He unlocked his phone, tapped Messages, and reread Lisa’s text of instructions for their meeting. He looked at his watch—9:15 in New Orleans and 8:15 in Denver. She and Josh would be…what? Watching sitcoms? Painting the baby’s room?
He ached to know.
11
Tuesday evening
Meshach ascended the metal stairs. The platform looked well maintained in the easily accessible areas. A fresh coat of paint covered the deck, handrails, and wellheads. Thick slabs of rust replaced the orange paint on the pylons, bracing and lower supports.
The wellhead topped with the production tree stood ten feet above the main deck. A white, navigation warning light mounted on the handrail and powered by a bank of batteries charged with solar panels clicked off and on. The incessant rhythm of that click was only slightly less irritating than the foghorn’s repeated, piercing blare. The faint hum of gas streamed through the piping, like water from a faucet, and spanned the gap between the horn’s blasts.
Meshach climbed the small work platform and checked the gauge on the wing valve—just shy of 1500psi.
“Helloooo!” Shanteel yelled from the boat tied to the landing below. “Are we going to stay here all day? Baby, drink a beer with me. You haven’t had one yet. I’m lonely.” The last statement sounded like a reminder.
Three hours earlier, she’d twisted the top off the first beer and hadn’t shut up since. Her mouth outran the boat at ninety-nine questions an hour. After the first thirty seconds and ten questions, he regretted he’d opted for the displeasure of her company.
Platforms dotted the ocean surface in every direction. Too many to number without losing count. He didn’t loathe the sight, as did some of the more ardent earth-first believers he knew. Those morons didn’t know their ideal world would take mankind back into the fifth century. Meshach liked his toys and the convenience of world travel at a moment’s notice.
“Darling, I mean it.” Her voice turned shrill and grated like fingernails on a chalkboard. Now, she was mad. He could see she was the foot-stomping type if she didn’t get her way.
He put his hand on the key to the boat in his pants pocket and felt better about leaving her alone.
She’d already proved valuable. Maybe he should keep her around, just in case.
“I want to go home!” she yelled.
Then again, maybe not.
Late afternoon cooled into a nice evening. The sunset painted lazy white clouds in shades of red and yellow. A slight breeze broke the ocean surface except for a few glassy patches in the distance that had to be slicks. Crude oil leaks weren’t always to blame. A passing vessel pumping out the bilge, lube oil leaking from propeller shaft seals, or the oil and biological debris from fish feeding on other fish caused the same effect.
He turned the handle of the wing valve on the production tree. One round, two rounds, three, four…the humming intensified as the gate inside of the valve-body made the opening smaller and smaller, pinching off the flow of gas. A final swoosh then silence. Seventeen turns to the right. The gauge pressure rose gradually and stabilized at twenty-eight fifty. Next to the wing valve, upstream, closest to the tree, was another barrier, a failsafe-closed valve with an actuator that used the well pressure and the natural gas produced to hold the gate in the open position. He punched the red emergency shutdown button.
There was a reason for the no smoking sign at the bottom of the stairs. The expulsion of gas as the valve closed was strong and substantial.
Several hours would pass before the pressure in the line dropped enough to be noticed, but someone, somewhere, at the production facility where the line he’d just closed ended, would soon wonder what happened to the line pressure. The field hand sent to investigate would see right away the failsafe had tripped, but he might take a while to think to check the manual valve. After all, who would close it?
Small thorns caused the most powerful elephant to limp. A man just had to know where to stick them.
He descended the work platform and made his way down the steps to the boat. Shanteel had finally consumed enough beer to douse her fire. She slept curled up on the seat, exposed to what sun remained. Passed out more likely. Despite her tan, she looked cooked. As he took off his shirt and put it on her, he wondered why he cared.
A ragdoll had more life.
An hour later, the camp house came into view. The fancy boat was still gone, but the other two sat in their slips.
A cop walked down the dock from the parking area behind the house Shanteel had appeared from that morning.
