Buried Agendas

by Donnell Ann Bell

  “Put your money away.” Brad’s patience vanished. Diamond was in trouble. People were without jobs, Jordan Industries was experiencing layoffs, and folks were packing up and moving away every day.

  Brad hadn’t run for office to restore the city he loved only to let vandals make his job harder. If he allowed criminal activity of any kind, what did that say about his leadership?

  “Earl Jr. has track practice every day after school.” Planting his hands on the desk, Earl towered over Brad and narrowed his eyes in defiance. “He’s number three in the state.”

  Brad had always suspected the son got his aggressive nature from his father. Now he was certain. Brad had also stomached about all of Earl Sr. that he could. Brad stood, forcing Earl to look him in the eye. Earl held his stance, but a muscle ticked beneath his left eye as he swallowed.

  With the culmination of Liz’s allegations, Diana’s unheard-of appearance, Susan’s offer to move up the date, and Earl’s attempted bribe, Brad was ready to snap. Quite simply, he wanted to grab Earl Sr. by the collar and tear the bribing, overbearing jackass apart.

  “I’m only going to say this once,” Brad said between his teeth. “The only reason that building is still standing is because the cops happened on those kids first. Yeah, the parents made restitution. Yeah, you probably can afford to paint the whole damn library.” He kept his voice low, but took satisfaction that Earl had backed away from Brad’s desk and stood clenching and unclenching his fists.

  “Your money can’t help you out of this one,” Brad warned. “Some of those boys are already eighteen. They’d better learn quick from this episode. They’ve already spent one night in jail. Next time, their stupidity will earn them a prison sentence.”

  “I assure you,” Earl Sr. said, “after the talking to I gave that boy, it’ll never happen again. He’s learned his lesson, Mayor. This is my son’s college career we’re talking about. So what about track practice?”

  Brad ground his jaw at the man’s unconscionable attitude. “The sooner they finish painting, the sooner they can return to their after-school activities. Until then, what your son wants to do legally after eight p.m. on weekdays and after noon on Saturdays is his business.”

  “But he’ll be exhausted,” Earl said. “If Earl Jr. were your son—”

  “He’d be in military school.”

  With a final sneer, Earl picked up his cowboy hat from the leather couch, dusted it against his pant leg like the sofa was dirty, and stormed out of Brad’s office.

  Brad enjoyed a few quiet minutes, picked up the phone, and asked his assistant to cancel his appointments for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, his concentration was nowhere near city hall. It had traveled to a motel room south of Diamond, his focus on only two things. Diana had kept the locket, and he’d sent her away.

  DIANA NEEDED caffeine. If she didn’t get coffee soon, she was going to hurt somebody.

  Disguised for the second day as Candy, she stepped out of the rental car, squared her shoulders, and stared at the sprawling plant that was Jordan Industries. Brad had told her to leave. So, what had she done? Considered that idea for all of five seconds and promptly ignored it.

  Who did the Jordans think they were? Was this some kind of inherited trait, commanding people about? Never mind that Brad could have her arrested. Never mind that Clayton had a file that could destroy her family’s good name. Never mind that his family was a powerhouse who could squash the Reids as surely as a palm slapping down a bug. Until she knew her mother was safe, no one was ordering her anywhere.

  So, with fifteen minutes to spare, Diana reported to work.

  If she put everything into perspective, Brad had done her a favor by demanding she leave. She could do without his surprise appearances in Jordan’s hallways, the heart-attack worthy messages he left stuck to her mirror, and his late-night visits to the Drifter’s Inn. Furthermore, if he thought she’d returned to Dallas, she could move about more freely.

  Still, she wasn’t naïve enough to believe she could avoid him indefinitely. And heaven help her when he discovered her deceit. But right now, she was on her own and had to concentrate on more important things. Mainly, locating a certain researcher named Leo.

