Blackmail

by Robin Caroll

  “Yeah, I was told that, too.”

  “Good.” Jon stood and let out a sigh. “As I told your sister, expect a home visit this week.”

  Caleb rose and slouched, not answering.

  One more try…“You know, this whole process goes much easier if you work with us instead of against us.”

  “You don’t know me. Don’t know anything about me.” Caleb grabbed for the door. “Are we done?”

  Jon shook his head. Ungrateful, selfish…Kids like this were all too common. They thought about no one but themselves. “Yes, we’re done. I’ll see you this week at home.”

  The teen left without a word.

  Many years and cases ago, Jon had given up the idea that all parolees could be rehabilitated. Despite counseling and social workers, juvies were the worst. Once they’d started down the wrong path in life, it seemed they couldn’t recover. His job was to ensure they didn’t break any other laws on his watch. The odds of their turning over a new leaf were nearly impossible.

  Jon knew all too well how rare rehabilitation truly was. He’d been raised by an aunt who couldn’t be interrupted from her partying—drinking and spending time with numerous men—to see to it that he had anything to eat. Maybe Aunt Torey was the reason he’d gone into career paths to help others. But what he’d seen of the system hadn’t changed his opinion. People didn’t change all that often.

  He opened Caleb’s file again. Music and movie pirating, hmm? Not so serious a crime, but becoming more and more common with teens. No telling what he’d been exposed to inside the detention center. Most of those places, like prison, taught people how to be criminals. Well, Jon would order the full record from the center and see what Caleb had been up to while detained. Maybe he’d been in trouble before and managed not to get caught. But it’d only be a matter of time before Jon uncovered the truth and learned if there was any hope of Caleb Frost’s reentry to society as a viable member.

  THREE

  “Ms. Thompson, what is Vermilion Oil doing to discover who’s behind the sabotaging of your facilities and rigs? This is the second incident. Surely the company is deeply concerned. Damaged equipment could lead to leaks into the bayou, killing uncountable wildlife.”

  Sadie glanced across the slew of media personnel to meet the imposing stare of Jackson Devereaux, investigative reporter from The New Orleans Times-Picayune and husband of Lagniappe’s own Alyssa LeBlanc-Devereaux. Sweat pooled under Sadie’s blouse. If the New Orleans paper had sent their hotshot reporter, then Deacon’s fears of a media frenzy were realized and the company was in more trouble than she’d imagined.

  Yesterday had been stressful enough just getting Caleb to his appointments and home. On top of that, Deacon hadn’t been satisfied with her press release. So dissatisfied, he’d scheduled a press conference for first thing this muggy Tuesday morning. Time to sink or swim.

  She cleared her throat and met Jackson’s stare head-on. “Of course we’re very concerned over these blatant acts of sabotage. It’s an outrage. Vermilion Oil is working with the sheriff’s office, the Department of Environmental Quality, the state Department of Natural Resources and the state police in their investigations into these damages. We will not tolerate such destruction.”

  “But what is the company doing on its own?” Jackson elbowed past another reporter, inching closer to the podium. “Surely y’all are conducting an independent investigation? These are, after all, your facilities being damaged. And it’s happened twice.”

  Heat crept up Sadie’s neck, but she refused to buckle under such scrutiny. She jutted out her chin and resisted the urge to blow her bangs off her forehead. “I can assure you, Mr. Devereaux, Vermilion Oil is undertaking a full internal investigation. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of our endeavors at this time. But be certain of this, we won’t stop investigating until the culprits have been discovered and justice has been served.”

  “Ms. Thompson, does law enforcement have any suspects?” A local reporter jostled to push next to Mr. Devereaux. Vying for a spot and attention, even though she could very well take the information straight off the printed press release handed out moments ago.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss suspects, Ms. Martin. I’d suggest you talk to Sheriff Theriot in regards to the sheriff’s department’s investigation.”

  And let him take some of the heat.

  “Are any other companies being targeted by these saboteurs? Could this be an act of terrorism?”

