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

by John W. Mefford

  “Fuck yeah! That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “When can I expect it to see it?”

  “Probably tomorrow. I need to get my ducks in a row. I haven’t written a thing. We might need to pull together a nice graphic to show how this scheme worked. Also, we’ll probably run a sidebar about lobbyists and get some additional input from people who’ve worked with lobbyists, maybe Franklin in particular. Let me run it by my editor. Hell, I have a feeling I might get some face time with the publisher on this story.”

  He sounded so giddy you’d think he’d just won the journalism lottery. “Glad this made your day.”

  “Hell yes it did! And this will work, Ozzie. I promise you. I’ll let you know later tonight if this will run in tomorrow’s edition or the next day’s. I need to call Heather and let her know I’ll be working later tonight.”

  “Tell her it isn’t my fault. I wanted you to go straight to the FBI.”

  “I’ll tell her this could be my opportunity at a Pulitzer.”

  At least someone’s career was moving up. We ended our call, and I finally eased off the road and pulled into the gravel-covered parking lot at Gartner Automotive. It was empty. Was it another Steve holiday, which meant that no one else showed up to work?

  I sat there for a second, wondering if I should even bother with grabbing my laptop. Now that we’d decided to make the story public, I knew the funnel of money from Winston and Franklin would cease immediately. Well, if the story ran tomorrow morning. If I had another twenty-four hours, then I could still milk them for another two or three grand.

  Now you’re thinking like Franklin. I shook my head and put my hand on the gear shift to back out of the parking lot.

  My mind went straight to Pamela Connor. Surely, the authorities would be able to figure out who had killed her. It might not have been Franklin, but with their technology resources, they could hunt down this person who had tried to set him up, and likely that person would be the killer. My guess was it had to be a client, current or former. It would just take time to sift through all his clients, talk to Franklin, and better understand who had the most to gain or the biggest ax to grind.

  The authorities would handle it, right?

  Tracy’s words came to mind: “This isn’t a TV show.” Not that I needed such a reminder, but Winston had unlimited resources and access to powerful people, and he seemed to be highly motivated to get Franklin exonerated of the charges. Whatever the motivation was, I had no idea.

  Could I rely on Porter and the DA to get to the bottom of who killed Pamela Connor once Franklin was cleared? I would hope so, but…

  Out of nowhere, another question zapped me like a lightning bolt: what if this murder wasn’t an act of passion? Given Franklin’s connections and his myriad of twisted relationships that spanned corporations, all levels of government, and even foreign players, was it possible that some larger entity was involved and that Pamela’s murder was linked to something where the stakes were much higher than anyone could fathom?

  I thought about the note Franklin had received: You’re a lying, cheating bastard. Change or you will die. The question of whether it was connected to his personal life or professional life was still a big unknown. Franklin’s track record with women hovered between despicable and vile. But after seeing Franklin preach to me earlier about the euphoria he felt from his work, I couldn’t shake the idea of this all connecting to his professional world. Too many unresolved questions. Hell, it seemed like I hadn’t even thought of all the right questions to ask.

  Maybe I should ensure I get the client list from Franklin before Tracy’s story ran and everything we know is out in public. That would allow me the opportunity to work on the case on my own time, without the restrictions forced on me by Winston—minus the windfall of money, of course.

  I pushed open my car door. The moment my foot hit the gravel, the door window exploded, spraying shards of glass all over me. I closed my eyes and hit the ground.

  Someone was trying to kill me.

  22

  The gravel bit into my forearms, but it was my face and neck that felt strange. Like I’d been stung by a hundred bees. From the ground, I looked up but saw no one close by—only the cluster of woods across the street. The shooter had to be hidden in there somewhere.

  Another shot whizzed by just above my head. The bullet hit the car door behind me with a muffled thud.

  Without another thought, I rolled to the left—two more shots were fired. At least one hit the car. The other pinged the metal garage door on the shop. I kept rolling until I was under the carriage of the car. No way the sniper could hit me from this angle.

