Fatal Greed (3 page)

A whaling siren pierced my consciousness—police, ambulance, fire, I wasn’t sure. For a second, I thought it had all been a dream. I opened my eyes and saw only shades of gray in motion.

 
I heard repeated chirps and realized I was being wheeled to an ambulance. I felt a stiff, starched sheet under my fingertips. Two straps kept my body stable, and my neck was stuck in a restraint. I blinked my eyes and began to feel more lucid after my brief nap. A couple of drops landed on my forehead, reminding me of the deluge earlier.

The grotesque image wouldn’t stop flashing in my pounding head…the arm coming to life, a hand reaching out for me.

A rapid, but familiar click of heels hit the pavement…Marisa’s heels. Paula must have called her, thank God. Barking voices, car doors shutting, and rhythmic beeping dampened Marisa’s conversation with the medical personnel.

“Showing obvious signs of a concussion, but more tests need to be run once he’s at the hospital,” the paramedic said.

Marisa appeared at my side. She tenderly stroked my face, her deep, honey eyes moist. She hopped in beside me after they dumped me in the back, like a conveyor belt dropping a piece of luggage into the belly of a plane.

“Careful,” she said to the paramedics.

“Do they know who it is?” My voice was shaky. I reached for her hand.

“Baby, I haven’t heard anything. The police are here. We’ll let them worry about that. I want to focus on making sure you’re okay.” Marisa wiped a single tear from her cheek. I hated seeing her cry, but her concern for me melted more of my icy exterior.

Marisa said the paramedics appeared to be filling out paper work before shutting the doors. I attempted to wiggle my head in the restraint, and my arms pressed against the restrictive nylon straps. My increased lucidity only led to more frustration from feeling like a crazy person being carted away to the funny farm. Was this the true feeling of claustrophobia? I released a slow, purposeful breath and counted to ten.

My eyes shifted left and right. I noticed oxygen equipment, a defibrillator and monitor, bags of bandages, yellow flashlights, blankets, and a stethoscope. Then I picked up a conversation between what sounded like a couple of cops.

“Hey man, this is a real crazy one. This girl was killed and thrown in with the trash. Actually, she missed the dumpster. It’s not a pretty sight. Get ready to gag.” He coughed.

“I better alert the wife. My nightmares will probably flare back up.”

Questions darted through my fuzzy mind. None of them connected.

Outside the ambulance, a bank of lights popped on, not flashing like from a police vehicle, but more constant light. Marisa told me two TV reporters had walked by the ambulance holding microphones and babbled something to their respective cameramen. They stopped at the yellow police tape in the front end of the alley and pointed their camera operators toward the movement around the dumpster. Meanwhile, other reporters had arrived from the print press, including one we both knew.

Stu Owens was a veteran reporter working the city government beat for the
Times Herald
, Karina’s paper. Marisa and I had met him at a New Year’s Eve party a couple of years back at Reinaldo and Karina’s house. Violent crimes weren’t common in our growing town, but if one occurred, Stu’s byline was on the story. A bit unkempt, Stu poked his head into the ambulance and politely asked Marisa if he could get a quote from me.

“Stu, can you wait until tomorrow for this?” She sounded perturbed that he had the nerve to invade the ambulance’s safe zone.

“Marisa, it’s okay. I can talk a bit,” I said, eager to focus on something other than my involuntary confinement.

“Hey, Michael. I know you’re not feeling well, so any little quote would work for this first story,” Stu said with his pen already touching paper.

“Do you know who was in the bag?” I asked Stu my question before I provided his quote.

“No, nothing. The police are being tight-lipped.”

I took a careful, deep breath not wanting to increase my brain pain.

“I went outside to try to find a leak into our building. I found a plastic bag, a human arm slid out. My heart almost jumped out of my chest. I didn’t know whether to cry or throw up. I just ran to get help.”

“Great. Thanks, Michael. I’ll give you a call in a day or two to ask you a few more questions.” Stu turned and darted off.

The ambulance driver finally shut the door, drowning out most of the commotion. I closed my eyes. I’d have just as many questions for Stu as he would for me.

The hospital staff concluded I’d suffered a mild concussion, nothing more, and they kept me awake for most of the night. “No tackle football for you for at least two weeks,” said the plump nurse who entered my room before daybreak. The nurse’s attempt at humor would have been warmly received had I not been exhausted. The last twenty-four hours I’d been poked and prodded, but most of my time was spent waiting for orders to be signed, medicine to be administered, and doctors to show up.

