by Ken Casper
“You’re implying a relationship between the two events,” he said. “Why?”
“The day Summers had his fall, he approached my husband in a restaurant and told him sixty, not forty, barrels of yellowcake had been left behind in the Rialto warehouse the Superfund was getting ready to clean up.”
“What’s this yellowcake?”
“Uranium ore reduced to powder form.”
“How did Summers know how much of it there was?”
“He claimed to be the last person out of the building when it was abandoned in the late seventies. My husband was a thorough and meticulous man, Mr. Rowan. He didn’t often get his facts wrong.” She retrieved the bag she’d placed on the floor beside the chair and removed a worn, leather-covered notebook. Thumbing to the last entry, she handed it across the desk to Jeff.
“He jotted down Summers’s address and telephone number,” she explained, “and promised to look into the matter further, but—”
“But he died before he got a chance.”
She nodded.
Jeff memorized the information and returned the pad. “You think the two events are related.”
“I don’t put much faith in coincidences.”
He could attest to that.
“I don’t like coincidences, either,” he said, “but that still doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”
“I checked the accident report this afternoon. The first officer on the scene after Summers took his fall was Eddie Fontanero.”
She’d aimed her arrow true. Fontanero was the person who had leaked the “racist” story to the press. Over the years, Jeff had had several run-ins with the patrolman, whom he considered a bigot with a chip on his shoulder, but who, because he was Hispanic, got away with attitudes and statements his Anglo counterparts, like Jeff, could not.
Fontanero had been promoted to sergeant at a time when preference was given to ethnic minorities. He’d had a reputation as a lousy cop then, and as far as Jeff was concerned, he still was, but the officer knew how to play the game. He ingratiated himself with the right people on his beat, got attaboys for rescuing little girls’ tree-climbing kittens and little boys’ lost puppies, and he knew how to smile into the camera. As a result, politics and politicians saved his butt on more serious matters. That he had succeeded in getting Jeff thrown off the force was only one example. Giving Eddie his comeuppance by proving he had screwed up on a call and perhaps helped cover up a felony, was enticing.
“I’ve moved on,” Jeff said.
Catherine’s tight smile congratulated him for taking the high road, while telling him she didn’t believe it. She was right, of course. He hadn’t forgotten Fontanero’s role in ruining his career, nor was he magnanimous enough to forgive.
“I need someone to probe the death of Summers,” she continued, “as well as his contention that twenty barrels of yellowcake were missing from the warehouse. I also want you to look into Jordan’s death.”
She had a whole department at her disposal, but Jeff appreciated her predicament. According to his friends on the force she’d already asked so many questions she had developed a reputation for being fixated on the loss of her husband. She couldn’t afford to spend more police resources checking out yet another false lead without becoming a laughingstock and compromising her authority.
The problem went even deeper than that, though. If she was correct about this missing yellowcake, she was dealing with more than simple theft. There could be only one group of people interested in black-market uranium. Terrorists. Under those circumstances she couldn’t afford to have leaks from her department putting them on the alert.
“You seriously think your husband might have been murdered?”
The desolation he’d glimpsed earlier returned to her eyes. “I don’t know. I have new unsubstantiated information from an unreliable source that suggests his death didn’t happen the way it was reported.”
“What information? What source?”
“Do you remember Abby Carlton? She worked in the crime intervention unit—”
“I heard she quit to follow that Delta Force guy she was involved with.”
“They’re married now, living in North Carolina. Just before she left six weeks ago, she dropped by my office to say goodbye and to pass on something she’d just heard from a drunk she had been trying to rehabilitate. He claimed he was the one who called 911.”
“He didn’t identify himself on the phone?”
She shook her head. “The call, like so many, was anonymous. Anyway, this guy, Harvey Stuckey, told Abby he’d been in Memorial Park the day Jordan died and had seen him running and drinking from a Gatorade bottle. A little while later, at a spot where the path doubles back, he saw Jordan again, except this time he was staggering, then he collapsed. He said Jordan went into convulsions. The guy ran to call 911. When he got back Jordan was dead and the bottle was gone.”
“That happened last year and he didn’t tell anyone about it until six weeks ago? Why did he wait so long to come forward?”
“He’s homeless. Abby picked him up in a bar fight and tried to get him help. It was in the course of one of their conversations, that he blurted this information out. She wanted him to come in and make an official statement, but of course he wouldn’t.”
“Abby believed him?”
Catherine nodded. “I asked Allan Clemson to track him down for me. The story Stuckey apparently told this time didn’t match his earlier version.”
Jeff knew Clemson. He’d been a good cop once, but maybe he’d seen too many corpses, too many battered and abused women and children, watched too many sleazebags and perverts with slick lawyers walk out the courthouse door. Cops tried to compartmentalize, but sometimes it didn’t work. Sometimes the only way to cope with the ghosts who inhabited those hidden compartments was to drown them with alcohol, or give in to the cynicism that perpetually peeked around the corner and beckoned. Jeff wasn’t sure what had happened to Clemson, but he knew he wasn’t the cop he’d once been.
“But you’re still not convinced,” he said.
