“Do you think the police actually looked in this closet?” Marisa rattled the locked doorknob.
I left a cabinet door open, then walked back to the locked closet and tried the apartment door key. No luck.
“I know when I was a kid, my Mom used to put the spare key to our bedroom doors just above the door frame.” I stretched my arm above the closet. “Women must think alike. Look what we have here.”
I tried the new key, but it still didn’t work.
“Wait. Let me take a look at that.” Marisa examined the small brass key. “This looks like a key to a safety deposit box at the bank.”
“You’re kidding me.” I stared at the key. Would it unlock the door to free Tiffany’s spirit?
We sprinted out of the room with the key, not wasting time to shut the door behind us.
Minutes later, before I had time to put the car in park, Marisa darted into her bank.
I caught up just as Marisa barged into Greg’s office, interrupting a discussion with a coworker. She asked her colleague to leave us alone with her boss.
“Greg, I need your permission to open a safety deposit box with the key we’ve found,” she said.
Greg seemed to recognize our strain and haste.
“We wondered where you ran off to today, Marisa. Obviously, there’s something serious going on. Give me some background, so I can feel comfortable giving you access to someone else’s box.”
“Let me fill you in, Greg.” I ran through a summary of the murder investigation, the new information I’d uncovered, and the resulting threats.
“Wow. Marisa, thank God you’re okay. Come on. I’ll go with you and make sure we get the right safety deposit box.” Greg exited his office, the two of us one step behind him.
Once we found the match, we moved into the secured lockbox room. We used the key to open its corresponding safety deposit box and pulled it out.
“Look at all of this.” Notebooks and a small cell phone tumbled out. “This may take a while.”
Marisa went to the vending machine for caffeine drinks, while I called Stu, who I knew would want to dig through this evidence with us.
For two hours, Marisa, Stu, and I sifted through the plethora of data sitting on the table. It became apparent the notebooks were Tiffany’s diary, some revealing her personal feelings and the rest relating critical facts.
“It appears the last date in her diary was one week before she was murdered,” I said. “Listen to this last entry: My body and my soul are exhausted from being used like a piece of meat. I’ve sacrificed everything so I can expose these horrible men. I hope someday I can share all of the information I’ve found on Omaha Gas. I pray Tony will rot in hell. Right now, I can only dream of that day. But, I need money to take care of Mom and take us, including Karina, far away from this painful place.”
The three of us sat in silence, knowing we had just heard a heartbreaking, significant message from the dead. Tiffany had not only just told us she was the victim, but confirmed that Karina was mixed up in this as well, which backed up Reinaldo’s story.
We read more of the diary entries covering most of the last year, some messages written daily, others weekly.
“Here’s another entry dated about four months before the murder,” I said. “‘I screwed this city official again last night. I hate trying to break up a marriage, but that’s why they pay me the big bucks, so I can take care of Mom. I had to add all kinds of kinky stuff into my act. That’s what Tony said I needed to do to hook these poor guys. If they only knew, I’d rather be with any woman than be with the sexiest man.’”
For a moment, it felt like we were invading the secret thoughts of a woman who wasn’t around to protect herself or her image. I wondered if she felt safe when she wrote this, or if by documenting the information, she knew if something happened to her, evidence existed to throw her corporate pimps under the bus.
I booted up the phone, and noticed a charge of sixteen percent. The audio recording app was still open, and I found twenty-four files. We listened to a few segments. At first, they appeared to be nothing more than sex tapes, with muffled sounds and voices, some of which we didn’t recognize. On one recording, we could hear Karina saying, “Please Tiffany, the kids will be home soon, and Reinaldo could surprise us. I want you with every fiber of my body, but we just can’t do this. Not here, not now.”
I glanced at Stu, who pursed his lips. “I’m having a tough time hearing this about Karina, my boss, a friend.”
I nodded, but we kept digging.
We found another one that made me sick to hear it.
“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Tiffany said.
“That’s how little sluts like you want it,” a man’s voice said.