The nurse then pretended I was a child and chose to address Marisa. “The on-call doctor will drop by in an hour or so to sign off on the test results and release papers.” The nurse leaned over to grab an ice cup, but her beefy midsection yanked every wire and tube attached to me.
Shit, get this beast off me before she rips the IV out of my arm!

I grunted, irritable from lack of sleep.
They’re probably making me pay for the oxygen in the room while I wait for the damn doctor. My God, just get me out of here and let me go home with my Marisa.
I rolled onto my side, dragging all of my artificial appendages with me. Marisa smiled but didn’t say a word, knowing I’d hit my frustration ceiling.

A couple of hours later a volunteer wheeled me out of the hospital, and one of the nurses handed me the latest copy of the
Times Herald
. The headline said it all:
Dead Body Found in Alley
. Then, on the
subheader
just below it, I recognized the quote:
First Person on Scene—“I didn’t know whether to cry or throw up.”

I read the details of Stu’s story on the way home. Still no identification of the body, not even a confirmation it was female. It appeared very little information was circulating on the crime, which meant I knew something the press, including Stu, did not.

As Marisa drove into our neighborhood, I began to think—I went into the office yesterday wanting to find out more information about the merger, or rather, acquisition, of my company. I had hoped to speak with Harrison, a member of the family who owned J&W. Now, I’d stumbled into a completely different nightmare, one that could live with me far longer than work regime changes and layoffs. I wondered if this gruesome crime would lead to PHC rethinking their acquisition of J&W. Probably not, but a man could dream.

The portly family butler placed the newspaper on the expansive kitchen island in front of the first barstool, a daily ritual he performed for Victoria Taylor. The family matriarch had watched the newscasts the previous evening and knew what had taken place, but only the version of what other viewers had heard from the TV news reporter at the crime scene. She sipped her morning espresso while reading the top story in the
Times Herald
. The hot liquid churned inside her stomach. Reading about the untimely death made her blood pressure rise again.

Her pink, silk robe flowing behind her, Victoria strode to her bedroom quarters on the east side of the mansion and pulled out her cell phone. She struggled to recall her nephew showing her how to text on her new phone.

The news ids nit good. we need to talk. cal me

She tapped
Send
just as she saw the typos. Regardless, it was a miracle she remembered how to create and send the note.

Her daddy had taught her to be cool under pressure—easier said than done. She was a control freak and occasionally admitted it to herself. When events didn’t go the way she’d intended, she became irritable. But she’d get to the bottom of this situation and figure out how to ensure the plan remained intact. She wondered what type of damage might have already occurred.

Victoria took three deep breaths.

She needed to continue with her regular schedule. First, she had to meet with the gardener to discuss final plans for decorating the house and grounds for the county Christmas Home Tour. The Taylor estate was usually the featured home, and this year would be a repeat performance. They would also host the J&W Christmas party one last time.

While she had disdain for the gaudy light displays other people used on their homes, she believed a clean set of white lights outlining the considerable mansion, along with a few carefully placed wreaths, symbolized the perfect balance of class and respect during the holiday season. She would make Daddy proud, even though he had died several years earlier.

She also had a meeting in town with the board of her main charity, Help for the Homeless. It was the time of year when they had a lot of activity. She’d been the chairperson of the board ever since her husband passed away. To her, the charity’s chairmanship was now part of the family heritage, and it would be passed on to the next generation just like any other financial interest. Who knows, or cares, if the other members agreed. She’d find a way to make it happen—she always did.

The door chime rang. “Ms. Taylor, Juan is here to meet with you.” The butler guided the estate gardener into the conservatory.

***

Clutching his wide-brimmed straw hat and feeling out of place inside the mansion, Juan thought it was odd to be reintroduced to a lady who he saw in passing two to three times every week. He believed this annual pre-Christmas summit was her way of making sure he knew he had certain obligations to fulfill. He knew if he didn’t complete the work they agreed upon, to the quality she expected, their fifteen-year business relationship would come to an abrupt end.

She rarely showed emotion in front of her staff, but everyone knew there was a storm brewing under her pompous façade. As she approached, he could see the cumulus clouds building.

***

Victoria felt the tremble of the vibrating cell phone in her pants pocket and dismissed Juan, telling him she’d inspect his work the next day.

“Good morning. Yes, this is Victoria,” she said into the phone, gradually shutting the twelve-foot, double, library doors, imported from Spain.

“Victoria, Chuck
Hagard
here. How are you doing this holiday season?”

