Fatal Greed (13 page)

“You’re wearing
that
to run out to get the newspaper in this weather?” Marisa was questioning my intelligence as I stood in the foyer wearing boxers and my sleep T-shirt. “Besides, I’m the only one allowed to see your sausage jangling around.”

Not one to shy away from a challenge, I opened the front door and took off. In seconds, a biting north wind pierced my skin. I picked up the frost-covered paper and jogged back. Halfway to the door, I heard Marisa shout new instructions.

“Grab the mail. We forgot to pick it up yesterday.”

I couldn’t feel my face, but I didn’t waste time with explanations. I ran out to the mailbox, gathered up the mail, and scooted back inside.

Marisa was waiting for me in the living room with a cup of hot coffee and blanket. She giggled the whole time she wrapped me into a mummy. I shivered from head to toe as I nestled next to her on the couch.

“I want to make sure my baby’s balls don’t turn blue and fall off.” She roared with laughter at her own sense of humor. My frozen lips attempted to smile, then I sipped the steamy coffee.

Because my numb hands had lost their dexterity, Marisa unfolded the newspaper across our laps. She started on the back page and worked her way forward. Always on the lookout for sales, Marisa said the back page of the front section typically provided the best advertisements. It was one of her most annoying habits, but I could deal with it in small quantities.

“I see nothing inside.” Marisa finally flipped to the front page.

“Just more
frickin
’ photos of kids singing Christmas carols and fluff stories on all the charity work in the area,” I said.

“Here’s an actual news story, down here.” Marisa said.

Headline:
Man Mugged at Warehouse

We read the small article. Raymond Williams had been robbed and beaten outside of an abandoned warehouse on the west side of town. He was surveying the warehouse property as part of his duties on the zoning commission. It described his injuries as serious, but not life threatening.

“Doesn’t he own a plumbing and electrical business?” Marisa asked.

I nodded and read the one quote from Mr. Williams out loud.

“I didn’t see anybody. They jumped me from behind,”
Williams said.

The story said Williams believed there were at least two assailants, but the police said finding the men without a description would be difficult.

“Our only hope is if the muggers use one of Mr. Williams’ credit cards,” said the police spokesperson, Wendy Tuttle.

I huffed and shook my head, agitated by the police department’s muted response to the mugging. “They report crimes like a communications firm.”

“Baby, they go to work every day, just like we do, and I’m sure they put officers on cases like this to follow up and do some digging. We’re not going to know every move they make on every case.” She had a point, but the article didn’t sit right.

The lack of transparency into
Reinaldo’s
arrest and Tiffany’s murder still irritated me. Maybe the police thought their work was complete now that they had a suspect in custody. But what evidence did they have? Had Reinaldo been formally charged? Had his defense attorney spoken with authorities to determine his game plan? I was asking myself questions the media should be asking the police, the district attorney, the defense attorney, the coroner’s office, and every other stakeholder.

I wadded up the paper and tossed it into the fireplace.

Marisa tried to lighten the mood. “Can you make us a nice fire tonight?”

I nodded, then hurried to take a quick, warm shower. Before work, I was headed to visit the publisher of the
Times Herald
.

“Try not to be too much of a pest.” She helped me put on my coat.

“You know I can be charming when I need to be,” I said.

“You’re getting pretty worked up by all of this. I understand why, but try not to let all of this get to you, okay? I don’t want you to have a stress heart attack before you turn thirty-five.”

I practiced deep-breathing exercises on my way across town.

Arthur
Spanarkel’s
office wasn’t in the same building as the
Times Herald
staff and printing presses. I’m sure Karina, when in normal operating mode as the editor, felt relieved not to have someone looking over her shoulder.

I walked into Arthur’s corner office and gazed at the overwhelming, eclectic décor. Rich, expressive paintings by Russell and meticulously detailed sculptures by Remington dominated one area. Vibrant mosaics saturated two walls. I assumed most were from south of the border. Framed newspapers highlighting the biggest events and stories in our area covered the wall behind his desk. As the assistant formally presented me to Arthur, I focused on one framed edition featuring a large picture of Frank Sinatra, which included his recognizable autograph. The framed newspaper had its own spotlight.

 
“Good morning, Mr. Doyle.” The publisher’s handshake was steady but not overbearing.

Arthur appeared to be in his late sixties, wore small, round, metal-rimmed glasses, and a brown tweed suit, including a vest and bow tie. Tall and lean, he either worked out or inherited some good DNA.

“Just call me Michael, please.”

