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

by John W. Mefford

  When I came out of the restroom, Leroy had grabbed my arm and pulled me out the back door and into his garage, where he abused me. But not in a normal way. There was nothing normal about Leroy.

  In between shots of tequila and snorting lines of coke, Leroy smoked a lot and talked even more. Much of his ramblings made little sense. One moment he’d be spouting off about how his ex-wife had made his life a nightmare by forcing him to pay her extra money because of her faked disability, and then the next he was kicking the toolbox while he screamed about the black Lab that shit in his yard every day.

  “Isn’t that like fertilizer for your yard?” I had asked with my legs pulled close against my chest.

  That, apparently, was the wrong question. Looking back, speaking at all had been my biggest mistake. I then became the target of his fury—for looking at him wrong, for not getting his drink fast enough at the parties, for riding my rickety bike across his yard. The list was endless, and by the time he took a pause to drag on his homemade cigarette, my eyes were staring at the door, wondering if I could slip out before he could grab me.

  He’d seen me looking, and his drug-induced rage had redlined. He dismantled everything he could get his hands on in the garage, tossing shovels and hammers, screwdrivers and nails around like they were made of foam. But they weren’t. I ducked and evaded the first ten objects thrown in my direction. The eleventh, a Phillip’s head screwdriver, nicked my face, causing it to bleed. My sweat only enhanced the effect as blood dripped off my chin. I thought he might chill out, realizing his outburst had caused me to get hurt. But it had the opposite effect. He blamed me for getting in the way of the tool.

  After snorting another line of coke, he grabbed his cigarette and held the orange end against my skin. I wrenched my body, screamed so loud I thought my eyeballs might pop out. He held me down, covering my mouth with this log-sized arm. When it was over, I had three burns on my upper arm. He said the marks would heal to the point where everyone would simply think I had received my immunization shots.

  With tears dripping off my cheeks, on my way out the door I told Leroy he was a bastard and I hoped he rotted in hell.

  I had spoken too soon. In the blink of an eye, he was on top of me, smacking me upside the head and lecturing me about respecting my elders.

  A bit of silence. I took in a few breaths, dropping my arms. I saw his grill, full of chipped teeth, and an old pistol in his hand. He put a single bullet in the chamber, spun it, and put it up to my head, saying we were going to play a little game.

  “I hate my life, Ivy.” He rested his head against mine, then put the gun on the opposite side of my head. “If it’s meant to be, we’re both going to die.”

  And then just before pulling the trigger, he said “Adios, bitches.” I tightened every muscle in my body until I heard a metal click. And then I exhaled.

  We repeated that process six more times, each metal click bringing a sense of relief. But it was short-lived. He took the bullet out, changed its location, and spun the chamber. A jolt of anxiety fried my body, sending me closer to an absolute breakdown. When it was over, he bawled like a baby while I crawled out of the garage, ran to my house, and hid in my closet.

  The burns on my arm healed over time, but the mental scars from the game of Russian roulette had haunted my thoughts, my sleep for years. And then suddenly the trauma slipped into a dimly lit place of my brain.

  Until earlier today.

  The search page came back, and I clicked the first link. It was an article with a dateline from one month ago, Los Angeles. Leroy Swanson, serving time in the California state prison for assaulting a police officer, had been stabbed to death by another inmate. Apparently, it had all started with the two of them fighting over who got the most mashed potatoes at lunch.

  “Karma.” I exhaled and let my shoulders relax.

  I got out of the car and walked into Ernesto’s at the same time as two other couples. I felt like the fifth wheel, so to speak, even though I had nothing to do with them. Zahera yelled out my name. As I walked in her direction, she began swaying her arms and hips to the music while biting her lower lip.

  “Someone’s got their groove on.” I picked up the glass with the most martini and sipped it. I’d claimed the drink as mine.

  “Hell yes. It’s time to let loose and forget about our day jobs, girlfriend. Woo-hoo,” she shouted.