  I coughed out a breath. My heart was beating so hard I thought it might break through my rib cage. I was safe, though. For how long, I had no idea. Given my angle, I could see only the pavement of the road beyond the parking lot. I saw two cars drive by—I was certain the drivers had no idea what was taking place. The area was pretty much deserted. No other businesses for a good half mile in either direction. Just a lonely road.

  In other words, a perfect location for someone to hide amongst the trees and kill me. I guessed the trees were a hundred yards away. Maybe more.

  My hands were planted under me as if I were about to do push-ups, my neck arched. I could feel the stinging sensation in my face. I tasted blood at the corner of my lips. The bee-sting feeling had to be cuts from the shattered glass.

  How long would the sniper wait for me to show myself? Seconds, minutes, hours?

  My phone.

  Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Oh yeah, I was dodging bullets and glass shrapnel. I touched my pocket—no phone. Crap! I looked right and saw it on the ground about four feet from the car. With the right scope, he could have seen my phone and knew that I had no way to call for help. Or he was just salivating, hoping that I would crawl out and try to grab the phone.

  Dammit, why had Steve and his team of lugnut lackeys pick today of all days to take a day off? Maybe the sniper knew I was all alone.

  A second later, I felt the vibration of the garage door open. I swung my head around and saw a pair of boots. Was that Steve or another killer? I scooted left to get a better angle.

  Another shot went off, ricocheting off the garage door. I flinched.

  “Fuck you!” The person wearing the boots was Steve. A second later, a blast rocked my core. And then another blast. He was like SEAL Team Six, showing up just in time with more firepower than a battalion.

  He dropped to his knees, poked his head under the car. “Cops are on the way. I think that chicken shit is done shooting up my shop and your car.”

  I scooted out from under the car. I’d never been happier to see someone in my whole life. “Thanks for coming to the rescue.”

  We stood behind the large oak tree that had probably been there since before Texas became an official state.

  “Damn, son, you look like the cover of a horror novel.” He pointed at my face, and I gently touched my cheek, wincing and quickly drawing my hand away. Blood covered my fingers.

  As my pulse finally dropped under one-fifty, I started cranking on who was behind this attempted murder. So many possibilities, but no specific entity came to mind. I’d need to bounce this off Nicole.

  I could hear sirens. I looked around the tree and saw three cop cars pull up.

  “Hey, man, when are you going to get one of these?” Steve held up his gun and smiled.

  “Soon. Very soon.”

  23

  Just inside the Hip Hop Art Gallery at the corner of 3rd Street and Bowie, I leaned over to help Mackenzie remove her coat.

  “Those are called butterfly bandages?” She held up her pointer finger.

  She was curious. She wanted to touch one of the six butterfly bandages on my face. The remaining nicks looked more like paper cuts, although when I peered into the mirror earlier, it was the totality of the abrasions that made me look like I’d jumped head first into a paper shredder.

 
“I won’t break, Mackenzie. You can touch one.”

  She gritted her teeth—she still had one tooth missing on the bottom row—and moved her finger to within an inch of my face but stopped. “I can’t do it, Dad. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I’m fine, sweetie. No need to worry.”

  “But someone shot at you. You could have—”

  “I see Ariel has already found the line for food. She’s waving for you.”

  She sighed, turned, and walked over to join her friend.

  I felt Nicole’s hand on my shoulder as she stepped up next to me. “Given what she’s been through with her mom, she just wants to know that you’ll be safe. You know that, right?”

  She carefully wrapped her arms around me.

  “I know. I thought I was being careful. I still don’t know why someone would want to kill me.”

  “Well, it’s like we talked about earlier. Don’t you think it has to be about information? You know something that no one else does—about Franklin being involved in that Drake-FDA corruption scandal.”

  “Yeah, I know. It just doesn’t add up. Why me? Why now?”