“Yes sir, Michael. Feel free to call me Arthur, although my wife sometimes calls me Artie. But, yes, call me Arthur,” he said.

While Arthur came across as nice and affable, he showed signs of being a rambler.

I voiced my concern for Karina’s mental health, and the fact that her connection to the top news event in the region put her in a difficult position. I asked if he could think of a way to take the pressure off Karina, yet maintain the integrity of the murder coverage.

“Michael, my son—
er
, my apologies…I seem to call every young man ‘son.’ Anyway, I’ve been semi-retired for about a year now, which is why I put Karina in charge. She’s one of the best we’ve had in that role.”

“But, sir…Arthur— ”

“Just because I’m semiretired doesn’t mean I’m oblivious. I returned yesterday from a four-week hiatus to Puerto Vallarta. My wife and I were looking for a vacation home. You know, a place to go to avoid weather like this.”

“I’m sure you and your wife deserve to retire in style after such a long and successful career.” I was eager to build a connection. “It’s a great goal to have when you’ve been married for so long.”

“Actually, son…I mean Michael…I’ve got you on that one.” He flashed a boyish smile. “My wife is eighteen years my junior, and we’ve only been married a little over four years.”

My face turned red enough to have led Santa’s sleigh.

“I had a pretty nasty divorce about five years ago,” he said. “Life is good now, at least until I got back from Puerto Vallarta and saw what’s been happening here at home.” Arthur’s expression turned grim, and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m just now getting caught up on what has taken place. I’ve tried to reach Karina several times, but she’s not answering her cell phone. I understand you’re actually associated with this story?”

“To a degree. I found Tiffany Chambers’ carved-up body stuffed in a bag. And Karina’s husband was arrested for Tiffany’s murder—I work with him, saw him dragged out in handcuffs. Reinaldo is someone I know and care about.” I looked down at the plush rug. “It’s a big mess.”

I asked Arthur about the
Times Herald
’s coverage of the event.

“Ashamed and embarrassed.” He put his hands behind his head and stared off into space, as if he was speaking more to himself than me.

He shouted to his assistant. “Stacy, Stacy. Keep trying to reach Karina. Also, I want to set up a meeting as quickly as possible with Stu what’s-his-name.”

I recalled Marisa telling me to stay cool and composed. “You mean Stu Owens?”

Given what I had seen from Stu, I wasn’t sure he had the aggressive personality to pull the coverage out of the ditch, but at this point seeing Arthur take charge was a start.

“Stu is our city beat writer. Covers a lot of territory and I’ve read his stories. Quality work.”

“I’ve met him.” My voice had lost some energy, and I released a deep breath.

“Michael, I can see this subject is very personal for you.”

“I just know a girl was murdered. I saw the gruesome remains. And our friends are mixed up in it. Reinaldo is behind bars; Karina is barely able to function. And the kids…Brent and little Ricky. It’s just all so sad, and I’m not in a position to do anything about it.”

My eyes shifted from the corner of the room back to Arthur, who appeared to be analyzing my comment, or was perhaps still recalling his swanky vacation to Puerto Vallarta. Who knows?

Thirty seconds must have passed, then Arthur rested his arms on the expansive padded desk.

“There’s really no other option. I have only one path I can take on this one.”

“What’s that?” I popped a knuckle.

“I’m going to recues Karina from all responsibility of this story. If she needs to take additional time off, I’ll put the assistant editor in charge of everything else. For now, all coverage for this story goes through me. I’ll start with Stu what’s-his-name, and we’ll see how quickly we can bring back respectability to this newspaper.”

Arthur paused, then removed his glasses and tapped his mouth, apparently still in thought. He swiveled his chair to the right and stared at one of the many framed pictures on the far wall.

Amidst the many other trophies, I spotted a black-and-white framed portrait of someone who shared the same oval face and also wore a bow tie. I pointed my finger toward the wall.

“Is that…?”

“Yes, my dear Grandfather Chester.” Arthur’s chest swelled with pride and his face beamed with energy. “This paper has been in my family for seventy-five years. I must uphold the heritage and foundation handed down to me by my grandfather.”

Finally, some action. Mission accomplished.

I climbed into my Accord and took off for work, giving my mind opportunity to drift. For the first time in weeks, my judgment felt right. After sensing the call from Tiffany’s spirit, I’d finally found someone who would put some effort into investigating the events that killed her. I envisioned Tiffany smiling at me, thinking my visit with Arthur was the first step toward freeing her soul.

