Lady Justice

by Vicki Hinze

  And he always took credit for anything that went right. Max knew the type and, during the meeting, he didn’t see anything that contradicted the sheriff’s opinion. Max glanced over at Jackson. He sat with an elbow propped on the table, his jaw cupped in his hand. His eyes were glazed over, proving he had no hope for anything constructive happening between Stan and Faulkner. Stan still came across as patient, but he had wearied of Faulkner’s narrative, too. He’d checked his watch three times in the last sixty seconds. That move alone had Max giving Stan the upper hand on winning the debate.

  When Faulkner began reiterating for the third time, Max ended the debate. “Look,” he interrupted, “we’ve got to spray. It’s inconvenient because of storm damage, but the slow cleanup is also why spraying is essential. We don’t need an outbreak of West Nile here like they had in New Orleans. And if there is one, I’m sure Mayor Faulkner doesn’t want to have to explain to his constituents that the reason why is he refused to spray.”

  Faulkner frowned. “I haven’t refused to spray.”

  “Okay, then. You agree,” Max said.

  “Actually, I haven’t agreed, either.”

  “Fine.” Max folded his hands on the tabletop. “Well, then, let’s call the question. Otherwise, the worst that could happen will happen, and we’ll still be sitting here debating. Do we spray? Yes, or no?”

  Faulkner’s mud-brown eyes stretched wide and his high forehead wrinkled. “Spraying all of Carnel Cove requires a little more consideration, Max. Maybe this is routine for you federal guys, but for us it’s a major decision. The expense—”

  “There is no expense.” Max leaned forward on his seat. “Not to Carnel Cove.” He shifted his gaze to Stan Mullin. “Is FEMA prepared to take responsibility for working with the CDC and to assume all costs?”

  The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta would have to be notified. Of course, the reports would be routed to Home Base for editing. “I could stipulate to that,” Stan said, nodding.

  He had orders to provide Max with whatever he needed. At least Conlee had released that much information to Stan. “Great,” Max said. “That’s settled, then.” He stood and walked over to look at a map of Carnel Cove on the far wall of Faulkner’s office. “Mayor, how do you want the Cove split up? We’ll need quadrants. Where do you want the lines drawn?”

  Still looking baffled at how quickly this had been settled after wrangling over a response for the past hour, Faulkner walked to the map and drew four quadrants with his fingertips. “Does that look reasonable?” He reached for a marker.

  Max grabbed it first. “Perfect.” The quadrant containing Logan Industries’ lab needed to be sprayed first to minimize damage to Covers from the lab incident. “One.” He marked the map, and then went on to mark the other three areas.

  Sipping at a steaming cup of coffee, Stan joined them at the map and addressed the mayor. “Who handles the regular spraying here?”

  “Carl Blake. Well, not personally,” Faulkner amended. “But one of his companies.”

  “Were his trucks damaged in the storm?” Stan asked.

  “I don’t think so.” Faulkner shrugged. “There was no word of his trucks taking a hit at the Silver Spoon this morning. But you can ask him yourself. He’ll be here any moment.”

  Great. Max frowned. The mayor counted on café gossip for accurate information.

  “He’s not going to make it here, Mayor. He’s meeting with his insurance adjuster.”

  “So his trucks are damaged?” Faulkner asked.

  “No, sir,” Sheriff Coulter said. “His home. A long-needle pine crashed through the roof in his son’s bedroom. Would’ve killed the boy if he’d been in it and not away at college.”

  Faulkner slipped his hands in his pockets and slumped forward. “Is that right?”

  Coulter nodded, bored and edgy and ready to get out of the conference room. “I need to get back to the office. If you don’t need—”

  “Naw, go ahead, Jackson.” Faulkner waved a dismissive hand.

  Faulkner was and had been pushing the “good old boy” routine pretty hard. And Max wondered why. It wasn’t genuine or even second nature to the man; that was evident. He couldn’t sustain the role without sliding out of it. Not that he had made big gaffes; he hadn’t. But he had made a number of little mistakes that were glaringly apparent to a trained operative watching for them.

