ON Fire (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 5) (Redemption Thriller Series 17)

by John W. Mefford

  ON Fire

  An Ozzie Novak Thriller

  Book 5

  Redemption Thriller Series - 17

  (Includes Alex Troutt Thrillers, Ivy Nash Thrillers,

  and Ozzie Novak Thrillers)

  By

  John W. Mefford

  ALSO BY JOHN W. MEFFORD

  Redemption Thriller Series

  The Alex Troutt Thrillers

  AT Bay (Book 1)

  AT Large (Book 2)

  AT Once (Book 3)

  AT Dawn (Book 4)

  AT Dusk (Book 5)

  AT Last (Book 6)

  The Ivy Nash Thrillers

  IN Defiance (Book 7)

  IN Pursuit (Book 8)

  IN Doubt (Book 9)

  Break IN (Book 10)

  IN Control (Book 11)

  IN The End (Book 12)

  The Ozzie Novak Thrillers

  ON Edge (Book 13)

  Game ON (Book 14)

  ON The Rocks (Book 15)

  Shame ON You (Book 16)

  ON Fire (Book 17)

  ON The Run (Book 18)

  1

  Nine hours earlier

  The woman ran her hand across the sheet. The spot next to her was bare and cool. He wasn’t in bed.

  It didn’t surprise her. She knew his brain never stopped. He might be taking a jog around Lady Bird Lake, or he might very well be meeting with a foreign dignitary, even in the middle of the night.

  Still in a slumbered state, she turned onto her back and draped an arm over her head. She replayed the last couple of hours—the scent of his body, how she’d dug her nails into his back and shoulders, the ecstasy that had followed.

  She knew he’d felt proud of his accomplishment—most men did. But he knew only the part she allowed him to know. Yes, a feeling of euphoria had rippled through her veins. That was because she’d allowed it to happen. She’d learned long ago of the control men believed they possessed in all areas of a woman’s life. She had never followed those rules. In fact, it had been her life’s mission to prove to the world who was the stronger gender.

  But damn, is there anything better than sex with a powerful man, even if I did have to stroke his ego a bit?

  A smile played at the edge of her lips as she found one of his dress shirts at the end of the bed and put it on. Swinging her feet around the edge of the bed, she let her toes dig into the plush carpet for a moment before she stood. Immediately, she felt a head rush and had to lean against the side of the bed until her balance returned. She pushed out a breath, and her equilibrium began to normalize. But her head still felt like someone was playing the tympani from inside her frontal lobe.

  Too much champagne.

  She needed to hydrate. That and about four ibuprofen might save her from a hangover from hell. By the glow of the two fire fixtures out on the large outdoor balcony behind her, she found her way to the bathroom, pulled the pills from her makeup bag, and chugged a mouthful of water.

  Tap water. She made an ugly face—her mother might call it her bitch face—and then found her way to the wet bar. She pulled an Evian from the fridge, pressed the cool plastic against her head, and then cracked the top and took in another mouthful.

  She scanned the stillness of the Congressional Suite at the Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Austin. She could just make out the antique bronze bench inside the double-door entry, the chocolate suede couch, and—like so many cliché furnishings in Texas—the cowhide ottoman. There was also the chestnut mohair sofa, a butler’s kitchen, a second seating nook, and, of course, the ginormous wraparound deck.

  Ostentatious, certainly. But in the circles in which she ran, it was just another day at the office. Even if it did have its fringe benefits.

  She pulled open a glass door and walked onto the deck. It had to be close to a thousand square feet. The fire features were on either end, and in between were a full-sized dining table, bar area, and lounge seating. The ultimate design for any entertainer—and damn, she could wine and dine with the best of them.

  She leaned her forearms on the metal railing and watched the city lights shimmer off the rippling waters of Lake Lady Bird. She filled her lungs with chilled air and released three deep breaths.

  The fresh air and water were beginning to dull her headache. A gust of wind blew her tousled hair into her face. Surprisingly, she found her body even thinking about a second trip down ecstasy lane. She chuckled out loud and drank another chug of water.

  She, at the age of thirty-one, was still single. That was intentional. She didn’t need a man to define her role in society. She was the number-two person in the Governmental Affairs Division of a Fortune 500 company. Unsurprisingly, a man older than sixty held the top position. Even though she refused to dwell on it, she felt a hint of jealousy at his power over her. He relished it, despite her constant attempts to be treated as an equal. He wasn’t the only one. Somehow, there was still a segment of the bigoted population who would never view strong women like her as anything but eye candy.

  Damn, they were going to be in for a rude awakening by the time she climbed to the peak of that golden goal mountain. And the looks on those old farts’ faces would be worth the many years of sexist and demeaning comments.

  She heard a click of a door behind her. She didn’t turn around. She stayed facing the lake and allowed her thoughts to drift to an erogenous state of mind. He had returned. She knew he lusted for her just as much as she wanted him. To be seduced on the deck under the starry sky would be only even more arousing.

  She felt the vibration of his footsteps on the deck. He spanked her gently on the butt, and she squealed in delight.

