by Diane Kelly
It was true. Though none of my other investigations were nearly as big as the case against Brazos, there were several on my plate. In fact, I had a meeting scheduled for six o’clock this very evening with a woman named Katie Dunne, a bookkeeper who worked at Palo Pinto Energy. PPE was a privately held company involved in natural gas exploration. Katie had called the IRS a week ago to blow the whistle on some shady goings-on at the business. Though she’d been at work when I called her back and was thus forced to be cryptic in our phone conversation, she assured me she’d give me all the details tonight.
Nick raised his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say.”
Him acting like I was being unreasonable and irrational chapped my ass even more. Much more of this ass-chapping and I’d need to coat my butt in Vaseline.
I stormed into my office and slammed my door shut behind me. I wasn’t about to look at his smug face all day, even if it was a handsome smug face.
I spent the rest of the morning and the early afternoon stewing at Nick and looking over documentation in a case against a middle-aged man who detailed luxury cars. He made a pretty penny washing, waxing, and vacuuming the vehicles. With a fairly regular clientele, he pulled down sixty Gs a year, but had reported none of those Gs to the IRS. Not only had he failed to pay his taxes due, he’d also filed fraudulent claims for disability benefits from Social Security, food stamps, and housing assistance from HUD. With me on the case, his days of illegally sucking on the public teat would soon be over.
By three that afternoon, my chair and butt had nearly become one, and I feared if I didn’t get up and move around my buns would become flat as pancakes. I decided to head out for my meeting in Palo Pinto a little early. It would be a two-hour drive, and I might as well beat the traffic, right? Besides, according to the documentation in my file on Brazos Rivers, his parents owned a ranch just west of the town of Mineral Wells. The ranch was roughly on my way to Palo Pinto. No harm in taking a look-see, even if it was primarily just to satisfy my personal curiosity.
I packed up my briefcase, grabbed my purse, and tiptoed to my office door, cracking it open and peeking out. I waited a few moments before heading out of my office, strategically timing my departure while Nick was tied up with a phone call. Didn’t want him asking where I was going. What he didn’t know he couldn’t get jealous about, right? No sense giving him another reason to withhold sex. After all, a woman has needs. Besides, Valentine’s Day was coming up shortly and I didn’t want him upset with me when he picked out my gift. Otherwise he might go with something I had no interest in or use for, like a frying pan, a vacuum cleaner, or a subscription to Popular Science.
I’d already bought Nick’s Valentine’s Day gift. A bottle of Brazos Rivers’s Whitewater cologne. In retrospect, maybe that hadn’t been the best choice. Then again, maybe I could slap a fake label on the bottle so he wouldn’t know the difference.
I made my way down to the parking lot and climbed into my red convertible BMW. Still too chilly to put the top down. Rats. Nothing like the wind in your hair to make a person feel alive. After spending most of the day at my desk, I needed to live a little. I had to settle for cracking the window a couple of inches.
I headed out of downtown, traveling west on I-30. Knowing both that it would be a long night and that swimsuit weather would be here soon, I picked up a skinny no-whip latte on my way. The drink would provide enough caffeine to keep me safely awake for hours, while containing few enough calories to keep a roll of fat from developing around my belly.
I cranked up the Brazos Rivers CD in my stereo and sang along as I drove.
Let me be your bronco, baby,
I will buck you, take a ride,
No need for a saddle, baby,
I will buck you, hang on tight.
Yeah, yeah. I know. Oversexed man-whore. But what about this ballad?
I’m not half the man I used to be,
Because I’m only whole when I’m with you.
Now that you’re gone, there’s a piece of me missing,
There’s just no me without you.
Nick was wrong. There was much more to Brazos than met the eye. This song was deep and moving, like a river after a hard rain.
I continued on until I-30 merged with I-20, and drove a few more miles before taking the exit for Weatherford. As I entered the town, my GPS told me to turn onto US-180. Obeying, I headed down the road, passing through the town of Mineral Wells and emerging into the rural area to the west.
