I nodded, taking a few of the tomato slices and adding them to my sandwich. “The first time you talked to him in over two years, and Crosby’s name comes up?”
Brent topped off his sandwich with a slice of bread. “Yep. Good old dad.”
“So obviously it’s a trap.” I added a few potato chips to my plate.
“Without a doubt.” Brent took a bite and chewed. “We just need to decide how to use that.”
“Maybe it would be best to ignore it completely.”
Brent swallowed his bite and continued. “I had that same thought. But we finally have a lead on Crosby’s location. Part of me doesn’t want to play it safe.”
“We’ll get Crosby, but only if we don’t make any stupid moves.”
“And stupid would definitely be going after Crosby when it seems too easy,” DJ said appearing beside me.
“Why do you say that, DJ?” I popped a chip into my mouth. “Do you know something?”
“The details of my death are still vague, but I do remember getting a tip about Crosby being at a certain location and being captured.” DJ rocked back on the heels of his feet. “At least I think that’s what happened.”
Brent tensed at the mention of DJ’s name. “How long has he been here eavesdropping?” Brent astral projected so he could also see DJ.
“I’ve never left. Someone had to be here to protect Yara.”
Brent stalked closer, invading DJ’s personal space. “If you’re trying to suggest that I can’t protect my girlfriend . . .”
DJ didn’t even flinch. “That isn’t what I was suggesting. You have to sleep, go to the bathroom, play video games with Steve. I don’t have any of that. I’ve got nothing to do but protect her. I want revenge, sure, but my main priority is keeping Yara safe.”
Brent’s fingers clenched into a fist. “But you’ve been here the whole time?”
“Yes, but I’m a gentleman and I don’t look when I shouldn’t. For instance, I avoided spying during your make-out session in the backyard.” Brent glared and DJ smirked. “But imagine what her dad would’ve done if he had caught you.” He brought his finger across his throat. “Well, at least then Yara would have two ghosts protecting her.” Brent commanded a hand towel to hurl itself at DJ, but it simply passed through him.
I decided to stop this argument before it fully started. “DJ, have you remembered anything else about Crosby you discovered before you died, or found out anything new?”
“I haven’t been able to get close enough to find out anything since I died. And I can’t fully trust what little bits I remember from before. He was fooling around in my brain. I’m not sure he didn’t plant them there.”
Brent folded his arms across his chest. “So basically you’re of no help at all?”
DJ shook his head with a dejected expression. “No.”
“Brent,” I snapped. “It isn’t his fault.”
Brent rolled his eyes. “It never is.”
“Ouch, that hurt my feelings.” DJ held out his arms to me. “I need a hug.”
I slapped his hands away. “Oh, please.”
Brent laughed. “Nice to know being dead hasn’t changed you. But just keep in mind that even though you’re dead, I can still beat you to a pulp.” Brent punched his fist into his other palm with a grin. “So I better not catch you doing anything skeevy.”
“Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers. I was pretty sure the peace sign wasn’t the scout salute.
“Were you ever a boy scout?” I asked.
DJ laughed and shook his head.
I smacked DJ on the back of the head. “If you weren’t a scout, then the whole scout’s honor thing doesn’t work.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “I know.”
Brent pulled in front of my parent’s house, but didn’t turn off the car. “That was a complete waste of time!” He pounded the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.
“Not a complete waste of time. I bought these cute shoes.” Cherie stuck her foot between our seats; even in the moonlight, her pumps sparkled. “If we hadn’t gone to Modesto, then I never would’ve found them.”
“I’m so happy we were able to add to your wardrobe, but we learned nothing about Crosby or ghosts.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Steve said. “We learned that Crosby has probably never been there or thought twice about the place. And as for ghosts, Yara did help that one old lady cross over. So by going and learning nothing, we actually—”
Brent dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel with enough force that the horn honked. “Fine, we learned lots of valuable information from our constant stream of dead ends.”
“I know what you’re really upset about, and don’t be.” I put my hand on his knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You should be glad you missed it.”
There was a slight hesitation before he asked, “Missed what?”
“The trap your dad set up with Crosby.” I shifted in my seat so I could see his face—and the guilt flickering across it.
“Dude,” Steve said from the back seat. “We know you well enough to know you planned to go in there with guns—or should I say air-bending fingers—blazing. So we decided to drag you away. If you hadn’t come willingly, we had a back up plan involving sleeping pills and duct tape.”
Brent lifted his head from the steering wheel. “How’d you know what I had planned?”
“Hello!” Steve shook Brent’s seat. “I’ve been your best friend since ninth grade. I know a thing or two about you.”
I pointed to my chest. “Been dating you for four years.”
Cherie snorted. “That’s what I would have done, so I figured you would too.”
Brent turned off the car and took the keys out of the ignition. “Fine. I did plan on seeing Crosby, but I thought we could drive to Modesto, look around a while, and still make it back with enough time. I really didn’t think we’d be gone until three in the morning.” He fought back a yawn. “We had the worst luck today. I mean the flat tire, running out of gas, the GPS getting us lost, Steve losing his wallet, all of it.”
