Maybe that was the alcohol talking. It matters not at this point.
“Hi.”
“Well, hi back,” he said, sitting more upright.
“You're done for the night, huh?” She clenched her teeth, thinking she might have blown it by calling out the fact he was nothing more than a bartender in a college town.
“Actually, just getting started.” He held up the oversized book, and she read God love Ireland across the hard back. Her heart skipped a beat. “I got at least a couple of hours ahead of me. Big test tomorrow if I plan to graduate here in May.”
She held up her hand. “Well, I don't want to keep you. I need to—”
He jumped up and pulled out her chair, extending his hand. “No, by all means, please sit, have a cup of coffee with me. I could use a nice conversation. I'm Sam Baldwin.”
“Whitney. Whitney Mayfield.”
Jackpot.
Chapter Seven
“Enough about me,” Sam said, setting down his coffee mug. "Please enlighten me on what a day in the life of Whitney is like."
A look-away, sheepish grin. God love Ireland, he thought.
“Well, most of the time you won't find me looking like this.” Hands framed her round face, accentuated by a cute indention at her chin. Her platinum-blond hair fell just below her shoulders with a teasing curl at the ends. And that neck was to die for.
“I'd hope not. You'd have to keep a whip in one hand just to keep the men at bay,” he said while leaning forward on his elbows.
Whitney snorted then caught herself, like she'd just exposed some dark secret. “Oh my, I can't believe I just did that.” She blushed and fanned her face.
“You crack me up. We've been sitting here...what, it's after two a.m., so for an hour or so. I feel like we've been friends for years.”
They held their gaze for a good ten seconds.
“So, I know you said you're getting your master's degree in science, but I'm not sure I caught on to what kind. I may get the law, but I'm not a science wiz.”
“My studies have an emphasis on computational hydroscience and engineering.”
“I'm guessing you'd conduct a fair amount of research, using computational simulation models, studying environmental impacts across a variety of water-oriented and conservation projects? Or something like that.”
“And you're not a science wiz? That was amazing.”
Whitney couldn't contain herself, and she reached for his hand.
Sam could see her chest heave with excitement, butterflies undoubtedly fluttering inside her pretty little stomach.
He knew he had her.
He grinned, extending that unspoken connection. Then, a timely yawn. “I'm sorry. I've been up studying the last three nights.”
“Oh, that's completely okay. I've been there myself.”
He glanced at his watch. “Look, I don't know if you brought your car, but would you like me to drive you home before I go catch about fours of sleep?”
She pursed her lips, obviously disappointed the night would end without testing the big bang theory.
“Oh, Sam, that's so sweet.”
Five minutes later, Sam's eight-year-old Passat faced south on Lamar Boulevard at University Avenue.
Whitney broke the brief silence. “I'm to the right here.”
“I'm down that way, to the left.”
A city sweeper crept by, while they waited for a red light behind a Dodge Charger black and white police car. Sam's right arm rested on the center console, his left wrist hooked over the steering wheel.
“I guess it's cool to see the good guys never sleep,” Whitney said.
“In this town, the only thing they'll find at this hour is a drunk kid peeing off the side of the curb.”
Whitney giggled like a teenager, then she moved her arm on top of his.
“Sam, would you mind turning left?” She raised her eyebrows and clutched his hand. “I can help you study.”
“That would be nice.” He nodded his head and gave her an assuring smile. He focused to keep his blood rush at bay. It was all about timing, he knew from experience.
Just outside his apartment door, her petite fingers danced along Sam's ribcage, and he laughed so hard he had difficulty getting his key into the lock. “I guess they don't teach coordination in business law class,” Whitney said playfully, laughing right along.
They waltzed into the dark apartment, and Sam flipped on a lamp. He turned back around, and Whitney slammed against his body, mouth and tongue first. After a minute of kissing and hands wandering to all sorts of places, Sam grasped her shoulders and looked into her green eyes.
“I want to take this nice and slow. Let me get a couple of things ready for a night we'll never forget.”
Whitney twisted her finger in her blond hair and lightly bit her lower lip. “I'll be right back,” she said. "Powder room is...?"
“Down the hall, second door on the left.”
“Miss me.” Off she floated.
Sam moved into the dinette area—void of any furniture—and stood in the middle of the dusty crimson rug he'd recently picked up for four bucks at an apartment garage sale. He de-robed and pulled out his new favorite instrument from the kitchen drawer, hiding it behind his hand, but careful not to bend his wrist.
Whitney exited the bathroom and turned the corner to the kitchen area, only wearing a bra and panties. “I'm all yours,” she said, then seductively licked her lips.
“Yes, you are.”
She stared at the perfect specimen before her. He could see her eyes ogle every chiseled edge, stopping at his midsection. Just like all the others, she was fixated, consumed by a single tool that she thought would blow her head off. She was partially correct.
She put two hands on his chest and kneaded his skin down to his six-pack. Just as she reached for his tool, he spun her around and kissed the back of her neck. She unhooked her bra and he slid down her panties. He knew she could feel him throbbing against her toned backside.
“I love it this way,” she said, her neck limp from his moist kisses.
