Whitewash

by Alex Kava

  Colin stood by the window, leaning against the wall and watching the street below. Natalie watched him as she listened to the rants and ramblings of the person on the phone. She knew the folder tucked under Colin’s arm was the reason he would dare to bother her without an appointment. He was the only one, other than her boss, who got away with a drop-by. This was only the second time he had used the privilege, which meant it wasn’t good news. What the hell more could go wrong?

  Finally the man on the phone took a breath and Natalie jumped in. “We are well aware of the concern, but I assure you every detail will be handled.”

  “Of course, that is all we ask.”

  They exchanged goodbyes and Natalie hung up, letting out an exasperated sigh.

  “Paranoid bastards,” Natalie said more to herself than to Colin, who stood at the other end of her office. When he raised an eyebrow with interest, she offered, “Another oil sheikh worried about security for landing his private jet.”

  “They’re used to having their own airstrips,” he said.

  “They’re used to having their own way.” Her hands went to her hips. “If it was my party they wouldn’t even be invited.”

  That drew a smile. Satisfied, she was ready to get down to business though she wasn’t quite ready to get to that folder tucked under his arm.

  “By the way, how are we situated for all these flights coming in?” she asked as she pointed to one of the chairs in front of her desk. She liked being the only one standing in her office while she talked. At five foot three with what she liked to call a generous figure, she knew she didn’t have the physical presence to back up her authority.

  “I’m told Tyndall Air Force Base is ready and more than capable.” He sat down, crossed his legs, made himself comfortable or at least pretended to. She knew him well enough to see the tension on his face that he thought he could disguise—the tightness around his mouth, the squint of tired eyes. “Secret Service, of course, is in charge of background checks,” he continued, “along with lining up limos and routes for the VIPs. Homeland Security has its own group, including the Coast Guard taking care of security in, around and on the estate.”

  “I don’t know why we didn’t have it here in Washington.” Natalie shook her head. “I don’t like what I don’t know and I don’t know the Gulf Coast of Florida.”

  “Believe it or not, from a security point of view, a private estate is less work than a major city. When Bush 43 held his energy summit in Crawford, everybody laughed, but it was probably the smoothest summit I’ve seen.”

  “You were around back then?”

  He nodded. Maybe someday they’d get around to exchanging stories about their past political lives.

  “Then you won’t mind being there for this one,” she said, picking up and waving an envelope, this one bulging. “I’ll need you to be my eyes and ears down there.”

  “You don’t want to take a quick trip to sunny Florida?”

  “Sweetie, this hair doesn’t do Florida.” She put the envelope back on her desk and crossed her arms over her chest. “Besides, something tells me I’ll be busy here with whatever that problem is you have in your hands.”

  He let out a sigh and tapped the folder against his leg, shifting in his seat. He handed it to her as he said, “We weren’t expecting anything like this.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.” She searched his eyes, trying to discern how big a problem “this” was. She left the folder dangling in the air for a second or two. Then she snatched and opened it in one swoop like ripping off a Band-Aid to reduce the sting.

  At first she didn’t recognize what she was looking at. The form resembled something ancient, poorly printed and filled in with blue ballpoint ink. She could even see the indents in the paper from the pressure of the pen. Her eyes caught phrases: “throat slashed,” “multiple wounds.” That’s when she realized she was holding a police report—the original report, not a copy—for the murder of Zachary Kensor. Stapled to the form was a printout with a set of fingerprints. She recognized this document. All federal employees were required to have their fingerprints on file with the Justice Department. Somewhere there was an exact document with a set of hers.

  “So they did find some fingerprints at the crime scene?” she asked, her eyes not able to leave the space that identified the owner. If she dared blink, would it be possible this might all be some bad dream? She needed to sit down. She leaned against the desk instead.

  “On the inside cover of the room-service menu,” Colin said, but there was no satisfaction in his voice that he had been right. “Everything else was wiped clean, but it’s easy to miss, to forget the inside pages.”

