“Pete, I put it there,” Josh said. “We have a public health problem. We’re trying to warn people.”
“Right. And they won’t come. Keep it up and you’re gonna kill attendance at River Days. That’s one-quarter of my annual profit.”
“I can’t figure out why whoever tore down the posters took them to the newspaper,” Josh said as they waited for their orders.
“Because you made them,” said Allison.
“Yeah, but who would know that? The newspaper’s name wasn’t on them. The only people who know we’ve been investigating the jewelry are the cops, your patients, Darryl Dunn and whoever they might have told. Spike’s on the run. We can’t find Candi and Darryl’s dead.”
“The real problem is we still don’t know where Dunn got his metal and how much of it is out there,” Allison said. “There’s got to be some other way we can find out about Dunn’s metal dealing.” She told Josh about the chilly reception she’s received after tracking Dunn’s pickups and deliveries to the plant. “Do you think they’re hiding something?”
“Nah,” Josh said. “Security types are usually cop wannabees who didn’t make the grade. They get off on power. Besides, it makes sense that Dunn would deliver scrap to the plant. That’s what they do. Half the town owes their paycheck to that place.”
Josh saw Allison’s disappointment. He put down his fork. “We could go to the paper after lunch and make some phone calls. I used to play poker with the plant’s PR guy. Maybe he knows Dunn.”
“I walk with the woman who runs information technology.”
Furbee met them at the door with news of an attempted ad cancellation in the River Days section.
“Because of the posters?” Allison asked.
Furbee shrugged. “No reason given. People get upset. You won’t believe this, but someone actually threw a fish wrapped in a copy of the paper through our transom yesterday.”
“Fish-wrapper. Clever. Any explanation?”
“No,” Josh said. “That’s the weird thing.” He showed her the catfish in the freezer.
“That things got problems,” Allison said. “Look at those lesions behind the gills.”
“I should probably toss it.”
“I’ll take it. I know a guy at state fish and game who’ll want to see it.”
Josh called his old poker buddy. He hadn’t seen Jerry Baker in years—his seat in the Thursday night games had passed to someone else when Sharon got sick. Baker answered on the third ring.
“Jerry! Josh Gibbs. Long time, no see. You still drawing to those inside straights?”
He waited for a snappy comeback, Baker’s trademark. Instead he heard, “Hello, Josh. I didn’t expect to hear from you.” Baker sounded a bit formal, Josh thought.
“Hey, Jer, I’m hoping to get back in the game someday—win back some of that money you bluffed out of me—but I’m calling because I’m hoping you can help me out.”
Silence.
Josh plunged ahead. “Jerry, did you know that guy who got killed the other day? Darryl Dunn? Trucker who maybe delivered to your place.”
“I’m sorry, Josh, I can’t talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Because they—look, I just can’t okay?”
“Jerry, consider me a journalist asking the PR man. The guy may have been involved with some contaminated metal.”
“I have nothing to say. Not now.”
“How about I email you a few questions in case anything changes.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Jer, what’s going on? You know you can trust me.” He tried a light touch. “I promise I’m not bluffing.”
Silence.
“Okay, Jer. Hey, great talking to you. I’m emailing the questions now. And I’ll give you a call when I can come to the game.” Josh hung up. He turned to Allison, surprised and troubled by Baker’s response. “Stonewalled.”
“Let’s try the in-person approach.”
They took the Jeep and Allison was relieved to see Sara Cline’s BMW in her driveway when they arrived. Josh hung back as she rang the bell. No one answered. She pressed against a window, straining to see inside. Josh saw the rustle of curtains in an upstairs window. Allison knocked. And knocked again. They left after five minutes when no one came.
“Someone was upstairs,” Josh said. “Why would anyone be bothered that we’re asking about Dunn?”
“Maybe the problem’s not Dunn,” Allison said. “Maybe it’s me.”
“How so?”
“Think about it,” Allison said. “Does anyone who works for Vince Bludhorn want to be seen cooperating with his crazy ex-wife?”
“Like he’s going to fire them or something?”
“You don’t know Vince.”
There was pain in her voice, and something else.
“I’m serious. You have no idea what he’s capable of. Last week he broke into my house, took Hippocrates for a day, then broke back in and put him back.”
“Why?”
“To prove that he can still get to me. To show he’s still in control.”
Josh raised an eyebrow. “That sounds—”
“Paranoid?” Allison asked. “Maybe so.” Over time, she’d come to understand that it was easy to blame her ex for all her problems, including ones that were not his fault. “But as I said, you don’t know him like I do. Whatever the case, I’m out of ideas on what to do next.”
Chapter Forty-One
Dorn could almost hear the chop of the Potomac slapping against the hull of his beloved Liberty. Just thinking of the twenty-four foot sport fisherman soothed him. Docked at a marina in Lorton, the bobbing boat was his refuge an easy drive from the Capitol. A birthday gift from a coal industry lobbyist, the Liberty was Possum Island without the plane trip.
