Fatal Greed (16 page)

No taller than a Mini Cooper, our new co-general manager carried himself like the anointed one, knighted by
Turug
to execute the PHC acquisition plan. Despite lacking knowledge about J&W’s operations,
Kamal
had already begun pronouncing his decree on every issue, according to Paula. That’s how business in the modern day worked, I suppose—the acquiring company’s dictators ruled, even if they couldn’t find their asses with both hands.

Kamal
marched into Paula’s office like he owned the place, including her.

“I need to speak with you in my office.” Without acknowledging my existence,
Kamal
spun back toward the door, clearly expecting Paula to be one step behind him.

“
Kamal
, please give me five more minutes with Michael.”

Kamal
squinted, obviously shocked Paula would provide any response other than an immediate “yes sir.” The door rattled shut.

“I have to put my foot down just because I can, at least for now,” Paula said.

Paula’s rebellious attitude was refreshing. She wasn’t poisoned by her years in upper management.

“I’m one morning sickness away from not being at the disposal of Sir
Kamal
, so stay close and be ready to jump in,” Paula said. “I’ll push him to start including you, and that could start in the next ten minutes, or it might be in two days. Sorry about the uncertainty, but that’s the game we’re playing right now.”

“I’m okay with it. I’m a little anxious, but I’m sure I can pick up any signals from you.”

Paula gave me an assuring pat on the shoulder as I followed her out the door.

For a minute, I considered myself fortunate. I wasn’t the first person in corporate America to go through this type of coup. I’d watched friends experience this upheaval, and as a result, I hoped I was better prepared for these games and cut-throat tactics.

I was jarred slightly by my office phone ringing. Jeanne Greenberg, Tiffany’s former employer, was on the line.

“Michael, I’d like to discuss a couple of important issues at your earliest available time,” she said in her usual straightforward way.

That was code for “get my ass over to her office ASAP.” Admittedly, in the past, I’d been able to conjure up a few pathetic excuses to avoid getting drilled by Jeanne. Once, I even claimed I was running out the door because Marisa had been in a car wreck. But, on this day I welcomed Jeanne’s directive, which provided me an opportunity to breathe unpolluted air. I walked by
Kamal’s
opulent office, where he and Paula were buried in papers and laptops. Neither looked up. I didn’t need a permission slip to leave the premises. I went out the front door and turned left into the cutting north wind. Within a couple of minutes, the cold penetrated the insulation of my coat and new scarf from Marisa. But I still scooted across town to Greenberg & Associates as giddy as a kid who just escaped from school in the middle of the day.

Tony stretched his arms above his head, then rubbed his stiff back as he sat in front of his computer. The years and physical abuse had begun to catch up to him, and he knew it. He continued a regular exercise regimen—stretching, resistance training, and conditioning—even while being restricted to his efficiency apartment.

He moved aside the sheer curtains and looked out his one window, a process he repeated several times a day. This time, he spotted someone leaving 216 West Main. He picked up his government-issued binoculars, a memento he’d claimed from his stint in the Marines.

“Well, who do we have here?” he spoke out loud to no one. “Mr. Doyle is out for a stroll on this cold day, it appears.”

Tony looked at Michael’s mug shot on his target board. As a mid-level manager at J&W, a position he’d held for several years, Michael had earned the trust of his colleagues and customers alike. Tony studied the pictures of the key stakeholders in the operation. The target board kept him sharp and allowed him to think through the project scenarios, as well as any potential threat he might not see without the visual aid.

He poked his finger at a photograph on the board. “And then we have the neighbor, our favorite newspaper editor, Mrs. Karina Silva.” He laughed at the trauma she’d recently experienced.

Extensive research going all the way back to Karina’s college days had uncovered a piece of gold. Karina had experimented in college, not just with recreational drugs, but with girls. In fact, he learned that she had secretly dated one girl for six months, just before she met her future husband, Reinaldo. Tony had devised the plan to have Tiffany Chambers seduce Karina. Unfortunately, he hadn’t considered
Reinaldo’s
employment at J&W, and Tiffany’s death certainly wasn’t part of the original strategy. Some things just can’t be avoided.

Tony drew a line connecting Michael and Karina, then Michael and Reinaldo. He knew Reinaldo had seen a visitor at the jail matching Michael’s description—Caucasian, medium height, dark wavy hair, neatly dressed. According to his source, the nature of the conversation centered on
Reinaldo’s
well-being, although
Reinaldo’s
depression and mental instability had derailed the apparent fact-finding mission.

