GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “Good evening, Michael, my son. Please join Stu and me. I have some refreshments, if you’d like a drink. I like a little nip to get the spirits going.” Arthur sipped a mixed drink he’d already prepared.

  He began to talk as I perused my options at his bar. Stu remained quiet.

  “Now, I think we need to discuss where we should next focus our coverage,” Arthur said.

  “Or, where to start?” I blurted as I plunked ice into my glass.

  Stu glanced in my direction. Perhaps my tone was more direct than I’d intended.

  “Stu, I know you’ve been split between multiple beats, so don’t take this personally. But the perception out there is a girl was murdered, the police arrested an employee at J&W, and that’s it. No details of the facts, no insight into motive, no understanding on how the police concluded that Reinaldo had murdered Tiffany,” I said, now sitting in the Queen Anne chair opposite Arthur, who was standing next to his whiteboard.

  “Point well taken, Michael.” Arthur looked at Stu, who put his head down and scribbled on his notepad.

  Arthur asked me to share what I’d learned in my conversation with Jeanne. Stu, apparently, had yet to either receive the new lead regarding Jeanne’s phone call with the emotional lady, or to act on it. I was witnessing a team that was not moving at record-breaking speed. Events in the case were probably taking place at this very moment, and God knows when, or if, they would ever hit the pages of our newspaper.

  “I know both of you think I’m a slacker, but I’ve got a lot on my plate,” Stu said. “I’m still working the entire city beat, the zoning commission stories, the city council. You name it, I’ve got it.”

  It did sound overwhelming. But I had no stake in the newspaper operations, only in Tiffany’s murder case.

  For the next several minutes, Arthur reviewed some of the obvious questions still left unanswered. Intermittently there were large segments of dead air—no one talking, just the three of us staring at the whiteboard. We appeared to be three misfits. I had no idea how to write; Stu had no internal drive or time; and Arthur hadn’t covered a major story in decades.

  Still, I couldn’t leave the office until we had a plan, some way to pull together relevant information and report on it, and to start holding people accountable.

  “I’m not sure if it’s my place to do this.” I chose not to look at Stu. “But let me chime in with a couple of ideas on how we can tackle this thing.”

  I approached the whiteboard.

  “We need to start putting pressure on the DA’s office, asking questions about formal charges and evidence connected to Reinaldo, and what type of motive they believe is behind the murder.” I scribbled words, shapes, and connecting lines on the board. “The defense, if they think Reinaldo is innocent, should want us to start digging. We need to build a rapport with his lawyer, Gentry. If he doesn’t provide us information, then we should ask ourselves why. We need to understand how they will plea. If Reinaldo pleads not guilty, then what are they saying happened? Where was Reinaldo when the murder occurred?”

  Arthur nodded. Stu jotted down notes, his pen moving quicker than any part of his body since the meeting had begun.

  “We’re aware the coroner’s office had doubt on the cause of death. Wouldn’t the cause of death have to be determined before someone is arrested or charged? I know I’m a novice at this, but I think we need to ask those questions and get them on the record. There is a lot going on here, and we should serve notice to everyone that the game has changed.”

  I had four eyes fixed on me. While not completely confident in myself, I continued to drive the conversation.

  “Given the odd, one-sided chat Jeanne had with Tiffany’s mother—”

  “Who’s to say that person was Tiffany’s mother? Why wouldn’t she call the police? It sounds like a crazy person harassing Jeanne Greenberg,” Stu said.

  “Maybe so, maybe not. My point is we need to start digging into these other leads. We can’t wait for the DA or police to say to us, ‘We messed up. Please assist us on finding the actual killer.’ That’s not going to happen.”

  Stu touched his pen to his cheek. His mind was opening ever so slightly, it appeared.

  I wiped smudged ink from my hands. “I need to get approval from my CEO at home, but if I can verify Tiffany’s mother lives in Stillwater, then I should travel up that way and find out everything I can from her about Tiffany, about the men she mentioned on the phone with Jeanne. Maybe she has insight into why someone would want to harm Tiffany.”

