by Girard, Dara
“Sounds good.” He dropped a hand to the front of her blouse.
“That isn’t my shoulder.”
“Sorry my hand slipped.”‘
“If you don’t move it, it might get arrested.”
He slipped a finger inside her blouse. “It’s been arrested before.”
She slapped his hand away. “Find something to keep yourself busy.”
“I have.”
“Besides me.”
“Oh.” He sat down and glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes starts now.” He rested his head back and pretended to fall asleep.
Melinda didn’t think she’d find much in fifteen minutes, but kept up the search anyway. After ten minutes, she moved to shut down her computer when CHC came on the screen: Canadian Hazardous Chemicals.
“I found it,” she said in disbelief.
Grant lifted his head. “You did?”
“Yes.”
He fell to his knees and held his hands together as though in prayer.
She looked at him and laughed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m having a religious moment. Our prayers have been answered.”
She printed out the information, then dialed the number. She got a busy signal. When she tried reaching Braxton, she got the same. She hung up the phone frustrated.
“Don’t worry we’ll get them,” Grant said, grabbing her jacket. “Let’s get something to eat.”
She wasn’t in the mood for a heavy breakfast so she grabbed coffee and a bagel, then returned to the office and called again. No answer. She sat back and glanced around the empty office. Grant had responded to a call, so she had no one to talk to. She flipped through a magazine, then dialed a third time. This time a woman picked up the phone.
“Hello,” Melinda said. “I’m special agent Melinda Brenner with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms in the U.S. I need information about some of your shipments to Mary-land.”
The woman didn’t reply.
“Hello? Hello?” Melinda glanced at the phone wondering if she’d lost connection. “Hello? Are you still there?”
“What kind of information do you want?” the woman asked.
“I’m interested in a large delivery of about three hundred five-gallon containers of acetone last March.”
“You’re a DEA agent?”
“No, I’m with the BATF.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t provide you with any information.”
Melinda sighed. “Okay, then I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”
The woman hesitated then said, “I’ll get in touch with the owner and have him call you back in a few minutes.”
Melinda hung up the phone, and waited. She frowned when the receptionist told her she had a call. She had given the lady at CHC her direct line. “Take a message,” she said.
“The caller said it’s important,” the receptionist insisted.
“I’ll call them back.”
A few minutes later her phone rang. “This is Daniel Ruskus of CHC. I understand you’re interested in some information? ”
“Yes,” Melinda said. “I’m interested in a shipment of a large quantity of acetone sold to a purchaser in the Haltson area.”
“Sorry, but we don’t manufacture chemicals. Only chemical-safe containers.”
“All right. Did you ship a large number of five-gallon hard plastic containers to Maryland within the past three months or so to a single customer? The name CHC is on them.”
“One moment.”
Melinda heard typing, but had the feeling that Ruskus was stalling for some reason.
“We recently had a similar inquiry from another agency in the U.S.,” he said.
“Who?”
“I’ve been instructed not to say. I was also instructed not to mention their inquiry to anyone else, but if you’re with the BATF...”
“Did you have the information they wanted?”
“We shipped 250 of that particular container to a warehouse in Maryland for a company called umm...I have it here somewhere...”
Melinda rapped her pen irritated. He was stalling again. “I found it. Techno Technology.” He gave a shipment date.
It was one week before the building had burned. Just what she needed. It was now clear that the discarded CHC jugs were concentrated in the Techno Technology section of the warehouse for a reason. They had shipped the jugs to a warehouse only a few miles from the burned warehouse, but how had the containers ultimately ended up full of acetone inside the building? she wondered.
“Who signed for the shipment?” she asked.
“A customer by the name of Josef Haddad.”
Melinda tapped a finger against her forehead in frustration. Why did that name sound familiar? After ending her conversation with him, Melinda got a call from the office receptionist again. “Melinda the same man is on the line. He says he’s from the DEA and he needs to speak to you.”
She picked up the phone and identified herself.
“Hello,” the man said. “I’m DEA agent Doug Frank. It’s no coincidence that I’m calling you now. Ruskus just informed me that you called him. I think we need to talk.”
* * *
Doug Frank wasn’t pleased. It seemed that Haddad and his cousin had slipped away from their house with more than two hundred gallon containers full of acetone and delivered it to the warehouse while they were under surveillance. The two agents sat with Melinda, Grant, Robert, and DEA supervisor Doug Frank in Frank’s office.
He informed them that they knew nothing about the fire or Haddad being the subject of criminal investigation until CHC had informed them about their query.
“We thought we were onto a coke lab,” Doug said. “Haddad rented two Ryder trucks. He used the first rented truck two weeks before the fire to purchase twenty-five fifty-five gallon drums of acetone. It was that transaction that caught our interest.”
“So you started surveillance,” Grant said.
