by Diane Castle
“Maybe not, but it wouldn’t shock me if Dr. Schaeffer could.”
“So what you’re saying is that it’s okay to bend the rules in this case because PetroPlex bent them to start with?”
I took a deep breath. “It wouldn’t be bending the rules. It would be returning to me what is mine. I’m saying I can help you in return. I’m saying we can help each other. Do you really feel like your life is worth less than that of someone who lives in Houston? Do you really believe your value is dictated by your geographic location? Help me show PetroPlex that your life matters, too.”
Nash laughed—so not the reaction I was hoping for. “I can see how you’d be a threat in front of a jury. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m saying that two wrongs don’t make a right, so I can’t break protocol and let you in. Meanwhile, if you have a problem with the current legislation, make sure you vote for someone who hasn’t taken campaign contributions from Big Oil in the next election. That’s how you right that wrong.”
“Right,” I said sarcastically. “Because it’s that easy. Listen up, because I’m about to tell you how the system really works.”
Nash raised his eyebrows.
“It’s like this. Crude oil and gasoline contain dangerous hydrocarbons like benzene. The government has known that benzene causes cancer since about 1900, and the EPA has had it listed as a known human carcinogen for over thirty years. It is a Class A carcinogen, which is the most toxic designation the EPA hands out. It means we know benzene causes cancer. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
“Okay,” Nash said. “It’s not like anybody thinks oil is actually healthy to be around. This is not news.”
I ignored him and continued. “Benzene is so toxic that if you filled up one measuring cup and let it evaporate in a football stadium, ambient air levels would still be 3.3 times higher than the OSHA safe-air standard, and 6.6 times the NIOSH standard. Think about that for a minute. A single cup of benzene is enough to expose everyone in a football stadium to air that is six times more toxic than the legal limit. But a cup of benzene is nothing. Benzene is everywhere. This stuff is a natural part of crude oil and gasoline, and it’s also found in all oil refinery waste products, which are rarely disposed of properly.”
Our waiter arrived with the fajitas. I inhaled the scent of char-grilled bliss and stuffed my face with the meaty goodness.
“In fact,” I said, not even caring that I was talking with my mouth full, “benzene makes up 1% of crude oil and accounts for up to 5% of gasoline vapors, which means you can also essentially poison everybody who is sitting in a football field with only six gallons of unsealed crude oil, or one and a half gallons of an uncorked bottle of gasoline. And yet, Corpus Christi, the U.S. City with more oil refineries than any other city except for Los Angeles, dumped seventy tons of benzene in 2007 alone. Seventy tons! That’s way more than a single cup.”
Nash’s eyes went wide as he processed those numbers. Clearly this was news to him. “Seventy tons. . .” Nash’s gaze went to the ceiling as he did some quick mental math. “That’s. . . what? Almost 18,000 gallons, assuming a gallon of benzene is roughly equivalent to a gallon of water?”
“Or if you break that down even further into cups,” I said, “enough to expose three-hundred-thousand football stadiums full of people to toxic air. Maybe my math is not perfect, but you get the idea. That’s also the equivalent of benzene exposure you’d see in a twenty-nine million gallon oil spill, which would be almost three times the size of the Exxon Valdez. Data from the Texas Department of State Health Services reveals a birth defects rate in Corpus Christi that is 84% higher than the rest of the country. So if you’re feeling romantic and want to settle down and have children, don’t do it in Corpus Christi.”
A strange look passed across Nash’s face. I wondered briefly what his romantic ambitions might be, but I didn’t dwell long on that thought. He was good looking, but what woman would ever be able to crack his shell?
“Meanwhile, our politicians allow this to happen. Both parties. They’re both so beholden to Big Oil for campaign contributions they don’t care who gets hurt. Everybody who lives in this town—and countless other towns just like this one—is exposed. A lot of people have died—including Gracie’s husband. I work my butt off every day trying to hold these polluters accountable, and I get virtually no help. I’m asking you for help. Help me get justice for Gracie. Let me in to Schaeffer’s house, and I’ll help you get justice for Schaeffer.”
