Deep Extraction

by DiAnn Mills

  That was Max Dublin with his game on. “Far too many,” Tori said. “Lust in all areas makes strange bedfellows.”

  The elevator door opened and the three stepped inside. Nothing was said for fear of possible listening devices in the elevator. They exited on the first floor of the complex and headed out to Cole’s truck. At his truck, Tori took the bench seat behind the passenger side. Cocoa-brown leather trimmed in brass. Custom order. A cup holder held her cold coffee from earlier.

  “I have to tell Sally what we’ve learned before the day’s over,” Tori said.

  “I’m right there with you,” Cole said. “We owe her the truth before she hears from another source.”

  “I gave my word to Lance to help shelter his mom from the truth. Not sure what I was—”

  “Why?” Max spit out an expletive. “Our job isn’t to shield her from the inevitable. And then there’s the issue of her being a suspect.”

  “Hey,” Cole said, “our job is to serve the community, and that means sincerity and concern for every person who has been victimized. Today is a fact-finding mission in hopes we’ll have more answers by tonight.”

  Max huffed. “Stupid when we already have two women to bring in and press for a confession.”

  “Not on my watch until we have evidence,” Cole said. “If my understanding of the law is stupid, deal with it.”

  Tori was in no mood to listen to arguing. “Stop it, you two. I’ve had enough.”

  “Maybe you need to resign from the case. Want me to make a recommendation?”

  “That works both ways, partner.”

  “She’s right,” Cole said. “Nothing is solved arguing. So we’re heading to Texas City?”

  “You bet. Those roughnecks will tell us exactly what they thought of Moore and who’d want him dead. When I was there about the bombing, they wanted to help, mad about those who’d gotten hurt. Rumor mill runs hot and strong. Might take a few beers to get ’em to loosen up. Leave it to me. None of them were killed in the explosion—peculiar, don’t you think? Unless a few of them were in on it too.”

  Tori ignored him. “He paid his employees well and provided excellent benefits. He sent a six months’ supply of Pampers to every baby born, offered college scholarships based on grades, and attended all employee weddings and funerals. Promotions came from within, and he shared profits with every worker.”

  “Fat chance those employees were disgruntled,” Cole said.

  “Depends,” Max said. “Never know what makes a man angry enough to kill.”

  Tori took over the discussion again. “We’re looking at a complex man who played the role of devoted husband and father, lover, entrepreneur, exceptional employer, and friend to Cole and me. He lived a complicated life, and we’re starting to unravel it.”

  “I’m all for Sally Moore as the killer.” Max followed up his words with a cough that she thought would never end. Tori stayed quiet until he could speak again. “My years of experience tell me she’s our strongest suspect. Think about it. Krantz wouldn’t want the victim dead. A baby gives her leverage for him to leave his wife. At the very least, make a handsome settlement. The Moore woman arranged the bombing and the hacker, just like I told you all along.”

  Tori’s head throbbed. “Krantz also had motive with Nathan refusing to leave Sally and the prospect of raising a child alone.”

  “Truth is, we’re dealing with speculation,” Cole said. “Nothing more. The more we dig, the closer we’ll get. Assumptions don’t solve a case—important to help theorize, but in the end you might be chasing an empty trail.”

  “You don’t have my experience.” Max wouldn’t let up.

  “We’re looking for a man’s killer, a person who had knowledge of his medical condition,” Tori said. “The announcement went public when he had a heart attack and the surgical procedure resulting in the pacemaker.”

  Max swore, and she was tired of hearing it. “You two refuse to see the obvious.”

  Tori forged ahead. “I’m not denying both women are persons of interest. Either one could have done the crime. Or neither. The killer sees the act as justified, and Nathan had it coming. Whatever he did to push the killer’s buttons meant he committed the unredeemable, the worst of immoral acts that could no longer be ignored. I’m looking at this from a woman’s point of view, and both have issues which could have resulted in murder. But if I hold strong on this theory, then why bomb the oil rig?”

