GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  Someone walked by, accidentally knocking Andi's arm, and her lips came together into a straight line. Then, she brought herself closer and whispered into my ear.

  “The first lady.”

  “Holy shit.” I glanced away and saw traffic building up, car horns bouncing off the surrounding hotel walls. “But this never hit the press. What happened to the story?“

  “Editor said he needed another credible source. This was back in the late 1970s, so journalists didn't publish a story based on a single unnamed source from a friend's uncle.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But there's a story behind the story, so to speak.”

  I leaned forward, touching her arm, almost unable to contain my curiosity.

  “The first lady was having an affair with the director of the FBI, which is why she knew what was going on behind the scenes. When my dad was on the verge of writing the breakthrough lead story, word got out, phone calls were made, and they shut him down.”

  “Wow.” I was in awe.

  “Shortly thereafter, we moved to Texas, but he continued traveling the world.”

  I just shook my head, and I could feel my journalistic juices flowing like a raging river, something I hadn't felt in almost two years.

  “Hey, I was just on my way across the street to get a drink.” I nudged my head right.

  “Top of the Mark bar?”

  Andi's eyes lit up. “Dad said he'd take me, but we never got there. Spent too much time touring Alcatraz.”

  “Cool. The view, you know, is the best, especially at sunset.”

  Spotty clouds reflected nearly horizontal spears of sunlight, creating a rainbow of colors shooting across the skyline. We needed to get higher to see the bay from the highest vantage point.

  I offered my arm. “You ready for the view of a lifetime?”

  “Couldn't be more so,” she said then grabbed my arm, and we took four steps.

  I stopped in my tracks. Across Mason, I saw her—Camila—and a breath caught in my throat. She wore an almond beret, a brown coat, but even amidst the noise, I could make out the clap of her tiny heels hitting the concrete. She was moving at a decent clip, her hands digging into her coat pockets. She wasn't sightseeing; her eyes weren't wandering. They were looking straight ahead, her perfect face stoic but resolute.

  I couldn't control myself. Without thinking, I walked toward her. I longed for her soft but strong hands, to feel her gentle, free spirit. To bond with this woman who'd lived something close to what I'd experienced.

  “Michael, the bar is this way,” I heard Andi say behind me. I stepped onto the street just as Camila made a sharp turn onto California.

  One step turned into two, then three. Car horns honked, and I swerved around two or three cars. She was moving farther away. I had to reach out to her, to let her know how sorry I was about throwing the beer bottle, getting arrested at her business...wondering if Franco had returned to harass her.

  I had questions about her brother, the murder, how it all happened, but I didn't want to put her through duress to get that information. We were so close to developing an actual friendship. I could see it in her eyes...for a few minutes anyway.

  Now, I just needed to catch up to her.

  A silver Prius jerked to a stop right by her at the curb. A man jumped out, then another. One tall, the other shorter. The tall man took her arm, but she attempted to jerk away. He didn't relinquish his grip, and I saw her face contort. A man on either side now, they guided her to the car. She paused, and I could have sworn she looked my way, then she got in the car. Had I just witnessed a kidnapping, or was there more to the story? A jilted lover, an angry cousin? Once again, I couldn't decipher the situation—whether I was lost in everything Camila or simply couldn't piece the nuggets of information into an explainable situation.

  “Camila!” My steps turned into a jog. Then the car gunned it. My heart slammed my chest, and I took off in a dead sprint, closing the distance to within twenty yards. The little silver car dodged a pedestrian at the intersection of Taylor and California, then squealed tires while hanging a left onto Taylor, just as I hit the intersection. Chaos then ensued.

  Screeching metal caused me to nearly jump three feet in the air. I lurched left and watched a U-Haul peel the side off an old Monte Carlo. Behind, I heard a quick succession of pig squeals and bangs, busted lights spraying glass all over the concrete, then a ladder whizzing by me at warp speed, so close my hair blew. It crashed through the back window of a BMW 5 Series. A symphony of horns blared around me as I stood motionless, breathless, the vein in my neck thumping out of control, but my eyes watching the Prius disappear. And so did my hope for Camila.

