Whitewash

  Russ simply smiled and nodded at Sabrina as he opened his laptop. He reminded her of one of her students, though he was a little older. There was something shy and humble in his demeanor, but she got the impression it might be uncharacteristic and for her benefit. She wasn’t totally oblivious to boys or men who had crushes on her.

  “I discovered a few things that might be of interest.”

  He tapped the computer keys with what Sabrina thought was a light touch for such large hands. He moved the laptop to the edge of the table, the screen facing toward them. He tapped a couple more keys then sat back, leaving a bird’s-eye view of treetops and buildings.

  Sabrina sat forward, elbows on the table, trying to get a closer look. Eric didn’t move from his corner of the table, eyes still on duty. But it was Eric who asked, “A satellite picture?”

  “Not just any satellite picture,” Russ confirmed, smiling now as he reached to move a fingertip over the touchpad and click once. “It’s a satellite picture in real time. I saved it from this morning. Made a file on the hard drive and I have a printout.” He pointed at the date and time stamp in the corner. It was stamped for Wednesday, June 14th at 6:05 that morning.

  The photo zoomed in and Sabrina recognized it immediately. It was EchoEnergy’s industrial park.

  “How are you able to get real time?” Eric asked and now he huddled up to the table, the computer screen getting his full attention.

  “I know a few tricks. Never mind how I did it. Take a look.” He clicked again, zooming in even more.

  Sabrina could see the maze of pipes and catwalks and rooftops. But most of all she could see down into the trucks with open-top beds. Enclosed tanker trucks brought slaughterhouse waste from poultry processors. These trucks usually came before or after hours. Sabrina had noticed them when she stayed working late. She thought they were part of the ongoing construction. There were constant additions or upgrades to the campus. New construction, however, would mean lumber, bricks, pipes separated out and in new condition. It didn’t mean thrown together in what looked like piles of debris in the backs of these trucks.

  Her eyes found what she knew was Reactor #5. She followed the maze of pipes that connected the reactor to its outside holding tank. That tank was three stories tall with walled chutes that moved the waste on a conveyor belt from the trucks up into the tank. She believed it was being used as a backup storage facility for oil until Reactor #5 came online. But from this bird’s-eye view she could see that wasn’t true.

  “They’re processing hurricane debris,” Sabrina said in almost a whisper. How could they have kept this a secret?

  86

  Eric slid the manila envelope Russ had brought him off the table and onto the bench between them. He had positioned himself so he could keep an eye on what was happening inside and outside the busy restaurant. However, the two Santa Rosa deputies reminded him that no place was safe. Maybe he was simply being cocky and stupid, which wouldn’t be the first time. It was fine when he was the only one who could get hurt from his own stupidity. This was different.

  He waved at Maxine, who came up the steps to join them. He tried not to look relieved. He was counting on Max to help him convince Sabrina that the contents of Russ’s envelope were a necessity. How was he supposed to tell his little sister, whom he hadn’t seen for two years, that she needed to disappear? He used to be her best friend—when they were kids, her hero—but he knew he’d abdicated both positions when he left Chicago without even a goodbye.

  That was a crazy time for him. How could he explain it to Sabrina when he couldn’t explain it to himself? All he remembered was the anger. He was angry at his father for not taking better care of their mother. How could he let her drive alone in weather like that? And he was angry with Sabrina for not blaming their dad. Mix all that up with the sense of loss and it felt like he’d been sideswiped by an eighteen-wheeler. Damn, it hurt like hell, but it pissed him off, too.

  It sounded childish and immature. Hell, it was childish and immature. But all he wanted to do at the time was wrap himself in his anger. It didn’t make the hole in his gut go away, but helped keep his mind off it until he could find something else or someone else to channel his anger.

  Max looked exhausted, her eyes bloodshot. Eric knew she hadn’t had that much to drink last night. He worried it might be the new meds, but she’d made him promise he wouldn’t ask. She said she was tired of being asked how she was feeling.

  Her eyes met his across the table and he could see the warning, but then there was the slightest of smiles, an acknowledgment, perhaps a subtle thank-you for his concern. Max was the only one who knew Eric’s secrets—who he was, what he was really doing on Pensacola Beach. They could trust each other because they knew too much about each other.

  Eric’s cell phone started ringing and he grabbed it before the deputies three tables away noticed.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Eric?”

  It took him a second, but he recognized the old woman’s voice. “You made it home safely, I hope?”

  Sabrina sat up and leaned forward, her entire face instantly registering concern, her eyes holding his eyes, ready to read them.

  “Please tell your sister that she doesn’t need to worry about her gentleman caller.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “Just tell her I took care of things.”

  “How is that possible?” But the click told him she was already gone. He had told her to keep any calls short and not use specifics.

  “Is she okay?” Sabrina wanted to know.

  “I guess so. She said you don’t have to worry about your gentleman caller.”

  “She said that?”

  “She said she took care of things.” He tried to repeat her exact words.

  “I don’t understand. How could she have taken care of him?”

  Eric shrugged. He didn’t want Sabrina to worry, but he had no idea how an eighty-one-year-old woman could take care of a hit man.

