The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “Huerta is a real tool,” I said, cupping both hands around the coffee as Stan exited the parking lot, turning south on Lamar.

  “Yeah well, he has a reputation for being meticulous. He claims to have worked the last two days straight, putting together a second-by-second timeline of how everything went down. The chronology, he said, will provide additional evidence that Miguel shot Tommy and then ran into the living room.”

  “Who does he think shot Miguel?”

  “A SWAT team member. Apparently, the bullet had ricocheted off the corner of a hallway and grazed Miguel.”

  I nodded. “Any way we can get our hands on this chronology?”

  “No way in hell. That’s super confidential. We won’t see it until it’s introduced as evidence in court.”

  I began to think through the other events of that fateful day. “So Miguel has to go through this without his mom, without his dad. Any details on who killed them?”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious who killed his dad. SWAT team, of course.”

  “Of course. So, his mom? The assumption we’d all made was that Matt Garza had killed his wife.”

  “Don’t forget—there were eyewitnesses who saw a man fitting Matt Garza’s appearance in the Walmart parking lot arguing with Berta.”

  “So you said.”

  He paused a second, then finished off the last of his jelly donut. “Ballistics came back on the mom. Matt Garza killed her.”

  It wasn’t unexpected, but to hear it stated so definitively added even more sadness to my heart as I thought about Miguel and his former life. “I guess Huerta and Ballard and even Hubbard got just what they wanted. Everything came together as expected. Everything can be laid at the feet of a crazy dad and his son. A quick trial, whether he’s tried in a juvenile court or as an adult. Either way, the evidence will be overwhelming, his court-appointed lawyer will likely put up a minimal fight, and Miguel will be ushered off. He’ll be forgotten, his conviction nothing more than a trophy for Huerta and Ballard.” I watched buildings and cars whiz by as I gazed out the side window.

  A moan from Stan, and I turned to see him halfway through another donut.

  “Just a glazed donut? Keeping it simple?”

  “Don’t want to overload the calories too much,” he said with a straight face.

  Before I knew it, we were back in front of my apartment building. “Figured you wanted to take your own car to work.”

  “Agreed,” I said, exiting the vehicle. I stuck my head back in. “By the way, did you ever get any information back on Russell Gideon’s travel?”

  His mustache twitched. “Forgot about that.”

  “You haven’t started?”

  “Hold on now. I’ve got Durant working on that. He’s a junior detective. I’m showing him the ropes. I’ll check in, see if he’s got anything.”

  “Let me know.”

  “Will do, although it’s probably a shot in the dark at this point.”

  “That’s all we have, Stan.”

  I was far from putting this case behind me.

  22

  Hubbard propped her pointy chin on her thumb as she read a memo of some kind from her computer screen. She used readers that hooked to a discolored chain around her neck. After making me wait five minutes, she slid off her glasses and turned to me.

  “You’ll be happy to know, Ivy, that the DA is not planning to pursue charges against you at this time.”

  I shot forward in my seat. “Me?”

  She seemed puzzled. “Why else would I ask you into my office? Did you think I was going to name you Employee of the Month for creating this PR disaster?” she asked with an ear-splitting cackle.

  I tried to remember to breathe as I dug my nails into the arm of the chair. “I’m not sure I understand why I’d be charged with anything.”

  “Oh my, you truly are in your own little world.” She rolled her eyes, then calmly clasped her hands on the desk in front of her. “Ivy, my dear, your utter disregard for following procedure at the hostage scene is what likely initiated this deadly fiasco. In speaking with Detective Huerta and District Attorney Ballard, they both—”

  “You spoke to them and you didn’t tell me?” I asked, cocking my head.

  “If you haven’t noticed, I’m your superior, not the other way around.”

  “I thought you wanted me to figure out this grand plan for getting CPS out of the headlines, and here you were talking to the two people behind the investigation.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to accuse me of something?”