Sitting by his office window in the Rayburn building, he felt the summer sun warming his back. With any luck, he’d be pulling out of his slip at the marina by mid-afternoon Saturday. Shortly after that, he’d be at the fishing hole.
“Harry!” Dan Clendenin’s voice snapped Dorn out of his reverie. The sun had been blazing all day and the room heated beyond the capacity of the building’s air conditioning. Dorn removed his coat and surveyed the three casually dressed people—two men and a woman—who sat at a table in front of him. Former television journalists, each recognizable, they were now expense items on the Dorn campaign committee’s financials. A brilliant move by Clendenin, Dorn thought, to have real media types advising the presumptive new senator on how to deal with the national media. Today, Dorn knew, they would be impersonating the actual journalists who would be grilling the candidate on the Sunday political talk shows—appearances Clendenin had easily arranged once the Dorn campaign ad hit the airwaves and a Harry Dorn interview suddenly became the week’s number one media “get.” Next question,” Clendenin was saying. “Policy-related, if possible.”
Dorn put the Liberty and Possum Island out of his mind. The importance of Sunday appearances was always magnified by the fact that they usually produced news for two days—on Sunday when they were aired and then again in the Monday morning papers and on television news shows because there was usually little else to report.
Across the room, a phone in a drawer of Dorn’s oak desk warbled. It went to voice mail while he fielded a question about whether, as president, he would categorically rule out the use of nuclear weapons by the United States. “Certainly, we would never want to—and never expect to use—such weapons,” he said. “But to rule out their use categorically would mean that we should never have developed them and I do not believe that to be the case. In addition to their importance as a deterrent, their development has created thousands of jobs and led to important technological breakthroughs over the years.”
Clendenin applauded. “Well done!”
The phone warbled agai
n. Dorn rose to answer it.
“Sit down,” Clendenin commanded. “You can call them back. Next question. Hardball!”
The phone went silent just as the woman reporter’s voice boomed, “Congressman, have you always been faithful to your wife?”
Dorn twitched but recovered quickly as the phone resumed ringing. “Of course,” he smiled. “Excuse me.”
He walked to his desk and extracted a ringing silver cell phone from the drawer. He listed for a few seconds, mumbled something and hung up.
Clendenin told the journalists they were free to go. Dorn retreated to his inner sanctum and dialed the secure phone. Clendenin and Richey were waiting when he emerged a minute later. “Bludhorn at the plant,” he said.
“What’d he want?” Clendenin asked.
Dorn rolled his eyes. “Help, as usual. Some problem that the local paper’s digging into. I cut him off. I can’t be diddling with every single fine or regulation violation or whatever other mess they’ve gotten themselves into this time. Besides, it’s nothing. Just the Winston News.”
“I doubt they’d be calling you if it was ‘nothing,’” Clendenin said. “And if it’s anything, once word gets out, even if it is only the Winston News, the national press will be like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Every slip-up the plant has ever made will be dragged under the microscope and they’ll go from there to the money trail. They’ll dig up every dollar you or your campaign ever got from any executive, committee, or business associated with the plant. If you don’t believe me”—he gestured to the empty table, where the retired journalists had been—“ask them.”
Clendenin reminded Dorn of a doctor confidently predicting the course of a disease.
Clendenin continued, “If the worst happens, we can adopt the Will Rogers strategy: If a mob’s after you, stop running and start leading it.”
Dorn was appalled. “Turn against the plant?”
“You’re not the first politician who’s had to run from someone they were in bed with. Perhaps the plant has outlived its usefulness. If anything comes up, you declare yourself shocked—shocked—at the plant’s problems, this betrayal of public trust,” Clendenin continued. “You pledge to return every cent associated with the plant that’s ever come your way. Hell, you could even call for hearings.”
“Would we have to go that far?”
“If we can prevent a story, none of this is an issue.”
“We’ve got some leverage over the editor,” Richey reminded Dorn. “He called a couple of days ago on a health insurance problem he’s having. I told him that the Liberty Agenda doesn’t support government interference in private enterprise. But there’s always room for an exception. And you already have an appearance in Winston for the River Days kickoff.”
“Do nothing for now,” Dorn decided. “Ideally, there’s no story. But if a story does get out, Bludhorn’s on his own.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Chief Holt squealed into the newspaper’s parking lot just as Allison was climbing into the Wagoneer. Good timing, he thought. The doctor and the editor were making his life difficult. It needed to stop. He rolled down his window and halted her with a hand. “Cool your jets, Dr. Quinn, medicine woman.”
Holt got out of the patrol car. The chief’s day had started badly with a reminder from Viggy that he was overdue again. Then, he’d been told to prevent unauthorized people from talking to plant personnel. For whatever reason, the contact was a problem for his employers and that made it a problem for Holt. Another one. One he didn’t need. The call had interrupted practice at the range. Holt was still his wearing camouflage jacket.
Josh had emerged from the newspaper building. “What’s this about?” he asked.
“You know exactly what,” Holt snapped. “We’ve got Old Fashioned River Days. We’ve got a murder. Then you come along with the warning signs, the snooping at the plant, all this uproar about radioactive jewelry. Like we have nothing else to do.”