  Sadie’s mouth went dry as she locked stares with the reporter from Shreveport, Louisiana. “That’d be another question for law enforcement. I’m only involved with the investigation regarding the damaged facilities belonging to Vermilion Oil.”

  “What does this mean for Mr. Wynn?”

  Sadie sought the reporter who’d asked the question. Her gaze fell on the young man from Alexandria. “Mr. Bosworth.” She gave a nod to the business and finance reporter. Oh, this could be very bad for Deacon. “Mr. Wynn is forging ahead with business as usual. Currently, Vermilion Oil has eight facilities working properly in this parish alone. Security on every site has been heightened, and, of course, we have our thorough background check system for every employee working on the rigs themselves and in the facilities. This won’t happen again.” It couldn’t.

  The reporter all but rolled his eyes, but Sadie didn’t have time to elaborate before the next reporter shouted out a question. “Ms. Thompson, we’ve heard some say the layoffs of several workers has led to improper monitoring, contributing to these incidents. Would you care to comment?”

  Vultures—like buzzards after a wounded animal. “I can attest that every possible measure is being taken to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”

  “It’s said that Vermilion Oil’s presence in the bayou is causing havoc in the local fishermen and hunters’ businesses.” The young hotshot from Lake Charles thrust his recorder closer to the podium. “There’s a local group who’s demanding Vermilion Oil close down the wells in the bayou to protect the environment. Would you care to comment?”

  Sadie held up her hands. “I’m sorry, that’s all I have for the moment. Thank you so much for your time.” She gave a curt nod. “Good day.”

  The reporters continued to throw questions at her back as she made her way inside the main office. Behind the tinted windows, Deacon Wynn paced the polished floors. “They’re pouncing on us, Sadie. Profits are down. I’m losing money hand over fist right now. Over two hundred of my oil rigs have no facility to produce into. Every day they’re down, I’m losing hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  She let out a sigh and gripped her leather appointment book tighter. “It’ll bounce back up, Deacon.” Lord, please let it be so.

  “You sure about that? The damage to the facilities is costly. That’s cutting into our operating costs.” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “We can’t afford for another to go down. Especially not to sabotage. They’ve knocked out almost a quarter of our top-producing rigs. I can’t afford to stay in business at this rate.”

  Sadie’s heart twisted. Deacon Wynn was a hard and cunning businessman, but he was also a good man. He was one of the few men who’d never made a pass at her, despite her reputation. He appreciated her talent in public relations, giving her chances that no other business owner in Lagniappe would have ever provided her. She owed him. Big-time. She’d have to make him take her suggestions this time—to save his company. “We need to bring in some independent investigator to look into the sabotage, sir. Someone who’ll take this situation very seriously and hopefully can make progress where law enforcement seems to be stumped.”

  Deacon stared out the window at the departing press. “You think an independent could do anything more than what law enforcement is doing?” Deacon shook his head. “We need a miracle. I need answers. And fast. If we leak anything into the waterways, it’ll cost me millions for cleanup, which will put the company in bankruptcy.”

  “We have to do somethin
g, Deacon.” She glanced at the cars leaving the parking lot. “We know some of the laid-off workers have an ax to grind with us. I’ll start working on that angle.”

  He nodded, but didn’t take his gaze from the windows. “Whatever it takes. We can’t afford for anything else to go wrong.”

  “Dad.”

  Both Sadie and Deacon turned as Lance Wynn strode toward them. His hair had been trimmed since the last time Sadie had seen the young man. He wore jeans that hung low on his hips and a T-shirt that needed a better washing. But his face appeared clear. Maybe rehab had done him some good.

  He reached his father. “I’m sorry to hear about this latest incident. What can I do to help?”

  Deacon’s brows formed a firm line. “I’m surprised to see you here. Thought you were no longer interested in the company or me.”

  Lance’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Personal differences aside, you’re my father and this is your company. When someone lashes out at you, I take it personally.”