“That’s him.” Marisa put her hands over her face. “That’s Tony.”
The audio diary was disconcerting. We heard thrashing noises for at least a minute, with Tiffany screaming intermittently.
Marisa wiped a single tear and turned away. She slid back her metal-rimmed chair and walked around the room, then sat back down next to me as the tape continued.
“You know you like it this way, you little whore.” Tony sounded like he was on the giving end of some type of sadistic act.
Knowing a similar act of violence had taken Tiffany’s life, the graphic sounds would haunt me. Tony had to be involved in her death, but I wondered how we could prove it. And we still couldn’t leave Karina out of the suspect pool. Was she and Tony connected?
Chapter Seventy-Two
“Check this out.” I waved my hand to get Marisa’s and Stu’s attention. “Sounds like Tiffany could be giving us the motive for her murder.”
“The sex with Tony is getting rougher and rougher, boosting his ego, but scaring me,” Tiffany wrote in her diary. “If he ever sees this notebook or the data I’ve found on OG, the cruel, repulsive monster would kill me.”
I set the notebook on the table and turned away. Tiffany’s feelings now appeared to be a premonition. There had to be incriminating evidence on OG buried somewhere in her notes.
“I think I found what we need,” Stu said. He held up several loose pages he’d pulled from the bottom of the lockbox.
None of us was an expert in the gas exploration business, but we could see the papers were official, internal reports from Omaha Gas. Each had “Confidential” stamped on the bottom in red ink. One said the level of benzene in the air was more than three times the allowed amount at one gas well. It also stated the soil and water supply were full of contaminates and presented a major health risk to people living in proximity to the gas well. We found fifteen similar reports, six of which named Tomball Gas, a subsidiary of OG, as the owner of the wells.
“Count them. In each of the Tomball Gas memos, the well located near Rosemary’s old home on Pocoshock Lane was specifically identified,” I said. “It’s in black and white. They can’t deny it.”
I pumped my fist like I’d just hit the winning shot for the NBA championship. Marisa caressed my neck. I gave her a relieved smile, then clasped my hands together and laid them across my forehead. I felt a great sense of relief.
“Take a look at this.” Stu gripped a piece of paper with both hands. “This is an email from Chuck Hagard, the CEO, to the regional manager in Stillwater. Hagard is approving cash payments to three local government officials in Stillwater if they guarantee the EPA would not be called to investigate pollution issues at the OG wells. And if for some reason the federal agency was brought in, the local officials must ensure OG isn’t implicated.”
“Yes!” Marisa squeezed her eyes shut. “That son of a bitch will finally get what he deserves.”
Stu looked at Marisa with a blank expression.
“We’ll explain that more later, Stu,” I assured him. “Marisa’s had some experience with Hagard and Tony both.” One angle still didn’t make sense to me. I took out my cell phone and dialed Pop’s number.
“Hi, Pop. Are you enjoying the company
of your guest?” I stood up and stretched my legs and stiff back.
“Rosemary’s a real sweetheart. She’s been talking my ear off,” he said. “You never know, she might even turn me into a Democrat.”
We both chuckled, knowing that was never going to happen. I asked Pop to put Rosemary on the line. I told her about the material we had discovered.
“I want to ask you about Tiffany’s personal life.” I paused and hoped my words wouldn’t upset her. “In her diary, Tiffany mentions someone named Karina. I believe this might be Karina Silva, a friend of ours. I saw her up in Stillwater when I visited you, but I haven’t been sure what role she played in this. Do you know her?”
“Michael, I wasn’t completely open about Tiffany’s life, because I didn’t want anyone to think less of her,” Rosemary said. “I met Karina twice in the last weeks before Tiffany was killed. She was a nice young lady. I could see she and Karina cared for each other a great deal. Through the years, I had wondered if Tiffany liked women more than men. Tiffany’s happiness is all that really mattered to me.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
We hung up, and I sat back for a moment. Hearing Rosemary’s take on their relationship was comforting. But it didn’t exonerate Karina’s involvement in the murder. In fact, it just legitimized the deep feelings that existed. If Karina later found out that Tiffany had also initially set her up, she might have felt completely betrayed and then lost it on her former lover. Passion can fuel rage almost as easily as it can fuel affection—if certain buttons are pushed.