  “And there’s no mistake as to who they belong to?” She wasn’t sure why she even asked. Wishful thinking, perhaps. She tried to correct it before he answered. “I’m just asking how solid is the source they’re matching these up to?” She already knew the answer.

  “Justice Department records.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” She eased herself around the desk and dropped into her leather chair. She didn’t let up on the viselike grip she had on the folder and its contents. She met his eyes and she could see he was thinking the same thing. That it was as much a curse as it was a blessing. “How long are they willing to sit on this?”

  “I can probably get us a day or two.”

  The energy summit started in three days.

  “Forty-eight hours,” she told him. “All I need is forty-eight hours.”

  38

  Tallahassee, Florida

  Sabrina would never have pegged William Sidel for a man who bit his fingernails. Maybe a little dirt behind them, but certainly not chewed to the quick. She found herself focusing on his hands; the huge knuckles and pudgy fingers dwarfed two rings, a wedding band and a gaudy pinkie ring. He used his hands as extensions of his words, emphasizing a point with a chop here and drawing out a sentence with a slide and an open palm. He was telling them that Dwight Lansik had resigned, “just up and left” without notice or an explanation.

  “But I don’t want y’all to worry about it,” he told them with a charming southern drawl. Sabrina had noticed the other day that Sidel brought out that same drawl when the investor from Omaha started questioning the plant’s use of energy to operate.

  “I like the job y’all have been doing. I know I have a great team in place,” he continued. “And I’ll already tell you that’s why I’m not bringing in somebody from the outside to replace Dr. Lansik.”

  Sabrina stole a glance at Pasha, who was nodding his agreement, but Anna Copello’s smile was tight-lipped. She kept her arms folded over her chest. When Sabrina glanced at O’Hearn he caught her eye and raised his brows just enough as if to say, Can you believe this guy?

  “I want you to know I’m not going to rush into making my decision,” Sidel was saying and Sabrina watched his hands come together, fingers intertwined as he rested them just below his paunch. “You’re all more than qualified to lead this team.”

  Sidel sidetracked to one of his stories and Sabrina’s mind went back to Saturday—Lansik’s car still in the parking lot, his duffel bag stashed in his office closet. She wondered when he had given his resignation. No one had seen him all day Friday and yet Sidel had known ahead of time that Lansik wouldn’t be available to lead the tour. Perhaps the resignation happened Thursday, and Sidel had simply given Lansik the weekend to come in and clear out his things.

  That seemed unlikely. In most corporate settings if a director resigned or was fired without notice he or she would be asked to pack up that day. And then, oftentimes, escorted off the premises by security. Something wasn’t right about all of this.

  She waited until Sidel finished and left the lab, then she caught up with him halfway down the hall so she wouldn’t have to ask her questions in front of the others.

  “Mr. Sidel,” she called out and hurried up alongside him.

  “Now, Dr. Galloway, I’m sure you’re
not expecting any favoritism in exchange for saving my hide on Friday.”

  He forced a laugh while he looked around the hallway. Sabrina saw Anna Copello jerk back inside the door to the lab. Sabrina wanted to tell him to keep his voice down and at the same time she wanted to bellow out that she wasn’t interested in taking Lansik’s position

  Instead, she kept her voice hushed when she said, “I noticed something on the tour.” She decided to choose her words carefully. “It looked to me like the valve to Reactor #5 may have accidentally been opened.”

  His otherwise animated hands went into his trouser pockets. “Well, I can tell you without a doubt that we’re not set up yet to use Reactor #5.”

  She waited, then realized that was it. That was his explanation. She almost blurted out that she had been inside and the reactor was, in fact, running at full throttle…except for the flushing tank. She caught herself. He had selected his words just as carefully as she had. Instead of answering whether or not the valve was open, he gave her the same line O’Hearn had used. Sabrina decided to try again. She stood her ground, looking up at him.

