back to the window on the side of the house, huffing a bit. “Any movement?”

  “Nope. Nothing. Ivy, I’m really worried.” Cristina bit down on her fist. I could see tears welling.

  “You can go
to the car. In fact, get ready to call nine-one-one. I’ll give you the signal.”

  “No. Just go ahead, bust out the window.”

  “Get back,” I said, moving in front of her. Facing the grip of the gun toward the window, I brought up my arm to cover my face. I reared my arm back and…

  “Stop!” Cristina screamed.

  I lowered my arm to see two ominous eyes staring me down through the window.

  44

  With her face dripping with tears, Megan opened the back door and ushered us inside. My eyes, however, were stuck on the butcher knife in her hand.

  “What are you doing, Megan? You know you shouldn’t be here.”

  Her chin quivered, her gaze drifting until it landed on a family picture on the sofa table. She picked it up and ran her finger across the images of her son and daughter. “My darling, sweet kids. Annie and David,” she said, in a soft but raspy voice.

  I wondered if she’d screamed half of her voice away.

  “A mom couldn’t ask for two more perfect children. They are the light of my life. The only things that make me want to live.” She raised the knife, but then only scratched her chin with her finger.

  I glanced around, listening closely for any other noises. “Megan, I’m assuming no one else is home?”

  She shook her head, but her eyes never left the picture. I spotted an open bottle of what looked like vodka or gin sitting on the mantle.

  “Hey, let’s get out of here. We can take you to a diner, get some food, and you can share everything you’re feeling.”

  “I don’t want to go. I want to stay here…until Carlos gets home.”

  Cristina and I exchanged a quick look.

  “Megan, I know you’re upset. It sucks to not be allowed in your own home.”

  Her lips moved, but no words were spoken. Was she having some type of nervous breakdown?

  I took a step closer. “Megan, can you hear me?”

  “That piece of shit! He’s not going to get away with this.” She hurled the framed picture across the room, smashing it against the fireplace mantle. Glass sprayed everywhere. She began to pound her feet like a little girl throwing a tantrum. I had my eyes on her knife. Her arm was flailing. She was going to cut herself, or worse, if she wasn’t careful.