  Besides, right now it looked like they had bigger problems. Eric watched the pair of deputies stand, the older one hiking his pants then heading for the cash register. But the younger one, the one Eric guessed was a thick-necked rookie with an attitude, had glanced in their direction. Something caught his eye after a double take. It seemed impossible that he’d recognize Sabrina. Impossible, but the asshole was coming over to their table.

  87

  Washington, D.C.

  Natalie knew the woman sitting across the table was as different from her as their desserts. Senator Shirley Malone was crème brûlée, upper-class, high maintenance, a little crusty on top, but soft inside. Natalie was strawberry-rhubarb pie, homegrown, unpretentious, straightforward—what you see is what you get—though maybe a bit tart.

  They were also unlikely lunch companions, and seeing them together at a Washington restaurant would certainly raise questions. But here in Senator Malone’s suite at the Mayflower no one would know. That fact didn’t make Natalie any more comfortable. She was used to having the home-turf advantage, but these were desperate days when adversaries joined as patriots and could be found in the strangest places. This morning was the Roosevelt Memorial, this afternoon the Mayflower Hotel, all a part of what she hoped she could make happen before her forty-eight hours were up.

  “They also make a cherry pie that’s outstanding,” the senator told her before taking a sip of her tea.

  Natalie caught herself staring at the woman’s long, delicate pinkie extended perfectly from the handle of her teacup. Natalie refrained from rolling her eyes. They both knew this wasn’t a social call.

  “With all due respect, Senator,” Natalie said, sliding her dessert plate to the side. “I know you’re a busy woman. I have a full schedule myself. So I hope you don’t mind if we dispense with the niceties.”

  “Tell you what, Ms. Richards, I’ll stop with the Betty Crocker niceties if you cut the crap.”

  Natalie’s eyebrows raised before she could st
op them, but at least she kept her jaw from dropping.

  “For starters,” Senator Malone continued, “why are you here instead of your boss?”

  Normally, Natalie detested women who had ridden their way to Washington power on the coattails of their husbands, but Malone had won a senatorial term on her own and it hadn’t been an easy battle. She had proven herself on the senate floor, too. A mind of her own, not yet jaded by her colleagues or bogged down by favors or paybacks. If she hadn’t proven herself, Natalie wouldn’t be here right now.

  “This one’s a bit personal,” Natalie confessed.

  Senator Malone set down her teacup and sat back, crossing her arms, examining Natalie. For a woman who claimed not to know insider politics she played the game very well. Natalie wondered if perhaps this was a mistake.

  “There’s a good chance the focus of the energy summit will shift,” Natalie told her, choosing her words carefully. “If that happens, there’ll be an opportunity and a necessity for someone to step forward and lead.”

  Malone was silent, but Natalie could see a twitch at the corner of her mouth, an uncomfortable nervous twitch.

  “I thought the president controls the focus of this summit?” Malone’s question was asked with what sounded like a great deal of uncertainty or perhaps naiveté.

  This time Natalie sat back. She let her eyes survey the hotel suite, taking in the senator’s attempts to personalize it with framed photographs, stacks of books and a collection of miniature teapots. That Senator Malone would even ask that question confirmed that Natalie had not made a mistake. Instead, she had chosen wisely.

  88

  Pensacola Beach, Florida

  Sabrina saw Eric nudge Russ and the laptop’s screen went from the live satellite to a chess game in progress. That was all the warning she got. Suddenly there was a cop in a green uniform standing beside their table.

  “Good afternoon,” the deputy said, his eyes on Eric and thankfully not her. Otherwise he would have certainly seen a flash of panic.

  “Good afternoon, Deputy…Kluger,” Eric said, slipping his eyes down to the deputy’s badge.

  That was Eric, taking time to notice name tags. Usually it was charming. This time Sabrina could feel her teeth clench. Below the table her hands shredded her paper napkin. Eric’s hands, however, were on the table, steady and calm, and Sabrina wondered if he was keeping them there for the deputy to see. No funny moves. Isn’t that what they always did in the movies?

  “You tend bar over at Bobbye’s?” the deputy asked Eric.

  “Sometimes. Yeah, I do.” Eric still looked cool and calm while Sabrina could feel and hear her heart throbbing so hard against her rib cage she thought surely the deputy would also hear the vibration.

  “Some of us want to throw a birthday bash for one of the guys. Any chance we could get the place to ourselves?”

  Eric stared at the guy. Sabrina glanced at Russ and Max. They were staring at the deputy, too, as if he spoke a foreign language none of them understood. The deputy noticed.

  “We wouldn’t expect any special discounts,” the deputy said. “We just want someplace nice, a little private—you know, off the main beach.”

  “Oh, sure,” Eric told him now, sounding like it was no big deal. “Stop by Howard’s shop and we can figure out a day. We’ll get it all set up.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll do that.”

  The deputy left and they all went silent. Russ tapped at the computer keyboard and Max tapped almost in rhythm with a folded newspaper against the table. Sabrina looked from one to the other, uneasy with their calm. Maybe they were used to this sort of stuff. She was not.

  Finally Eric smiled at her. “That wasn’t exactly what I expected him to want to talk about.”

