GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  While Arthur came across as nice and affable, he showed signs of being a rambler.

  I voiced my concern for Karina’s mental health, and the fact that her connection to the top news event in the region put her in a difficult position. I asked if he could think of a way to take the pressure off Karina, yet maintain the integrity of the murder coverage.

  “Michael, my son—er, my apologies…I seem to call every young man ‘son.’ Anyway, I’ve been semi-retired for about a year now, which is why I put Karina in charge. She’s one of the best we’ve had in that role.”

  “But, sir…Arthur— ”

  “Just because I’m semiretired doesn’t mean I’m oblivious. I returned yesterday from a four-week hiatus to Puerto Vallarta. My wife and I were looking for a vacation home. You know, a place to go to avoid weather like this.”

  “I’m sure you and your wife deserve to retire in style after such a long and successful career.” I was eager to build a connection. “It’s a great goal to have when you’ve been married for so long.”

  “Actually, son…I mean Michael…I’ve got you on that one.” He flashed a boyish smile. “My wife is eighteen years my junior, and we’ve only been married a little over four years.”

  My face turned red enough to have led Santa’s sleigh.

  “I had a pretty nasty divorce about five years ago,” he said. “Life is good now, at least until I got back from Puerto Vallarta and saw what’s been happening here at home.” Arthur’s expression turned grim, and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m just now getting caught up on what has taken place. I’ve tried to reach Karina several times, but she’s not answering her cell phone. I understand you’re actually associated with this story?”

  “To a degree. I found Tiffany Chambers’ carved-up body stuffed in a bag. And Karina’s husband was arrested for Tiffany’s murder—I work with him, saw him dragged out in handcuffs. Reinaldo is someone I know and care about.” I looked down at the plush rug. “It’s a big mess.”

  I asked Arthur about the Times Herald’s coverage of the event.

  “Ashamed and embarrassed.” He put his hands behind his head and stared off into space, as if he was speaking more to himself than me.

  He shouted to his assistant. “Stacy, Stacy. Keep trying to reach Karina. Also, I want to set up a meeting as quickly as possible with Stu what’s-his-name.”

  I recalled Marisa telling me to stay cool and composed. “You mean Stu Owens?”

  Given what I had seen from Stu, I wasn’t sure he had the aggressive personality to pull the coverage out of the ditch, but at this point seeing Arthur take charge was a start.

  “Stu is our city beat writer. Covers a lot of territory and I’ve read his stories. Quality work.”

  “I’ve met him.” My voice had lost some energy, and I released a deep breath.

  “Michael, I can see this subject is very personal for you.”

  “I just know a girl was murdered. I saw the gruesome remains. And our friends are mixed up in it. Reinaldo is behind bars; Karina is barely able to function. And the kids…Brent and little Ricky. It’s just all so sad, and I’m not in a position to do anything about it.”

  My eyes shifted from the corner of the room back to Arthur, who appeared to be analyzing my comment, or was perhaps still recalling his swanky vacation to Puerto Vallarta. Who knows?

  Thirty seconds must have passed, then Arthur rested his arms on the expansive padded desk.

  “There’s really no other option. I have only one path I can take on this one.”

  “What’s that?” I popped a knuckle.

  “I’m going to recues Karina from all responsibility of this story. If she needs to take additional time off, I’ll put the assistant editor in charge of everything else. For now, all coverage for this story goes through me. I’ll start with Stu what’s-his-name, and we’ll see how quickly we can bring back respectability to this newspaper.”

  Arthur paused, then removed his glasses and tapped his mouth, apparently still in thought. He swiveled his chair to the right and stared at one of the many framed pictures on the far wall.

  Amidst the many other trophies, I spotted a black-and-white framed portrait of someone who shared the same oval face and also wore a bow tie. I pointed my finger toward the wall.

  “Is that…?”

  “Yes, my dear Grandfather Chester.” Arthur’s chest swelled with pride and his face beamed with energy. “This paper has been in my family for seventy-five years. I must uphold the heritage and foundation handed down to me by my grandfather.”

