GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  Tony walked in front of the car and turned to look toward the cliff between the trees.

  Knowing we had only one chance, I nodded my head toward the center console. Marisa knew what I was asking. She leaned down, engaged the automatic gearshift with her chin, then pulled it backward until it clicked into gear. At that exact moment, I yanked my foot out of my shoe, my sock dangling. I rammed my foot on the gas pedal just as Tony’s head turned. The wheels spun in the dirt, then caught traction and shot the car forward. I saw Tony’s eyes wide with fear right before the force of the vehicle knocked him down. He fell like a statue, his body crumbling under the weight of the car like a piece of roadkill.

  My adrenaline rushed, causing my brain to lock up. I couldn’t take my foot off the pedal. We crashed into a pine tree about fifty feet beyond Tony’s body. Air bags deployed and smoke poured out of the hood. Both of us were dazed. Blood had splattered across the dashboard and windshield. Within seconds my survival instinct kicked back in. I battled to free my hands from the duct tape. I opened the door and fell out of the car onto the dirt.

  The smell of radiator fluid permeated the car. I could see the outline of Tony’s contorted body laying on its back, his arms and legs twisted in odd positions—motionless. I looked back in the car and saw Marisa forcefully pulling on her door handle. I tried to stand, but realized my leg muscles were useless. I began to crawl around the car, then stopped when I saw a light approaching us from the road. Two beams, headlights. I had to get Marisa out. I quickened my crawl and opened the door as a car pulled up, then another behind it.

  I could see the silhouette of someone approaching.

  “Michael, is that you?” a man shouted. He stopped briefly at Tony’s lifeless body.

  I grabbed Marisa out of the car, draped my coat around her, then remembered to tear the duct tape off my mouth.

  “Jesus Christ, Michael, are you guys okay?” Detective Carl Pearson knelt next to me. His partner, Roger Smith, trotted up to join him. Behind them, two uniformed officers had stopped to check on Tony.

  I didn’t reply to Carl’s question. I pulled the duct tape from Marisa’s hands and held her tightly in my arms.

  “Did you call my cell phone?” I asked Carl after regaining my composure.

  “No, it was Arthur. He heard Tony threatening you. He called us, and we used the GPS signal in your phone to find you.”

  “Do you believe me now, damn it?” Marisa asked, glaring at Carl.

  “Every word.”

  I breathed deeply into Marisa’s neck. Not an inch separated our bodies, both of us clinging to the other. We had survived.

  One of the officers laid a sheet over Tony’s body. This death didn’t bring pain or remorse, only relief and a feeling of retribution.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Every muscle in my body ached, but the touch of our cotton sheets in our own bed soothed me. I grinned as I coiled my body around Marisa’s. It was past eight a.m., but neither of us budged. After a late night in the emergency room, Marisa had decided to stay home from work. She needed to mend her physical ailments—a swollen left eye, stitches in her shoulder, a sundry of cuts and bruises. And she needed time to heal her emotional wounds. That would take longer than a day off from work, but she knew she had my unwavering support.

  I had to make the extra effort to make it into work today, not because I looked forward to laying off my friends and colleagues, but because I knew I could do it with a bit more sensitivity than Kamal.

  I brewed coffee and brought in the newspaper. Marisa made her way to the couch, and we read every word of the black print.

  Headline: Consortium Directs Crime Ring to Exploit Community

  Subheader: Companies, Local Leaders Connected to Murder, Other Illegal Activities

  The audio tape from Harrison had provided the decisive evidence, exposing the masterminds behind the entire operation: Chuck Hagard, his brother David Hagard, who owned the real estate firm that purchased the property from J&W, Turug Patel, and Victoria Taylor, dubbed “the architect.”

  “I’m sure Harrison was devastated to discover his own relative being involved in all this,” Marisa said.

  We learned the ultimate objective behind the scheme was for this set of community and corporate leaders to get their hands on the unexplored gas under the J&W Technology Services building.