  I giggled at her tipsy state.

  Two guys walked just past our table and slipped into stools at the bar.

  “What’s brought out Party Z tonight?”

  “Hold on,” she said, suddenly composed. “Did you see what just walked by us?”

  “You mean who?”

  “I’m talking about what, as in what’s in those tight Wrangler’s.”

  I nodded, with a forced smile. “Impressive,” I said as my mind immediately diverted to the emotional scene of how things had ended with Saul the previous night. It was wrong on so many levels…his mother and how controlling she seemed, Carmelita essentially laying claim on Saul and daring anyone to say otherwise. While Saul eventually got around to expressing that he wanted to be with me, he clearly wasn’t comfortable rocking the family boat. It seemed like I was an acceptable side dish as long as certain people didn’t know I existed.

  “Something’s going on. I can see it in your eyes. You’re here, but not really here,” Zahera said, tipping her head back to down her martini. “Don’t answer that yet.” She held up her hand, got the attention of a young waiter and said, “Two more please.”

  “I haven’t finished my first.”

  “You will by the time he gets back with the next round.” She winked at me, then casually turned her head as if she cared what was playing on the TV in the corner. But I knew she was eyeballing the two guys, both of them looking like models—tall and lean with perfectly fitted clothes and million-dollar smiles. Flipping around to face me, her eyes glimmered with excitement.

  “Why don’t you just get it over with and go over to the bar and say something?” I suggested, just as one of the guys—the one with facial hair—looked in our direction.

  She put a hand on my arm. “First things first. What’s going on?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Saul. Something happened, didn’t it?’

  “He took me out on an official date last night. I even let him pick me up. We went to a nice restaurant: Bliss.”

  A slow nod of her head. “You only go there when you’re trying to make an impression. So, did he?”

  “Oh yeah. A big one.”

  “Cool. Should I assume the night ended with fingernails digging into his back as he—”

  “Stop,” I said, waving my hand. “Please don’t go there. You know how visual I am.”

  “You took a cold shower instead, and kept him begging for more? That’s a good strategy. Not one I probably would have gone with, but you’re thinking long term. I like it.”

  “At this point, it’s probably the end of the term.”

  “What? Why? I thought he just romanced you at one of the nicest, coolest places in San Antonio.”

  “Most of the night was great. He was charming, considerate. We had great conversation, and he acted like he cared about me. I really hadn’t felt that way in…forever.”

  “And…” She moved her hand in a circular motion.

  “And…well…” I sighed, knowing I had no other option but to explain the whole episode to her. I gave her the short version of the restaurant scene.

  She clenched her teeth. “Sounds dramatic, but please tell me it didn’t end with you second-guessing your relationship with Saul.”

  Not taking my eyes from hers, I sipped my martini. “You’re not saying anything.”

  “Because you said it for me.”

  She squeezed my arm. “Dammit, Ivy. I thought Saul was one of the good guys.”

  “He was, and now he isn’t. I should have known. It seemed almost too easy.” I was tired of the focus on me and my s
o-called relationship. “What’s got you so worked up today?”

  “Hormones, that’s what.”

  “Yours or someone else’s?”

  She gave me a straight-lipped smile, feigning offense to my comment. “Two women, and their husbands.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  She went on to tell me about two different patients, both of whom were confirmed to have been pregnant. “When I told the first woman, she asked her husband to come in, and then he lost it. They got in a fight about who the father was, and so on.” “Awkward,” I said, emphasizing the first syllable.

  “I wish that was all. Because as I started making notes in the file, they both turned their anger on to me, acting like I was to blame, and perhaps I didn’t know what I was talking about since it simply wasn’t feasible.”

  I brought a hand to my mouth. “I’m not laughing at you, but…you know.”

  “They were actually serious.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “I told them both that the test results don’t lie, and then the woman got hysterical and started sobbing and kept asking me, ‘How, how, how?’”

  “Crazy. What did you do?”

