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

by John W. Mefford

  It was fucked up.

  “Your kid is running off,” Cristina said as an introduction.

  The woman didn’t seem to notice, and the two other guys continued their discussion as if Cristina were invisible. Damon slowly turned around and eyed her as he licked the edge of a small piece of paper and sealed it to the other side. A joint.

  “What do you know, little Crissie shows up just as we unveil this week’s best nose candy,” he said with a lazy smile.

  Swallowing back a dry patch in her throat, she shuffled a few steps closer. The toddler had tossed the beer can aside and was now crawling headfirst into an open garbage can resting on its side. “You know I don’t like that nickname, Damon. Just call me Cristina.”

  “Crissie, Cristina, Cristoval…whatever. It’s all the same to me, especially when we’re in party mode, right, Mrs. G?”

  The woman, who was gripping both sides of the table, lifted her head. Her face was coated with white powder, and she swayed left and right, as if she were on a raft in the ocean. Her eyes didn’t focus on Cristina or anything else.

  “You remember Mrs. G, don’t you, Crissie?”

  Cristina squinted her eyes, trying to place the woman.

  “Remember? She and her husband used to run the cleaners over off Yucca Street.”

  “Do you know your kid is digging through a trash can?” Cristina glanced over at the kid. She could only see his feet and butt hanging out of the trash can. Part of her just wanted to run to him, pull him out, and take him to Ivy, anywhere away from this hellhole.

  “Yo, Mrs. G is in another universe right now,” Damon said with a snort that almost made him lose his balance. “She knows that her little brat will be okay. I’m here, so what could go wrong?”

  Another snort, then he turned back to his table. Cristina did a quick three-sixty to ensure no one had snuck up from behind. It was all clear, except for the folks directly in front of her. An instant later, Damon was in her face with a joint. “What do you say, Cristina? Just like old times?”

  She turned her head. “Nah, man. Trying to stay clean.”

  Lowering the joint, he seemed to size her up. “You’re playing hard to get, aren’t you?”

  She ignored him as he grabbed a plate off the table and turned back around. The plate had four lines of coke on it. “Two for you, two for me.” He winked, then said, “I’m already ahead of you, but I’ll let you play catch-up if you’re nice. And we both know what comes after nose candy.” He chuckled so loudly she put a hand to her ear.

  Damn, he was obnoxious. And gross.

  “Not interested, Damon.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “But I guess that means it’s more for you and Mrs. G?”

  It took a few seconds, but he slowly nodded. She assumed his brain had been fried ten times over.

  “Yeah, more for us.” He put his back to Cristina and leaned over. She could hear a loud snort. Then he jumped up and down like a little kid at an amusement park. “Damn, this is good shit.”

  “How’d you get it?” she asked without thinking.

  “What are you talking about? I’m banking these days.”

  He was full of shit. His leather jacket looked as if it had been run over by a hundred trucks, and his T-shirt was covered with brown and red stains.

  Cristina took another glance at Mrs. G. She’d never heard her real last name, only that she liked to party, regardless of her husband’s objections. It was obvious she couldn’t tame the wild beast deep inside of her. And now she was putting a helpless kid at risk as she went through a mound of blow. She sat up, wiping the sleeve of her denim jacket across her face. It must have scratched her nose. “Fuck!” she said, and then she tore off the jacket and threw it to the side. In the process, her finger had caught the inside of her blouse, ripping three buttons right off, exposing most of her left breast.

  Cristina picked a scab on her earlobe, where she once had an earring, as she became more uncomfortable with the scene with every passing second. She knew her time to question Damon was now, or it might not be at all, considering his condition.

  “I heard you’re with this new chick, Monique Gideon.”

  Without turning around, he said, “Just another ho, that’s all.” He bent over the table and inhaled another line of coke.

  “I hear it’s more serious. You might have something going on with her.”

  Chuckling, he stood up and turned around, his hands on his waist. Then he pointed at Cristina. “What the hell business is it of yours?”

