GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)
Page 61
“God love Ireland civil war? When was the first?”
Brandon slid into his chair and clicked on his iPad. “These guys go at it like they're siblings. If it isn't space, it's an argument about who makes the call on chosen photos and how each photo should be cropped.”
“Huh. I guess I've been lucky enough to miss the fallout.”
“Yeah, it usually lands at my desk. Referee is part of my title now,” Brandon said.
I clicked the email shut, ready to start our Friday afternoon meeting. Stu took that as his cue to provide an update.
“Well, I did get hold of my old college buddy. He is working at the God love Ireland, the city beat, my old stomping ground,” he said. “We discussed the crazy emails from Yours Truly, and he's thinking...”
Stu stopped talking, likely because neither Brandon nor I were listening.
“Did you just get the same email from Rolando?” I asked Brandon, who nodded, his eyes wide and not blinking. “Sorry, Stu.”
Stu held up an understanding hand.
“Stu, the Feds released Bruce Foxworthy, the God love Ireland editor.”
The three of us each stared into a different corner of the room, contemplating what this meant.
“From what Rolando is saying—which he'll put in his next story that we can pick up for tomorrow's edition—the FBI is trying to save face, saying Foxworthy has not been ruled out as being a suspect.”
“But if they let him go, most likely they hit a dead end. I'd bet that Foxworthy was lawyered up, and he, or she, wasn't going to let him sit in a cell without real evidence,” Stu added, his experience shining through again.
I shook my head. “Man, I'm losing faith that the FBI is any better than a one-man sheriff's department.”
I clicked my pen twice. “So, where does this leave us?”
Brandon approached the whiteboard. “Too much hearsay and hope. I think we need to parse fiction from fact.”
Brandon drew four columns—one for us, one for Baton Rouge, one for Oxford, and one for Tallahassee. He wrote down an event, then a date next to it. Logged across all four columns were the three emails on successive Fridays. He added the double homicide in Baton Rouge and its date, which we knew to be Thursday. Then he included the arrival of the email that seemed to be commenting on the Baton Rouge murders a week later. Three days later (Sunday), Foxworthy was arrested and held as a person of interest. Three days after that (Tuesday), the FBI discovered the murdered girl near Oxford. Only one day passed (Wednesday) and then we received the email responding to that murder. Finally, today (Friday), Rolando documents Foxworthy being let loose in Baton Rouge.
“Stu, your thoughts?” I could see the wheels in his investigative mind spinning. The question was...were the wheels catching any turf?
Stu scribbled a few notes on his pad then put his pen to his mouth.
“It helps if we can walk through this together.”
“Shoot.”
“First, we get three emails—the third one practically telling us this person has killed before—albeit animals—and could possibly kill again. He gives us a description of his potential victims.”
“Next, two girls are killed in Baton Rouge. One fits the description, the other doesn't. The FBI thinks the second girl, the roommate, interrupted the killing of the real target.”
I nodded.
“We receive an email from Yours Truly, which seems like a justification for the Baton Rouge killings, then a few days later Foxworthy is picked up.”
“This is where the whole thing breaks down, as Guidry said,” I added.
“Only if you're the FBI, and you need the case wrapped up in a pretty little package,” Stu said.
“I'm following you.”
“Back to the timeline. Three days later they discover the dead body in Oxford—same description from the third email: pretty, blond hair. But she'd been dead for one to two weeks. Likely, her murder had occurred before the Baton Rouge murders. But Yours Truly doesn't send the email for that murder—the one expressing how smitten he was—until after the body was discovered and the news was public. Finally, the FBI releases Foxworthy.”
I nodded. “Nice summary. It seems like the killer is playing games, while the Feds are chasing their own tails.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Stu said.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Here we are, standing in line with our salmon, mixings for a nice salad, and a ten-dollar bottle of chardonnay, and we look over to see him just standing there all alone.” Carrie took a bite of the salmon I'd grilled on the barbeque. She rolled her eyes and groaned like...well, it was like listening to a porno movie. "And there he was holding a loaf of bread and his bologna. Bologna? Did I just say that?"
Carrie's white face turned rosy red, and she reached for her wine while fanning herself and half-laughing at the same time.
Marisa's overly social friend was replaying the scene at the grocery store when she and Brandon had run into my newly anointed, younger sibling, Jeremiah. To give him credit, he seemed a bit embarrassed, or at least taken aback, by Carrie's story, and her constant gushing of attention. Possibly because her boyfriend was sitting across the table, or perhaps he wasn't fond of this clingy, ditzy girl, regardless of her double Ds. While Marisa swore that Carrie's intelligence was apparent at work, tonight's performance would eliminate all hope of convincing me—and likely Jeremiah—that she could add more than three single-digit numbers. She wore a button-up, pink cardigan—one that had the first four buttons unlatched, while the others were stretched to their limits trying to hold in her boulders.