I studied my fingernails. “About that . . .”
Steve busted out laughing. “Well, some might see that as bad luck, but others would call it good planning.”
Brent groaned. “You guys planned all of that?”
“Oh yeah,” Steve said through his laughter. “Do you really think I can’t program a GPS and Cherie can’t read a gas gauge? The flat tire though, that was pure luck. Although Yara had removed the jack just in case.”
“And Steve’s wallet?” Brent asked. “The one we searched an hour for?”
Cherie pulled it out of her purse. “Safe and sound the whole time.”
“Were you trying to drive me crazy?” Brent raked his fingers through his hair.
“No.” I leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose. “We did it to keep you safe.”
“I need protection from the three of you, not Crosby.” He angled himself so he could see all three of us. “So what is your great plan now?”
“Cherie and I will still follow him after his speech at the bus station. And Cherie has been working on possible acronyms for Modesto drought.”
Cherie wrinkled her nose. “So far I’ve reached a big fat nothing. The best I could come up with was Mean Old D—”
“So,” I interrupted her. “We’ve decided it isn’t an acronym. It isn’t an anagram either; no words fit. We looked into Ted Modesto, the guy paying for Farnsworth’s care. It’s his grandson. I checked him out and he’s totally clean, no relation to the Clutch. He never even went to Pendrell. We know there’s nothing in Modesto now, so that leaves us with not much else as far as that lead goes.”
“We should’ve met with my dad,” Brent argued. “Trap or no trap, at least we would’ve been in the thick of the action. Instead we’re back at square one?”
“The glass if half full.” Steve kicked the back of Brent’s seat. “We know more than we did this morning.”<
br />
“Right,” Brent said. “I forgot; today was a complete success.”
Cherie laughed. “That’s the spirit.”
“The lack of creativity in this kills me, but I don’t know what else to try. Here goes nothing.” Cherie typed the words “Modesto” and “drought” into the search bar and hit enter.
After looking through pages of hits about the city we’d visited, Cherie sighed.
“Well, that went over about as well as I expected.”
“Wait!” Right before she closed the screen I pointed out one. “There’s a Modesto LaTorre who does lectures on drought.”
Cherie clicked on the page and found out that the man lived in Southern California.
His bio mainly contained a few basic facts about his education and a whole lot of technical jargon and professional accolades that went over my head. We did learn he sometimes worked with a South American environmentalist group that formed after the 1877 drought in Brazil.
That detail about the place of my birth raised a red flag to both Cherie and me.
“He’s also done a lot of research in Romania, Turkey and Spain,” Cherie pointed out. “Do you think this is who Crosby was talking about?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “But he fits our key words: drought and Modesto. And his company is tied to Brazil. I think he’s worth looking into.”
Cherie picked up her phone and started dialing the contact number on the screen.
I grabbed her phone. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to ask him a few questions.”
“Like what?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. It’ll come to me.”
“We aren’t even sure if it’s the right guy.”
“I know; that’s why I’m calling.” Cherie tugged her phone from my grip and finished dialing. “He’s the best lead we’ve got.”
“Okay, you’re right.”
Cherie put her phone on speaker and pushed the call button. After a few rings, a woman’s voice answered with a cheery, “Hello.”
“Hi, may I please speak with Modesto LaTorre?”
“He’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?”
“Yes. I’m an undergrad and was interested in his work with the . . .” Cherie glanced at his website. “The mango tomato. I was wondering if I could meet with him to ask a few questions.”
“I know he’d be more than happy to help. He has an opening today at one thirty. Would that work?”
“Yes, that’s perfect.” Cherie hung up the phone after giving her thanks. “How did I do?”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t hide my grin. “You sounded like a girl desperate for whatever information he might have.”
“It’s so easy to express the right sentiment when you really feel that way.”
“True enough.” I gave her a huge hug. “We have a lead.”
Cherie drove us down to the business complex in Irvine, just off the 133 toll road. The traffic was good and we arrived a few minutes early. Six stories tall, Enviro-United’s office building was made almost entirely of glass framed by scrolled stone pillars.
“The website says the glass panels are actually a form of solar panel,” Cherie said as she parked the car.
The eco-friendliness continued into the lobby, with a waterfall and a jungle of plants decorating the room. Bright blooms of flowers perfumed the air and several fruit bearing trees formed a canopy above our heads. Vovó would have loved this place. I noticed a drooping petal on a flower and ran my finger along its edge, instantly feeling my connection with it. I sent out a pulse of energy and the petal sprang back up.
“That’s so cool,” Cherie whispered. “When did you learn to do that?”
“I’ve been trying for years to connect with my earth element, and I’m finally getting it. With the wind too, though I’m still not as strong as Brent.”
Cherie laughed. “I don’t think anyone is as powerful as Brent. There’s a reason the Clutch and the council want him.”
We passed through the thriving garden to the receptionist sitting beneath a wall of framed photographs. She wore a fuchsia business suit and a bright smile.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Cherie Higgins. I have an appointment with Mr. LaTorre.”
