GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  A whistle came to life, and Andi shot a nervous glance behind the counter, as a barista leaped into action, flipping switches, changing filters. The racket finally ceased. The young journalist turned back around, and there stood a chubby woman with a blank stare. A scratched, black leather purse swayed to her side.

  “Andi?” she asked with a crackling voice.

  “Hi, Dawn.” Andi extended her hand. It was met by a limp, reluctant handshake. “Are you getting something to drink?”

  “Well...” Dawn peered left and right, then grabbed the back of the chair. “I think I'll pass.”

  Dawn's description of “larger than the average model” didn't quite hit the mark. No more than five-three, her blue, knit pants bulged in all the wrong places, so much so you could nearly see ripples of fabric. She was also heavy up top, carrying a couple of watermelons that appeared to be resting on a mound of midsection flesh. Her stockingless feet were stuffed into stretched flats.

  She gave Andi a quick half-grin then focused on the table. Andi could sense Dawn's unease.

  “How long have you lived in the area?” Andi threw out a softball question.

  “Oh, I—my husband and I—don't live close. We're up in the far northeastern part of the county, a rural area east of Anna.” Andi noted the distance from the God love Ireland office and typical distribution area.

  “I found your articles online. I found all three pretty interesting,” Dawn said.

  “So, why did you want to meet me, Dawn?” Andi instantly regretted the pointed question. She took a breath, recalling her father's advice: God love Ireland “I mean, is there something in the stories that caught your eye? I'd love to get your feedback.”

  “Well, I'm not a journalist, and I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but...” Dawn paused and picked her nail. Andi did everything in her power not to poke the larger woman.

  Dawn reached for her purse and pulled out a cigarette.

  “You know you can't smoke in—”

  Dawn stuck up her hand, cigarette clutched between two fingers like she'd done this a few times. “I know the law. I'm a little antsy, that's all. I'm just going to taste the end a bit without lighting up.”

  Heads turned in the coffeehouse, and Andi tried to ignore the cancer stick. She found herself leaning on her elbows, almost invading Dawn's personal space with her impatient desire to find out what the hell had initiated Dawn to contact her.

  Dawn's twin peaks heaved with a deep breath, a phlegmy cough spewing out on the release.

  “Your stories were great, if they were meant to be PR pieces for the adoption agencies.”

  Ouch, that stung. Andi counted to three then licked her lips.

  “I'm guessing you've had a different experience?”

  “Me and a lot of others.” She shook her head, looked down, and forced out a half-hearted chuckle.

  Andi's mind spun into overdrive.

  “Why don't you share your experience with me, Dawn? Let's set everything straight. I'll get my editor to run a front-page story.”

  “No way in hell.” Dawn looked straight into Andi's eyes, her cheeks red.

  “Okay, then what can I do for you?”

  “Andi, I don't mean to come across all rude-like, but I just can't have my name and story splashed across a newspaper, on the Internet,” she said. “But I will tell you what I experienced. It's really up to you to dig further.”

  Andi arched her back, scooting her butt slightly closer to the edge of her seat.

  “I'm all ears. Do you mind if I record this?”

  A huff then a sigh. “I guess it's okay, if it helps you remember things better.”

  Andi pushed the record button on her iPhone then put a pen in her hand to jot down nonverbal observations.

  “Did you try to adopt a little boy or girl?”

  “A baby boy. Dark brown, curly hair. Just two months old. Even looked a little like my husband.” She spoke to the smudged table, as if Andi was no more than an inanimate object.

  “I'd been trying to give my husband a baby for years, but it just didn't happen. You see, I've got type 2 diabetes.”

  Andi could see, noting all of Dawn's habits.

  “By the way, I just started smoking once we realized Timothy wouldn't be coming home with us.” Dawn brought a pudgy finger to her nose, apparently holding back an emotional response.

  Andi's pulse quickened, but she attempted to let the flow of the conversation happen naturally, knowing Dawn might bolt before she had the meat of the story.

  “What agency were you working with?”

