Where Danger Hides

by Terry Odell

  Dalton sighed. Back to following the money.

  He’d traced Patterson’s financial records to their original source—Patterson Enterprises, Inc. But there were layers upon layers of subsidiaries, holding companies, tax dodges he held no hope of understanding.

  This was ridiculous. Blackie must have been crazy to think he could find anything in a maze of financial records. He was a field operative, not a computer geek.

  Wait. He gave himself a mental slap upside the head. Blackie hadn’t said stick to computers. No, he’d said keep the investigation off the radar.

  He saved the last downloads to his flash drive and shut off the computer. Time to play his hole cards. Sometimes the best way in was right through the front door. He picked up the phone.

  “Grace? I could use a little help.”

  * * * * *

  At three that afternoon, dressed in his second-best suit, Dalton sat in Andrew Patterson’s outer office. Dark wood paneling lined the walls. Plush carpet the color of port wine covered the floor. Instead of the expected potted plants, marble pedestals held works of art, from pre-Colombian to modern glass. Behind a substantial desk, a conservatively dressed young woman flashed him the occasional smile, revealing perfect white teeth. Madeline Scott, only twenty years younger.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you something, Mr. Drummond? Coffee? Tea? Bottled water? We have some excellent pastries. Or some fresh fruit?”

  “That’s most generous ma’am, but I’m fine.”

  She seemed disappointed. “I’m sure Mr. Patterson won’t be much longer.” Another smile peeked out. “He’s on an international conference call.”

  “Not a problem.” He drizzled more Texas into his speech. “I’m grateful he’s willing to see me on such short notice. I really appreciate you squeezing me in.”

  “Oh, I had nothing to do with that.”

  He widened his smile. “I don’t believe that for a minute. People like Mr. Patterson rely on others to keep them on schedule. If he’s seeing me today, it’s because you found an opening, and as I said, I’m much obliged.”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Mr. Patterson is always happy to discuss his projects.”

  “How is his quest to improve the living conditions of the migrant workers coming along? I was at his gala and was most impressed.”

  In the midst of a canned, although animated, recitation of the hype he’d been reading for the past three days, her gaze shifted to her phone. “Excuse me, Mr. Drummond, but Mr. Patterson is off the line. I’ll let him know you’re here before he gets busy again.”

  He stood and straightened the bolo fastener on his string tie, reviewing the cover story he and Grace established. Competent, but not flashy. Nothing to have Patterson chafing at the bit to go along with his proposed scheme. Nothing to encourage Patterson to dig too deep. “I do thank you, Miss—?”

  “Grantham. Belinda.”

  “Well, I thank you again, Belinda Grantham.”

  She pushed her chair back and glided across the carpet to open the door for him. Dalton held back long enough for her to announce him, then stepped into Andrew Patterson’s private space, his cowboy boot heels sinking into the plush like it was river silt. As in his reception area, Patterson’s office displayed the tools of his trade, with art rather than books on his shelves. More dark wood paneling and a cherry wood desk the size of an aircraft carrier deck dominated the room. Patterson sent a welcoming smile across the vast space before walking around to shake his hand.

  “Come in, Mr. Drummond. Can I get you some coffee? I’m about ready for an afternoon caffeine hit myself.”

  “It’s not necessary, Mr. Patterson. No need to go to any trouble.”

  “Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all. Part of my routine. It’s a Kona blend I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”

  Of course it was no trouble. All Patterson needed to do was push a button, speak a few words, and Belinda would appear. “In that case, I’ll be happy to join you.”

  Instead of pushing an intercom, Patterson leaned out the door with his command. Crossing through the office, he paused to accept the business card Dalton extended. One of several he’d created earlier this afternoon.

  “Lone Star Growers Consortium,” Patterson read. He set the card on his desk and descended into his oversized leather chair. “Please. Sit.”

  Dalton sat in a junior version of Patterson’s throne. “I’ve been hearing good things about your project.”