“When we found out Jeremiah was leaving town tomorrow, we thought, what the heck, we can't let him get out of town without a going-away party,” Carrie said looking at each of us. She picked up one of the plastic blow horns and honked twice. She took another deep drink of her wine. She held up her glass to Brandon, and he knew it was his cue to fetch the next bottle. God love Ireland, I thought—on many levels.
Outside of Brandon's shoes squeaking on the floor, silence enveloped the room. No one could think of a response to Carrie's circus act. Her spiraling tease-fest with Jeremiah had created an uneasy vibe for all of us. Marisa interrupted the uncomfortable hush by asking Brandon about his cousin who was working his way through the Texas Rangers minor league baseball system.
“Brad's a mad man at short. You should see that guy. He's like a vacuum.” Brandon popped the cork on the bottle of wine but kept his stride.
Brandon continued detailing all of Brad's stats at each level of ball he played, adding in his own analysis. I think it was his escape from Carrie's not-so-subtle play on Mr. Perfect. God love Ireland
Marisa brought a fork of salad to her mouth, and her eyes caught mine in a strange way...like she was trying to read me without me knowing she was sneaking a peek at me.. That wasn't Marisa. I thought we'd dealt with this awkward, slightly chilly vibe when I'd gotten home earlier.
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Brandon snapped his fingers to get my attention back to our dinner. “Michael, you know how the Rangers operate. Any chance the Rangers trade Elvis An
drus to give Brad the starting job at shortstop this season?” he asked.
I'd probably missed a plethora of data points proving that Brad was indeed the better defensive and offensive player, so I avoided what could have been an elongated debate. “Brad's got all the tools, from what I'm hearing. Maybe they could trade Elvis for a front-line pitcher, then they could stick Brad at short.”
Brandon nodded and then cracked a smile. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He then looked at Jeremiah.
“I don't really follow baseball that much. If Michael believes it, I'm sure it will happen.” All heads turned to the thick-chested man as he drank from his wine glass, his eyes peering across the table at me. I returned the stare, wondering if that was a dig of some kind...although I couldn't understand the timing. Maybe he finally realized, I didn't want him in our house, half-brother or not.
A glass dinged against a plate, ending the stare-off, and Marisa led the platoon into the kitchen to clean up our collective mess.
Carrie couldn't let twenty seconds pass without filling in audible space.
“Jeremiah, have you decided if you're heading out to California?”
“I've got some unfinished business back home, so I'll be traveling east.”
Brandon raised an eyebrow and mouthed the words “about time,” so that only I could see him.
“Amen,” I said.
“Sorry, did you say something?” Jeremiah asked.
“Private conversation with Brandon.”
Carrie continued to play conversation facilitator.
“Marisa, aren't you dying to go on another cruise, maybe even take the same one?”
“Where'd you go?” Jeremiah asked.
“Well, we started in Miami, then where was our first stop, Marisa?”
“Grand Cayman Islands.” She continued scrubbing a pot. Short and to the point Marisa again.
“Right, then we went to Nassau, then Half Moon Cay in the Bahamas. It was quite a memorable trip,” Carrie added.
“How long was it?” Jeremiah asked.
“Six nights. That moon at night shining across the ocean water was just beautiful.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“It was a present from Michael. I just tagged along to keep her company.”
Normally, Marisa would have chimed in with a funny quip about all the company Carrie kept, but she stayed mum.
“Not sure why a husband wouldn't want to take his own wife on a cruise,” Jeremiah said while drying the top of a pan. All heads turned to me.
A warm sensation crept up my spine, then a cold patch of sweat formed on the back of my neck.
“I was working, leading our newspaper to meet its commitments to this community. I didn't have the luxury of just picking up my tent and traveling the country,” I said without moving.
Jeremiah paused then took two steps in my direction. Brandon predicted his move and cut him off, then patted him twice on the upper arm.
“You got a problem with how I live my life?” the bushy-haired sibling asked.
“I really couldn't give a shit, just don't comment about mine or my wife's.” My heart was pumping like I was running a sprint, but I didn't move a muscle.
“Anyone want a final send-off drink?” Brandon asked, but no one answered, and tension eased a bit.
Ten minutes later—not soon enough—the crowd migrated toward the front door. A few handshakes and best wishes.
Marisa leaned in and tried to give Jeremiah a quick hug. He held on too long, maybe an extra ten seconds, his arms completely wrapped around her. Just before she pulled away, he turned her away from me and moved his face toward the side of her hair. I could have sworn I saw his chest and back expand. I moved right and saw his eyes closed.
“Have a safe trip,” she said without looking him in the eye.
Jeremiah took one step through the door, then flipped around and stuck out his hand.
“No hard feelings. It was still good getting to know you and your family.”
I gave him one firm shake. “No hard feelings. Be safe.”
We said our goodbyes to Brandon and Carrie, then finally turned out the lights for the night and went back to the bedroom.
I thought about bringing up Marisa's odd mood around Jeremiah but knew it wouldn't get us anywhere.
An engine coughed then roared back to life. I peered around the curtain and saw an orange light appear from the darkness of Jeremiah's pickup.
