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

by John W. Mefford

  “Did you lose your appetite?” Stacy asked, jarring me back to the here and now.

  I picked up a rib. “I can’t let great food go to waste,” I said, then proceeded to take a bite.

  “So, that email address I gave you… Did you give that to the police? I’m assuming with the threatening note and the shooting, they’re going to look into everything?”

  I wiped my mouth with my napkin. “I’m sure it will come in handy.” I paused a second. “Have you had a visit from—”

  “Ray Gartner. The PI we use…well, used to use at the firm. I know him pretty well. He stopped by my place yesterday.”

  “Good. I’m glad he’s making headway.”

  She looked down for a moment. “You haven’t shared everything with the police, have you?”

  “More or less, yes.”

  She gave me the signal that my answer wasn’t sufficient.

  “Well, I’m the one who demanded that they go to the hospital to investigate my dad’s death. Their initial investigation hasn’t shown any evidence of a homicide. But now that I’ve been threatened and shot at because I was snooping into my dad’s death, they realize there might be something to my suspicions.”

  Her face seemed to harden. “And that’s it?”

  “It isn’t that I don’t trust the cops. One detective in particular I trust. She’s a bit of a bulldog, and that’s what I want to see. I also have Ray working the case, since the police have obvious limitations based upon something called the law.”

  We both chuckled.

  “Well, okay. Just let me know what you learn on either front. I care; you know that.”

  “I do, Stacy. Thank you for caring so much.”

  We finished our lunch and turned to more mundane topics. The typical questions around “How’s your family?” as if we hadn’t seen each other in six months. In reality it had been closer to four days. But I learned that when you work with someone every day, you tend not to ask about the routine things, since your collective energy is focused on legal briefs, depositions, and making sure clients pay their legal fees. I found out that Stacy’s mom was ill, something about having her gallbladder removed, and she was a little beaten down with taking care of her.

  “My mom wasn’t a good mother growing up. She was curt, spiteful, and generally no fun to be around. So, I’m having a difficult time being the type of caregiver I know I should be.”

  I was surprised Stacy could be anything but kind. “Well, give yourself a break. And if anyone knows about parental flaws, it’s me. None of our parents are perfect. My mom has issues. My dad certainly had issues. I guess you have to focus on the best parts, since before you know it, they aren’t around.”

  She nodded. “So true.” Her eyes wandered away before settling on her half-empty glass that she was twisting. She seemed somewhat conflicted, which was understandable. I decided not to probe further. The waiter arrived with our check. She wanted to pick up the bill, but I insisted.

  “This will be the big test to see if Nicole was pulling my leg. The only question is which credit card will work.”

  I closed my eyes and pulled from a deck of six. “The green one,” I said, setting it on a tray and watching the waiter walk off with it.

  A moment later, he returned. His scowl told me everything. I pulled out my wallet as he set the tray back on the table. I saw two pieces of paper and a pen. “Come back soon.” And then he walked off.

  “It worked!” You would have thought I’d just won the lottery. I signed the receipt and walked with Stacy to the door. We agreed to make this a weekly thing. Once outside, she walked to her car, and I waved goodbye from the sidewalk. She then realized I was on foot.

  “You’re not walking in this weather. Where can I take you?”

  I didn’t push back against her generosity. I hopped in and gave her directions to Gartner Automotive.

  30

  I arrived thirty minutes early, but when you have no ride and very little money—none in cash—you have to take what you can get. I thanked Stacy for the ride, and she again asked me to stay in touch with any new details. I hoped Ray would have positive news and continue my lucky streak—yes, I considered my credit card being accepted as a victory.

  The main garage door was rolled shut, and I saw only one car in the side lot, a banged-up Ford pickup, whose red color looked like it had been bleached by the wicked Texas sun. I tried the pedestrian door, and it opened. Inside, the lights were on, but there was no buzz of activity. A couple of cars were up on lifts. I bent over to look for human legs but saw none. All the mechanics were gone.

  “Is anyone here?” My voice echoed. No one answered. To a degree, it felt like I’d walked right into someone else’s home. I flashed on an image of me standing in the office at my former home, reading the love note from “C.” The parallels were not lost on me, although I realized my name was actually on the deed of the house that Nicole lived in and where I was no longer welcome. I still had a lot of curiosity about the infamous “C.” Well, curiosity that was wrapped around a bundle of seething anger, jealousy, and general disgust.

  Perhaps the person behind C was only called C kind of like Q of James Bond fame. I chuckled internally, thankful that I was slowly learning to find humor in life’s little jabs.

  I made my way around the array of tools and spare tires until I saw Ray’s office, and then I stopped. The light was on, but the shades were shut. Was that his red truck outside?

  I moved to my left and saw that the door was open, the piles of magazines and newspapers stacked nearly to the ceiling. Not confident I could hear anyone sneak up behind me, I swiveled my head back and forth and padded closer to the office. No one was in the shop. Just before I reached the door, I saw a boot, then a jeaned leg, and then drops of crimson on the concrete floor. I ran inside his office.