Every man had his weakness, his Achilles heel, and Tony knew this as much as anyone. Viewed by everyone who knew him as an even-keeled guy, Michael wasn’t likely to be influenced by a blond bombshell. Tony had two shots of Michael out with his longtime girlfriend, a lady named Marisa. It was possible Michael’s love for her was his most exposed weak point, but it was difficult to know for certain.

Tony had used his night vision goggles just once, the evening of the Taylor Christmas party, a last-minute idea to take photos of key players with an enhanced digital camera he’d recently purchased at a gun show. He always enjoyed a challenge, and the covert nighttime maneuver gave him a rush.

Hidden behind a row of red-tip
photinia
, Tony had surveyed the area south of the mansion, spotting Victoria, the big mouth bitch who had too much input into their operation. Talking on her cell phone from her third-floor balcony, practically staring right at Tony, she had no idea her picture was being taken.

Tony thought about what it would be like to set up wrinkle-faced Victoria in a seamy seduction. It made him laugh. For now, Chuck would deal with her know-it-all attitude and the associated political crap. He was a pro at it.

While not considered a target, Marisa also had a spot on his board. He had seen her waltz up to the front porch of the mansion. The picture captured an alluring woman wearing a black dress and red heels. Tony lusted for a beautiful lady. Marisa wasn’t as young and pure as Tiffany or as seasoned as Carol, but neither of those ladies was around. One had died and one had abruptly left town after the fiasco with Raymond Williams. Tony had a growing itch, one that could be scratched only by the woman of his desire.

Knowing Chuck would call at any moment, Tony refocused his attention on the email to Raymond. The wording of this email was different, a tad more threatening because of the violent nature of their previous interaction. He attached two graphic JPEG files. One had Raymond holding a whip, sitting on top of Carol with her hands cuffed to the headboard. The other, taken from the opposite angle, showed Raymond punching Carol in the face.

Tony gave the email one last review, then sent it off.

As he reached for the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, the phone rang.

“How are we coming at piecing together the communication for Mr. Williams?” Chuck asked.

“Good timing, Boss. I just sent the email. I’d send you a copy for your pleasure, but as we’ve discussed, you don’t need to be connected to these special projects.”

***

Jesus
, Chuck thought,
does this freak actually think I get my jollies from his porno?
These events were merely a necessity of doing business in this over-regulated world run by Nazi environmentalists. He tried to erase the picture from his head of Tony enjoying this more than he should. He only wanted Tony to concentrate on the job at hand…and to keep his attention focused on something other than the next woman in his sights.

An eye-watering breeze blew into Greenberg & Associates as I struggled to shut the glass door behind me. A new administrative assistant sat at Tiffany’s old desk, impervious to the blustery weather.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve had a chance to meet. I’m Michael Doyle with J&W…I mean, PHC.”

The reserved young woman shook my hand but only briefly made eye contact. Jeanne entered the front area.

“I see you’ve met my new temp,” Jeanne said.

She guided me back to her office without acknowledging the
admin’s
name.

“This is the second temp I’ve had. You know me, I’ll probably go through four or five more before I find a good fit.” Jeanne sat in her black high-back chair and crossed her legs. She was always one to point out the high expectations she set for everyone with whom she worked, including her vendors, as I knew all too well.

I pulled out my laptop and prepared for the onslaught of questions regarding her latest bill.

“Michael, you know I typically don’t mix business and personal lives, but this whole situation with Tiffany seems to cross the line in the most personal way.”

Jeanne turned to gaze out the window. “We’ve received two phone calls here at the office from someone who claims to be Tiffany’s mother.”

My fingers stopped typing. Jeanne could tell she had my attention, but I jumped in before she could finish her thought.

“You said, ‘claims.’” I made quotes with my fingers.

“There are so many crackpots out there. I spoke to her one time. She came across as somewhat senseless and maybe even a bit delusional.” Jeanne looked down. “It got my attention when she said she was calling from Oklahoma. Tiffany had family up that way.”

I hadn’t thought much about Tiffany’s family or how her murder must have shaken them.

“The lady sounded older. She started crying. I tried to calm her down, but I’m not sure she heard me.” Jeanne was not the consoling type, so it must have been tough on her. “She wouldn’t tell me her name. But she asked if Tiffany had been well liked. Then, out of nowhere, she started talking negatively about men in Tiffany’s life. She said these men had ruined her daughter’s life, and if she ever found them, she would kill them with her own two hands.”

My stomach tightened. I hadn’t expected to go down this path with Jeanne. “Is that all she said? I guess she didn’t give you her name? Did she mention anyone else’s name?”

I expected Jeanne to say
Reinaldo’s
name.