  Arthur raised his forefinger on his right hand.

  “But Michael, you’re not an employee of the paper. Even if I allow you to be a special contributor or something along those lines, you’re not prepared to be writing hard news, let alone investigative stories.”

  “We have computers. I’ll take my laptop. I’ll write up the facts, gather quotes, and even throw in my opinion on what it means, then send it to you and Stu. You guys can write the story and figure out the headline.”

  “Do you have a digital camera?”

  I nodded.

  Arthur continued. “Take pictures of anything germane to the investigation, even if it’s just a headshot of Tiffany’s mother. It helps make the story more real.”

  I told Arthur and Stu I’d complete some research over the next day or so. If I found what I expected to, I would drive to Stillwater on Saturday and hopefully be home by Saturday night.

  “Michael, I’d like to thank you for stepping up and leading our discussion today.” Arthur draped his arm over my shoulder as we walked toward his door. “I believe this meeting will jump start our investigation.”

  I made a mental note to delete all the sexy photos off our camera…ones Marisa and I had taken on Christmas night.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  With a full tank of gas and a sense of purpose, I began my trip to Stillwater early Saturday morning. I’d awakened a few minutes before six a.m., poured a large cup of coffee, toasted a bagel, and gave Marisa a soft kiss on her cheek.

  She’d offered to ride with me for company and even add a spice of fun to the trip. While tempting, I told her this was a business trip, a business with which I was not familiar. My sense of urgency and the desire to find answers drove me to focus on the task and not let Marisa distract me.

  Before I hit the main traffic artery heading north, I was stopped by road construction—although there was zero constructing taking place. Massive concrete sewage pipes were sprawled all over the road and construction zone. Slowly, cars piled up behind me, as three construction workers scratched their asses, possibly figuring out who was to blame for the mishap, and who would go to the trouble of cleaning up the mess. Two frustrating hours later, after I’d scanned countless news and sports sites on my smartphone, I was released from captivity and tried to recapture my feeling of urgency and focus.

  The scenery on northbound Interstate 35 became less attractive the closer I got to the border. The white lines flashing by against the grooved asphalt backdrop acted like the opening frames of a feature film, leading me to the horror picture at work. Kamal and his fifteen-percent layoff list would ultimately grow to fifty, possibly seventy-five percent. I tightened my lips in disgust. I knew what the numbers represented and how difficult it was for Paula and me to decide who would be included in the first round of cuts. I dreaded the day Paula and I would have to follow through on this act of betrayal—that’s how my colleagues would view it. I would forever be linked to the dark side. They might as well etch “Taliban” on my nameplate.

  Finding Tiffany’s mother hadn’t been difficult. A few Internet searches and I found a Rosemary Chambers living in the Bloomfield Assisted Living Center on the outskirts of Stillwater. To make sure I had the right person, I called the facility and told the clerk I worked for Tiffany’s former employer and had some personal items to return to her mother. She gladly provided Rosemary’s suite address and phone number.

  I arrived at the sprawling faci
lity midafternoon, logged my name in the visitor’s registration book in the main building, and drove around looking for number 129 on the front of an apartment door. The grounds were serene, with well-manicured lawns, shrubs, and dozens of evergreen trees. I took a deep breath, grabbed my notepad, and locked my car. As I walked toward the front door, it opened. Someone, a nurse of some kind, was leaving.

  “Yes, Ms. Chambers, I understand your concerns, but everything will be all right,” I overheard the nurse say. “I’ll be back just before dinner for your next set of meds. And I’ll make sure to check your blood pressure.” The nurse turned and eyed me walking up the sidewalk. I gave her a pleasant smile.

  “Thank you again for everything you do for me, Molly. I’m not sure what I’d do without you,” shouted the elderly woman, who noticed me just as she completed her goodbye to Molly. She stood in the door opening, calm and sweet sounding.

  “Hi, Ms. Chambers, Rosemary Chambers?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said rocking side to side a bit.

