Killer Greed

By SM Kahan

Hunter Harden, an LAPD investigator, refuses to be defeated by a severe injury and a career setback. His latest assignment appears insurmountable: a series of murders targeting charity CEOs, carried out with brutal precision and leaving no trace. The common thread? DonorScale, an innovative software employed

• Language: English
• Publisher: Captivate Press
• Release date: May 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869224071

SM Kahan

Steve Mark Kahan has a remarkable track record of propelling seven startup companies from their early stages to achieving the pinnacle of success - either going public or being acquired, collectively generating a staggering $5 billion in shareholder value. This seasoned entrepreneur is not only a seasoned business leader but also a dynamic communicator, having graced the Tedx stage twice. As a Wall Street Journal bestselling author, Steven has penned influential works such as "High Velocity Digital Marketing" and "Be a Startup Superstar." Beyond the boardroom and the stage, Steve is captivating a new audience with a series of murder mystery thrillers. Residing in picturesque Sugar Land, Texas, Steven finds joy in the simple pleasures of life, surrounded by the love of his wife, children, and grandchildren.

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Killer Greed

Killer Greed

S.M. Kahan

CAPTIVATE PRESS

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, email Captivate Press at [e-mail]

ISBN 979-8-8692-2406-4

Copyright © 2024 S.M.Kahan. All Rights Reserved. Publishing by Captivate Press, by arrangement with Ingram Content Group One Ingram Blvd., La Vergne, Tennessee 37086, US. Distributions by arrangement with Ingram Content Group One Ingram Blvd., La Vergne, Tennessee 37086, US.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Printed in the U.S.A

First Captivate Press Printing , April 2024

KILLER GREED

S.M. Kahan

Will you dare turn the page?

Read the entire Hunter Harden Series

By SM Kahan

Killer Dreams

Killer  Greed

Killer Collusion

Killer Novel

Prologue

Fatal Descent

Bobby James could smell the stink of his own fear.

Perched on the plush leather seat in the boardroom, he fanned the air around him with cupped hands, frantically trying to waft it away. He was sweating despite the frigid temperature of the air-conditioning and the double layer of deodorant he’d sprayed on in the men’s room an hour ago.

At least he’d worn a dark shirt to work today. That gave him a crumb of comfort. It had been a lucky choice because he hadn’t known the bombshell was going to land until he’d arrived. He arrived at work ten minutes early, breezing into the building in an optimistic frame of mind. With his three-month trial period up and his internship due for review, he’d been hopeful that he might be offered a full-time position as a junior graphic designer at Carson Holdings, especially seeing he’d worked on a couple of high-level projects with the CEO’s management team.

Even if he wasn’t hired, he’d been looking forward to the generous internship completion bonus the company had offered.

Those hopes had been shattered when the managers’ report had landed in his inbox this morning. Now, he faced an exit interview with the CEO himself.

A noise from the window made him jump and he spun around in his chair to see that the window blinds were whirring down, covering the enormous plate glass window where the crimson rays of the setting sun were spilling into the sea. The activation of the blinds meant that Mr. Carson was on the way in, and Bobby’s heart accelerated.

Sitting bolt upright in his chair, he raised his hands, smoothing them frantically down over his curly chestnut hair, tugging at his collar. If he could make a good impression now, then perhaps, despite that report, everything would be okay.

Footsteps were approaching. The door swung open and there he was.

Mr. Carson himself, the CEO and founder of Carson Holdings. The owner of this plush, beachfront office block in Santa Monica, and a lot more. A man with a career path that Bobby had aspired to emulate one day before deciding that ambition was unreachable. Mr. Carson had it all. Wealth, fame, power. And despite all of that, he was a humble philanthropist, someone who had poured his time and energy into growing the nonprofit, Food for Future, which was one of Carson Holdings’ biggest companies.

He stood for a moment in the doorway, watching Bobby scramble to his feet. He was formally dressed, of course, as he always was. He wore a dove gray suit that was a shade darker than his sleek silver hair, and it was immaculately cut in a flattering way that the designer part of Bobby’s brain could see concealed a myriad of potential flaws. Did Mr. Carson have a paunch hidden under that sleek jacket? Are love handles lurking at the sides? In that suit, nobody would ever know.

