GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “But Ron had nothing to do with these murders, right?” I asked.

  “Amazingly, it appears to be a solo operation by Gerald, at least the serial killing.”

  "Am I missing something?

  “We've found a number of emails between Gerald and Roy Dixon, a federal air marshal, as well as with some punk who hijacked a plane recently. In piecing it together, we figured out that Gerald hired this Dylan kid to hijack the plane, throw Gerald's father, Stephen, out of the plane while still airborne, and then Dixon stepped up and shot Dylan.”

  “Unfuckingbelievable.” Carl tipped back his glass.

  “Gerald paid them both. Dixon got careless and started flaunting his money. Gerald killed him in his last stop before returning to Miami.”

  I shook my head, amazed at the nonstop brutality. The guy was a freakin' animal.

  Brandon and Carrie came up, and we shared a few laughs, mostly at Carrie's expense, allowing me to put Guidry's update in the back of my mind. Rolando joined us, then Stu, Arthur, and Trudy. Finally, Andi, flanked by her new boyfriend, Trevor with the green eyes, slid in through the throng now surrounding me.

  She whispered in my ear. “Marisa was the best.”

  “I know.”

  “I'm not sure you do. She was the kind of lady we all strive to be, but probably never will.”

  Her dark-brown eyes penetrated through all of my pain. We hugged, and I felt a hint of relief knowing someone else got it.

  Hours passed and no one seemed fazed, the music only got louder. I meandered down to our bedroom and peered at pictures, bottles of perfume, even her clothes that I'd taken out. I knew I couldn't continue living in this house, with her stuff ready to uncork my tear box. I had no kids, and I felt little obligation to my current job—the one that only stole more moments with my Marisa.

  I knew what I needed to do, and I wasn't going to wait until it was socially acceptable.

  I pulled out two suitcases and packed everything I could fit, including just one picture of Marisa. I walked out into the living room.

  “I'm leaving. I'm not sure when I'll be back...weeks, months, who knows?”

  No one pushed back. They all hugged me more. I asked Arthur to take care of everything at the house, and I'd be in touch about selling it and moving my things into storage—if I decided to keep anything.

  I walked outside and tossed my bags into the trunk, then slid off my tie and took off my coat. Pop came up for a last goodbye.

  “Feel free to drop by the ranch sometime.”

  “Thanks, Pop.”

  “I'll always love you, Michael. Just remember—”

  “I remember, Pop. Live my life and live it with no regrets.” I tipped a pretend hat at him and hopped in the car. Nodding and smiling, he waved.

  I coasted through the neighborhood then pulled up to the first four-way light—it was green—but I stopped anyway.

  “Marisa's watching you. Which way now, Doyle?” I stared in each direction.

  I followed my gut.

  No regrets.

  Acknowledgements

  I wrote the first draft of WICKED GREED in twenty-eight days. Up to that point, it was the most fulfilling creative period of time in my life. Ever. I lived the story day and night, mining over how to mold certain characters, where to take them, when to hit the gas on the storyline and when to tap the brake.

  When it ended, my body buzzed like a high-powered electrical current. I’d never wanted to share my creative work more than at that time. After finishing two more run-throughs, I sent it on to my editor, the talented Jan Fix. While I had a steady stream of confidence, anxiety huddled close by. Her feedback would either validate my continued hard work and evolution as a writer, or chop me off at the knees, reminding me I was still a literary neophyte.

  The email arrived and I read the feedback. It floored me. The editing process ran its course and Jan’s input certainly helped take it to the next level. But I knew from that moment on what I’d be doing the rest of my life.

  Thank you to all the readers who take the time to read my work, to share the peaks and valleys of the storylines and characters I love, or love to hate.

  And thank you to my fellow authors, most of whom I consider friends, who have blazed a trail that I’m attempting to follow, including: Rick Murcer, Melissa Foster, Russell Blake and the old gray wolf, J.A. Konrath.

  GREED MANIFESTO

  A Novel

  By

  John W. Mefford

  Greed Series: Book Four

  “There is no fire like passion, there is no shark like hatred, there is no snare like folly, there is no torrent like greed.”

