Fatal Greed (15 page)

Chuck sat in his favorite leather chair, cushiony and molded to his aging, toneless body. He heard distant voices, as pockets of relatives celebrated and frolicked throughout his eleven-thousand-square-foot home.
Damn moochers
. His elbow resting on the weathered armrest, Chuck gnawed on his cigar. His in-laws had given him a new box of cigars for Christmas,
Padron
Family Reserve No. 45
Maduro
. But he wasn’t allowed to light up in the house. Wife’s rules. Then again, it was Christmas. He could take a chance and try to find a safe haven somewhere in the house and smoke just one. If he got caught, though, his wife might cut him off for a year. He moved the gnarled cigar closer to his nose and took in the sweet, intoxicating aroma.

Chuck’s business had its element of risk, but he never thought his success had anything to do with chance. Oil and gas men might as well gamble on the Las Vegas strip. He considered himself a pioneer, a “change agent,” as a blowhard consultant might call it today. Most importantly, he’d convinced the board members he was indispensable. Which, of course, was true.

Chuck released a breath, debating how to approach his next dialogue with Victoria. Why delay the inevitable? He knew Victoria would want a timely update on the latest events, even on Christmas Day.

Chuck could hear music and voices in the background when Victoria answered.

“Merry Christmas to my favorite Jaguar-driving teammate.”

The background noise began to subside.

“Thank you, Chuck. I’m assuming you and your family are having a pleasant Christmas as well.”

“Knowing you aren’t one to wait, I thought I’d give you an update on the operation,” Chuck said. “You’re aware the deal closed two days ago.
Turug’s
team is now in control of J&W. They’ll begin the transition process within the week. Soon,
Turug’s
intentions will become public.”

Chuck wondered if Victoria felt regret for helping to broker the deal to sell the family business.

“I think that’s why Jeffrey and William are so excited. They believed they received an early Christmas present,” Victoria said. “By the time they pay off their debt, the few million dollars remaining wouldn’t keep this family afloat for more than three years.”

“Yes, Victoria, you are the visionary in your family.” Chuck sought opportunities to show his appreciation for her impressive business mind.

Chuck paused to take another chew on his cigar, thinking how to communicate the outcome of the interactions with the two zoning commission members.

“As you know, the first phase of the Tom Newhouse project went like clockwork,” Chuck said. “And, I’m happy to say as of yesterday, Tom has accepted our conditions. He knows he has two weeks to complete his task. I think Tony and his new operative did a bang-up job on this one.”

He paused to see if Victoria would understand his attempt at humor.

“Very nice, Chuck. Good to hear we roped in the zoning chairman,” she said. “What about the other gentleman? You never gave me his name.”

“Raymond Williams.”

“I see his trucks all over the county.”

“To be quite frank, we had some issues with Raymond. Tony and his operative did all the necessary research and planning on this guy. They discovered he was into porn, and our girl understood how to approach him. She even had the right props for the project.”

“What happened?” Victoria sounded annoyed. “Don’t tell me we have another dead person on our hands.”

Chuck placed his squashed cigar in a clean, marble ashtray. “It was a fluke sort of deal. Raymond took off his shirt and tossed it aside, and it just happened to hit one of the hidden cameras. Then, he got violent. Tony jumped in to restore order, but Raymond suffered some injuries.”

“Considering
Tony’s
propensity for screwing things up, I could have predicted we’d run into more problems with your slutty little plans,” Victoria said.

Chuck ignored the dig on Tony, although he had growing reservations about the man responsible for the group’s unsavory tasks. He knew he couldn’t find another person with
Tony’s
background, expertise, and downright guile. Still, he seemed to be getting more careless with each job.

“It’s not a lost cause. While Raymond is aware of the plot to seduce him and gather the related photographic evidence, he doesn’t understand the full picture, at least not yet. Tony is convinced Raymond will follow our instructions. By the end of the week, when Raymond begins to heal, we’ll formally secure his agreement using a method similar to what we used with Mr. Newhouse.”

 
“Has any of this gone public?”

“If you look at the bottom of today’s newspaper, you’ll see a small article.”

“Hold on, I have it right here.”

 
One minute passed.

“For now, we appear to be safe,” Victoria said. “It sounds like you’ve scared the pants off Raymond.”

Chuck knew he had finished the most difficult part of the discussion.

“And one more thing. To show we’re being as proactive as possible on this operation, we’re doing additional research on the media members. Usually, they tend to be rather idealistic, but Tony has some thoughts in case someone starts connecting dots.”

“By all means, Chuck, don’t wait until the dots are connected.”

“Understood.”

