Fatal Greed (23 page)

He backed his 1994 navy-blue Ford F-150 into the open parking space nearest apartment 129. His pickup had seen better days, but Bartholomew “Pop” Doyle had spent the last few hours cleaning out the dented truck to make it suitable for Ms. Rosemary Chambers. He wasn’t privy to all the details, but given the direct nature of the earlier phone call, he could tell his son was serious. The Q&A session could wait. Bart had remembered to bring bungee cords to tie down any equipment or luggage, as well as a stepstool to help boost Rosemary into the truck. Most importantly, the heater in the cab of his F-150 was warmer than a hot cup of coffee. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Rosemary appeared at the doorway of her apartment, escorted by a man in a suit. Bart met them halfway.

“You her ride?” the man in the suit asked.

Bart nodded and adjusted his lucky Mickey Mantle Yankees cap.

“I have to ask, who sent you?”

“Besides my son, I guess you’d say Arthur did.”

Rosemary took Bart’s arm, as if they were walking down the aisle in church.

“Mr. Doyle, thank you so much for your generosity,” she said. “I think this might be a big to-do about nothing.”

The howling wind hit them in waves. Rosemary pushed her tousled hair aside and clung tighter to the elder Doyle.

Bart helped her into the truck, then worked with the man in the suit to secure the rest of her luggage and medical equipment.

“Have your nurse call me at this number, and I’ll give her directions to the location.” Bart handed the man in the suit a piece of paper. “I’ll expect her first visit to be in the morning.”

Bart escaped from the frigid prairie winds and climbed into the warm cab, then slowly rolled out of the parking lot. They had a three-hour trip ahead of them, unless Rosemary needed to stop along the way, which was entirely possible. That was okay with Pop, who had few other chores in the middle of the winter. He was happy to be involved in an important mission with his son.

Pop phoned his son twenty minutes outside of Stillwater. “Hey, Michael. Pop here,” he said. “Ms. Chambers and her belongings are in the truck with me and we’re headed to the farm.”

***

I tossed my cell phone on the beige, cloth passenger seat and leaned back in my car in the parking lot at the police station, staring across the mass of black-and-white vehicles. I hoped Tiffany was smiling down on us, knowing we were protecting her mother and making progress on finding her killer. She’d been mixed up in something pretty seedy. The theory about Karina lingered in the back of my mind, but I still couldn’t forget about Tiffany’s original mission, and wonder how Omaha Gas and this Tony person fit into the whole scheme.

Regardless of who was involved, I was more determined than ever to piece together how Tiffany became the victim of a murder.

I picked up Chinese takeout and a six-pack of Miller
Lite
, then drove east of town to the Como Motel. A purple dusk sky was fading behind a cluster of trees across the lonesome highway from our interim home.

The blue-and-red neon motel sign flickered as I made my way up the outdoor stairs to the second floor. I tripped on a dislodged piece of black metal, part of the frame for the concrete steps. All of my weight fell on my left shinbone, but I caught the food and beer just before they splattered down the stairs.

“Piece of shit!” I was in a surly mood.

I locked the door behind me and threw my keys on the forest-green, laminate-covered dresser. The red digital clock on the nightstand read six fifty-three p.m. I texted Marisa again, saying I had food and drink and looked forward to seeing her in room 236 after she’d finished work. I took off my shoes and carefully sat on the bed, realizing the slick, paisley bedcover had probably not been washed in weeks, if not months. The mattress squealed like a pig as I got myself comfortable. I caught a whiff of a new-car smell and pinched my nose. Under the bed I found a scent pack, like one you’d see dangling next to a couple of dice on some
cheeseball’s
rearview mirror. I wrapped the stink bomb in a towel and threw it in the tub. The only things missing in our room were fake-wood paneled walls and a mass-produced landscaping picture hanging over the circa-1973, low-rider bed.

I needed a diversion. I propped up three pillows and clicked the remote control. First stop, CNN. Too much yelling and finger-pointing. One guy actually said his counterpart “would burn in hell” if he didn’t see the light and change his view. The thought of hell led me to wonder where Tiffany’s spirit was. I cursed at the TV and redirected my thoughts.

