ON Edge (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 1) (Redemption Thriller Series 13)

by John W. Mefford

  I wasn’t sure how to jump into the subject. “It’s about my dad.” I looked over at one of the stacks. The frayed edges of the newspapers were brown.

  “Good old Nate.”

  Dad hated being called that name, but maybe he let Ray get away with it. He paused. While some might take a breath, Ray used the spare moment to spit into his cup.

  “They don’t make ’em like that anymore. God rest his soul.” He crossed himself as if he were Catholic, but his outline looked more like a cursive Z. I wasn’t even sure he was Catholic. I remembered Dad had told me that Ray had been married five or six times, and once even had to cross the border into Oklahoma since he wanted to get married so quickly after a divorce. I’d soon join that club. Maybe he and I could make a run at double-digit marriages.

  “You think you got a malpractice lawsuit lined up against the hospital? I got contacts all within the medical world. Lots of nurses. If you need some inside scoop, I can probably get that done from just about any hospital in Travis County.”

  My brow crinkled, doubtful.

  “You don’t believe me? I can do it; just point me in the right direction.”

  “Oh, I believe you. No worries there.” He had flecks of gray in his mustache and a head of wavy hair, but his leathery skin gave his age away. Dad had said Ray was nearing sixty-five.

  I thought about his leap to malpractice against the hospital. I’d actually never considered that as a possible reason for Dad’s death. Still, though, Detective Pressler seemed capable of leading that investigation for now, even though Ray appeared mighty eager to be knocking boots with one of his many nurse friends.

  “So I need to be frank with you, Ray.”

  He spit into his cup and nodded. “I thought you already were.”

  “I was…I am.” I took in a breath and rebooted my approach. “Our office was raided two days ago.”

  “Say what?”

  “Federal agents from the FDA, IRS, Department of Homeland Security, and FBI.”

  “That’s a frickin’ acronym orgy ready to happen.”

  He was right. Absolutely right. “Yeah, it got our attention, all eighteen of us working at the firm. But they only wanted one of us.”

  He nodded, and I paused, wondering if he’d pick up on who that one was. He just spit into his cup and stared at me. I sighed and went on with it. “They arrested Dad. They tore the place apart, taking files, computers, everything they could carry. Gutted the office.”

  “Damn, that must have been tough to sit through.”

  “I thought it was the worst, until Dad dropped to the floor as they were walking him out.”

  “That’s when he suffered the heart attack?”

  “The first heart attack, yes.”

  “He had more than one?”

  I walked him through the sequence of events: how Dad had gone from having one heart attack, hearing the feedback from the cardiologist that he did not need surgery but would instead require a change in lifestyle, and then having a second heart attack, the one that killed him, moments before I arrived the next day.

  “Sounds like malpractice to me, but I don’t know much.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk.

  “Maybe, but my thoughts didn’t go there.”

  I waited another moment, wondering if he’d start connecting the dots. He just spit into his cup again. He was either not as bright as Dad had described or he had a reason for allowing me to lead him down the path. Just before I was about to speak up, he said, “You think someone knocked off your dad.” He said it as more of a statement than a question.

  “It’s very possible. I only know the high-level charges. It was a sealed warrant, and as of yet, they haven’t released the details behind it.”

  “Even though he’s dead?” He spit into his cup. “I don’t mean to come across as insensitive, but Jiminy Cricket, what the hell’s the holdup?”

  “That’s how the Feds work, I suppose.” I tapped my thumb on the edge of the chair. Detective Pressler had come across as reliable, even if she was overworked. But I wasn’t sure I could count on her to find out who my dad’s mystery client was. There was a part of me that thought this client could have killed Dad—personally or through some proxy—and figured out a very crafty way to cover it up.

  But I also knew that Brook didn’t work for me. I couldn’t command the direction she should take, or blow off, in her investigation. She may or may not find Dad’s client relevant to the investigation. Or, after looking at the evidence, or what she had reasonable access to, she might conclude that he died from natural causes. Maybe I was grasping for something or someone to blame for my dad’s death. Right now, with my emotions swirling, it was difficult to fully believe in my instincts. Basically, the reasons were numerous for why I needed someone I could trust to find the person who’d hired my dad.

