But she did not say this.
“They didn’t say, Nina. I think it’s just very obvious that they all trust you. Maybe more than they trust anybody else right now. So. If you could make this meeting, I think it would make them feel a lot better. To tell the truth, there’s still so much of this that we don’t understand.”
She thought about telling Jackson about the key, but for some reason thought better of it.
‘Don’t tell the police.’
Jackson wasn’t the police, but as an officer of the court—she knew this because of Frank’s career as an attorney—he would be bound to turn over to them any evidence he knew of.
Hector had entrusted her with this object.
Her and her alone.
For now, anyway.
“What do we know, Jackson?”
He shrugged:
“The Ramirez family all say that Hector was at home until about one in the morning, when he left. We don’t know where he was going. About four hours later, he was found with his lungs full of filthy sewage water and his blood level full of alcohol.”
“He didn’t drink, Jackson.”
“He did last night.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“No. But the state police are in town now, and anything that gives a hint about what happened, they’re going to dig up. In the meantime, though…”
“The meeting. Yes, of course, I’ll be there, you know that.”
“Yes. I did. Thank you, Nina.”
And, so saying, he turned and descended the stairs.
Although she arrived five minutes early, the major players in the drama which was to unfold were already seated in a small board room.
Leather chairs, solid mahogany table.
Edie Towler was there, looking beige and professional as always. Jackson, in his charcoal gray suit.
Olivia Ramirez, impeccably attired in black, seated at the table with a cup of coffee in front of her and Hector, in a black suit, at her side.
Then there was the attorney representing Louisiana Petroleum.
He was the perfect ‘lawyer for the rich.’
Such a highly paid perfection in his dress, tie, smile, handshake, confidence, bearing…
He was above business executives. Nina had seen a lot of business executives and this man was superior.
He was higher and more impressive than senators or governors too.
And probably higher than presidents themselves, though Nina had seen none of them.
No, this man was like, was like…
A football coach.
That’s it. He was like a football coach. Not the good ole boy football coaches that roamed the high school hallways of Bay St. Lucy, but real football coaches. ‘Major College’ football coaches, that became TV analysts after retirement. Five million dollar a year football coaches, the people that every male human being in The United States of America wanted to become.
And so she labeled him:
OIL COACH
Everyone was seated.
Peremptory introductions. Sad tones. The radiant smiles of OIL COACH darkened only slightly by the occasion. Senora Ramirez taking deep breaths and remaining astonishingly composed.
And finally OIL COACH takes the floor:
“Senora Ramirez, I as well as everyone connected to Louisiana Petroleum, want to take this opportunity to express our grief. We had come to know your son very well. Edgar was a part of our family. He was, as you know, a brilliant young man….”
More deep breaths from Senora Ramirez, whose shoulders could be seen shaking.
Hector leaned toward her and said, softly:
“Señora Ramirez, yo y mi socio, así como todos los relacionados al petróleo de Mississippi, quieren aprovechar esta oportunidad para expresar nuestro dolor. Nosotros habíamos llegado muy bien a su hijo. Edgar era una parte de nuestra familia. Era, como usted sabe, un joven brillante...”
Ms. Ramirez smiled as much as she was able to, and nodded.
The narrative was carried on by OIL COACH #2.
“We have only just learned of the tragic events that have befallen your son. We have no idea what could have happened to him. We have, on the other hand, every confidence that the city and state authorities will locate the person or persons responsible for what happened to Edgar, and that they will see that you and your family receive justice.
He nodded to Hector, who leaned to his mother’s right again and translated.
Nods all around.
Everyone understands.
This is a coach, Nina found herself mentally commenting, of a top ten program.
Louisiana Petroleum is probably due to play in the Rose Bowl this year.
The speech continued.
“Finding these culprits, as desirable as it might be, is not something that we at Louisiana Petroleum can accomplish. Nor can we bring Edgar back to you, his family, or to this, his community. We can do something, though. Something that might help at least to a small degree. We have done some research, Ms. Ramirez, and found that Edgar is the sole provider for your family. His paychecks have gone directly to you, and have been a major means of your support. His loss must be devastating for you financially as well as emotionally. When we lose members of our families to tragic circumstances, whether these circumstances occur in the line of work or not, we do not forget. We are a caring family.”
Upon saying these words, he opened a briefcase, while Hector carried forward the translation.
When he had finished:
“Ms. Ramirez, our company would like to present your family with a check for thirty thousand dollars.”
Olivia Ramirez said nothing.
“This is the base amount of money that Edgar would have earned in the twelve-month period from now until next year. It is, in short, a year’s pay for him. We hope it will help to ease to some degree your pain and suffering.”
Hector translated; Olivia Ramirez nodded.
More papers came from the briefcase.