My heart beat as fast as a drum in my chest. Almost there.
One turn onto a country road and two miles later, a white pipe fence appeared ahead, enclosing the twenty-acre riverfront spread dubbed the Brazos Bend Ranch. I slowed to a crawl.
Though the deed to the property was in the name of Brazos’s parents, Marcella and Winthrop Merriweather VI, we suspected that Brazos had paid for the acreage and custom-built house. Fortunately for his mother and father, the property had been purchased before the IRS had issued its tax assessment. Although gifts made while an assessment was outstanding could be set aside, the fact that the deed had been recorded years ago insulated the property from seizure. The fact that the IRS couldn’t legally get its hands on the place wouldn’t stop me from checking it out, though.
The place was what Southerners call a gentleman’s ranch, meaning it wasn’t really a ranch at all, but rather an estate in the country where wealthy folk could play cowboy. Though the ranch comprised sufficient acreage for cattle or horses, there was no barn on the property and no livestock to be seen unless you counted the jackrabbit hopping along the fence line.
A hundred yards back from the road sat the main residence, a two-story gray stone monstrosity that looked more castle than house. The design included a towering turret on one end, a breezeway between the expansive main house and generous guest quarters, and a wraparound balcony with views of the countryside in front and the river in back.
As I eased past, my eyes spotted the tour bus parked beside the detached five-car garage. Looked like the singer and his band were taking advantage of their time in north Texas to visit his folks. The fact that Brazos was a family man only made me adore him all the more.
At the back of the lot sat an expansive dock and boathouse in the same gray stone as the house. While the Brazos River was too narrow and shallow at this point for motorized boats, the waterway was perfect for the canoes and kayaks stacked on the dock.
On the far side of the house lay an asphalt airstrip complete with a nylon wind sock on a pole. I was no expert, but the runway looked long enough for the singer’s private jet to land on.
All along the front fence-line sat teddy bears, flowers, and notes left by fans for Brazos. Ridiculous, really. What was a twenty-two-year-old man going to do with a teddy bear? And what straight man gave a rat’s ass about flowers? He might be interested in the risqué boudoir photos a few of the women had left, though.
The sounds of multiple motors caught my ear and four all-terrain vehicles popped up over a rise near the far end of the property. Looked like some of the gang had decided to get their redneck on. From this distance it was impossible to identify the riders with certainty but, given that all were dark-headed and similarly sized, my guess would be the Boys of the Bayou. They raced down the incline and across an open area, whooping it up.
I made a U-turn on the narrow road, my tires spinning momentarily in the gravel at the edge before regaining traction. I drove past the ranch again, a little faster this time lest someone mistake me for a stalker.
When I’d passed the ranch, I slowed to a stop on the road and typed Katie Dunne’s address into my GPS. I never would’ve gotten away with such a thing in Dallas, where there were always two or three people riding your bumper. But out here there wasn’t a car in sight. Well, other than the black Ferrari Spider sailing up the road toward me.
Hmm.
A pricey sports car wasn’t the type of vehicle you’d expect to see out here in cattle and oil country, w
here pickup trucks and SUVs ruled the day.
As the car drew near, my eyes caught the word on the personalized plates.
BRAZEN.
Brazos sat at the wheel, sporting mirrored sunglasses and his cowboy hat. Just as quickly as I’d recognized him he was gone, the car having blown past me. My eyes watched Brazos in my rearview mirror. He pulled up to the iron entrance gate, unrolled his window, and typed a code into the keypad. A few seconds later the gate slid open. He gunned the engine, the tires squealing and kicking up a cloud of dust. The car streamed along the inside drive, screeching to a stop at the garage.
Okay, so maybe Brazos was a little immature. But who could blame him? He’d barely reached the age of eighteen when he’d recorded his first hit. The fantasy life he lived on the road probably hadn’t helped, either. Besides, if I had a Ferrari, I’d drive like a bat out of hell, too. Otherwise you might as well own a Yaris, right?