  “It’s not,” she said, holding up two defensive hands. “It’s just that people are talking.”

  He swatted a hand at her and started to flip around to his precious drug table. But he stopped and appeared to stare at the shadow flames dancing on the brick wall. “Who’s talking?”

  “People on the street. They say she’s hanging with you all the time, practically attached to your hip. They say you’re whipped.”

  He scratched the side of his scruffy face with enough vigor to peel paint. “Are they calling me PW?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Everyone. Surprised you haven’t heard,” she said, glancing over at the boys by the drum. They were mumbling about something, oblivious.

  “Damn Monique. She’s nothing but a bossy bitch anyway.” He kicked a rock, and it nearly hit the back of the kid still digging in the trash. But he didn’t seem to care about the kid’s safety. No one seemed to care.

  “Why are you hanging with her so much?” Cristina asked.

  “Hang with me, Damon, and I’ll blow your balls right off,” Mrs. G said, pinching out a high-octave squeal.

  “Ah, hush and keep out of my business.”

  Now it was all about his business, the lust for his almighty party suddenly an afterthought. Cristina pressed further.

  “When it comes right down to it, the only thing we got is our reputations. But I guess people can come back from the PW doghouse. It’s happened,” she said.

  “Fuck that. Damon didn’t go anywhere.” He pointed a finger a foot from her eye. “You go tell everyone that Damon is still a player. Ain’t no girl gonna cramp my style, that much is certain.”

  Cristina moved closer toward the kid, who’d just popped out of the garbage can. What was he playing with?

  “Did you hear me, Cristina? March your ass around this city and you set everyone straight. You will do that for me, won’t you?”

  “I’m not your frickin’ PR agent. Besides, it’s up to you to set the record straight. And it isn’t about the words; it’s about the actions.”

  He lit up the joint and took a long drag. “I can’t deal with all this shit now. Too much going on in my life.”

  “Like what?”

  His eyes drifted to the ground, where he rolled a rock under his boots. He took another deep puff off the joint. “It’s grown-up stuff, Cristina. You’d never understand.”

  He’d never talked like that before, never cared to shield anyone from life’s harsh reality.

  “What are you talking about? I told you about some of the crazy shit I’ve been forced to do in my life. Nothing surprises me, including that so-called adult stuff. Just because someone is forty years old doesn’t mean they have two brain cells to rub together.” She extended a hand toward Mrs. G. “Case in point.”

  Nodding, he took another pull from his joint, and a strong waft of weed passed right by her. Surprisingly, she only felt a slight urge to take Damon up on his offer. It was probably because of what she was witnessing. She glanced at the kid again. He took a bite of something old and threw it behind him, then reached back into the garbage can.

  “She’s a cutter,” Damon said, his eyes lifting for a split second before returning to the rocks on the filthy pavement. “Know anyone like that?”

  “A couple of girlfriends from my old life. They thought they had it all. They were cheerleaders, had bodies like a Kylie Kardashian, and seemed to get along with everyone at school. But they had somethi
ng going on up here,” Cristina said, pointing at her head, “and they just couldn’t deal with life. So they cut themselves.”

  “It’s freaky shit, I’m telling you. I’ve seen her do it.”

  “Monique?”

  “Who else you think I’m talking about?”

  She chose not to bite his head off. “What’s her demon?”

  “You mean who?”

  “Who?”

  “Yeah, it’s her fucking dad.” His eyes locked on Cristina’s as he sucked in a long drag off his joint.

  She replayed his words. “Dad?”

  “Adoptive dad actually. Russell raped her when she was just a kid, no more than twelve. And ever since then, he got her hooked on coke and makes her have sex to get more drugs.”

  Cristina’s head began to spin. She blinked several times and took three deep breaths. “You don’t think she’s just a junkie who’s trying to make you feel sorry for her?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes, Cristina.”

  She tried not to show her revulsion. “Saw what?”