  Finally, some action. Mission accomplished.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I climbed into my Accord and took off for work, giving my mind opportunity to drift. For the first time in weeks, my judgment felt right. After sensing the call from Tiffany’s spirit, I’d finally found someone who would put some effort into investigating the events that killed her. I envisioned Tiffany smiling at me, thinking my visit with Arthur was the first step toward freeing her soul.

  I wondered if Tiffany’s killer was sitting behind bars. I didn’t want to believe it, which is why I felt like the search for the truth continued. Thankfully, I hadn’t forced myself to choose sides, Tiffany or Reinaldo.

  A brush of color caught my eye on the right side of the road as I passed the front of J&W. I slowed the car and stared at the front of our building. My heart rate quickened. You would have thought I’d seen Marisa kissing another guy. Instead, I was looking at a gold temporary sign flapping in the wind. It read: J&W, a proud subsidiary of PHC.

  D-day had arrived. The deal had finally closed, and I wondered how swiftly internal changes would take place.

  I walked through the back door. Ruby red and gold hung from the rafters on streamers and balloons, and a sea of confetti was scattered on the floor. Business cards with the new colors and company logo beside my name were on my desk. Nice gesture, but the positive vibe didn’t resonate.

  Paula’s office door opened. She came out wearing a forced smile. Poor lady. God knows, she’s had to put up with a lot of shit in the last few months. She was followed by two Indian men in dark suits with striped ties. The first appeared to be the head of PHC, the one who’d spoken when the deal was first announced. I picked up my colorful business cards and rubbed my thumb across the ink, hoping it might rub off.

  “Michael, I’m not sure you’ve had the pleasure of meeting the PHC management team.” Paula introduced me to Turug Patel, chairman of PHC. Paula appeared pale. Either she was feeling sickly or Turug had taken his hands off her throat just before they left her office.

  “You’re the first to hear this after Paula. In a memo I’ll send out later from my hotel, I will announce that Kamal here will be leading the transition team and will be co-general manager with Paula,” Turug said with a wide smile, gesturing to the man next to him.

  Did he want me to congratulate him for officially demoralizing and demoting my boss? I wasn’t born yesterday. It was obvious they were giving this Kamal fellow a “co” title to make it appear his authority was no greater than Paula’s. I guess I had to play the game for now, as much as I truly wanted to tell this guy to cram it up his ass.

  “Well, Kamal, it appears I’ll be having dreams of red and gold tonight.”

  “Michael, I’ve heard a great deal about you and all the good things you bring to J&W,” Kamal said. “I look forward to listening and learning from you.”

  This guy’s bonus had to be tied to how much of an ass-kisser he could be in front of his boss, trying to make me feel like I’d be a valuable part of the team going forward. I wasn’t holding my breath.

  I returned to my office and tried to focus on completing some work. My eyes intermittently looked up, studying the expressions of my coworkers as Paula and the legion of doom made their rounds through the office.

  I’d been concentrating on some paperwork on my desk for about fifteen minutes when Mrs. Ireland rushed into my office.

&nb
sp; “Paula just collapsed in the breakroom!” Her face was contorted from concern.

  I jumped out of my chair and ran to the break area. I didn’t see Paula, only a crowd of people. I pushed my way to the epicenter. Jennifer crouched next to Paula, who was resting awkwardly on one elbow.

  “My God, Paula, what happened to you?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” She appeared dazed, unable to focus.

  “Does anyone know what just happened?” I yelled to the crowd.

  Turug stepped forward from the onlookers.

  “She said she felt tired and needed a drink, so she brought us back here to the breakroom. I turned my back to speak to my colleague, then I heard a crash. I’m concerned she might have hit her head on the table.” If he was so concerned then why wasn’t he down on the floor looking after her?

  My hand stuck to the nearby table, the carpet was wet, and hair above her left ear was matted. It appeared a clear soda had spilled all over the floor and Paula.

