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

by John W. Mefford

  “Do you have an app to magically pick the perfect guy and have him show up at my place?”

  “As a matter of fact…” She pulled out her phone.

  The commercial break ended, and the screen was split, the studio anchor on the left, Carlos on the right.

  “Hope I didn’t miss anything,” Stan said, dropping into a chair next to me.

  I pointed at the TV, then said, “I haven’t seen or heard from Cristina.” I glanced over my shoulder as Zahera asked the waitress to turn up the volume.

  As the right side of the screen expanded, I was surprised to see Carlos wasn’t in front of police headquarters. He was standing outside of the Gideon home. The first part of his report focused on the new facts that had been revealed by his so-called “person with knowledge of the investigation.” I made sure not to look at Stan, keeping my eyes focused on the TV as I shoveled pretzel sticks into my mouth.

  Carlos delivered the information about the second-by-second timeline, including the tests by Huerta. He then said, “Based upon this new information, there was no way Miguel could have killed Tommy.”

  Zahera grabbed my forearm. I kept my emotions inside, but I felt every bit as relieved.

  “Do you think he’ll be released to his aunt?” she asked.

  “Shh.” I couldn’t miss one second of the public revealing of everything we had uncovered.

  Carlos reported that he had asked both Huerta and DA Ballard for comments. The video feed switched to footage of Huerta shoving people out of the way to make it into an elevator at the Bexar County Courthouse. “No comment,” he yelled out.

  Without turning my head, my eyes shifted to Stan, who gave me a quick wink. He had found the pretzel bowl and was now going to town.

  The studio anchor, an attractive woman with a sculpted face and perfect hair, said, “I understand you have uncovered new information about the foster family, the Gideons, correct?”

  “Yes, Gloria, I have. But before I reveal it, I must warn the parents out there that this information is not for young children. If any are watching, I advise you to turn off your TV or change the channel, or scoot your children to another area where they can’t hear this.”

  He paused, glancing again at his notes, then looked squarely into the camera and relayed the story—sources telling him that Russell had been raping his adopted daughter since she was twelve. The drone of noise in the bar instantly dropped a couple of notches, all eyes focused on the TV screen. Carlos went on to say that, according to his source, Russell used Monique’s cocaine addiction to entice her to do anything he wanted, even including her in sordid sex acts with other women. He also said that he’d not been able to locate Russell for any comment about the allegations.

  “Carlos,” Gloria interjected, although I knew it was scripted, “this is obviously very disturbing information in a story that grows more bizarre by the hour. What connection have you or anyone in law enforcement been able to make between Russell Gideon’s alleged felonies and the hostage-murder incident four days ago?”

  “Thus far, Gloria, there is no direct correlation that anyone has stated publicly. I continue to work with my sources to try to determine if other facts about this case might reveal a connection. Given that Miguel Garza’s charges will likely be dropped, his Aunt Laura and the rest of his extended family are probably very thankful to hear this news. But one family still grieves, their deep wounds now reopened by that one unanswered question: who killed Tommy Gideon?”

  The studio anchor moved on to talk about a story involving a zoo animal as Carlos’s question lingered in the air. While I was ecstatic that Miguel would be vindicated, Tommy’s death now loomed large. It should have been the focus all along, had Huerta’s ego not derailed the investigation before it ever got started.

  “You’re thinking when you should be smiling,” Zahera said, shaking my arm.

  “Carlos did a great job. We owe him one. Huerta thought he was smarter than everyone else. He should be fired and charges filed.”

  “He’s such a tool,” Zahera said, nodding.

  “I’m wondering if my phone might ring any second,” Stan said, pulling it from his pocket and setting it on the table as he tossed another handful of pretzels in his mouth. “The deputy chief might reach out to get me back involved in the investigation, maybe ask me questions about Huerta. It will be nice for Huerta to be in the crosshairs for once.”

  My eyes went back to the TV screen.