  “Ray!” I dropped down next to him. He tried to raise an arm. His hand quivered. Was he trying to say something? I leaned over his back but couldn’t pick up what he said.

  I gently turned him over. “Oh my God,” I said. His face was barely recognizable. He had purple bruises on top of other bruises. One eye was completely shut, the other about halfway open. The pupil I could see was dilated, but he seemed catatonic.

  “Ray, can you hear me?”

  He grunted something, but I couldn’t make it out. Damn my hearing!

  I asked him to repeat what he said. His lips moved, but they were so swollen it was impossible to figure out what he was trying to say.

  I quickly looked around the office for a rag or towel, finding none. Ray’s face was covered in blood—seeping out of his mouth, his one eye, his nose—with splatters across his beige western shirt. My hands, too, were coated with his blood. I leaned back down to get a closer look at his injuries.

  “Holy shit.” I swallowed back my barbeque as I examined an ear that appeared to have a chunk taken out.

  “Ray, where’s a towel around here?”

  He lifted his arm toward the window that looked out to the garage. I ran into the garage, stumbled over a hose as I feverishly scanned the place for anything to use to stop the blood. My eyes went to the corner, where there was a foot-high stack of what looked to be recently laundered hand towels. I grabbed the entire pile, found a sink, soaked half of them in water, and ran back into the office. Ray was actually sitting up against the wall.

  “You showed up early.” He grimaced as he spoke and then touched his jaw.

  I put a towel to his ear, and he squealed. “Let me do it.”

  “Ray, a piece of your ear is missing. What the hell happened?” Drops of sweat trickled off my sideburns.

  “Did you see it running out of here? If so, go catch it for me.”

  At least he still had his sarcasm, so I knew he wasn’t too bad off. He took another towel and dabbed his eye, then his nose. “I guess I look pretty fucked up, huh?”

  “Let’s just say you’re not a candidate for the sexiest man alive.”

  “Have yo
u seen my six-pack?” He patted his paunch, but quickly regretted it.

  “Ray, who did this?”

  He tried to scoot up some more and grunted. Near his desk, my eyes found a blood-stained tire iron. “Is that what the person used?”

  “Does it have teeth?” He tried to chuckle, but he quickly stopped.

  I pulled out my phone and punched in nine-one-one.

  “Put it away,” he said, swatting at my hand. He missed by a good six inches.

  “I’m calling the cops. You can give them a description; maybe they can pull a fingerprint. If we’re lucky, they can find this fucker before morning.”

  “You’re not calling the cops.” Again, he reached for my phone, but he got nothing but air.

  I surveyed his pulverized face, the blood that was covering the floor and his clothes. “This is nuts. I need to call the cops.” I stood, my thumb on the green button.

  “You can’t.”

  “Ray, what are you saying? We need to find whoever did this and have him arrested.”

  He arched his neck to look up at me. “You do that…” He coughed and then flinched from the pain. “You do that and I’m a dead man.”

  I slipped my phone into my pocket. He had my attention. First things first: his condition. “I suppose you don’t want to go to an ER?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about a first-aid kit?”

  “I think Steve’s got one mounted on a wall over by the first bay.”

  I ran into the garage and found the metal box, covered in dust so thick it might have been there since the Beatles had come to America. Back in the office, I opened the box, found bacitracin and a foot-long roll of gauze bandage. He decided to take the lead, starting on his ear. He used up three towels to wipe it clean, applied the antibacterial ointment, and then tried to wrap his ear. I jumped in to help.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he said.

  I began wrapping his ear. “You know who did this to you, don’t you?”

  “Eh. I’d rather not get into it.”

  I taped off the bandage. It might hold for a couple of hours, if he was lucky.

  “Do you have any ice?”

  “Steve has a machine in his office, but I think it’s broken.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “It’s a bank holiday. President’s Day or something. My brother looks for any reason to take off and go hunting or fishing. And he’s known some of these guys for a while, so he lets them take the day off as well.”

  I wondered if the man who’d assaulted Ray knew that he’d be alone.

  He smacked his lips.

  “Water. Let me find a cup or something and get you some water from the sink in the garage.”

  “Hold up. Just hand me the small thermos on the shelf behind my desk.”

  I found it and handed it to him. He twisted the cap off and took two gulps. “That’s some good shit,” he said, staring at the thermos.

  I pushed some crap to the side and leaned my butt against the side of his desk. “Ray, does this beating have anything to do with you digging into who my dad was working for?”

  His one eye looked straight ahead. I waited a moment and then waved a hand in front of his face. “I thought I was the deaf one.”

  “What?” he barked.

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re refusing to answer me?” I was stunned by his stonewalling. “Ray, it’s me. I’m not a cop. You can tell me anything.”

  “Can’t.”

  I stood up. “What the fuck, Ray?”

  “Won’t.”

  My head felt like it might explode. “Ray, I’m paying you. You have to tell me.”

  He glanced up at me. “Don’t you remember, I’m doing this pro…?”

  “Bono. Oh, right. I forgot.”

  He scooted his feet underneath him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Help me up.”

