GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “Oh sorry, guys. Let's move to the glass house and dial up our favorite law-enforcement friends. We'll share it with them, learn they haven't made any progress but then they'll say they're getting closer and closer—you know, kind of how the earth is moving closer to the sun?”

  Brandon and Stu smirked. Rolando appeared uncertain how to take my extreme sarcasm, and he paused at the edge of my door, looking the opposite way from where we were walking.

  “Rolando, you joining us?”

  “Sure, I just didn't know if I...you know.”

  “You're in this as deep as we are. We just need to figure out a way to shovel some of this shit out.” He nodded and tagged along into our transparent meeting room.

  Five minutes later, the conference phone blinked and came alive.

  “Carl, Guidry, do you have us?”

  Carl responded, “Roger.”

  “Here and accounted for,” was Guidry's response, sounding tired and irritated.

  “Long time no see, Guidry.” I needed some type of intro.

  “Yeah, well, those press conferences take it out of me. We give out nothing, you guys hammer us, and then we walk away acting like we won a battle. Just a waste of time—that's off the record, by the way.”

  “No problem.” We all needed to vent, but it was obvious the stress and pressure of the case was mounting.

  I asked Brandon to forward the emails to Carl and Guidry, and he slid his finger across his iPad screen.

  “You want to wait, or have me recite it again?”

  “We love hearing your voice, Michael.”

  “Thanks Carl, I feel the same way.” I paused then read the email.

  God love Ireland

  God love Ireland

  God love Ireland

  “That's it?” Carl asked.

  “Yep.”

  “I just don't get this cat. These emails are all over the place.”

  “Especially the ones that have hit right after we find another body,” Guidry said.

  I clicked my pen twice then tossed it on the table. “They're so random. But then again, we're not in this guy's head.”

  “Could be more than one person, right?” Rolando chimed in.

  We all stared at the phone, waiting for an official response.

  “Guidry, Carl, you still with us?”

  “We've started looking at the possibility of this being a multi-person operation. We alluded to that in the press conference,” Guidry said. “The theory came up after we released Foxworthy.”

  Rolando shook his head. I held up my hand, hoping he'd be able to contain his emotions.

  “More people involved means it's more complex,” Brandon said.

  “True, but it could also provide an opportunity for a slip-up, or someone starts feeling guilty and wants to talk.”

  “Good theories, but your BSU hasn't narrowed it down at all?” Brandon rested both elbows on his knees, almost like a baseball catcher.

  "Nothing definitive. These emails don't seem to help. Once again, it's causing us to look at the multiple-person angle.

  “The group theory,” I said, eyeing each of my team members, who looked as perplexed as I felt.

  “Forgot to mention. Tucker left this out, but something different about Olivia, the latest vic. She had a square cut out of her lower back,” Guidry offered.

  Stu shook his head and dropped his pen.

  “Tramp stamp, possibly?” Brandon tossed out there.

  “Could be. Something might have offended the guy.”

  I sat back and popped a knuckle, disgusted at the never-ending cycle of violent acts, and frustrated that it felt like we weren't any closer to catching him...them.

  “Before you ask, and because you guys have been good partners with us up to this point, I'll share one more little tidbit that adds to our latest theory.” A heaving growl popped out of the Polycom. “Sorry, had a frog in my throat. Anyway, the cyber unit has narrowed down the sending location of the email.”

  “And?” I prompted, wanting to choke the Polycom.

  “Get this—somewhere in China. Haven't pinned down the province or city.”

  Sounded like to me the net just got very wide—one-billion-people wide. My headache returned, with a vengeance.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  God love Ireland

  I hit send on the text to Marisa, then turned and watched the glass house transform like it was being featured on an HGTV remodel show. But this makeover wouldn't add color or space or better entertainment. Following our call with Guidry and Carl, I decided we had to develop our own theories, based upon all the data and opinions. While I'd been able to push any specific concerns for Marisa's life to the back of my mind, I didn't feel confident the authorities would figure this out before another girl was killed. I wasn't even sure our efforts would stop anything, but doing nothing was no longer an option. So we transformed our conference room into our own version of a cop war room.