  “Absolutely amazing,” I said. “It wasn’t enough for Omaha Gas to lie and bribe to keep their illegal environmental practices under wraps. They had to invade our city and implement this system to use people, abuse people, and kill people.”

  A sidebar story focused on the zoning commission said Tom Newhouse, the chairman of the committee, had been seduced and bribed into changing the zoning of the J&W building. He admitted his wrongdoing. Compared to the others involved, he could join the church choir with a record like that. His wife probably wouldn’t agree, however.

  “Do you think this development will have any effect on the PHC acquisition of J&W?” I asked.

  “Baby, it’s hard to say. I wouldn’t count on it. A company bought J&W, not Turug Patel.” It was a logical answer, just not what I wanted to hear.

  I showered and grabbed Marisa’s keys to head to the office.

  “Don’t forget our lucky phone.” She placed it in my hand and gave me a warm kiss. “Today won’t be easy for you. Know you’ll have a sympathetic shoulder to lean on when you get home, at least the one shoulder that isn’t bandaged up.” She smacked my butt on the way out but groaned a bit from soreness. We gave each other supportive winks and affectionate smiles.

  I had an odd feeling stepping into the back door of the old J&W office building. It wasn’t ours any longer. I walked with trepidation.

  Paula came up and put her hand on my back.

  “Stu called me this morning for a quote in his next story on the acquisition. I can’t imagine what you and Marisa have been through,” she said. “It means a lot for you to come in, given what we need to do today.”

  I began to think about the lives that would be destroyed within the hour. I grappled with the idea of being the man who would release the guillotine blade. Kamal approached us and led us into his office.

  “Kamal, are we sure it makes sense to proceed with this layoff, considering what your CEO is connected with?” I asked.

  “I can assure you everything will turn out fine and nothing has changed.” He dismissed my question as if I was a first-grader asking about the weather.

  “But J&W sold this company under false pretense and—”

  “There are no more buts, no more excuses. We must execute this plan. I had to make a final adjustment to the slate.” He handed us a revised list. It now included Jennifer’s name, among others.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said, incapable of using any filter.

  Veins on Kamal’s temples protruded.

  “Michael, I want nothing more from you, do you hear me? Nothing more or I will have to—” Kamal shut his mouth before finishing his sentence.

  I sat back in my chair, pondering my recent life. I had followed through on my pledge to uncover the true story behind Tiffany’s murder and, along the way, came to understand my priorities in life. My moral compass had set a direct course, and nothing could alter it.

  “Have to what?” I asked. “You don’t have to do anything because I just made my decision. I will not be your hatchet man. I quit.”

  Paula gave me a sympathetic look but didn’t say a word. She must have sensed I’d hit my quota of dealing with selfish, simple-minded, greedy assholes.

  I grabbed a few things off my desk, then said goodbye to many of my friends, including Jennifer, letting them know I’d still be around the area and to drop me a note.

  I left J&W and jogged down to the same high-end jeweler where I’d seen Karina a few weeks back.

  “May I help you?” An elderly gentleman removed his reading glasses.

  “Sir, I need an engagement ring. And I need it t
oday.”

  “Ah, I can see it in your eyes,” he said. “You are in love, and you want to take that step right now. I can help you.”

  One hour later, with a small, black-velvet box in my left coat pocket, I pulled into our driveway.

  I paused in the yard and looked above the rooftop. Crisp, white clouds raced across the endless blue sky. I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief second and exhaled, then opened the door.

  “Hey, Michael, I just received—”

  Before Marisa could finish her sentence, I was in front of her on one knee.

  “I didn’t know what commitment was about until we went through this ordeal,” I said. “I was immature, and I thought I could continue fooling myself. Because of you, I’ve learned so much about myself and what matters in my life.”

  Marisa, who was still in her yellow robe and slippers, stood still and cupped her hands over her mouth. I opened the box and looked up at her.

  “Are you asking me to marry you?” she asked.

