GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  An hour passed and so did two of my beers. I considered starting on the Chinese food but really wanted to wait for Marisa. I tried not to think about where she could be or whom she was with.

  The game moved into the third quarter. The beer and the blur of the basketball game helped me relax.

  At ten minutes past nine o’clock, just as the West Coast NBA game tipped off, I heard a faint knock on the motel room door. I jumped up and tripped over the nasty bed cover, falling to one knee. I clutched my already-injured shin, where I felt a painful lump, then limped to open the door.

  Marisa stood in the doorway with a blank look on her face. Her arms hung to her sides, her brown purse swaying an inch off the ground. She looked unkempt and had shadowed circles under her eyes. Maybe she was about to tell me it was all over and would just walk away. I didn’t say a word, afraid it might lead to the end of us. I stared at her, hoping she could feel I still loved her with all my heart.

  Almost reluctantly, she took a step toward me, then another. In slow motion, she collapsed on my shoulder.

  “I can’t do this any longer,” she said. I wondered if this was her way of saying goodbye.

  She tightened her hold on my back.

  “I can’t believe what I’ve done to you, to us.” Tears rolled down her beautiful face, causing what makeup she wore to smear.

  I pressed us together, stroking her back, and kissed the top of her forehead. I put my head in the crease of her neck and breathed in the familiar smell of her skin. The love of my life was back.

  “Oh my God, my beautiful Marisa, my baby.” I matched her tear for tear.

  Our bodies rocked back and forth, neither of us letting go.

  “Michael, will you ever forgive me?”

  “Yes, of course.” Even though I didn’t know what there was to forgive, I felt her sorrow and sincerity. “I love you.”

  “I love you too. The last few days have been unbearable. I want to tell you…I need to tell you everything.”

  I shut the door and locked it, then gave her a tissue.

  “We’ll have plenty of time for that. Let’s calm down a bit and take a moment,” I said, sitting next to her, holding her hand in mine.

  She blew her nose.

  “What is that awful smell?” she asked.

  “Either my beer breath or cold Chinese food.”

  “I’ll go with both,” she said.

  We laughed like two teenagers. The grown-up conversation could wait.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  “I was only fifteen years old. Some might say fifteen going on thirty,” Marisa said softly. “I was a high school sophomore and ran on the track team.”

  “You didn’t run all four years, right?” I said.

  She paused.

  “Sorry if I interrupted your train of thought, baby.”

  She took a swig of the beer I opened for her.

  “I ran long distance, 1,600 and 3,200 meters,” she said. “I guess I was pretty good. Six of us from our track team qualified for the regional meet in Norman.”

  Another sigh.

  “In my teens, I was kind of fun-loving, even flirtatious, but all very innocent,” she said. "Like any young person, I wanted to know more about the world. Nothing really scared me. I was open to all opportunities. The more risk, the more fun.”

  “Yes.” I encouraged her to continue.

  “At the regional meet, I became friends with a man, an official helping to run the meet,” she said. “He was twenty-five years old.”

  While surprised at the age difference, I maintained my supportive posture.

  “He was athletic, good looking, and really nice to all of us. Over the two days he paid me a lot of attention, and I reciprocated,” Marisa said. “Near the end of the meet, we actually kissed. I knew it wasn’t the smartest thing to do. But we were honest with each other; I knew his age and he knew mine. He kept saying I was a mature fifteen-year-old, and anyone would think both mentally and physically I was eighteen.”

  Knowing Marisa only as an adult, her youthful naiveté caught me off guard.

  I reassured her. “I was an adolescent too, Marisa, and made some really stupid decisions. You were young and gullible. It goes with the territory of being a teenager.”

  She put her hand on my knee.

  “He came to visit me twice during the summer. He was sweet and said romantic things and was a lot more mature than the boys I hung around with,” Marisa said. “On his second visit, in a motel like this one, we had sex. Unprotected sex. He said he didn’t like wearing condoms, and I didn’t know much about how it was supposed to work. I trusted him. I was on cloud nine.”