  “Michael, are you okay?” Andi asked, but I didn't acknowledge the faint voice that seemed a million miles away. “What the hell are you doing?“

  I turned slowly, as if I was balanced on a podium above the Golden Gate Bridge, my rubbery legs now shaking a bit.

  “Michael, I'm right here, can you hear me?” I heard her ask, but my face didn't respond.

  “Camila. It was her. The Natural,” I said too quietly, as horns still blared.

  “Who?”

  I felt an arm touch me. I assumed it was Andi's, but I ignored her anyway. I swallowed and tried to gather my senses.

  Then I heard another voice. A familiar tone, but it wasn't Andi's. “You have the right to remain silent.”

  And that's what I did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Today

  Zero gravity consumed my body for just a second as our cab sailed over a hump on a downward angle of a city street.

  “Oh shit!” Andi and I both yelled in tandem, the sound of our voices abruptly ending at the instant the boat—also known as a 1990 Chevy Caprice—thumped the street. Tires squealed and metal scraped the concrete as my fingers gripped the silver-clothed headrest in front of me.

  That was the third straight intersection where we'd gone airborne, when all we'd asked for was a calm, low-key ride to Camila's business, Swan Massage Therapy. After several attempts at a courteous request for the driver to slow down—with no verbal or visual response—and after tasting Kung Pao chicken in the back of my throat, I finally went off on the driver.

  “Stop the car and let us out! Now!” I demanded, my body still bouncing around.

  The miniature person sitting in the driver's seat, who had a single wrist cupped over the top of the steering wheel, crammed his foot on the brake. My grip saved me from smashing my head, but Andi's lack of an anchor sent her whole body flying into the driver's seat.

  “Asshole!” she yelled through tousled hair that completely hid her face.

  No sooner had I thought we were finally stopping this rocket-boat than the little driver gunned it. The G-force wedged my back against the smoky seat.

  “I don't think this guy speaks English,” Andi said over the roar of the engine, her voice shaking to the beat of the car popping over bumps and dipping into potholes.

  “Maybe he's just fucking deaf,” I said through clenched teeth. I realized my heart had been pounding in my chest, not specifically from the roller coaster ride since we were picked up at the Hopkins Hotel, but more because I was damn concerned about reinjuring my brain. I'd begun to understand how NFL players felt when they were sent back onto the playing field before their concussions had healed.

  While still gripping the headrest with my right hand, I reached over and tapped the guy on the shoulder, wondering if he was indeed hard of hearing. Immediately, he held up a hand, which at least told me he was human.

  Suddenly, the car swerved right, fishtailing the cruiser, and sending Andi and me tumbling in the backseat. With both of us nearly on the floor, we heard the engine growl again, and we were swung one way, then the other. Then, the car stopped abruptly, with a bit of rocking at the end.

  Andi and I both traded stares, then we quickly untangled ourselves and got our heads above the seat. The car had stopped in an alley, pointing out to Pine Stree
t. I could smell a mixture of burning rubber and oil.

  The thrill-seeking driver adjusted the rearview mirror downward, and our eyes met. He had acne, a smattering of peach fuzz, and a blank stare.

  “How old are you?” Andi asked.

  A slow grin washed over the driver's face, and we saw a mouth full of metal. The guy had braces.

  “I drive Papa's car,” he said with a bit of broken English.

  What the hell?

  “This isn't your cab?”

  “I drive Papa's car.”

  Another smile, but this one was sheepish.

  It took a few minutes to get the kid to open up, but we eventually learned his name was Jet, a nickname given to him by his high school buddies for his jet black hair. He was sixteen—apparently a very rebellious sixteen.

  We also found out that Jet had done this twice before, and twice had been caught. He actually had the gall to tear up when we threatened to make it three strikes. Hell, he'd practically had us in tears as our lives flashed before our eyes.