  “Stan.” Max looked over. “You’ll work with the mayor and Carl Blake to get the trucks set up, right? We need to start pesticide applications today. If we wait, the CDC could declare Carnel Cove a health hazard—due to the storm-induced mosquito infestation. They could issue a mandatory quarantine of the town.” That should halt any mayoral objections.

  “No problem,” Stan said. “Providing the trucks can get down the roads.”

  Faulkner chimed in. “Carl can support the city’s efforts on clearing them. He has heavy-equipment rentals that can supplement the power and gas companies’ trucks and our own emergency services—if FEMA’s willing to pay.”

  “It is.” Stan looked from the mayor to Max. “What about the pesticide?”

  Max shot him a warning glare. Hadn’t the man been briefed? Or had he failed to recall that Faulkner hadn’t yet been cleared as a possible suspect for the lab incident?

  Probably the former. Conlee wouldn’t consider Stan had a “need to know” about the lab incident suspects any more than he would “need to know” Faulkner was a suspect in the Global Warrior judicial-corruption cases heard by Judge Abernathy. Everyone in town, including Sheriff Coulter, swore no one spit on the street without Faulkner’s stamp of approval. Faulkner knew more than he was telling them about both, which so far, was nothing. Or at least, Gabby had relayed nothing. Faulkner could have told her who had killed JFK and Max wouldn’t know it. Right now, Gabby wouldn’t know it. And if Keith Burke’s vaccine didn’t arrest the Z-4027 infection, she probably never would.

  If it gets bad, I expect you to do the right thing. I would do it for you.

  Gabby’s promise. Remembering it put a lump in Max’s throat. Man, he hoped it didn’t come down to that, to his killing her to end her suffering.

  Worrying about that, about her, put tension in his tone. “I’ll handle obtaining the pesticide,” Max told Stan. “And I’ll get back to you with instructions.”

  “No problem.”

  Faulkner’s keen eyes missed nothing. “I thought you were the head of FEMA, Stan. Why are you taking instructions from a consultant?”

  Sober, Stan grunted. “Because he’s a subject matter expert and I pay him a fortune to know more than I do about health and safety. He does, and I’m smart enough to listen to him.”

  Stan Mullin was all right, after all. Max swallowed a chuckle under his breath. “I’ll check with Logan Industries and see if they can help us.”

  “Oh?” Faulkner’s interest level perked up.

  That reaction bothered Max. The man wasn’t surprised, just eager for information, and so far as Max could determine there was no reason he needed it. Wary, he looked straight at Faulkner, and said nothing.

  Faulkner hesitated, but apparently he hadn’t learned the power of silence as a negotiation tool. “Speaking of L.I. I ran into Dr. Erickson at the Silver Spoon this morning. He tells me Candace and Gabby are under the weather?”

  “Gabby’s fine,” Max said, avoiding mentioning Candace. “Storms rattle her. That’s all.”

  “I see,” Faulkner said, wrapping his lips around a well-worn pipe stem.

  “I’ll get going on those public service warnings.” Stan beat Max to the door. “We do want to mention there’s a danger of EEE, right?”

  “Yes,” Max said, without hesitating. “A case was reported within spitting distance—Mobile—so the risks are elevated here, particularly with all the standing water due to the storm.”

  “Breeding ground.” Stan nodded and walked out the door, swiftly closing it behind him.

  “I’d better get moving, too.” Max
headed out, glad the objective of getting Faulkner to agree to the spraying had been met. That might buy him a little time with Commander Conlee and keep him off Max’s back.

  “Max?” Faulkner called out, leaning a hip on the corner of his desk, folding his arms across his chest. “Tell me something.”

  Max looked back at him over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Tell me why the director of FEMA is taking orders from you. No offense intended, but you’re just a consultant.”

  “Stan just answered that. I’m a subject matter expert. This is what I do.”

  “His explanation was lacking, and yours isn’t much better.”

  Faulkner wanted more but he wasn’t going to get it. Max glared at him, and said nothing.