I wondered if Tiffany’s killer was sitting behind bars. I didn’t want to believe it, which is why I felt like the search for the truth continued. Thankfully, I hadn’t forced myself to choose sides, Tiffany or Reinaldo.

A brush of color caught my eye on the right side of the road as I passed the front of J&W. I slowed the car and stared at the front of our building. My heart rate quickened. You would have thought I’d seen Marisa kissing another guy. Instead, I was looking at a gold temporary sign flapping in the wind. It read: J&W, a proud subsidiary of PHC.

D-day had arrived. The deal had finally closed, and I wondered how swiftly internal changes would take place.

I walked through the back door. Ruby red and gold hung from the rafters on streamers and balloons, and a sea of confetti was scattered on the floor. Business cards with the new colors and company logo beside my name were on my desk. Nice gesture, but the positive vibe didn’t resonate.

Paula’s office door opened. She came out wearing a forced smile. Poor lady. God knows, she’s had to put up with a lot of shit in the last few months. She was followed by two Indian men in dark suits with striped ties. The first appeared to be the head of PHC, the one who’d spoken when the deal was first announced. I picked up my colorful business cards and rubbed my thumb across the ink, hoping it might rub off.

“Michael, I’m not sure you’ve had the pleasure of meeting the PHC management team.” Paula introduced me to
Turug
Patel, chairman of PHC. Paula appeared pale. Either she was feeling sickly or
Turug
had taken his hands off her throat just before they left her office.

“You’re the first to hear this after Paula. In a memo I’ll send out later from my hotel, I will announce that
Kamal
here will be leading the transition team and will be co-general manager with Paula,”
Turug
said with a wide smile, gesturing to the man next to him.

Did he want me to congratulate him for officially demoralizing and demoting my boss? I wasn’t born yesterday. It was obvious they were giving this
Kamal
fellow a “co” title to make it appear his authority was no greater than Paula’s. I guess I had to play the game for now, as much as I truly wanted to tell this guy to cram it up his ass.

“Well,
Kamal
, it appears I’ll be having dreams of red and gold tonight.”

“Michael, I’ve heard a great deal about you and all the good things you bring to J&W,”
Kamal
said. “I look forward to listening and learning from you.”

This guy’s bonus had to be tied to how much of an ass-kisser he could be in front of his boss, trying to make me feel like I’d be a valuable part of the team going forward. I wasn’t holding my breath.

I returned to my office and tried to focus on completing some work. My eyes intermittently looked up, studying the expressions of my coworkers as Paula and the legion of doom made their rounds through the office.

I’d been concentrating on some paperwork on my desk for about fifteen minutes when Mrs. Ireland rushed into my office.

“Paula just collapsed in the
breakroom
!” Her face was contorted from concern.

I jumped out of my chair and ran to the break area. I didn’t see Paula, only a crowd of people. I pushed my way to the epicenter. Jennifer crouched next to Paula, who was resting awkwardly on one elbow.

“My God, Paula, what happened to you?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” She appeared dazed, unable to focus.

“Does anyone know what just happened?” I yelled to the crowd.

Turug
stepped forward from the onlookers.

“She said she felt tired and needed a drink, so she brought us back here to the
breakroom
. I turned my back to speak to my colleague, then I heard a crash. I’m concerned she might have hit her head on the table.” If he was so concerned then why wasn’t he down on the floor looking after her?

My hand stuck to the nearby table, the carpet was wet, and hair above her left ear was matted. It appeared a clear soda had spilled all over the floor and Paula.

“Paula, do you hurt? Is your head sore?” I asked.

She rubbed her head and lay back down.

“Mrs. Ireland, call an ambulance, then call her husband, Greg.”

“I’m on it.”

“Does anyone have a—” Before I could finish the sentence,
Turug
had taken off his four-figure cashmere coat, folded it nicely, and handed it to me.

“Thank you,
Turug
.” I placed the coat under Paula’s head.

She’d become more coherent by the time paramedics arrived and, for a moment, tried to convince them she could drive herself home. Then Greg showed up, and she decided it was best to give in and go to the hospital.

 
“Just what everyone needs, me being carted off to the hospital on the day the deal closes,” Paula said.

The anxiety and pressure of the last few months must have caught up to her.

“Michael, I’m going to need you in the office helping me out, at least part-time between Christmas and New Year’s,” she said as Greg listened close by. “I should be able to give you more information next week.”

“No problem, I’m not going anywhere.”

I was on the verge of becoming an insider. But I realized the only privilege it might provide was learning the termination date for me and my colleagues.