  Two more magnetic whiteboards were rolled in. Adding to the timeline Brandon wrote the other day, we pinned up hard copies of each email, as well as mug shots of each of the dead girls, and the mug shot of Rolando's editor. We had to make this more personal.

  Still thinking about the lunch that never was, I spotted Andi in the newsroom and asked if she could order up four large pizzas.

  With my stomach growling, I took a swig of water and surveyed our handiwork.

  “Nice job, guys. Now we finally see everything that relates to this case. Theories, ideas, questions...nothing is off limits. Brandon, you capturing this?”

  Brandon held a blue, dry erase pen and stood at a blank whiteboard, jostling around like he needed to use the restroom. I tried to ignore his hyperactivity.

  “Let's start with the obvious,” Stu said, both arms splayed wide. “The FBI may not be telling us everything. We probably know more than every other media outlet, but that doesn't mean we know everything.”

  I nodded. “Duly noted, but what does that tell us?”

  “They could have some real evidence, DNA. We know the last girl was murdered with a straight-blade knife, but who knows about the others. We're not sure about other crime scene evidence, or even if the girls are linked.”

  Pepsi dripped off Rolando's chin, and he used his denim shirtsleeve to wipe away the mess. “I spent hours looking into any connection between the girls. Of course, the two in Baton Rouge, Ariel and Erika, were roommates. But in working with a colleague in Oxford, we found no connection between them and Whitney. Nada. Now we have this last girl from UNT, Olivia. Not sure if she's connected to the others, but my gut tells me 'no'—at least if we're dealing with the same perp or group of perps.”

  Brandon jotted down a bullet point related to the link—or rather lack thereof—between the murdered girls. He had this nervous energy about him. He removed his cap, exposing a dark mound of matted, hat hair, and toyed with the brim, then reset it on his head, backward. I wondered if I could slip him some valium, then steal all of his caps while he was knocked out.

  “We don't know the exact weapon, but all indications are that it's a knife of some kind, which he...they used to carve out the larynx,” Stu said. “All except for Erika.”

  “Motive. That's got to be the key. Why college girls, most of whom were blond? Why slash their necks and extract their larynxes?” I shook my head, frustrated I couldn't piece together the puzzle, but also questioning if we were missing that one clincher thing...or a million things, and we were just spinning our wheels.

  I lowered my head and massaged my temples, wondering if there was something else gnawing at me. I pushed aside whatever it was. A knock on the door. Four heads turned to the glass window to see Andi's head perched just above four pizza boxes and three smaller boxes. Brandon walked to open the door. From inside the room, we watched as one box slid in one direction, then Andi overcompensated and the tower of boxes began to topple just as Brandon opened the door. He threw out his arms and caught two, while Andi saved the rest
.

  I almost applauded.

  “Seven boxes?” I asked.

  “They threw in pepperoni rolls and cinnamon sticks for just two bucks more. I didn't think anyone here was training for a marathon—other than me—so I agreed.”

  I pondered my lack of discipline in the workout department.

  The ravenous reporters attacked the free food like it was their last meal. I slid a slice of veggies and extra cheese onto a paper towel, then wolfed down half of it with one bite. I didn't notice that half the cheese hung from my mouth down to my lap until Andi said, “Uh, you know you got...” She pointed at my chin.

  My fingers grabbed for the melted strings, and within seconds, I felt ensnarled by a web of cheese. Andi offered me a towel. I wiped my mouth and dabbed at my stained shirt.

  “Feel free to take some pizza, or anything else,” I said, still cleaning my face.

  “That's okay, I grabbed a turkey sandwich.” She panned left and right, her dark eyes scanning all the data surrounding the meeting table. “I guess I need to leave, huh?” She looked over at Rolando.

  I uncapped my water and took a swig.

  “You probably feel like an outsider.” I looked at Andi.