Bobby’s suit jacket had been bought from the thrift store. Made from heavy wool, it weighed about five pounds and was hanging off the back of his chair. His tie was in place, though, feeling like a yellow noose around his neck.

Bobby James, Mr. Carson said, and Bobby swallowed hard.

Good afternoon, sir, he replied, his voice wobbling.

He could see that Mr. Carson had a copy of that report in his hand as he walked around to the director’s chair at the head of the polished oak table and sat down. He took his silver laptop and phone out of his briefcase and assembled them on the table while Bobby squirmed.

Then he picked up the document and Bobby dug his nails into his palms as he watched his boss, or rather, his ex-boss, page through it.

He thought again of the terrible moment when he’d opened it this morning. Up until then, he’d been so proud of the job he’d done at Food for Future. He’d redesigned and modernized the company logo, updated the stationery, revamped the website layout, and created some stylish new lines of apparel to be sold or given away to ticket holders at golf days and outdoor events.

Arriving early and working late most evenings, he’d strived his best to add value. Now, the words in that report seared themselves into his mind all over again. He knew what Mr. Carson was reading. He wasn’t reading that Bobby had been a hard worker or that he’d designed a fabulous new golf shirt range.

He was reading that Bobby had acted irresponsibly, instructing outside suppliers to go ahead with only a verbal commitment and no written authorization and that the expense was considered unjustified by the nonprofit’s board of directors. He was reading that the changes to the website design had been implemented without proper consultation and that this had caused costly IT glitches to occur.

It was like he’d been caught up in an avalanche. He’d never known, never dreamed, this was going to happen.

Mr. Carson sighed. This is a pity, Bobby. It’s a real shame to read what I’m seeing here.

Bobby drew in a shaky breath. It was time to plead his case and he was going to do it. He needed to present his side and to explain, at least, why this debacle had happened.

Mr. Carson, I wasn’t aware of the need for authorization. I was acting on my initiative. I thought that was what I’d been briefed to do.

Of course, you didn’t know. I understand that, Bobby. If you had known, I am sure you would have done things differently. Mr. Carson was speaking in his usual kind manner, staring directly at him. Even with the hammer about to fall, he was showing respect to Bobby. That was the kind of leader he was.

However, remember what you were told on your first day? If you don’t know, it’s your responsibility to find out?

Bobby nodded, glancing down at the table, not able to look into those piercing, ice-blue eyes for longer than a moment.

You’re young and enthusiastic. You have a bright future ahead of you. And we at Carson Holdings have appreciated the time you’ve spent here. But Bobby, the mistakes you’ve made. Mr. Carson shook his head. We’re a charity. A charity! Any error that costs us money is not just stealing from the company. It’s stealing from the young kids, the single moms, the struggling elders, from every single person in America who doesn’t know where their next meal is coming from. You understand?

Defeat and humiliation were corroding him now. He bowed his head. He never cried. Never. But there was a strange watering sensation behind his eyes.

I want you to look at this as a learning experience. Take what you’ve gained from this and use it in your next job, he encouraged.

Thank you, Mr. Carson, he said. His mouth felt dry. He was an abject failure. How could he have thought he’d done a good job, that he’d be an asset? How wrong he’d been to dream of earning the internship bonus that would have rewarded him for all the unpaid effort he’d put in. All he’d been doing was stealing from hungry people’s mouths.

From his briefcase, Mr. Carson produced another thick document. This one looked like a legal agreement.

I’m going to need you to sign this, please. This confirms that we’ve parted ways and that your tenure here is complete. It also sets out your rights and responsibilities on leaving, in standard clauses, including our confidentiality agreement.

He slid it across the table. Then, he passed Bobby a heavy gold pen.

