ON The Run (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 6) (Redemption Thriller Series 18)

by John W. Mefford

  There was nothing on the national news about me. I took that as a positive sign, although I had a feeling my absence in Austin had drawn public ridicule. I was sure that law-enforcement officials had already spoken with my close friends and family. I’d decided to not say a thing to Tobin or my mom. Only Tito and Steve knew the truth, and I could trust them.

  I lay in bed a moment—I’d tossed the comforter to the side and slept under a sheet—and wished like hell I could say “Goodnight” to Mackenzie, hoping that she hadn’t lost trust in her dad. It was too soon for me to call. Instead, I spoke to her as if she could hear me; then I drifted off to sleep.

  I woke up the next morning with the piercing sound of a repetitive beep. I paused a second, gathered my thoughts. It was the sound of a large truck backing up. My mind went straight to a wrecker. Had a passing cop seen my Texas license plate, learned that it didn’t exist, and was now in the process of confiscating it?

  I tossed the sheet to the side, hopped over to the door, unlatched the locks, and peeked outside. No sign of a wrecker or any large truck. I went still—the beeping noise had been replaced by a godawful screech, as if metal were scraping metal. In my bare feet, I walked quickly down the sidewalk and flipped around the corner—still no sign of what was causing this sound. It was the metal equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard.

  I picked up my pace and jogged to the back side of the motel. I saw my car and stopped in my tracks. Cables were being used to pull a vehicle up the metal ramp of a wrecker. Thankfully, the vehicle was a pickup that had no left rear tire. I covered my ears, turned around, and headed to my room. I took a five-minute shower—making sure to not get my hair wet—then looked at myself in the mirror. I hadn’t shaved in two days and my beard was thickening, in my lighter, natural blond color. I broke open the dye bottle and touched up my facial hair. Then I inspected myself in the mirror.

  I still looked too much like Ozzie.

  Hmm. I grabbed the shears out of my bag, set it to the second-lowest setting, and shaved my hair until I had a military-style crop, maybe a half-inch in length. I rubbed the fuzzy top of my hair. Damn, if Nicole were here, she’d be shedding tears of laughter.

  A lump formed in my throat. I anchored my hands on the counter and released a slow, purposeful breath.

  Focus on the task at hand, Oz. Think about preserving your relationship with Mackenzie, and then, later, you can grieve about Nicole. Positive energy right now.

  I pushed off the counter and pulled my things together. Refreshed after inhaling a shitload of food and about six hours of semi-solid sleep, I threw my bag in Mutt Three and hit the road. Destination: midtown Manhattan. During my four-hour road trip, I walked through how I might want to approach the next phase. I came up with three personas from which to choose, depending on the situation I’d find myself in. I’d have to think on my feet and hope for the best.

  There’s that “hope” word again.

  12

  Joshua, the event planner at the Grand Hyatt on 42nd Street near the Grand Central Terminal, had the attention span of a kindergartner. He was either on the phone or hailing down one of his lackeys to rush off and complete some task that had just come to mind.

  Joshua, with his spiked, gelled hair, had just stopped in the middle of a phone conversation to fire off instructions to an eager staffer, who just stood there, nodding her head about a hundred times.

  “Did you get all of that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her tiny button eyes didn’t match the confidence of her words.

  He shook a condescending finger at her. “Do you need me to repeat everything I just said?”

  “No, sir.” Her shoulders slumped. She looked defeated.

  “Okay, then. Shoo.” He dismissed her with a flick of his wrist; then he turned and stared at me. “Your name again?”

  “David Lee,” I said. That was the fourth time I’d given him my name. I’d asked to discuss with him details of the marketing conference that had just been completed four days earlier. He, initially, had waved me off like I was a nobody. Then, I told him that a possible criminal act could have occurred during his conference—yes, I made sure to emphasize it was his conference—his to own, for better or for worse. We were standing off to the side of the registration desk by a small café. The hotel was decorated like an Austin Powers movie, lots of vertical blinds, chic water displays, and shades of gray. Every chair had a low back. I picked up wafts of sourdough bread, honey ham, and asparagus. I hoped he couldn’t hear my stomach growl.

  “I’m busy doing a hundred things—”

  “I realize you’re probably very busy getting prepared for the next conference.”

  He put a hand on his hip and stuck out a foot.

  My eyes went to the four rings on his hand. They were all quite unique, covered in various stones or gems. Nothing I’d seen before. Then again, this was New York. So, they could be worth millions or the price of bubble gum.

  “The next conference? Mr. Buzz Cut, I have three conferences going on as we speak, two more starting next Monday, and a half dozen that need to be planned out over the next week. I don’t have time for games or dragging my name into this seedy little scene you have going on.”

  He flicked his fingers in my direction. I wasn’t sure if he was cutting down my appearance or the story I’d given him. I was wearing a flannel shirt that opened to a ribbed T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Nothing about my look was overtly professional, I realized, but I played that to my advantage.

  I leaned in closer. He pulled his neck back, but I cupped a hand to the side of my mouth. “I’ve been told to blend in with the crowd.”

  He arched a very coiffed eyebrow.