  “The so-called 'agency' is called Big Heart, out of Houston. They were anything but.” Dawn's voice went up a half octave. Andi recalled seeing the company name on a long list of Texas agencies, but she never interacted with anyone working there.

  “Why Big Heart and not some other agency in the DFW area?”

  “We tried other agencies. They all said if we wanted a baby that looked like us, it could take anywhere from eighteen months to three years, maybe more. We just couldn't—didn't want to—wait that long to start a family.”

  Andi quietly acknowledged similar statistics she'd found and documented in her stories. “And they had arranged for you to adopt little Timothy?”

  “At first, they were a breath of fresh air. They gave us more than fleeting hope. They had a real process that essentially guaranteed us a Caucasian baby boy—with no exposure to drugs or alcohol—in six weeks or less. That's just unheard of in the industry.”

  “How could they make that promise?” Andi's brow furrowed.

  “I have no idea. We brushed it off, thinking more about the end result.” Dawn fidgeted with her mangled cigarette.

  Andi ran her fingers through her hair, sensing they were close to the real reason Dawn wanted to meet.

  “Why did Timothy's adoption fall through?” Andi asked.

  “Money,” Dawn said. “Big Heart said they were an elite agency, which allowed them to work with intelligent mothers and well-run orphanages all over the world. The cream of the crop basically.”

  Kids being equated with food—not a good sign, Andi thought.

  “My husband and I...” Dawn paused and inhaled. “We cashed in his 401k.”

  “How much were they charging you?”

  “They called us back and said we could have little Timothy in two weeks. Just two weeks.” Her eyes narrowed and her finger poked the table. “It was going to cost us one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Andi swallowed hard then realized her eyes likely had bugged out briefly.

  “I've never heard a figure that high. But I've also never heard of timing guarantees, especially within two weeks.”

  “The day we drove down to pick him up, we were so excited. It was the culmination of all of our dreams,” she said, a bubble forming in her eye. “We got a call two hours out. They said, rather directly, that unless we upped our 'bid' of Timothy by at least twenty-five percent, we'd likely not get to keep him.”

  A tear escaped her eye then another rolled down her cheek. Andi felt her sadness, the pain. She reached in her purse and handed Dawn a tissue.

  “Thank you.”

  Andi nodded.

  “Did they offer any explanation or an alternative?”

  “My husband marched in there ready to chew someone's ass,” Dawn recalled, now looking into the corner of the shop. “They hurried us into a room, and a man walked in and very succinctly gave us our options—almost like we were buying a car and we finally got to the heavy.”

  “And those options were?”

  “Up our so-called 'bid' to one hundred thirty and get Timothy, or wait for the next baby, which would still cost more than the original hundred thousand. It just all sounded so inhumane, bartering over a child's life.”

  Andi laid her hand on top of Dawn's meaty hand. She replied with an appreciative smile.

  “I guess it didn't turn out well?”

  “That's an understatement. We were maxed
out. We had nothing left. My husband threatened to sue, but they said they had an army of lawyers who would only drain us further and then we'd never get to adopt.”

  “Wow, Dawn, I'm so sorry.” Andi knew her statement didn't mean much.

  “Once we brought up the lawsuit, I knew they'd never work with us. And they kept our fifty-thousand-dollar down payment too.”

  Tears now gushed from Dawn's eyes. Andi handed her two more tissues. “Thanks for sharing all of this.”

  Dawn gathered herself and let out three chest-heaving breaths. “What are you thinking?”

  Andi's lips drew a straight line. “Fraud. Maybe more, much more. I've got some research to do. I'll be in touch.”

  Chapter Eleven

  His glassy, unblinking eyes told the whole story. Apprehension, even a hint of fear.

  That was three hours ago, when Brandon was introduced to Carrie, Marisa's “in-heat,” husband-seeking missile of a friend. Wearing a denim prairie skirt with an uncomfortably low-cut, white—as in translucent—blouse that exposed the whitest parts of her enlarged breasts, Carrie came on stronger than a telemarketer selling the last available seat on a dream, two-day cruise to Puerto Vallarta. Standing in our living room Friday evening, even Marisa's jaw dropped as Carrie swooped down on Brandon the moment he entered the house, invading his personal space, peppering him with questions faster than any human could respond.