Bobby paged through the document, too bewildered to take in all the words, although a few phrases stuck. All the work The Intern has done here remains the intellectual property of The Organization in its entirety… The Intern will have no claim to any compensation, financial or otherwise, from The Organization… The Intern may not contact The Organization again for any reason… The Intern is not allowed to divulge any of the information that he has been exposed to during his time at The Organization… Any negative comments made about The Organization now or at any future time will be regarded as defamatory and a deliberate attempt to besmirch The Organization’s name, and a lawsuit will follow.

Hey! Bobby said. He couldn’t help it. Surely this isn’t fair. I mean, some of those designs were my own artwork and I might want to use them again.

Fair? Mr. Carson sounded astonished now. Bobby, irresponsibly misusing the funds of a nonprofit is unfair. This is a standard exit contract. My legal department compiled it and it’s been in use for years. If you have a problem with it, then take it up with them.

But I’m not allowed to! This contract says I can’t contact you again!

I’ll ask them to address that clause in the future. But for now, I have another meeting to attend, and I must go. I chose to meet with you myself because I wanted to wish you well personally, and to tell you that you have a promise for the future. Don’t make me regret my decision.

So he hadn’t even had a proper reply. Mr. Carson had just deflected his argument like it had slid off him. In any case, it wasn’t worth the fight. He’d lose. That, he already knew.

Emotions warred within Bobby as he initialed the pages and scribbled his signature at the end, the ink welling generously out of the expensive pen, thick and black on the pages. He did the same with the second copy, and then Mr. Carson countersigned and handed one to him. The other, he put into his briefcase.

Then, his ex-boss stood up, shook his hand, and left without another word.

Bobby couldn’t go anywhere for a while. His head was spinning. He sat there, staring at the contract, trying to process what had happened. He’d be job hunting now. Never again would he get an opportunity like this.

Damn it all!

He shouted out the words in the empty boardroom. Then, jumping to his feet, he grabbed the contract and tore it up, ripping the pages, tearing them apart, flinging the fragments down onto that immaculate table and the carpet below.

By the time he was done, the contract was in shreds, and he was breathing hard.

Well, I guess that was a disaster, he muttered.

He grabbed his jacket from off the back of the chair.

Time to go home. The only consolation he had was that at least his day couldn’t get any worse. He’d hit rock bottom, for sure. He’d been terminated, accused of misusing funds, forced to sign a restrictive contract, and humiliated in front of one of the state’s most powerful CEOs.

Bobby trudged out of the boardroom and took the elevator down to the first floor. The lobby was empty, the reception desk unmanned, the switchboard silent, the way it often had been when he’d left after working late.

He crossed the tiled floor of the now-empty space and pushed open the door to the basement.

The stairwell here was very dark. That was unusual. An overhead light must have failed. Blinking in the gloom, he wondered if he should activate his cellphone flashlight but decided against it. He couldn’t be bothered to root around in his backpack for it. And there was a motion sensor light down the bottom, near the exit door.

He hustled down the stairs, taking them fast, one hand lightly on the rail. Reached the landing and shimmied down the next row.

But as he reached the bottom, his legs were knocked from under him. He made a desperate grab for the railing, missed, and felt himself flying through the air.

He plummeted forward in the dark, landing with a thump on the heavy, soft object that had tripped him up.

He only had time to think: What the hell was that before the motion sensor light flicked on.

Then, Bobby screamed in horror.

He was face-to-face with Mr. Carson.

His ex-boss was lying on the stairs, sprawled face up, his eyes open and unseeing, his skull a bloody mess. Bobby’s hands were planted in the red, oozing mixture of blood and brains that had leaked out of the gashes in his skull.

In the five minutes that it had taken Bobby to leave the office, someone had murdered the CEO.

He’d thought his day couldn’t get any worse, but he’d been wrong.

This – this was rock bottom.

1

Urgent Meeting

Detective Hunter Harden received the message for the new case while driving back into town after a weekend vacation with his son.

Triple murder. Three high-level CEOs. Urgent meeting, 8 am.

The moment he read it on his phone, his blood pressure increased. Automatically, he checked the time on the car clock. Monday morning traffic was now flooding the incoming roads and they were currently at a standstill.

