Buried Agendas

by Donnell Ann Bell

  “I’m not laying a guilt trip on you?”

  “You are, but after what I put you through, it’s well deserved.”

  Brad wanted to ask if she was referring to the ancient or recent past. But as she’d agreed, it was probably best to let that one slide. “Thank you. Do you think you might consider doing me one more favor? Move into town for the rest of your stay? On me?”

  She shook her head. “You may hate the Drifter’s Inn. But like it or not, it’s ideal for our purpose. I have to take off this disguise sometime. In Diamond, somebody might spot me.”

  He blew out a breath and raised his face to the ceiling. “All I ask is that if you see anything, you don’t get involved. Call me, and let’s figure out how to handle it together.”

  She returned a slight smile. “Now that we’re on the same side, how could I not?”

  Brad narrowed his gaze. Somehow, this episode had come full circle. He had no choice but to team up with her, professionally speaking. So, why did he have the impression Diana had him right where she wanted him? There was little he could do about it now. Somebody had handed them a huge can of worms, and they were about to go fishing.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I’D LIKE TO help you, Mr. Jordan, but this isn’t one of Liberty National’s keys.”

  Suppressing a sigh, John nodded. He took the flat silver key from the teller behind the window. “I appreciate you checking.”

  If John wasn’t aware of the time, the security guard near the front door was. The balding, uniformed man looked at his watch and removed his keys.

  John nodded and exited the lobby of the tenth and final bank in Diamond. The summer sun beat down on him, the way his father’s deceitful actions had ambushed his spirit. John clutched the key so hard it left an imprint in his hand.

  Not for the first time, he wondered if he was chasing rainbows down an unlucky alley. Standing at the crosswalk, he waited until the light turned green, then sauntered toward his truck and slipped inside.

  Maybe the key didn’t belong to a bank in Diamond. John searched his memory. He’d been so busy dealing with Amy’s death, running the company, and putting two boys through college, he hadn’t kept track of his father’s day-to-day activities. Still, John seemed to remember Clayton making occasional trips to El Paso.

  El Paso? Could it be? A hundred-and-seventy-six-mile roundtrip, the drive was easily doable in one day.

  John switched on the ignition. A lot more than ten banks existed in that border city. If Clayton had rented a security box in El Paso, John had his work cut out for him. Just researching the locations of each bank would take time.

  He pushed Faith’s number on his speed dial, only to get her voice mail. John pulled into traffic. He’d begun making up the craziest excuses to see her. He needed a new watch. Would she help him pick one out? They’d gone out for ice cream instead.

  A trip to El Paso seemed believable and about as flimsy as any of his other ploys. If he told her he had to go out of town for a few days, maybe she’d join him for dinner.

  Tension found its way to the pit of John’s stomach. Faith was married, and he the recipient of a fool’s dream. But crazy or not, John had a heady realization. He might be finagling excuses to spend time with her, but not once had she turned him down. John stopped his pining, and left his lady friend a message.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  WEDNESDAY MORNING, Brad had been awaiting a return phone call from Liz Garcia for the better part of an hour. Out of time, he was due at a city council meeting in less than five minutes. Instructing his assistant to keep trying to reach the doctor, Brad gathered his agenda and paperwork, the computer printouts found at Leo’s apartment still utmost on his mind.

  Maybe yesterday had been a figment of his imagination. Brad couldn’t have possibly asked Diana to stay on at Jordan and spy on his family’s company. But he had, and this time he’d officially lost the little sense he’d been born with.

  Sarah Eastwood, Brad’s top-notch executive assistant, stuck her head into his office. “They’re assembled downstairs, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Thanks.” Brad stood. “Any luck with that phone call?”

  “No. According to Dr. Garcia’s nurse, the doctor’s had several crises in the last few hours. I told the nurse it was urgent.”

  “And?”

  “She said, ‘All of Dr. Garcia’s calls are urgent,’ Mr. Mayor.”