  Porter had shown up at the crime scene and was equally perplexed. His team scoured the woods, looking for evidence from the shooter—they found none. He couldn’t figure out why I was the target. I kept my mouth shut about what would hopefully be common knowledge the next day about Franklin’s seedy history. Porter spoke to Steve about any enemies he might have—he could think of no one—and then he tossed a theory at me. “Could just be a random thing. People get their jollies by doing some strange, violent shit.”

  I shrugged, knowing that if they didn’t find any evidence, let alone an actual suspect, it would be meaningless to speculate.

  Porter drove me to my apartment—since, for the second time in the last few months, my car was being impounded by the police to examine it for evidence. When he dropped me off, he said, “You and I both know that crimes are committed every day by people who have something wrong with them. And then there are crimes that take place where we have no idea about the motivation. You can call it ‘organized crime’ or whatever, but powerful people will do some crazy shit to get their way. Don’t forget that.”

  My sights drifted across the bustling art gallery that spanned two floors. Red-and-blue signs highlighting that the event supported the Austin Homeless Shelter were everywhere. I even saw small stickers on shirts and dresses of the patrons with the words, “I support the arts and the Austin Homeless Shelter.” I assumed they’d earned that badge by donating money to the charity or had bought a painting, since fifty percent of the proceeds were to go to the shelter.

  Nicole patted my rear end and snagged my gaze. “I’m glad you’re still with us, Ozzie. Mackenzie isn’t the only one who can’t afford to lose you.”

  “You’re sweet.” I gave her a quick kiss, then put my arm around her and we walked through the gallery. A few seconds later, I spotted the red mane of Brook—it was impossible to miss. She and Noah were having a conversation with another man, and Brook was hooting in laughter. As Nicole and I angled our path toward the laughter, I saw Tito and his girlfriend Luella up on the second floor. His painting contributions to the cause were probably up there.

  Tito gave me the guy-nod and held up a bottled beer. There was a bar off to our right, and I veered the Ozzie-Nicole train in that direction. While we waited in line, I noticed Mackenzie and Ariel munching on something colorful and sugary while standing behind a sketch artist, who was creating funny sketches of the kids. Mackenzie was probably dying to give it a try herself, but she seemed happy hanging out with her friend, just being a regular nine-year-old. The “prodigy” stuff could wait.

  I ordered a Knob Creek and Diet Coke, while Nicole went with her typical party drink, a simple glass of chardonnay. As I turned around and handed her the wine, I froze for a second. Brook was still gabbing away at that same man—must be an old friend—but it was Noah’s glare at her that sent a chill up my spine.

  “Did you pull a muscle in your back?” Nicole asked, taking her wine glass from my hand.

  “Uh…no.”

  She began to follow my eyes.

  “Don’t do that. Keep your eyes on me.”

  She winked. “That’s not so hard. But why?”

  I realized that in my debriefing sessions with Nicole, I’d focused solely on what I’d learned about Franklin and his many philandering hobbies. It was, after all, the reason I’d been hired. Then all the other truths about Franklin had been revealed, with Winston acting as his handy-dandy guard dog. Still, Franklin was the hub from which every spoke had originated.

  But there was more, and in my focus on Franklin, I’d forgotten to tell Nicole about one other detail. Turning my back to Brook and friends, I gave Nicole a synopsis of what Rhonda and Elaine had shared about Noah.

  She froze for a second, just like I had a few moments ago, and I thought, It must be contagious.

  “Try not to be conspicuous,” I said. “For now, I’d like to stay in observation mode.”

  She didn’t ask questions. She understood what was required. We found Mackenzie and asked if she and Ariel wanted to check out Tito’s paintings upstairs. They didn’t respond verbally because they were too busy talking and giggling, but they followed us up the steps. Tito and Luella gave us warm hugs—that is, until she actually saw my face.

  “What the f—”

  “Boy, we’re having fun, aren’t we?” Nicole spoke up. She gestured with her head so Luella would notice the girls.