Retrieving my tablet from my briefcase, I searched the DMV records to see who owned the Ferrari. If the car belonged to Brazos, it would be fair game. Hell, I’d offer to seize the thing myself just so I’d get a chance to drive it.
The information popped up on the screen. Sure enough, the car was registered to Winthrop Merriweather VII. The data indicated the car had been purchased only a month ago.
I whipped out my field glasses, turned around in my seat, and took visual aim at the ranch. By this time, Brazos had gone into the house and there was no activity outside other than a squirrel digging up a long-forgotten pecan hidden in the front flower bed.
I supposed I shouldn’t feel disappointed that I didn’t get to see more of Brazos. After all, I hadn’t expected to see the guy at all. But the quick glimpse I’d gotten made me feel a little heartsick. His love ballads touched me, moved me. He seemed to understand love, to feel it in his soul, to acknowledge it openly in a way that most men, including Nick, wouldn’t.
Don’t get me wrong. I knew Nick was crazy about me. But the L-word? It had yet to pass his lips—other than when directed at his mother’s barbecued chicken.
Did Nick love me? To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure. The two of us got along great, enjoyed many of the same activities, had had similar upbringings. Other than our little spat Saturday night, our sex life was spectacular. We approached life with the same attitude, that our time on earth was an opportunity to be seized and savored. We applied the same gusto to our work.
Of course we had our differences, too. While I loved to indulge in exotic ethnic foods, Nick was a meat-and-potatoes man. My roommates included two cats, while Nick shared his town house with a sweet, half-blind old dog. And while I thought Brazos Rivers hung the moon, Nick considered him nothing more than a prepackaged marketing gimmick. These differences were minor, though. None were deal breakers.
Did I love Nick? I was pretty sure I did but, to be honest, I was afraid to acknowledge it. Love made a person vulnerable, and vulnerability made me uncomfortable. I liked to feel in charge, under control. Looked like Brazos Rivers wasn’t the only one with some growing up to do, huh?
chapter eight
Drill Bits
My scenic tour now complete, I set off for Palo Pinto, an unincorporated town with a population of 425 according to the most recent census data.
On the drive over, several natural gas rigs caught my eye. While rigs within the city limits of Dallas and Fort Worth were enclosed to protect surrounding homes and businesses in the event of a blowout, the wells out here in the boonies included no such precautionary structures. Apparently they weren’t required by law. No surprise, given that the oil and gas industry had a powerful lobby, labor unions were virtually nonexistent in Texas, and the risks of collateral damage were significantly less out here in the country. After all, what’s the worst that could happen if a blowout occurred in these wide-open fields? A few cows would be grilled earlier than intended, but that’s about it.
Several years ago, when a large gas reserve had been discovered under the land in north Texas, energy companies had flocked to the area, each trying to be the first to secure leases from the landowners. Thrilled by the unexpected boon, landowners were happy to sign away their rights in return for a sizable option payment and future royalties. Heck, if it worked for the Beverly Hillbillies, why not other folks? It seemed like a win-win.
But Texans’ relationship with oil had always been a love-hate relationship, a cycle of boom and bust, fortune and failure. Things proved no different with natural gas. When companies began fracking in the area, the love affair between the landowners and energy companies began to sour.
The normally seismically calm area experienced a startling series of earthquakes. The fracking process produced an enormous amount of wastewater, which was injected deep into the ground for disposal, causing the earth to destabilize. Nine earthquakes struck an area in Johnson County in a five-week period. Texans could face down an F-5 tornado and not blink an eye, but set the ground shaking under them and you’d have them quaking in their boots.
As if the earthquakes weren’t bad enough, the wastewater also contained a number of toxic chemicals, including uranium, hydrochloric acid, mercury, and formaldehyde. Once the residents learned this disturbing bit of information, they began to fear the health risks posed by the toxins.