Meshach motored past the row of houses, like all was normal. He just hadn’t arrived at his intended destination. Another group of houses a mile distant gave the ploy credibility.
The cop paced the dock once before planting himself at the head of the narrow slip where he stood erect, arms behind his back, like a poster-boy for a police recruiting drive. The man looked everywhere but at Meshach. His cruiser sat next to the red Audi, Shanteel’s car. His lips and cheeks worked from grimace to pout and back. He did not look happy.
Meshach eased the throttle forward a touch. If Shanteel woke and sat up, she’d be visible. He’d bet money the cop was her ex-something, or even worse, her current something. In either case, past or present, he didn’t want to find out.
If the situation soured, the backpack held his way out. One in the chamber and six in the mag.
~*~
Meshach didn’t care if Shanteel didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to either. She woke up sore as a bad tooth, no doubt hung over and visibly sunburnt. Her supply of showgirl smiles had run out.
The night closed in thick when he turned the key and the running lights clicked off. The boat settled against the rubber bumpers. Water lapped. Voices drifted through the windows of the end house to the east, where the late-night bunch stayed. Sounded like they’d gotten a second wind. No lights shone from Shanteel’s house, a good sign. He couldn’t see anyone lurking, but lights from an occupied house made shadows darker, more distinct and easier to hide in.
She didn’t wait for him to moor the boat. She stepped ashore and padded off into the night. After a minute, a door slammed. One light came on—a bright one toward the back of the house. Then it dimmed as another door slammed.
He felt a sting in the middle of his back and another on his neck. Mosquitoes reminded him she’d run off with his shirt.
The cooler held plenty of food, as well as water and ice for another outing. Gas would be a problem soon. He should have filled up at the marina on the way in, but he didn’t want to be seen by the local population with a woman he knew nothing about and who was passed out in the boat. This proved to be a good call with the cop wandering around. Shanteel had to be a local, someone everyone knew, and from the way she acted, more than casually.
He grabbed his gear and stepped onto the dock. Halfway up the steps to his house he paused. The deck stood fifteen feet tall. The railing around it added another forty inches. He set down the bag and trotted back to the boat. In the forward compartment lay the anchor and tied to its crown, one hundred feet of good-quality, braided nylon rope. He untied the end attached to the bow of the boat, grabbed both, and trotted back to the east side of the house, in the deep shadow of the empty house next door.
The anchor weighed ten, maybe fifteen pounds and was made of galvanized-steel, eighteen inches wide and twenty-four long. He shook it. The thing clanked, but that could be fixed with cloth to dampen the metal-on-metal ring. He shook out several loops of rope, grabbed the end of the anchor and heaved, letting the loops of rope peel off his hand as the anchor and chain sailed over the handrail onto the deck above. Might as well have thrown the thing through the front window. It had the same effect when it landed on the glass tabletop. He cringed and looked into the night, but there was nothing to see. The buzz from the marsh quieted for a second then continued. After a pause, he pulled on the rope and dragged the anchor and the patio table frame across the wooden deck until the rope tugged t
ight. He pulled himself halfway up, hand over hand, then slid down. The rope was slick, but knots two feet apart would cure that.
Sometimes, the right tools lay at your fingertips.
12
Wednesday morning
Wes’s eyes opened; he sat up and looked at his watch. Seemed he could never sleep past five no matter where he was. Like his internal clock changed time zones when his cell phone did.
He took a hot shower, dressed, grabbed the USA Today off the carpet outside his door, and headed downstairs. As he passed the front desk, he took a copy of the Times-Picayune. A few early risers filed into the restaurant. Good Cajun coffee came only one way: strong and black. He got a cup and found a chair in a quiet corner where he could read the news, go over his notes again and check e-mails.
Cole hadn’t replied to his update. Nothing from Lisa. Should he send her an e-mail or a text? Texting was the more personal of the two. Afternoon would be a good time.
Monique had a new follower: Lamech. Maybe Sullivan wasn’t involved, but time would tell. Nothing new from Meshach.