  “Something wrong?” Zahera asked.

  I turned to Stan. “I still don’t understand how the gunshot residue test came back positive on Miguel.”

  “There you go again, thinking like a detective,” he said, devouring a couple of chips. “My new working theory is that Miguel was near his dad when SWAT raided the house. Matt fired shots before he died, that much we know. He might have even saved Miguel, since he died in the kitchen.”

  The door to the bar dinged open, and I quickly turned to see if Cristina had finally arrived. No such luck. Two women in mini-skirts pranced in, chatting and taking selfies at the same time. I didn’t have the energy to offer up a comment.

  “Huerta will get his, maybe in a way he never dreamed of,” Zahera said while raising an eyebrow, “but I wonder what the Gideons are thinking about this?”

  I took another sip of my martini, trying to look beyond the obvious facts of the case. What really happened in that house?

  Zahera continued. “A mother lost her son. A sister lost her brother. And even Russell, as sick and twisted as he appears to be, is probably devastated about Tommy’s death. But now they have to wait and assume that a new investigation will prove that Matt Garza killed Tommy.”

  A cell phone rang, and Stan reached for his phone. “Not mine.”

  Zahera quickly glanced at hers. “Not mine either.”

  I set my purse on the table, but didn’t take my phone out. I ate some more pretzels as the phone rang for the fifth time.

  “You going to answer it?” Zahera unsnapped my purse and dug through my things. I didn’t mind.

  “It can’t be important. Remember, I have no job.”

  She pulled it out and turned it to my face. “Do you recognize the number?”

  “No, but fine, I’ll take it.” I punched the green button and said hello.

  “I was about to hang up. Thank you for taking my call.”

  Unable to hear the woman clearly, I plugged a finger in my opposite ear. “Who is this?”

  “Sorry, this is Gwen Gideon. I just saw the report on the Channel 4 News.”

  She paused, and I thought I heard a few sniffles.

  “I’m really sorry you had to hear everything this way, Gwen.”

  A quivering sigh.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Ivy…”

  I could feel her heart-wrenching pain through the phone. But I knew I couldn’t do a damn thing to help her. “I’m sorry about your loss.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I just watched the story from the TV section in Walmart. It was humiliating and sickening at the same time,” she said between sobs.

  “Do you have a sister or brother, or someone who can help you and your family get through this, Gwen?”

  “I knew about Russell.”

  Did I just hear her right? “Excuse me?”

  “Russell, my fucked-up husband. I knew about him having sex with…” Her voice quivered again. “With Monique.”

  “And you never did anything about it?” I was on my feet, now pacing next to the table.

  “I’m sorry to say, I was weak and lost. I had no one. Russell and Tommy were all that I had. I was blind to everything else.”

  “Including your adopted daughter, Monique.”

  “And for that, I’m eternally remorseful. I take full blame for everything Russell ever forced her to do. I hate myself for it.”

  Zahera splayed her arms. Obviously, she wanted to know the details of the conversation, but I couldn’t break my focus from
Gwen’s words.

  “Gwen, what can I do for you?”

  “I know you only wanted the truth to come out. You were trying to figure out who killed my Tommy,” she said through more sobs. “I’m just…I’m just sorry about the lawsuit and little Miguel. There was no reason for him to suffer when he didn’t kill Tommy. He was just an innocent, sweet boy caught up in the middle of this crazy tornado.”

  “Monique told me Miguel had threatened to kill your cat and forced her to do some rather disgusting things.”

  “Lies. They were all lies.”

  “To cover up what her father was doing to her?”

  “Yes,” she said, sniffling. “And to cover up all of her issues—drug addiction, bipolar disorder, manic depression. She’s a damaged girl, and worst of all, I pretended it didn’t exist. I acted like her relationship with Russell was like any typical father/daughter relationship. I was so—” More sobbing.