  Brad smiled, wondering if Sarah had met her match.

  The purpose of the call to Liz had been to find out if the chemicals listed in Leo’s notebook could produce the symptoms she’d seen in her deceased patient.

  Lord help Jordan Industries if they could. Brad was a fraction away from believing Liz’s accusations were right, and the company was involved in something sordid. The question was, how high up the ladder did it go, and who was responsible?

  An even bigger dilemma Brad faced was, how much should he confide in Diana? Now that she was working inside the plant with him, wasn’t he obligated to tell her that Liz suspected she’d lost a patient due to chemical poisoning? What’s more, that before the man had succumbed, he’d mentioned the name Jordan?

  Brad told himself he wasn’t leaving her blindsided. Diana already had many of the facts. She possessed the letter incriminating Jordan, and she’d seen the computer printout in Leo’s apartment. With those clues alone, she was more than capable of adding key points together.

  As much as Brad didn’t want to admit it, he still held the past against her. And even if she had given her word not to report the story, Brad didn’t fully trust her.

  He headed downstairs. Besides, if the facts went against Jordan, reporting it would be his job. He’d have no choice but to call the authorities.

  RETURNING TO JORDAN for her third day of work, Diana strove to think positive. She now knew who’d authored the letter, and thanks to a plant tour for new hires, she wouldn’t be tied to the copy machine all day.

  However, before she could tour the facility, she had to be fit with a respirator, something all employees were provided, whether they worked in at-risk positions or not.

  Under ordinary circumstances, a tour might have been interesting. But after yesterday’s discovery that Leo was her contact, and now had disappeared, Diana’s focus was on him.

  She grimaced. Because Leo was no longer employed at the company, she had little reason to carry on with the charade. Truthfully, it made more sense for her to stake out his apartment and wait for the chemist’s return than to try to uncover any wrongdoing in a place the size of Jordan. But when Brad had asked, she’d been powerless to refuse.

  Passing through the lobby, Diana waved at Carmen behind the reception desk, entered the corridor that led to the nurse’s station, then continued her role as Candace Armstrong.

  When she arrived in Facilities, Walt Bingham, the department manager, wasn’t behind his desk. Diana entered a large area stocked with file cabinets, hardhats, breathing apparatuses, and report-filled clipboards. A cloth jumpsuit hooked behind Walt’s door gave off the odor of petrochemicals.

  Diana glanced at her watch, wondering if she’d misunderstood her supervisor’s instructions. But Harold had specifically said to report to Walt Bingham to be fitted for a respirator. Circling his desk, she spied C. Armstrong on today’s date, Wednesday, June 4th. Four other new hires were scratched out above hers. Perhaps she was the last to be fitted.

  At the bottom of the page, a star was drawn, and beside the emblem, a number three was penciled in red. Stepping close to the desk, Diana’s gaze returned to the doorway. With Walt nowhere in sight, she turned the pages, noting the appointments he’d had in the last several days. On the previous Wednesday, May twenty-eighth, another star was drawn, this time with the number four.

  Curious, she flipped back to the previous Wednesdays in May and April. Fo
r six consecutive Wednesdays, stars appeared with numbers beside them. Before April twenty-third, though, the notations stopped.

  Why are you star-struck, Mr. Bingham?

  “Find anything interesting on there?”

  Her hand planted firmly on his calendar, Diana raised her head, then pulled it away. “You caught me,” she said, increasing her twang.

  Walt Bingham was a big guy, both in girth and height. A man with snowy white hair, he was best known for the unlit cigar he clenched between his teeth and his stogie-lined shirt pocket. During orientation, he’d claimed to have given up smoking, but couldn’t quite abandon the habit altogether.

  His wide brow lifted in surprise. “I did, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. See, when you didn’t show, I checked your appointment list, thinking I’d made a mistake.” Diana tapped her alias’s name on the calendar. “No mistake. I’m right there. You’re the one who’s late.”