“Chief, it’s not just about jewelry,” Allison argued. “We could be looking at a health emergency. We need to protect the public.”
“Which should be your job,” Josh injected.
“Screw you.” It was all Holt could do to keep himself from decking the editor.
Allison took a deep breath. They needed cooperation, not confrontation. “Chief,” she said calmly, “I know you’re maxed out with River Days. But exposure to radioactivity can be deadly. People have already been hurt.”
“Wackos with nipple rings,” Holt snorted. “Instead of worrying about radioactivity, how about helping us find that Spike character. Now there’s a real killer.”
“He didn’t do it,” Allison said firmly. “He couldn’t even hold a bat when we saw him, much less pull a trigger.”
“It was him or another one of Dunn’s drug customers. The guy was a meth dealer. We found all the equipment.” Holt was certain of his facts. He personally had found the meth cooker.
Allison didn’t see how that could be. She hadn’t seen any signs of drug use by Spike or evidence of sales by Dunn on either visit. With her experience in Detroit, she knew what to look for. But perhaps she had overlooked something.“Even if Dunn was a meth dealer, that doesn’t change the fact that he was selling radioactive metal,” Allison said. “We don’t know how he got it but we do know he made pickups at places that handle radioactive material and that he delivered many of his loads to the plant.”
“They’re stonewalling us for information,” Josh added. “That always makes me suspicious.”
“Get over it. They’re just private. I know. I moonlight up there from time to time.” Holt saw a look pass between Josh and Allison and realized he’d made a mistake.
Josh was incredulous. “Seems to me your moonlighting is serving two masters—the town and the plant. That’s a conflict of interest.”
Holt was incensed. His work was private. He never let the plant take priority over his work for the taxpayers. Not only that, the question was patently unfair. If anyone ever compared the hours he worked versus what he was paid, he wouldn’t be getting the minimum wage. “My loyalty’s to Winston but if Winston wants a chief who doesn’t need a second job just to pay the bills, then it needs to raise the pay, pure and simple. You know what I get paid to be the police chief? Forty-two grand. I need the money.” Anyway, he was thinking about giving it up. He needed the money but the plant people were becoming increasingly demanding.
“Plenty of families live on that.”
I could, too, if the Reds could hold a lead, Holt thought.
“Have you heard anything about problems while you’ve been working at the plant?” Allison asked.
Holt shook his head. If there had been any, no one had told him. “I keep people out. That’s all I do.”
“You’re a law enforcement officer,” Josh protested. “You have to be aware of things.”
Allison wasn’t so sure. She had great confidence in her ability to read people. As she watched Holt rub the lenses of his glasses with his shirt, as if cleaning them would somehow bring the picture into focus, she was inclined to think he was telling the truth.
Seeing Josh ready for another assault, she stepped in. “Chief, ask your bosses at the plant if there have been any radioactivity problems. You decide what to do from there.”
Allison’s question about problems had made Holt curious enough that he had already decided to make some inquiries—but discretely, not in the direct manner Allison had in mind. Meanwhile, he needed them to back off. “I’ll ask around but you should cool it. They’ve never taken kindly to people who stick their noses into their business—whether it’s unions or federal regulators. Or for that matter, the local doctor or the local newspaper editor. Watch yourself.”
Allison nodded. Holt looked at Josh who nodded, too. Holt felt satisfied that the message had gotten across, that he had done his job. Best case
, he could report that he had succeeded in calling off the dogs. At minimum, he had bought some time. He returned to his car and drove off.
“All bark, no bite,” Josh said. “Empty threats from a lackey.”
Allison believed Holt. She thought she’d seen fear in the police chief.
Josh looked at his watch. “It’s late. Let’s meet at my place tomorrow morning and figure out where to go from here.”
Josh’s phone rang just as Allison’s tail lights faded from sight. Katie’s cell phone. To be used at camp only in emergencies. His heart skipped. “Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?”
The shrieks and laughter of teenage girls reassured him even before Katie spoke.
“Hi, Dad. I’m fine. I had to use my cell because someone’s on the lodge phone. I have to talk fast because my battery is low and I didn’t bring my charger. Can I stay for the second part? I’m having a really great time.”
Josh heard a girl shout in the background. “Let Katie stay!”
He had anticipated such a last-minute appeal.
“Please, Dad. All my friends are staying.”
There was no way. Just today he’d received a letter from Dr. Pepper about the pre-admission procedure for Katie. He wanted her there early Tuesday for the pre-operative work-ups. His hand-written postscript—“Time is of the essence!”—had been underlined.
“I’m sorry, Katie, but you know the situation.”
“Puhleeze,” she pleaded.
“You can go for both sessions next year.”
Katie would have none of it. “I don’t see how a few more days matter. Besides, my leg feels fine.”
Josh held firm. “Sorry. Doctor’s orders.”
“That’s so mean!”
He swallowed hard and changed the subject. “Tell me some news.”
“I got camper of the week.”
“That’s wonderful,” he said brightly. “I’m very proud of you.”
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