  “And the twenty-five-year-old track official?” I asked.

  “Officiating track meets was just his part-time job, but I’ll get to that in a second. The sex, he said, was the best he’d ever had.” She looked down at the rust-colored carpet. “He said he’d wait for me until I graduated high school, then we could finally marry. I really thought it was fate. Until I got pregnant.”

  I shuffled my feet but kept a composed expression.

  Marisa hesitated, apparently searching for resolve to continue her story.

  “I was scared to death. I couldn’t talk to my parents about it. I tried calling him. Over and over again. I’d either get his work voicemail or some admin would take down my number and tell me he’d call me back. This went on for about a month. I was a nervous wreck when school started. I was just beginning to show.”

  Marisa took another sip of her beer and used her sleeve to wipe her mouth. She released an audible breath before continuing.

  “I called him one last time, and he finally picked up the phone. I professed my love and told him about the baby. But he was cold and didn’t care that I was pregnant. He finally admitted he was married and his wife was eight months pregnant with their second child. I was stunned,” she said. “I started crying. He yelled at me, telling me to never call him again. When I kept begging him to listen and to help me, he told me if I didn’t stop all communication with him, I would end up in a ditch.”

  Marisa leaned against my shoulder, then broke down and cried.

  “Good God. I’m so, so sorry.” I put my arm around her and massaged the back of her neck.

  She blew her nose again and insisted on continuing.

  “A week later, I had a miscarriage. Then I went into a deep depression. My grades fell, I became less social, and I quit the track team,” she said. “It wasn’t until a couple years into college that I saw a therapist and began to understand it wasn’t my fault, at least mostly not my fault. My confidence and positive personality started to return. But I realized I’d lost about four years of my life.”

  I held her face in my hands. “I’m just glad you are who you are. You are an amazing woman, and I’m so lucky to have you in my life.” I kissed her soft lips, then rested my head against hers.

  “That’s all I wanted to hear.” She squeezed my hand.

  “Did something in the last few days trigger your old memories?”

  Marisa’s hands began to tremble.

  “You could say that,” she said. “I’m scared, Michael.”

  “It’s okay, just tell me what’s going on.”

  “I was out shopping on Sunday, and after a man bumped into me, I found a note in my pocket telling me to meet him at the pub. The note mentioned my teenage pregnancy, so I had to go,” she said, now more animated. “At the pub, he told me I had to get you to stop prying into the murder investigation or he would tell you everything that happened when I was fifteen. He kept calling me a little slut.”

  I shook my head and exhaled through my nose as my anger at this foul man escalated. “You know me. I wouldn’t hold your past against you. You were a victim.”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight. He frightened me. That’s why I’ve been such a bitch to you.”

  “How about we call it temporary insanity?” I chuckled, and she gave me a slight smile.

  �
��Earlier today something unnerved me,” she said. “I met him at his apartment because I was afraid to be seen with him in public. He demanded that I get you to stop. At first, he said he would tell you about my pregnancy. Then he tried to come on to me. It freaked me out. He rubbed all over me and bit my neck.”

  She pulled back her hair and showed me a red mark on her neck. “He yanked my hair and threw me down. He said if I didn’t get the stories in the paper to stop, then both you and I would pay the price. It scared the shit out of me.”

  Marisa tilted her head back and took in a deep breath. She’d been put through an incredible amount of emotional strain. My heart ached for her. I now felt certain the person who left the message on my windshield was associated with this asshole who’d assaulted my dear Marisa.

  “Do you know the name of the person who hurt you?”

  “I don’t have a last name. Just Tony,” she said.

  I didn’t move a muscle.

  “I need to tell you what I found out in Stillwater, and with Reinaldo earlier tonight,” I said, then noticed her fatigued look. “But first let me see if the owner of this place has a microwave to warm up our Chinese food.”

