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

by John W. Mefford

  I looked around Cristina and saw Megan leaning against a Jeep, her eyes staring at the crumpled note in her hands.

  “I thought you told her to leave the note there,” Cristina said.

  “She didn’t listen. Are you surprised?”

  “I guess not. But damn, she listens less than I do. And that’s saying something.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Ha. I guess I set myself up on that one.” She tapped the top of the door and began to turn around.

  “Hey, Cristina. The cops might also want to arrest the two of us for assisting Megan in this crime.”

  “We didn’t do shit. We probably kept her from hurting herself, then we helped her clean up the best we could.”

  “I was there, I know. But officers don’t care about details. The HOA or a nosy neighbor might have pictures of us. So, I’m just saying, it’s a possibility.”

  “You’re ‘just sayin’?” She used air quotes, grinning.

  “You think I sound like the Brooklyn cousins?”

  “Not as obnoxious, thank God.”

  “Anyway, if you see cops roaming around, just call me. If I don’t answer, then call Saul.”

  “Why? He’s not a lawyer. Wouldn’t I have better luck calling the donut shop to try to get a delivery?”

  I tilted my head and cocked an eyebrow. She’d lost me on that one.

  “You know, cops love donuts. It might distract them.”

  “Ah. Good one. But please cut Saul a break. He’s not a lawyer just yet, but he could be any day.”

  “And you’re still going to want to hang out with him?”

  “Hard to believe, I know. Later.”

  She walked off, and I drove to SAPD headquarters to talk to Stan in person. Midday traffic was light and moving at a good clip. Even the pedestrians seemed to be moving at a faster pace. Probably had something to do with the fact that temperatures had actually dipped into the eighties. And I could see a dark bank of clouds off in the distance. Everyone usually viewed imminent rain as hope for even more temperature relief.

  Once inside the station, the desk officer called up to Stan. A moment later, he called my cell phone.

  “What’s up with the official visit? I’m busy working on…well, you know what I’m working on.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry. You just confused me.”

  “I need to see you in person.”

  “I’m flattered you want to see me again after seeing me just a few hours ago. But, Ivy, I really don’t have the time. I’m trying to write up a warrant that shows probable cause so we can get our hands on the computer system, emails, any form of data at Stonebrook Pediatrics.”

  “Wow, you guys are moving fast.”

  “I’ve got the full support and partnership of the FBI. Nick’s presence has helped smooth over any hard feelings with the local office.”

  “About?”

  “Just another case where we were pointing fingers at each other. Anyway, they’re going to help us sift through all the data, try to find any communications about buying or selling data, and what, if any, kind of connection there could be to this group pulling off the fake kidnappings.”

  “I’m glad you’re going down this path, Stan. I think it’s more efficient than knocking on every door in fifteen different cities, looking for hackers.”

  “Thanks for the endorsement.”

  “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Just yanking your chain. But obviously I’m swamped. And I’m not real good working with one arm, if you know what I mean.”

  “Then come downstairs, please.”

  “Still?”

  “It will be worth it. Trust me.”

  He said he’d be down after he finished typing up his warrant. I opened a magazine and read smut headlines for a couple of minutes. I found myself gravitating to the stories about kids, most of whom were the children of famous stars. They were either involved with drugs, running with a crowd involved in drive-by shootings, or suffering from mental disorders that led to eating disorders and cutting themselves. It was beyond sad.

  I was reminded of a time a number of months ago when I thought I wanted to bypass the boyfriend-husband path and just move straight into having kids. Zahera and I had joked about me going to a sperm bank and sifting through the prospects. Since then, the desire to have kids of my own hadn’t lessened, although my life had been filled with too many horrors to bring a baby girl or boy into it.

  And then there was Saul. We’d kept our relationship simple thus far—no labels or pressure. But we’d have to address the future eventually. He may not have a clock ticking on his baby-maker, but he wasn’t a woman.

  I watched two kids walk in with their mom. She asked if she could see her husband who’d been picked up for drug possession. After that, I couldn’t hear anything else she said. The kids, who had matching blond curls and blue eyes that could melt butter, had dirt and grime all over their faces and hands. One was in diapers, but he looked to be at least three years old. The other, a little girl, wore a T-shirt that hung below her knees. Did the mom consider that a dress?

  I sighed, realizing there were countless kids in the world—in my very city—who were being neglected, yet no one did a damn thing about it. Just because two people could procreate, that somehow gave them the license to raise kids? It wasn’t right, not for the kids.

  “What’s up?”

  Stan caught me by surprise. I stood up. “Over here,” I said, waving him toward the wall away from the flow of traffic.

  “Why are you being so secretive?” he asked, scratching his forehead with his fake hand.

  “I need to show you two pictures.”

  “This is pertaining to what exactly?”

  “Stonebrook Pediatrics, and this conspiracy to get patient data, and as a result, the fake kidnappings.”

  “Now I’m really interested.”

  I held the first picture in front of his face. He quickly pulled my arm downward, while glancing over his shoulder. “What are you doing?” he said under his breath. “That’s two people doing the nasty.”