  “It sounded like there might be material flowing into the reactor.”

  “I don’t know what you thought you heard, Dr. Galloway. Hell, it’s so loud down there it sounds like everything’s echoing off the walls.”

  Was it possible William Sidel had gotten so caught up wooing investors and lobbying members of Congress that he didn’t have a clue whether his processing plant was using four reactors or five?

  Sabrina knew she heard pinging in the pipes. She knew the consistency and density of the input feedstock and the output. She had been instrumental in devising the current formula that separated bones from the chicken guts and blood by a unit weight before the mixture even entered the depressurization stage. The bones were forced into a tank ready to use for fertilizer products, while the guts and blood were pushed through to the next reactor. Had William Sidel told her they were processing something, anything, through Reactor #5 she would have sooner believed him. She had hoped for a simple, rational answer. Instead, his evasiveness made her stomach twist into knots.

  He was lying.

  The doubt must have shown on her face. Suddenly Sidel smiled at her, his boyish face relaxed. His hands came out of his pockets.

  “Tell you what, Dr. Galloway, why don’t I have our plant manager, Ernie Walker, meet you later today over at Reactor #5. Why don’t we say around four. Maybe the two of you can check it out together. Hell, I can’t afford to have something else throw us off track.”

  39

  Washington, D.C.

  Jason walked into Old Ebbitt’s Grill and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lights of the restaurant. The senator’s secretary had called earlier and told Jason that Senator Allen would meet him there.

  It had been a crazy morning. Jason had a dozen details to take care of for the energy summit’s reception. Somehow he had missed a phone call from an ABC producer who wanted to schedule an interview with the senator for Good Morning America. He had been on the phone with the Florida catering company and his secretary hadn’t interrupted.

  He shook his head while he waited for the host to guide him to the senator’s table. He still couldn’t believe her. He wasn’t good at firing people, but missing a stint at GMA would give him enough reason. He left her with strict instructions on how to get hold of him. As he followed the host he flipped open his cell phone just to double-check that it was on.

  So with things as crazy as they were he probably should have asked Senator Allen’s secretary for more information when she called. Yeah, he should have asked, then he wouldn’t have felt his stomach slide down to his well-shined shoes when he got his first glimpse of Senator Allen already seated with Senator Shirley Malone and Lindy.

  Maybe because he had firings on his mind his first thought was that both he and Lindy would be fired. Of course, it seemed a bit crazy to do it in public, but Jason remembered his cousin, Renee, using her wedding-rehearsal dinner to announce that her fiancé, Greg, had banged her maid of honor the weekend before.

  Senator Allen looked relieved. “Jason, this is Senator Shirley Malone.”

  Jason reached across the table to shake her hand and nodded. He remembered and liked the feel of her hand, a real handshake, not too soft and wimpy, but not a ball-breaker, either.

  “I’ve heard nothing but good things,” she said as their eyes met, and Jason thought he recognized a knowing smile while she neither acknowledged nor denied they’d met before.

  She wore a copper-colored suit that brought out the highlights in her hair, and a scarf of oranges and browns that complemented her eyes. She had friendly, gentle eyes. Eyes, he found himself thinking, that couldn’t lie.

  “And I’m sure you know her chief of staff, Lindy Matthews,” Senator Allen said, snapping Jason back to attention and back to paranoia.

  Was Senator Allen saying he knew Jason and Lindy knew each other or simply that they should probably know each other? Jason tried to read Lindy. She, of course, looked beautiful. But her limp handshake and refusal to meet Jason’s eyes only drove him to wonder if she had told. Maybe he was the only one getting fired.

  The senator ordered a Chivas on the rocks. Another signal that usually put Jason on alert, because Jason always had to monitor the senator’s words whenever he drank. One cocktail at lunch shouldn’t matter. Quickly Jason realized the senator had an agenda. And the cocktail was liquid bravery.