Would he be on time? He checked the routes on his GPS, wondering if there was a quicker way. There might be but not now. For now, he was stuck on this road.

That camping trip was fun, Dad, Matthew said conversationally from his booster seat in the back of the car, unaware of the crisis that had just landed. I want to go into the wild more often!

You do? Despite the urgency of the incoming message, he grinned. Being with Matthew always made him happy.

He glanced into the rearview mirror, looking into Matthew’s icy blue eyes that were an identical color to his own. His boy had also inherited Hunter’s deep red hair which tended to wave rebelliously when it grew too long. It was usually too long, just as Hunter’s was.

He loved that his seven-year-old boy thought of the well-appointed campsite where they’d spent the long weekend as being ‘the wild’. That was hilarious. He adored him for his innocence, his quirky wisdom, his sense of fun, and the little jokes he made, which was something Hunter hoped he’d learned from his dad. He was a happy kid and whip-smart, too. A mix of love and pride boiled in Hunter’s chest every time he thought about him.

There were roughly ten minutes of vacation time left before he dropped Matthew off, and he resolved to make the most of every one of them. He’d worry about getting to the police station when that was done.

Which part of the weekend did you like the best? he asked.

Well, I enjoyed putting up the tent, Matthew said. That was a serious tent, Dad.

Yeah. Might have been a bit over-specified for our needs, Hunter admitted wryly. He’d bought a four-man family cabin, wanting enough space for his rangy, six-foot frame, and to be able to play board games inside. He’d invested in bedding and pillows, backpacks, chairs, a fishing rod, camping lights, a camping stove, and for this trip, had purchased about twenty different cans of food.

In hindsight, buying a can opener would also have been a good idea.

I liked swimming in the rock pools too, Matthew said. And the fishing. He paused thoughtfully. You think next time, we might catch a fish?

I think we need more practice, Hunter admitted. I’m not sure fishing’s a family talent.

And I loved the games in the evening. Those were great! And the stories.

They were awesome, Hunter agreed. Playing the simple card and board games had made memories he’d treasure forever. How they’d laughed.

As for stories – well, Hunter was hoping that his son would grow up loving books and reading, fairytales and poetry, just as he had done.

He’d felt happy looking down at his son’s sleeping face after the bedtime stories and the fun poetry they’d made up.

Hunter had been relieved that he himself had managed to sleep through the night without any nightmares, for the first time since his last case. That dark and disturbing case had left him with a lingering sense of threat.

Now, Hunter was finally starting to be reassured that falling asleep was safe and that his dreams would not have deadly consequences.

Am I staying with you tonight, Dad? Matthew asked as Hunter eased the car forward.

Nope. Tonight, you’re with Mom, Hunter said. She’s been missing you. And you can show her all the photos we took.

He and his wife Amy had divorced a few months ago after years of an increasingly troubled marriage. The entire process had been acrimonious and hellish, and it had felt like the end of the world. But to Hunter’s massive relief, things with Amy had been on more of an even keel since the divorce was finalized. Joint custody, which she’d opposed at first, but he’d fought hard for, was working – so far, at least.

Checking his map again, Hunter indicated left, swerving off the main road, hoping that the longer, more roundabout route to Amy’s house would end up being faster. At least he was moving now, instead of standing immobile with a view of a hundred taillights ahead.

His mind veered back to that disturbing message. Three murders? What had been happening while he’d been out there in tranquility with nothing more to worry about than casting a fishing line or opening a can of food with a pocketknife? He needed to get into the meeting and find out.

Was this a serial, and if so, why weren’t the FBI already on board?

The traffic was lighter this way, to his relief. He turned down another side road and then he was in his wife’s ‘hood, a quiet suburb near Studio City, which had once belonged to both of them and was now Amy’s alone.

Hunter parked outside the gate and opened the trunk, lifting out Matthew’s backpack and his hiking boots, knotted together by their laces, and the small bag containing the treasures of their trip – a perfect leaf, pressed in a book; a smooth, flat pebble with a wavy marble pattern; a black feather dotted with white flecks.

