Fatal Greed (5 page)

I tapped my left foot, used my steering wheel as a drum, and sang along with the chorus as I drove to the office. Despite dealing with Jeanne and the drama at Greenberg & Associates, I found myself singing a Christmas carol as I parked in my regular space.

I was back at the location of the most horrifying incident of my life. Half-jokingly, I wondered if my short-term memory was fading because of my concussion, allowing me to temporarily forget all the recent stress.

I entered the back door and paused. My memory of the room filled with whirling, humming fans was far different now. The sour smell of a rain-soaked carpet had been replaced by a cedar and cinnamon mixture. Decorative clusters of pinecones and garland hung from every doorway. I went directly to the
breakroom
and wrote a note to my coworkers on the main whiteboard:
Thank you for the balloons and cookies. Marisa and I appreciate your support. You’re a great group. Michael.

As I walked to my office, several coworkers, including Paula, greeted me and told me how good it was to see me back at work. There were several smiles, an extinct expression since PHC announced its acquisition of J&W, from what Paula said.

“Oh, Michael, come on and give me a hug.” Mrs. Ireland extended her arms so wide I had no way of avoiding her. I realized she needed the hug more than I did, and so I let her hang on for an extra couple of seconds.

I logged in to our internal network and watched three hundred twenty-three emails hit my inbox. As I sifted through a few of the urgent emails, Jennifer, another manager peer, dropped by.

“Glad you’re okay, Michael. We thought we were dealing with too much when J&W announced the acquisition, but what you witnessed earlier this week…I’m not sure how you’ve dealt with it,” Jennifer exclaimed.

“With a couple of bottles of vodka,” I said dryly while reviewing an electronic customer invoice. I lifted my eyes from the screen, and then Jennifer finally got that I was joking.

“I guess you know it was Tiffany.” Jennifer curled her hair over her ear, a nervous habit I’d seen several times.

I nodded my head.

“It’s hard to believe it’s someone we know. I had seen Tiffany only a couple of times, but it’s really scary to think someone could throw a human being into a dumpster like a piece of garbage.” She stared at me, apparently waiting for me to spill my soul.

I wasn’t taking the bait. I changed the subject to lighten the mood.

“So, have you bought your dress for the big party tomorrow night?” I rummaged through a mound of paperwork on my desk. “The final J&W Christmas party might be the best.”

The Taylors went all out for this annual event. They were cheaper than
Walmart
three hundred sixty-four days of the year, but their holiday celebration helped foster some goodwill toward the richest family in this part of the state. And this year they’d need it more than ever. You couldn’t predict if some
numbnut
might seek revenge on the family with the most to lose.

“I am looking forward to it, but I can’t decide what to wear. It’ll probably come down to how bold I’m feeling just before I leave. Did I tell you I actually have a date this year? My cousin is in town, and he’s dying to see the mansion. And the free food and drink doesn’t hurt.”

“Free is good,” I mumbled without looking up from my screen. Jennifer got the hint I needed some peace and quiet to catch up.

I finished reading a Statement of Work and signed the document, then looked at my watch and realized my meeting with detective Carl Pearson was fast approaching. Gazing at the blur of my computer screen, I thought about the brutal crime associated with Tiffany’s arm and her body stuffed in a plastic bag. I pondered what type of person would have committed such a heinous act. And Tiffany, such a beautiful, smart young woman. I wondered if she fought back to her last breath, crying out for help from God above.

I shut down my computer and draped my barn coat over my arm, then popped my head in Paula’s door.

 
“I’ve got to run to a meeting at the police department. Have you seen Reinaldo today? I’d like to say hello before I take off.”

“I didn’t want to add to your stress, Michael, but I’m a bit concerned.” Paula removed her glasses and pinched the top of her nose. “Reinaldo has called in sick the last three days. Mrs. Ireland said he sounded very down, maybe even depressed. There’s so much going on around here, it’s easy to understand. He lives in your neighborhood, right?”

I could see her anxiety. The news disturbed me as well.

“Honestly, I’m not sure if he’s even living there,” I said. “Marisa and I saw a For Sale sign in his yard, and then it disappeared. I haven’t seen anyone in the Silva family around their home in weeks. No signs of life.”

Paula and I were optimistic we’d see Reinaldo and Karina at the party and hoped some normalcy would return to our unpredictable professional lives. But these days, who could tell what normal really was.

The pit of my stomach began to tighten. I left the office praying I’d start the process of gaining closure from the most gruesome images I’d ever seen.