“Correct. The following week Haddad rented another Ryder and picked up 250 jugs from a warehouse in the south of town that had been delivered by CHC. We traced CHC the same way you did back to Techno Technology. We were convinced there was a drug lab inside the residence. But we didn’t have sufficient probable cause for a search warrant.”
“So they were able to slip away,” Robert guessed.
He nodded embarrassed. “That’s why no agent followed either the Ryder or van when each left the residence separately during the afternoon of the fire.
“At six that evening, agents searched the truck for signs of cocaine, but didn’t find anything. Three hours later a police detective working an off duty job guarding the warehouse district spotted a van nosing around the area. The detective pulled the van over. There was only one person in the vehicle and the partition blocked his view of anything in the back.
“The detective took note of the van’s tag number and learned it was the same van under surveillance. The driver handed over his driver’s license that identified him as Basam Haddad. The detective noticed some papers and a CB radio lying on the vacant passenger’s seat; however, nothing appeared suspicious. He ran a R&W—records and wanted—on the man’s name. Haddad came back clean.”
“They always do,” Grant said.
“Unfortunately, so did the house when we executed a search warrant. No acetone, no CHC jugs, no coke. Nothing. It had all disappeared, as well as Haddad and his cousin.”
“Yes, we discovered that, too,” Robert said.
“Since they haven’t claimed insurance we can’t prove intent to defraud. Possessing acetone isn’t a crime.”
“But with all this money at stake, you would have thought Haddad would be camped out wailing for the insurance claims to pay off,” Melinda said.
The group fell silent knowing one thing. Haddad and his cousin were smarter than that.
CHAPTER. NINETEEN
“I don’t think it’s about cocaine,” Robert said to Grant and Melinda at lunch.
&nb
sp; “It’s about insurance,” Grant said.
“I’m not sure it’s that either.”
Grant frowned. “Then what do you think it is?”
“I think we’re missing a piece of the puzzle.”
“What else is there?” Melinda asked.
“The third man.”
“What third man?”
Grant spoke up. “Victoria said—”
Melinda held up a hand. “Stop right there. While I respect her skill, whatever that may be, there’s no sign of there being a third man. And even if there was, until we get these two, we don’t have anything to link him. So, until Victoria can ‘see’ a man’s face or name I don’t want her visions part of this investigation.”
* * *
Victoria wasn’t presently seeing anything except the garden winning First Place. Her high hopes for the garden faltered when the Great Gardens judges arrived: two men and one woman who sported polite smiles, impassive glances, and vague statements. They asked Robert and Foster a few harmless questions, made references to the layout then said they’d be in touch.
“At least that’s over,” Robert said as the judges piled into their car and left.
Victoria frowned. “They didn’t even look excited.”
“They want to be impartial.”
“That one lady judge said it was ‘interesting’,” Foster said gloomily. “You know that is the kiss of death. It’s probably the color selection of the daffodils and hyacinths.”
“And the day is sort of gray,” Victoria said, looking up at a sky that couldn’t get any brighter.
“We did our best,” Robert said, turning to the house. “All we can do now is wait.”
* * *
With each passing day Victoria’s hopes perished. She had imagined that the judges would he so impressed by the garden that they would call the same day or at least the day after. Three days later, however, Robert hadn’t heard a word. She sat on the stone step of the house looking at the fireflies and the sliver of moon high in the darkening sky. She remembered how much fun she had when she was back home catching peenywallies and using them as lanterns as they walked to and from different houses for church. Those days seemed far away. That girl was so different from the woman she had become.
She turned when she heard something making its way through the grass. Robert came towards her holding a rose—in his teeth.
She jumped to her feet, her heart pounding. “We won?”
His face split into a grin.
She ran and leaped into his outstretched arms. He spun her around until the moon and fireflies melted into one.
He stopped and gazed down at her. “We did it,” he whispered.
“Yes, we did.”
He picked up the flower he’d dropped and handed it to her.
She raised it to her nose then searched his eyes. There was such smoldering emotion she had to drop her gaze. “I wish Aunt Janet were here.”
“Me too.” He sat on the front step and pulled her down next to him. “My grandfather loved nights like this. When I was younger, he would wake me up in the middle of the night and tell me he had something to show me. It was always the same thing and sometimes I would grumble as I followed him downstairs to the garden. He would lie down on the grass, gaze up and say, ‘Look at that!’ as if the night sky were a new and brilliant discovery. I could never understand how he could have the same amazement each time. But now I do.” He turned to her. “Because every time I’m with you, I’m in awe.”
Her cheeks grew warm. “I wish I could have met your grandfather.”
He rested his elbows on his knees. “You two would have liked each other. Like you, he didn’t fear anything.”
“Oh, I fear lots of things.”
“You don’t let the fear stop you and that makes all the difference. No matter what obstacle he faced, my grandfather didn’t stop trying to live life to the fullest. He’d had a hard life as a young man, but nothing made him bitter.”