  Before the entrées arrived, Senator Allen began throwing down the gauntlet.

  “Shirley, I know you’re looking out for Indiana, same way I’m looking out for Florida.” Senator Allen talked while he picked up his flatware piece by piece and moved it a quarter of an inch. Jason had seen him do this at other lunches and it reminded Jason of a chess player lining up his pawns or a general setting up his front line.

  “When hurricanes hit Florida two years in a row and we needed some bridges repaired and replaced, it was quite helpful that we could include expert construction companies all the way from Indiana.”

  Jason wanted to cringe. This would not have been his choice of opening and now he wondered if the Chivas had not been the senator’s first drink of the day. If Jason remembered correctly, the contracts to those expert construction companies came after Senator Malone agreed to vote in favor of a controversial gun-control bill that Senator Allen had cosponsored. She hadn’t asked to be rewarded, but even so, Jason remembered Senator Allen calling the multimillion-dollar earmark to those Indiana companies as “insurance.”

  No, as Jason watched the color rise in Senator Malone’s cheeks, he knew this was not a good start.

  “Unfortunately we have lots of experience in Indiana rebuilding after disastrous tornadoes,” she said in a tone that set Jason at ease. The lady could take care of herself.

  “Of course you do. And if we play our cards right,” the senator continued as if he had just gotten the thank-you he expected, “there’s more than enough for both our states in this $140-million energy contract.”

  “Ethanol has a proven record in delivering,” Senator Malone countered between delicate bites of her salad. “I’m not convinced EchoEnergy can make that claim.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Ethanol can deliver.” Senator Allen nodded and smiled. “But only with an awful lot of help from government subsidies.”

  Jason glanced at Lindy. From where he sat he could see her hand in her lap, twisting her cloth napkin, but her eyes were on her senator.

  Jason was wrong. This had nothing to do with their illicit one-night stand. For one thing, Senator Allen would never be this cocky about a military contract if he knew his chief of staff had boinked Senator Malone’s chief girl. Or maybe that was exactly why he was so cocky.

  “It’s not up to me, John,” Senator Malone was saying.

  “We’ll cancel each other out if we go up against each other,” Senator Allen said, moving the salt and pepper shakers a quarter inch from their
original position. And then his fingers retreated to his now-empty glass of Chivas. “That happens and you know who wins.”

  He lowered his voice and leaned forward to add, “Those fucking Arabs win, that’s who.”

  Jason shifted in his chair, staring at the remnants of his own salad. He should feel relieved this lunch had nothing to do with him. That’s when the waiter chose to bring their entrées and everyone sat back. Intermission, Jason thought, avoiding Lindy’s eyes and especially Senator Malone’s. He heard Senator Allen praise the young waiter, but Jason kept his eyes on the sirloin tips and roasted potatoes on the plate in front of him. It looked delicious, but Jason had absolutely no appetite.

  40

  Tallahassee, Florida

  “That’s impossible,” Leon barked into the cell phone, pulling it away from his ear and smacking the piece of crap phone against the wall as if that might help him get a different answer. He had to stop lifting these flashy, razor-thin, worthless pieces of technocrap.

  He pressed the phone against his ear just in time to hear the voice on the other end say, “…today. Take care of it.”

  Leon slammed the phone shut. He wanted to put his fist through a wall. Instead, he looked around the restaurant, trying to find his waitress to wave her down. This was fucking incredible. He pulled out a miniature pack of tissues and his stubby, clumsy fingers tugged one out so he could wipe the sweat from his upper lip. He took out a second and dragged it all the way from his forehead, over his widow’s peak to the back of his head.

  Jesus H. Christ! How the hell could she have made it out? He knew he’d given her car a good shove. He’d seen it take flight over the ditch. And he’d seen the fireball. No way she survived that. Maybe he should have stuck around, but the angle that the car took off, no way she was getting out.