  I was glad she didn’t finish because I couldn’t take much more of her woe-is-me. How could she allow something so overtly wrong to take place in her home—a home that she’d opened up as a foster home? I knew it happened, but it never ceased to amaze me.

  The entire family was fucked up, outside of Tommy, as far as I knew. And he was dead. “I don’t know what to say, Gwen. I think the authorities may want to talk to you,” I said, looking at Stan, who was trying to interpret the snippets of conversation.

  More gasping sniffles from Gwen. “My heart has been ripped to shreds.”

  Oh geez. Here we go. “It’s not all your fault, Gwen. Your husband took advantage of a little girl, enticing her with drugs. It’s just—”

  “Perverted. He’s deranged.”

  Zahera was now at my side, asking me more urgently what was going on. I wasn’t actually sure, so I continued to listen and held my finger in front of her face.

  “I hate that man. I hate everything about him,” she said, her voice growling with anger.

  “I understand, Gwen.”

  Her breathing became louder through the receiver. “But more than anything, I’m scared.”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “I haven’t seen him. He’s good at disappearing, but when I do see him again, he might lose it on me. But it’s Monique who I’m most worried about. I’m really concerned that he might hurt her…or worse.”

  My breath caught in the back of my throat. “Gwen, get off the phone right now and dial nine-one-one.”

  “I know who killed Tommy.”

  I’d been about to end the call, when my body zinged with adrenaline. I wasn’t sure what I’d just heard. “What did you say?”

  I could hear multiple voices in the background and some type of metal clanging against concrete. “Get away from me.”

  A few seconds of garbled noise, then, “It’s none of your fucking business. I just need to tell the truth for once.”

  “Gwen.” I pressed the phone hard against my face, like that would help.

  A scream. “I’m not going to let you control me any longer.”

  And then the line went dead.

  33

  The crates were in the same basic position she had left them four nights earlier. It was almost midnight. Cristina checked both directions of the alley behind the abandoned warehouse and climbed up her makeshift staircase as quickly as a cat. The window was still unlatched. She squeezed through, kept her balance along the narrow beam, and then made her way down to the floor.

  She could see her old home was in the same state of disarray as when she’d left it, after fighting with Brian.

  Or should she call him Russell?

  As Ivy and the others uncovered the things that Russell Gideon had done, she had become more curious. It sounded all too familiar: the lure of drugs to force young girls into drugs and sick sex acts. And then earlier, when she was peering at a TV in a fast-food joint, she saw Russell’s face on the news report for the first time. She’d been walking the streets ever since, trying to make sense of it all.

  Russell and Brian were the same person. A charmer. A seducer. A predator.

  She pushed the thought of that horrible man out of her mind, or at least to the place where her other bad memories were kept. She had only returned to find one item—the locket that held the picture of her and her mom. Her only positive keepsake from her childhood. She shuffled around disheveled boxes, over to her former bedroom. With a splinter of light cutting in from the alley, she could see her personal items sprawled across the floor.

  “This might take a while,” she said, lowering to her knees and using her hands to feel around the smooth, chilled concrete.

  “On your knees. Just like old times, Cristina.”

  Without moving her body, she turned her head, wondering if her mind had imagined the voice.

  She hadn’t. Moving into a cone of light about fifteen feet away was Russell Gideon, holding a metal pipe. He smiled as if he’d just won the lottery.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, quickly assessing her chances of making a run up the boxes and out the window. She was certain she wouldn’t make it.

  He licked his lips, didn’t respond. He was trying to read her level of fear, she knew it. Had she heard or not? For now, she played stupid.

  “Brian, I really don’t have time for your shit. I’m just trying to find my mother’s locket and then get to a gig I’m playing at a coffee house. I’m in a hurry, in case you want to help,” she said, scooting across the concrete, looking for the locket while keeping one eye on Russell.

  She heard the metal pipe smack three times against his free hand. “You know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?” she asked casually, chiding herself for taking the risk of coming back here.