She thought about his mother’s anger and shook her head. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“But I do. I may have gotten a new dress or dinner at my favorite restaurant because of what your father was accused of. I can’t make it okay and I never will, but let me just tell you how sorry I am that your father was taken from you. And when you want to, you can talk about him all you want. You don’t have to keep him secret just because you think it will hurt me.”
“My father.” His voice shook, he steadied it “He reminded me of an oak tree. Impressive. Strong. He and my grandfather were both strong. I don’t know how they did it.”
“Yes, you do.”
He began to smile. “My resident psychologist. How do I know?”
“Because you live the life you want no matter what other people say. You’re here with me even though—” My father was a murderer.
“Let’s not discuss it anymore. It was something that happened when we were both kids. Besides, the night is too beautiful for painful memories.”
She waved the rose under his nose.
He grasped her hand. “What are you doing?”
“Every time you smell a rose, I want you to think of this night and how you felt.”
He brushed his lips against hers. “I don’t need a rose to do that.” He abruptly stood. “You’d better rest so you’ll be ready for tomorrow.”
She pricked herself on a thorn and sucked her finger. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
“The media arrives.”
She frowned, confused. “But they’ll want to take pictures of the garden not me.”
He turned. “Victoria, even a prize winning garden could not compete with you.”
* * *
He was right. The photographers and journalists that crowed his doorstep the next day instantly fell in love with her. Probably more for the gossip columns than for the garden, Victoria handled it with grace, enchanting them with the stories of how she had saved the garden from ruin, Aunt Margaret’s flower shop, and her journey to America. The journalists scribbled down her every word as the photographers tried to capture her allure—her rich cocoa skin, abundance of hair, and full figure--on film. They took some pictures of Foster and Robert, but it was obvious to everyone that she and the garden were the main attraction. By the end of the day her throat felt sore and every time she blinked she saw flashbulbs.
“I’m glad that’s over,” she said, collapsing in the kitchen.
“I think you were wonderful,” Ms. Linsol said.
“But it’s not over yet,” Dana said.
Victoria wearily lifted her head. “What?”
“There’s the party.”
“What party?”
“Mr. Braxton is hosting a garden party. He usually does so this time of year, but this one is going to be even more important. He’ll have influential people from all over and wild card tickets.”
Victoria yawned. “Wild card tickets?”
“For a price, some of the public can attend. But most people will be from the organizations he belongs to. Everyone will get to see the garden.”
She rubbed her tired eyes. “Are we supposed to serve the food?”
“No, it’s entirely catered. We’re guests. It’s unorthodox, but he doesn’t care.”
She sat up horrified by the thought. She would be surrounded by people like Lilah, the woman she’d met at the restaurant, and others who had lots of money and education. People closer to Robert’s world than she could ever hope to be. “But I don’t need to go. Why would I need to be there?”
“Because you helped Foster with the garden,” Ms. Linsol said.
Dana sent her a significant look. “Victoria, we both know of all the people in this house he will expect you to be there.”
Her mind raced through the meager selection of clothing hanging in her closet. “But I have nothing to wear.”
“Buy something. You have the money.”
She paused.
She’d buried herself in hiring the new housekeeper and possible nanny that she’d pushed the reality of the money aside. She still cringed at the thought of spending it. Though others had not known about her aunt’s marriage they seemed more accepting of Janet’s hidden wealth than Victoria could. It wouldn’t hurt to buy a new dress. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to go about shopping for a dress.
She went into a store and bought the first suitable dress that caught her eye: A flowery print dress with lace at the trim. It was expensive so Victoria felt certain it would suit.
Amanda saw it hanging in the laundry room as Victoria ironed the clothes.
She grimaced and pointed. “What is that?”
“My dress for the party.”
“You can’t wear that.”
“Why not? I think it’s lovely.”
“I think it’s awful.” Amanda snatched the dress off the hanger. “I’ll be right back.” Victoria began to protest, but she was already gone. Amanda returned a few moments later, looking pleased with herself. “It’s all set.”
Victoria stared at her. “Where’s my dress?”
“I’m donating it to Goodwill,” she said simply.
“Wait a minute—”
“I can’t wait.” She unplugged the iron. “We’re going shopping. Foster is taking us into town and Uncle gave me money.” She waved her credit card with pride. “I showed him how ugly your dress was and he raised my limit.”
“You have a credit card?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”
* * *
Foster drove Victoria and Amanda to a little boutique tucked in one of the side roads of town. A personal assistant waited for Victoria with a selection of dresses already picked out. Victoria went through an assortment of pleasant conservative styles, which Amanda soundly rejected.
“You look like my teachers,” she grumbled. When the assistant brought another dull selection, Amanda lost her patience. “She wants something beautiful so that my uncle will fall in love with her.”