  “I told her exactly what I thought: this is what happens when you spread your legs and let a guy have sex with you.”

  In mid-sip, I snorted out a laugh, nearly spraying Zahera with my martini.

  She smiled while shaking her head. “It gets better with couple number two.”

  “Define better.”

  “Better for your current entertainment. At the time, it was a nightmare,” she said, glancing over to the men at the bar. This time they noticed, and the clean-shaven one held up a drink, as if he were saluting Zahera. She played it cool and turned back to me. “The husband insisted on being in the room when they found out the news. I expected jubilation, maybe a few tears, lots of hugging.”

  I tilted my head. “I’m almost afraid to ask. What did you get?”

  “The man raised his hands to the ceiling and started saying, ‘Praise God, praise God.’ But he didn’t notice his wife’s face turn the color of a beet. When he tried touching her, she bit his hand, then started throwing everything she could get her hands on. I was in the line of fire until I hit the floor and crawled out of the room.”

  I blew out an audible breath. “Now I know why you called me.” Scanning her quickly, I could see it was the same old Zahera—flawless complexion and outfit, nary a wrinkle on either. “Did you give them a chance to calm down, maybe went back in and tried to get them on the same page?”

  “Hell no. I sent in my intern and let her deal with them.”

  We both released a loud laugh, drawing another look from the men at the bar.

  “I think it might be time to make our move,” she said.

  “Our move? I think you mean your move. I don’t have any moves, and I’m not really up for making the effort.”

  “Seriously?”

  I took a minute to catch her up on my day.

  “That sucks about your car.”

  “Beatrice is supposedly going to pay for the damage.”

  “Do you believe Anika’s parents might have been kidnapped, or worse?”

  “No real evidence points to foul play, not yet anyway. Cristina is trying to see if they might be hiding in one of the places the family visited over the years.”

  “Looking for the needle in the haystack. That’s tedious work.”

  “Cristina is up for the challenge. In some respects, she’s mature beyond her years. But her teenage attitude doesn’t stay dormant for long.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two women approach the bar. Same beige pants, same straight brown hair that clipped their shoulders. They were twins. They hugged the clean-shaven guy and shook hands with the one who had a beard, but did so while jumping up and down like they had springs in their heels.

  “We’ve been ambushed…by twins no less,” Zahera said between clenched teeth.

  “They might be cute, but they’re far too perky. The guys will tire of them. Just give them a few minutes.”

  Zahera raised a shapely eyebrow. “Someone wants to get laid tonight.”

  “I never said that. But honestly, those girls look like stick figures compared to you.”

  She beamed for a moment, then rolled her eyes. “Oh please. As soon as they learn I have an MD next to my name, they’ll run. Most guys are intimidated by my work.”

  She was probably right. “That rules out half the eligible guys in the city right there.”

  Our phones dinged at almost the same time, and we pulled them out and answered text messages. Mine came from Cristina, who gave me an update on her search for Mona and Dexter Hamrick.

  Going slow. Still on first location Anika gave me – DC. Too many damn hotels in the area. More later.

  I felt a bit guilty for not sharing the work on this research. Maybe I could put in a late-night session once I got home.

  Thanks for doing the dirty work. Give me a city and I’ll jump on it when I get home. Also, don’t forget to check hospitals and police.

  She responded in mere seconds. Cool. I’ll give you South Padre Island. Once you’re done there, then u can start on Cancun while I tackle Vegas. Later.

  The texting ceased, giving Zahera and I enough time to order an appetizer. Slumping in our chairs with our arms on the table, Zahera asked how I was dealing with the death of my old colleague, Joanna. I told her as long as no one was trying to connect me to her murder, I was doing the best I could.

  “It’s Moreno. Seems like he’s got a grudge against me. Never trusts what I say. I feel like he’s just waiting for me to run a red light, and then I’ll be charged with murder.”

  “Where is Stan in all of this? Doesn’t he have your back?”