Nash stared down at the table for a long moment, drumming his fingers on the polished wood surface. When he raised his eyes, he almost looked sad. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t. But if you really want to help me get justice for Schaeffer, you can tell me where you think he stashed all those files.”
The fajitas I’d just inhaled felt like they had turned to rocks in my stomach. I snatched the napkin off my lap, wiped my hands on it, and tossed it on the table as I stood up. “I’m sorry,” I said, putting all the ice I could muster into my voice. “I just can’t. Dinner’s over. Take me home.”
Nash paid the bill, and we drove back to Kettle in silence.
CHAPTER 5
The phone in Delmont’s chambers rang.
It was about time. Delmont was sick of waiting around. Sick of waiting for a call that he shouldn’t have had to wait for in the first place. Taylor and Nash must have really been talking it up. He was gonna be late for the poker game, at this rate. His wife had been nagging him to host one of their bi-weekly poker sessions at his house for years, and he’d never given in until tonight. If he showed up late, he’d never hear the end of it.
These losers had really screwed up. They couldn’t have offed the guy at a worse time. Not only did it look bad in light of the docket schedule, they had to go and do it right when Nash was sure to be assigned to the case. Delmont knew Nash’s history, and he knew Nash couldn’t be bought off. If these screw-ups had consulted him first, as they had discussed, they wouldn’t be in the pickle they were in now. Delmont would love to get his hands on the guy with the happy trigger finger.
He picked up the phone. “Talk to me.”
“They’re en route. Maybe five minutes.”
Delmont slammed the phone down, not bothering to say “thanks” or “goodbye.”
Immediately, he picked it back up and dialed another number.
The call connected. “Chief Scott,” barked the voice on the other end.
Delmont said, “Five minutes. What’s your status?”
Chief Scott hesitated. “I’m sorry. Best I can tell, she was squeaky clean before today.”
Delmont swore. “Clear out. We’re late for the game, anyway. My wife is gonna have my hide.”
“You shouldn’t have let her talk you into hosting in the first place.”
“I know, but a man can only take so much nagging before he gives in.”
“She’s not gonna play, is she?”
“Course not. But I gotta warn you, she’s been buying all kinds of ridiculous paraphernalia for weeks. Just put it on and humor her, all right?”
“All right, then.”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER 6
Anna Delmont looked at the clock for maybe the hundredth time that evening. Where the heck was her husband? Joe Bob always acted like he could hardly wait to get out the door and get to the poker games at Dick’s house. He was never late to Dick’s house. How come he’d be late to his own party? And why in tarnation wasn’t he answering his phone?
She kept calling up to the courthouse, but all the staff had gone home by now. Maybe she ought to go up there and drag him out of his chambers with her own two hands. But what if the other guests arrived while she was gone and there was no one here to greet them when they finally got here?
Anna paced back and forth across the living room, wringing her hands. She took a detour to the window, hoping to see someone approaching the house, but there was no one there. She sighed. Had she gone to all this trouble for nothing?
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br /> She’d spent weeks picking out all the decorations. Joe Bob had never, ever let her come within a mile of one of his “guy’s night outs” before, and she was dying of curiosity to see what happened during all these poker games. She wanted everything to be perfect. She wanted all the boys to want to come back.
She’d set out the green felt-top table and bought everyone buttons to pin to their shirt. They were battery-operated gadgets with red flashing lights that said stuff like “High Roller” and “Pit Boss.” She’d also put up seventies-style beaded curtains all around the room, except they were made of strings of various sizes of red dice instead of beads. She’d also bought everyone their very own pair of green suspenders covered in diamonds, hearts, clubs, and spades, and matching green transparent visors to match. Mylar balloons decorated with cards and dice were tied to the back of every player’s chair, and she’d set up a real fancy slot machine centerpiece on the green felt table to spruce it up. Everything was looking mighty fine. Joe Bob was sure to be proud of her handiwork.