  “I know I'll get my chance. I recall that third email...it was so authentic and creepy. Then I saw that dead body. What was her name, Olivia, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I just have this real passion to be involved, be part of the solution, not just sit on the sideline and hope that another girl isn't murdered.” She looked off to the corner.

  Voices interrupted my thought, and I peered at the rest of the group—Stu, Brandon, and Rolando—all demonstrative in their opinions, while remnants of pepperoni rolls and cinnamon sticks scattered all over the table and floor.

  I said to Andi, “I know you've got your hands full with this thing down in Houston, and you're trying to finish up your degree, but do you want to sit in? See if you can help connect the dots?”

  Stunned brown eyes stared at me. Then she literally leaped a foot in the air. “I can handle everything else, not a problem. Where do I sit?”

  “Anywhere you want. Why don't you take a minute and review all the material first?”

  We needed new eyes on all of this, and I realized that we'd completely left out a key demographic during all of our meetings and brainstorming sessions: female, especially young female.

  I sat back and ate more pizza, my fortification growing by the minute, and studied Andi, who was studying the evidence boards. My mind drifted to last year when we first brought in the journalism student to go undercover at the local high school, hoping to find out who'd dealt the drugs that killed Stu's teenage daughter. I laughed inside at our untimely run-ins—actually, it was her clumsily running into me, creating a food or drink disaster. I recalled the strange feeling of seeing her as an attractive, even desirable woman—especially when she fell on top of me in her bikini down in Mexico. But I realized in the end, she was a young girl—attractive, yes—but a girl who hadn't yet lived life. She saw the world differently than I did. Which was fine with me...it helped clarify and strengthen my love with Marisa. Thinking of Marisa, I was reminded that she'd been acting a little strange lately, and thanks to my asshole half-brother, my attempt to bring her around with my massage therapy was thwarted. I needed to try again. Andi was looking at all the data. I wanted to get to the brainstorming, so I prompted, “So any initial thoughts or theories, or do you just want to sit down and listen in?”

  She brought her long finger to her chin. She moved from one email to the next, then she stopped in front of the section dedicated to the Baton Rouge murders.

  “This email sent after discovering the Baton Rouge murders...on one hand, it reads like someone is opening their soul and giving us justification for why he killed those girls, Ariel and Erika.”

  “Just what I said.” Stu raised a hand that held a frosted cinnamon stick.

  “But if you take a step back and look it as a whole, it reads more like a script.”

  I sat up in my chair and set down a piece of crust.

  “A script from...what?”

  “It sounds very familiar to me.”

  I glanced at Brandon, who wrote “Script?” and circled it next to "Murder response email #1."

  Andi stepped back to the board and tapped her hand next to the name and mug shot of Rolando's editor, Bruce Foxworthy.

  I noted, “You seem focused on F-O-X.”

  She turned and pointed at me. “F-O-X. That's it.”

  “That's just three letters of the man's last name.”

  She ignored my comment and looked to Brandon, pointing at his iPad. “Can you search for a website that shows quotes from a movie?”

  Brandon started tapping letters, while Andi nodded. “It's got to be.”

  “What?” I almost shouted.

  “F-O-X. That's how Tom Hanks communicated his character's last name in the movie God love Ireland.”

  My eyes looked down. I recalled that movie. And I think Marisa had the DVD stored under our home TV.

  “Joe Fox, that's his full name,” Brandon said from the other end of the room. “Give me the quote out loud and let me see if it's in here.”

  Andi took the lead. "God love Ireland

  “Found it.” All of us raced over to Brandon and looked over his shoulder. He set the iPad on the table and we stared at the quote, verbatim to what was in the email.

  “Shit. It was right in front of us the whole time.” I popped a knuckle.

  “And his co-star? Meg Ryan.” As soon as the words left Andi's mouth, we all traded purposeful stares.

  We drifted around the room, eyeing the evidence, eventually finding our chairs.

  “So, this means that the guy who sent the email is into romantic comedies. Is he just playing us?” Rolando questioned.