  I looked at Ray. “Maybe the Feds have their reasons, but the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t trust the justice system to figure out what, if anything, happened.”

  “Happened to what?”

  “To my dad.” I moved to the edge of my seat. “The lead FBI agent, a guy named Bruce Bowser, hinted after the fact that someone might have a reason to keep Dad quiet.”

  “No shit? He admitted it?”

  “He didn’t use those exact words, and when I tried to pin him down, he backed off a bit. By that time, I’d already called the Austin police and asked for an investigation into Dad’s death.”

  More head nodding, and then a repeat of the spit-cup routine. His eyes left mine and scanned a stack of magazines next to him. Was he searching for something specific, or was this how he went into deep thought?

  Finally, he put a hand on his desk and said, “Who?”

  “Who…what?”

  “Who was trying to keep Nate quiet?”

  “That’s the thing. Bowser told me that, while the charges against Dad were legitimate, they were really trying to get to the person my dad was working for.”

  “His client.”

  I nodded.

  “So, did they just use your dad to draw out this other guy?”

  “They better fucking not have.” I could feel a flutter in my chest. I released a deep breath and dialed back my intensity.

  We discussed the specific charges that I knew of, and Ray did some more scanning of the artifacts in his office. Maybe that was why he hoarded everything—his way of thinking through a problem.

  “Man, I could sit here and ask you questions from now until next Christmas, but I doubt you’d have many answers,” Ray said with a snicker. “So, besides just keeping me in the loop, which I appreciate, what do you want me to do?”

  I’d hoped he would have seen the obvious next step. Apparently not. “I need you to find the person who was my dad’s client.”

  He didn’t immediately agree, which sent a wave of heat into my face.

  “Wait. They raided your office? Somewhere in those files is the name of Nate’s client, of course.”

  I tried to laugh, but I never got close. “The Feds might think they’ll find something, but if what Dad told me was true, they won’t find any evidence of the client in our files, hard copy or electronic. During the brief time Dad and I talked about it—really, it was more me trying to pull information out of him—he said one relevant thing. The Feds wouldn’t find the name because it wasn’t in the records.”

  Just then, one of the mechanics put his face against the window to my right and started sliding down the glass. Was he playing a game? Ray got out of his seat and shut the blinds. “Stupid chuck-wagon kids don’t know when to act professional.”

  By the time he sat back down, I felt a buzz in my pocket. I pulled out my phone and saw a text from Nicole. Ray might have been talking, but I wasn’t listening. My eyes went to the screen.

  Feel free to drop by tomorrow at noon to pick up your things. Thx.

  That was it? No wondering how I was doing after my father had died, or how the funeral had gone?
No remorse, or better yet, maybe some enlightenment into how she had turned into a piranha? I slid the phone back into my pocket and saw Ray with his mouth hanging open.

  “Sorry, did you say something?”

  “I said I’ll take the case, but only under one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That it’s on the house. Pro…whatever you lawyers call it.”

  “Pro bono.” Given my lack of access to my funds, I was certainly glad to hear he didn’t want a sizable retainer fee up front. I would definitely take free. “That’s nice of you, Ray.”

  “Your dad brought me plenty of business. He was a good man who tried to do the right thing.” He looked over my shoulder into the garage for a moment. “Before I get started, any reason to believe that the text you just got might help me out?”

  “Nope,” I said, hands on my knees. Then I felt the urge to just let it all out there. “It was my wife.”

  “Right, the old ball and chain. Glad I don’t have to answer to anyone.”

  “I don’t either anymore. She’s basically kicked me out of the house. She was just telling me when she’d allow me to drop by and pick up my stuff.”

  He shook his head and went back to the cup. “Damn womenfolk. Can’t trust any of them.”

  I smiled.