The wells also posed the risk of explosion. A blast at a well in Buffalo, Texas, killed two workers and injured five more. More recently, a blowout in a well near Granbury killed one gas company employee and injured multiple others, shook up both houses and residents, and spouted a geyser of flame visible for miles. Numerous other wells had caught fire, too, with nearby residents exposed to smoke and toxic gases.
The love affair over, many landowners wanted a divorce but found themselves bound by the contracts they’d signed. Several filed lawsuits, alleging property damage and exposure to hazardous chemicals. Others had appealed to the Environmental Protection Agency for help. But big oil had big bucks and fought the allegations, claiming they were fallacious, inaccurate, and overstated. I, on the other hand, feared a race of six-legged, hundred-pound horned toads would rise up and attack Dallas. But perhaps I’d watched too many Godzilla movies with my brothers when I was young.
As the sun began to set, my GPS directed me to turn down various country roads, then ordered me onto an unmarked, one-lane road. Shortly thereafter, the voice ordered me to turn left into a rain-rutted dirt driveway.
I pulled to a stop in front of the Dunne home. The place could not have been more different from the Brazos Bend Ranch. Rather than stone, the Dunnes’ house was constructed of aluminum. Instead of a five-car detached garage that housed ATVs and a new Ferrari, the single-wide mobile home sported an attached drive-thru carport that contained a Ford pickup and a Kia Sportage, both of which were older models. In lieu of the pipe fence and iron gate, this place featured a small backyard enclosed with chicken wire. But what the place lacked in luxury, it made up for in hominess. The yellow siding and the purple pansies in the flower bed were cheery and bright, even in the dim evening light. What’s more, the white poodle mix in the front window barked happily and wagged its tail as if to welcome me to her humble home.
With the dog having announced my arrival, I didn’t have to knock on the door. Katie opened it as I ascended the two steps to the threshold.
Katie’s hair was the reddish-brown color of chili powder and hung in loose, long waves down to her waist. Her skin sported approximately two hundred freckles per square inch. Her brown eyes bore only one coat of mascara and her lips were left natural. She wore jeans, scuffed boots, and a green cable-knit sweater. She was younger than I’d expected, only in her early twenties. With a crease between her brows and her lower lip clamped between her teeth, she appeared anxious and upset.
As we women sized each other up, a skinny young man, hardly more than a boy, stepped up behind Katie. His dark hair was shorn short in an easy-care style. He wore patched canvas cargo pants and a heavy-duty cotton work shirt. His clothes and face wer
e smudged with grease. He must’ve just arrived home from work. His teeth were crooked but his smile was warm.
I held out my hand. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Dunne. I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway.”
Katie shook my hand. “Call me Katie.”
“Doug,” said her husband, likewise shaking my hand.
I reached down to pet the curly-haired dog, who had jumped up on my leg and begun to sniff my pants, probably smelling my cats. “Hey, there, pup.”
Katie held the door open and gestured for me to come inside. The door opened directly into the small living area. Three boys, ranging in age from twelve months to four years, played with plastic army men on the floor. All three had their mother’s reddish hair and freckles.
“Bang-bang!” hollered the oldest boy as he aimed his soldier at another. “Bang-bang!”
A cheap particle-board bookcase took up one wall. On top of it was a photo of Katie and Doug dressed in prom attire. Next to it sat their wedding photo, clearly not taken by a professional photographer but charming and touching all the same. The two hadn’t aged a bit from one photo to the next.
“High school sweethearts?” I surmised.
Doug grinned. “Got married the first weekend after graduation.”
Wow. The two hadn’t even been old enough to drink champagne at their own wedding. Heck, before reaching twenty-one, they’d given birth to at least one of their boys, maybe two. The government wouldn’t trust them with a beer, but they could raise a kid. Ironic, huh?
The boys hardly noticed as we stepped over them and went into the kitchen. Katie offered me a drink but I declined. The three of us took seats at the dinette table.
“Cute kids,” I said.
Katie smiled. “They keep us busy, that’s for sure.”
“Pains in the butt is what they are!” Doug called to his boys in an exaggerated voice, his smile belying his words.