  “I agree with the nasty part. But do you know who they are?”

  “Not a clue. I only saw the picture for a second.”

  “You want another look?”

  “No,” he shot back. “Follow me.” Moving hurriedly, he dodged the two kids I’d seen earlier and walked into a room off the lobby. He shut the door behind me. “We use this room for lawyers to meet with people whose family members are in jail. Now, I can take a closer look at your porn.”

  “Funny.”

  I handed him the same picture from earlier. He looked at it for a few seconds, then handed it back. “Is there someone famous in that picture I’m supposed to know?”

  “Nope.”

  He flipped his wrist and checked his watch. “I don’t have time to play guessing games. Who is it?”

  “Well, even though we don’t see the front side of her, I’m almost certain it’s Nancy Klein.”

  He went still. “The nurse from Zahera’s office who was supposedly accused of trying to sell patient data to Stonebrook?”

  “That’s her.”

  “I never got around to telling you, but she’s on our list. I’m going to bring her in for questioning.”

  “Does Z know?”

  “Not yet. I wasn’t sure how to handle it. You want to volunteer to talk to her?”

  I told Stan I was headed to her place after our discussion and that I’d relay the message. I knew it would lead to more questions. I’d have to figure out how to handle it later.

  “So who’s the stallion?” he asked.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “No, I’m standing right next to you.”

  That was what I got for using a figure of speech. I let it ride. “It’s Carlos Espinoza.”

  He raised a single eyebrow.

  “The husband of Megan.”

  “O
h,” he said, cocking his head. “Wait. Ohhh nooo.”

  “I know, right? He’s a pig, but he might be a bigger pig than you think.”

  He lifted his fake arm, stopping me before I could continue. “Hold on. What’s he doing with Nancy Klein…well, besides the obvious?”

  “There’s more.” I reached into my pocket.

  “I don’t want to see any more naked pictures. They do nothing for me. And why didn’t you answer my question?”

  “Because I don’t know the answer. I have an idea, or maybe a few ideas. But I need to show you one more picture.”

  He motioned for me to show it to him. And I did.

  His brow furrowed. “It’s the same damn picture. You trying to play a trick on me?”

  “Look closer.”

  “I don’t want to look, Ivy. I might see something I really don’t want to—”

  “Here.” I put my finger on the lower back.

  “Is that a tramp stamp?”

  I couldn’t keep from smiling. “Ever served a warrant to look at a tattoo?”

  “Whose is it?”

  I explained my theory on who the second person might be.

  “Damn, that’s good. I need to keep this as evidence.”

  I told him where I’d found the pictures, and he promptly returned them to me. “Evidence won’t hold up. Does me no good, thank you very little.”

  I then explained the fiasco at Megan’s house. “If you can verify that cops haven’t shown up yet, then I can go put them back and they can find them…legally.”

  “I didn’t hear you say that.”

  “Do you have a copy machine?”

  I made two copies and hurried out of the SAPD.

  48

  I once heard a basketball coach quoted as saying, “It’s better to be lucky than good.”

  Not exactly a great message for the younger generation, but it matched my thoughts after successfully breaking into the Espinoza house and putting the two missing pictures back in the bathroom cabinet where I’d originally found them.

  Once I finished the task, I literally jumped through the open window into the front seat of my Civic, smacking my forehead against the frame of the car in the process. I looked in the rearview and could already see a rectangular bruise forming just above my eyes. “Sonofabitch!” I said, spewing out anything that came to mind to counter the throbbing pain. As was the case every time anyone did something boneheaded, the cussing didn’t help. Well, not as much as I’d hoped.

  I pulled away from the curb, taking a cursory glance around the immediate vicinity. No sign of neighbors holding up their phones. Then again, if they happened to catch that smooth move on video, it might go viral, and then I’d… I’d what? I’d be the laughingstock of the Internet for at least twenty-four hours.

  I motored my way out of the neighborhood, pausing at a stop sign. Just as I hit the gas again, I heard a scream. My heart jumped, and I slammed on the brake. I spotted a woman standing on the sidewalk at the corner. She was purple Spandex and boobs—that was where my eyes went first. Next to her was a boy sitting in a wagon.

  Why the hell had she screamed? I slowly eased by and waved at her. She just stared me down. I was certain she’d spread the word now, maybe posting something to their HOA Facebook page, and then she’d revel in watching all of the other cookie-cutter women pile on.

  Oh brother.

  On my way back into the city, I put in a call to Stan. It rolled to voicemail and I left a message: “Hey, just finished my mission impossible. I survived, more or less. Just checking to see if the cops were called out to the house yet. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, either by a neighbor or once Carlos gets home. Let me know.”

  I ended the call and coasted into the parking garage at Zahera’s condo building just as a few large raindrops hit my windshield. I waved to the doorman downstairs and took the elevator up to the eleventh floor. Just as I was about to knock on the door, I heard shouting from inside the condo. My body tensed. I put my ear against the door. It was Zahera. I could feel my flight instinct shouting at me to turn around and come back later.