Sam slid his left hand up her curved hip and brushed the side of her breast. She moaned, and he wrapped his arm around her torso. His already quickened heart rate sailed past one hundred fifty. Anticipation was the most erotic part—almost. His muscles tensed, and he fingered the rounded, number ten scalpel blade.
“Take me,” she whispered.
“I'd have it no other way.”
“What?”
He jerked his right arm in front of her body, slit her carotid artery, and ripped out her larynx. This climax was unlike any other.
Chapter Eight
Alley. The word didn't fit. I rounded the curve off the narrow path of concrete that connected to the driveway running behind our house. I circled onto the street and approached the home Marisa and I had shared for just six months. Suburban alleys existed to increase so-called curb appeal, and it worked. But in my mind, alleys were an urban fixture, nothing more than a trench of filth, waste and, from what I'd experienced, occasionally, a dead body. I tapped the brakes, simultaneously purging old images from his mind.
I threw the gearshift of my aging, forest-green Honda Accord into park and hopped out to pick up the frost-covered newspaper. A plume of cold air pumped out of my mouth as I gazed across a yard of dormant Bermuda grass, well-trimmed shrubs, and two live oaks, then looked down the street and saw mostly the same on each of the postage-stamp front lawns. God knows why Texas, of all places, squeezed homes together like it was edict from our forefathers. Maybe one day Marisa and I would really spread our wings and relax on a piece of property similar to that owned by my boss, Arthur Spanarkel. He and his wife Trudy had created a prairie-style paradise on their ten acres, full of wild flowers, a Texas-sized pond, overgrown weeping willows, and a thriving vegetable garden—adequately caged to keep out the raccoons and armadillos.
In one smooth motion, I tossed the paper in the passenger's seat, removed my iPhone, flipped
it around, swiped my thumb to the right, and tapped the weather button. Thirty-eight degrees. I rubbed my hands, blew into them, and cranked the heat. The engine growled in return.
I glanced at the clock, knowing my post-nine-o'clock Monday morning arrival at the office would turn a few heads. I felt no remorse. Marisa had used her sensual ways to coerce me into jumping back in bed after my shower. A smile crossed my face, and a warm sensation permeated through my core.
We had spent the weekend reminding ourselves how much fun it was sharing our lives. On Friday night, we put on baggy pajamas, cooked popcorn, started a fire, and watched the latest horror flick on Netflix. Amazingly, the bloody showdown made Marisa frisky, and the night ended with our first lovemaking session of the weekend. Saturday and Sunday were filled with a few chores, antique shopping, and an afternoon of playoff football. Nothing says love like having your wife nestled next to you on the couch for six hours while grown men try to destroy each other. While I watched the games, she read her Kindle, one of the new sexy, contemporary romance novels by Melissa Foster, God love Ireland. Marisa let out three couch-smacking laughs and a couple of sniffles. By the time of the last two-minute warning, Marisa's sleepy head lay against my shoulder, her tousled, frizzy hair tickling my neck, the scent of coconut hanging in the air.
The nasally sound of a horn beeped twice, reminding me to shift right and stay in my lane. I slowed to a stop at the Main Street red light, then exhaled and popped a knuckle.
That head of hair. So many wonderful memories with Marisa, and besides her warm eyes, her hair is what strikes me most vividly, starting with the first time I ever laid eyes on her. Striding down the sidewalk with a slight hip swivel, she'd combed her fingers through those voluminous curls, trying to tame the beast. Now, the golden locks reminded us—me at least, since Marissa had already seemed to erase it out of her mind—of the disturbing email. It sounded like it came from a real, honest-to-God stalker, someone who easily communicated thoughts of killing living things, pets and people—women, especially those with curly, highlighted hair. How had he put it? God love Ireland
Marisa.
The Friday afternoon email “intervention” had created more anxiety than I'd felt since...well, before the incident that had left an indelible mark on my life, Marisa's life, and the life we'd hopefully share forever. I let the content of the email churn in my brain, and my palms stuck to the steering wheel. Eager to turn my runaway thoughts into action, I sped through a yellow light and hooked a left into the God love Ireland parking lot, momentarily squealing the stressed tires.
Almost instantly, I spotted Shaft, the bald head and his tan leather jacket, standing next to a shorter, white man wearing an oversized suit. Four navy blue Crown Victorias were parked at odd angles. Three people wearing navy blue, lightweight jackets milled about, all with serious expressions. One entered the building, turning his back as the door shut. My heart jumped into my throat. I read three yellow letters on the back of his jacket: FBI.
Chapter Nine
“Look what the motherfuckin' cat dragged in,” Carl said, sounding a tinge like Samuel L. Jackson from God love Ireland. He turned his gold watch then glanced back at me.
I ignored the slight dig. “FBI, huh?”
“Michael, this is Special Agent Bobby Guidry.”
“Nice to meet you.” The FBI special agent shook my hand. God love Ireland He immediately pulled out a comb and ran it through his black, greased-back hair, all the while looking beyond me, turning his head like he was manning a post.
