The Killdeer Connection

by Tom Swyers

  The woman stepped back and quickly looked him over from top to bottom. “What do you mean?”

  “Why are people here so early?”

  “Why don’t you ask yourself that question?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m new here.”

  “I figured it was either that or you were hitting on me. I should tell you, I’ve got a conceal-and-carry permit for my can of Dr Pepper.”

  “Dr Pepper?”

  “Pepper spray,” she said, pointing to a pink canister dangling from her key chain.

  “Oh, gotcha.” David glanced at the woman, trying to figure her out. She was short and heavyset, no makeup on her slightly wrinkled face, with frizzy dyed-blonde hair and brown eyelashes. Dressed in a black winter coat, jeans, and work boots, she was no flower in the desert, and maybe that’s the look she was going for, given the number of men in town.

  “So, is Walmart having a sale or something today?” he asked.

  “Every Sunday is like Black Friday here,” she said, looking right at him. Her eyes were bloodshot.

  “How’s that?” David asked.

  “There’s pent-up demand from when the store closed last night. There’s not enough stuff in the store in the first place, and when the store closes on Saturday night, the demand doesn’t stop. They get ten tractor trailers delivered a day here, and it still isn’t enough. Plus, it’s the weekend. A lot of people have Sunday off and are shopping to make it through the workweek. You’ll be lucky to find a loaf of bread on the shelves when tonight rolls around.”

  A security truck rolled up behind the crowd, and an officer got out to stand guard at the store entrance. Another gust of wind kicked up dust and litter in the parking lot and caught David off balance, causing him to take a half step toward the woman. The woman, unfazed by the wind, moved a few steps to the side.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said. The woman nodded, eyes fixed on the store entrance.

  David’s phone began to ring. It was Pete McNeal. David knew that they couldn’t talk with the wind blowing, so he headed for the car. On the third ring, he answered.

  “Hold on a second, Pete. I need to get into my car so you can hear me.”

  A few steps away from the car, David saw a late-model black Chevy Suburban parked a few rows away, pointing in his direction, facing his rear. It hadn’t been there before. Most vehicles had a layer of dust on them, if not some mud. But this Suburban was clean and shiny, just like one he’d seen when he’d pulled out from the Hertz parking lot. He couldn’t see if anyone was in the vehicle. The windows were tinted.

  David got in his car and turned his attention to Pete.

  “What do you want, Pete?”

  “Where are you?”

  “If you must know, I’m in North Dakota.”

  “North Dakota? Why are you there?”

  “I had a lead on some potential assets in the estate, and I’m trying to track down Harold Salar’s killer.”

  “You should have told me you were going.”

  “You’re not my mother. What difference does it make to you?”

  “It looks . . . suspicious.”

  “I don’t get it. If I were running away from the law, I wouldn’t have taken your call. Pete, you’ve known me since we were kids. Do you really think I killed Harold?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. You remember when we played the line together back in high school? You and me, we were a well-oiled machine. Our side of the football was tight. But there were nine other guys on our team, and we couldn’t control what they did. They just played so they could wear the jersey in school on the Friday before a big game. Well, I got those guys on my team now, and I can’t do anything about them. You understand?”

  “You mean FBI Special Agent Julius Moore?”

  “He’s just one piece of the puzzle.”

  “Hey, thanks for letting me know about him, by the way. If I knew some FBI guy was spying on you, I would have let you know before you found him in front of your house.”

  “Come on, David. I’ve got a job to do. I can’t tell you what’s going on with the investigation. I shouldn’t even be talking to you now about it.”

  “You’re talking to me now because you’re wondering what I’m up to. You and Moore both know that I took my Mustang to the airport. You might even have known I’m in North Dakota. By the way, please don’t call Annie anymore and use our friendship as a way of helping your investigation. Don’t try and bypass our legal right to confidentiality as a married couple by taking advantage of Annie’s good nature.”

  “You don’t realize how much I’ve stood up for you the past few weeks—”

  “Standing up for me will not work if I’m the only guy in the lineup, day in and day out.”

  “We’ve been trying to get more leads, but nothing yet. We can’t crack Harold’s iPhone or his computer.”