  Patterson nodded. “I can’t say I’ve heard of your company, Mr. Drummond.” His eyebrows twitched. “But then, most of my endeavors have revolved in different circles, so to speak. My current project is a voyage into uncharted waters.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I do my homework, Mr. Patterson. And in reality, I work for a Texas consulting firm. The Consortium is my current client, and I’m here on their behalf.” He paused, ready to drag out another business card, hoping he wouldn’t have to.

  “Go on.” Patterson leaned back, his pale blue eyes attentive.

  Dalton met his gaze. “The Consortium is a collection of Texan produce growers trying to improve business. I’ve been researching California growers for the past month. Your name has come up on more than one occasion. As a matter of fact, I was at your fundraiser not long ago.” Dalton kept a pleasant smile on his face although his pulse kicked up to a rapid trot. “One of my clients was kind enough to give me his invitation when he couldn’t attend.”

  He and Grace agreed that it was possible Patterson would remember him from the gala, and they decided to be aboveboard about it. Better to say it first rather than deal with that uncomfortable, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” repartee.

  He went right on, not giving Patterson time to ask which client, although he and Grace covered that as well. “I was most impressed with your endeavor. And, I admit, more than a little surprised.”

  “And what surprised you?”

  “You’re a patron of the arts. What information I’ve been able to find doesn’t remotely approach the realms of manual labor.”

  “I felt it was time to get closer to the earth, so to speak. The arts are lofty pleasures, but without basic human survival needs, it’s difficult to appreciate them.” Patterson displayed a plastic smile. “I’m a businessman. I hoped that by bringing my talents to another facet of life, I might do good for a broader cross-section of our society.”

  Dalton nodded in feigned approval. “I understand. And from what I’ve seen, you’re doing very well.”

  Before Patterson could respond, there was a light tap on the door. It opened, and Belinda breezed in, carrying a large silver coffee service and two delicate white china cups trimmed in silver.

  “Here you are, sir,” she said, setting the tray on the credenza behind the desk. Dalton couldn’t help but notice a more rugged coffee mug sitting beside a sculpture of a breeching humpback whale. The ornate service was for his benefit.

  The tray held a platter of assorted cookies as well as the coffee. Belinda poured, doling out a smile in his direction. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black is fine.”

  She nodded, handing him a cup and saucer. She placed a second in front of Patterson, who took two cookies and set them on his saucer, his eyes paying more attention to Belinda’s rump than his snack.

  “Will there be anything else, Mr. Patterson?” she asked.

  He shook his head in dismissal, and she sauntered toward the door.

  Dalton wondered if all the wiggle was for Patterson’s benefit. “Very efficient. Easy on the eyes, too.”

  Patterson chewed on a cookie. “I don’t mind admitting I like attractive things. A good admin is worth her weight in gold. A good and attractive admin? Priceless.” He winked.

  Dalton relaxed at the obvious change in Patterson’s attitude. A couple of good old boys who happened to be businessmen.

  Patterson picked up the second cookie, holding it in the air between them. “What is it you w
ant from me, Mr. Drummond?”

  Dalton replaced his cup in the saucer with a quiet clink. “Well, Mr. Patterson. Lone Star has reached a plateau. They’ve recently acquired substantial acreage, but the supply of workers can’t justify expanded planting. No point in letting crops rot. Like everything else nowadays, we need a gimmick. Something special to attract a bigger and better workforce.”

  “I would hardly call raising the level of basic creature comforts a gimmick.” Patterson waved the cookie again, then broke it in two and popped half in his mouth.

  “You’re right,” Dalton said. “Poor choice of words. But the bottom line is, your projections are for an increased, more stable employee base. The Consortium needs that as well.