  I tried questioning his judgment, but he wouldn’t stop, so I did the best I could to help him to his feet as fresh blood made an appearance on his face. Then I got a whiff of his breath. He collapsed into his chair.

  “Your thermos has booze in it, not water.”

  “Really, Sherlock? Damn, your powers of observation are world class.”

  He wiped more blood from his face as he blinked his one good eye. It appeared he was trying to make it to where he could actually see.

  I knew he had important information…information that might cause someone to come back to kill him. I took a breath and thought about another approach.

  “Okay, Ray, the cops don’t have to know. Not now.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “But you need to tell me what’s going on. My family members could be in danger.”

  “Eh, they don’t know anything, so they’re safe.” He placed his arms on his desk and began to shift folders around as if he were searching for something.

  “And me?”

  He paused and looked up. In his one eye, I saw a web of red. “You need to pretend you didn’t find me in this condition. And you need to let this all go.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “We can’t bring back your dad, Oz. I’m sorry.” He lifted a folder from his desk and grabbed a small key; then he swiveled around to a filing cabinet.

  “You know I can’t just act like this never happened.”

  He didn’t respond. I could only see him fiddling with the key in the filing cabinet.

  “There’s something you don’t know, Ray.”

  A second of silence, and then he asked, “What’s that?”

  “They—maybe the same guys who beat you up—left a note on my car saying I should stop snooping into my dad’s death. And then they apparently followed me to my buddy’s place and tried to kill me last night. Fired seven or eight rounds. An innocent person was shot in the process.”

  “Damn.” He finally yanked open the drawer, pulled out a backpack, and placed it on his desk. He pointed a finger at me. “This proves my point. There are some things that aren’t worth your life or mine. We need to let this go and move on.”

  Sweat found my wounds and stung my face. With all of the towels being used by Ray, I dabbed my face against my shirt. “You ever heard of the Witness Protection Program?”

  He tried to smirk, although his face didn’t move much. “Government bureaucracy would take weeks to set that up. Even if I could survive that long—and that’s not something I’m willing to risk—who wants to live their life under the thumb of the government? Not me.”

  He continued riffling through his bag. He pulled out an envelope and looked inside. I saw a wad of cash.

  “What are you doing? What’s in that bag?”

  “Well, if you have to know—and by God, you can’t tell a fucking soul—this is what I call my SHTF bag.”

  I could think of a few acronyms for some of the letters but nothing that made complete sense. “Okay, I won’t tell anyone,” I said, holding up a hand as if I had just sworn to tell the truth.

  “Shit Hit The Fan. That’s what this bag is for.”

  “When shit hits the fan…” I would have laughed had I not been looking at someone whose face had been used as a punching bag. “You’ve got a lot of cash. What’s the plan?”

  “To disappear, nimrod. Are you really that dense?”

  “To where?”

  “What’s the old saying? For me to know and you to find out. Only, you won’t find out. Hopefully no one will.”

  “This is crazy, Ray.”

  “Which part? Me getting pummeled or finally realizing that I can’t sit around and hope it goes away?’

  I thought about calling Brook. I knew she could help us figure something out. Plus, she might be able to convince Ray to start talking.

  “So you’re okay with the fact that Dad’s killer is going to roam free, live an easy life?”

  “Well, I’m hoping that karma catches up. But that�
��s not my call. I got to protect numero uno.”

  “And me?”

  “You got anywhere you can go?”

  I shrugged. “I got shot at. I don’t want to die, but I’m not going to let these fuckers make me fearful of every step I take.” I jabbed a finger in his direction as I said this, a new round of perspiration bubbling at my hairline.

  “You might regret that decision.”

  I blew out a disgusted breath.

  “Look, Ozzie. If you want to continue going down this path, have at it.” He grabbed a portfolio and placed it on the edge of the desk. “I jotted down some notes after some of my discussions with people your dad worked with and knew. It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks,” I said with little conviction. I picked it up and thumbed through the first few pages.

  “Not much in there, honestly. You’ll also see notes on my other current investigations.” He twisted a few hairs on his mustache. “Arie told me your firm shut down.”

  “Yep. He’s charged with selling it off. I get nothing, by the way.”

  “If you’re not going to leave town—and don’t get me wrong, that’s my advice—what are you going to do? Join a new firm?”

  “I suppose. Haven’t thought about it much. But I have to do something. Nicole seems to have been possessed by the devil. She kicked me out of the house, took away most of my access to our money. I might have to start flipping burgers.”

  Ray picked up a soiled rag and blotted the cut near his mouth. “If you have any desire, you can take over this business.”

  “Quit joking, Ray. It’s becoming painful.”

  “I’m not. I’m getting ready to walk out of here. I’ll put in one call to my brother and give him a heads-up on what’s going on. After that, I’m chucking the phone, finding an unregistered car, and hitting the road. If I’m lucky, by midnight I’ll be across the border.”

  “You’re going to Mexico?”

  “I hear it’s pretty cheap to live down there. You never know—maybe I’ll start writing poetry or some shit like that. But then again, I may not go in that direction. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On which way the wind is blowing.”