“I’m not even sure he talked to the man.”
Catherine gazed off into space before returning her focus on him. “I loved my husband, Jeff.” So she was addressing him by his first name now. “Losing him was the greatest tragedy of my life. I can accept his death if it was from natural causes. I can and will move on. But I have to know the truth. If Jordan was murdered, I want the person who stole him from me brought to justice.”
Her eyes stayed on him, intense and determined. He didn’t doubt her resolve or the anguish he read in their depths.
“People would say my feelings about Fontanero constitute a conflict of interest,” he said. “That it will taint my objectivity, turn my investigation into a vendetta. Maybe in this case an accusation of prejudice would be valid.”
She shook her head. “You’re not a racist, and since you do have a vested interest in the outcome of this investigation, I’m confident you’ll be extra careful in drawing any conclusions or making any accusations.”
She was manipulating him. The question was whether she was lying in order to set him up for another fall. If so, she was the best liar he’d ever run across, and he’d dealt with quite a few.
“I didn’t trust my instincts when I fired you,” she said. “I took the easy way out and accepted the recommendation of IA and the CRC. There isn’t any excuse for what I did. My only defense is a selfish one, that I’d just lost my husband and our daughter had rejected the kind of life we’d envisioned for her. I’m not proud of that, nor is any of it justification for what I did to you.”
The strange part was that somewhere inside him Jeff had understood that at the time. It didn’t make him any happier, didn’t mitigate the humiliation of being disgraced in the eyes of his peers. Perhaps because he recognized she was hurting so much in her private life, he hadn’t pursued legal action against her personally when he had sued the Houston Police Department, though h
is lawyer had insisted he had a good chance of winning. Instead he’d convinced himself all he wanted was to clear his name and get on with his life. But an ugly anger was still shifting inside him, as if he had fled a fight or left a job unfinished.
He couldn’t imagine what good would come from taking this case. Constant reminders of the injustice she’d done to him wouldn’t help.
“Whatever your fees are,” she said, “I’ll pay double. Knowing the truth is important to me.”
He’d be crazy to take on this job, insane to make himself vulnerable to this woman who’d already admitted shafting him. What did he care if her old man had been murdered? He didn’t owe Jordan Tanner or his widow a damn thing.
On the other hand, there was that little matter of twenty barrels of uranium, which, in the wrong hands, could wreak the kind of havoc that would make 9/11 seem like a footnote in history.
“I sometimes give clients discounts, but I don’t double fees,” he heard himself say.
“Then you’ll take the job?” She sounded so hopeful, so relieved, he didn’t have the heart to turn her down, or maybe he didn’t want to.
“I’ll think about it. No promises.”
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
JEFF SAT for several minutes, contemplating his visitor after she left. She’d changed his life last year when she’d thrown him off the force. Now she wanted him to help her.
Why should he? There wasn’t much she could do for him in return. She couldn’t reinstate him. That was in the hands of the board of review. His appeal had been pending for months, thanks to the interminable dickering of lawyers and bureaucrats.
He’d loved being a cop. But what he wanted more than anything was to get his good name back.
His coffee was cold. He poured it into a ceramic mug and zapped it in his small microwave, broke off a piece of the pastry and popped it in his mouth. He still wasn’t sure why she’d chosen him for the job, but he found himself fascinated by it, by her.
Not all his old friends had abandoned him. He picked up the phone and called Maurice Blalock, a member of the city planning commission.
“I was wondering how the cleanup was going down on channel row,” he said.
“A new client, huh.” Blalock chuckled. “Okay, I won’t ask who it is, because you wouldn’t tell me anyway. What do you want to know?”
“Just general information. How’s it progressing? I haven’t seen much in the papers or on TV lately.”
“Because there isn’t much to tell. Nothing particularly exciting about asbestos abatement and carting off rotten lumber.”
“How about toxic waste removal?”
“Yeah, the Environmental Protection Agency has had fun with that. Leaky drums all over the place.”
“Heard they found uranium stored there, too.”
“Yep, forty barrels of it. Is that what you’re interested in? The yellowcake?”
“Just curious. I didn’t even know we had any of that stuff around here.”
“Goes back to the late seventies.”
“What are they planning to do with the real estate now?”
“Ah, now I’m beginning to see where you’re heading. Somebody wants in on the action, huh? Well, I’m afraid they’re too late. There’s a consortium already formed to redevelop the area. A loading facility for shipping containers.”
Jeff decided he might as well reinforce Blalock’s mistake. “Who’s in it?”
“Rialto is the prime contractor.” Blalock named half a dozen other large companies involved in construction, import, export and shipping.
“Didn’t Buster Rialto own some of the warehouses that were torn clown?”
“Yep. He uses the logic that since the Superfund spent most of its money cleaning up his facilities, it gives him the right to be the controlling shareholder. It doesn’t pass the giggle test for me, but I guess his financial largesse struck the funny bone of enough members of city council, because it approved the contract. Of course, you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Any proof?”
Blalock’s chuckle was his only response.
“Thanks,” Jeff said. “Give my best to Elsie.”