  Her mood vastly improved when she entered the lobby. The heady scent of caffeine wafted from down the hall. Waving to Carmen, who was already on the phone, Diana ambled toward the cafeteria. The large, empty dining hall hardly resembled the crowded place she’d witnessed yesterday. Apparently, graveyard workers had more important things to do than hang around a chemical processing plant after their shifts were over.

  On her way to the counter, Diana passed a lone diner ensconced in his reading. He’d chosen a seat in the center of the cafeteria where people were bound to pass. Further, nothing about his bearing said do not approach. Diana wondered how receptive he’d be to an interruption. After all, she’d learned her lesson in underestimating Carmen. From here on out, she’d seize every opportunity to learn what was going on around Jordan.

  She was well on her way to grabbing a coffee, and inventing an excuse to stop by the man’s table, when a scene across the cafeteria interested her more. There, at a table for two, Susan sat with Vic Hagen, Carmen’s nemesis, and Jordan Industries’ hunky plant manager.

  Diana poured her coffee, surreptitiously watching the pair. Vic, in his second-skin jeans, the HR manager in a chic business suit, their good looks were something straight off a billboard. If Diana didn’t know how Susan felt about Brad, she might wonder. In any case, Diana was obviously suffering from a case of wishful thinking putting Susan and Vic together. A stack of files lay on the table between them.

  Diana handed her money to the cashier and started toward the lone diner.

  Susan rose from the table and gathered her files. Still talking, Vic leaned back, the relaxed posture of a man in charge. Susan laughed at something he said. Then all at once, his gaze drifted and alighted on Diana.

  Caught staring, she adjusted her glasses and returned to plan A, but the man she’d wanted to approach was walking out the door.

  Red-faced, Diana clutched her coffee and strode after him. Just beyond the exit, though, she stopped to look back. Both Susan and Vic were on their feet. Susan jabbed his chest, a move Hagen subsequently brushed away.

  Diana hurried toward the mailroom. It was straight up eight o’clock, and time to punch her time card. But, indeed, here was a situation worth watching.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AFTER STRINGING fence for the better part of the morning, John decided a hearty lunch and a long nap were in order. Just before noon, he jogged up the porch steps and ambled through the door, almost colliding with his young housekeeper who balanced a tray full of food on her way to the stairs.

  “Oh!” Gloria said. “I did not hear you come in.”

  John reached out to steady the tray. “Didn’t mean to startle you. On your way to his lordship, I see.”

  “Si. I mean, yes,” she replied in a thick Spanish accent. “I fix his favorite . . . pot roast.”

  “Sounds great. Reckon I could talk you into rounding me up a plate of that?”

  Gloria beamed up at him. “For you, anything, Señor John. I take this to Señor Clayton and be right back.”

  “Is he behaving?”

  She shrugged. “How you say—the usual. Yesterday, I make his eggs runny. Today, I keep him waiting.”

  “I know he can be a pain.” John sighed.

  “Most times, I ignore him,” Gloria said, shaking her head. “But I no like the way he call me señorita.”

  John tilted his head. “But, Gloria, you are a señorita. You’re nineteen and unmarried.”

  “Si . . .” Her dark eyes flashed with dislike. “I mean yes. But I work hard on my English. I work to become an American citizen. Your father say señorita like it mean something bad.”<
br />
  John winced. Gloria was the daughter of his longtime friend and employee, Enriqué. Three years ago, when Enriqué passed away, Gloria, who’d lived the majority of her life in Mexico, had asked for his job. After helping her father through his illness, she’d wanted to remain in the U.S. Mentored by Faith, Gloria had set her heart on becoming a nurse.

  Her presence at the ranch had been a godsend. Not only was she an excellent cook and housekeeper, she’d been invaluable to John when Clayton had his stroke.

  John paid her tuition and salary, plus provided room and board, in exchange for her services. It wasn’t out of loyalty to Enriqué anymore. She was a hard worker, and she put up with his father. John would hate to lose her.

  Mistaking John’s silence for displeasure, Gloria’s eyes went wide. “Lo seinto, Señor John, I did not mean to complain.”

  “Think nothing of it. Seems to me you could use a reprieve.”