  Pressing my fingers even harder into the chair, I attempted to keep my hands from shaking. “No,” I said in a monotone.

  “Good.” She leaned back in her chair. “Now that we have this awful mess mostly behind us, I think we should turn our attention back to our agency’s mission—to do everything in our power to unite families.”

  I pushed myself up. “Anything else?”

  “Well, just so we’re clear. The topic we discussed a moment ago…”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “The DA said no charges would be filed at this time. He was telling me in so many words that if you were to reinsert yourself into the middle of this case, even after charges have been filed, he would have no choice but to formally charge you with obstruction. And if that charge sticks, your employment at this agency would come to an end. Not that you’d have any time to play dolls with three-year-old little girls anyway. You’d be spending all of your effort—and money, I might add—on defending yourself to avoid prison.”

  A string of curse words made it to the end of my tongue, but I withheld the urge to let them fly out of my mouth. “Are you finished?”

  “Of course,” she said, swatting a hand toward her door. “Don’t let me keep you from doing your job.”

  I bolted out of her office so fast I didn’t see Joanna until after I barreled into her.

  “Uh…excuse me,” she said, her lips turned downward in disdain.

  “Sorry, I’m in a hurry,” I said, moving past her as she mumbled something rude from behind me.

  I made my way to the bathroom and spent two minutes in a stall trying to get a grip on my anger and even a little bit of fear. While I’d dealt with a string of rejections growing up, I had found a real purpose with my job. A way to make a difference in the world.

  I walked to the sink, splashed water on my face, and looked into the mirror. It didn’t take me long to determine my next steps. I wasn’t about to wipe the last few days from my memory banks. I marched to my desk, grabbed my purse, and made a beeline toward the garage with one pervasive thought on my mind: I was glad I’d done my research before that passive-aggressive meeting with Hubbard.

  23

  Sitting in the car and slurping the last remnants from my second coffee of the day, I kept my sights on the entrance of the Marriott Hotel in downtown San Antonio. Through a little luck and my inquisitive mind, I’d learned that the Gideons were now living in the hotel. Understandably, they wanted to be away from the house where Tommy had been killed.

  Before my meeting with Hubbard, I’d inadvertently seen a cryptic note on Joanna’s desk. It had two words written on it: Gideons hotel. That was what had reminded me that every piece of data on a foster family had to be recorded in our system. It was the rule. And I knew Joanna, ever the brownnoser, would want to stay in good graces with our bitch of a leader. I’d opened up the Gideons’ online file and found a notation about the family moving into a downtown hotel. Then I found the exact address for Herbert Ross’s law offices. When I looked at a map, I found three hotels within two miles. I went with the closest and made a call to the Marriott, asking if I could deliver a bouquet of flowers to the Gideon family.

  “Of course,” the clerk had said, indirectly confirming their location. “I can’t give out the room number, but we’ll take them right up to the room once you deliver them.”

  Tommy’s death was the biggest tragedy of this entire or
deal. The death of a child, anyone’s child, was a travesty. I just wanted to be absolutely certain who committed the crime and why. And while a lot of data pointed at Miguel as the killer, I had to see it through, to uncover every shred of evidence until the investigation was fully vetted. Only then could I begin to move on, to accept reality.

  Thirty minutes of waiting for a sighting of the Gideon family exiting or entering the main entrance off East Commerce turned into three hours. I went through two Diet Cokes and a package of garlic pretzels. As I fidgeted in the front seat of my car, I realized two things: my death breath could have drilled a hole through my window, and I had to pee like a racehorse. Unsure if I wanted to leave my post after investing so much time, I gripped the discolored rubber steering wheel of my eleven-year-old Honda Civic, trying not to think about water or the smell of my own breath. With the radio on, I started tapping my thumbs on the steering wheel, my gaze drifting over to the passenger seat. I spotted one last garlic pretzel.

  “What the hell,” I said, holding it up, eyeballing it. And then I ate it.