“Strange. I think Jeremiah is still sitting in his truck out front. I think he's smoking a cigarette,” I said.
“I had no idea he smoked,” Marisa said while washing her face.
“I wonder what else we don't know about the guy.”
The engine rumbled twice more, then rubber burned the concrete, and the sound disappeared into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Harold Burns turned the leather-covered steering wheel with a single finger. His Infiniti Q50 Hybrid—decked out in a mesmerizing liquid-platinum color—drew looks like a bikini model strutting down Main Street. The crisp Saturday night air wasn't cold enough to keep him from rolling his windows down halfway, allowing him to take in the sheer energy and coolness emanating from Uptown—the true definition of Dallas chic.
Tires gripped the brick surface as he maneuvered around the cove of restaurants, independent movie houses, and upscale bars. Unseen smells of Italian, Greek, American, and Japanese foods swept by his nose. But he wasn't searching for the best food in Dallas. Harold's craving had nothing to do with food or drink. He wasn't like every other guy in the area putting on a show, trying to land the hottest chick around. At least not in the typical sense. His primal urges were far different, and while at one point in his life he felt confused by those feelings, he now beamed with self-confidence. He was unique, special, in every facet of his life.
As cool as he looked on the outside—mousse-induced tousled black hair, steely oak-colored eyes, a sculpted chin—recent events had initiated a surge of indignation, an irritation that quickly festered like an infected cut, oozing an impatient fury that begged for a release. The ultimate release that he'd perfected over the years.
He slid the gear into park and tossed his keys to the eager valet.
“Here's your ticket stub, sir,” the teenager said, his eyes wide with anticipation of taking the car for a joy ride.
“Don't scratch it.”
“No problem. We always—”
“Or I'll have to tear you apart.” Harold paused, glaring at the youth, then gave a chuckle and a wink. The scent of perfumes led him down the sidewalk, with five bars to select from. The Twilight Lounge was calling his name. With the swagger of a European model, Harold strutted into the swanky bar. Subtle glances by both men and women—he was used to it by now. Harold wore a charcoal Ludlow sportscoat made from Italian cashmere over a slim, blue-dot chambray shirt, with gray cotton twill slacks resting comfortably on black, longwing blucher shoes.
A man with bushy sideburns played at a grand piano, flanked by a female singer wearing a sequined, red dress, showing one too many bulges.
He ordered a whiskey martini from his corner two-seat table, and slowly scanned the bar, laden with pink and red decorations. It struck him like an arrow shot from Cupid—Valentine's Day was just three days away. Lots of couples giggled, and Harold wondered if he'd picked the wrong night to conduct a search-and-slash routine. A few groups huddled together at the bar so closely it looked like they were drinking from the same glass. Must be a mobile orgy.
Moving in from behind his left side, he heard laughter from young ladies. He shifted his eyes in that direction and spotted two exiting the restroom. Both were brunette, one of whom was begging to be picked up. Her chest was a full zip code ahead of the rest of her body. The third girl seemed more at ease with a confident, carefree gait that was at the same time graceful. Her gray and silver dress clung to just the right places, yet still flowed like a breeze had passed. Probably no more than five-five, her fluorescent-pu
rple heels spoke volumes for her audacity to be unique—just like him.
Brushing by him, they both locked eyes for a split second. He looked down, acting ashamed to be looking at such beauty. In that split second, he'd caught a waft of her scent, a refined sweet perfume. Her hair was natural, dirty blond, full of curls and frizz. He could tell she'd spent some time caging her wild head of hair.
He pulled out his phone and checked for any late messages. He had just one, but would review it later—he didn't want an emotional reaction to upset his rhythm of the night.
“I'll have whatever he's having.” He heard the pleasant voice before he saw her slide elegantly into the seat opposite his. “Just go on now. I'll talk to you ladies tomorrow.” She actually dumped her friends to make a play on Harold. Wow, the world was finally coming around.
“I haven't seen you here before.” She set down her purse. One of the spotlights caught her face, and her blue eyes popped. But Harold found himself moving down the side of her face, stopping at her neck. He was in awe of the perfect female body, especially the slope of the neck to the shoulders, and how her hair tickled her skin—his skin eventually.
“Just hit town a couple of weeks ago. Moved in from the west coast, LA.”
“Harold, Harold Burns. It's a pleasure to meet you...”
“Hi, I'm Jordan.” They shook hands. He grazed the top of her hand with his thumb. Her eyelashes batted twice.
God love Ireland
Her drink arrived and they both raised their stemmed glasses.
“What should we toast?” she asked.
"Well, there are so many things to be thankful for.
“Good health.”
She nodded. “No doubt.”
“Good fortune.”
“That's the goal,” she said with a cute smirk.
“Good company.”
“Always.”
They clinked glasses. Harold let the game come to him.
They commiserated over the lack of dates near Valentine's. She'd just broken up with her college boyfriend. Apparently, he was still busy playing drinking games and increasing the size of his beer-can collection.
“So, are you in the modeling industry?”