A paperweight shaped like the state of Texas sat on the desk’s edge. She picked it up, studied it for several seconds, and set it back down. “I’m sure it’s no surprise to you that every once in a while, the border patrol brings in Mexican nationals. For a few weeks now, we’ve been seeing an unidentifiable rash in young men coming through the ER.
“Knowing all the Russian olives, scrub oak, and other elements of the desert terrain they’re exposed to, I wasn’t alarmed at first. I simply treated them and sent them on their way. In the last two weeks, though, I’ve noticed some of these rashes are getting progressively worse.
“Three days ago, the border patrol brought in another man, again from Mexico, with this same rash. This time, it was accompanied by a high fever and respiratory distress.” Leaning forward, she traced her finger over the paperweight. “David and I did our best, but we lost him. It’s what he said before he died that I’ve come to talk to you about.”
Brad steepled his fingers. Liz was visibly agitated, which made him question her career choice. Surely, she had to know in the field of ER medicine, she couldn’t save every patient.
Whatever the case, he was having a hard time following how a man’s death in El Paso had anything to do with him, or for that matter, the mayor’s office.
“He claimed he’d been crossing the border and working near Diamond,” Liz continued.
Nothing earth-shattering there. Illegal entry into the United States continued to be a common, politically-explosive problem. He shook his head. “Sounds like a terrible way to die. How can I help you?”
“When I asked who he’d been working for, he said the name Jordan.”
Brad frowned. “And you’re contacting me because . . . ?”
“Because,” Liz said, returning an incredulous look, “he not only mentioned Jordan, he claimed to be working near Diamond, which, as you well know, is only two hundred fifty miles from the border. This rash covered three-quarters of his body, Brad. Short of a burn unit, I’ve never seen anything like it. What’s more, I believe his ailment was an advanced condition of the others I’d treated.”
Tilting his head, he raised a palm. “Okay. Call me dense, but what exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying, I think these people are being exposed to toxic chemicals.”
Finally putting two and two together, Brad did his best not to scoff. “And you’re suggesting Jordan Industries had something to do with these rashes and this man’s death?” Jordan Industries was the chemical processing conglomerate his father had built into the region’s largest employer.
She stared back, obviously believing just that.
“First, Jordan doesn’t hire undocumented workers. Second, our employees wear protective gear.”
“If procedures are strictly followed,” she allowed. “But think about it. How would he even know to mention the name Jordan?”
Brad stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled out a regional phone book. Returning to his visitor, he held it out for her inspection. There, on a single page, he counted fifteen Jordans alone.
She flushed.
“As you can see, it’s a common enough name. As for the company, we’d never employ migrant workers. We require skilled labor.” He snapped the directory shut, laid it on his desk, and returned to his seat. “Not to mention the fines and penalties levied against companies that are caught hiring employees without visas or green cards.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m convinced he was talking about Jordan Industries.”
“And you said it yourself—he was delirious.”
Liz rose from her seat and gripped the back of her chair. “I wouldn’t be where I am if not for Jordan Industries. Don’t think I’m not grateful. But I have an obligation to get to the truth. My patient repeated the name Jordan over and over again, not he, not him, Jordan.”
Brad’s pulse quickened. Liz’s father, an analytical chemist, had retired from Jordan. Liz had gone to school at Rice on an academic scholarship given by the company. And while he appreciated her loyalty as well as her predicament, if she reported this incident, the company would fall under major government and media scrutiny. That’s all it would take to open up an investigation—create a public relations’ scandal—all based on the hearsay of a man’s dying statement.
“I’d never ask you to do something morally reprehensible, and, of course, I don’t expect you to ignore it. But if I was still practicing law, I’d tell you everything you’ve told me this morning is circumstantial.”
“But you’re not practicing law anymore,” she flung back at him. “You’re mayor of Diamond, and the citizens of this city elected you to do a job. Besides, how can you be sure Jordan isn’t involved? You haven’t worked at the plant for years. Your father retired. Neil runs the company now.”
“I know my brother,” Brad said.
“It’s a huge company. Nothing could slip by him?”
“Sure it could. That’s why there’s supervisor documentation, apprenticeship, and journeyman training.” He counted on his fingers. “There’s OSHA, the EPA, even the IRS. There’s audits . . . inspections. The feds send people to jail over what you claim your patient alleged.” For years, Brad had argued controversial court cases. Always, he’d held his temper in check. In this instance, though, his throat tightened and he found himself struggling. He might be mayor of Diamond, but Jordan Industries was his birthright. “What you’re suggesting is highly improbable.”
“But not impossible. I’ve had three days to think about this. I want answers for my patient; you think Jordan can do no wrong.” She straightened her shoulders. “What if we asked for help?”
“What kind of help?”
“I know how you feel about her, but Diana has won awards uncovering situations like these. She might have ways—”
Brad gritted his teeth. “I’d rather have Sixty Minutes on my doorstep than Diana Reid.” He came to his feet. “Liz, I may not believe what you’re suggesting, but I give you my word, I won’t shirk my responsibilities. I will check this out.”