“Chuck, let’s please dismiss the holiday tidings. I assume you’re aware of the major story in the newspaper? I need to understand more on this situation. Do we have any interest in this story? I need to know everything is proceeding as planned.”

Victoria considered Chuck a grizzly veteran of the business world, a savvy business partner, and occasionally a tough adversary.

“I think we might have a cause for concern here. I’m working a number of angles on my end. I know you want more details. They’re not completely clear to me, but let my team and me gather the information and get back to you in the next couple of days. I’m sure we have agreement on one item—we will figure out a way to get around this situation and still allow our plan to be executed,” he said.

“Execution might not be the best choice of words right now.”

“We’ve developed contacts in certain agencies, which could be to our advantage to maneuver around this situation and still proceed with our plans uninterrupted,” Chuck said.

Chuck avoided using the term “murder,” as had Victoria. The stakes in this deal were enormous. And despite the events of the last few days, the reward still outweighed the risk.

“Baby, you have the only front-row seat. Just sit down and relax.” Marisa gently pressed my shoulders until I plopped into my leather chair. “I want your opinion on something. I’ll be back in a sec.”

There was a provocative sound to her voice, so I didn’t budge. She disappeared around the corner. Thirty seconds later, her head peeked around the wall leading to our bedroom. “Just remember, your opinion will be taken under consideration, but this isn’t a democracy. Or shall I say, ‘this isn’t the 1950s.’” She playfully stuck out her tongue at me.

I heard music from the bedroom. I smiled. The tune sounded familiar…yep, it was a big-band song from Michael
Buble
. That set an upbeat mood.

“Here is the first of three choices. You have to remember. No touching the merchandise—we have a purpose here.” I could hear the lightheartedness in her voice.

One leg slowly extended beyond the wall. Her foot had a bright-red high heel on it. She strutted around the corner like she was on the cat walk.

Her voice carried confidence. “In our first selection of the night, Marisa twinkles more than a Christmas tree. A sexy, but classy black party dress, this number sports a V-neck scoop. It will be the talk of the town because of the amazing array of silver sparkles covering the entire dress.”

I heard words, but it was difficult to focus, my eyes ogling every curve and sliver of skin. The way the dress wrapped around her backside made her booty look absolutely delicious.

“Can we stop now? I like this one,” I said with two hands on the chair, ready to spring into action, still not understanding the intent of the exercise.

“Two more dresses,” she said walking away.

“For what?”

“For the Taylor Christmas party of course, silly.” She winked at me just before disappearing around the corner.

As she reentered the living room in dress number two, I began chuckling at her ability to provide commentary while walking the runway like an accomplished Paris model.

“Once again in her designer red heels, our model is now wearing a one-shoulder black party dress. Complimented by a gray sash, this combination makes a bold statement during party season.”

I marveled at the top part of the dress, showing off her left shoulder, the perfect muscle tone. She made the turn, gave her hip one last pop, and disappeared again.

She saved the best for the end. For option number three, she’d added a lot of mousse to her hair, creating a Keri Russell-type of look. The dress, once again, was black and had a modest dip in the front to show off her substantial cleavage. When she moved closer to me, she shook her hips both ways, and then turned for the walk-away. That’s when I saw her entire back revealed, right down to the top of her derriere.

Marisa had me in the palm of her hand.

She dimmed the lights and told me to close my eyes. The music then segued to one of
Buble’s
classic love ballads, changing the mood. We had danced to this song the night we decided to move in together. The rhythm of my heart changed from panting dog to lover.

“Okay, open your eyes.”

She walked slowly, deliberately toward me, wearing the red heels, and nothing more.

“This is your lucky day, Michael Doyle.” She sat on my lap. “We’re going to see if you’re up to the test.”

I picked her up, and she curled her heels and legs around my waist as we kissed. I stumbled, and we fell onto the couch six feet away. She stripped off my clothes, then guided us to the bedroom, where we made love for the next sixty minutes. In the end, she yelled out my name and collapsed on my chest.

She had touched my heart and I had touched hers.

“I’m not sure what I did to deserve this. I don’t think I missed any important anniversary dates, have I?”

“Michael, one day we might have a real anniversary date for you to remember, not some first date, or first time we had sex.” Her chin rested on my chest. “But seeing you lying on that stretcher this week, hearing your story, I gained perspective. I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me we’re made for each other. We have trust in each other, and we’re in love. I just wanted you to know how I felt.”

I fell asleep with visions of red heels dancing in my head.