  “Oops. Sorry,” she said.

  The girls walked beyond us—Mackenzie gave Tito a fist bump—and stood in front of one of Tito’s paintings. From reading her lips, I could see Makenzie was explaining to Ariel how Tito’s artistry was focused on Christmas vignettes. Yes, my daughter actually used the word “vignette.”

  Was I turning into one of those fathers, the ones who bragged over every little thing their child did? If so, call me guilty.

  After a series of questions, I was forced to explain why I looked like I’d been in a cat fight. Luella put her hand on her formidable hip, snatched a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter, and took hold of Tito’s arm. “I’m just glad you paint for a living. It’s calm and not life-threatening. My nerves couldn’t handle you being some type of undercover ninja.”

  All of us snickered, but I could feel Nicole tighten her grip on my arm.

  As the conversation continued, I glanced downstairs to get a bead on Brook. She was talking to the same man. He had the curliest hair of anyone I hadn’t seen at temple, yet it was thinning on top. He stood about an inch shorter than Brook, who was wearing stylish black heels. He seemed a bit out of place. His pants and shirt clashed, and they appeared to be two sizes too big. In fact, he looked rail thin. I wondered if he was sick. Maybe she was doing her best to cheer up an old friend at a time when he really needed it.

  Noah stood off to the side, not engaging in the conversation. He had a bottle of beer in each hand. He tipped his head back and chugged from one. And I mean chugged. He finished it completely and set the bottle on a nearby table. Then he went to work on bottle number two.

  Tito and Luella started conversing with a potential buyer, and Nicole leaned her head against my shoulder. She was watching the downstairs scene as well.

  Brook held up a finger to the man, walked over to Noah, gave him a loving pat on the arm, and headed toward the back of the gallery.

  “She’s headed to the ladies’ room,” Nicole said.

  “Have you been here before?”

  A quick head shake. “I just know that walk. It’s an I-gotta-go-or-I’m-going-to-pee-on-the-floor kind of walk.”

  I snorted out a laugh. What happened next, though, wasn’t very funny.

  24

  From where Nicole and I were perched, we could see Noah eyeing Brook until she disappeared down a hall. Then, he walked right up to the other man and pointed a
finger at his chest. I could read his lips. “You’re trying to get in my woman’s pants. And I won’t stand for it. I don’t care what your issue is.”

  Nicole tugged on my shirt. “What’s he saying?”

  I told her and then started to head down the stairs. “I’m following you,” she said. “I know he’s being an ass, but please don’t get in a fight.”

  By the time I reached the first floor, Brook had reappeared. Noah backed off and went back to drinking his remaining beer. The man just stood there with his mouth open, staring at Noah. Up close, his face was as white as a blank canvas.

  Brook had no idea what was going on, of course. When she saw me and Nicole, her expression went from happiness to shock. Her eyes bugged out when she saw my face.

  “What the hell happened to you?” she said, while giving a quick hug to Nicole.

  “I had an accident.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. One that you could have avoided?”

  This might open up a hundred questions about Franklin’s case. With no pat answer coming to mind, I acted like I’d just noticed the gentleman standing near us. “Are you going to introduce us to your friend?”

  She said his name was Charlie Reynolds. They’d become acquainted when he worked as a police dispatcher for the San Antonio Police Department—Brook’s former employer before moving to Austin to take care of her mother. Charlie shook my hand, but there wasn’t much confidence behind it. His eyes kept shifting over to Noah, who now was looking at a painting.

  Part of me wondered if what I’d seen Noah say to Charlie had been too small of a sampling. Yes, it was threatening, but was there a possibility of some type of lovers’ triangle going on? Outside of Noah, I wasn’t that familiar with Brook’s personal life.

  “Yep, Charlie and I go back a way,” she said, throwing an arm over his shoulder.

  He quickly glanced toward Noah and moved back a step so Brook’s arm wouldn’t reach. He coughed. “I think I’m getting a cold.”