Her doorbell rang, playing the melody to Stars and Stripes Forever. Her interchangeable custom chimes were the envy of all the women in the neighborhood.
She plastered on a big, welcoming smile and threw the door wide. A little man with a big cigar in his mouth stood at her entryway, puffing foul smoke into the house. It was Dick Richardson, who she knew through Joe Bob, of course—but even if she hadn’t, she couldn’t have failed to recognize him from his obnoxious television commercials. Anna didn’t want to let him in with the cigar, but she didn’t want to be rude either, especially since this was her very first poker party. Her dismay must have shown on her face.
“What? No smoking in the house?” Dick asked.
“Well. . .” Anna said.
Dick took a long drag from the cigar, dropped it on her custom welcome mat, and ground it out with his foot. “Don’t worry about it,” Dick said. “Long as you got Jack and Coke in the house, everything’ll be fine.”
Anna eyed the ruined mat. Well, it wasn’t like she couldn’t get another one. Joe Bob always gave her plenty of spending money. And who could expect men to really pay attention to niceties like welcome mats, anyway? Men would be men.
Dick strode past her into the room and eyed the set-up. He let out a low whistle. “Wow,” he said. “You sure got the place done up.”
Anna beamed with pride. “You like it?”
“It’s. . . something else,” Dick said.
Anna couldn’t help but notice the look of astonishment on his face as he took in the balloons, pins, dice curtains, and centerpiece. That wow-factor had been exactly what she’d been going for. She felt herself warming up to Dick in spite of the whole cigar incident.
“Don’t tell me I’m the first one here,” Dick said.
“You are. For the life of me, I can’t account for everyone else. Sit down. Let me get you a drink.”
She bustled into the kitchen to pour him a Jack and Coke. She had tried to bake a spade-shaped cake, but the darn thing had burned, so there were no refreshments other than the booze.
She returned to present Dick with his drink when her doorbell chimed again.
This time it was old Judge Hooper, the town’s criminal court judge. Judge Hooper was a nice, elderly man with a kind grin who walked with a cane. He didn’t show up on her doorstep with a cigar. No siree. She ushered him in and he patted her on the back kindly.
“How you doing, little lady?” he asked, and looked around. “My goodness. Ain’t you just gone all out!”
“Nothing but the best for you,” Anna said, smiling. Really, she ought to host poker games more often. She couldn’t understand why Joe Bob had always seemed so against it.
Right then, she heard Joe Bob slam through the back door. He stomped into the living room and stopped short.
“I’ll be darned. It’s worse than I thought,” he said.
Anna’s face fell.
“What the. . .” Joe Bob muttered as he strode toward the felt-top table. “Why you got a slot machine in the middle of our playing area? What’s the matter with you, woman?”
She’d just wanted to break up all that empty green space. And after all, every good party table had a centerpiece.
“As long as real money comes out of it, I like it,” Dick said.
“Yeah, I’ve never seen you turn down a buck.” Joe Bob picked up the slot machine and dropped it unceremoniously on the sofa, then turned to Anna. “Where’s the snacks?”
Anna’s heart started beating rapidly, her lower lip threatened to start trembling, and her eyelids started to sting. She didn’t want to admit she’d burned the cake in front of all of Joe Bob’s friends. “I was expecting you to be more thirsty than hungry at this hour,” she said. “I restocked the whole bar. Can I get you a drink?”
“Don’t tell me you burned the cake?” Joe Bob said.
Anna flushed.
“Never mind,” Judge Hooper said. “I already had dinner.”
“Me too,” Dick chimed in.
“Well I ain’t,” Joe Bob said. “Anna, you run on out and get us a pizza, all right?”
“All right,” she said.
She left just as Police Chief Scott, Mayor Fillion, and a couple of other men were arriving.
Once inside the safety and relative privacy of her car and surrounded by the open road, she let a few tears fall from her eyes. Just a few. It wouldn’t be a good idea to indulge in unseemly emotions out in public.