  “Fine,” he finally said. “Then tell me, as his expert, when are you going to admit that there was an incident at Logan Industries’ lab that puts the people of Carnel Cove in jeopardy?”

  Max looked him straight in the eye. “What lab incident?”

  “Well, that’s pretty clear.” Faulkner chewed at his inner lip. “One more question.”

  Max waited and masked his expression. Faulkner wasn’t as affable as he pretended to be, but he wasn’t as sly as he thought he was, either. Fine by Max. He’d often dealt with Faulkners.

  “Why haven’t you and Gabby divorced?”

  That question Max hadn’t expected. “Excuse me?”

  “She’s been here nearly a year, and you’re just now making an appearance? Now, strangely enough, when your expertise is suddenly needed by the federal government?” Faulkner stretched out his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “Come on, Max. I’m not stupid. She’s not your wife and you’re not here by mistake. What the hell is going on in my town?”

  Max didn’t have to pretend to be offended, he felt indignant down to the tips of his toes. “With all due respect, my marriage and my wife are none of your business. You’re out of line, and I recommend you don’t step over it again.” Max paused, doorknob in hand. “As you say, it’s your town. I’m here and able to help. You want it, fine. You don’t, that’s fine, too.”

  “It’s just odd. Gabby talked of you, of course. But here, all of a sudden, you show up.” He tugged at the lobe of his ear. “I can’t help wondering, why now? There has to be a reason.”

  “Wonder all you want, but keep your nose out of my private life. You mess with my wife, you mess with me.”

  Max looked down into Faulkner’s dull, mud-brown eyes. “Frankly, you’re not up to it.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry.” The mayor slid Max a caustic smile. “I didn’t mean any harm. I was just curious. No offense, eh?”

  “None taken.” Max smiled back as politely as if they’d been discussing the weather, and then left the office.

  Max slid into Gabby’s Jeep and started the ignition. He didn’t like Faulkner and he didn’t like the feeling of this whole situation. Not any of it. Faulkner knew exactly what had happened at the lab; his body language and eyes gave him away. He wasn’t guessing there’d been damage; he knew it, and he shouldn’t. The project was classified above Top Secret. That meant someone who had security clearance and knew about the incident had breached it and told him. But who with the appropriate security clearance would be that stupid?

  Stan didn’t know it. Faulkner had mentioned talking with Dr. Erickson at the Silver Spoon Café. Erickson had been caring for Candace while Keith had been checking on Gabby. Erickson could have told Faulkner about the project and the release of the Z-4027 mosquitoes. Seemed logical. Easy.

  And that’s what was wrong with it. It was too logical and too easy. Faulkner had set Erickson up. In subterfuge, only idiots drew linear lines. Faulkner was an ass, but he was not an idiot. So whom had he been protecting?

  Only two other people at Logan Industries knew what the Z-4027 project entailed: Erickson’s boss, Dr. Marcus Swift, and Candace Burke.

  The image of Candace with her arms stretched, trying to seal the lab window with her blouse to keep the infected mosquitoes confined to the lab, replayed in Max’s mind. She was a patriot, willingly sacrificing her life to save others. That narrowed Faulkner’s protection list to one. Dr. Marcus Swift.

  And Max wondered. If Gabby could recall all she knew, would she agree?

  Gabby was hot. Why couldn’t she lift her arms to wipe her forehead? They seemed to weigh a ton. Her lips were dry; she needed water, and opened her mouth to let out some of the heat.

  Someone pushed a straw between her lips. It startled her. Then she remembered Max was here. Thank God, Max was here. She sipped, letting the cool water swish inside her mouth, loosen the dry flesh from her teeth, and then swallowed, feeling the blessedly cool liquid slide down her throat.

  “Drink a little more, Gabby. Your fever is really up.”

  It wasn’t Max. It was a woman’s voice. Gabby tried to pry open her eyelids, but they too felt as if they had been leaded down with weights. Who was she?

  Max was here. She knew Max was here, and shouted for him. “Max.”