  I yawned and turned back to the hotel. I jolted upright and blinked my eyes to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Russell and Gwen Gideon were standing just outside of the breezeway, and Monique was walking toward them from inside the hotel. She had both hands in the front pockets of her black jeans, and she was barefoot.

  I sat up and leaned forward, wishing I had binoculars so I could try to read their lips. As Russell spoke, I noticed a large binder resting in Gwen’s arm. She didn’t have much to say, it appeared. She would glance at Monique, then turn away. She even looked in my direction, but I knew she’d never notice me in the sea of cars in the parking lot.

  Monique nodded a couple of times as Russell’s hand rubbed her back. She scrunched her shoulders.

  “I don’t trust that guy,” I murmured and got another whiff of my stinky breath.

  It looked like he might sneeze, then he rubbed his nose and spoke briefly.

  There was a quick hug between Russell and Monique, but he seemed to wince a bit, as if she’d touched a sensitive spot. Gwen simply waved, and then she and her husband walked toward the parking lot, opposite from where my car sat. Monique was almost through the front door of the hotel by the time I glanced back in her direction.

  Arching my body until my head hit the car roof, I tracked Russell and Gwen until they reached their blue minivan. I put my hand on my ignition, ready to start Black Beauty. Doesn’t every girl have a nickname for her car?

  I didn’t turn the key. I was curious about Russell and Gwen’s destination, but I assumed they were either headed to a funeral home to follow up on Tommy’s funeral arrangements, or over to the offices of Wilson, Mendoza, and Ross. It took them ten minutes to leave the parking lot. Why? Shared grief? An argument? Once I saw the blue minivan pull out onto East Market, I exited my car and walked inside the hotel. I found a cushioned chair in the corner of the lobby, and then the urge to pee hit me like a freight train. I walked up to the counter, where a hotel staffer was working at a computer.

  “Can you point me in the direction of the ladies’ room?”

  A straight arm pointed across the expansive lobby. The woman’s eyes never left the computer screen.

  “Thank you,” I said, wondering if she had an attitude problem. She didn’t respond, so I hightailed it toward the restroom. Just before reaching the hallway where the restrooms were, an elevator dinged open and out walked Monique. I quickly lowered my head and scooted out of sight until I reached the corridor, which blocked her view of me.

  Had she seen me? With my back pressed against the off-white wall, I shuffled near the corner and slowly leaned forward, hoping that Monique wasn’t right on the other side of the wall.

  My face came within inches of plowing into cleavage. I jumped back just before impact. A bleached-blond woman, who looked to be a combination of forty and twenty, spun around and giggled.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, nearly tripping over my own feet.

  “That’s quite all right, dear. Sometimes, I can’t see where I’m going with these things attached.” She winked and shimmied her shoulders, creating a tidal wave of breast. I was in awe. “Don’t worry, they don’t do bodily harm, although there was that one time when that gentleman couldn’t breathe when I—”

  “Thank you, but that’s none of my business,” I said, moving backward. She laughed and went about her way, and I continued to discreetly search the lobby for Monique.

  I spotted a bouncing head of jet black hair moving toward the exit that led to the River Walk. I really had to pee, but I gritted my teeth and followed her as quickly as I could with a full, aching bladder. When I got to the door, I could see her at the bottom of the steps. She wasn’t casually walking around, taking in the boats gliding along the green river or the sound of the mariachi playing nearby. Her brown, tasseled purse was tucked in her armpit, and she was walking with purpose, swinging her arms.

  I followed the same path, sticking back about twenty yards, blending in with the multitude of tourists that kept most sane San Antonio residents far away from the River Walk. Monique angled right, crossing a short bridge. She was now on the north side of the water, heading west. I wondered if she might stop at one of the many restaurants or small shops lining the murky river, but her head never swayed from looking straight ahead. She appeared to know where she was going. She walked under Alamo Street, and then the stone sidewalk veered north. As I followed her, we passed more restaurants and shops. I picked up a strong scent of Mexican food and my stomach grumbled, which seemed to temporarily suppress my need to pee. Or was it the fast-paced walk?