“We will need you to sign these release documents. They exempt the company from wrong doing. Hopefully, this will not be a problem, since Edgar was clearly not hurt while doing his duties. They also give over to Louisiana Petroleum the permission—your permission as his mother and closest of kin—to enter his room, collect his valuables, and send them ashore to you.”
Jackson Bennett intervened.
“May I see those for a second?”
“Of course.”
The documents were passed around the table.
Jackson took some minutes to read them, then he nodded:
“These seem to be in order. From my experience they’re fairly standard release forms.”
He slid them back.
One of the coaches offered Ms. Ramirez a ball point pen.
She looked first at the daughter, who nodded.
She looked then at Nina.
Teacher,
You always know what to do.
Then she and Hector spoke for a time in Spanish.
And, finally, she herself spoke.
To the entire room.
And in perfect English.
“I am very appreciative of your offer. But one thing is very important to me.”
The attorney sitting across the table nodded:
“Yes, Senora Ramirez. Just tell me.”
“The things in my boy’s room. For them to be touched by strangers…”
She shook her head.
The attorney:
“How should we handle this?”
Ms. Ramirez:
“In my culture it is usually done…”
Silence.
She composed herself, then continued:
“I would like for someone in my family to do this thing.”
Jackson Bennett to his fellow attorney:
“Would that be possible?”
A nod.
“I’ll speak to the people on The Aquatica. In general, though, I don’t think it would be a problem. Groups
of civilians, visitors, are flown out to the rig quite often. So, yes, if it means that much to Senora Ramirez, I’m sure it can be done.”
Jackson:
“Senora Ramirez, who would you like to go?”
“My son. My son, Hector.”
“All right.”
“And…”
She looked at Nina.
So did Hector, and Nina could hear the young man’s solemn voice from the night before.
‘No one gets over on Ms. Bannister.’
But were these people trying to ‘get over?’
The computer.
The computer in the locker.
For which she alone now held the key.
‘Don’t give it to the police. The oil men…they own the police, I think.’;
Now Senora Ramirez:
“Ms. Bannister. Nina. My teacher. Our friend. You are in our family now. Would you go? Would you go out upon this place—and bring my son’s things back to me?”
Nina nodded:
“Of course. Of course I will.”
Olivia Ramirez nodded slowly and then said:
“Vaya con Dios.”
And the matter was decided.
CHAPTER SIX: FOR THOSE IN PERIL ON THE SEA
The ocean stretched below them, massive, silver-tinged, heaving quietly in great sub-aquatic swells that seemed to have a life of their own, and that, if one were knowledgeable enough about such matters, probably did.
“For some reason,” Nina was saying, “I’m more nervous about this than I thought.”
She glanced at the late morning sun, now mirrored in the carpet of water that rolled blank and featureless before them to the east.
Then she looked to her right, at the figure seated beside her.
Sandy Cousins. Strawberry blonde hair, bright blue eyes.
Sandy Cousins, public relations executive for Louisiana Petroleum.
Sandy Cousins, who had met both Nina and Hector at Bay St. Lucy’s regional airport, and helped them get outfitted in the bright orange jump suits everyone on the helicopter was wearing.
The helicopter which, she learned, made only two runs a day. A morning run to bring people out to the rig; and an evening run to bring back people who had completed their two week shift.
“What are you nervous about, Nina?”
Nina looked in front of her and behind her.
No one seemed to be listening.
Perhaps that was because the various crew members being ferried out to Aquatica were lost in reading something or other, or were immersed in listening to something or other, thick black headphones sprouting like tumors from their ears.
Which was the case with Hector, seated one row in front of her.
“I don’t know. I just have an image of what it must be like to be on one of those things.”
“You mean an offshore rig?”
“Yeah.”
The sea rolled on beneath her as she turned away from Sandy, who sat just to her right, and back to the window, which was reflecting the sun-glitter to her left.
It was as though the two of them were on a tour bus, so elegant was this sky cruiser of a helicopter––row after row of beige leather seats, all built as though meant for private clubs overlooking Central Park or Chicago’s business district.
They looked to be meant for beefy men smoking cigars, except that no tobacco was allowed past debarkation point.
Or alcohol.
Or cell phones.
Too much danger of explosions.
Explosions?
Perhaps that was why she felt a little nervous.
“So what is this image you have of life on an offshore rig?”
“Narrow corridors too tight for two people to walk abreast; the men all shirtless, sweating; tiny bunks built into the side of the hull; that constant noise of ‘tapokita tapokita,’ pressure gauges everywhere; that ‘ping’ of the radar…”
“Nina, that’s a submarine.”
“What?”
“You’re thinking about a submarine.”
“Oh.”
“Actually, a World War I submarine.”
“I guess that’s what I am thinking about.”
“This is a state of the art oil rig we’re going to, just finished two years ago. It cost seven billion dollars and eighteen million man hours to construct.”