  “Paula, do you hurt? Is your head sore?” I asked.

  She rubbed her head and lay back down.

  “Mrs. Ireland, call an ambulance, then call her husband, Greg.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Does anyone have a—” Before I could finish the sentence, Turug had taken off his four-figure cashmere coat, folded it nicely, and handed it to me.

  “Thank you, Turug.” I placed the coat under Paula’s head.

  She’d become more coherent by the time paramedics arrived and, for a moment, tried to convince them she could drive herself home. Then Greg showed up, and she decided it was best to give in and go to the hospital.

  “Just what everyone needs, me being carted off to the hospital on the day the deal closes,” Paula said.

  The anxiety and pressure of the last few months must have caught up to her.

  “Michael, I’m going to need you in the office helping me out, at least part-time between Christmas and New Year’s,” she said as Greg listened close by. “I should be able to give you more information next week.”

  “No problem, I’m not going anywhere.”

  I was on the verge of becoming an insider. But I realized the only privilege it might provide was learning the termination date for me and my colleagues.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Tony had a warm feeling inside. As Christmas lights blinked in perfect cadence outside the window of his downtown apartment, he poured his third glass of his favorite blended scotch whisky, Johnnie Walker Blue, then turned up the volume on his computer. Staring at the half-empty bottle, he thought about his close friend Johnny who died during the first Gulf War. At Johnny’s memorial service, this song, Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor,” filled the large sanctuary. Another good Marine, and one who died honorably. That’s how we should all leave this world, he reflected.

  Tony thought back to his days in the Marines, when his purpose in life was clear. Then it was taken away. He was dishonorably discharged for harassing a female recruit. He’d actually raped the naïve twenty-year-old but convinced the scared girl from Nebraska he’d really mess her up if she accused him of rape.

  Tony pushed the sheer curtains aside and rubbed his sore ribs. He could see 216 West Main off to the far left. It wouldn’t be the home of J&W much longer—as long as he could successfully execute the many facets of this plan. Looking back toward town he saw a few shoppers scurrying to finish their last-minute Christmas Eve shopping. Obviously, these people had no concept how to plan their lives.

  Back over at his computer station, Tony studied the email he’d constructed one last time. It included four JPEG files, the ones that would garner the most alarm and shock.

  Chuck had approved the basic content. They were asking Tom, as the chairman of the zoning commission, to guarantee the rezoning of 216 West Main, allowing the site to become a natural-gas drilling location. Chuck’s team believed Tom was capable of finding a way to quietly complete this alteration, working around any open-meeting laws. They gave Tom a two-week deadline to accomplish the task, and wouldn’t accept any excuses or delays.

  If Tom didn’t reply with a positive response within two days, the four images, along with a four-minute highlight video file of his most memorable moments with Carol, would be distributed to his wife, his fellow deacons at church, and his colleagues at work.

  Tony was quite impressed with the program he’d written. If Tom forwarded the email, it would instead be sent back to Tony’s email box without revealing his address. It would take a seasoned system administrator to have any clue how to trace Tony’s email.

  Click. Send.

  Tony picked up his cell phone to share the news with his boss.

  “The package has been sent.”

  “And you’ve made sure it’s not traceable?” Chuck asked.

  “Yes sir. This guy can barely operate his cell phone, let alone trace an email,” Tony said.

  “What’s that noise? Are you in a church?”

  Tony muted the German composer’s staccato organ and ignored the question. “Hold on one second, sir.

  “Wow, that might be record time. Tom Newhouse just replied with a positive response.”

  “Great, nice work.”

  Tony nodded and smirked.

  “Before the New Year hits, we’ll need to follow up with Raymond, our favorite middle linebacker,” Chuck said. “He knows more than he should. But for now, he’s valuable to us. Let’s prepare the email as we did with Mr. Newhouse. I think we’ll need to alter the content a bit, but I believe you said you had a few good images that might be useful?”