  His eyes narrowed, but his smile didn’t fade. “Sorry to keep you waiting, young lady. I guess I should consider myself fortunate you weren’t wading through my tax return.”

  “Oh, gosh no. That’s private.” Knowing full well she’d pressed the issue as far as she should, she nevertheless continued, “You got a hot date tonight, Mr. Bingham?”

  He laughed. “If only my wife would let me.” His smile turned downward. “Then again, maybe she would. Why do you ask?”

  “This star.” Diana tapped the calendar again. “What’s it mean?”

  Rounding the desk, he glanced over her shoulder. “That’s my weekly weight fluctuation. Ever since I quit smoking, the pounds have crept up. Those stars indicate when I lose a pound or hold my own.”

  Great. The stars weren’t a lead; they were the facility manager’s version of Weight Watchers.

  “Any more questions?” Walt pulled out her file along with a respirator. “Or do you think we could get started? You don’t want to miss the tour of the plant, do you?”

  “No, sir,” she replied, and let the man go about his business.

  Diana stepped out of the women’s locker room into the vast corridor leading to the plant. On top of the auburn wig and glasses, she now wore a yellow splash suit, goggles, a hard hat, and the newly-fitted respirator, hung around her neck.

  The four male employees she’d gone through orientation with were dressed and waiting, and when they spotted her, they guffawed and whistled.

  Diana couldn’t help but join in the laughter. “If anyone finds out I’ve been moonlighting as Big Bird, I’m done for.”

  Michael Montoya, clad in a white splash suit, walked toward them. “Relax, kiddies. Once we’re in the plant, everybody looks the same. My name’s Michael. I’ll be showing you around the place today.”

  Carmen’s soon-to-be-ex seemed like a nice man. He was cordial to the group, but Diana thought she recognized a certain sadness about him. No doubt his unhappiness had everything to do with Carmen. Diana wondered if they’d talked, and if so, were they still going through with their divorce?

  The group meandered down the corridor, and Diana noted numerous glass displays. Posted on the bulletin boards were job postings, available seminars and numerous OSHA and EPA guidelines. Everywhere she looked she saw precautionary warnings: Acids and caustics . . . flammable liquids . . . ventilation and eye protection required beyond this point.

  “Creepy place,” she said, the comment by no means part of her act.

  Michael held open the door as everyone filed by. “It can be. I know these rules may seem like overkill. But they exist for a reason. I saw a man blinded once by his stubborn refusal to wear eyewear.” Michael’s expression became somber. “Then, of course, he sued because he lost his vision.”

  Outside, the heat played havoc with Diana’s protective clothing, and the chemical smells increased in strength. Gradually, though, she adjusted to both. The group passed numerous dayshift workers, who acknowledged Michael and stared at the new hires with unabashed curiosity.

  They climbed an assortment of catwalks, peered over railings, and crammed together while giving their guide their attention.

  Under Michael’s tutelage, Diana learned Jordan was not unlike a small city. Because the plant required massive energy to operate, the facility had its own generating station. Michael motioned to the stacks and chutes several hundred yards away.

  “Where there’s electricity, there’s also a need for water. This prerequisite sometimes proves difficult. After all, we’re in Texas and in the middle of a desert. We pipe in water daily.” He pointed to a huge storage unit. “That tank over yonder holds one hundred thousand gallons of H2O.”

  After a question and answer session, Michael turned toward a sea of metal alloy tanks, explaining that a number of units existed underground as well.

  “Why are some of the tanks shaped differently?” a man hired to work in Accounting asked.

  “Those are the reaction vessels,” Michael explained, resting his arms on the railing. “See those connecting pipes? Compounds are piped in where they undergo different chemical reactions. From there, they’re treated and transferred to storage tanks.”

  Diana smiled, appreciating his ability to simplify what must’ve been a complicated process. “Are there byproducts?” she asked.