“Oh, yes.” The secretary pushed away from the desk. “He was very excited about your call. He’s recently had a breakthrough with the mango tomato.”
She led us down a short corridor and double knocked on a thick, heavily ornate door. At a muffled “Come in,” she opened the door.
The majority of the large room was a greenhouse filled with immaculately maintained trees and plants in tidy rows. The organization in the nursery clashed with the disorder of the office area. Papers, clutter, open books, and even a few empty pizza boxes cluttered the desk, chairs, and floor. The man in the office chair appeared no less rumpled.
Modesto looked to be in his late twenties, a lot younger than I would have expected based on all his accomplishments. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and his thick black hair was slicked back. He had a rather vacant, hapless look about him, with his tie hanging loose and his suit jacket wearing thin at the elbows.
He stood up from his desk and offered his hand for us to shake, managing to knock over his coffee mug, spilling the contents all over his desk.
He flushed red as he grabbed a handful of napkins from one of the empty pizza boxes to mop up the mess. With a mumbled curse, he lifted one piece of paper and let the coffee drain back into the mug.
“Hello. Please have a seat.” He gestured to two armchairs littered with debris. With a murmured apology, he darted around his desk and removed the stacks of papers from the chairs, adding to the pile on a third. “I know it’s a mess in here, but I’m in the middle of a paper, and it’s so much easier to have it all at my fingertips. I know exactly where everything is this way.”
“I’m the same way,” Cherie said sitting in the offered seat. “My closet and room look like a hurricane went through, but it’s exactly the way I want it to be.”
Unlike them, I liked things tidy, organized, and put away. It was hard for me to see the papers strewn about and not start putting them in some sort of order.
“Which of you is interested in my tomatoes?”
“We both are,” I said, crossing my ankles. “Your mango tomatoes sound very interesting.”
“And delicious,” he added.
“But we were more interested in the paper you wrote about the drought in Brazil.”
His smile dropped. “You aren’t here about my new discovery?”
I shook my head.
“Oh. It doesn’t seem like anyone else is either. But they have a longer harvesting season and produce twice as much—”
“Mr. LaTorre, I’d really rather talk to you about your research on the drought.”
He sighed and slumped into his chair. “Every year it seems like someone wants to talk about that paper.”
“What made you decide to write it? Did it have anything to do with the local legends?” I asked. I made my question vague since I didn’t know if Modesto was even involved with any of this. It felt like a fishing expedition and I had no idea what I was trying to catch or what to use for bait.
Modesto picked up a pen and clicked the top several times. “You mean about the causes of the drought?”
“Maybe.” I bit back my groan. How did I ask a question when I had no idea what I was even searching for. “I’ve just wondered if there were any strange stories about the drought.”
“Besides the high death toll and the lack of water?”
High death toll? That meant there might have been ghosts. “Yes, were there stories about ghosts? Maybe some of the people who died haunted the place?”
“Ghosts? Um, no.” He laughed. “Did Dr. Cryder put you up to this?”
“Who?”
He waved his hand in the air. “Never mind. One of my colleagues is always teasing me.” H
e pulled the knot on his tie looser. “I never heard any local stories about ghosts.”
Cherie inched to the edge of her seat. “What about evil spirits or people who could see ghosts? Or a group called the Clutch? Or a man named Christopher Pendrell?”
Modesto stared at Cherie with an open mouth. “Cryder really didn’t send you?”
We shook our heads.
“How did you hear of me?”
I paid close attention to him as I answered, “We heard about you from Jamie Crosby.”
“The guy running for senator?” He dug through the papers on his desk and held up a political mailer. “This guy? Did he send you here? What does he want, some sort of agricultural support for his campaign?”
“He didn’t send us,” I said. “We just overheard him talking about you and the drought. And it sounded interesting.”
“Well, it is, I guess.” Modesto clicked his pen again with a huge grin. “But I didn’t spend too much time on that drought. After I finished my paper, I moved on to the potato blight in Ireland, and other cases of monoculture. Then I came up with the idea for the mango tomato. Those results have been fascinating.”
He pulled out a sheet of paper with pictures of an orange colored tomato.
“This plant will revolutionize the way people garden, shop and cook. It’s loaded with vitamins—”
“Very cool,” Cherie broke in. “But about the drought—”
He talked right over her. “And it’s a marvel how long the fruit remains fresh after you pick it.”
“That’s great,” I said, speaking fast. “Now in Brazil, did you find that—”
“I’m not sure the plant will grow as heartily in Brazil as it does in Romania. Because of the crossbreeding—”
Cherie and I tired a few more times to deter his zealous love of his new tomato breed, but to no avail. He kept getting more excited, pulling out pictures and charts, and color-coded spreadsheets. By the time we left, my head throbbed, now crammed full of useless tomato facts.
“I will never look at a tomato the same way again.” Cherie collapsed into the seat of her car, rubbing her temples. “That’ll teach me to use boring and uncreative research methods. I want that hour of my life back. I hate to say it, but I think we’re back to square one.”
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