  “Uh, Michael, Marisa, hello from over here,” he said, stretching his neck over Carrie's shoulder, a couple of inches taller than his.

  Before we could respond, Carrie continued the barrage.

  “So, are you excited about going to Café Pacific tonight?”

  “Well, I haven't—”

  “I hear the food is just awesome, the best Caesar salad in the Metroplex. The grilled salmon dish was named best seafood plate in D Magazine and the prawns are to die for.”

  “I just might croak, I'm allergic to shellfish.”

  Marisa and I traded looks, and Carrie actually paused, apparently only to suck in another bag full of air.

  “So what do you think about my outfit?” Carrie spun so fast her skirt whirled into a round tent. “I got the skirt on sale down in Dallas, then I found the blouse at the mall. Where was that, Marisa?”

  My wife must have tuned Carrie out because I could see her snap to attention at the mention of her name.

  “Jesus, Carrie, I don't recall. Somewhere...?” Marisa shrugged apologetically.

  Carrie's brow wrinkled a bit, but she quickly caught her stride again.

  “These earrings—handmade, I shit you not. I picked them up at a local arts festival. Man must have been ninety-eight years old. Indian man, didn't speak much English.”

  “Wish I could say the same about you,” I quietly interjected.

  “Huh?” She turned her head slightly.

  “Nothing.”

  “I sure am looking forward to tonight, aren't you, Brandon?”

  Before he could utter a word, Carrie said she had to visit the powder room before we took off. She blew out of the room, and the three of us were left standing in the aftermath, mouths agape. Brandon took in a deep breath and adjusted his ball cap, words ready to fly out of his mouth.

  “Marisa, can I speak with you in the kitchen for a moment? Brandon, hold the fort down. We'll be back before you know it.”

  “You better.”

  I followed my better half around the bend, into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes in amazement at what I'd just witnessed.

  “I've seen Carrie wired before, but what the hell was that?”

  Marisa put a hand on the counter. “She's out of this world. Good gosh, I thought she was going to ignite and launch like a rocket.”

  “You sure she's not on something?”

  “I wish...then we'd have a good excuse. I think she's just really nervous. She heard Brandon's a good guy, educated, has a job, has both legs. She just wants it to work out.”

  “Brandon's ready to run, literally, out of the door, never to be seen again. His eyes shouted desperation.”

  “Shhh, he'll hear you,” Marisa said, touching my shoulder.

  “I knew this would be a catastrophe.” I shook my tired head then realized the day could have been much worse. We'd yet to see any more emails from Yours Truly, and so far, no violent crimes had been reported in the area. Carl, Bobby Guidry, and the FBI team were distant memories. I then had a thought—maybe I could call up Guidry and get him to take Carrie off our hands, like within the next hour, before he had a real murder to solve.

  “I'm not sure Brandon's going to survive this. If he does, he might just sue me for slave labor charges. I don't know if God love Ireland can deal with it. Any ideas?”

  Marisa opened the cabinet and pulled out the hard stuff. “I'll make her a drink for the ride.”

  “Cool. Do you mind driving tonight? I think I need a drink for the road as well. Make it a double.”

  After four Caesar salads, a nice meal, a bottle of wine and two shared desserts, the stormy seas had now receded to a calm low tide. Carrie had chilled about four levels, allowing Brandon to catch his breath and even add to the conversation.

  “Well, I got this cap when I went up to visit some old college buddies, and they had tickets for this Saturday game, so of course, we all went.” Brandon proudly held the cap, underlining Boston Strong, stitched in the traditional red and navy blue Boston Red Sox colors. “Here's the cool part. That was the game where Neil Diamond showed up and sang 'Sweet Caroline' in person.”