Over to ESPN to watch a one-sided NBA game. I leaned to grab my beer wrapped in a new
koozie
I had also purchased because it had a zipper. These days, the smallest things made me happy. I did a double take. A rebel flag on the side of the
koozie
? Nice. I’d toss that in the trash with the rest of the Chinese food—if Marisa would ever show up.

An hour passed and so did two of my beers. I considered starting on the Chinese food but really wanted to wait for Marisa. I tried not to think about where she could be or whom she was with.

The game moved into the third quarter. The beer and the blur of the basketball game helped me relax.

At ten minutes past nine o’clock, just as the West Coast NBA game tipped off, I heard a faint knock on the motel room door. I jumped up and tripped over the nasty bed cover, falling to one knee. I clutched my already-injured shin, where I felt a painful lump, then limped to open the door.

Marisa stood in the doorway with a blank look on her face. Her arms hung to her sides, her brown purse swaying an inch off the ground. She looked unkempt and had shadowed circles under her eyes. Maybe she was about to tell me it was all over and would just walk away. I didn’t say a word, afraid it might lead to the end of us. I stared at her, hoping she could feel I still loved her with all my heart.

Almost reluctantly, she took a step toward me, then another. In slow motion, she collapsed on my shoulder.

“I can’t do this any longer,” she said. I wondered if this was her way of saying goodbye.

She tightened her hold on my back.

“I can’t believe what I’ve done to you, to us.” Tears rolled down her beautiful face, causing what makeup she wore to smear.

I pressed us together, stroking her back, and kissed the top of her forehead. I put my head in the crease of her neck and breathed in the familiar smell of her skin. The love of my life was back.

“Oh my God, my beautiful Marisa, my baby.” I matched her tear for tear.

Our bodies rocked back and forth, neither of us letting go.

“Michael, will you ever forgive me?”

“Yes, of course.” Even though I didn’t know what there was to forgive, I felt her sorrow and sincerity. “I love you.”

“I love you too. The last few days have been unbearable. I want to tell you…I need to tell you everything.”

I shut the door and locked it, then gave her a tissue.

“We’ll have plenty of time for that. Let’s calm down a bit and take a moment,” I said, sitting next to her, holding her hand in mine.

She blew her nose.

“What is that awful smell?” she asked.

“Either my beer breath or cold Chinese food.”

“I’ll go with both,” she said.

We laughed like two teenagers. The grown-up conversation could wait.

“I was only fifteen years old. Some might say fifteen going on thirty,” Marisa said softly. “I was a high school sophomore and ran on the track team.”

“You didn’t run all four years, right?” I said.

She paused.

“Sorry if I interrupted your train of thought, baby.”

She took a swig of the beer I opened for her.

“I ran long distance, 1,600 and 3,200 meters,” she said. “I guess I was pretty good. Six of us from our track team qualified for the regional meet in Norman.”

Another sigh.

“In my teens, I was kind of fun-loving, even flirtatious, but all very innocent,” she said. "Like any young person, I wanted to know more about the world. Nothing really scared me. I was open to all opportunities. The more risk, the more fun.”

“Yes.” I encouraged her to continue.

“At the regional meet, I became friends with a man, an official helping to run the meet,” she said. “He was twenty-five years old.”

While surprised at the age difference, I maintained my supportive posture.

“He was athletic, good looking, and really nice to all of us. Over the two days he paid me a lot of attention, and I reciprocated,” Marisa said. “Near the end of the meet, we actually kissed. I knew it wasn’t the smartest thing to do. But we were honest with each other; I knew his age and he knew mine. He kept saying I was a mature fifteen-year-old, and anyone would think both mentally and physically I was eighteen.”

Knowing Marisa only as an adult, her youthful naiveté caught me off guard.

I reassured her. “I was an adolescent too, Marisa, and made some really stupid decisions. You were young and gullible. It goes with the territory of being a teenager.”

She put her hand on my knee.

“He came to visit me twice during the summer. He was sweet and said romantic things and was a lot more mature than the boys I hung around with,” Marisa said. “On his second visit, in a motel like this one, we had sex. Unprotected sex. He said he didn’t like wearing condoms, and I didn’t know much about how it was supposed to work. I trusted him. I was on cloud nine.”