  “He had her meet him at some skanky motel about two miles from here. He was with another junkie, had all sorts of sex toys. He made them do it together before he handed over their allowance, as he called it.”

  “Allowance.” A couple of images of Brian came to her mind, but she pushed them away and focused on what Damon was sharing.

  He chuckled once, and it wasn’t a happy one. “This has been going on for years.”

  “But you said nothing to anyone?”

  Splaying his arms, he said, “Who am I? I like the coke and shit just like anyone else. I tried to get her to go to the cops, but she said she couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Damn, girl, you’re thickheaded,” he said. “He’d cut her off from her drugs. That’s like her oxygen. I thought I was bad off, but if she doesn’t have her coke, she doesn’t breathe. Do you hear me?”

  She wanted to point out the flaws in his own argument, but this wasn’t the time or place. She knew she had to get this information to Ivy and her cop friend.

  “That’s pretty fucked up, Damon.” She turned around to leave, but just then the flames illuminated the boy with his curly, blond hair. He was holding something long and thin. She dashed over to where he was sitting and snatched a broken needle out of his hand.

  “Give me my toy,” he whined.

  “Did you poke yourself?” She crouched lower.

  “Give me my toy,” he repeated, trying to grab it from her hand. She righted the trash can and tossed the needle inside, then checked his hands for puncture marks.

  “That kid’s a pain in my ass,” Mrs. G said as she fell onto her back. She then moved her arms and legs as if she were making a snow angel. “I’m pretending I’m lying in a fluffy bed of coke. It’s awesome, Damon. Give it a try. Whee!”

  He shook his head and puffed from his joint.

  Cristina had seen and heard enough. But she couldn’t bring herself to walk away.

  “You want some ice cream?” she whispered to the boy.

  His blue eyes widened. “Ice cream? I love ice cream.” He pushed himself to a standing position and smacked wet pebbles off his hands. “I want ice cream.”

  “Just come with me, and I’ll get you ice cream.” She took him by the hand and started to walk away.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Cristina?” Damon shouted from behind her.

  “He just wants some ice cream. We’ll be back.” She and the boy shuffled a few more steps, and then she glanced over her shoulder. Damon was hunched over the table, doing another line. What a fucking loser.

  “Ice cream?” the boy asked tentatively, looking up at her.

  They made it to the end of the alley, and she pulled out her phone. “I have a friend who can get you all the ice cream you could ever want.”

  30

  The morning sun peeked through the living room shades, cutting across the kitchen table where the little boy sat eating his second bowl of ice cream. Thankfully, I’d stocked up on Blue Bell Cookies ’n Cream last week.

  “I think he’s in heaven,” Cristina said, standing next to me, both of us with our arms folded.

  The TV was on, tuned to an episode of The Wiggles. I pointed at the screen. “That’s why he’s in heaven. Kids love that show. By the way, did you ever think to get his name before you kidnapped him away from his mom?”

  Cristina gave me a straight-lipped smile. “I didn’t kidnap him. I basically rescued him. If I hadn’t taken him with me, I’m not sure he’d be alive this morning.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “I was just yanking your chain. I probably would have done the same thing. In fact, they would have had to threaten my life to not take him away. So we’re really not that much different.”

  She rolled her eyes, picked up her glass of orange juice, and took a sip.

  “Now, if you could have gotten his name, then we’d be in better shape.”

  Her face went blank. “I asked him a hundred times. You asked him here another dozen times. All he ever says is—”

  “Ice cream.”

  Three quick raps on my door. I took a peek through the peephole, unlatched the deadbolt and chain locks, and opened the door. Zahera lunged for my neck and held tight. “Thank God you’re okay, Ivy.”

  We rocked back and forth a few times before I finally had to say something. “I can’t breathe, Z.”

  She let go, then noticed the little boy. “Who’s he? And why is she here?”

  I could feel Cristina’s eyes roll even though I couldn’t see them. “It’s a long story, but he’s our guest. At least for now.”