  “He does, mostly. But Moreno has his own opinions.”

  “Well, he can keep his crazy opinions to himself. The facts speak for themselves. You were kidnapped, tortured, and now an ex-colleague has been killed. You had nothing to do with any of this crap. Maybe he’s got a weird passive-aggressive thing against victims.”

  The appetizer arrived, and I was the first to pluck a quesadilla off the tray. The gooey cheese hit the spot, although I could taste an extra kick in the spices. I drank twenty ounces of water in a flash, and then pulled another quesadilla onto my plate.

  “You haven’t eaten today, have you?” Zahera said, with melted cheese dangling from her mouth.

  “I forgot. Remember, I had Reggie Jackson hitting home runs on my car.”

  “You never put yourself first, Ivy. Before, it was always about finding foster homes for kids in need. Now, it’s all about the investigation Team ECHO is working on.”

  She was right, although I could have added the work I was putting in trying to figure out who had the most motive to come after me.

  “I’m here with you, aren’t I? Cristina is the one who’s working hard.” I could feel heat wash over my face.

  She patted my hand. “I’m just razzing you. I love you like a sister; you know that.”

  We shared winks, and then I realized I needed to use the restroom. “When I get back, we’ll finish off the quesadillas and then head out.”

  “Next stop, my house,” she said.

  Dammit. I’d forgotten about our little arrangement. “I have a little work to do.”

  “If you must, you can bring your laptop, or whatever you need. But I hope you can multitask, because we’re going to break out the candy and ice cream and binge-watch about twenty episodes of New Girl.”

  I laughed, then headed off to the bathroom. When I got back, Zahera was on the edge of her seat, glowing. “You won’t believe what happened,” she said.

  “Ryan Gosling walked through the door and asked you to marry him.”

  “I wish. Isn’t he already married?”

  “No idea.”

  She handed me a napkin, and I gave her a curious look. “Should I say thank you?”

 
; “Read it, silly.”

  Flipping it over, I saw a few words written in red ink: U are beautiful. Hope u will let me buy you a drink. Jake

  “Is this a joke?”

  She shook her head, fanning her own napkin in front of her face, then letting it flutter to the table. “I got one too.”

  “There’s been a mix-up, Z. I think the one I’m holding is also for you. Could be a two-on-one dream come true.”

  “Eww,” she said, holding up a hand. “Not my style. And that’s not what Evan said.”

  “Evan. Which one is he?” I asked, mildly interested.

  “The one with no facial hair.”

  “So Jake has the beard,” I said to myself. “Where are they?”

  I followed her eyes to a table on the other side of a wall. Jake gave me a head nod.

  “Did they strike out with the twins?”

  “Who knows? That’s our first course of action. Figure out if they’re a couple of gigolos only after one thing.”

  “And if they are?”

  “Then at least we’ll know going into it.” She got up and hooked her arm around mine.

  “I tell you what,” she said, looking beyond me for a second. “Why don’t I just go over there and invite them back to my place? Then, if we think they’re tools, we’ll just kick them out.”

  I twisted my lips.

  “Don’t tell me Prude Ivy is making an appearance,” she said with an exasperated breath.

  I didn’t care for the label, but I knew I had to get over myself. “Look, I don’t have a problem with it in general, but the possibility that they might get some strange ideas about a foursome or switching partners or whatever…it’s not something I want to deal with. If I take this next step to ask a guy to go home with me for a drink, I do the asking, and I’m taking him to my place. Non-negotiable.”

  “If I were a guy, I’d have a hard-on about now.”

  On our way to the table, we giggled like two college girls.

  21

  Zorro stretched his legs until they trembled, then quickly assumed his sleeping position nestled against my hip. A cone of light from my computer illuminated most of the living room, where I sat on the couch in a T-shirt and a fuzzy throw blanket over my legs. The sun had yet to crack through the blinds, but my brain was already in full stride as I clacked away on the keyboard.