“You need to stop by one of these days. She always enjoys seeing you, and I’d welcome the male company.”
Jeff laughed. Blalock had six daughters. And his mother-in-law lived with them.
“You’re on. I’ll give you a call.”
After hanging up, Jeff turned to his computer and called up the Houston Sentinel Web site. He began with the obituary of William Summers published two days earlier, then found the brief news item the previous year that reported his fall. Except for a short announcement the next day that he was in a coma, his condition critical, there was no follow-up on the story.
Jeff sat back and stared at the screen, his mind trying to sort through possibilities. Could William Summers have been shoved off his roof simply because he’d told the editor of the city’s major newspaper that there was more uranium in a warehouse than had been reported? And could Jordan Tanner have been murdered because a guy in a delicatessen said he’d gotten a number wrong?
THE SOUND OF THE DOORBELL had Catherine checking the clock on the kitchen wall. Seven-forty-five. Jeff had called about half an hour ago and asked to come over.
She took that as a good sign, but he wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes.
Pressing the start button on the coffeemaker, she went to the front door. The person she saw through the glass panel wasn’t Jeff.
Frowning, she swung the door wide.
“Derek, what brings you here?” Under other circumstances she would have been delighted to see him, but his showing up unannounced right now was inconvenient. And after his visit to her office yesterday, she had an inkling of why he was here.
“Mrs . . . .er . . . Chief, I’d like to talk to you about something.”
“Come in.”
He stepped inside. She closed the door behind him, but didn’t invite him into the living room or offer a cup of the coffee they could smell brewing.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“About what Stuckey said . . . I’d like to help.”
“I appreciate that, Derek, but there’s nothing you can do. If I need your assistance, I’ll let you know.” She regretted sounding cold and ungrateful, but he was a rookie still in his probationary period. She made a move to open the door for him, but he didn’t budge.
“Mrs. Tanner, your husband was the closest I’ve ever had to a father. If what Stuckey said is true, if Mr. Tanner met with foul play . . . If he was . . . murdered, I want to help catch the guy who did it.”
Catherine was touched by the young man’s emotion and the sincerity of it.
“He thought very highly of you, too, Derek. He was looking forward to the day when he’d be able to call you son.” She stopped. No use going down that path. “I’m very grateful for your bringing Stuckey’s information to me directly and your discretion in keeping it to yourself. I assure you I’m pursuing it, but in my own way.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. But I’d still like to help. I need to do something.”
“I have an experienced investigator looking into the matter. I can assure you, Derek, if there’s anything behind Stuckey’s rant, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
The way the young man lowered his head and worked his lips indicated he wasn’t satisfied with her response, but she knew he was disciplined enough not to question it.
The clock struck eight.
“Derek, I don’t mean to be impolite, but I have a meeting scheduled—”
The doorbell chimed. Too late.
JEFF STOOD on the step and noted the well-tended flower beds bordering the path and driveway. Catherine’s house, a block from Memorial Park, was unlike the others in the upscale neighborhood. Instead of antebellum Greek revival, Victorian or Tudor, the single-story structure was long and angular, reminiscent of the prairie style of Frank Lloyd Wright. An
espalier covered a blank wall to his right. A tinted plate-glass window balanced it on the left.
Class, he thought, and a lot of money.
The door opened. He spun around to face it.
Gorgeous was the first word that came to mind.
“Right on time,” she said, yet there was an uneasiness in her blue eyes that suggested his arrival had taken her by surprise.
The Houston Chief of Police was wearing baggy jeans and a pale-blue blouse with small ruffles at the collar and short sleeves. Her shoulder-length blond hair was tied back with a matching ribbon, exposing small gold studs in her ears. Her complexion was peaches and cream. Her eyes a soft, expressive blue. And her mouth . . . could make a man wet his lips and stare.
Then Jeff spied the lanky black man standing behind her. The guy didn’t appear to be much over twenty. He shifted to the side to get a better perspective on Jeff.
“You’re—” his forehead wrinkled “—the detective who was dismissed last year for—”
“Jeff Rowan,” Catherine said, cutting him off, “this is Derek Pager, a new officer on the force.” She stood aside for Jeff to enter. “He was just leaving.”
“He’s the guy you’ve got investigating Mr. Tanner’s death?” Pager asked her.
Catherine stared in shock at the rookie’s impertinence. Pager had the good sense to look away. “I’m sorry. I was out of line. It’s just that—”
“Mind telling me what’s going on here?” Jeff stepped out of the oppressive humidity into the square, high-ceilinged foyer. Her cheeks hollowed, Catherine closed the door behind him.
“Earlier today Officer Pager ran into the witness I told you about,” she said, “the one who alleges he saw Jordan drink from a Gatorade bottle and die of convulsions.”
“If Mr. Tanner was murdered,” the young cop said forcefully, “I want to help find the killer.”
“Has the chief asked for your assistance?”
He shifted his eyes.
“It’s not your call,” Jeff told him.
“Hear me out. Please,” Derek implored. “I can do some of your legwork. I’ll find Stuckey so you can talk to him yourself.”