“No depth charges, then?”
“We don’t go under the water; we float on top of the water.”
“I’ve just seen all those movies.”
“Those are war movies. We aren’t at war with anybody.”
“So it’s safe out there?”
Sandy adjusted her glasses.
“It’s perfectly safe, except that it could blow up at any minute like a hydrogen bomb.”
“Thank you. I feel all better now.”
“Actually, now that I think about it, the explosion would probably be bigger than a hydrogen bomb. You have to bear in mind that the rig is sitting on a field of ten billion cubic meters of natural gas, which huge tubes are sucking out of cracks in coal buried a half mile beneath the bottom of the ocean floor, which itself is more than a mile beneath the surface of the water. The field also holds about eighty million barrels of crude oil, which is being brought up with the gas, so that the two things can be separated onboard the rig.”
Sandy nodded, thoughtfully, then said:
“Yeah. That would make quite an explosion.”
“But it’s all worth it, right?”
“Of course it’s worth it, Nina! Aquatica pipes to the shore fifteen million standard cubics of natural gas a day, and that is worth about twenty-six million dollars. Just the gas, never mind the oil. In one day. From this one rig. And bear in mind, the thing that should comfort you, Nina, is that if anything does go wrong…”
“Yes?”
“You won’t know a thing about it.”
Sandy leaned closer, the vinyl in her inflatable jump suit hissing across the seat cover while, with every quick movement, she came to resemble more and more what all of them on the helicopter resembled: huge living Halloween pumpkins with rip cords for instant inflation.
“Don’t worry about it, Nina. We’re going to take very good care of both you and Hector. Everybody on Aquatica thought so much of Edgar. We’re all just devastated. We were also told that you were the one who found the body.”
“Yes.”
“My God, what that must have been like.”
Nina said nothing in reply.
“Do they know any more about how his death might have occurred?”
“Not really. Officially he drowned. There was a high level of alcohol in his bloodstream.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
And there the subject came to rest. It was an awkward feeling for Nina, who had a strong urge to confide in this bright, cheerful young woman.
It was the same urge she had felt to confide in Jackson Bennett, or in Moon Rivard.
But something prevented her.
‘You don’t get over on Ms. Bannister…’
How ridiculous! She wasn’t a high school principal any more, and, if she was, these were not school children she was dealing with.
This was a matter of life and death.
But Hector trusted her. Only her.
Edgar had been frightened.
He had called someone.
He had left home in the early morning hours…going where?
And Nina now had a small silver key in her jump suit pocket.
A key to Edgar’s locker. Where, probably, they would find his computer.
And on that computer?
Maybe nothing.
And yet. And yet…
The previous evening in her bungalow, sitting behind the glowing screen of her own computer, she had Googled “Disastrous Oil Spills,” and she could remember reading the words of one environmentalist, describing the causes of one particularly bad accident:
“They
were cutting corners. No one person could do it; a number of people had to be involved. But there were warning signs. The continual influx of hydrocarbons, the missed checks on well elasticity, the venting directly onto the rig—none of these things would have been disastrous, by themselves, But taken together—the main point is, when a spill happens, or when a disaster happens, it’s almost always caused by greed. By someone neglecting to do the third backup check after the first two have been questionable. It’s caused by a lack of redundancy. The little bit of extra care that should be taken, not being taken.”
Was that kind of thing happening on Aquatica? And had Edgar discovered it?
The huge mega bus that posed for a helicopter turned westward slightly, and began to descend. She could feel her ears pop.
Then they leveled out, and the sea stretched on, endlessly, as before.
She looked at her watch––ten- thirty.
She was silent for a time.
They both were silent for a time.
After a while, she sat back in her seat, and put on the headphones connected to the console in front of her.
There was a selection of music.
She punched the button labeled “Songs of the Sea.”
The music began, punctuated, as their conversation had been, by the throbbing of the propellers.
She heard a vocal rendition of “The Tides of Old Bay Fundy.”
She heard “The Lighthouse at St. Mary’s.”
And then another.
And then another.
And then, to their right, just on the horizon, loomed the rig.
It was a carnival of a thing, one spire jutting up into the sky, and a labyrinth of gigantic tubes, like psychedelic worms, crawling all around it.
“There it is,” Sandy whispered. “There’s Aquatica.”
They overflew it once, then circled, came back low and hovered.
Red ants that were safety-suited workers scrambled below.
The helicopter stopped dead still in the sky and began to ease straight down, as though they were in an elevator.
There was the pad, a glaring yellow circle.
And there, on either corner of this huge square rectangle, were giant white tubes that she was later to learn supported them in the water.
The helicopter was now perhaps a hundred feet from the surface.
The last song on the band came on.
She looked down at the people waving at them, and then outward at the ocean surrounding them.
Oil Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 4) Page 5