  I felt an empty pit in my stomach. I instantly thought about the terror the people of Boston had recently endured at the hands of a couple of sickos. Then I thought about the note from Yours Truly. He....she, whoever, hadn't committed any crimes. But the words in that email sounded so real, so authentic, they cut to the bone. If indeed this was no joke, it was hard to fathom this human being living amongst the general public—interacting with neighbors, colleagues, the post office clerk, the lady at the cleaners, the teenager bagging groceries—and functioning in any type of normal manner with those corrosive ideas dominating his thoughts. Maybe this person was reclusive, socially inept, and had no clue how to interact with people—especially women. I still couldn't come to grips with what motivated the emails. Why tell the world, especially us at the God love Ireland? Is this lunatic bragging or desperate to communicate his sick thoughts with anyone who will listen—anonymously, of course?

  “Are you seeing what I'm seeing?” Marisa whispered into my ear.

  “Uh, sort of.” I refocused my attention on the two new best buddies sitting across from us.

  “No doubt Big Papi is the heart and soul of that team,” Carrie said, referring to the Red Sox designated hitter, David Ortiz. “Over two thousand hits and over four hundred homers, he's got a shot at the Hall of Fame.”

  Brandon's face looked like he'd just witnessed the second coming. His mouth hung open then curled into the widest grin I'd ever seen.

  Brandon nodded his head excitedly. “No doubt. I think he's as big of a clutch hitter as the great Ted Williams.”

  “What was that day like?” Carrie actually peered into Brandon's eyes, her question as genuine as I'd ever seen from her.

  “Watching a game at Fenway is really magical. So much history you can just feel it,” Brandon said with more enthusiasm now. He scooted a foot closer to his date and even touched her arm. Carrie slurped her whiskey sour through a tiny red straw, nodding her head, smiling.

  “When Neil got out there and led the crowd in song, it wasn't about being a Red Sox fan, or even being a baseball fan. We were all brothers and sisters, one team, all supporting each other. It was awesome.”

  I just saw Brandon wipe the corner of his eye. Nostalgia must have drawn out the emotion. Wait...there's Carrie touching his chin, a twinkle in her eye. I wiped my face to ensure I wasn't hallucinating.

  “I think the hunter just changed clothes,” Marisa said, nudging me with her elbow.

 
Ten minutes later, the four of us piled into our car, when suddenly I heard music blaring out of Brandon's phone.

  God love Ireland

  The odd couple had started belting out the words to “Sweet Caroline.” They were seriously out of tune, but very much singing from the same sheet of music, so to speak.

  Eventually Marisa joined in, and finally by the chorus, all four of us were dueling for the loudest voice.

  God love Ireland

  We repeated the final chorus about four times, laughing at each other—with each other—by the time we pulled up to our home.

  Marisa and I fumbled with the keys, while Brandon and Carrie spoke quietly by their cars. I casually looked over my shoulder and saw both of them engaged in conversation, then a tight hug.

  “Miracles do happen,” I said as we walked in. I tossed my keys in the bowl.

  “Sometimes you just gotta believe,” Marisa said, approaching me with a certain look on her face. She leaned up and kissed my check then nibbled my ear.

  “I believe in you, in us,” I said, more like a panting dog.

  “I know you do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Three steps down the hallway to the bedroom, and with Marisa jabbing at my rib cage to find the perfect tickle spot, my phone buzzed in my back pocket. Unfortunately, I couldn't bring myself to toss it in the bathroom toilet off to my left. Brandon is the only person who typically called this late—warning me that we might get some backlash on a probing story we're running the next day or even bouncing an important headline off me. It was all part of the gig. But Brandon was outside probably playing God love Ireland with his new bestie, Carrie.

  I pulled out my phone and eyed the number. Not in my contact list, but it looked familiar—work familiar. Marisa, who'd made a beeline for the bed, jumping on it while tearing off her sweater, now noticed my serious look.

  “Sorry, baby, I gotta take this.” The bouncing stopped and she sat on the edge of the mattress, hands folded.

  “Hello, this is Michael Doyle.”

  “Michael, Detective Carl Pearson. Did I catch you at a good time?”