Jessica entered the lobby from outside, striding across the marble floor in yellow running shoes with orange soles, wearing modest blue jogging pants and a matching pullover. She removed the band holding her ponytail, raked her fingers through the mop on her head, gathering a few errant dark strands, and bound the tresses back. She glanced his way and changed course.
He checked his watch, 6:20. Reminded him of the Marine Corps and five miles before breakfast. Much too early for a run in his book.
“Good morning.” She pulled out the opposite chair and plopped down. Small beads of sweat covered the smooth skin above her upper lip.
“Good morning. How was your run?”
“The humidity is horrible. There’s no place to jog except down the edge of the street. It’s nerve racking. Men honk. I need some water. I’ll be right back.” She stood and walked toward the front counter.
Her comment about honking came out with a little venom. She was gorgeous and some men had no respect. She returned with a bottle of water and sat. Before crossing her legs at the knees, she peeled off her bottoms, revealing blue shorts. She’d had knee surgery, an athlete’s injury.
“I won’t be wearing these again.” She held out the bottoms.
Wes said, “The humidity is normal for Louisiana. It’s only going to get worse. There’s a gym here.”
“I hate treadmills. Boring.” She drew out the r.
“Nice shoes.”
She straightened her leg and wiggled her foot. “I like them. They’re comfortable…and colorful. I assume the color scheme is what you were referring to.”
“It is.”
“I’ve been thinking. Oleos isn’t a person’s name. Our guy is trying to harm a man who owns an oil company. That’s the reference, oil.”
“Yes, ma’am, I believe you’re correct.”
“Hmm, I’d like to change the subject. I apologize for the way I acted last night. Tony and I talked. Again, I’m sorry. My track record with men is, well, I assumed when I shouldn’t have.”
“You never said a word.”
“Did I have to?” She took another drink, looked at him over the bottle and raised her eyebrows.
He shook his head.
She capped the bottle. “What’s his name?”
“Whose?”
“Your son-in-law’s.”
He had to think a second. Not about the name, but why she would ask. “Josh, Joshua Bell.”
She nodded.
He stared.
Coffee cups clinked on saucers. Silverware scraped plates. Muted greetings and conversations mixed with the rustle of newspapers. The wail of a distant siren followed someone through the front door.
Then, he got it—bluebonnets. Her eyes were as beautiful as the Texas countryside in the morning sun.
For someone who claimed to have a bad record with men, she had an easy way about her. No wasted motion. No fidgeting under his gaze. He realized she was comfortable without dialogue. As he was. He felt like he’d known her longer than two days.
He had to be crazy.
She stood and took a step to stand next to him, looked toward the door and let her hand rest on his forearm. “Wes, we don’t know each other, so I hope you don’t think I’m forward. Don’t chase your daughter. I pushed my dad away until it was too late. Don’t be my dad. He’s gone now. We were never friends.” She walked toward the elevator.
As one elevator door closed on Jessica, the other one opened, and Tony stepped out. He walked like he was on a mission—breakfast. He waved. “Morning.” Tony returned with a plate of melon. Then he doused every cube with pepper. He took a bite of honeydew. “Question. Is patience a name? Why the question mark? Why two of them?”
“Well, I knew a girl in high school named Patience. She was slow too, poor thing. You had to have patience with Patience. As for the question marks, who knows?”
“That’s funny. Have you seen Jess? She’s an early bird. Runs every morning.”
“We talked. You just missed her.”
Tony’s head bobbed. He was thinking. Puffed cheeks gave him away every time. He’d have been a terrible poker player. “Did she say anything?”
“Do me a favor. Don’t ask me a thousand questions when one will do.”
“I only asked one, but I’ll get to the point. Did she apologize?”
“Yes, but she didn’t elaborate. She mentioned her dad had passed away. They must not have had a relationship.”
Tony finished his bite then used the fork to point over his shoulder. “Dude, I told you her ex was a wife beater. I think her dad made the ex look like a pacifist.”