  “Tell you what, I can put a tail on her and see if, you know, she’s got anything going on the side.”

  The knot in my stomach just expanded. I really didn’t want to go there. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “You sure now? Sometimes if things get contentious, nothing will sway a jury more than a few vivid images of said slut kissing her new boy toy goodbye.”

  He was making it more difficult not to think of Nicole being with another man. “I’ve used that same strategy for my clients. It’s not like that. But I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

  Ray said he’d jump on the case immediately and would share information as soon as it became available. I walked out of the building. I found my car sitting in the parking lot, with key scratches up and down both sides. A perfect end to the day.

  16

  A blustery wind whipped across my face as I stood in front of my open garage and stared at everything that was supposed to have meaning in my life. A low, gray sky was spitting out a light mist, but I didn’t bother wiping my face. I was too busy assessing how my life with Nicole could so easily be boxed up.

  I shuffled closer but still moved at a tentative pace. It was as though all of my stuff was made of kryptonite. Touching the boxes might instantly drain me of what energy I had left—as if I’d been kicked in the nuts. If I were to pore through my belongings, it would mean that I’d fully accepted the edict of Nicole.

  Get over it, Ozzie. You wanted your shit—now you’ve got it.

  I pulled open one box and found my law books. The one next to it contained a bunch of CDs and DVDs, many of which had entertained me and Nicole many times over. There were CDs from the Foo Fighters, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Green Day, and even one from Bon Jovi. Among the DVDs was I Am Legend, a few of the Harry Potter movies, one of the Jason Bourne movies, and P.S. I Love You. I picked up that one and recalled how Nicole would tear up.

  Looking back, I wondered what was behind those tears. I began to question if she was sharing the intimate moment with me. I remember her once putting her hand on mine as she thumbed a tear in the corner of her eye. She didn’t say anything because she didn’t have to. It seemed rather obvious—she didn’t want me to die like Gerry, the character played by Gerard Butler, and leave a huge hole in her heart. I thought it had brought us closer.

  But maybe her mind had been on something else. Someone else. Not a lover, but maybe an uncle or close friend. Nicole’s behavior the last three days had gone straight to the top of my most-shocking list, but I knew one thing for sure about her—she was a one-man woman.

  Yet, I knew she’d been unhappy. That was rather clear.

  Maybe all along she’d seen flaws in our relationship, one that I had considered to be almost magical. It was strange to feel so close to someone and then end up questioning if that bond ever really existed. As I perused my personal effects while kneeling in the chilly garage, I felt a lack of assuredness in just about every aspect of my life. Emotions clamored for supremacy in my mind, making it difficult to get my bearings and figure out where to go next.

  I completed my cursory check of the boxes and suitcases and began loading up my car. I had to put my golf clubs in the front seat—maybe I could throw a hat on top and pretend the clubs were a person, giving me an excuse to use the HOV lane.

  Wow, that was a lame thought. I was about to punch the start-engine button when I tried to remember if any of those boxes contained the one picture that held any meaning for me. It was a shot of Dad and me just after one of my swim meets when I’d won my first medal. Not many guys can say they quit football to take up swimming, but it was just a way for me to stay in shape and keep my competitive juices flowing. I’d always loved the water. Mom called me a trout when I was a kid and we’d go to the beach, like a pseudo-normal family.

  As I slipped out of the car to inspect the garage, my phone rang. I answered the call.

  “Hey, bro.” I decided to speak in Tobin’s language.

  “Bro? Okay, listen, dude, you gotta get to Arie’s place. And I mean now.”

  The reading of Dad’s will. I looked at my watch. “I still have thirty minutes. I’ll be there on time, even if I have to speed a little.”

  “Do you not hear the stress in my voice?”

  Loud and clear. “What’s wrong, Tobin?”

  “Fucking Bianca, that’s what’s wrong.”

  I continued moving around the garage looking for even a small box or container that might have more of my stuff. I was coming up empty. “What about her?” I knew I sounded almost disinterested. To a degree I was, at least in the drama.