  “Cover-up,” Max said. “Or an accomplice. A woman easily charges into the arms of another man when she thinks she’s been wronged or can do better. I—”

  “Please.” Tori’s voice rose. “Neither Sally Moore nor Anita Krantz is your wife. Cut the personal injury stuff and stay on task.”

  Max turned and threw visual bullets her direction. “Prove me wrong. Those women could have planned it together. A huge hormone overload. Hired out their dirty work.” He held up his phone. “Requesting a surveillance team on them.”

  Tori valued brainstorming and teamwork, but Max pushed both means of solving the crimes into a hole where he was always right. Her phone chimed with an update from the ASAC. “Watching them is wise. You could be right about Sally or Anita Krantz. But we have to investigate all the angles. Right now we’ve got a new lead, so a little effort to focus would be appreciated.” Max needed to add counseling to his chemo and radiation.

  Cole caught her attention in the rearview mirror. A hint of admiration in his sky-blue eyes. In her present mood, he should be careful or she might unload on him.

  ALBERT WRAPPED ERIK’S leftover hot ham and cheese sandwich in foil. He’d about run out of ways to keep his son alive, and bribes no longer did the trick. Erik had taken a few bites at lunch, but not enough for a grown man or a small child. Used to be, he’d eat two sandwiches. Now Erik forced nutrition into his body only to please his dad. The doctor suggested pureeing all of his meals, but who could eat such slop?

  He stared outside, not planning to pull the weeds from the flower beds but devising means to get his son to eat. To survive. To live.

  Until Nathan’s death, Albert had clung to hope. He must devise a new plan, but his mind spun with doubt and regret.

  He slid two dirty plates into the dishwasher. Erik had given up, and why not? His relapses had grown worse, sinking him deeper into depression that nudged him toward suicide. The MS steadily took his life like a flesh-devouring piranha. A diagnosis of progressive relapsing multiple sclerosis offered no hope for quality of life. No chance of improvement for a man who once competed in distance running and ran a company.

  Albert heeded the advice of Franc Lawd, a nurse who’d become his friend, and made sure no medications or sharp objects were within his son’s reach. Good friends were hard to come by, but he had two fine ones.

  Medical advances in Germany claimed a new drug forced remission of the disease in 75 percent of cases. But the FDA refused to approve it without further testing, stating the side effects of potential stroke made the medication too much of a health risk. The treatment in Germany required the patient to remain hospitalized for six weeks in order to receive four doses. An insurmountable amount of money, nearly 1.5 million dollars, far more than Albert’s pitiful assets, which had dwindled with Erik’s care and in trying to force Nathan’s hand. Beyond selling his soul, Albert no longer had options, except for one. If Erik could hold on and if the law would rectify an eighteen-year-old crime, he had a chance to live.

  He crept into Erik’s room. His son was staring at the ceiling. “Dad, I can’t go on much longer. Neither can you. I see you aging by the day. Put me in a nursing home before you collapse.”

  “I’ve taken care of you since you were in diapers.”

  “Almost there again.” He reached for a plastic cup containing water, took a drink, and ducked his chin so the liquid had no opportunity to trickle into his lungs. “When you saw Sally, how’d she look?”

  Albert considered saying she’d lost her trim shape and her hair had fallen ou
t, but she might visit Erik. “Hasn’t changed a bit. Still the blue-eyed beauty I met years ago.”

  His son smiled with gaunt features and closed his eyes for a moment as though remembering. “Her sons, do they resemble her or Nathan?”

  “I didn’t see them.”

  “I’m sure they got the best of both worlds.”

  Acid rose in Albert’s gut. “How can you say that when Nathan stole your life from you?”

  “Doesn’t matter anymore.” He dragged his tongue over his lips. “Thanks for passing along my condolences.” Erik started to say something but stopped for a moment. “Dad, think I’ll take a nap . . . and dream about the old days.”

  While Erik slept, Albert’s thoughts moved from one aspect of his son’s life to another. Idle hours often caused his mind to dwell on how Erik could have spent his life without MS. A wife and children sounded like paradise. Other men Albert’s age bragged about what a grandkid did or said. Attended sports events and dance recitals. Albert could only live through their stories.