13
Wednesday, 11:00 AM
Teenagers didn’t own the patent on texting and driving. Wes had fought the urge to type one himself since leaving the rental car place down the street from the hotel. Jessica was right about not pushing himself on Lisa—as hard as it was for him to do. That’s why he’d let her alone the past five years. He’d already composed a polite message in his head. Something he might send an old friend after a chance meeting. He would wish his daughter the best, say it had been good to see her, and leave it at that. Besides, she might need some time to cool her heels since he’d opened his mouth and inadvertently blabbed about his covert queries into her life.
Downtown New Orleans came into view as Interstate 10 veered southward. The most obvious landmark, the Mercedes-Benz Dome, home of the football team, The Saints, dwarfed the buildings around it. In the far view, the gray steel hulk of the Crescent City Bridge spanned the Mississippi River, connecting New Orleans and the cities of Gretna and Belle Chasse.
He checked his watch, 11:05, then slid the arrow across the bottom of his phone with his thumb and opened Maps. The closest exit dumped out onto Poydras Street, next to the football stadium. He took it, drove up Poydras, and found a spot to park the Malibu on St. Charles Avenue, one block from the Federal District Courthouse.
Frank “Bubba” Broussard was the craziest, life-loving man Wes had ever met. He grew up on the bayou. After four years in the Corps, he took advantage of the G.I. Bill, sold crawfish on the side, and put himself through law school at LSU. He ran traps before and after classes, sorted and bagged them, and marketed the end product. Pure determination.
Bubba was a federal prosecutor and a friend. He counted on the man’s workaholic habits to have him planted behind his desk in his office. Wes wanted to surprise him.
He dialed Bubba’s office number. It rang twice. “Mr. Broussard’s office. This is Vanessa.”
He thought about keeping the tone formal, but the Mister-mister stuff might not get him in the door. “Could I speak to Bubba, please? This is Wes Hansen, an old associate who’d like to touch base.”
“One moment, Mr. Hansen.”
Elevator music had changed over the years. The tune in the background picked up Adele singing “Rolling in the Deep.” A good song. He had it on his phone.
The music stopped. “Who dat, Wes? Brother, where are you?”
His long-time friend made Wes smile. A crawfish-and-cornbread-fed Cajun through and through, and he sounded like it, but honest and sharp as a tack. “I’m sitting in a rental car two hundred yards from your office.”
“You’re kiddin’ me. What da world brought you down here, work or pleasure?”
“Cole Blackwell. I wanted to express my appreciation for the reference.”
“Well, what do you know ’bout dat. Cole asked me if I knew a PI. I told him I knew a sorry Marine who couldn’t find a starving dog on the streets of Bagdad using a side of beef for bait.” Bubba spoke eloquently when he had to, but around friends, he could slip into a bayou brogue of dis and dats.
“If you’re trying to get my goat, you’ll have to get up earlier in the morning. What’s your day look like? Have you got time for lunch?”
“Dern, wish you’d called earlier. Can’t do it, not this week. Got BP in my hair. After the Deepwater Horizon burned and sank, killing eleven men and making the mess the oil caused, dat means big problems, not British Petroleum. How long are you going to be here?”
There was a loaded question. He hoped for Cole and his daughter’s sake, not long. He wanted to get his guy and go home. “I don’t know yet. Can I pester you for a favor?”
“You know better than that. What can I do for you?”
“I need to look at recent air travelers and check the more obvious things, like parking and traffic violations. Still have my e-mail address?”
“Yep, got it. I’ll have you a contact before six. My cell phone number is in my signature if you don’t still have it. Call me some evening. We’ll make plans for dinner. Rae would love to see you. I’ve got nothing Saturday. We’d like to see you at the house.”
“I’ll do it, thanks. Hey, one more thing. Point me to some good food. Local cuisine.”
“Dragos for oysters, Red Fish Grill if you hit Bourbon Street. Ruth’s Chris for steaks, Copland’s—”
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