I was distracted by Stu talking on the phone with Arthur, explaining everything we had learned from Tiffany’s treasure trove.
“I think we have enough significant information to fill the entire newspaper,” Stu said.
“Michael, these are bad people.” Marisa touched my arm while Stu spoke with Arthur. “I want everyone to understand how they destroyed my life.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Don’t you want us to sit on it and think about it a while?”
“No. We have all this evidence on the people who run Omaha Gas. They murdered Tiffany, ruined her mother’s health, and took away four years of my life. I want them to pay for it.”
“I think Tiffany would be pleased with you speaking out about what happened to you.”
Marisa gripped my hand, kissed it, then held it against her cheek.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Tony propped his size-sixteen combat boot on the back bumper of his rusted, white 1998 Chevrolet Impala. He’d left his apartment in a rush, knowing authorities and the newspaper were uncovering too many details of the operation. The apartment manager had been a necessary accomplice, but only after threatening to take his best friend, a fluffy collie, and slice it open to bleed to death while the old man watched. But that was Tony’s forte—making it appear nothing ever happened, whether it was a bloody mess or a simple everyday misunderstanding.
Once, when the vice president of the United States visited a hunting lodge in the Texas hill country, the portly, self-proclaimed sharpshooter accidentally shot and killed one of Tony’s coworkers. The VP’s top aide asked Tony to take care of the body. Tony dropped his dead friend in an area disputed by drug gangs. He planted a bag of cocaine on the corpse and shot another bullet through his skull. The next day Tony found five thousand dollars in cash in his duffel bag with the note: Thank you. You are a great American.
The brother of the vice president’s aide sat on the board of directors of a prominent technology company with Chuck. Hired initially to “silence” a woman claiming Chuck sexually harassed her, Tony became his go-to guy for anything Chuck’s regular security detail wasn’t equipped to handle.
The Gulf War veteran thrived when his survivor instinct was challenged. As the sun hid behind the trees, deep shadows overtook his camp. He’d spent hours setting up a secure perimeter. If anyone ventured within a hundred yards, he’d know, and they’d seriously injure themselves. Serves them right.
The series of events over the last several days was unfortunate. That asshole, Michael, just couldn’t keep his nose out of their business. And his slutty girlfriend, Marisa, hadn’t followed through on her promise. He should have never trusted the woman. He should have just screwed her then made her disappear. That would have diverted Michael’s fucking attention. Then again, Chuck wouldn’t be happy because it would bring unwanted interest from meddling people and government agencies.
Tony warmed his coarse hands over the roaring fire. The chill in the air would turn colder when the sun set completely. He was waiting for an important call from Chuck, who would provide instructions on Tony’s next move after Chuck met with his so-called “brain trust.” He wished that snooty bitch, Victoria, would stumble into his camp. He would hang her upside down from a tree, chop off one finger each hour, and watch the blood drain from her body. Then, he’d dump her remains near wild dogs, who’d tear apart her flesh until nothing was left except a mangled skeleton. His heart pumped faster.
Tony knew there was a possibility he’d be asked to pull out, possibly leave the country. He hated retreat. He’d rather disobey orders than run away like a goddamn pussy.
He imagined what he would do to Marisa, given the chance. He hadn’t tasted a woman in weeks. He fantasized about bending her over and ramming her until she cried for mercy, then calling her dirty names and smacking her around like a piece of meat. It made him think about his prized conquests, like Tiffany. That blond-haired bitch could really get down and dirty. His blood rushed. He craved for a release.