  “Well, the investigation doesn’t have to begin and end with his electronic devices. There are plenty of people in the oil industry who didn’t want his report made public. Did you go in that direction?”

  “We don’t have the resources or budget here to launch that type of investigation—”

  “Yeah, so I’m the cheapest suspect you can find. The ripest, lowest-hanging fruit around town.”

  “You didn’t let me finish, David. The FBI is investigating the oil-industry angle.”

  “Julius Moore?”

  “Him, maybe others. I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Julius Moore is fascinated by the hate-crime potential in this case, and I’m the target of that angle, too. If he’s truly interested in the oil-industry angle, then tell him that those guys aren’t riding in the back seat of my Mustang.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Every day I see him following me, like I’m the be-all, end-all in this case. The FBI is working me for the same reasons you’re working me. I’m easy pickings.”

  “We’re working other leads, D—”

  “There are plenty of leads here in North Dakota. But my bet is that neither you nor Julius Moore is going on a road trip to look into them. Do you know apartment rentals cost more in Williston than in New York City? It would kill your budget.”

  “I’m sure the FBI has field offices in North Dakota.”

  “Do you think they drive Chevy Suburbans?” David checked his rearview mirror. The mystery vehicle was gone.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind.” David saw the crowd draw close to the entrance. The store was about to open. “I got to run, Pete. I’ll call you if I find Salar’s killer. If I do, it’s on me. No charge.” With that, David signed off and headed for the entrance. Cars and pickup trucks were now entering the lot at a good clip. The game was on.

  While waiting in line to get into the store, David checked his e-mail and saw something from the Great Plains Hotel and Conference Center, the place he’d planned to stay that night. He opened it. It was a notice of room cancellation. The manager apologized and said they’d needed more rooms for the oil-company conference they were hosting and couldn’t accommodate David that evening. He’d left the name of several other hotels in Williston. If those were full, David could try the man camps: interconnected modular housing for oil workers that were a cross between shipping containers and mobile homes.

  He went down the list options the hotel manager had given him and called around while maneuvering a cart with a broken wheel noisily through the aisles. In the grocery section, many of the food items he sought were still on the pallets in shrink wrap. Employees knew those items would be gone in a few hours. No need to waste time shelving them. David called all the hotels on the list. None of the hotels or man camps on the list had a vacancy. So, when David got to the outdoors section, he not only picked up a cooler for perishables, but he also bought a sleeping bag.

  As a finishing touch, he grabbed PowerBars, bottled water, and a few other items. The wait in the checkout line lasted thirty minutes. There was only a s
ingle cash register open. A woman customer complained to the manager about the long line. He apologized and said he was short-staffed. Then he offered the woman an employment application. Starting salary: seventeen dollars per hour. The woman declined, saying she could make more money hauling gravel for the oil-well pads.

  Slowly, a few employees showed up from various departments to open the registers. David put his sleeping bag on the conveyor belt first. The cashier, a tall middle-aged man of Middle-Eastern descent who sported a turban, smiled at him.

  “Are you new in town, sir?”

  “Yes . . . Did the sleeping bag give me away?”

  “Yes, sir, and the cooler, as well. Do you have a place to stay?”

  “I thought I did, but an oil company is having a conference, and they couldn’t hold the room.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s probably the Helmsley Oil conference. My brother works there.”

  David couldn’t believe it. Shut out by the same company he was suing on behalf of Ben Prior. “Does he work on a well?”

  “No, he works at the Helmsley Oil depot. It’s where they load the oil for rail shipment. May I ask where you plan to sleep tonight?”

  David didn’t know about the Helmsley Oil depot. He made a mental note to check it out. “I’m embarrassed to say that I might end up sleeping in my car. Maybe even stay here at the Walmart parking lot.”

  “No need to be embarrassed, sir. All newcomers here end up living in their cars at one point or another. You should feel no shame. It is a rite of passage, a badge of honor to be worn proudly. Besides, you won’t call attention to yourself sleeping in a car on the street. You can’t say that if you’re in a camper or an RV.”

  David put up the last of the items on the conveyor and looked at the cashier for a wry smile, or anything that revealed the slightest hint of sarcasm. The man was focused on passing the items over the scanner. He was dead serious.

  “I feel homeless or something,” David said.