  “My name is Michael Doyle. I’m a friend…er, I was a friend…of Tiffany.”

  “Oh my God.” Rosemary grabbed the door, her other hand pressing against her chest. “My poor Tiffany. She suffered so much.” Her rocking increased. “I want my daughter. Can you help me get my daughter?”

  Living in a facility meant she had physical, and possibly, mental problems. Was she hallucinating?

  “Ms. Chambers, I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said. “Let’s go inside and talk about this. Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “Yes, please.” She calmed a bit. Aided by her metal cane, she walked slowly to her chair, bent down, hesitated, then finally fell into the overstuffed rocker. She closed her eyes briefly as I gave her the water.

  “Thank you. What’d you say your name was?” She looked me up and down.

  “It’s Michael.” I sat on the brown, suede couch next to her chair.

  “How did you know my darling Tiffany?” asked Rosemary.

  “Well, Ms. Chambers—”

  “Please, call me Rosemary.”

  “Rosemary, I work at a company that does business with Greenberg & Associates, and Tiffany’s pleasant smile greeted me every time I walked through the front door.”

  Rosemary’s grin accentuated her high cheekbones, and I instantly saw Tiffany’s face.

  “I’m here because all of us who knew Tiffany didn’t know enough about her, and we thought you could give us more insight into her life.”

  She gave me another once-over. Marisa had always said I could charm anyone. This was putting her theory to test.

  “I suppose. If you were a friend of Tiffany’s, then I’m sure you’d want to know more about her when she was younger.” Rosemary relaxed, and her feet started pushing the floor to sway the rocker.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Tiffany, as you know, is, was a very pretty young lady. I know I’m biased, but she was not just cute, but lovely, from the moment I set eyes on her.”

  I nodded.

  “Tiffany has always been very goal-oriented. It seemed like she had something to prove. And she really enjoyed taking it to the boys. She was pretty athletic, and she would run home from school to tell me she beat so-and-so in a race.”

  “Did she have any brothers or sisters?” I asked.

  “No, it was just Tiffany and me. We were a team from Day One. Her biological father left us a few weeks after she was born. Good riddance, I said. He never called or wrote. Yep, we were quite a team.”

  Rosemary rocked more in her blue-striped chair, staring, either thinking about old memories or losing focus on our conversation, I couldn’t tell.

  “Tiffany was quite a softball player. They called her The Natural, you know, like the movie,” she said.

  “Yes, that was a good one. Do you have any old pictures or trophies still around?”

  She seemed pleased I asked and told me to look on the second shelf of the hallway closet. I opened the box, which led to more stories. I documented key facts on my notepad, without drawing attention to what I was doing.

  “Now here’s a photograph. Isn’t she beautiful?” Rosemary held up a framed picture of Tiffany in a formal dress standing next to curly-haired boy in a blue tuxedo. “She was only a freshman in high school and this senior boy—the quarterback of the football team—asked her to the Homecoming dance. She was so excited. But afterwards she told me he tried to make a move on her, which really upset her.”

  I wanted to ask questions about the story, but I didn’t want to interrupt her momentum.

  “After that, she always had boys chasing her, and she’d date here and there, but nothing real serious,” Rosemary recalled. “In high school her main focus, besides softball, was showing everyone how well she could do in school. Her competitiveness really came out. She wanted to show she was the smartest at everything she tried.”

  Now Tiffany was beginning to sound like the girl I knew.

  “Tiffany was sharp as a tack. She understood aspects of the business I’m not sure her boss knew,” I said, overstating slightly.

  “Yes, yes.” Rosemary’s voice faded a bit, then more staring off into space.

  While I refreshed Rosemary’s water, she said she needed to use the restroom. I had a chance to take in the ambiance of the small apartment. It was simple but well kept. Tan carpeting in the living room and patterned beige vinyl in the kitchen. She had a few pictures on the pale-white walls. I saw one that looked like Tiffany’s graduation portrait.