  – Gautama Buddha

  Chapter One

  Today

  I'm conscious...I think.

  A brisk, cutting wind slapped my left side, churning in my ear like I'd been engulfed by a giant wave. Thumping heartbeats hammered my chest cavity. Sticky eyes peeled apart, unsure what I'd see, where I was.

  Shooting a glance left and right, I leaned against a wrought-iron railing, my back wedged against a massive stone building, my butt planted on a city sidewalk, legs splayed out like I'd been taking a nap.

  I shuddered and felt a biting wind penetrate my core. I rubbed both arms. No coat, only a green, ribbed sweater. Then I felt the top where a thin T-shirt clung to my neck. I had on jeans, looked like designer, and some trendy brown shoes, a couple of minor scuffs.

  I squeezed my eyes shut for a second and tried to recall how I got here. I couldn't focus, and I touched my chest. My heart felt like it had just been shot from a cannon, and quivers began to rock my core.

  A throng of young people skipped my way, full of energy and enthusiasm, the opposite of my current state of mind. Arching a stiff neck with the support of an unsteady hand, I found a black sky. It was night, but a street light illuminated my space like it was two in the afternoon. Something wasn't right. Beyond the tremors, I hurt like I couldn't recall hurting before. I couldn't recall much of anything, actually.

  Giggles, laughter, and flamboyant voices filled the air that still swirled in my left ear. A shaky fist rubbed blurred, watery eyes, then I zeroed in on the person closest to me—a young girl, maybe in her early twenties, bleached hair so blond it was almost white. She moved closer, her feminine stride confident, full of life as she told some animated story to her friends.

  “It was like so...how should I say? Lame. After that, he just couldn't get it up.” Screaming laughter followed. I tried to roll my eyes, but realized my head throbbed.

  The girl's straight, blond hair fell down to her shoulder blades, the last three or four inches a rainbow of colors. Pink and purple, and I think I made out blue on one side. Pink-fingernailed hands gripped a waist-high jacket, which she constantly flapped open. Underneath was a purple half-shirt that exposed her flat stomach. She wore a gray miniskirt with gray fishnet stockings and matching gray leather boots. Or was that faux leather?

  The group moved closer. Not a single head turned my way. I must have been invisible. It seemed strange, sitting on a city street, observing people. The girl was only a few feet away. All I noticed was the hair. The platinum-blond base looked frayed, frizzy, almost lifeless.

  I wondered if she ever noticed me, or cared.

  They skipped away, and I realized I'd let their presence distract my thoughts, and the pain. Shit! I brought up a jittery hand and touched the back of my head. It felt matted, like I'd taken a shower and gone to sleep. Had I simply dosed off on a cold slab of concrete?

  How the hell did I end up here? I looked around again and realized my surroundings were unlike any I'd ever seen. The streets had sloping, dramatic hills, although I couldn't see too far in the nighttime sky. I only leaned against the iron railing because of the severe angle of the hill—my entire balance was off-kilter.

  My brain became more lucid, but I still couldn't get my bearings. What the fuck was going on? I felt dizzy, heard my stomach growl. For some reason, fluffy pancakes flashed in
my mind. I craved pancakes, with melted butter, drowning in syrup.

  I glanced away, finding a substantial crack in the sidewalk and began to pepper myself with more questions...where am I...how did I hurt my head...why had I fallen asleep on a city sidewalk? I couldn't answer a single one. I realized I'd stopped breathing, and I forced out a breath. A cloud of smoke brushed my hand and disappeared. Keep breathing, everything is okay...

  What? I couldn't recall my name!

  Now I wasn't sure if my shaking had more to do with my inability to decipher my surroundings than the teeth-chattering cold.

  Another thought. I fought through the shakes and touched each pocket. I found an iPhone with a metal casing in my back pocket, pulled it out and tapped buttons to find my contacts. I thumbed through dozens of them, but nothing connected. An Arthur, a Brandon, a Carrie, a Marisa. No name looked familiar. Whose phone was this? I was getting fucking annoyed.