“I had a feeling you’d quash the idea.” She picked up her purse. “All right. For now, I’ve cited cardiac arrest as the cause of death, but listed no contributing factors. Autopsy caseload is high enough with US citizens, so this could easily go unchecked.”
Brad inhaled a relieved breath.
“Although, due to the similar rashes and the inconclusive blood test results, I’m not releasing his body. If I don’t hear from you soon, I’ll have no choice but to request a special autopsy. From there, the stored blood samples will go to the CDC.” She removed a card from her wallet. “Sorry, Brad.”
He took the proffered card and walked with her to the door. “I’ll be in touch. But this didn’t happen at Jordan.”
In the doorway, she turned to him. “I came to you because, as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always been fair. You say this couldn’t happen at Jordan? Then present me with a viable alternative.”
A viable alternative? How the hell was he supposed to do that—invest in a crystal ball? Weighed down by the magnitude of what she was asking, Brad returned to his desk and stared at the card until the print ran together.
Unbelievable. An accusation against Jordan and a reminder of Diana Reid in less than an hour—the sun hadn’t fully risen yet, and already, his day was in tatters.
Chapter Three
“WHAT’S WRONG with the billboard?”
“It’s obnoxious,” Diana said. “You could at least warn a girl, Marty. I almost swerved into traffic when I looked up and saw my gigantic mug on that sign. And, really, did the station execs have to put it so near the American Airlines Center?”
“Strategic positioning,” executive producer Martin Avery shot back. “Thanks to that prime real estate, every basketball fan and event goer in Dallas will tune into
KBXT-TV to see you five nights a week. We’re trying to show your fans—and you—how much we love you. Me, in particular.”
Diana had done her best to cold-shoulder Marty while studying the updates for the ten o’clock news. Even when they argued, however, he seemed to know just what to say to make her smile. “Me, in particular? Are you flirting with me?”
“I am. You should flirt back. Be polite.”
She disregarded the script and burst out laughing. For five years, they’d worked on hundreds of news stories—some controversial, some dangerous—and through it all, they had survived with a tight, personal bond. Rumors abounded linking them together, particularly after they both were promoted, Marty to executive producer, Diana to lead anchor. A link Diana wagered he hadn’t discouraged.
But while they’d teetered toward romance once or twice, Martin Avery was a player. And with her own cache of secrets, and because she valued his friendship—as well as her job—she’d stubbornly insisted they keep things platonic.
“I’m not going to flirt with you to be polite,” she said. “But good try. What happened to the governor’s ex-wife?”
“She found another governor.”
“The Dallas cheerleader?”
“She found religion.” He pointed skyward. “Can’t compete with the Big Guy.”
“Sucks to be you.” Diana returned to the script.
He propped a hip on her desk. “You don’t know the half of it. Management wants me at the Heart Ball on Saturday, and since I’m currently dateless, you’ll have to do.”
Diana’s mouth formed an O. “What is wrong with you? You don’t ask a woman out like that. And how do you know I don’t have a date?”
“Do you?”
She went back to studying her script.
“That’s what I thought. He went down on one knee. “Diana . . . Ms. Reid, will you be my date to the Heart Ball on Saturday?”
She screwed up her face at the clown. “I can’t believe I’m about to say yes.”
He leveled his gaze on her. “You say yes because you think I’m safe.”
Bingo. The beach boy producer had nailed her. “What time?”
“Eight p.m. Pick you up at a quarter till. If you really want to make me happy, you could wear that little strapless number—”
“Ten minutes, Ms. Reid,” the station grip called from the doorway.
“Thanks, Ern.” Diana stood. To Marty, she said, “I’ll call you a sexist pig later. Right now I’m off—”
“I know. Being Dallas’s darling and all, your public awaits.”
She cringed and followed Marty out into the hallway. “I’ll never forgive that radio talk show host. How do I put a contract out on him?”
“You don’t. You thank him.” Clipboard in hand, Marty walked her as far as production. “When he labeled you Dallas’s darling, ratings shot through the roof. Our e-mail went crazy. But check this out, I almost forgot, someone sent you something the old fashioned way.” Marty pulled out a stamped letter from underneath the papers attached to his clipboard.
“Thanks.” Minutes away from her broadcast, she tucked it into her blazer pocket and walked toward the set as Marty entered the sound booth.
A crew member came to touch up her makeup while a sound tech adjusted the feed for both Diana and her co-anchor Kyle Lassiter. As an investigative reporter, she’d often done her own makeup, even gone without, depending on whether or not she was in the field or a story was breaking.
Early on, she’d discovered viewers really didn’t care if a reporter looked good, especially if the house behind her was on fire.
She’d loved fieldwork. Unfortunately, being good at her job had taken her away from it. Eight months earlier, she’d exposed a child pornography ring, and that exposé had catapulted her in front of the camera. Rita Collins, KBXT-TV’s lead anchor at the time, had accepted a job in Washington, leaving the coveted slot open. Preferring to remain where she was, Diana hadn’t applied. But management wanted her, and she liked making those mortgage payments.