  “Normally, you’d see me in a suit by Ermenegildo Zegna, maybe the sharkskin two-piece. And I’d probably go with a pair of Berluti shoes, the classic Roccia oxford.”

  His mouth formed an O. Perhaps I was speaking a language he could understand.

  “Joshua,” I said, glancing in both directions, “do you think we can go someplace that’s a little quieter, not as much traffic?”

  He gave me the once-over and then glanced at his phone and typed in a quick text. He tipped his chin upward and sighed. “Okay, then. We’ll go to my office. But I only have five minutes. No more.” On the other side of the café, we turned left. He opened a glass door where a few staffers were talking amongst themselves—that is, until they saw Joshua. They scrambled away as if a stink bomb had just gone off. I followed him into his office.

  “I’m keeping the door open,” he said from the other side of his desk. He extended a hand to a gray upholstered chair, and I sat in it. He picked up a pen and tapped it on his desk while staring out the door. “I need to keep an eye on the lazy crowd, make sure everyone is working, not sitting around and gossiping.”

  “It’s difficult to find and keep good talent these days.” I crossed my legs as if I were wearing the four-thousand dollar suit and not button-fly jeans. Attitude is everything.

  “So, tell me more, Mr. Lee. You mentioned something about a possible crime committed during the IMP conference.”

  “IMP?”

  His eyes bugged out, his expression one of bewilderment. “International Marketing Professionals, duh. Hasn’t your employer even told you much about this conference?”

  My employer—right. “He’s just not into acronyms. He’s very precise. He’s also very protective of his company’s reputation.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. This goes to his desire to protect his image.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you without more information.”

  Time to alter the strategy. “Now, he did mention you by name. Said if there was anyone I could trust at this hotel, it was you.”

  He tapped his pen on his desk again, though more rapidly than before. His eyes were drawn to his cell phone, which he still held in his hand—but only for a brief second. “So, I know this person, the
n.”

  I opened my palms to the ceiling to acknowledge his brilliant deduction.

  “I wonder if it’s—”

  I held up a hand. “Let’s not get into a guessing game. I can’t confirm or deny it, anyway. He’s paying me too much money for me to break the rules.”

  His eyes drifted to his phone again, and this time, he frowned as he focused on the screen. He muttered something about candles and flowers and “those damn thriller authors.”

  I ignored the inane details of his professional concerns.

  He let his phone drop to his desk. “This crime…What in heaven’s name could be so worrisome where they’d bring in such a high-dollar private investigator? I’m assuming that’s what you are, a private investigator.”

  “Some might say I play that role.” He nodded, which was good, because it most certainly was a fictitious role, in stark contrast to the real-life Investigator Novak. David Lee worked cases for only the rich and famous, charging obscene hourly rates, enough to allow him to dress like a CEO, travel the world, and drive expensive cars.

  Little did Joshua know that my current ride was a street-illegal, gas-inhaling crossbreed.

  “So, a number of his employees were at this conference. Apparently, there is strong evidence that one of his employees has elected to seduce unsuspecting women.”

  “I’ve heard of no such incidents.”

  “That’s what he was told.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the person or persons who are now being framed by his employee. Apparently, his employee—let’s call him Daniel, just for the sake of it—Daniel drugged these women, took salacious photos, and then conveyed that he would share the photos with their significant others and their employers if they did not pay him a large sum of money to an offshore account.”

  Joshua’s head jerked back like a cobra getting ready to strike. “This is outrageous. We must get the authorities involved. I can’t have my hotel dragged through the mud. I’m calling Tony, our head of security. He has people at the NYPD, and I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this.”

  He tapped his screen and put the phone to his ear. I’d predicted this step.

  “You don’t want to have your hotel dragged through the mud,” I said. He nodded and then shook his head. It was as though he’d crossed himself, all with the movement of his head.

  “Then you need to hang up the phone, Joshua.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because if you don’t hang up the phone, and my employer’s company is pulled into a more public investigation, which would draw the attention of the press… Let’s just say it could get ugly.”

  “Ugly,” he said.

  I nodded. “For everyone. Including you.”

  He dropped the phone to the desk again and folded his hands. “How may I help you, Mr. Lee?”

  I told him I’d need to start with a complete list of everyone who had checked in for the conference.

  He took in a full breath and then exhaled. “I’m sure I can accommodate that. What else?”

  “Let’s just start with that for now.”

  He jumped on his laptop and typed with his two pointer fingers. “And where should I send this list?”

  “I’m sorry?” My mind was already leaping ahead to how I could narrow what would obviously be a large list of people.

  “Email. You want me to email this list to you?”

  Damn, I wish I’d set up a dummy email address. But I knew I couldn’t risk any type of digital trail. “To be discreet, why don’t you print off a hard copy?”

  He started chewing on a nail. “I’m not sure I’ve printed anything off in over a year. Let me play with this a bit.”

