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

by John W. Mefford

  “Are you sure you don’t want Damon to take a walk?”

  “He can stay…I guess,” she said, crossing her arms.

  The waitress delivered the shot of tequila and asked if I wanted anything. “She’s not staying,” Monique said.

  Once the waitress left the table, I said, “I’m guessing your parents don’t know about your drinking issue?”

  She gave me a hateful scowl. “I don’t have any issues, not unless I count you as an issue.” She laughed and gave Damon a high-five.

  Score one for Monique.

  “How is your relationship with your father?”

  “You mean Russell?”

  “Is that what you call him?”

  She paused for a second, folding her hands in front of her. “It’s fine. He’s not home much with all of his work stuff, but we get along. He’s actually supportive of me, what I do.”

  “What is it that you do?”

  “I go to junior college. Well, I’m only taking one class this semester. It’s this horrible English lit class. Teacher sucks.”

  I smirked. “I’ve been there, but fight through it.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  “What’s your plan, Monique?”

  “I don’t know…have fun, enjoy my friends. Shit will work out. It always does. Right, Damon?”

  “Fuckin’ A, Monique.” He chuckled.

  “Do your mom and dad support this free lifestyle?”

  Her lips drew into a straight line. “More or less.”

  “Which one is it?”

  She released a frustrated breath. “Mom, not as much. Thinks I should have better discipline and figure out what I want to do.”

  “And your dad…I mean Russell?”

  “He’s a good dude, for the most part.”

  I nodded, but I also caught Damon trading glances with Monique. I asked, “What else?”

  Her eyes darted from side to side. “What do you mean?”

  “You and Russell seem to be close.”

  I noticed Damon fidgeting with a cigarette lighter, and he momentarily glanced over at Monique.

  “He’s a good dad.”

  “I thought you called him Russell.”

  “I do, but—”

  “What do you call your mom?”

  “Just Mom, why? Is there something wrong with that?”

  “Do you and your mom get along?”

  “We have our moments. I mean, come on, I’m a teenager. What teenage girl gets along with her mom? Shit, this is all so lame.” She picked up the tiny glass and downed her shot of tequila.

  “Another please,” she said, holding up the empty toward the waitress.

  I had no desire to relive the emotional scene at the taco joint, but she appeared so inebriated that her sharp edges had been dulled, so I went for it.

  “Can you tell me why Miguel was so mad at your brother?”

  Another cold stare. After a moment, she licked her lips then drank a gulp of water. “My lawyer told me not to get into that.”

  “I’m assuming you know that Herbert Ross cares about one thing and one thing only—money. And he’d streak naked down the River Walk here in the middle of the winter if that would increase the amount he could bring in for this case, or any other. They’re all the same to him.”

  Damon tried to refrain from laughing, but he couldn’t contain his bouncing shoulders.

  “I’m not stupid. I know he’s just a lawyer out to make money. But the more for him means the more for us.”

  “Would that make Tommy proud?”

  She quickly rose from her chair, knocking it over as she stood. “Screw you, bitch.” She began to seethe, and although Damon put a hand on hers and she picked up her chair and sat back down, her eyes never left mine.

  “Monique, I’m not trying to get you riled up. Quite the opposite. Miguel isn’t a violent kid, but if he did this—”

  “He did it, all right.”

  Even with my pulse thumping rapidly, I focused on keeping my tone low. “Okay. It’s just not part of his character. I wondered what made him so angry, that’s all.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “I thought I told you this already.” Her eyes shifted in many directions before she looked back at me. “Remember the threats he made to our cat and what he made me do?”

  “And Tommy knew?”

  “I had to share it with someone, so I told him. It just all blew up the other day in his bedroom. He was just trying to protect his sister, that’s all.” She thumbed a tear in the corner of her eye.

  “Why not tell your dad, I mean Russell?”

  She pursed her lips, while looking down at the table. A few beats of silence, and I noticed Damon staring at her, as if he were trying to read what she was about to say. I stayed quiet.

  Monique sat up. “We’ve been taught by our parents to be accommodating to those who have issues, who need our help.”

  I studied her face for a moment. “I don’t believe you.”

  She didn’t snap back at me. Instead, she fumbled with an empty shot glass for a moment before lifting her eyes, her demeanor surprisingly composed. “I tried telling my mom, but she didn’t believe me.”

  “Seriously?”

  She nodded. “It was too outrageous to believe, she said. And I had no proof.”

  A mom asking her own daughter, albeit an adopted daughter, for proof. Sounded like there were trust issues between them.

  “Did you talk to Russell about it?”

  “No.”

  I leaned forward, waiting for more. “And…?”

  “Didn’t tell him. He’s never around anyway. Are we done here?”

  The waitress arrived with her shot of tequila. Just as Monique reached for it, Damon picked it up and drank it, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. The stress at our table was palpable.

  “Anything else you want to tell me, Monique?”

  “About what?’

  “Your theory on why Miguel might have had those issues?”

  She shook her head.