  “Like you have with Candy-Jo?” Deacon shook his head. “Never mind. Like I told you last week, I don’t want you here, Lance. We’ve said all there is to say between us.”

  “But, Dad, I can help. I’ve hung around these outfits since I was ten years old. I know the business from the ground up. Let me try to help.” Desperation hung in the kid’s tone.

  Deacon’s brows formed a firm line. “I thought I made it perfectly clear that you weren’t welcome on any Vermilion Oil property. Do you want me to call security?”

  Sadie took a step backward. Ever since Deacon had married Candy-Jo two years ago, there’d been conflict in the family. Candy-Jo was a much younger woman, and Sadie had heard the tension in the family had gotten so bad that eighteen-year-old Lance had gotten into some sort of mess with drugs and checked into a rehab center. Not that Deacon had ever discussed it with her. He didn’t talk much about his personal business.

  Deacon addressed her directly, ignoring his son. “Keep me updated, Sadie. I’m counting on you to get this handled.” He spun and strode to the elevators, but Sadie detected a slight sluggishness to his step.

  Lance stood still, silently staring at his father’s retreating back.

  She ran her finger along a rough seam on her leather notebook. Deacon’s health had taken a nosedive over the last several months. No wonder—his new wife and his son didn’t get along, and the family sat in utter turmoil. Rumor had it that Deacon had even written Lance out of his will. And now these sabotages plagued Deacon’s business. Poor man, how much more could he take?

  “Let me help you. I know the people and the business,” Lance said.

  She chewed the inside corner of her mouth. Lance had learned the business from the ground up and might have connections with the field workers. But, as desperate as she was right now, Sadie couldn’t involve him without Deacon’s permission. She let out a soft sigh. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think so.”

  Lance hung his head.

  Her cell phone saved her from any further conversation with the young man. She flipped the phone open. “Hello?”

  “This is Ms. Mitchell from Lagniappe High with the summer school program. Is this Caleb Frost’s guardian?”

  Sadie’s heart thumped quicker. “Yes, I’m Caleb Frost’s guardian. How can I help you?” She smiled at Lance before turning and heading back to her office.

  Interesting.

  Jon turned off the television as soon as the press conference faded to the news anchor’s commentary and tossed the remote onto the desk. Sadie Thompson had grit, he had to give her that. There was something about her, something that seemed to resonate deep inside him. Knowing she’d just undertaken an enormous burden with Caleb, Jon had to admire her spunk shown at the press conference for Vermilion Oil. It was time he found out more about Sadie Thompson.

  But Vermilion Oil…Something about the company—where had he seen it mentioned recently? Not the newscasts of the troubles the company had. Something else nagged him. He just couldn’t figure out from where.

  “Hey, boss, here are the sheets for today’s appointments.” Lisa handed him a folder as she cocked out her hip, disrupting any chance of concentration that he’d mustered. “Another busy day. You have field visits this morning, then four appointments after lunch.”

  “Thanks.” He nodded toward the TV. “Have you heard about those sabotages over at Vermilion Oil?”

  She shook her head. “No, but a side reference to Vermilion Oil’s in there.” She dropped the local daily on his desk. “Did you see today’s top story?”

  Other than the oil company’s issues, what could the hot news be—a church bake sale? He bit back his sarcasm. He glanced at the captions. “What?”

  “A murder. Some man killed just outside Lagniappe early this morning. Shot deader than a doorknob.”

  In today’s world, the news wasn’t shocking. But in a small community, murders didn’t happen all the time. He scanned the article. The man, Harold Daniels, worked as a facility manager for Vermilion Oil. Found dead out off Harden Lane in the early hours of the morning, shot in the chest. Local sheriff had no comment.

  Jon shook his head. “It’s sad what the world’s coming to.”

  “Makes you realize how short and precious life can be. Makes you want to live every moment to the fullest, yes?” Lisa gave a sad smile.

  “I suppose so.” For a moment, Sadie’s image floated across his mind.

  “Jon.” Lisa’s voice held uncertainty.

  He glanced up. “Yes?”