Fluorescent lights shone through stained plastic, creating a slight yellow hue in the white-walled room. I sat in an ice-cold chair that must have weighed fifty pounds, in front of a square metal table that was bolted to the painted concrete floor. Comfort and style weren’t the objectives in decorating the police department interview room.

A rectangular mirror faced me on the opposite wall. It was probably one of those two-way mirrors to allow someone on the other side to study my every movement. I had nothing to hide, but butterflies fluttered in my stomach like I was preparing to perform in front of a sold-out crowd.

A microphone dangled from the ceiling. It swayed gently from the air blowing out of the filthy vent. I saw cameras placed in two corners of the square room. The thick, white door opened, and Detective Carl Pearson walked in, followed by another person, also in plain clothes.

“Hey, Carl, does this mean I need to worry about the DVD being sold on the black market?” I pointed at the camera, hoping my humor might reduce the pressure.

Carl gave me a mild smirk and introduced his partner.

“Michael, this is Detective Smith, Roger Smith. He’ll be helping in the investigation.”

“Any relation to the former GM CEO?” Two stern, blank faces stared back. “You know, the guy from the 1980s who had the documentary made about him,
Roger and Me
?” I wasn’t sure if they knew or cared that GM Roger Smith was an older white guy, while Detective Roger Smith standing before me was African American. It was all nervous chatter.

“Michael, we’d like for you to begin by recalling any interaction you had with Tiffany, and then what happened on the day you discovered the… uh, her.” Carl rubbed his nose.

I couldn’t provide any specific evidence that would help find the killer, but I did tell them Tiffany was sharper than your average administrative assistant and quite attractive.

“I never found Tiffany very warm, which seemed a bit odd for a receptionist,” I said, offering more opinion than fact. “She seemed emotionally distant. As far I knew, she didn’t have many friends. But I sensed the wheels in her mind were always turning. Smart as a whip.”

My breathing accelerated as I began to think through the sequence of events of the gloomy morning I’d found Tiffany’s arm. A cold patch of sweat formed on the back of my neck. I closed my eyes and felt the huge raindrops pelting my face as I peered up into the thick, dark sky to locate the gutter leak. I moved slowly to the right. Suddenly, it felt like a hand reached up to drag me downward so I wouldn’t miss the plastic bag. It must have been Tiffany’s spirit crying out in desperation.

Once I knew something was in that bag, the weight of it made me wonder if there was a body inside. Then, the bag had split open, and Tiffany’s arm slid out. I stared at the blank wall in the interview room while a slideshow of pictures projected in my mind. The pale-white color of the arm stood out from the darkness of the bag and the surrounding alley. A red line of what appeared to be dried blood scaled up her forearm and disappeared into the bag. Part of me wanted to look in the bag, but my flight instincts had taken over. I ran away as fast as I could.

I was still not sure why I’d screamed for help. How could I believe anyone would still be alive? Tiffany’s arm never showed any signs of life.

Was there life after death? Could a spirit talk to us from the other side of life, as we know it? Was it heaven? Was it hell? Or was there a state in between, where some type of resolution must occur before deciding a person’s ultimate fate? Tiffany’s fate.

I was a mildly religious person—one foot in, one foot out—like many things in my life. I felt certain there was a God, an almighty being who put us on the earth for a purpose. Beyond that, the path and ultimate destiny beyond death…I wasn’t sure.

My pulse began to slow to a more normal pace. I looked at my watch. Thirty minutes had passed. I’d lost all concept of time as I recounted the details of the day my life changed forever.

Roger turned off the recording device.

“I appreciate you being so thorough,” Carl said calmly, his head down as he finished his notes.

Roger thanked me for coming in. “We’ll let you know if we have more questions.”

“I have one question for you guys. Do you have any leads as to who did this?” I hoped he’d confide in me just as I had opened my soul for them.

“No comment,” Roger responded without hesitation.

***

I shut my car door and rested my head on the chilled, vinyl steering wheel, waiting for a flood of emotions to gush out. I noticed a thick layer of dust accumulating on the dashboard, then realized I wasn’t distraught or haunted by my detailed description of the events from that morning. The recounting had opened my eyes to the fragility of life and allowed me to explore a different perspective on what happens following death. It had been cathartic. I was more at peace, yet I still felt my role in this ordeal wasn’t finished.

For the first time in my life, I had a higher purpose—to uncover the truth behind Tiffany’s murder. Tiffany, or her spirit, connected with me. I couldn’t ignore her cry for help.

 
“Is Stu in?”