  “Does the kid have a name?” Zahera set her Kate Spade purse on a kitchen chair and kneeled down.

  “He won’t share it with us,” Cristina said.

  Zahera squeezed his cheeks. “Hey, little guy.”

  “I like ice cream.” He smiled and clanged his spoon against the side of the bowl.

  “Is that Captain Feathersword?” She walked over to the TV and pointed at the man with the eye patch, dancing with a fake sword.

  “Captain Feathersword,” the kid said.

  “We’re making progress,” I muttered under my breath to Cristina.

  “If he’s Captain Feathersword,” she said walking over to the boy and poking his rib cage, “what’s your name?”

  “Joey.”

  She lifted her eyes to us and winked, then got Joey’s attention again. “Joey what? Do you know your last name?”

  “Joey Captain Feathersword,” he said with a squeal, and then he rattled his spoon inside the bowl.

  Zahera joined us by the coffeemaker. “I tried. At least we’re halfway there.”

  “Joey. That helps.”

  She put her arm around me. “I’m just thankful nothing happened to you.”

  “What is she talking about?” Cristina asked, orange juice glass at her lips.

  “Before you got here, I called Z and gave her the rundown of my cat almost being killed. Poor Zorro.” I shuddered.

  She practically dropped her orange juice on the counter. “Someone hurt your cat?”

  “No, but they could have. They tried to scare me, more than anything.”

  “I think he did a good job. I know I’m scared shitless, and he wasn’t even targeting me.” Zahera poured herself a cup of coffee. “And then that note. This guy is sick, Ivy.”

  I filled in all the gaps for Cristina, who said, “Do you think this twisted sonofabitch is connected to this hostage murder you’ve been digging into?”

  I huffed out a breath. “Maybe, but I can’t imagine how. Or who. It’s something I’ve got to figure out.”

  “Figure it out fast, or you’re going to come live with me,” Zahera said, squeezing my shoulder.

  We stopped talking and stared at Joey, who was scraping the last remnants of his treat from the bowl.

  “What are you going to do once he’s done?” Cristina asked.


  “He’s not a velociraptor,” Zahera said. “He’s just a kid. What do you think, two years old, Ivy?”

  “That’s my guess. So we’ll need to process him like every other kid who’s in danger.” I turned my attention to Cristina. “When we go public with this thing, you need to make sure you don’t describe it like you did to me. You just happened to be walking by, saw a dangerous situation, and he was running away from it. You caught up to him, and he asked you to take him away. Got it?”

  “You’re pretty good at manipulating the truth,” she said.

  “It’s a necessary evil in this instance. And you’re old enough to understand. By the end of today, Joey will be with a foster family.”

  All of us sighed, and then Cristina broke the silence. “Hope it’s a better family than the Gideons.”

  Shaking my head, I wiped tired eyes and picked up my coffee. I hadn’t slept all night. “How well do you know that reporter, Carlos?” I asked Zahera.

  “Pretty good. I went to med school with his girlfriend. I think he’s pretty trustworthy. Why?”

  “Given what Cristina learned from Damon, as well as Russell’s odd travel schedule that shows him back in San Antonio the day before the hostage situation, I think there’s just cause to reopen the case of Tommy’s death.”

  “You think that little fucker, Huerta, will eat crow and take the time to investigate every possible suspect?” Cristina asked.

  “Hell no. He and Ballard have already put the noose around Miguel’s neck.”

  “Didn’t you say that Huerta had a timeline that showed Miguel could have killed Tommy?” Zahera asked.

  “Could have killed, yes. That doesn’t mean he did it. Frankly, I’d like to see this so-called timeline for myself,” I said, sipping my coffee, still looking for my second wind.

  “That will never happen.”

  “Exactly, which is a good thing you’re here.”

  Her eyes scrunched closer together.

  “I think I just saw Zahera’s first wrinkle,” Cristina said, and then giggled.