  “A . . . reprieve?” She stared up at him, a baffled look on her face.

  “A break, a timeout. Away from my father.” John removed the tray from her grasp. “Why don’t I take him his lunch, and you fix mine?”

  She grinned. “Perfecto.”

  John smiled as Gloria rounded the corner toward the kitchen, smiling as she practiced the word, “Reprieve . . . reprieve . . . reprieve.”

  He climbed the stairs, stopping at Clayton’s room and finding his door ajar. John knocked once and entered.

  Aided by the support of a cane, his father stood staring out the front window. Clayton didn’t turn from the view, he simply said, “Just put it down, señorita, then you can leave.”

  “Last time I checked, I’m not Gloria,” John said. “Thought I’d bring you your lunch and have us a little talk.”

  Clayton glanced over his shoulder. He’d combed his white hair, and his complexion no longer held such a sallow, sunken look. John was relieved to see more life in his eyes.

  “I don’t need a nursemaid,” Clayton said. “I’m doing better.”

  “I agree. Looks like all that physical therapy’s paying off.” John didn’t point out that it was Faith’s weekly visits that had helped his father improve. Clayton hadn’t made one foul-mouthed remark since his last outrageous episode, but why test the acerbic old man?

  John placed Clayton’s meal on a TV tray near the television. “Gloria made your favorite, Dad. We’re lucky to have her. You could ease up on the señorita bit.”

  Clayton snorted and turned toward the window again. “At least she knows her place. Not like . . .” He mumbled the last word.

  “What was that?”

  “It’s not important.” Obviously, whatever had held his interest outside couldn’t compete with the aroma coming from Gloria’s delicious pot roast. Clayton moved to the tray, lifted the tin cover from the plate, and breathed in the spicy aroma. “Smells good.” He sat down to eat.

  “Tell Gloria, not me. If you’re doing as well as you say, maybe it’s time to start eating with the family. Think you’re ready for the stairs?”

  “Possibly. How are my grandsons?”

  “Fine. Busy.”

  Clayton buttered his bread. “Brad making those wedding plans?”

  “Last time I heard.”

  “Good. Good. Beautiful girl, that Susan. And sharp. Brad should have married her a long time ago.”

  “I don’t think that’s our decision.”

  Clayton glared at John. “That’s where you’re wrong, son. Young people today don’t know what they want. They need guidance . . . intervention. Brad’s got a future ahead of him. He’s going places. Susan Lewis comes from good stock. She’ll help him get there.”

  “If you’re talking about his political career—”

  “Damn right I am. He won that mayoral election by a landslide. That boy will be state senator in five years if I have anything to say about it.”

  “And if Brad doesn’t like the idea?”

  “Trust me, he does.”

  “Stop pushing, Dad. Brad’s got a mind of his own.”

  “Don’t have to . . . now that he’s away from that Injun girl.”

  John froze in his tracks and stared at his father. “What the hell are you talking about? Diana? So, she has Native American roots. Why is this such a hang-up for you?”

  “And is that how you feel about her mother? That it’s no big deal?”

  “Damn straight I do.”

  “I s—see . . .” Clayton slurred the word. “You do have a . . . thing for that squaw.”

  Choking back anger, John curled his hands into fists. “Don’t make me regret we’re related.”

  A knock at the door interrupted their argument. Eyes wide, lips turned downward, Gloria stood in the doorway. Glancing from one man to the other, she said, “You have a phone call, Señor John.”

  John gritted his teeth. “Who is it?”

  “Congressmen Harrison.”

  He tore his gaze from his father and said, “I’ll take it downstairs.”

  Clayton’s fork clattered to the tray. “Har—rison. What does he want?”

  John sighed, picked up the fork, and handed it back to his father. The doctor had advised keeping Clayton’s stress to a minimum. What point was there in pressing the issue as if he could make the man change? Clayton Jordan was a bigot—he always would be. Telling him that John was looking into Benton Reid’s disappearance because John was in love with the man’s wife might send the narrow-minded old fool straight over the edge.