  But we chilled a bit when he told us that he was one of only two kids in his class who rarely if ever got to drive a car since turning sixteen because of the near-poverty level his family lived in. His dad worked two jobs just to put food on the table and shelter over the heads of a family of six. Jet was the oldest, and his parents were probably wishing they'd stopped right there.

  We made a deal, saying we wouldn't tell a soul if he promised to take us where we wanted and then took the cab back to where it belonged without any further joyriding.

  “Deal,” Jet said, now with a relieved smile. He even turned around and shook our hands. “Where to, bro?“ he asked, like he was talking to a fellow teen.

  I winked at Andi then said, “Here's the address. Know where it is?”

  “Give me ten minutes,” he said with far too much confidence.

  “You better not—” Andi blurted out.

  “I won't break speed limit once. Scout honor,” he said, holding up both hands with peace signs.

  The next ten minutes felt like a gentle rowboat ride, allowing Andi and me to recalibrate our mission.

  “I'm almost positive Camila was kidnapped.”

  Andi looked at me, her eyes telling me something I couldn't quite decipher.

  “Just now, I can finally remember the choking smell of the exhaust mixed with burning rubber, and all of the horrible sounds. But my eyes saw what they saw. She was kidnapped.”

  “Police don't think so. And, while I didn't see anything from my vantage point, once I bailed you out of jail and we had a chance to chill out at your apartment, you weren't convinced either. You seemed to think it might have been some type of friendly squabble of some kind, but not criminal.”

  I popped a knuckle.

  “Who knows for certain? But I gotta go with my gut right now. And it smells rotten.”

  Not exactly confident that we'd see Camila working behind the counter at Swan Massage Therapy, we decided personal observation was the best next step. And if we couldn't speak with her, we'd try to pull some information out of one of her employees.

  “Given our hell ride, I don't think anyone's following us.” I swiveled around and looked out the back window, then turned back around and noticed the nearest cross street to Swan Massage Therapy coming up.

  “Hey, Jet, please don't stop in front. Let's do a drive-by a couple of times and make sure everything is cool.”

  The kid listened to instructions like a pro, and we subtly drove past the strip center that housed Swan Massage Therapy. I noticed a Closed sign sitting in the front window.

  “No one's home,” Andi said as she eyed me.

  In the last few minutes, the day's long shadows had given in to semi-darkness.

  “Jet, let's drive by again, but this time go around back. Maybe we'll see a car parked there, or even an invitation asking us to come in the back door.”

  I saw Jet's eyebrows crumple, but he did as he was told. Andi gave me the look.

  “What?”

  “Do I need to remind you that you're one step away from being on Big Blue's Most Wanted list?”

  I tilted my head at Andi then watched Jet maneuver the boat through a tight entryway into a narrow lot. Trees and brush lined the back border. I didn't see a single car or person anywhere. We pulled up to a nondescript metal door, Swan Massage Therapy painted in black and barely visible on the forest green door. The three of us climbed out and walked up to the exit.

  I jiggled the doorknob, which was locked as I suspected. I bit my lip, wondering where we'd go now. I turned back around and saw Jet pouring through his trunk. Then he tossed me a tire iron.

  “What? Dude, we can't break in,” I said with little conviction, my brain trying to process an alternative idea.

  I faced the door and began to wedge the tire iron into the doorjamb. Andi was next to me, not objecting one bit.

  “You're supposed to tell me, this isn't the prudent thing to do. You're too wrapped up in this girl,“ I said.

  “Okay, this isn't smart and Camila, The Natural, has you wrapped around her middle finger.” Andi flipped me the bird.

  “Wow, twice in a week.”

  “I don't have any other ideas, so let's get in there and see if we can learn anything about what's going on with Camila...where she is for starters,” Andi said, her hand now on the tire iron next to mine.

  “Stop!”

  We turned our heads around slowly.