“And the twenty-five-year-old track official?” I asked.

“Officiating track meets was just his part-time job, but I’ll get to that in a second. The sex, he said, was the best he’d ever had.” She looked down at the rust-colored carpet. “He said he’d wait for me until I graduated high school, then we could finally marry. I really thought it was fate. Until I got pregnant.”

I shuffled my feet but kept a composed expression.

Marisa hesitated, apparently searching for resolve to continue her story.

 
“I was scared to death. I couldn’t talk to my parents about it. I tried calling him. Over and over again. I’d either get his work voicemail or some admin would take down my number and tell me he’d call me back. This went on for about a month. I was a nervous wreck when school started. I was just beginning to show.”

Marisa took another sip of her beer and used her sleeve to wipe her mouth. She released an audible breath before continuing.

“I called him one last time, and he finally picked up the phone. I professed my love and told him about the baby. But he was cold and didn’t care that I was pregnant. He finally admitted he was married and his wife was eight months pregnant with their second child. I was stunned,” she said. “I started crying. He yelled at me, telling me to never call him again. When I kept begging him to listen and to help me, he told me if I didn’t stop all communication with him, I would end up in a ditch.”

Marisa leaned against my shoulder, then broke down and cried.

“Good God. I’m so, so sorry.” I put my arm around her and massaged the back of her neck.

She blew her nose again and insisted on continuing.

“A week later, I had a miscarriage. Then I went into a deep depression. My grades fell, I became less social, and I quit the track team,” she said. “It wasn’t until a couple years into college that I saw a therapist and began to understand it wasn’t my fault, at least mostly not my fault. My confidence and positive personality started to return. But I realized I’d lost about four years of my life.”

I held her face in my hands. “I’m just glad you are who you are. You are an amazing woman, and I’m so lucky to have you in my life.” I kissed her soft lips, then rested my head against hers.

“That’s all I wanted to hear.” She squeezed my hand.

“Did something in the last few days trigger your old memories?”

Marisa’s hands began to tremble.

“You could say that,” she said. “I’m scared, Michael.”

“It’s okay, just tell me what’s going on.”

“I was out shopping on Sunday, and after a man bumped into me, I found a note in my pocket telling me to meet him at the pub. The note mentioned my teenage pregnancy, so I had to go,” she said, now more animated. “At the pub, he told me I had to get you to stop prying into the murder investigation or he would tell you everything that happened when I was fifteen. He kept calling me a little slut.”

I shook my head and exhaled through my nose as my anger at this foul man escalated. “You know me. I wouldn’t hold your past against you. You were a victim.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight. He frightened me. That’s why I’ve been such a bitch to you.”

“How about we call it temporary insanity?” I chuckled, and she gave me a slight smile.

“Earlier today something unnerved me,” she said. “I met him at his apartment because I was afraid to be seen with him in public. He demanded that I get you to stop. At first, he said he would tell you about my pregnancy. Then he tried to come on to me. It freaked me out. He rubbed all over me and bit my neck.”

She pulled back her hair and showed me a red mark on her neck. “He yanked my hair and threw me down. He said if I didn’t get the stories in the paper to stop, then both you and I would pay the price. It scared the shit out of me.”

Marisa tilted her head back and took in a deep breath. She’d been put through an incredible amount of emotional strain. My heart ached for her. I now felt certain the person who left the message on my windshield was associated with this asshole who’d assaulted my dear Marisa.

“Do you know the name of the person who hurt you?”

“I don’t have a last name. Just Tony,” she said.

I didn’t move a muscle.

“I need to tell you what I found out in Stillwater, and with Reinaldo earlier tonight,” I said, then noticed her fatigued look. “But first let me see if the owner of this place has a microwave to warm up our Chinese food.”

I gave Marisa a warm kiss and grabbed the white bag, now sagging from the grease marks on the bottom. At the door, I turned back around.

“One more thing, you didn’t mention the guy’s name—the twenty-five-year-old track official—although it probably doesn’t matter at this point,” I said. I was curious but I didn’t want to stir up another emotional memory for her.

“I’ll never forget it.” She closed her eyes against the memory. “Chuck
Hagard
.”