  “I’d be mighty obliged if you’d share some of your expertise. Maybe let me visit your construction site, see your project in action? Maybe even see how you wrangle your rich investors?” He held his hands out, palms up. “I can assure you, Lone Star has no interest in competing with you. We want to maximize our own share of the market. With the current labor laws, it seems harder and harder to get workers.”

  Patterson pursed his lips. “Texas, you say? I suspect the tighter borders might cut down on your workforce.”

  “Not my workforce. I’m a simple consultant looking for methods, not people. The members of the Consortium follow the law, I’m sure.”

  Patterson nodded at the obvious lie. Dalton returned the nod. How many Texas pickers carried green cards, much less valid US citizenship? The man had to know that held true for California’s labor pool as well. Was Grace concerned that Patterson might be edging into the wrong side of Immigration? That by being involved with the migrants, he’d be associated with gray areas of the law?

  Patterson sat up straighter, in total PR mode. Tempted to turn around to see if a television crew had materialized, Dalton struggled to keep a straight face as Patterson went into his spiel.

  “I see the workers as human beings first. People who are putting food on our tables. They deserve a more comfortable life than what many camps offer. If I can be of help, we, the consumers, have everything to gain. A healthy workforce, both physically and mentally, is more productive. And increased productivity benefits everyone.”

  “Spoken like a true businessman.” When Patterson’s eyebrows came together, Dalton hastened to go on. “And that’s why I’m here, sir. Everything I’ve heard about you points to the fact that you are one top-notch businessman. If you’d be willing to share some of that expertise, then our Texas growers will also have better conditions and increased productivity.”

  “Perhaps. I have thought of my project as a prototype for others like it, although not quite this soon. Our first community is only the beginning.” Patterson poured another cup of coffee, tilting his head toward Dalton’s cup and lifting his brows.

  “Thanks,” Dalton said. He stood and moved nearer the desk, sliding his cup closer to Patterson. His hand stroked the smooth wood. “Very impressive. Antique?”

  Patterson shook his head. “No. Just old. It was the first piece of office furniture I bought. It made me feel successful. Gave me the confidence I needed.” He chuckled. “And kept me motivated to burn the midnight oil to pay it off.”

  “I will say, it’s obvious you’ve put in the hours.” Dalton took his cup to the credenza and tipped in a little cream. He rubbed his belly. “Never liked adulterating a good cup of joe, but doc says if I refuse to cut out the coffee, the cream makes it easier on the stomach lining.” He picked up the bronze whale. “Right fine piece of work. I remember the first time I saw one of these creatures in the Texas gulf. Blew me away.” He checked the bottom. “Sandie Casper. Gotta remember that name.”

  He made a pretense of strolling around and admiring more of Patterson’s office accoutrements before returning to his chair. “I’m sorry. You’re a busy man, and here I am, acting like I’m at one of your museums.”

  “Not a problem. I’m glad you enjoy my little collection.”

  “It’s time to cut to the chase.” He perched on the edge of his chair. “If you had financial support, would you consider expanding your migrant project into Texas?”

  Patterson’s lips pursed in and out. “Perhaps.”

  Dalton straightened his spine and delivered the lines like an often-repeated sales pitch. “I have the authority to open a discussion of a cooperative effort between Patterson Enterprises and the Consortium. Anything from a consultation to a partnership.”

  Patterson stroked his chin like an imaginary beard. “I’ll have to think about that. May I call you?”

  “Of course. I’ll leave my number with your assistant.” He stood. “I’m in California for a few more days. It would be very helpful if I could see your operation before I leave.”

  “I think we can arrange something. I’ll have to check with my foreman.”

  “I’ll look forward to your call.”

  Patterson stood and shook Dalton’s hand once more. “You’ve given me some interesting ideas, Mr. Drummond. Thank you for stopping by.”

  On his way out, Dalton paused, waiting for Belinda to finish a phone call.

  “I think you need to be more careful, Wendy,” she said. “Talk to you next week.” Frowning, she shook her head and replaced the receiver.