  “Or maybe why you don’t trust your mom?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Or maybe something about Russell?”

  She hopped off the chair. “We’re done now. Damon, pay the waitress. I’m out of here.”

  And then she walked off.

  24

  A tour boat slowly motored by on the river, drifting through a web of spindly shadows. Kids and parents were sitting in the boat, pointing and taking pictures, while I stood on a patch of grass by the river, with my bag hanging over my shoulder, pondering everything I’d witnessed at the table with Monique and Damon.

  A seasoned psychologist would have enough material to fill a month-long seminar based upon what I’d heard and seen. Huffing out a tired breath, I tried to make sense of everything.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” a little kid yelled from the boat, and I turned to my right. The redheaded boy was jumping up and down on the seat. “I think I saw a fishy, Mommy. I think I saw a fishy.”

  I laughed, and so did a few others near me. I started retracing my steps on the River Walk back to the Marriott. Almost instantly I heard that same guitar from earlier. Cupping a hand above my eyes, I looked up at the overpass. Taking the curved, stone steps to Crockett Street, I was pleasantly surprised to see Cristina. With a foot propped on the short railing, she was strumming her guitar and singing her heart out.

  I recognized the song instantly. It was a slower, more melodic version of “Hotel California” by the Eagles. Keeping my distance to not distract her, she played like she was on center stage at a small venue. A few tourists threw dollar bills into her guitar case as the space near her quickly filled with interested listeners. I wasn’t the only one who recognized her talent.

  On the last note, every person within a hundred feet applauded, included those down below on the River Walk. She offered a quick smile, then quickly reached up the neck of the guitar and tuned a couple of the strings.

  “More. Play
another one, “ a man yelled from behind me.

  A moment later, Cristina began to strum the guitar, and for the next three minutes not a soul took their eyes off her. It was a moving rendition of “Hurt” by Johnny Cash. When she finished, I swallowed back a lump in my throat as people hooted and hollered. I stood in line behind about ten other folks, and when I got to the front, I dropped a couple of dollar bills into her case.

  “You never told me you were this good,” I said, causing her to look up at me.

  She held a finger up to me. “Hold on a second,” she said. Then she turned back and thanked person after person for their donations. By the time it was over, she had filled a plastic grocery bag. Then she closed up shop and strapped the guitar to her back.

  “Why aren’t you going to continue? You could really make some dough out here.”

  Before I knew it, she had stuffed a bunch of cash into my hand and closed it into a fist. “That’s for the Krav Maga class. I’ll pay you next week for the next lesson. Deal?”

  “What? No deal. Take this money back.” I extended my arm, but she held up both hands, as if my touch would turn her into stone.

  “If you don’t take the money back, I’m going to throw it into the wind,” I said, lowering my arm and giving her the eye.

  “Okay, you win,” she said, snatching the cash out of my grip.

  “You never answered why you don’t keep playing. Didn’t you leave some money on the table, so to speak? The crowd loved you.”

  She held up two fingers. “Two reasons. The longer I stay, the less compelled they are to hand over their hard-earned money. It’s more of an impulse thing. Their emotions push them to break open their wallets. If they listen for thirty minutes, then they walk away happy, but they don’t fork over the cash.”

  “Damn, you have this marketing thing down.”

  “And second, if I stick in one place too long, I tend to draw the freaks, the ones who know I live on the street and think they can make money off me.”

  Walking along the sidewalk against the westerly traffic on Crockett, she turned her head and returned my stare. I couldn’t help it. She seemed determined, but also wise beyond her years. All of this was about her survival. I had both admiration and empathy for this girl.

  “Stop staring; you’re creeping me out,” she said.

  I patted her shoulder and turned my attention to the folks milling about. “I’d offer to take you wherever you need to go, but I have a decent walk to get back to the Marriott parking lot.”

  “Did you have a nice one-night stand?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Is that supposed to be a weak pun?”

  “Funny,” I said with a wink. “Seriously, I didn’t hook up with anyone at the hotel. It’s just part of this crazy case I’m working on.” I wiped my hand across my face. The road ended at Alamo Plaza. “I’m going right. How about you?”

  “Eh, I’ll tag along,” she said. We moved south, passing a number of bars, including Pat O’Brien’s. “Does your case have anything to do with those two Goth drunks back on the River Walk?”

  “You saw me?”

  “I can walk and chew gum at the same time”

  “I’m not following you, sorry.”

  She smirked. “Before I start one of my sets on the streets above the River Walk, I stroll down by the river and play my guitar. People tend to follow me like they’re in some type of trance.”

  I smiled.

  “When I was leading the pack of people over to the stairs near Crockett, I saw you, the girl, and Damon.”

  I stopped in my tracks and grabbed her arm. “You know him?”

  “Of course. Everyone knows Damon.” She stared at my hand.

  “Sorry,” I said, releasing her arm, and we resumed our slow walking pace. “How do you know Damon?” My whole body buzzed with a new burst of adrenaline.

  She glanced at me, then shifted her eyes back to the sidewalk. “It’s not pretty.”