  Why had her voice sounded like a crackled whisper? What had—oh, dear God, the mosquitoes. Z-4027. She was infected and dying. “Max,” she tried again.

  “It’s me, Elizabeth. Max had to go to the mayor’s meeting. You’re sick, remember?”

  It took valiant effort, but she opened one eye to a slit and saw Elizabeth bending over her bedside, glass with straw in hand. Her perfume smelled sweet, and she looked so worried. Gabby had to be dying. She managed to nod.

  “I think I’d better call Max or Keith. I’m not happy with your temperature, Gabby.”

  What was Max doing with the mayor? He was supposed to be in Africa. No. No, he’d come home. The storm. He knew how much she hated storms. Ah, being a good husband.

  Shh, don’t tell, Gabby. Don’t tell.

  Something strong and important niggled at her memory, but all that held firm was that she was married to Max. “Don’t tell.” She croaked out and sank deeper into her pillow, exhausted from the effort.

  “You don’t want me to call Max or Keith?” Elizabeth said and then frowned, clearly disagreeing. “Oh, Gabby. I think we should call them both right away. You don’t realize—”

  “Shh.” Gabby strained to keep an eye open to a slit and stared up into Elizabeth’s face, her resolve evident in her sharp tone. “Don’t tell.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Max pulled into the Logan Industries parking lot, and then dialed Gabby’s. When Elizabeth answered, he said, “It’s me, Max. How is Gabby?”

  “She’s had a little water. Her temperature is up again. It’s acting like a yo-yo.”

  “May I speak with her, please?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. “She’s not really up to talking right now.”

  “Do you need to call Keith?”

  “Mmm, maybe later.”

  Her hesitancy bothered him. He didn’t want to run through a liaison, but it seemed he had no choice. “Ask her what she can tell me about Dr. Marcus Swift.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It has to do with the lab incident,” he said impatiently, though he thought she’d asked before even thinking about what she was doing. Still, Commander Conlee said the ladies could be trusted, so asking her was safe. “I need to know what kind of man he is.”

  “Hang on a second. I’ll ask Gabby.”

  The phone muffled, as if she’d cupped her hand over the mouthpiece on the receiver. Then, Elizabeth came back on the line. “She doesn’t know much about him, she says. But I do, if you’re interested.”

  He needed pertinent project intelligence, but with Gabby unavailable, he’d take what he could get. “Absolutely.”

  “Okay.” Elizabeth dragged in a breath. “He’s CEO of Logan Industries, and has been since right after Candace bought controlling interest and hired him. She didn’t want to assume day-to-day management, so she needed someone with impeccable qualifications. Out of all the applicants, Marcus Swift was the only one
who made the cut. No one else even came close. He brought Dr. Erickson on board. Marcus makes all the decisions, but Candace has Miranda oversee everything. She has legal and specialized accountants pull a full audit every three months.”

  “Full audits, every three months?” Max asked, surprised at the frequency. Most corporations considered annual audits sufficient.

  “That’s right, quarterly. Swift hates it, but he can’t dissuade Miranda and Candace backs up Miranda. When Candace Burke makes up her mind, no one short of God can change it.”

  “So Swift isn’t happy at Logan Industries and his position is strictly administrative.”

  “Oh, no. He’s happy. He’d just be happier if he owned it—or if he owned Candace—but don’t mention that to Keith. Marcus isn’t just an administrator either. He’s also the head of all research and development. Candace is a financial whiz, but she’s not into medical research. For her, Logan Industries was just a good investment.”

  The row of canisters in the lab, the one with the black band replayed in Max’s mind. “Swift is active in the lab, then?”

  “Very,” Elizabeth said. “Just a second. Gabby’s snatching at the phone.”

  Gabby came on the line. “Max, how long will it be before you get home?”

  “Soon. I’m at the lab now. I need to do a little legwork.” He watched Erickson park his Volvo in the lot, clear security, and then walk into the building. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. My assistant said she was clearing my calendar for today, and Elizabeth is mothering me to death. I’m just going to stay in bed and rest. I love you, sugar.”