  He stepped into her line of vision. Her cheeks reddened.

  “My sister,” she said, apparently flustered at being caught on a personal call. “New boyfriend.”

  “Younger sister?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Guess I’m overprotective.”

  “Never hurts to have someone watching out for you.” He smiled. “I’ll leave you my card. I’d be obliged if you make sure the number gets into Mr. Patterson’s address book. I’ll be expecting his call.”

  “Right away, Mr. Drummond.” He wandered toward the door, ostensibly admiring one of the paintings while he watched her add his number to her computer. Patterson probably hadn’t placed a call himself in twenty years.

  “Y’all have a good day.”

  “One minute,” she said. She handed him a card. “This is my direct line. It’ll save you going through the main switchboard.” Her cheeks flushed a dusty rose color.

  “I’m very much obliged for that, Belinda.” He tipped the brim of an invisible hat and let himself out the door.

  In the elevator, he programmed the number she’d given him into his cell and set it for a distinctive ringtone. Then he called Grace.

  “I’ve planted some seeds in his mind,” he said. And a couple of bugs in his office, too.

  Chapter 21

  Butterflies the size of fruit bats flapped inside Miri’s stomach. She opened her medicine chest, surveyed her bathroom counter, making sure she hadn’t forgotten something. Her doorbell rang, sending the bats into a swirling frenzy. Telling herself she was overreacting, she flipped off the light and strode to the door.

  She hadn’t seen Dalton since Sunday. Five whole days. They’d barely talked, agreeing they’d get more done if they cut out the phone calls that stretched a morning coffee break into the lunch hour.

  “I’ve got grant applications to write,” she’d told him, “not to mention two new residents who need constant hand-holding.”

  “I should be working, too,” he said.

  “We can live until Friday without seeing each other, can’t we?” Her brain insisted it was the right thing to do, but there were body parts lower down that ached every time she thought of him. Which she’d done all too often.

  He’d called last night with an offer she couldn’t refuse. Get real. He could have offered to take her skydiving and she wouldn’t have refused, even though she couldn’t jump off a three-foot wall without leaving her stomach behind.

  Now, seeing him, even distorted through her peephole, tumbled her heart, bringing a mix of pain and pleasure. A new feeling, not unpleasant.

  She opened the door. “Hi,” she managed, but it came out all squeaky. His reply was a croak. She stood there, inhaling
his scent. The temperature rose at least ten degrees. His crooked grin made her knees wobble.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Embarrassed she’d squeak again, she nodded and picked up her carryall. He tugged on the strap. “Let me get that,” he said.

  She nodded again.

  His grin widened. “Helps if you let go.”

  She stared at her fingers, wrapped around the black fabric. With heat suffusing her face, she released the strap and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Ready.”

  “No trouble getting off work early?” he asked.

  “No. I don’t think I’ve used any vacation days in three years, and there are enough volunteers to cover for me this afternoon. And I’ve told staff I’m taking Monday off, too.”

  “Good.” He glanced at his watch. “We can beat most of the Friday traffic if we hit the road.”

  “Let’s go, then.” She sidled past him and waited in the hallway until he was out the door so she could lock up. He kept his distance and seemed unusually stiff. Uncomfortable. “Is something wrong?”

  His eyes slid over her, lingering on her lips. “I was thinking, that’s all.”

  “About what? Are you worried that Patterson figured out you’re an imposter?”

  “No, I was thinking that if I get any closer to you, we’ll never leave. And I was awfully close to kissing off the whole trip in favor of your bedroom.”

  “Highly unprofessional.” Taunting him, she edged closer. Ran her fingers down his chest.

  “Woman, I can barely walk as it is.”

  “You going to be able to drive? You know, will you fit behind the wheel?”

  He glowered—but only with his mouth. His eyes twinkled. “Downstairs. Now.”

  She skipped down the two flights ahead of him so he couldn’t see what must be a totally goofy expression on her face.