  “We can't forget that my source at the café, Patricia, felt certain that Ariel's spelling of the name, F-O-X, was associated with her new male friend.”

  “The one she didn't get a good look at,” Brandon reminded us, now back out of his chair and wearing a hole in the carpet. “What can we do with this new...what do we call it?”

  “Data. It doesn't point us to a specific person...yet. But it's a damn good start.” I turned to Andi. “Welcome to the team.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  A burst of cool air shot through the crack in the window, triggering an instant gush of water from his eyes, but it also sharpened his mind. He took in a deep breath and thought about the purpose of this jaunt. His pants swelled, and he began to envision a successful evening. He knew that was the key—envision success, and it will happen.

  The man drove east on I-10 then exited at Highway 90, which turned into West Tennessee Street. He meandered southeast about six miles, right into the heart of North Tallahassee, home of the Florida State Seminoles. He found a lot near a two-story bookstore and parked his old pickup. He turned the rearview mirror downward, and eyed his complexion. He lightly touched both cheeks, then his chin, covered in dark-brown stubble. He opened a green knapsack and pulled out a pair of black-rimmed glasses—nerdy but chic at the same time. They fit his sculptured face perfectly—like everything else in his bag of tricks. He brushed his hair to the left side then paused, thinking he'd spotted a discolored root. It was night, so one hair wouldn't be noticed, certainly not by a college coed whose sole focus was to get laid. He brushed twice more and tossed it in the knapsack.

  Using new shoe insertions the man stood about six one—he'd heard Tom Cruise used the same method. God love Ireland, he thought. God love Ireland

  Standing next to his truck, he buttoned his gray vest, noting his bicep hugging his light- blue, button-up shirt. “Nice guns,” he said to no one. He kissed both guns and threw a one-two punch into the air.

  He adjusted his collar, pulled down his vest, and hit the sidewalk on Railroad Avenue. Confident and cool—that was his aura, that's what drew the looks and desires of women, at
least the coeds who had a hint of intelligence. He just couldn't take the complete ditz—he'd rather screw a four-legged animal than be forced to have sex with a stupid bimbo. Then again, this excursion wasn't about sex. It hadn't been about sex in a long time.

  South of Gaines and Bloxham, the man found a bar with a cool-green tone—in the lighting, the glasses, the walls, everywhere. A mysterious, haunting green. It gave him goose bumps.

  The man sat at a corner table. “What are your drink specials tonight?” The brunette waitress wearing a green skirt gave him a quick, not-so-subtle once-over, then looked into his eyes—a respectful brown. He chuckled.

  “I know just what you need.” She lifted both eyebrows, her eyes staring blatantly at his crotch. She walked off, and he studied this prospect: about five-seven, toned legs, a thin waist, and a large bust escaping her Spandex top. He stopped at her neckline and inhaled a slow breath. The skin and slope were perfect, the size just right. But her hair was cut short—butch short—and brown with streaks of pink. That was a showstopper.

  The waitress soon returned with a drink in hand. “Here you are. It's our own version of a screaming orgasm.” She put a foot on his stool and winked at him suggestively. He shook his head. "What, I'm not good enough for you? Are you gay or something?"

  “No, but my brother is.”

  She grabbed her tray and marched off.

  “Hey, don't worry about her. She's got more moods than Cybil.” A throaty voice approached from his right side.

  “I just saw two of them. There are more?”

  The voice turned out to be an attractive young lady, a blonde with beautiful skin and a hell of a neck. Then the man noticed her outfit. Green skirt with a Spandex top—another waitress.

  “You work a shift with her and you'll lose count. You don't have enough fingers and toes.” She giggled at her own joke.

  Her laughter was infectious. Demi Moore—that was the voice. Sultry. The waitress had all the right tools to be a top-notch prospect. He decided to probe a bit more.

  “Are you a Seminole?” He motioned his arm like a tomahawk, copying the tradition repeated by so many FSU fans.