  “Yes, Marisa, despite all my flaws, will you live side by side with me until we both croak?”

  She giggled, then guided me up to my feet and hugged me.

  “I will, I will.” Tears streamed down her face. “You have me for the rest of our lives. I love you.”

  “Even with my sweaty feet?”

  “Those sweaty feet saved our asses. I love your sweaty feet.” She gave me a huge smooch.

  I took her left hand and slid the ring on her finger, then stared into those majestic, brown eyes.

  “Forever.”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  “By the way,” I said, after we finished making love gingerly because of our aches and pains. “I quit my job.”

  I looked at Marisa, expecting a reaction.

  “I know. I tried telling you earlier. Paula called just before you got home, and she wanted me to tell you something,” Marisa said.

  “What now? Did Kamal say I need to return the pen I took off my desk?”

  “No, but she was able to get you the PHC severance package. Apparently, Kamal had put your name on the list, but he wasn’t going to tell Paula or you until after you gave everyone else the boot today.”

  “Little prick,” I said. “I’m glad I ended it the way I did, on my own terms, with some integrity still intact.”

  A few hours later we sat on the couch, watching TV, sipping white wine, as Marisa admired her glittering ring under various light conditions. The phone rang.

  “Hey, Arthur. I know we haven’t talked since you called the police. Man, I can’t thank you enough—”

  “You deserve all the gratitude,” Arthur interrupted before I could finish my expression of gratitude. “I’m so thankful you and Marisa are safe. The police are getting some help from the FBI, thanks in part to Stu uncovering the fact the police chief was also in the hip pocket of this consortium, as I called it in the Times Herald.” Arthur’s delight was obvious, and for good reason. If he hadn’t stepped up to the plate, this entire hairball would never have been untangled.

  “By the way, the FBI will make several arrests today, Chuck Hagard, David Hagard, the police chief, Tom Newhouse, Victoria Taylor, and Turug Patel. Turug is in Mumbai, and his Indian citizenship will make it difficult to get through the extradition process, but eventually they’ll get him.”

  Arthur went on tell me PHC had released a statement saying Turug denied all of the “false allegations,” and he was focused on completing a successful integration between PHC and J&W. The last sentence stated he was stepping down from the board of directors at Omaha Gas.

  I heard a sigh.

  “Is it Karina?” I asked Arthur.

  “She was so good at her job. And she was a good person. It makes me sick.”

  “What Tony did to her was just barbaric,” I said.

  “Well, Reinaldo is being released today. Those two kids will have one loving parent to take care of them.”

  “A damn good one, I must say.

  “I do have one concern. Rosemary,” I said. “With Omaha Gas not picking up her medical bills, I’m not sure she’s going to receive the care she needs.”

  “That was the other thing. Folded up and hidden among the technical papers in her safety deposit box was a life insurance policy Tiffany had taken out on herself a year ago,” he said.

  I whispered the news to Marisa, and she clutched my hand.

  “One million dollars,” Arthur said.

  “What a relief!”

  “So I hear you’re a free agent now,” Arthur said.

  “How did you…oh, I’m not sure I want to know,” I said, laughing.

  “When would you have some time to talk about your future?” I grinned, wondering if the journalism bug I’d caught was incurable.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Condensation dripped down the side of the shapely glass. He removed the purple umbrella, twirled the tiny sword-like handle, and puffed air into the rippled top, creating a fluttering noise. Taking hold of the green straw, he sucked in the last of the Mango Margarita as his toes curled under the cool white sand. The hollow slurping sound briefly reminded him of his last root canal when the dentist used a suction tube to remove blood from his infected mouth.

  He winced, then a thin smile crossed his lips. This last extraction had been far less painful—for everyone other than his longtime friend and lawyer, Oliver Shapiro.