He looked off into the leafless trees and saw visions of Tiffany on her last night on the earth. First the erotic sex, then the bloody scene after he found her notes. How could she have double-crossed him after everything he and Chuck had done for her? He had to make her pay for it. She gave him no option. Her creamy, white skin had turned shades of blue after he choked the life out of her. He’d planned to have sex with her after he killed her, but there wasn’t enough time.
He wasn’t as desperate now as he was when he was stationed in Kuwait. He had controlled his urges for weeks. Then, one night after a drinking binge, he broke down the front door of an apartment and raped a twenty-three-year-old recent college graduate while her mother begged him to stop. Afterward, he stripped off the mother’s clothing and dropped her in front of a mosque, knowing she would be humiliated and possibly stoned to death. On his final day of tour, he chased down and raped two more girls, including one who was no more than thirteen.
His only regret was how he disposed of Tiffany. He’d chopped off her arms and legs and stuffed her inside a large garbage bag. The storm that night was so strong he didn’t see that he’d missed the dumpster where he’d thrown her from the back of his trunk. He had underestimated how light she was, probably no more than a hundred ten pounds. The exhilaration of killing again had stimulated his adrenaline, causing him to propel her body farther than needed. His careless mistake had opened the door to people prying in their business.
He hated nosy people.
Tony paced around his camp, thinking of inventive ways to maim, kill. When a victim was under his control, he considered himself a situational killer, depending on the needs and desires of those who’d hired him. He tried not to make it personal for himself.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t make much of a living. He’d only kill for pleasure.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chuck sucked the ice from his second drink of the night, then walked to the bar on the opposite side of his lavish home office. To the left, the swinging pendulum in the one-hundred-fifty-year-old French grandfather clock captured Chuck’s wandering mind. Despite its age and having traveled from Europe to Oklahoma ten years ago, the clock remained consistently reliable. Visually stunning and mechanically sound, Chuck thought. He wished people were equally as predictable as the historic clock.
Chuck couldn’t have foreseen every misstep of this operation. But he’d found a way to minimize damage and tw
ist the perspective of desperate situations into positive ones. He desired perfection, but he now recognized this clandestine operation was on the verge of crumbling.
As he poured another Chivas Regal Scotch, he realized Turug, Victoria, and brother David had been listening to elevator music for fifteen minutes while he determined what to tell them and how to communicate it.
Chuck used his four-hundred-dollar ballpoint pen to dial the conference number, and joined the fray.
“Victoria, gentlemen, we’ve hit a snag in our operation. As you know, the Times Herald has learned about the connection between OG and Tiffany. We can’t undo what has come to light. The question is what to do now.”
Chuck wondered if Victoria, obviously the alpha of the group, would jump in with her sharp tongue and piercing wit. The more he worked with her, the more he believed God had put her on Earth to punish him for his most distasteful indiscretions. Deceiving those who trusted him might be his most egregious fault. He’d lied his way out of jams all his life and was damn good at it. He learned at a young age that honesty was a tool, one which had its place, in the right setting, at the right moment. It was only a tool, certainly not a personality trait he desired to possess.
Turug cleared his throat. “Chuck, they haven’t linked OG to the J&W property, correct? And we still have Tom Newhouse pushing through the zone change. So this Tiffany connection is the one that hurts us,” Turug said, logical as always. “The mention of Tony by name is a problem, especially when it’s connected to his intimidation techniques. Now this Reinaldo Silva claims he didn’t kill Tiffany. Are we sure the newspaper has uncovered everything that could hurt us?”
Chuck thought about the question for a moment. He’d known about Tony’s propensity for overreacting to emotional situations. Tony hadn’t admitted to killing Tiffany, but Chuck had wondered. Reinaldo being arrested for her murder might have been sheer luck. Chuck had then stepped in to quicken the pace of justice. The police chief had made some strides toward convicting the Brazilian J&W employee, but Reinaldo changed his tune after a second visit from the pest, Michael Doyle. For now, he kept his thoughts on Tiffany Chambers’ real killer to himself.
GREED Box Set (Books 1-4) Page 21