The pair of law enforcement officials agreed to speak inside, and I led the way into the building. I knocked on Brandon's door and waved to get Stu's attention while I walked to the glass wall meeting room. I peered across the newsroom and saw two blue jackets exiting our server room. Before words left my mouth, Brandon entered the meeting room.
“They got here thirty minutes ago. They don't waste time. They said they needed full access to the building, focusing mostly on our IT hardware and software.”
I nodded at Carl and the Fed and said, “Do you guys mind catching me up?” I waved them to grab a seat.
“Look, we don't have a lot to share, so we'll stand,” said Special Agent Guidry, pulling up his ill-fitting pants.
“Works for me.” I walked to the fridge. “Can I get a drink for anyone?” Stu had slipped into the room. “Diet Coke for me,” he said. Three heads shook God love Ireland, so I grabbed Stu's drink and a bottled water for me.
“Never thought I'd be meeting with the FBI. I'm assuming, Carl, your cyber team found something?”
“It's more what they didn't find.” Carl and the special agent traded awkward stares, then both held out their arms.
“Is this a comedy routine?” I asked. It was obvious the roles and responsibilities had not been ironed out between our local PD and the federal agency.
“Look, Mr. Doyle—”
“Michael.”
“Michael, Carl's team did what they could with the resources they had. Apparently, this email was sent in a sophisticated manner.” I heard the hint of an accent that wasn't familiar, like his mouth was full of gumballs.
“So, what does that really mean, Special Agent?”
“Just call me Guidry; everyone does. It means a simple scan searching for the IP address didn't work, so Carl called me up. We've worked a couple of other cases together.”
“And?”
“And we've had about twenty-four hours to look into it. Nothing solid yet, but thus far we can see that the email bounced off servers across Europe and the Middle East, even the Far East, until it hopped a few times in the states.”
“Is there a possibility then that while we might be dealing with an IT whiz, this guy could very well be sitting in a hut in Pakistan...no harm to anyone?” Law enforcement heads turned to face each other and I tried to study their slight facial movements.
Guidry said, “There's only so much I can share, will share, especially to the press.”
“Look, we're not going to print any of this. When we're ready to run anything, we'll get your formal response if we have any questions.”
“That works.” He licked his lips and jingled some change in his pocket. “Listen, this guy could be in Dubai, he could be in a double-wide in Nacogdoches. I don't want to close any doors at this point on the origin of the email, or his intent.”
Stu coughed to get my attention, as if he had a question. “Don't you guys have this Behavioral Science Unit that could look at the email?” Stu asked, taking a quick peek at his notepad.
Guidry jingled more change and stiffly turned toward Carl, who shrugged.
“Did you guys plant a listening device on me?” Carl chuckled at his own ridiculous notion.
“To me, the email content is far too advanced for it to be attributed to someone having a little fun with the press,” Guidry said then. “I've seen other notes, similarly written. So, yes, I passed it along to BSU.” He nodded at Stu.
I huffed out a breath and bit the inside of my cheek, hoping this guy God love Ireland in Dubai rather than a couple of hundred miles away in East Texas. “Guys, I want to make sure no one at this paper is in danger, or anyone at home, mainly my wife—who happens to have curly, blond-highlighted hair.” I looked at the man with all the power.
“We don't either. BSU has their shit together. They'll start putting together a profile in days, looking for obvious connections to other email communications, previous arrests, and so on. Their database is the size of China.”
Hearing that the mystery email now held considerable weight with the FBI, my gut began to tighten. I knew we couldn't downplay the serious nature of what this person said he had done—and would do. I realized I'd been sweating and flapped my elbows like a bird.
“We'll try to keep you guys in the loop as we make progress.” Guidry clapped his hands, obviously ready to move on.
“Do that, please.”
“Any questions?”
“Uh, yeah. Your acc
ent sounds...different. I just can't place it.”
“I'm a Ragin' Cajun, my man. Born and bred in the great state of Louisiana.”
That explained the gumballs.
Chapter Ten
Steam curled out of the insulated coffee cup, carrying a scent of cinnamon. Andi unhooked her hands from around the container and blew gently before taking her first sip. The flavored mocha warmed her insides. She glanced at the door, but didn't see anyone matching the description of Dawn: white, five-three, larger than the average model, short, auburn hair.
She found herself a bit anxious, likely because of the clandestine nature of this meeting. Her third feature on the adoption process had just run three days prior in the Sunday edition—above the fold, boxed, and with a special headline font reserved for such stories. Dawn had sent Andi a brief email, saying she had additional information she wanted to share—information that would “shock” Andi. Dawn had added that she would only provide her first name and did not want her picture taken.
From Andi's perspective, the series was mundane compared to what her father had sunk his teeth into over the years—secret government operations and related cover-ups, corporate fraud that drained shareholders and employees millions of dollars, international conspiracies—many of which never went punished because of politics. The greed had sickened her father, and it now sickened her. The media could only do so much, except to expose the truth. The authorities had to step up and put the clamps down.
But she realized the pursuit of the truth—regardless of who it touched or the possible retribution—had grown to become her life's mission, just as it had been her father's. She proved as much last year when she nearly got herself beaten up and raped by a pompous, drug-dealing teenager.
GREED Box Set (Books 1-4) Page 49