  For a few seconds, there was nothing. No more touching, not a word spoken. She began to flip her head around. “Are you still there?” she asked playfully.

  Before she finished turning, he grabbed a lock of hair and pulled. It hurt, but she knew it was all part of the buildup. They were both wizards at the art of persuasion. As he continued to pull on her hair, he squeezed her hip with his opposite hand. He was sizing her up, making her want him that much more. He pressed against her backside and sniffed at her neck, running his tongue along her earlobe.

  Mmmm… he smells yummy. Must have put on a new cologne or aftershave.

  “You don’t have to play with me. I’m more than ready, you know,” she said, reaching her hand around to his midsection.

  He grabbed her hand and put it on the rail.

  That was a little rough. “Well, if we’re going to play that way, then just remember I can be a nutcracker when I have to.” She laughed.

  He didn’t.

  But she hardly noticed. She was living in the moment, soaking up every bit of his machismo.

  A second later, he moved his hand up her torso. She could feel his strong fingers wrap around her throat. They’d tried this earlier, but both of them had been so horny, they never played out the fantasy of erotic asphyxiation. She closed her eyes and dropped her guard completely. It was the only way to feel the full effect of what they were about to experience.

  He squeezed her throat, and she waited for the thrust that might send her to the moon.

  It never happened.

  He squeezed harder. “Don’t be so…rough.” Her voice sounded like she’d sucked in a mouthful of helium.

  He said nothing. The grip on her neck grew tighter.

  She could feel her pulse pick up, and not for the right reasons. “You’re hurting me.” She tried to move to the side, but she was no match for his strength.

  Was he drunk or high? Did he
really know what he was doing to her? He’d been so lustful earlier, but also quite charming. And now…

  He brought his other hand up and cupped a breast.

  She released a breath. He’d been teasing her all along. She tried to find that zone again. Before she could blink, he had both hands around her neck. He clamped his fingers together and compressed her neck. She clawed at his fingers, but her nails might as well as have been made of Silly Putty. They had no impact. She spastically reached her arms around, but he was too quick. She even tried jumping on the rail, but he yanked her down by the neck and shook her like a rag doll.

  Somewhere in there she heard a snap, and then she lost all control of her limbs. She had only seconds to live. And in those few moments, one thought shot to the front of her mind: she would never reach the top of that golden goal mountain, after all.

  2

  Present time

  They say that living a quality life is all about making adjustments, dealing with adversity in the least impactful way. I took a quick glance at Brook, a detective with the Austin Police Department. She squeezed the steering wheel of her city-issued Chevy Impala as though she were wringing out a wet rag. An attractive if not intense woman, her face was etched with stress. I understood why. She’d received a call from her boyfriend, Noah, saying that his brother had been picked up on murder charges. His brother rolled in the circles of the rich and powerful. Wasn’t sure of his exact profession, but he was on the high end of white-collar jobs, while Noah was some type of building-maintenance supervisor.

  We all go different paths.

  Ever since Brook had picked me up—apparently, someone in their camp had asked for me to attend this meeting because of my private-investigation business—her mood had now completely extinguished the tranquil intimacy I’d experienced with my wife, Nicole, in the early hours of this morning. Actually, Brook had called my cell phone as Nicole and I were intertwined in her car just after one of our classic spontaneous love-making sessions.

  From the top of the mountain to real life, all in a matter of seconds.

  Brook had been a great friend over the last few months, so I wasn’t without sympathy. I was tempted to say something, but she looked deep in thought, so I decided to wait for the right moment.

  Seconds later, Brook received another call from Noah. He said they were already walking out of the police station, and his brother’s attorney thought it was best to meet at the attorney’s office. Brook committed at least three traffic violations as we changed direction in the middle of a four-lane street. The office was located two blocks south of the capitol building in One America Center. The place had three connecting stair-stepping towers. They looked like both a bar chart and a Lego design I would have made for my dad when I was about six.

  Nary a word was spoken between us until we got on the elevator and I punched the button for the twenty-seventh floor. Her Gucci bag was clutched under her arm, her eyes still in a mesmerized daze.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.” The word was clipped, her tension obvious. I wasn’t sure if she was simply worried, or if anger was playing a part in her emotions. I’d never met Noah’s brother, knew nothing of the guy. Didn’t know of the dynamics between the brothers or of Brook’s feelings about any of that.

  I couldn’t help myself. I had to get some data from Brook before walking into what would be a tense room.

  “What do you know about Noah’s brother?”

  She slowly lifted her head. I could feel the heat emanating from her fiery face. “Are you asking me if I think he’s capable of committing murder?”

  “Well, I didn’t intend to ask that initially. But if you have an opinion, I’d love to—”

  “The answer is no.”

  “Sorry. I was just trying to get more information so I could help.”

  She released a breath, reached out, and touched my arm. “I’m sorry, Oz. You didn’t deserve that. I’m not good at handling stress…not when I’m attached to it.”

  “No worries. Let’s start with his name.”

  “Franklin T. Marshall. He says it that way every time, according to Noah.”

  “I forget…is he older than Noah?”