  Although doctors hadn’t proved what caused MS, Albert blamed Nathan. The dead man had pushed enough stress into Erik’s life to send his son into autoimmune disease—or whatever the experts were classifying MS as these days. Yes, it was Nathan’s fault, and the reality nudged Albert until he became a predator.

  He switched on the radio—anything to keep his mind off what Nathan Moore had done to Erik.

  “Update on the death of Nathan Moore, owner of Moore Oil & Gas. Moore was murdered Monday night when a fatal heart attack took his life. Authorities learned his death was due to an adjustment to his pacemaker, done by a hack into the hospital’s equipment. No arrests have been made, but law enforcement have two persons of interest.

  “Evidence indicates Moore led another life that is just now surfacing. The benefactor of many charities, scholarships, and worthy causes had maintained a five-year affair with his executive assistant, Anita Krantz. Although it hasn’t been confirmed, our sources claim Ms. Krantz is pregnant with his child.”

  The newscast ended, and Albert paced the floor. How could he hate a man and regret his death at the same time? He wanted to feel the sweet satisfaction of justice served. But he was angry.

  Time to pay the bereaved widow another visit. Be a grandpa to Lance and Jack. Let her cry on his shoulder while he demonstrated concern for her plight. Find out who her friends were and play the ultimate sympathizer. Then he’d tell her about treatment for Erik.

  He’d sit back and watch the Moore family ask to help. Sally was no fool—Nathan had told her how he made his millions. The truth must be hidden in the depths of Moore’s paperwork. Perhaps his will. Maybe Albert should consult a lawyer.

  When the dust settled, Erik would be a rich man and a recipient of Germany’s medical discovery.

  THE FAMILIAR SOUND of water pouring into a drilling rig pipe transported Cole back to working alongside Dad. Being a roughneck had filled him with pride and taught him the value of backbreaking gratification in a job well done. Before daylight, he and Dad would slap on hard hats and pull on steel-toed boots. The day could be eight or twelve hours long. Didn’t matter. Just sweat and good times with great memories. Calluses and sore muscles laid the groundwork for country western music lyrics and a round of beers. Never worked so hard in his life.

  At the Moore Oil & Gas drill site, construction on the area that had been bombed was well under way. Another week, and the roughnecks would be working a full crew. The bomber had no intentions of hurting anyone or the bomb’s components would have done more damage.

  A possible threat for what happened to Nathan.

  Cole shielded his eyes from the sun and stared up at the metal platform. One man hosed down a drill pipe. The pipe rose from deep within the ground, and one guy was helping two men release a clamp, fasten a shield, and dump drilling mud. The process would begin again, this time going deeper. The screech of the plunging drill and the uneven hum of machinery reminded Cole of moments he could never recapture except in memories.

  Dad retired from a rig, but he never tired of telling stories about the days when a well came in strong—or when a rig blew and the men lost control of the well, some never living to tell about the tragedies.

  When a break was called, Max moved like a politician among the crew, shaking hands and making his way toward the drill pusher, the one man responsible for every crew member. But those guys knew an outsider when they saw one, and Max wore gray slacks, a dark sports jacket, a shiny visitor helmet, new safety glasses, and an air of arrogance.

  Tori stayed back while Cole joined him. “I don’t need your help,” Max said. “I’ve met these guys. They know me.”

  “Then talk to your ASAC’s lead, Preston Ustach. Not a man who could be responsible.”

  Max stopped, then walked toward Ustach and requested they talk in private. He nodded and they walked about twenty feet away. “Heard you told an FBI agent that you might have evidence about the bombing.”

  The derrickhand was blond and resembled a Texan linebacker. “Sir, I’m not sure my information is accurate. I won’t give a name without proof on my side.”

  “Let the professionals investigate the crime. You stick to the rig.”

  Ustach’s face flared. “Looks like your work hasn’t found the bomber or Mr. Moore’s killer.” He made his way back to his bud, a driller they’d met a few minutes earlier.

  “He knows something.” Max gritted his teeth.

  “If he does, you’re the last person he’ll tell.” Cole questioned if he could work this task force with the man. Max’s poor health had become a loose excuse for his attitude.