  “Upcoming re-election, Dad.” Walking to the door, John extended his arm for Gloria to leave the room ahead of him. “I’m sure the congressman just wants to solidify votes. Finish your lunch.”

  Downstairs, John shut the door to the den to take the call. He tried to steady his voice, but it was no use. Anger penetrated his voice as he said, “Bill. Thanks for returning my call.”

  “John, you ol’ son of a gun. Sorry I missed your call.”

  “No problem. I know you’re busy. Did your aide explain why I called?”

  “He did,” the congressman said. “And, frankly, I’m a little confused.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m surprised you’re not already familiar with the facts of this case as we know them.”

  John clutched the phone tighter. “We’re talking about Benton Reid’s MIA status, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Why would I know anything about his disappearance?”

  “Because,” Bill Harrison replied in his well-known easy drawl, “I gave your daddy a detailed report years ago.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  IN BETWEEN MAKING copies, mail runs, and other odd jobs, Diana reviewed Jordan’s organizational chart and one of its supervisory directories. Unfortunately, while the documents listed key personnel, she couldn’t find one for their subordinates.

  What’s more, the supervisory handout Harold had given Diana didn’t mention anyone named Leo. Obviously, the chemist she wanted to talk to hadn’t been in a position of authority, before he’d been demoted.

  She glanced around the mailroom. What she needed was a comprehensive directory detailing every breathing person who earned a paycheck. Surely, one had to exist. But short of stealing one from Susan Lewis in Human Resources, or absconding with one from Carmen at the reception desk, Diana couldn’t figure out a way to do it.

  So, her newest brilliant strategy was to play the overly ambitious employee again. With that in mind, she waited for a time when her supervisor appeared busy to broach the question.

  She rapped lightly on his office door. “Mr. Mulberry?”

  Harold sat at his desk, his back to her. “What is it, Candace?” he asked, looking from a legal pad to an electronic spreadsheet on screen.

  “Can you tell me w
here I might find an employee directory with everybody on it?”

  He continued typing. “Everybody? You mean the master? What do you want with it?”

  Diana frowned. She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask. Responding with, I’m looking for the person who wants me in Diamond and used my mother to get me here wouldn’t go over very well. In any case, she’d come prepared. “The department heads and supervisors are printed in that manual you gave me. But what if I get something for someone who’s not a boss? Doesn’t that ever happen?”

  Harold tore his gaze away from the monitor. He faced her, and Diana stiffened. She’d been around Harold enough in the last two days to know he never answered his staff with a short or concise response.

  He took a breath as though warming up. “Absolutely it happens, which is why I stress how important it is to write the department number, as well as the name, on all interoffice, incoming, and outgoing correspondence. Jordan Industries has two thousand employees, Candace—”

  Diana lowered her gaze to the floor. “I’m trying real hard, Mr. Mulberry . . .” To make you get to the point.

  “Of course you are.” He shook his geeky little head and made a face she thought was a smile. “But those department numbers are critical. None of us can be expected to know every carpenter, pipefitter, and millworker inside this plant.” He reached into his desk, pulled out a bound sheaf of papers, similar to a city-wide phonebook. “This is my only copy. Buddy is responsible for updating the hard drive and distributing it to the staff. Talk to him about getting a copy to download on your computer. He’ll be happy to help you.”

  Diana smirked as she left Harold’s office. That’s what she was afraid of.

  A short while later, Diana had endured Buddy’s suggestive remarks but left his cubicle with a CD in hand. A few copy jobs had been added to her in-box while she was gone. She completed them as fast as she could, then started a search of the directory. Harold hadn’t exaggerated. Jordan Industries employed 2,374 full and part-time employees, working various shifts.

  But with every name she perused, she’d yet to find someone named Leo. Oh, there were Leonards, Leons; she’d discovered a Lionel and a Leland, but no one who specifically went by Leo. She crossed off all the Leonards in administration. She doubted someone who worked in accounting or purchasing had sent the letter.