Arthur walked into his office minutes before his first meeting with Stu to discuss the newspaper’s strategy for the Tiffany Chambers murder investigation. He didn’t sleep well the night before, despite spending Christmas day lounging and reading his new autographed John Grisham novel, a gift from his wife, while drinking spiked eggnog. He hadn’t covered a major news story in more than thirty years, and his anxiety was getting the better of him. His neck felt like a steel plate had been fused to his vertebrae. He tapped his fingernails on his desk.

Back in the mid-70s, a series of rapes occurred in the area over a six-month period. As assistant news editor, Arthur led the paper’s coverage from the initial crime until the final verdict and sentencing of the rapist. He knew journalism had changed over the past three decades, and he questioned his antiquated instincts. But his family legacy was at stake, and that motivated him.

“Mr.
Spanarkel
, sir.” Stacy stuck her head in his office. “Stu Owens called to say he’d be a few minutes late. Apparently, his cat is sick and he had to take her to the vet.”

“Vet?” Arthur mumbled. “Here we are, ready to embark on a mission to reclaim our leading position as the main watchdog in this community. Maybe Stu didn’t understand when I spoke to him on the phone.”

“Maybe not, sir,” Stacy said.

Arthur quickly raised his head, startled to hear a response. He thought he’d muttered those words to himself.

Midway through the morning, Stu, wearing sneakers and some minor league baseball cap, stepped into the waiting area of Arthur’s office suite. Before Stacy could ring Arthur, he’d already spotted the reporter and motioned for him to enter his office.

“Good morning, sir. I take it all is well with your, uh, animal?” Arthur asked.

“Yes, Mr.
Spanarkel
. Pumpkin, my orange Tabby, got into some of our Christmas ribbon. Had to get her stomach pumped. I shouldn’t have left the presents under the tree. Poor girl,” Stu said.

Arthur looked down at his notes and refrained from making another cutting remark.

“Stu, my good man, we know Karina has been through a great deal. I can’t imagine the emotions she’s experienced with her husband being arrested for the murder,” Arthur said. “It’s up to you and me to get to the bottom of all this. Unfortunately, this might touch Karina. If so, I’m sorry, but our journalistic reputation is on the line.”

Just before Stu could respond, Arthur’s assistant entered the office, rolling in a large, two-sided whiteboard. “Good timing, Stacy.” Arthur stood in front of the whiteboard, noting to himself that Stu hadn’t shown a great deal of energy in the first few minutes of their meeting. For now, Arthur would ignore it, hoping he’d see more engagement as they dove into the details.

“Let’s list all the facts as we know them, with whom they are associated, and note if the source is reliable,” Arthur said. “Then, I’d also like for us to start a list of questions or concerns we think we need to chase. We can talk about our strategy on the flow of stories, and so forth. Acceptable?”

“Works for me,” Stu said with little inflection.

Arthur jotted down the facts as he and Stu understood them. Stu noted the issue in the coroner’s office on the cause of death. It had been a while since he had checked in with his source, so that might have changed, he said.

“It’s good to hear you have a source in the coroner’s office. Nice work,” Arthur said with no visual reaction from Stu. “We’ll place that disagreement, for now, in the column of questions.”

They continued documenting the questions for another five minutes. Surprised with how quickly they completed the exercise, Arthur took a step back and examined the whiteboard, wondering if they’d missed any obvious pieces to the puzzle.

Stu adjusted his frayed cap. “Sir, I have one question.” Arthur motioned for Stu to continue. “How am I going to have enough time to work on this murder investigation and still cover the rest of the city beat? I make thirty thousand dollars a year, and I’m just not willing to give up my life for thirty K.”

Arthur put his hands on his waist. He knew the money in print journalism was less than stellar. He had thought Stu would be invigorated by their joint mission and was surprised to hear this whining. Arthur ignored the question and instructed Stu to push for at least three stories a week on the investigation—more if they found additional branches to the tree, which he assumed they would. Arthur would edit the stories and compose the headlines. Also, he wanted to send a message to the community by writing an editorial for this Sunday’s paper.

Stu nodded through the rest of the meeting.

Arthur sensed this “team” effort would require more wrangling with Stu than he’d imagined. He sent Stu off to restart the investigation. Then he sat alone, elbows propped on his inherited mahogany desk, attempting to think outside the box.

I struggled to button my pants. Too much buttermilk pie and homemade comfort food over the long holiday weekend. Outside of the bizarre interaction with Karina, the time off with Marisa had been relaxing and stress-free. I’d been able to mostly suppress my thoughts about the murder and the uncertainties at work, knowing I’d have to deal with reality today.