Of course Joe Bob wasn’t the perfect husband. But he had always given her so much—he always made sure she had the best dresses and the best house in the neighborhood, and he was always sending her into Houston for overnight spa vacations and shopping trips. All the other neighborhood ladies were so jealous. So if she didn’t often receive the affection from him she felt like she needed, she couldn’t really complain. After all, he was a man, and she couldn’t blame him for bottling up his feminine side.
Really, she figured she had done pretty well snagging Joe Bob. It was too much to expect to find an absolutely perfect man. They just didn’t exist. She and Joe Bob had been married and faithful to each other for over 30 years, ever since she was crowned the Kettle beauty queen her senior year in high school. Sure, maybe she sometimes longed for a man with a softer side, but she and Joe Bob had such a solid history, and she would never throw that away or betray his trust. Even if he sometimes hurt her feelings, her eye had never really strayed. She loved Joe Bob, and Joe Bob only, and she was sure he felt the same way about her.
All that notwithstanding, she’d have some strong words for him after all the guests left tonight. He’d been late to an event he knew she’d been planning and looking forward to for ages, and then he’d embarrassed her in front of his friends. That would never do.
CHAPTER 7
Nash walked me to my front door. I was unclear on the protocol. I knew it hadn’t been a date, but he was hovering awfully close. I thought maybe he might even lean in for a hug, if not a kiss, but given the fact that I knew I was about to break the law for the second time that day, I stepped back.
“Well,” he said. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “For nothing.” Nash had frustrated me to no end. It was hard on my already bruised ego. It made me feel like being rude. Not the best way to be, I’ll admit, but I hated feeling like an ineffective, pansy pushover.
“Nothing?” Nash ran his hands through his hair in a way that might have seemed self-conscious, if it were possible for Nash to feel such an emotion. “How about for dinner? If it weren’t for me, you’d be eating Ramen.”
“A temporary inconvenience,” I said.
“I have no doubt.”
He lingered. I could hear Lucy scratching at the door, impatient for me to come inside.
“Have a good night,” I said, shifting my weight back and forth on my feet uncomfortably.
“You too.”
We shook hands, and he left.
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nbsp; When I went inside, Lucy seemed unusually perturbed. She was always excited for me to come home, but tonight, she seemed more hyper than usual. She danced around, eyes bulging, tongue lolling out. She was shaking, kind of like she does when a big thunderstorm rolls through town, or when a stranger invades her territory.
Alarmed, I looked around, but nothing seemed to be out of place.
I scooped her up to soothe her. “Whatsamatter?” I asked. “Did the big, bad detective scare you? It’s okay, baby. He’s a nice detective. But between you and me, he’s a little anal.”
Lucy wagged her tail slightly, but continued to shake.
“Honeypie!” I said. “It’s okay! What’s wrong?”
If only dogs could talk. No matter how much I stroked and soothed her, she wouldn’t calm down. I couldn’t leave her like this, and I knew I had to leave immediately. Or at least once Nash was good and gone.
“Ride in the car?” I asked. She perked up. Those were the magic words. “Yeah! Momma will take you for a ride in the car!”
Lucy loved to ride in the car. One time I had taken her on a car trip to Florida—a thirteen hour drive. When we got there, I was exhausted, and so was she. As a joke, after I unpacked, I asked her if she wanted to ride in the car again. She hopped back in, ready to go. I had to forcibly pull her out and bring her inside.
She leapt out of my arms and pranced in circles in front of the door.
“Ride in the car?” I cooed again. She bucked like an impatient horse.
I fished around in my purse for my car keys.
I debated about whether or not to call Miles. The bottom line was, I needed Schaeffer’s files. While I knew Miles would love to get his hands on them, his livelihood wasn’t on the line like mine was. Right now, Miles just flat out had more options in life than I did. And if I was about to break into a crime scene illegally and disturb the evidence, why should I involve him? If I called and asked, I knew he would come even if he didn’t want to. But if I didn’t call him and I got caught, Miles would have complete deniability.