  “No kidding,” she said and wished she could shrug it off as easily as he seemed to be able to.

  “This might actually be a good time to talk to you about this.”

  He slid a manila envelope onto the table. Sabrina watched his eyes surveying their surroundings again, still cool and calm. He was good. He didn’t know what the deputy wanted, but he did know how to act, what to say or more important, what not to say. How did he get so good at this?

  He opened the envelope and handed her two plastic cards. One was a driver’s license, the other a credit card. She glanced at them and didn’t recognize the name. She started to hand them back when suddenly she took a better look at the photo on the driver’s license. It was her.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Russ put them together,” Eric said.

  “I found the photo on the university’s Web site,” Russ explained with a proud grin, mistaking Sabrina’s surprise for a compliment. “I copied it, used PhotoShop to change the hair to look like you’re wearing it now. I was even able to give you a tan.”

  When she didn’t answer and only stared at the two cards, Russ continued, “The credit card’s legit. So is the name. It’s okay. Kathryn Fulton’s living in London. She’s been subletting her place on the beach for over a year.” Russ was looking from Sabrina to Eric and then at Max as if trying to get some help in reading Sabrina’s reaction.

  “She still gets mail here sometimes. You know, like credit card offers. I’m not saying it’ll work forever, but it’s the best I could do in less than twenty-four hours.”

  Sabrina didn’t know what to say, what to think. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? All of this was happening too fast.

  “So I just become someone else?”

  No one said anything.

  “I just change my name and disappear?” Sabrina asked Eric, waiting for him to look at her instead of everywhere else around the damn restaurant. “That’s your answer, because it worked so well for you?”

  It was a low blow in front of his friends and Sabrina knew it.

  “I’m not leaving Dad behind,” she told him and she didn’t care if his friends had no idea she was his sister. Then the next part surprised her because it wasn’t about hurting him or standing up to him, it was about standing up for herself. “And I’m not going to run away and let Sidel continue doing what he’s doing.”

  They sat in silence. Eric’s eyes had shifted already, but now she suspected they were avoiding her rather than simply looking out for her. Sabrina wanted to get up and leave, but she wasn’t sure where she’d go. If this was Eric’s attempt at helping her and she refused it, where did that leave her?

  “Actually, I’m glad you said that,” Max finally said. She laid the folded newspaper she had brought with her on the table, opening it and pointing to a small article at the bottom of the page. “This was in the Tallahassee Democrat. I’ve been keeping up with the case for a few weeks now.” She stopped and glanced at Eric. Sabrina wondered if Max was giving him the chance to shut her up. The look Sabrina saw them exchange told her there was something more between them.

  Max slid the newspaper in front of Sabrina. Her first impression of Max was that nothing could surprise or bother her. She envied her street smarts and her “I don’t give a damn” attitude. But now Max sounded tentative, her voice a notch lower, her small hands fidgeting without the newspaper. “I have some health challenges that sort of came about from…well, let’s just say it’s something I didn’t expect. This,” she said, tapping the article, “is something I don’t think any of us can know about and just walk away.”

  “Toxins found in water.” Sabrina read the headline out loud. She remembered reading about this last week before she had any idea that EchoEnergy could have something to do with it. She continued to read the rest of the article in silence, her stomach twisting in knots. The article read:

  Jackson Springs, a bottled-water company located outside of Tallahassee was recently closed down after toxins were discovered in their product. Several customers had complained of nausea and headaches after drinking the bottled water. One ten-year-old was hospitalized with dioxins found in her bloodstream. Though the dioxins cannot be traced back specifically to a bottle
of Jackson Springs, the company was cited when traces of the deadly toxin showed up in random samples.

  Sabrina stopped and looked up at the rest of them. “If it’s already contaminated the river, they had to have been dumping the runoff for months.”

  “And getting away with it,” Max added.

  89

  Washington, D.C.

  Jason wanted to go home early to pack. Early, hell, it was almost six. He had an early flight out of Reagan. His boss wasn’t scheduled to arrive until just before the evening reception, but Jason needed to make certain all the details were taken care of: caterer, tables and chairs, podiums, microphone. Sidel was supposed to be co-hosting the event, but Senator Allen had asked Jason to take care of setting it up. He’d prepared and ordered and arranged things weeks ago. Hopefully now it would just be a matter of checking and double-checking.

  He took the stairs rather than risk running into anyone on the elevators. He didn’t need another delay or he’d never leave. His list was still full, despite the load he had tucked under his arm, half of it headed for Senator Allen’s secretary and the other half for the senator’s desk. He’d made copies of everything that had to go with him. Those copies and everything he hadn’t been able to finish waited to be stuffed into his briefcase.

  Jason turned the corner and almost ran into Senator Shirley Malone. She had a pile of her own tucked under her arm.

  “Looks like we’re trying to do the same thing.”

  “Yeah,” he said, but he was wondering why Lindy wasn’t toting the pile around and delivering her can’t-wait-’ til-Monday stuff instead of Senator Malone.

  “I thought you’d probably left for Florida,” she added. “Lindy took off a couple of hours ago.”