In the half-f parking lot, I locked my car and strode toward the office. Before I reached the back door, I was compelled to keep walking. I stopped at the end of the alley, staring at the scene where I’d discovered Tiffany’s body.

The picture etched in my mind from that dreadful day was far different than the view before me. Today, the clear blue sky allowed the sun to light up the top half of our building. Two birds fluttered overhead, as if one was chasing the other. Trash still littered the alley, but the driving rain, muddy gravel, and sheer gloominess had been removed like a Hollywood set change. Sitting perfectly parallel to the wall, the dark-green dumpster was in the same location. I could have walked down the alley to try to conjure up memories of the pungent odor and my emotions from that day, but I would gain nothing by putting myself through the experience. The alley no longer had power over me. I emptied my lungs and my body relaxed.

The office atmosphere was laidback, only a handful of colleagues working to complete projects prior to the end of the year.

Before I dropped by Paula’s office, I pulled out today’s edition of the
Times Herald
from my computer bag and spread it across my desk. Eager to see to if Arthur and Stu had made their first strike, I found the article hidden on page two, about a four-inch story. The main theme: formal charges against Reinaldo Silva would be filed tomorrow. It also noted that
Reinaldo’s
attorney, Brian Gentry, was not available for comment.

I pondered why Stu couldn’t have pushed Brian, or someone in Brian’s office, for a response, even if they didn’t want to go on record. I sighed, thinking I needed to keep my expectations in check. I should give Stu a chance to ramp up and start taking ownership of the story and not regurgitate police press releases. I sounded like I’d received a graduate degree from the Woodward & Bernstein Investigative College.

I examined the rest of the paper in case I’d overlooked a more in-depth story. Not today. Only typical grip-and-
grin
chamber of commerce photos and mundane stories on city council and zoning commission meetings. Stu might as well just ask for a copy of the minutes and publish those. At least that would give him more time to focus on the most significant story in the region.

Happy to see Paula sitting behind her desk, I approached her door.
Kamal
gave me a passing nod as he walked out. He held folders and papers and crossed the wide hall to his new digs.
Kamal
had transformed one of our precious few conference rooms into his office.

I ignored
Kamal
, and when he was out of earshot, said to Paula, “Good morning, co-boss.”

“I could say something back, but I’m trying not to be cynical today.” Paula looked healthy and full of energy. We asked about each other’s holiday, starting with her recovery from the episode in the
breakroom
.

“I stayed at the hospital only a few hours. I had a mild fainting spell, that’s all. I needed some food and hydration. It was no big deal,” she said, brushing off what had appeared to be serious at the time of the incident. “You’ll find this interesting. I received get-well flowers from
Turug
, of all people.”

“Ah.” I wondered if he’d use the same bunch of flowers on Paula’s grave once they fired her.

Paula asked me to shut the door. My mind instantly filled with theories. Was she going to beat
Kamal
to the punch and give the new regime the middle finger? Selfishly, I prayed not. We needed Paula, and I hoped she knew we’d all drown without her.

“Michael, I didn’t think I’d ever say this again, especially at my age.” Paula leaned back in her burgundy, high-back leather chair. “I’m pregnant.”

“Okay, uh, wow.” I tried not to show my shock, though my stammered response defied me.

“I’m assuming your condition might have something to with your fainting spell last week?” I gave her a half smile.

“It did, which is why I didn’t stay at the hospital long. They did an ultrasound to ensure the baby’s heartbeat was okay. Then they kicked me out.”

She explained she was in her first trimester, and depending on the day, she could be tired, nauseous, hungry, or agitated. Her moods were unpredictable. At least, that’s what Greg had told her over the long weekend. For now, she asked me to keep it a secret. She was hesitant to share any personal news with the new command.

Maybe talking babies with Paula will be a nice distraction over the next few months,
I thought.

“I guess you do have a certain glow,” I said, trying to act like I noticed.

She giggled. “Oh do I now? Thank you, but you’re probably reciting a script you’ve heard, huh?”

“Is it that obvious? I don’t really know much about women and pregnancy, and…all of that.” My hands moved all around, trying to pull an intelligent thought out of my mind.

“Don’t worry, most men don’t. I’m sure Marisa could give you some starter lessons.”

I nodded, then flapped my arms, realizing I’d been perspiring. Apparently, the whole pregnancy topic didn’t agree with my system.

“You can see I’ll need you at some point, but I don’t know exactly when.
Kamal
knows I’m not feeling well, and I trust you to help.” She looked out her window for a moment. “It won’t be easy. We might be asked to do some tough things. Are you in this with me?”

“Yes.” I released a stress breath.

Startled to hear three rapid door knocks behind me, I turned to see a beady-eyed, rabid
Kamal
push open the door, ready to pounce.