  Cole swung his attention to Ustach and his bud. They were talking privately. The driller was obviously mocking Max. Ustach sized up Tori. She stood back from the men and observed Max, no doubt listening to conversations, studying mannerisms, and processing what they’d learned about Nathan Moore. Or maybe not. Her scrutiny could be a cover-up for the men to approach her. She turned to Ustach and smiled, a curve of her lips that Cole hadn’t seen before. Ustach stepped beside her. His smile said more than a passing interest. Wouldn’t be the first time a fascinating woman extracted information out of a man. The driller joined them, with the same obvious interest in Tori.

  He gulped. Whoa, Cole, has the green-eyed monster drop-kicked your heart?

  Cole hesitated. Let Tori do her stuff. She could whip those guys into shape if they ventured out of line. He scanned the area away from Max and Tori, ensuring every angle of the site had eyes. Doing his job to make sure everyone was protected.

  A few moments later, one of the men with Tori broke into a loud laugh, and Cole convinced himself she needed a deputy US Marshal, so he made his way there.

  “You with the FBI?” said the driller, a small man, wiry and arms loaded with ink.

  “No. Deputy US Marshal.”

  He shook Cole’s hand. “Jose Aznar. Moore was a good man. Paid us well and took interest in our work problems. Don’t suppose you’d know anything about the oil business.”

  “My dad worked on a platform, and I helped him in the summers during high school and college. Loved every minute of it. But I heard the complaints too.”

  Ustach stuck his hands in his pockets. “Just telling the lady here how much we appreciated Nathan Moore. A finer man never owned a rig. He’d come to the site, grab a helmet, and pitch in to help. Stay until the job was done. That’s the kind of man he was. Whoever messed with his pacemaker deserves to be dead.”

  Cole shifted his weight to one leg. “We were friends. Can’t imagine why someone would kill him.”

  “His wife and I have known each other since college days. Like us, the family is devastated.” Did Tori’s voice sound sweeter in talking to these guys? “We all have more than a personal stake in getting to the bottom of this.”

  Ustach shook his head. “I told an FBI investigator that I only recall one man who didn’t like him, and he wasn’t employed here.”

  “
You mean the reporter caught snooping around?” Aznar said. “The guy who got thrown off the site?”

  “He wasn’t a reporter. But that’s who I mean.”

  “I remember ’im.” Aznar snorted. “I heard the EPA paid him. Then they lost the lawsuit. Served them right for attacking a good man and spreading lies.”

  Cole filed every word away. “What did the guy say to the crew?”

  “Wanted to know about Moore as a boss,” Ustach said. “Had his own agenda. Claimed his son worked for him on another rig, then got killed in an accident. Never heard the story before. We guessed it was a pack of lies aimed to get one of us to say something against Moore.”

  “Do you have a name?” Tori swept back her dark hair in a flirty motion.

  Ustach nudged her shoulder. “Yes, ma’am. Franc Lawd, first name with a c. He wrote it down for me in case I remembered something.”

  Had Ustach been an informant for Nathan?

  Tori turned to Cole. “Why don’t you run a background on Lawd while I chat with these fine gentlemen.”

  Cole grinned at the men. “This gal packs, so I’d be careful if I were you.”

  “She’s too cute to be dangerous.” Ustach did a redneck assessment, a head-to-toe scan with an appreciative smile. “She looks harmless. Stick around, honey, and we’ll have dinner later on.”

  “My boyfriend might not be too happy, and I don’t have a ride back to Houston.”

  “Who’s gonna tell him? You’re safe with me, and I’ll get you home when you’re good and ready.” He hesitated and seriousness entered his eyes. “A guy doesn’t meet a smart and pretty girl like you very often.”

  Cole walked to a secluded spot and requested the background on Franc Lawd. He wanted to be there while Tori talked to the two men, but it might interfere with her method of interviewing.

  Who was he fooling? He respected her role in the task force. She was tough while feminine, and she had eyes that resonated with depth and intelligence. But he had a green side when it came to her. She laughed and he whirled around for just one more look.