  Intense pressure plowed through my veins, which sent a lightning strike of unbearable pain into my skull. I touched my head again, on top, and found a knot the size of an egg. I squeezed clumped hair. Dark burgundy smeared between my fingers. The smell of copper. Is that blood? I winced, struggling to recall...anything. I must have been in a fight, or just flat-out assaulted. It was all a fucking guess. I had no clue. Was anyone else hurt? Another waft of blood passed my nose, this wave combined with salt. Panic gripped my gut. As my breathing picked up and my pulse raced, a tingling sensation crawled up my spine. Attempting to keep it together, I swallowed hard and bit down on my lower lip.

  A single thought consumed me—I'd literally lost my mind.

  Chapter Two

  One Month Ago

  Stuffed into a body-molding silver dress on four-inch fuck-me pumps, a voluptuous waitress sauntered past my table, shot me a glance, and even gave me a quick wink.

  “Too obvious,” I said, then turned my head without acknowledging her overt flirtation. I jiggled ice against a crystal glass half-full with whiskey and Coke and took a sip, feeling eyes glaring at me from across the table.

  “Seriously?” Marisa sat back in her chair, arms folded, her leg kicking like a Rockette. Her crazy chestnut hair, expertly highlighted with subtle blond streaks, was corralled into a large bun, a plethora of curls dangling around her face.

  I peered into Marisa's honey-brown eyes, and my heart paused. Looking down at the plush carpet, I thought about why I was at the Fairmont Hotel, lounging in the piano bar late on a Friday night.

  I licked my lips and took another fortifying swig of my drink, searching for the courage to continue. I raised my head and saw two girls walking directly at me, both wearing long, flowing gowns like they'd been performing in one of the banquet halls. They even wore silk gloves pulled up to their elbows. Their gait was so smooth it appeared they hovered over the salmon rug. The Alpha of the pair, a sultry-looking redhead, eyed me. I looked down, then shifted my eyes just enough to see if she was still staring my way.

  They moved closer, and I saw a handkerchief flutter to the ground. Instinct took over. I picked it up and handed it to the redhead, who was only an inch shorter than me. Her face was so coated with makeup she looked like a clown, one that might make kids cry.

  “I knew there were still a few gallant knights left on this planet.” She closed her eyes and brought her hand to her forehead.

  I just stood there and tried to muster some semblance of a conversation.

  “Uh, yeah, I guess there are.”

  “Would you like to buy a lady a drink?”

  The direct question caught me off guard. I wasn't ready to play this game, not this quickly. I think she sensed my hesitancy.

  "Oh, I get it. You must hit from the other side, right?

  “I, uh...what?”

  Before I could catch up with her quick assessment of my sexual persuasion, she and her follower had glided away.

  “Gallant knight, my ass.” I plopped down in my chair, and wished I was at home, veggin' in my sweats, tuned into a mindless ESPN event, one hand holding a beer, the other a remote.

  “Michael, people aren't perfect. Everyone has flaws. But once you open up and get to know them, you accept their flaws, even love them for it.” Marisa put an elbow on the table and raised an eyebrow, followed by a knowing grin.

  My heart fluttered. “But no one has all of your qualities. You're the perfect combination of sexy, cute, compassionate, beautiful, open-minded, confident, witty. And did I say sexy?”

  She giggled in her special way, her dimples lighting up the room. "You said sexy and beautiful. Kind of the same thing." Marisa winked, and I could feel the warmth of her love from the inside out. Her bronze skin reflected the soft lighting in the bar at one of the swankiest hotels in the city by the bay. I wanted to eat her up, to make love to the only woman I had ever loved—could ever love.

  But I knew that would never happen again. My Marisa had passed away eighteen months ago at the hands of a conniving, murdering animal—my half-brother.

  I guess she read my thoughts.

  “Don't feel sad, Michael. We all have our time, and my time ended. It's so unpredictable, you know.”

  A lump formed in my throat as I ogled every inch of her, admitting to myself that I could see what no one else in the room could.

  “Unpredictable, as in you being murdered by my brother?” My anger swelled like a torrent river.