Tonight’s newscast went smoothly, and at ten fifty-five, she smiled for the camera, bid the Dallas/Ft. Worth audience goodnight, and headed for home.
Her Siamese cat Merlin was waiting when she arrived.
“Hi, baby, did you miss me? I missed you,” she crooned. “C’mon, let’s get you something to eat.”
She played with the cat, then, ready to call it a night, strode into her bedroom to change. But when she tugged off the blazer, paper crinkled from the pocket, and she remembered the letter.
Her heart sank when she pulled it out and read “Diamond” on the postmark. Early in her career, she’d received requests from her hometown’s school board asking her to speak. That rarely happened anymore as she’d always sent back a polite refusal. This didn’t appear to be from an organization, however. It had been handwritten on fine linen stationery with no return address.
A child, perhaps? The precise block printing made her think otherwise.
She opened the door to the balcony, flipped on the porch light, and stretched out on the chaise lounge to read it. Merlin joined her as she tore through the envelope.
Dear Fancy Lady: You’ve been so busy solving problems up there in Dallas, guess you forgot about the folks you left behind. Just in case you’re interested, people are going to die, and Jordan Industries has everything to do with it.
You know your mama, she’ll try to help. She won’t be able to stop herself. It’d be a shame if she got hurt trying.
Diana grew lightheaded. Panic ballooned in her chest. What in the world? What did this mean, and who would send something like this? Worse, who would threaten her mother?
The doorbell rang and Diana startled. Merlin jumped from her lap and bolted inside. Clutching the letter, she ordered herself to calm down. She lived in a secure building. Nevertheless, the creep who had sent this had achieved his purpose and gotten inside her head. She re-entered the condo, never taking her gaze off the front door.
Could whoever have written this garbage found out where she lived?
She moved closer, annoyed that she hadn’t set the alarm. But even as her heart pounded, her brain started to function. The only person the doormen would admit without calling was Marty. Still, he hadn’t said a word tonight about coming over.
The doorbell rang again, more insistently. She pressed the intercom button, ready to call downstairs, if necessary. “Who is it?” she asked warily.
“It’s me,” Marty said from the other side of the door.
Breathlessly, she unlocked the door and yanked it open. “Marty, oh, thank God, it’s you.”
His gaze traveled to the letter and he frowned. “Who else would it be at this time of night?” He entered the condo. “What’s got you so spooked?
Ordinarily, her response would be to make light. Right now, she couldn’t even manage a joke. For eight years, secrecy had been her mantra. Still, she and Marty had shared everything, sans one thing. Maybe it was time for that to change. Diana handed him the letter and paced while he read.
Seconds ticked by before he said, “Well, you got yourself a crazy.”
The fact that Marty concurred didn’t exactly relieve her. “Some crazy making veiled threats against my mother.”
“Could be, but I don’t think so.” He reread the letter. “This guy’s pissed at Jordan Industries. He’s simply using your mother to gain your interest.” Marty looked up. “Does your mom work for them?”
“My mother’s a nurse. I don’t think she’s ever set foot in a chemical plant.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
Diana shook her head. “She doesn’t keep the hours we do. We usually talk in the mornings.” Diana moved farther into her living room. “Besides, I’m not sure I want her to know about this.”
&n
bsp; Marty followed. “I see where you’re coming from, but you gotta warn her, Diana. There’s kooks out there. You being who you are is reason enough to tell her to watch her back. This dude’s not after your mom, though.” He held up the letter. “I’d say from this, he even admires her. He’s waiting for you to show up. The question is, why?”
Shrugging, Diana looked toward the balcony and the lights of downtown.
“Diamond’s what, eight, nine hours from Dallas?”
“Eight.”
“Why wouldn’t he call the El Paso stations? See my point? He wants you there because this is personal to him. So, think about it, who could it be, and why does he think you’d have an interest in Jordan Industries?”
Stress cycled between her shoulder blades. Diana folded her arms. How much was she willing to tell him? Marty was a pit bull when it came to analyzing data. But her life wasn’t up for review. “Maybe he thinks I have a vendetta against them.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Want to tell me why you’d hate a chemical company?”
“I don’t. He probably thinks I hate the owners.”
The letter still in his grasp, Marty plopped on the couch and grinned. “Keep going. This is the most you’ve ever told me about your private life. I got all night, sweetheart. Spill.”
Diana moved from the balcony door and rested a hip on the armrest. “I used to be involved with Brad Jordan.” It was the first time she’d said his name out loud in years. The mere mention felt odd on her lips. “Our relationship ended . . . badly.”
“Could Jordan have sent this?” Marty pointed to the letter he’d set on her coffee table.
“Anonymous letters aren’t his style,” Diana said, lifting an eyebrow. “If Brad wanted to talk to me—which he doesn’t—he’d do it in person.”
“Who ended it?
“I did.” She stood and moved to the fireplace. “And that’s as much as I’m spilling.”
“Oooh, touchy.” Marty held up his hands. “Just trying to help. So if Jordan didn’t send it . . .”
Buried Agendas Page 2