  “She’s in the other room.”

  I stopped moving. “She’s at Arie’s? Why?”

  “Good fucking question, bro. Arie and his wife are off getting drinks and food together, so they’re not saying a word.”

  “Sounds like she was invited to the reading of his will.”

  “Dammit, I thought you’d say that. Now, how can I encourage her to leave?”

  “You can’t. Well, you can encourage her to leave, but you can’t force her, not unless she’s creating a scene.”

  “I’m not sure if she’s going to create the scene or Mom is going to create the scene.”

  “Crap.”

  “Now you’re getting it. Dude, I just got here, and I’m already sweating like a whore in church.”

  How original, but I understood his concern. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  “Where are you anyway?”

  Here came the questions. It was a miracle no one had realized that Nicole had disappeared from my life, and their lives too, for that matter.

  “I’m running an errand. Gotta go. I’ll be there soon; don’t worry.” I hung up before he could continue peppering me with more questions.

  I’d leave as soon as I got my picture. I stood in front of the door to the house, staring specifically at the doorknob. Was it locked? Did she really change the locks? I moved a hand toward the knob but didn’t touch it. I felt like I was violating some sacred rule by even thinking about entering…my own home.

  Okay, the lawyer in me said I wasn’t allowed to act naïve. Nicole had established the ground rules, and even if they were ridiculous—most anyone would agree with that—I hadn’t pushed back or tried to find middle ground. The office raid, the felony charges, and Dad’s hospitalization and subsequent death had stolen my attention, so I had a good reason not to address this part of my life. But I knew that didn’t absolve me from adhering to the basic principle of this imposed separation.

  I walked back to the car and opened the door. I thought about where I was going…to the reading of Dad’s will. This would, in fact, probably b
e the final event that surrounded his death. I still had a lot of things to work through in relation to how he treated me, especially in our professional lives, but right now, I needed a positive memory from at least one part of my life. Something that might actually bring me a smile, maybe offer some encouragement that my entire life hadn’t been fake.

  I shut the car door and looked at the house. I only wanted my picture. She could have everything else, at least for now. Last I remember, it was in the office that we shared. It was on my late grandfather’s antique desk. I walked over to the door leading into the house and tried twisting the knob.

  It didn’t budge. Not unexpected. I tried my key, and it didn’t fit.

  So, she had done what she said she would. The locks had been changed.

  I snapped my fingers the moment the thought hit me. I walked around to the far side of the house and found the window to the office. The lock hadn’t been able to latch since we moved in. The foundation was likely the culprit. Actually, it was the always-shifting soil and rock beneath the house that was the root cause. A Texas issue. I would just open the window, grab my picture, and be out before feeling an ounce of guilt.

  I put my hands on the window but stopped short of pulling it up. We had an alarm system, but she had never used it. Not once. Had she changed that habit? Anxiety rippled through my body, my heart pounding my chest. The strain of everything was getting to me. The last thing I wanted or needed was the alarm going off, cops showing up, me trying to explain what I was doing. I could just hear the ridicule from Nicole, or the new Nicole. All I wanted was my picture. Was that so bad?

  Fuck it.

  I pulled up and held my breath. All was quiet. I exhaled, glanced around like a thief in the night—except, of course, it was broad daylight. I curled my body over the windowsill and shut the window behind me so no one walking or driving by our house would suspect anything. I turned around and scanned the office, took in the familiar oak smell. It was mostly in order. There were gaps in the bookcase where Nicole had pulled my books out and boxed them up. An old-fashioned grandfather clock ticked from the top of my antique desk. Just to the right of the clock was the picture. I walked over, picked it up. Dad’s smile couldn’t get much bigger than that. I had this goofy teenager grin. My dimples looked like divots in my cheeks. He was reaching up, an arm around my shoulder. I was probably close to six feet tall, just a couple of inches shy of my current height—and I still towered over him. He was the one holding up the medal that dangled from my neck. Damn, he was proud of me.