  Harmless waves lapped against the pristine shoreline and kids frolicked in the knee-deep, turquoise water. He’d been amazed by the remarkable clarity of the beautiful Caribbean Sea, providing endless transparency into a domain of colorful fish, turtles—and who could forget Stingray City at the sandbar just off the coast. The distinct contrast of southern stingrays was simply fascinating. Shaped like a flat diamond with a mud-brown or gray top and a white underbelly, their movement was graceful and effortless, gliding along the sandy sea bottom. Yet, despite the beauty and grace, the thin, snake-like serrated tail slithering behind the sea creature was a reminder of its deadly potential. Like every other living creature on the planet, the stingrays were equipped with the necessary tools to survive.

  “Sir, would you like another frozen drink?” The curvaceous waitress wearing an orange bikini top and a royal blue and white sarong tied at her waist, diverted Chuck Hagard’s attention from his mental excursion.

  “Thank you. I’ll take another. I’m not driving home.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He loved the purity of her British tone, especially when compared to his improper southern slop of an accent.

  Chuck adjusted the rim of his visor, then pulled out one of his three remaining cigars and chewed on the end while turning his gaze back to the heavenly water. He’d been living on the largest of the Cayman Islands for nearly two months. As expected, he’d blended in with the rest of the European and American tourists. He was just another shell, a slightly different shape and color, but a shell nonetheless.

  For the first couple of weeks, he wondered if he’d ever truly relax, stop looking over his shoulder, release his mind from the twenty-five-year mental treadmill.. He inhaled the humid, salty air and thought about the long road traveled. Even before he got the CEO job at Omaha Gas, somehow Chuck knew the day would come when he could no longer exist in his previous life. Too many half-truths or bold-faced lies to get where he was predestined to be—at the top, holding all the cards, an expert at manipulating the puppets around him until their usefulness had expired.

  Oliver had been the first domino. Chuck had needed to find a competent attorney, but more notably, one who was single and had similar physical traits as Chuck—around five ten, a nice tire around his waist, thinning, sandy-brown hair with gray slowly taking over. And then there was Oliver’s bushy mustache. That he had to fake. But he was used to faking it—he’d perfected the art with many people, especially his nag-of-a-wife.

  Weekly golfing buddies for the last ten years, Oliver and Chuck had grown close, or at least one of them thought so. Chuck le
arned every facet of Oliver’s life—most importantly, the combination to his office safe, where Oliver stored five thousand dollars in emergency cash, his social security card, and passport. Friends shared the deepest and most trusted secrets.

  “Here you go, sir.” The bikini waitress leaned over to place his drink on the plastic table, practically inviting a look from Chuck. He lowered his sunglasses and obliged with the shake of his head.

  “Why, thank you.” A deep slurp allowed the frozen drink to slide down his throat, soothing his warm body. He scribbled his new initials, BP, and the buxom brunette sauntered away.

  He’d never again take for granted the creature comforts he so enjoyed, especially after spending those four days behind bars. Thankfully, Oliver got him released on bond, and then they met to discuss their trial strategy two days later, on a Sunday, when the office was void of another soul.

  Chuck was not a man of violence. He typically left that to people like Tony or others who weren’t nearly as warped. But this time, he couldn’t use his vast wealth or power to finish the job. He had to cross that line.

  Chuck had stared at the fleshy wrinkles under Oliver’s eyes. Having lost his wife in a car crash fifteen years earlier, Oliver had raised two girls on his own. He was a good man, Chuck couldn’t deny it. It was impossible to identify any flaws in Oliver’s character to justify what Chuck had to do. But this was about his survival, using the tools that were bestowed upon him.

  As Oliver continued with his drawn-out explanation of the first brief he’d file with the court, Chuck had paced the room and eventually slid a nine iron out of Oliver’s golf bag resting in the corner. He playfully simulated a couple of shots, then stepped behind Oliver as he droned on, his monotone voice playing like background elevator music. Chuck licked his lips, forced air out of his lungs, and then swung with all of his might. The muted thump sounded like he’d just grounded his club in a clump of muddy grass. Oliver’s face fell straight to the table, and he didn’t move. It was over in an instant.