He stepped back, carefully taking the weight on his injured right leg which was aching after the drive. His injury was the reason they hadn’t done any mountain climbing on the camping trip but only walking. He’d hoped that the vacation would strengthen his leg, which had undergone a complex operation after the bone had been shattered by a bullet during a takedown a few weeks ago.

Walking slowly to disguise his limp – something he was used to doing now – he headed to the front door.

He saw Amy standing there and watching him. She was slim and blond, with a cool, timeless beauty that didn’t age. She looked the same now at thirty-two as she had at twenty when they’d first met. It had been an unusual meeting – on the floor, face down, during a convenience store robbery. That had sparked Hunter’s career decision. From wanting to become a teacher or professor which had seemed the logical choice for a Master´s student in English literature, he’d become a cop. That moment on the floor, that sense of helplessness to act in the face of evil had been what changed his mind.

He and Amy had kept in contact after that experience and had started dating a year later. Marriage followed. He’d dreamed of their life together, but reality had proved to be brutally different, and now the only thing they had in common was Matthew.

Her face broke into a delighted smile as she saw her son racing toward her.

‘Hello, hero!" she called out, opening her arms for a hug.

Hunter had hoped to drop his boy off and run because of the pressure of time and the urgent meeting that was waiting. But it was also important – very – to keep things cordial with his ex.

Reluctantly, he walked up the path behind his son.

Morning. As Matthew headed inside, Amy turned to him.

Nice vacation?

He loved it, Hunter said.

Amy was dressed for the day in a turquoise business suit with a black laptop bag slung over her shoulder. She held down a corporate job at a production rental company a few miles from home. When they’d divorced, Hunter had gotten an apartment close by even though the rental was more than he’d wanted to spend.

Listen, Amy said in a different voice when Matthew was in the house and out of earshot. I need to talk to you about something.

About what? Hunter’s worry flared instantly. Seven years of marriage had taught him to expect bad news from her present tone of voice.

You got time now? She checked her watch and Hunter grimaced.

I don’t. I’m heading into an urgent meeting. He didn’t tell Amy about the case. She had never liked hearing the details of his police work.

Well, this is important, she said, the steel in her tone showing her displeasure that he wasn’t putting her needs first. You need to make the time. And soon.

I’ll call you. Hunter’s stress was now spiking. I might not have time to meet today. We can speak on the phone, right?

I guess we can but it’s not ideal. This is serious, Hunter.

I promise. It will be today. I’ll call you as soon as I get a gap.

If I have a gap at the same time, I’ll take your call. Both of us have jobs, you know. Looking annoyed, she turned away and marched back into the house, calling out to Matthew.

Hunter let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. Something was bothering Amy, for sure. And whatever it was, he had a strong suspicion it was going to be bad news for him. There was no time to go after her and try to smooth things over. Not when the clock was ticking down to this meeting.

He headed back to his car in a hurried limp now that there was nobody around to watch. He climbed inside and hit the gas, taking the shortcut to the LAPD police station that he knew so well he could drive blindfold.

Veering into the parking lot, he forced himself to put the worries about Amy out of his mind. He needed to go into this meeting with full focus and sharp attention.

As Amy had said with that irritable note in her voice, We both have jobs.

What she didn’t know was that Hunter’s job was hanging in the balance after his recent career debacle. He’d disobeyed orders when heading into the takedown with a violent criminal. He’d believed it was worth the danger because a woman’s life had been at risk.

But there had been a backlash. Not only had he ended up with a shattered leg, but he’d also faced insubordination charges after the incident. He’d won the case on appeal, but Hunter knew that the taint still lingered. For a while, everything he handled was going to be closely scrutinized.

These homicide cases seemed like hot potatoes, and they had landed at exactly the wrong time. Feeling anxious to learn more about them, he headed inside.

2

Fatal Triad

Nodding a quick greeting to a couple of his colleagues, Hunter rushed into the LAPD police station’s main office as quickly as he could, picking up the sounds of shouting voices, ringing phones, and crackling radios.