  A moment later, something whirred and buzzed. “Ooh!” he screeched as if he’d just sat on a whoopee cushion. The printer, apparently, was under his desk. He removed six pages, stapled them together, and placed the packet on the desk at an angle. He stood up and peered at the first page, then shifted his eyes to me. “So…”

  He found his seat as I calmly took the pages in my hands and thumbed through the list. There were two columns on each page. “There must be three hundred names listed,” I said.

  I was deflated. To figure out who in this list might have some vendetta against Nicole would take a lot of time. I had resources, mainly access to three PI websites that I’d grown to use extensively to help me run background checks, find relatives, identify past business dealings, and much more. But if I logged in, even from a computer that wasn’t mine, they could track the IP address and narrow down my location to a few miles. Again, I wasn’t sure if I was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list or if I was just someone who the APD was hoping would turn up. But I wasn’t willing to take the risk.

  A quick thought crossed my mind, but it was interrupted by Joshua’s yakking. I parked my idea for later and studied the list while he talked.

  “Three hundred sixty, to be exact, although I think you’ll see that four of them were no-shows due to sickness or some such. But this conference, more than most, had high attendance at the litany of sessions.”

  The list, fortunately, included contact information. Email addresses, phone numbers, company names, even physical addresses. My guess was that most of the phone numbers were cell phones, while the addresses were that of their employers. But how could I tell who interacted with…

  Hold the phone. I replayed what Joshua had just said.

  “Did anyone on your staff…” Again, I personalized my question, giving him an air of superiority. “…keep record of who attended which sessions?”

  “I don’t have the staff to do that.”

  I wanted to do the shoulder-slump thing—I was disappointed. But I masked the feeling by lowering my eyes to the list. Thankfully, he’d sorted the list alphabetically. I found Nicole Novak, then flipped back to the first page. My eyes fell on the D’s. Davis, Dawson, Derringer…

  “But I did keep a copy that the current president of the IMP sent me.”

  I lifted my head. “That’s convenient.”

  He wiggled in his seat, grinning like a little boy who’d just won a lollipop. “Of course, I can’t validate the accuracy, but I trust this is pretty close. They want to make sure their sessions are well attended. They run a tight ship at the IMP. Nothing like those thriller authors who show up in July. All they do is drink booze and tell ghastly stories.” He looked like he’d been forced to eat two-day-old cooked spinach.

  He printed off the session-attendee packet and handed it to me. It was even thicker than the first packet.

  “Lots of sessions overlapped, so they tried to make sure a person was attending at least one session at any given time. There were usually six sessions a day, plus a nighttime event.”

  I got to my feet and shook his hand. “I’ll be in touch when I have more questions.”

  Eager to review the lists and identify my next steps, I hightailed it out of the Grand Hyatt. Once outside, I smelled pizza. I headed in that direction.

  13

  A simple pepperoni pizza never tasted so good. And the beer alongside didn’t disappoint, either. It wasn’t Shiner good, but it made my trip to Angelino’s worth the fifty bucks. New York City prices. Wow. I knew my cash would dry up quickly if I stayed much longer in the Big Apple.

  Sitting at the corner table, where I could see everyone coming and going, I wiped my hands on my fourth napkin and eyed the open-door entrance. Two guys wearing Yankees caps walked into the pizza joint. No worries there. I wanted to make sure none of NYPD’s finest were prowling around, looking for me. I felt almost certain that Joshua had believed my story. But after I left, he could have run into his security buddy, Tony. Probably less gullible, old Tony might start asking a lot of questions. And if Tony really knew someone in the right position at the NYPD, they could reach out to the APD, and bad things could happen very quickly.

  A beer and pizza notwithstanding, I was still on edge. I picked up the session-attendance packet and starte
d sifting through the three days of meetings, seminars, and break-out sessions. Lots of boring business topics. I read off a few: The pass-through of your passion into your marketing strategy. Who is your ideal client? Identify the ten-word message that explains and excites. And the last one was a real doozy: Find the dominant personality trait you need to move up the corporate marketing ladder.

  I almost yawned, but I maintained focus. During each time slot, I scanned the table for Nicole’s name. It was a time-consuming process. If this were on a computer, I’d just plug her name into a search and hit “Enter,” and then I’d highlight every person who was in the session with her. From there, I’d see who shared the most sessions with her over the three-day conference.

  Finding a connection to Nicole—THE connection to her—I knew was a longshot, but until I got my hands on the incriminating email where I’d supposedly contacted a person to kill her, I had to spend my time doing something.

  I wondered for a moment if the DA’s office had turned over the email to Arie. As much as I hoped so, it probably hadn’t happened, since I failed to turn myself in. They were most likely pushing on Arie pretty hard, which didn’t make me feel any better about what I’d done. But I had been given no option, really—wait and hope for the best, or hit the ground running with an aggressive approach. I’d opted for the latter. My life with Mackenzie depended on it.

  I recalled the blurred image of the tall, broad-shouldered, bald man wrestling with Nicole. I put a hand to my chin and wondered if there was any way I could convince Joshua to push Tony or someone from upper management to allow me to sift through their video footage. That might be quicker than playing chess with hundreds of names.

  But could I actually pull that off without pointing a suspicious spotlight on me? Right now, my gut told me no. Hell, I was just sweating thinking about it.