  “Byproducts?” Michael gave her a surprised look.

  Instantly, Diana regretted asking, reminding herself that her alter ego was a mailroom worker with a high school education. She made a mental note to keep her questions to herself, no matter how much she wanted to know the answer.

  “Good question, Candy,” Michael replied instead. “Yeah, oftentimes byproducts are produced. Jordan tries to reuse as much as possible. Sometimes we turn them into compost. If we can’t use them, then they’re chemically neutralized before going into landfills or ground water.” He glanced at her to see if he’d answered her question fully and turned to the men. “Any other questions?”

  With that portion of the tour completed, Michael led them through the control rooms and into the laboratories. Staring through glass windows at technicians and chemists wearing white coats and oversized glasses, Diana would have paid big bucks to talk to any one of them. Passing the various labs, she noticed that a magnetic entry card was required on every door.

  An entry card like the one Michael wore attached to his belt, or the card Buddy used when he distributed mail. Suddenly, Diana’s gaze became fixed on the device on Michael’s belt.

  Would Buddy’s card access the labs?

  A man dressed in protective garb left one of the rooms on the far side of the hall. Diana glanced up to see the room number etched on glass. Lab ten. According to Leo’s notebook, his replacement, Allen Murdock, worked in this area.

  How frustrating to be this close and unable to talk to the man.

  The man who’d departed Lab Ten removed his eyewear, and Diana saw it was the plant manager, Vic Hagen. Hagen walked in their direction, and as he approached, he said to Michael, “Mike, got a second?”

  “Be right there,” their tour guide said, then to the group added, “Feel free to look around, but don’t wander from this area. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As the two rounded the corner, Diana chewed her bottom lip. She might be wasting her time, but when would she get another opportunity like this? Enlisting her companions as alibis if necessary, she asked, “Do ya’ll think there’s a ladies’ room nearby?”

  The men, as she assumed they would, shook their heads.

  “I gotta find one. Be right back.”

  Diana peered around the corner, observing that Michael and Vic had turned down another hallway. Adrenaline shot through her as she followed, pausing at the intersecting corridors.

  Walt Bingham, the man who’d fitted her with the respirator, stood between them. By the easy way they spoke with one another, the three
could’ve been discussing the weather. Michael crossed his arms and planted a foot against the wall.

  Diana bit her lip harder as she strained to hear.

  “All set for tonight?” Vic asked.

  “New crew’s in place. You want us here at ten?” Michael asked.

  “I do,” Vic said. “Schedule’s tight, but, by god, it’s working. Not much longer. Any problems I should know about?”

  “Either of you notice the new woman who started on Monday?”

  Uh-oh. Diana stiffened. Why was Walt bringing her into the conversation?

  “She’s on the tour with me now,” Michael said. “She ate lunch with Carmen on Monday. Why?”

  “Found her looking at my calendar this morning.”

  “What the hell for?” Vic asked.

  “Said she was verifying she had an appointment with me because I was late.”

  “Were you?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah, I was. Forget I mentioned it. It’s just been buggin’ me, that’s all.”

  “You think she’s up to something?” Vic said.

  “Naw. Honestly, the girl seems dumber than rocks.”

  Diana rolled her eyes. On behalf of her alias, she took exception.

  The three laughed at Walt’s slight. Diana let out a relieved breath, until Michael added, “She didn’t impress me as being slow.”

  “Why’s that?” Walt asked.

  “On the tour she asked about byproducts.”

  “Pretty smart rock,” Vic said. “Looking through calendars, asking questions. She could be a plant, working for the competition. Get rid of her.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” Walt asked. “She doesn’t report to any of us.”

  “Well, who in the hell does she work for?” Vic asked.

  “Mulberry.”

  “Then talk to Harold. She’s probationary. We don’t need a whole lot of reason to fire her. Tell him she so much as jams a copier, to let her go. Got it?”

  Walt nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”