Ionshaker (Part I) by Felix Timothy (phonics story books .txt) 📖

believe me. It’s the truth.”
The gangster raised the gun and placed the cold barrel against Rendell’s forehead.
“For the last time, where is Trey Woodley?”
“I don’t know,” Rendell trembled. “It’s the truth.”
“Liar,” the man said, cocking the gun.
Vrooom! For a split second, they were both distracted by a revving car at the gate. Then the thug gave Rendell a wry smile.

* * *

At the gate, Trey honked his dark-green Ford Explorer and waited for the automated gate open. When that didn’t work, he switched off the engine and got out of the car to speak into the intercom. He waved at the surveillance camera and shouted into the intercom but still nothing happened.

Finally he decided to do it the old fashion way – he climbed over the gate and ran. He just needed to borrow some cash from Rendell or better yet have Rendell go get some money from a cash machine and loan him.

After reaching the front steps, he paused - something was off. The door was slightly open, and yet, despite the ruckus he’d caused at the gate, nobody had greeted him.
He pressed the doorbell and waited. There was no answer. He rang the doorbell again, then glanced at his watch – 9:56. No time to waste.
Gently, he pushed the door.

Rendell was on the couch with a bullet hole in the head. Trey shook his head in unbelief. He’d been arguing with Rendell less than an hour ago.

He slowly drew closer to the couch, with his right hand stretched out to touch Rendell, but he froze just inches away. He knew better than to leave fingerprints. He had to get out of there.

He dashed through the front door and jumped over the gate, the same way he’d gotten into the compound. He got into his car, peeled out and sped away from the gate.

But it was too late.

In the opposite direction, Rene saw the dark-green Ford leaving. She wondered what Trey was doing there at that time of day. Rene got out of her red Mercedes, swiped a key card, and drove up to the front steps.

When she saw the open door she ran up the steps and into the house. She froze at the sight of the scene in front of her. When her mind started working again, her wobbly legs barely carried her to her husband’s corpse, where she collapsed into hysterical shrieks. “Rendy, Rendell, Rendell baby...”

Through her grief she held on to one thought: she knew who did it, and he’d pay dearly.


20


At 10:15am, the female FBI agent was seated on the comfy Italian sofa inside the shrink’s office, paying her another visit. Again she was impressed by Jordin’s office grandeur as her eyes lingered on a potted Swedish Ivy atop the mantel, then a series of Bronze sculptures of horses, then the gold colored drapery, before being she was interrupted by Jordin.
“So what’s up Nicole; second visit in less than a week?” She asked with a light smile after Nicole took a seat.
“I came to ask you a couple of additional questions.”
“About Brooke?”
She phrased it more like a statement than a question.
“No.”
“It’s not about Brooke?” Jordin tilted her head in surprise.
“No, it’s about you.”
“About me!”
The psychiatrist was caught off guard.
“Yeah.”
“What about me would interest you Nicole?” She asked leaning back in her chair.
“Your friends.”
“My friends? What are you talking about?” She asked cautiously, the smile fading quickly from her face.
“I’m particularly interested in the friend who helped you spruce up this place. If I remember correctly, you mentioned a friend. I wanna know who that friend is.”
“And what has that got to do with anything?”
Slowly, Nicole rose from the cozy couch, leisurely walked behind Jordin’s seat then answered, “It has got to do with Brooke’s murder.”
“I fail to see the connection,” the shrink said coldly.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I’ve got many friends.”
“But I’ve pinpointed the one I’m interested in – the financier.”
“I no longer want to have this conversation. I suggest you leave my office,” the doctor said beginning to lose her poise, and that had been Nicole’s game plan; to get on her nerves until she cracked. In an agitated state, she was bound to blurt out thoughtlessly, and in those randomly thrown about words, Nicole would pick up on a name, a place, a lead.
“I’ve got news for you - I’m not leaving this office until you give me something,” Nicole said firmly.
“I said we’re done here. If you don’t leave now...”
“You’re gonna call your lawyer? And what is he going to do, huh, what do you expect he’ll do? But you know what? Go ahead, call him. As long as you’re aware that as soon as you lift that phone, I’ll be speed dialing my buddy from the press and by midday today, you’ll be news Jordin, you’ll be a celebrity.”
Jordin rotated in her chair slowly to face Nicole. Nicole had found Jordin’s Achilles’ heel and she would play the blackmail angle until she got a name.
“Are you threatening me?” She asked sternly.
“Not at all, we’re just having a girly conversation,” Nicole said with a smirk.
“And I’ve told you, I don’t feel like talking anymore.”
“Oh, so you’re okay with me calling the press guy then,” Nicole challenged.
“And tell them what, that I killed Brooke?”
“No, not at all, I don’t have any evidence of that…yet.”
“So what, then?”
“Oh! So you still wanna chat?”
“Get out of my office, you have nothing on me, you’re just wasting my time and I have a ton of patients to see.”
“Similar to your former patient - Brooke?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Jordin asked in a loud voice.
“Why do you keep saying that when we’re exactly on the same page, Jordin?”
“And which page is that?”
Nicole took out her cell phone, pressed some buttons and placed it on the desk. Soon Jordin heard her own voice: “Feds have started asking questions about Brooke Woodley… I told them nothing.”
After the recording stopped, Nicole said softly, “Your intercom is faulty. You should have someone come over and fix it.”
“What are you talking about?” Jordin asked warily.
“You see, yesterday when we were talking, apparently it was on and your secretary listened to our conversation. Better yet, when you made this call she recorded it on the intercom then replayed and recorded it on her phone and…”
“Okay okay, I get the point. What do you want?” Jordin interjected harshly with a scared reddened face. Things were so out of control.
“My guess is the person you called immediately I left, is your friend and I…”
Quickly, Jordin cued Nicole to stop talking, grabbed a pen and a paper on the desk and wrote: “Can’t talk here - bugs. Tree garden 8pm.”