  “That doesn’t scare me. Spill it.”

  “Look, I haven’t always been this bubbly, glass-half-full girl you see now.”

  I snorted out a laugh.

  “I was joking, kind of,” she said. “I’ve been sober for forty-four days.” She unzipped her guitar and tapped the barrel of her instrument. “And hopefully I’ll make it to forty-five, if I’m lucky.”

  Another demon that she had to slay each and every day. “I underestimated you, Cristina. You’ve lived quite a life. You should be proud of yourself.”

  She nodded. “I can’t get cocky. I’ll start thinking that I’m better than I really am…that I’m like everyone else. But I’m not. I’m an addict and have to remind myself every hour of every day.”

  “Is the urge to use that intense?”

  “I have my moments. But when it’s on, it’s like a thousand on a scale of one to ten.”

  I wanted to give her a big, encouraging hug, but knowing her, that was the last thing she would want.

  “It can be enhanced when you’ve got someone teasing you with it.”

  “Stay the hell away from those people.”

  “I am. Well, I’m trying anyway.”

  I looked at her and saw a trench forming between her eyes. “Anything you want to share?”

  “Nah, just some douche bag who thinks he’s God’s gift to…everything.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, did you have a drug of choice?”

  “Coke, and I don’t mean the drink,” she said. “Nothing else hooked me, not even weed or booze. I tried a few other illicit drugs, but the coke turned me into a different person—I guess the one I wanted to be at the time. I needed an escape to another world, and I found mine.”

  “Did Damon have anything to do with that?”

  She smacked my arm. “He was my first connection to it when I hit the streets.”

  “Is he a dealer of some kind?”

  “He tried at one point, but he failed at it, just like he failed at everything else he’s tried.”

  We reached East Commerce and headed east, the sun now hidden behind another hotel in the area.

  “What was his game with you?” I asked.

  “Like a lot of guys, he thought he could get me high and screw me. I call his type a bottom-feeder. They go after the ones who they think are the most gullible. But I was young and naïve when I first hit the streets.”

  She acted like that was ten years ago. Then again, I knew trauma could age a person at three times the normal speed.

  “So I’m trying to get a better idea of what Damon might be doing with Monique Gideon, the sister of the boy who was killed the other day.”

  “The hostage situation. That one sucked.”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s probably just trying to use her to get his fix.”

  I let the swing of my purse distract my thoughts for a moment. “Through her? I guess I can imagine her doing drugs, especially after our discussion. She was drinking tequila like it was water.”

  Cristina nodded.

  “But I don’t know how Damon would be able to get his drug fix by hanging out with Monique. Know what I’m saying?”

  She twisted her lips. “Maybe she’s got money.”

  I thought about Russell’s job, the amount of money he was making. And then I jumped to his travel schedule. I hoped Stan wasn’t blowing me off and he actually had his junior detective doing legwork on Russell’s itinerary.

  “It’s possible,” I said. “But this Damon guy sounds like bad news for anyone to hang around with.”

  “No doubt. I haven’t seen him in six months. Not until today.”

  A few more paces, and I realized we were in the shadow of the Marriott. We stopped under the canopy of a tree.

  “Did you know you click your tongue?” I asked.

  She just looked at me.

  “A tune in your head?’

  “Always,” she said with a slight smile.

  My eyes drifted away.

  “What�
�s on your mind?” she asked.

  “Monique and Damon. There’s something there that didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the drug thing they share. But somehow it seemed like whatever they’ve got going on is connected to the murder of her brother.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Stan might say I’m dreaming up something just to get Miguel off the hook.”

  “Who’s Stan?”

  “A detective.”

  “You have a cop friend?”

  I chuckled. “Those do exist, you know.”

  “I guess,” she said as her feet suddenly became antsy. “I’ll ask around, see if I can find out what Damon is up to.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ve got to promise me you won’t put yourself in a situation that is unsafe or risks you falling off the wagon.”

  She licked her lips, as if she had something to tell me, then she swiped her finger across her chest in the form of an X. “Cross my heart, Mom,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’m a little too young to be your mom. Older sister perhaps?”

  She extended her hand to me. “You going to leave me hanging?” she asked.

  I held out my hand, and she smacked it. “Man, you’re old.” She flipped around and walked off. “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you, Cristina. And if I didn’t tell you before, we have very little time.”

  Without turning around, she said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  25

  He removed the green handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose, his steady gaze capturing every little nod or hip wiggle as Ivy Nash sauntered across the hotel parking lot. A dad walking past him on the sidewalk yanked his son’s arm, saying, “Get away from that freak,” and quickly scooted the child away—even as the boy pointed back at the man who knew his cold stare made people shiver. Despite the head cold he was suffering, the man smiled, on the inside. He tapped his fingers on the bark of a tree, trying to recall ever really smiling on the outside. Apart from a handful of instances when a euphoric feeling of control morphed into unconstrained jubilation, he was hard-pressed to come up with a single memory of being happy enough to smile.