  “Life. None of us can ever determine how we go, or when we go. So you've got to make the most of it while you're here.”

  I drew in a deep breath. “But I've tried. I'm just not sure I can do this without you. I don't want to.”

  “Oh, Michael, you just turned thirty-seven, but you sound like you're three years old.”

  I chuckled so hard I rocked back in my seat. An older couple sitting two tables away turned my direction.

  “I just can't look at another woman like I look at you.”

  “I would say I'm flattered, but it's been eighteen months. You've grieved far too long. We had a love no one can replicate. But I can't keep you hostage the rest of your life. That's not fair. I will always love you, Michael. And I know you will always love me. Open your heart, and you'll feel alive again. Pop said—”

  “I know...live your life and live it with no regrets.”

  “It's time.”

  Suddenly, a splintering crash. I snapped my head left only to see a red-faced bartender with scrunched shoulders looking like he'd just peed his pants. He must have dropped one of their expensive bottles, maybe a Dom Perignon, given his stressed expression. The bar patrons offered him a light applause, and I turned back to Marisa to share a laugh.

  She was no longer there. I bit the inside of my cheek and sipped my drink.

  Off to the side, I spotted a youngish-looking woman in a sequined, slate blue dress moving toward the bar. I think she looked my way. Or did she just adjust her earring? She had that look. She was naturally pretty, with wavy, golden blond hair that hung just below her shoulders, and a flawless complexion. Jennifer Aniston, maybe ten years ago. She seemed pleasant, approachable even. There was something there. Some substance, and a pretty face.

  How should I introduce myself? I can't just walk up and say, "Hi, I'm Michael Doyle, what's your major? Or, what's your sign?" I literally had no clue how to approach another woman.

  I closed my eyes and heard Marisa's voice: “She's not another woman. She's just a woman. It's okay. Let it go. Let me go.”

  I could just sit and wait for the place to clear out, and maybe when there are only two of us left listening to the piano, she might wander over and ask me if I'm free for coffee tomorrow.

  Man, I was either desperate or clueless. How do you expect to meet people, dumb-ass?

  I chuckled at myself and decided to observe a while longer. Surely, a woman with her confidence and beauty wasn't alone. Essentially, I gave myself a good excuse to do nothing. Wait for the inevitable reason to not act.

  Ten minutes passed, but she only sat there—a
lone—and drank a glass of red wine, occasionally glancing at her cell phone. She was maybe thirty feet away, but I could see she had on very little makeup, certainly not like that redhead or the many waitresses patrolling the scene.

  I tried not to gawk, but her simple look was radiant. Small ripples of muscle covered her shoulders. She crossed a leg; an open-toed, blue heel dangled off her smallish foot. She seemed playful. The blue dress wasn't form fitting, but I could tell she was petite, at least smaller than Marisa. Dammit, stop comparing everyone you meet with Marisa! I chided myself.

  Meet? Who was I kidding? I was only a step above a peeping Tom right now. Actually, I could hear my buddies calling me a chicken shit, or worse.

  “The Natural,” my quick nickname for the cute blond sitting at the bar, toyed more with her phone, possibly reading text messages or posting this or that to some type of social media site. I was, after all, living in San Francisco, Silicon Valley a stone's throw away, the heartbeat of American innovation. Here, most people under the age of forty don't follow new trends, they establish them.

  Fortunately, I'd been able to land a job at one of the newer high-tech startups funded by a couple of former executives at Google and three former NFL players. Our company was called Playa—as in the slang term for “player.”

  A handful of former Stanford graduate students had been able to take old film footage, digitize it, and then give users—rather "playas"—the ability to manipulate any player on the field, call a new play, even change the outcome of a play. Essentially, it allowed for lazy humans sitting in their living room to play puppeteer in a game setting with real humans, not some cartoonish figures. Our latest innovation actually placed a camera on the helmet of the real-life quarterback, allowing the playa to feel like they were dropping back for a pass, scrambling for their lives, and over the outstretched arms of a six-five, three-hundred-pound defensive end, connecting with a receiver in the corner of the end zone to win the 1983 NFC Championship game.