“It was hard to understand, but I heard one name, something like Johnny or Tony or Marty, something with an ‘e’ sound at the end.”

Jeanne recalled seeing the 405 area code on the call that lasted less than a minute.

“I thought about it just before she hung up on me. Do you think I should call the police about this?”

“That’s probably the smart thing to do.”

“Talking out loud about this helps. Thank you.” Jeanne’s eyes connected with mine. “I have to say, she sounded distraught, even angry. I’m torn. I know they’ve arrested Reinaldo, but he’s such a nice young man. It’s difficult for me to envision him committing murder. But it disturbed me that this troubled woman talked about men destroying Tiffany’s life.”

I asked Jeanne if she would be willing to talk to the press about this development.

“Michael, it’s not that I don’t want to get involved. I think I’m a bit afraid,” Jeanne admitted.

“Jeanne, you’re a respected person in this community. I can’t imagine you have anything to worry about,” I said, wondering if I was right. “Talking to the police and media can only help us get to the bottom of this. We all have the same goal.” I started cranking on what to do with this information.

I made an appointment to meet with Arthur at five fifteen p.m., then spent the rest of the afternoon in anxious-wait mode, like a pilot prepared for takeoff from an aircraft carrier. Paula couldn’t predict when she’d persuade
Kamal
to bring me in, and she wasn’t keen on sharing the details of her pregnancy with him at this point. Seemed logical to me. I made a couple of office drive-bys to see if a visual would remind them to include me. On each pass, I thought at least one of them looked my way through the window, but I never got a response. I guess I’d turned invisible.

I thought more about Jeanne’s phone call with this person who claimed to be Tiffany’s mother. The sound of despair Jeanne described coming from the woman had me thinking she was legitimate, possibly someone who had no outlet, no way to communicate her outrage and sorrow. I’m not sure why my mind went there. Maybe because I could envision a mother being completely hysterical after finding out her daughter had been murdered.

After hours of resisting the urge, I gave in. The Internet made research almost too easy.

I searched area code 405.

Stillwater, Oklahoma. Where had I heard that city mentioned lately? Karina. She’d traveled to Stillwater a number of times in the last year to take care of her mother and was headed the same direction on Christmas Day, along with her kids and dog.

I arrived at Arthur’s office five minutes after the top of the hour.

“Good afternoon, Michael, my son.” Arthur smiled and gave me a more purposeful handshake than in our initial introduction.

I immediately recounted my conversation with Jeanne, anxious to get to the bottom of this mystery.

“It’s hard to say if this was a phone call from a person who really knew Tiffany, but I checked the area code, and it matches one in Stillwater. According to Jeanne, Tiffany may have family in the area.”

Arthur began to chortle.

My facial expression remained serious.

“Michael, you just proved my intuition was right.”

“About?”

“Your hunger to know more information. I don’t know Jeanne Greenberg well, but I’ve met her and know her reputation. She’s a tough lady. For her to open up to you says a lot about how you approach your contacts, or rather customers.”

While I found his comments flattering, the use of the term “contacts” threw me a bit.

“Michael, I don’t know if you’ve been thinking the same thing or not.” Arthur stared at me, apparently hoping to read my body language before he continued. “But we need your help.”

“For what?”

“I’ve been working with Stu just a few days, and I’m not sure we’re going to accomplish what we need to get done without having to perform an exorcism.” I was taken aback by Arthur’s sarcasm. “I can see you have a strong desire to see justice prevail on this murder. Let’s put your drive to good use. We need your brain to help us figure out how to proceed on this investigation.”

 
I sat back in my chair, stunned at Arthur’s direct plea for help…from me. What did I know about the journalism world? I took one class in high school. Journalists had minds like steel traps. Mine was too muddled right now with all that was going on in my life. I couldn’t compartmentalize. Or could I?

 
“You seem a bit stressed by my request for assistance, son.”

I rubbed my neck. I didn’t want to dismiss the opportunity to ensure the truth would be revealed, but fear of committing…and the unknown…pulled me the other way. Still, I ended up listening to my conscience, or Tiffany’s spirit.

“I do have a full-time job, and my girlfriend likes to see me occasionally, but I’ll sit in on a couple of meetings with you and Stu, and we’ll see if that helps,” I suggested.

“Splendid. We’ll work around your schedule. Be careful, son. Once you catch the bug, it stays with you.”

“What bug is that, sir?

“The journalism bug, of course.”

Unsure what to expect, I agreed to meet with Stu and Arthur the next day. As I headed home, all the questions I’d asked myself, and some new ones courtesy of my discussion with Jeanne, raced through my mind.