The
Times Herald
receptionist lowered her bifocals. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

“No, but I think he’d like to see me.”

She let her glasses dangle from her silver neck chain, then called Stu.

“He says he’s on a deadline but will squeeze in some time to meet with you in conference room number three, just down the hallway.”

I walked through double glass doors and a familiar aroma greeted me. The smell of newspapers. That smell gave me confidence that the wheels of journalism were still intact.

Stu and I faced each other across a scarred wooden table, probably circa 1982, sitting in swivel chairs, both of which had frayed blue fabric. Mine squeaked like an out-of-tune violin as I moved closer to the table to prop myself on my forearms. One of three fluorescent lights was out, making it appear Stu had a cloud over his head.

“Thanks for dropping by, but I don’t have much time,” Stu said.

“We haven’t spoken since the day of the incident, and I was wondering if you needed more information from me.” I leaned forward, intentionally narrowing the gap between us. “Are you trying to hit the story from a different angle?”

Stu avoided eye contact and fidgeted with his pen. “Honestly, I’m not writing about the story you think I am. I’ve been looking into inconsistencies from the zoning commission. Apparently, they held a vote without a quorum of all the board members present, and no one can find the meeting minutes.”

I wondered if Stu had tripped over his untied shoelaces, suffered a head injury, and lost his memory since the day of the crime.

“The investigators must have really put a lid on this one. I guess it’ll take a more aggressive reporter to get some answers from our police department.” I prodded his ego.

“Look here, Michael.” Stu poked his finger on the table. “I’ve continued to work the story, looking for new angles, trying to keep the public informed. But…”

My eyebrows rose, awaiting the excuse.

“…Karina asked me to follow up on this zoning story, and she has a couple of other stories she wants me to work as well.”

My eyes slowly narrowed. Was Stu telling the truth? The biggest event in God knows how long and he’s off playing patty cake with some pencil pushers from a government meeting.

 
“I will tell you one nugget I picked up.” Stu must have sensed my frustration. “I have a source in the coroner’s office, and there’s evidently a disagreement on the cause of death. My source won’t tell me all of the conversations he overheard, but they’ve called in an independent coroner to validate the cause.”

“Any idea what they’re looking into?”

“They found a pretty nasty contusion on her skull, so they focused initially on blunt force trauma to her head. But there is also evidence of strangulation. Apparently, her body was really messed up. I asked to get a peek, but my source wouldn’t show me.”

 
“Why hasn’t this made the paper?”

“My boss said to wait for the police department to give us more information. I tried to convince her otherwise, but she wouldn’t budge.”

“Is Karina around? I want to talk with her.”

“She’s been in and out a lot lately with her mother and all, but I think I saw her office light on earlier. I’ll walk you to her office, but then you’re on your own.” It was obvious Stu was eager to pass me off to the person who apparently controlled his every movement.

Black letters on frosted glass spelled out her name and title. I knocked lightly. It rattled the glass, and I clenched my teeth. No response. I knocked again.

“Uh, yes, come in.” Karina looked up from the jumble of folders on her desk. “Michael, didn’t expect to see
you
at my door.”

The room was dark, lit only by a small brass lamp at the corner of her desk. Karina’s appearance startled me. Circles under her eyes were so dark—especially against her ashen skin—it appeared she’d applied eye-black. She placed her head between her hands, resting her elbows on the cluttered desk. She looked exhausted, and her movements were stiff.

“I know you have a lot going on, but I wanted to ask about your strategy in covering Tiffany’s murder.” She straightened her back and appeared annoyed.

“Michael, I know you have some skin in the game here with what you saw, but we’re not going to jump every time we get a little more information.” Karina rearranged folders and papers with no apparent purpose. I didn’t turn away. She continued.

“People want to see variety in their hometown newspaper. We don’t have the resources for a reporter to focus solely on one story. This isn’t the
Boston Globe.
”

“Okay, I don’t like it, but I understand.” I didn’t want to push her too far. “How are you doing? Is everything okay with your mom and on the home front?” Her eyes shifted toward me, and she held the gaze for a few seconds. I wished I could have taken back the last phrase. I looked down and acted like I’d received an email on my phone.

“I have work to do.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. Every move was pronounced as she walked toward me and the door. “Frankly, Michael, I am sick and tired of everyone asking me all these fucking questions. I’m the journalist. I ask the questions.”

She ushered me out the door.

“So, for now, you and everyone else can get back to their Christmas shopping and leave the newspaper business to those of us who have a fucking clue!” She slammed her office door so hard it blew my hair.