  “I hear you’ve got some new friends, Cristina.” He moved two steps closer, the pipe held tightly in his hands. One blow to any part of her body, and she’d be incapacitated.

  “I’m a friendly girl.”

  “Hardly. You’re a bitter teenager with a chip on her shoulder. You’re an addict whose parents didn’t take care of you. And that’s why you came to me. To give you what you want, what you need.”

  She whipped around. “You’re full of shit, Russell.” Then immediately regretted the slip.

  His white teeth glimmered as he smiled. “You do know,” he said, moving closer so he could run his fingers through her hair. She cringed, but tried to keep it an inward reaction. “I like your hair, Cristina. It’s like the mane of a fine horse.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her upward. She yelped. “Just where I want you. Oh my, the many things we’ve done. I’ll have nothing to look forward to. But there comes a time when the petulant little child…” He wrenched her body left and right, her spine forced to bend like cooked pasta. She would have tumbled to the ground had his enormous strength not kept her upright.

  He tossed the pipe off to the side. It clanged off the concrete floor as he pulled her closer and licked her face. “I want to taste you, Cristina. The final sip of treasured wine.”

  “You can kill me, but I won’t let you fuck me,” she said, flailing her arms. She dangled off the floor like a puppet, her entire scalp on fire with agonizing pain.

  He laughed for at least ten seconds. “Don’t you know by now that I get what I want? Ask Monique and the fifty other girls in LA and San Francisco.”

  She sent a wild roundhouse kick into Russell’s knee, then dropped to the floor. Just as she pushed upward, he punched her in the jaw, and she flew backward onto her old mattress, her head spinning.

  It didn’t take long for her to notice him removing his jacket and shirt. She took momentary pride in also noticing the wound on his arm where she had cut him. He then unlatched his belt buckle, folded it in half, and moved over her body.

  She hurled a loogy at his face.

  Wiping it away, he said, “I’m going to beat you like the dirty little spic you are, then we’ll see if I can still get it up for you.” He brought his arm back, and all Cr
istina could see was a face etched with fury. She closed her eyes. Waited for the inevitable.

  Rapid-fire footfalls smacked the concrete.

  She opened her eyes just as someone barreled into Russel’s rib cage. He grunted out a breath as the pair went airborne, landing next to Cristina on the mattress. A split-second later, she heard a zap, and Russell convulsed, his teeth chattering like a fake Halloween jaw.

  She took in a shaky breath, wiped her eyes, and saw Ivy standing over Russell, a Taser at her side.

  “Bad-ass,” Cristina said.

  Ivy winked. “It’s time to make this asshole talk.”

  And that was when the fun began.

  34

  Cristina rubbed the side of her jaw as Russell winced in pain behind her.

  “Pull the duct tape off his mouth,” I said.

  He screamed as Cristina mercilessly ripped off the tape.

  “You going to talk, or do you want me to move from your legs to your next appendage?” His eyes followed the pipe as it swung at my side.

  I’d gone with the pipe over the Taser because I wanted to inflict as much pain as possible. Matching contusions the size of an orange protruded from each shin as he sat there in only boxers.

  He didn’t say a word, his sights stuck on the pipe.

  “Cristina, put the tape back over his mouth.”

  She moved, but he yelled out, “No, no. I’ll talk.” His chest rose and fell at a quick pace.

  “Who killed your son, Russell? And I’m not going to ask again.”

  “You’re fucking sick, twisted in the head,” he said.

  I moved the end of the pipe an inch above his groin. “I’m like a golfer. Just sizing up the tiny ball before I knock it off the tee.”

  He squeezed his legs together, “Stop. Please. No, no, no. I’ll talk.”

  “Then stop being an asshole,” I said.

  “Not sure it’s possible,” Cristina added. “I think you might want to take a couple of whacks down there just to see if he has any balls left. They might have shriveled into nothing.”

  I brought the pipe back a couple of feet, and he wrenched left and right. “Answer my questions, Russell.”