  But I couldn’t keep avoiding a confrontation with my friend. Why I thought there would be a clash, I wasn’t sure. I just knew there were too many secrets between us, and something would come along and knock over that first domino. After that, I’d have no choice but to let everything out. The timing might be off, and someone could witness our clash who shouldn’t—mainly Zeke.

  For now, I tried to focus on my initial purpose for coming to the condo: to inform Zahera that Stan would be bringing in Nurse Klein for questioning. The waterfall of questions that would soon follow might drown me. But in the process I hoped to have one big question answered for me: why had Zahera let Nancy continue to work at her practice?

  I knocked, and a few seconds later, Zeke opened the door. He didn’t say a word.

  I didn’t see Zahera, but I could hear her. “I just don’t understand why hired help feel like they have to take advantage of those who’ve had a little success!”

  Zeke extended a hand for me to come in. I nodded, scanning the area for Zahera, all the time feeling Zeke’s eyes on me. Most women would be flattered. I felt awkward at best, and slightly intimidated.

  Then I realized he was staring at my bruised forehead. I touched it, then asked, “Where is she?”

  He pointed toward the back bedrooms. I nodded and walked in that direction. I reached the entry to the guest bedroom, but stopped before walking in. The room looked like it had been taken over by a fifteen-year-old girl. “Hey there,” I said as casually as I could muster. “What’s going on?”

  She mumbled something under her breath as she threw an empty bag behind her, continuing her search for something under one of the two queen-size beds. Mattresses were askew, covers and pillows were piled up in the middle of the room. Dozens of pairs of shoes and shoeboxes were thrown everywhere. I followed the trail to an open closet. She was tearing the room apart.

  “Z, are you looking for something? Can I help you?”

  Just then, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Zeke give me a slight, but definitive shake of the head. I started to turn back around, to leave his gaze, but I found myself rapt by the look in his eyes. Was he ordering me not to offer any help to Zahera because of some signal I’d yet to pick up, or was he simply concerned about agitating Zahera’s emotional state?

  “Mother…” Zahera began to say before sticking her head under the bed. A second later, she popped up, her hair covering her face—a very atypical look for my best friend. She swatted the hair out of her face. “You going to help me or what?”

  A quick glance at Zeke, then I set my purse on the desk and moved to the other side of the bed and looked beneath it. Zeke stayed at the doorway.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “A satchel. It’s brown with tan on the sides, made of leather.”

  I lifted my head and banged it on the bed frame. The satchel.

  “You okay?”

  I was shocked she noticed, given her level of anxiety.

  “No harm, no foul.” I lifted up from the bed, rubbing the back of my head. A bump on the back to match the gruesome bump on the front of my head.

  Zeke was still standing in the doorway, watching me intently. That was when I knew something was different. Prior to all of this mess, he’d been friendly, chatting away about topics that had no teeth—the weather, the stock market, the traffic. Ho-hum stuff. But something was up. He thought I knew something—I just couldn’t tell if his deathly stare had to do with our search for his possible connection to Udovenko, or if it was just a feeling he had about me.

  49

  I heard a loud huff, which brought my attention back into the room.

  “I’m sick of people ruining my life,” Zahera put her elbows on the bed, her hands covering her face.

  “Z, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.” Of course you do, Ivy. It’s in your own damn closet at your apar
tment.

  “There’s no way.” She shook her pointer finger. “I don’t even know why I’m tearing this room apart—maybe because I don’t trust my own instincts right now. Dammit!”

  I walked around the bed, steering my sight away from Zeke, and put my hand on her back. “You want to go into the other room and we can talk about it?”

  “No, I don’t want to go to the other room. Stop treating me like a child, Ivy.”

  She had venom in her voice. I removed my hand from her back. “Sorry.”

  Tears bubbled in her eyes. I found tissues on the desk and handed her one. “I’m sorry I’m being such a bitch,” she said.

  “It’s okay, Z. You’ve been through a lot. More than…” A rush of emotion ran up the back of my throat.

  “Don’t tell me you’re having a sympathy cry.” She giggled through her tears as she stood, then embraced me. After a few seconds, I realized I was holding her tighter than she was holding me.

  Taking a step back, I flipped my head toward the door. “You still have some of that homemade lemonade?”

  “I want to know why the cleaning people took my satchel of letters.” She put a hand on her hip, pointing toward the desk. “It was sitting right under there.”

  She looked at me, then Zeke, who said, “I don’t recall the satchel, baby. I’m sorry. You sure you didn’t put it in another place, maybe the hall closet or—”

  “I told you before, Zeke. I put it right there.”

  Her eyes went back to me. “I never told you about the letters, did I?”

  “Letters?” I asked unconvincingly. Dammit, I hated lying. My face felt flush, and I broke out in a sweat that was normally reserved for July days on the sizzling concrete in front of the Alamo.

  She ran her fingers through her hair. “Dad...” She paused, took a swallow. “He dropped off the bag a couple of weeks ago and said he wanted me to have them. They were notes that he and Mom sent back and forth while he served overseas.”

  Armand must have thought that the damning letters weren’t included in the bunch. “And?”