  I gave Marisa a warm kiss and grabbed the white bag, now sagging from the grease marks on the bottom. At the door, I turned back around.

  “One more thing, you didn’t mention the guy’s name—the twenty-five-year-old track official—although it probably doesn’t matter at this point,” I said. I was curious but I didn’t want to stir up another emotional memory for her.

  “I’ll never forget it.” She closed her eyes against the memory. “Chuck Hagard.”

  Chapter Seventy

  As the morning sun cracked through the opening in the faded violet drapes, I awoke, spooning Marisa like she was my baby cub. She clasped my arm to her bosom as if I was her security blanket. It had to be the best night of sleep for both of us in days.

  I remained still, not wanting to disturb her peaceful rest. With my emotions more under control, I thought through Marisa’s astonishing story and how it connected to Tiffany’s murder. The only link was Tony, but I couldn’t understand how an incident eighteen years ago had anything to do with Tiffany’s life. Tiffany had been coerced into seducing Karina, but now that Reinaldo claims he did not kill Tiffany, who had motive? Karina possibly, but there had to be others. Other men Tiffany seduced, people at Omaha Gas if they knew she was turning on them.

  It hit me then—Marisa knows where Tony lives. We need to get the police over there. This guy harmed Marisa and threatened me. He’s got to have more information on Tiffany’s murder. If not, the police could at least charge him for assaulting Marisa. The more I thought about her experience, the more my blood boiled. That son of a bitch.

  I heard steps outside our door. I sprung to my feet, disrupting Marisa’s sleep.

  “Michael, what’s wrong?” she asked, running her hands through her hair.

  I looked around for anything I could use as a weapon and reached for the doorknob, pausing just inches before touching it. Then, a copy of today’s Times Herald slid under our door. I let out a sigh.

  The main header spanned the entire width of the paper: “I Didn’t Kill Tiffany”

  The subheader read: Defendant Silva Mum on Details, but Claims He Didn’t Murder Secretary

  The second story header was more sensational: Murdered Girl Sent by Omaha Gas to Seduce Men

  Followed by another subheader: Intimidation Used on Those Involved in Case, which focused on the message left on my car windshield.

  I showed the splashy headlines to Marisa. Proud of the partnership I’d forged with Arthur and Stu, I felt empowered, knowing the influence and muscle of our once ineffectual hometown paper had proven to be mightier than the threats, deception, and violent acts.

  But Tiffany’s killer could still be lurking, so I had to assume we were in danger. I put in a call to Carl Pearson, lead investigator for Tiffany’s murder. With so many details still unconnected, and others possibly unknown, I decided to keep it simple, focusing on Tony’s role

  “Despite what it says in the paper, we believe, the DA believes, we have a strong case against Reinaldo Silva,” Pearson said. “All this other stuff you’re telling me about, I don’t know. If your story’s actually true, it probably doesn’t have anything to do with this murder investigation. Might be more of a domestic issue.”

  “Carl, I hope you’re not calling Marisa a liar. Neither she nor I have done anything wrong during this entire ordeal. All I’m asking is for you to meet us at Tony’s apartment. Ask him some questions, look around, then take him away once you get Marisa’s statement. At the very least, he assaulted her. At worst, he could be involved in Tiffany’s murder.”

  Carl paused and let out a grumble, as if my call was keeping him away from a round of golf.

  “Okay, Smith and I will be there in thirty minutes, but I want you to stay in control, Michael. You seem pretty riled up by all of this.”

  Without taking the time to shower, we threw on our clothes and drove to Tony’s apartment, located downtown above the pub where he’d met with Marisa, about a block from the former J&W building. We parked and an unmarked silver Ford pulled up beside us. Carl and his partner, Roger Smith, had just arrived.

  The four of us walked up the single flight of stairs to reach apartment number 205. Marisa’s face turned pale.

  “This will end soon,” I said, wrapping my arm around her. She looked at me but didn’t reply.