  “We were able to salvage a couple of gems. How do you think a broadcast email of him naked, holding a whip over a white girl who is handcuffed to a bed would go across? Do you think it might affect his business plans?” Tony spoke with disdain.

  Chuck warned, “Remember, this is only a threat. If we can’t convince him to comply and we follow through and send the pictures, he could make your life hell and put our operation in jeopardy.”

  “After my last interaction with Mr. Williams, I’m convinced he’ll comply with anything we ask. Anything at all.”

  Tony hung up and clicked the computer’s mute button. He leaned back in his chair and absorbed the perfect intonation. He closed his eyes and remembered the gratification of finally gaining control over Raymond…the blow to his larynx, the kick to his testicles, and the crack of his fingers. At the height of Tony’s intensity, he felt like a wild animal, liberated of all discretion and inhibition, similar to how he felt when he had his way with women.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I plugged in our Christmas tree lights, then stood back and admired the vignette. Our tree wouldn’t be mistaken for one of the masterpieces at the Taylor mansion. Limbs sagged, but our inexpensive ornaments, dangling from the tree with a simple thread or mangled hook, had yet to drop. Needles from the plantation Douglas fir sprinkled the floor. In a few days, an avalanche of needles would encircle the tree, eventually finding their way into every nook and cranny in the house. The lights blurred as my thoughts segued into the uncertainty surrounding my life.

  I realized I sought symbolism when my life was most unsettled. I searched for an anchor, some type of reasoning that would explain why things occur and my role in them. Tiffany’s voice had called out to me…that I couldn’t deny. I still struggled with how to respond, in my actions and in my heart.

  I couldn’t do anything about the murder or the growing anxiety at work, not on Christmas Eve. Tonight was a night to treasure the ones you love, and my thoughts started with Marisa. I looked back at our tree, thinking it was symbolic of our relationship—meaningful and original, and it could only improve as years passed.

  As the blustery north wind swirled in the backyard, I hauled in three loads of firewood to the hearth. It had rained the previous night, so I knew the fire-starting process would take extra effort.

  I wadded up old newspaper and strategically placed the clumps of paper
and firewood in the fireplace, then struck a match. I repeated the process again and again, but a flame didn’t materialize. Plenty of smoke, but no fire. You’d think all I had were two rocks to rub together. I might as well have been a castaway on a deserted island.

  I wondered when Marisa might get home. The bank had closed two hours earlier. Most likely, she had a couple of last-minute gift ideas or couldn’t resist a sale with seventy-five percent off everything in the store.

  I heard the back door alarm beep. I quickly rose, smacking my head on the metal frame of the fireplace. I touched the top of my head and closed my eyes, holding back a string of cuss words.

  Marisa dashed in carrying two large red and green sacks and one smaller plastic bag tucked under her arm. Maybe I’d find a new suspense novel under the tree Christmas morning.

  “Hey there, sweetie. No looking.” Ms. Claus ran through the kitchen and back to the bedroom.

  I refocused on the fire-starting project. Three more attempts with no success. Sweat trickled down my lower back. My hands had turned black, and we’d nearly run out of old newspaper.

  “Baby.” Marisa had come out to the living room in her comfy sweats. “Do you need some help?”

  “No, I got it. The wood is real wet. Damn it.” I’d just failed to start the fire on my tenth attempt, then realized I’d cursed on Christmas Eve.

  “Unless we want the fire department showing up with axes on Christmas Eve, you might want to see if the damper is open,” she suggested.

  I turned and saw a cloud of smoke curling into the room.

  “I thought we never closed this thing,” I said.

  “Only when there’s no fire,” she added.

  An unearthly screech swelled. “Freakin’ smoke alarm!”

  I struggled to unhook the damper while Marisa ran to open the front and back doors. She also flipped on the living room ceiling fan. After what seemed liked hours, but was more like five minutes, the wailing alarm finally stopped. The temperature in the house had dropped twenty degrees.