  With the agility and grace of a gymnast, our diminutive cab driver swung himself on top of the dumpster, then grabbed the telephone pole and propelled his body twice around the poll until he landed feet first on the flat roof, about fifteen feet above us. He disappeared from our vision. We heard a few sounds and then a snap.

  “Okay, now you're safe,” Jet yelled out.

  Seconds later, he was standing right behind us, and we both stared at this kid.

  “What? I had to disable alarm system. We don't need cops showing up.” He waved his hands like, been there, done that.

  “Didn't know your skillset extended beyond driving like a bat out of hell,” Andi said.

  “Just sayin',” Jet said.

  “Right,” I agreed, then leaned into the tire iron with all my power, albeit at a reduced level, given my lack of recovery time since being on the losing end of fight night.

  “Here.” Jet grabbed the tire iron, lined up the pointed edge, and popped out the pins in the hinges. He used the tire iron like it was an all-in-one tool set. With a combination of skill and brute force, he created a slight crack, which quickly formed a two-foot entry, big enough for us to slide through.

  “I'm not sure I want to know what you do for spare money,” I said, leading the way through the door.

  All three of us squeezed through the opening, then used our cell phones to light our surroundings. After our eyes adjusted to the reduced light, we traversed a maze of small hallways, two rooms on each side. We hit a T, then I glanced at Andi, and she pointed right. I went left, and she followed.

  Twenty feet later, I heard a hum.

  “Shh.” All three of us ceased movement. Andi and Jet both nodded.

  We rounded another corner and saw an office door partially open to a room with colored lights flashing in cadence, the humming sound now more prominent. We pushed the door open and saw a sea of yellow, red, and green lights—the same ones I'd seen from the opposite angle, when I'd peered into the back room a week before. Now, we stood on the dark side of the purple suede curtain.

  “Cool shit, man.” Jet broke the silence and approached the electronic wall.

  Andi looked at me. “You're the IT guy...what is all this crap?”

  “Besides a few laptops and Wi-Fi connectors, it looks like a rack of servers.”

  “Server farm.” Jet gingerly touched the computers that had the ability to run applications, hold databases.

  “What are they for?” Andi asked.

  I did a double take. “That's like asking m
e what a flat-screen is for. They can be used as computer monitors, or for watching movies, games, sitcoms...”

  “Castle?” she asked coyly.

  “Yes, Castle too.” I glanced around and counted at least five monitors, then I walked toward the server rack.

  “But these suckers here...God knows what they have running on them. Seems a bit much to run a one-store retail operation,” I admitted to myself.

  We walked like a weight-sensitive bomb was under our feet, although it was nothing more than stained concrete. Behind the ten-foot rack, an orderly set of wires and cables were bundled together with plastic zip ties, each set extending into the tiled ceiling.

  Andi exited the room, while Jet and I looked for something that might give us an idea of what was running on the computers. But we realized we'd have to know IDs and passwords to make significant progress.

  “Hey, guys, in here,” Andi called out.

  We scurried into the adjoining room and found Andi holding up a bucket, her hand shuffling something hollow and plastic-sounding.

  “We've hit the mother lode,” she said. “It's Lego world.“

  I glanced around, and toys littered the room.

  “Someone's got a young friend,” Andi said with a playful lilt in her voice.

  I wondered if he or she was just a friend.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Five Days Ago

  A burning sensation slinked up my leg until it seized hold of my entire hamstring. Slowly, my eyelids shut, and I counted to ten.

  “Lack of flexibility is the first sign that you're on the down side of the age paradigm.”

  With my head down and arms still hugging my outstretched leg on the gray Berber carpet in my apartment, my eyes opened to see Andi's smug smile. I hoped she only saw the whites of my eyes.

  Her hands clutched high-end Nike running shoes as she dipped her head down to touch her thighs with remarkable ease, graceful almost. She held the stretch for about five seconds and repeated the exercise ten times. She moved on to perform a plethora of different warmup exercises, each one focusing on a particular group of muscles.