  “I don’t like to gossip or anything, but about Caleb Frost’s new guardian?”

  Sadie. “Yes?”

  “Well…do you know her history?”

  “Just what was in the file.”

  “I see.” Her face scrunched into a scowl.

  “What is it, Lisa?”

  “I don’t know her personally or anything, but she has somewhat of a reputation around town.”

  Something lodged sideways in Jon’s throat. He swallowed hard. “What kind of reputation?”

  “Just that she used to be a heavy drinker. And, uh, let’s say she, uh, dated quite a few of the men in town.”

  His gut clenched. Sadie was like Aunt Torey?

  “I heard she changed and all, but I just thought you might want to know.” Lisa shrugged. “It might be important to Caleb’s rehabilitation.”

  He handed Lisa back the newspaper and reached for his briefcase. “Thanks. Guess I’d better get to today’s field visits.”

  “Sure. I’ll hold the fort.”

  He glanced at the itinerary she’d given him. Sadie Thompson and Caleb Frost weren’t on the list for a home visit. Probably a good thing. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. Now, after hearing Lisa’s report, he had to wonder why.

  No, he wouldn’t even start trying to analyze why he kept thinking about Sadie Thompson. He had a job to do and as he crossed the lobby to the parking lot, he was determined to do just that—his job and nothing more.

  Two hours and four visits later, Jon pulled into the café for a quick salad. A blast of frigid air hit his face as he opened the door. Ah, the pricelessness of air-conditioning on a sweltering July day.

  He nodded to a couple of the townspeople as he made his way to the swivel stools against the bar counter. No one greeted him or even tossed him a welcoming smile. He’d lived in Lagniappe over a year—when would the locals warm up to him?

  After placing his order, Jon sipped his water and studied the people around him. Most were on their lunch breaks, as well, wearing the fashions of their jobs. Uniforms for the minimum-wagers, dirty jeans and T-shirts for the manual laborers and suits for the numerous professionals hanging out their shingles in the small town. Jon felt out of place in his khaki slacks and polo-style shirt.

  “Man, Deacon Wynn’s gonna be outta business soon,” one of the men in a dirt-streaked shirt mumbled to his lunch partner.

  “Would serve him right. That family’s got delus
ions they’re above all the rest of us.” The other worker splashed ketchup over his mountain of fries.

  “Yeah, but didn’t stop his son from getting into trouble, did it?”

  “Heard he’d gotten into drugs and gone into rehab. Shows that money can buy trouble, that’s for sure.”

  Jon tightened his grip on his water glass. That’s where he recognized the name Vermilion Oil. One of his probationers was the son of Deacon Wynn. Rehab? No, the boy had been in juvie, turning eighteen less than a week after his release.

  Lance Wynn was a good kid, basically. Raised in a family with too much money and not enough attention. He’d dabbled in drugs, gotten caught and sent to juvie. He only had another month of probation, then that record would be closed and sealed. A past swept under the carpet, unlike the less wealthy juvies.

  It never ceased to amaze Jon what having money could do.

  Today had been the day to beat all days.

  Sadie grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and headed to the front porch. That draining press conference had set the tone for her entire day, followed by Caleb missing the bus and having to walk to school, arriving for class late, which explained the call from the principal this morning. The only thing good about today was no new facility had been damaged. She yearned for a hot bath and an early bedtime.

  Unfortunately, she had to cook something for supper so Caleb could eat. Not that he’d appreciate her efforts—he hadn’t since he’d come home.

  Home. As if Caleb would ever consider her house home. In spite of her numerous attempts the previous day, he’d made it perfectly clear he had no desire to seek out any type of relationship with her. Period. Stony silence and simple yes-and-no answers were the extent of their rapport.

  Sadie sighed and grabbed the mail before reaching for the front door. Caleb couldn’t be bothered to bring in the mail. She turned the knob. Or lock the door, apparently. She nearly tripped over his size-twelve sneakers lying just inside the foyer.

  “Caleb!”

  “Yo.” The grunt came from the living room.