  “He’s forty-six, three years older than Noah.”

  I opened my mouth, but she turned to me before words came out. “He gets accused of murdering a woman, Oz, and now he reaches out to Noah for help. Now, after all these years! Can you believe it?”

  I shrugged, shook my head, uncertain if she wanted a response or for me to just let her vent. She set her jaw and closed her eyes for a moment. Finally, she continued. “Noah was just fifteen when his father died. Franklin—actually, he went by ‘Frank’ at the time—didn’t even make it to the funeral. He stayed in school and left all the burden on his younger brother. Noah got a part-time job to help his mom out. Then, she got sick. He was left with no other choice. He dropped out of high school and picked up full-time hours. Since then, Noah’s worked to get his GED, has even taken a few classes at Austin Community College, and all the while, Franklin T. has used his Ivy League education to become a real power broker.”

  Her intensity was palpable. I wasn’t sure how to respond. “I can see you really care about Noah.”

  She brought a hand to her mouth. “He’s so kind-hearted, Ozzie. He’s always done the right thing. I respect that.”

  I put my arm on her shoulder. “I know this is difficult for you, but I’m also happy for you, Brook.”

  “Well, I don’t know how Noah can even look his brother in the eye. He’s stronger than I am—that’s for sure.”

  The family connection, from what I’d experienced as an attorney, had brought out the best and worst in people. And sometimes both emotions from the same person. So-called normal relationships in any family seemed to be almost a myth. My family was no exception.

  She puffed out an anxious breath. “I don’t know what Franklin is mixed up in to be accused of murder. I just know he’s a self-serving prick.”

  I almost thanked her for getting to the heart of the issue. The elevator dinged, ending our brief Q&A session. We walked through the glass door of Lockwood, Engle, Adams and Palmer and approached a desk as wide as an airplane wing. A young man with a hint of peach fuzz above his lip sat behind the desk and clicked on a mouse while staring at the computer monitor. Brook cleared her throat.

  “Be with you in a moment.” His voice sound prerecorded.

  A few clicks later, he turned to Brook. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Well, we, uh…”

  Brook was a bit flustered, so I said, “We’re here to meet with the attorney for the Marshall case.”

  A slow nod followed by a snooty arch of the eyebrow. He lifted a phone, punched a button, and then turned his back to us. I couldn’t hear a damn thing he said. He swung around to face us, but he eyed Brook for an extra second. “I’ll walk you to Mr. Palmer’s office.”

  As we walked down the hallway, I saw the same Lockwood, Engle, Adams and Palmer firm name etched on anything that was etchable.

  Is “etchable” even a word?

  I also noted that nowhere did I see an acronym for the firm’s name. LEAP, I was certain, wasn’t a great term with which to market a distinguished law firm. And I knew how partners operated. They wouldn’t give up the placement of their name in the firm name to allow one that was marketing-friendly. No way. That would mean making a concession. And lawyers would rather give up their firstborn than any political leverage inside their own firm.

  Damn, I was glad I was out of the industry. Then again, I was kind of back in it, considering where we were.

  The snooty receptionist opened double doors into an office as large as a basketball court. It was decorated in old-world ostentatious. I saw Noah right away. He was the only one wearing jeans. He gave me a quick nod, and Brook quickly engulfed him in a hug.

  I’d never seen her so emotional about anyone. Maybe they did have that special connection.

 
; Handshakes and introductions were completed in quick order. Franklin T. Marshall had a hard time looking me in the eye. He received only a half-hug from Brook, his eyes searching for something on the floor. His silver-streaked hair was slicked back, highlighting a long, sloping forehead. His suit looked like it had been wadded up in a corner. He looked tired, downtrodden, in every sense of the word.

  The receptionist asked if he could get us a drink. We declined, and he left the room.

  “What can you tell me?” Brook said, taking a seat at the large round table, where everyone except Winston Palmer was seated.

  “Hold on one second, Detective Pressler.” Winston had been leaning on the edge of his desk. He carried an extra thirty pounds and had a hairline that nearly reached his eyebrows, a sharp contrast to Franklin’s receding hairline. Winston ambled toward us with a hand in his pocket like he owned the place, which he essentially did. At least one-fourth of it.

  “I shouldn’t be the one telling you this…” He paused and coughed. It was wet. He either was sick or smoked a pack a day. “But with you working for the APD, it’s probably not appropriate for you to be in on the details of the case. We invited you only because…well, Noah insisted, and we needed to speak with Mr. Novak.”

  She looked at me like I’d stolen her car.

  “Okay. Well, I suppose you’re right,” she said.

  Noah grabbed her hand. “Thank you for being here, Brook. Why don’t you go into the lobby? I’ll be out in a bit. We can talk then.”

  She lifted to her feet, took a nice long glare at Franklin, and then marched out of the room. The door rattled shut behind her.

  “Phew, that broad is high strung, don’t you think?” Winston chuckled, found a seat on the other side of the table.

  Noah pointed a finger at the attorney. “Don’t speak about Brook in that way. I don’t care how fancy your office is or the fact that your name is on every wall.”