  A scent of peaches emanated from the bathroom. I figured it was Rosemary’s bath powder. That reminded me of when I was ten years old and we visited my great aunt. Her home always had a fruity smell of some kind.

  Prescription bottles took up half the kitchen table. All of the labels faced one direction. The other half of the table was covered with papers and folders, four stacks, each about a foot high. A breathing machine and two other medical devices were in the corner. This lady must be real sick, I thought.

  Rosemary returned, once again moving at a snail’s pace. She took a quick drink of water then wiped her mouth as she raised a crooked finger.

  “Tiffany really wanted to be valedictorian of her class,” Rosemary said. “Her last two years in high school, she studied constantly when she wasn’t on the softball field. She had a couple of girlfriends she hung out with, but mostly it was softball and school work. Boys were a distant fourth.”

  She cackled. I could tell she enjoyed watching her daughter grow up with such a strong will to succeed and not be dependent on a boyfriend.

  “Funny thing is, the boy who took her to the senior prom…he’s the one who beat her as valedictorian. Tiffany settled for being number two. She acted like she was okay with it, but I think it made her upset.”

  “So why do you think she went to the prom with him?”

  “I’ve always wondered. She never told me.”

  Someone knocked on the door. It caught me by surprise.

  “That’s just Molly. Must be time for my five o’clock meds.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Molly measured the doses and administered Rosemary’s thirteen medications, then charted her blood pressure, pulse, temperature, and oxygen levels, all in twenty minutes. Rosemary was in a talkative mood, asking about members of Molly’s family.

  “Is your nephew still scoring all those points for his basketball team?” Rosemary stepped toward her chair. “Michael, he’s been All-Star the last two years.”

  “Thank you for asking. Yes, our little Tony is averaging twenty points a game, and we’re so excited to—”

  “Tony. That’s the name!” Rosemary dropped her cane and screamed like she was being stabbed the heart. Her arms flailing, she lost her balance. Molly and I each took hold of a swinging limb and guided Rosemary to her chair. Molly quickly checked her pulse again.

  “Why would he do this to my little girl?” Rosemary started to sob. “She didn’t deserve to be treated like a piece
of trash. Oh God, take me. Please bring back my little girl.”

  “I’ll ring the on-call doctor to get permission for a sedative.” Molly pulled out her cell phone. “Please try to calm her down.”

  “Rosemary, hey, it’s Michael. Can you hear me?” She continued to moan and weep. “I’m really interested in hearing more about your fun times with Tiffany.”

  Rosemary was in another world, apparently unable to hear me. Molly disconnected the phone and started assembling a shot.

  “Michael, she’s not fond of these. I need you to keep her still.”

  I grabbed both arms and held them. Her saggy skin squeezed between my fingers. Not wanting to bruise her or break her frail bones, I loosened my grip. She shook free, knocking Molly’s arm and nearly sticking me with the needle.

  “Hold her down. She’s feisty. Don’t be afraid.” Beads of sweat formed on Molly’s forehead.

  Rosemary’s moans grew louder as I restrained her. I held my breath and tried to ignore the feeling of cruelty, because I knew the shot was necessary.

  Molly finished the injection. Within seconds, Rosemary became tranquil. I released her and took two steps back. My shirt was wet from perspiration.

  “Do you want to stay with her for a bit?” Molly asked.

  “Sure, I can do that. If there’s a problem, just call you?”

  “Yes, here’s my number. If I don’t pick up, it’ll roll to our on-call nurse in the main office area. If it’s an emergency, you can pull the cord by the phone in the kitchen.” Molly packed her medical bag. “You don’t need to stay long. She’s had these episodes before, and she’s typically normal after a brief nap. I gave her a mild dose, so she’ll probably wake up soon.”

  “Molly, is Rosemary doing okay overall? I know she’s older, but she takes a lot of meds, and I see the machines.”

  “She’s really not old. She’s only sixty-three, but her health has her looking and acting like she’s ninety-three.”

  At sixty-seven, Pop was older than Rosemary, and he’s out working a farm.