  Carl knocked three times on the door then identified himself. No answer. He asked us to back away from the door. He knocked again. No answer. He raised his bass voice to ensure anyone inside or any of the neighbors could hear him. Still, no response.

  “You trying to disturb the entire building?” An elderly male voice approached us in the hallway. “I’m the property manager here. Who are you?” The chubby man with his pants pulled higher than necessary wore a gray sweater with holes in it. He also had a missing front tooth.

  Carl and Roger flashed their badges.

  “We’re here on official business. Does a person by the name of Tony live in this apartment?” Carl asked, keeping one eye on the door.

  “Tony? I don’t have any renters named Tony,” the manager said. “You’re wasting your time. I haven’t had anyone in that apartment for at least three months.”

  Marisa’s face quickly turned red. “That’s not possible. I was here yesterday afternoon.”

  “Look, lady,” he said, “I’m not the type who takes sides in a he-said, she-said situation, but that apartment’s empty. Want me to show it to you?”

  He pushed the door open and led all of us in. I was hit with an immediate odor, an odd combination of sour, dirty laundry and lasagna. But the place was bare, aside from the decades-old carpet and water-stained ceiling. I looked at Marisa, who shook her head.

  “Baby, are you sure you have the apartment number right?”

  “Hell yes, I have it right.”

  “You certain about that?” Carl followed up. “What about the address?”

  “I know it’s right because I couldn’t believe how close it was to J&W. I’m not stupid.”

  Carl and Roger searched the entire apartment in less than two minutes.

  “Hey, Michael,” Carl said to me in a muted voice, “I don’t know what’s going on, but don’t get us involved in any more games, okay? We’re busy trying to get our jobs done.”

  That set me off. “You’re creating evidence to convict an innocent person. You’re too busy ignoring all of this mounting proof that should change the direction of your investigation.”

  Carl glared at me, then turned to leave the apartment. “Roger, let’s get out of here.”

  Marisa and I paced the apartment for the next minute, neither saying a word. I scratched my chin, then stopped in my tracks. I grabbed Marisa’s hand and rushed downstairs to our car.

  “I know you’re telling the truth, but I can’t explain what’s going on he
re,” I said, realizing evidence pointed to the contrary.

  Marisa’s face lost some of its tension.

  “I have a gut feeling. I’m not certain it will lead us anywhere, but I should have thought about this a while back.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  “I need to speak to Jeanne. Now,” I said to the newest temp greeting people at Greenberg & Associates.

  I looked outside and waved back at Marisa, who sat in the car, engine running.

  “Yes, Michael, how are you?” Jeanne noted my disheveled look as she entered the foyer.

  “Hey, Jeanne. I’m good. How are you?” After the initial small talk, I provided her a quick debriefing on the progress we’d made on finding Tiffany’s killer. She said she’d seen the articles in the newspaper this week, but was surprised to hear of my involvement. I also told her about the threats against me and the assault on Marisa.

  “Is there anyone in your office who might have a key to Tiffany’s old place?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t balk at my request.

  She held up a finger and walked away. Two minutes later, she returned.

  “You’re lucky. We still had the key the authorities gave us to look through her apartment for work-related items. You might want to knock, just in case the place has been rented out.” I grabbed the key and ran out the door.

  Five minutes later, we pulled up to Tiffany’s building. I recognized the structure from a photo in the paper six months earlier. It was once an abandoned textile factory that came within days of being made into a parking lot, until a developer unloaded some cash and refurbished the building into a number of high-end condominiums. The lobby’s modern décor was clean but not overstated—lots of slick lines, polished chrome, accents of black and white, and a swath of red. The payment on one of these loft condos would certainly cost more than an administrative assistant’s salary.

  We knocked on the door of number 117. No answer, so we tried the key.

  “Clean as a whistle,” I said as we meandered through the expansive condominium. No evidence of Tiffany, or anyone named Tony. I searched through the natural wood cabinets and drawers in the kitchen.