  Not twenty feet before a sharp bend to the left, Monique made a quick right turn into a restaurant. When I reached the windows of the establishment, I spotted her going upstairs, then sitting at a high-top table by herself. She spoke to a waitress. The urge to pee came back, and feeling like I could spare a few minutes, I found the restroom and did my thing. When I exited, greatly relieved, I decided now was the best time to do what I’d intended. I marched upstairs and squeezed past a large party of folks loitering near a table.

  I stopped in my tracks when I saw a guy sitting at Monique’s table. He had dark, straight hair, as black as Monique’s. He wore a leather, studded choker around his neck. My eyes then moved to the four shot glasses sitting on the table. Monique was giggling. I knew this might be my only opportunity, so I inhaled and marched over to the table, sliding into the straight-back wooden chair opposite her.

  “What?” Her silly smile had quickly morphed into disgust.

  “Don’t mean to interrupt your little binge session,” I said, motioning toward all the empty glasses.

  “Who is this bitch?” The boy had such deep-set eyes that they made his nose look enormous.

  Monique opened her mouth, but I beat her to it. “This bitch is someone who wants to ask a few questions in a calm setting.”

  She curled her lips inward while slowly rising from the chair.

  “You sure you want to make a scene?” I glanced at the glasses. “I thought you were in high school.”

  She sat back down, picked up a glass, and tipped her head back, allowing the last couple of drops to land on her tongue. “Can I get another?” she called to the waitress, who nodded.

  Monique flipped around and pointed a finger right at me. “You think you know everything about people, about me and my family. You don’t know shit.”

  The guy friend chuckled. Then he looked at Monique and realized she wasn’t laughing, so he stopped.

  “I know you must be hurting, Monique. Maybe that’s why you’re drinking.”

  “I’m nineteen years old,” she said as if that signified something special. “Where did you learn that babble, in some Psych 101 class? Spare me,” she scoffed. “Man, I could go for a smoke.”

  “Or maybe something with a little more kick to it,” the guy said. She just stared at him, her eyes bulging for a second. Then she craned her neck, loo
king around the restaurant and out onto the River Walk. At the same time I heard the strum of a guitar through the open-air restaurant. It wasn’t the typical Mexican mariachi. It was more folksy.

  “I’m guessing your parents are busy. At your lawyer’s office, perhaps?”

  She sneered at me, the edge of her lip turning upward. “Jesus Christ, are you a fucking stalker?”

  “Hardly. I just need a few minutes of your time.”

  She stuck out her jaw, then closed her eyes for a moment. “Did you not see what you did to me at the taco joint? I could hardly breathe by the time we left.” Her face was splotchy red, but I wondered if that was at least partially due to her alcohol consumption.

  “I’m sorry, Monique. I didn’t mean to make you upset. Did it feel better to share everything you had bottled up inside?”

  Her back hit the chair. “I don’t know. What do you want? Are you just trying to bring more grief to my family?”

  The guy pounded his fist on the table. “Yeah, what’s your deal, lady? We’re just trying to hang out, chill a little bit, and then you go and get in our faces and shit.”

  I looked at the guy. “What’s your name?”

  “Damon.”

  I shifted my sights to Monique. “I’d rather do this alone. Do you want to throw a bone somewhere and Damon can go chew on it?”

  He began to growl, which was a good sign. I’d begun to wonder if he was lucid enough to follow the conversation.

  “He can stay. What do I got to hide?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Just ask your questions and let us do our own thing.”

  I took in a quick breath. “What was it like when you were first adopted by Russell and Gwen?”

  She froze for a second, her eyes unblinking. “How did you know that?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I’d found the information buried in a hard copy of the Gideon file; it had never been logged into the CPS system. Had Joanna done that on purpose, or was it just shoddy work? I assumed the latter.