21
“Brettos!” Shirley called out; Brett was at Jack’s desk.
“I asked you to stop calling me that. You know my name.”
“I’ll stop when you stop calling Nicole, Nicky. What’s your deal with her anyway? When are you asking her out…?”
He gave her a look that silenced her immediately and walked over to her desk. “What is it?”
“Someone has just called saying he saw someone resembling Trey Woodley a while ago…”
“Where?” Brett asked quickly.
“Somewhere along Santa Monica.”
“He’s trying to leave the city. We don’t have much time.”
“There’s been a shooting!” Jack yelled out suddenly.
“We’ll get to that later,” Brett said with disinterest.
“Even if it’s Rendell Hernandez?”
“Trey’s attorney?” Brett’s eyes lit up as he turned around quickly.
“Uh-hmm.”
“Where?”
“At his house.”
“Was Trey there?”
“We don’t know, the police just arrived.”
“You two follow up on Trey. Call me as soon as you find his location,” Brett said hurrying to the elevator.

* * *
“I know who did it,” Rene had said as soon as the police showed up. “Trey Woodley shot my husband.”
But the officers wanted to give Rene “some time to calm down.” But on the other hand, she couldn’t believe their laxity and disinterest in investigating her husband’s murder with the urgency she desired. The officers weren’t even asking her questions anymore, even though she was certain of Trey’s culpability.
Therefore, she excused herself, made her way into the kitchen and exited the house through rear door. Then, she walked past LAPD officers scrutinizing the manicured lawns, the patio, the door handle and the doorbell, and headed to the gate where journalists and reporters were eagerly seeking a statement.
“Mrs. Rendell, do you know who shot your husband?” Becky Moore the stubborn and nosy reporter was the first to shoot.
“Trey Woodley,” she answered with certainty.
“That’s the same person wanted for the hospital kidnapping, correct? What makes you suspect him?”
“Trey was here this morning and from my bedroom window I saw him beat up my husband at this very gate.”
“Then what happened?” A male reporter shouted from the back of the crowd.
“People started gathering around, so Trey stopped, got into his car and left,” she lied to beef up the story. But hey, no matter what it took, right?
“So he came back later to kill him?” asked a lady from L.A Bulletin.
“Yes. I saw him drive away fast after killing Rendy.”
“You were here when it happened?” It was the same lady from L.A Bulletin.
“I’d returned to the house to pick up a file, that’s when I saw him speed away. When I got to the house, my husband was…” her voice trailed off.
“What about motive?” It was Becky Moore.
“My husband cremated Trey’s wife without his knowledge...”
“Please excuse Mrs. Hernandez,” interrupted Trey, arriving at the gate. “As you can imagine, she’s under a lot of stress right now. Thank you.”
“Agent Dawson, Mrs. Hernandez claims Trey Woodley is the shooter. Do you concur?”
“Too early to tell, but if anyone sees Trey anywhere, please call the police or FBI immediately. Around him, people seem to get hurt.”


22

Trey was boxed inside Los Angeles, his face plastered on every news channel, a huge sum of reward money for his arrest was up for grabs, his finances constrained, his friends’ and family’s calls monitored and all possible places he’d run to were under surveillance.
With absolutely no chance of getting out, his fate was sealed and it was