  “Then you may call yourself an overnighter, if that makes you feel better. That’s what a pastor down the street calls us. But you make more money here if you are homeless. You don’t have to pay for housing then. It’s not about how much you make; it’s about how much you manage to keep. Some of the highest earners I know in Williston live out of their cars or RVs.” The cashier was now scanning items with the dexterity of a circus juggler. “That’s what happens when your population triples overnight. Housing hasn’t caught up to the demand, and what’s available is expensive.”

  David was astounded by the growth of the city. Yet at the same time, he realized that this place they called a city, the epicenter for the biggest oil rush in the last century, had grown to be a little bigger than his hometown of Indigo Valley.

  “I feel I must warn you,” the man continued, “you can sleep here tonight, but the Hotel Walmart is not an option after tomorrow.”

  “So I’ve heard. Thank you. So, what’s life like around here? What do people do?”

  The man shrugged. “It’s like the Wild West here. You’re either working, or you’re drinking.” The man looked at David. “My religion forbids alcohol, and I don’t have time to drink. Your total is one hundred eighty-six dollars and sixty-four cents.”

  David stared at the cash-register total in disbelief. Welcome to boomtown. After paying, David loaded the supplies into his car and got on his phone to Google the Great Plains Hotel. Fortunately, they had posted the daily event schedule for the Helmsley Oil conference. David couldn’t believe the conference was still in full swing on a Sunday. Donovan Kincaid, the president and CEO, was set to be the keynote speaker that very afternoon. David was scheduled to take his deposition in early December for the Prior case. He so wanted to get a preview of what he was up against.

  David planned to grab some fast food and then somehow weasel his way in to hear Kincaid speak. He hit McDonald’s, but the lines were out the door. He should have guessed there’d be a wait, given the Help Wanted sign outside offering eighteen dollars per hour to start. It was the same deal all the way around for Subway, KFC, Arby’s, and Pizza Hut. There was no such thing as fast food in Williston.

  David drove past the two side-by-side strip clubs on Main Street, near the senior citizens center and the Chamber of Commerce, and headed to the parking lot of the Great Plains Hotel. It was past time to snack on some energy bars and carrots he had bought at Walmart. Nearly every third vehicle that thundered by was a tractor trailer. The big semis were hauling oil, dirt, gravel, water, or even brine, the leftover, chemical-laden saltwater that was a byproduct of fracking.

  The hotel’s asphalt parking lot was crammed with earth-tone-colored vehicles. Still, he managed to find a spot in an adjacent muddy field that faced the hotel complex. There weren’t any No Parking signs that he could see. So he decided to take a chance along with the other people who had parked there. He spotted clumps of conference attendees, identified by their name tags, smoking outside the entrance. They were getting ready to return for the keynote speech scheduled after lunch. While he plotted his next move from the front seat of the lime-green Spark, David finished off an energy bar and munched mini carrots, washing them down with bottled water.

  David watched a man leave the hotel, throw his name tag in a trash can, and then wave goodbye to a couple of smokers outside. He quickly put his carrots and water down in the passenger seat, grabbed his keys, cell, and a notebook, and walked briskly toward the hotel. He had spotted his opportunity and was going to seize it. Opening his notepad, he began to crumple up pieces of paper while in full stride. Some of the smokers put out their cigarettes and headed back inside, while a few others remained. David approached the trash can, which was off to the side of the entrance, and pushed open the flap. He deposited his trash and swiped up the name tag, hiding it in the palm of his hand.

  The automatic glass doors parted for David as he strolled into the hotel like he belonged there. The lobby area looked like it was right out of a Salvation Army showroom. The open floor plan and bright lights highlighted the wall-to-wall carpet squares throughout. The walls and the suspended-tile ceiling were institutional white, while the rug underfoot had a dark, mud-colored background topped off with blotches of tan like scattered beach sand. The tables in the lobby could have been lacquered in chocolate syrup. Upholstery on the sofas and chairs was lumpy, dark-brown leatherette with occasional duct tape touch-ups. You could see the butt impressions in the sofas from tired backsides waiting for a chance at success. Against the walls and scattered throughout were some green-and-white-striped upholstered chairs that looked like they had been borrowed from a Florida patio room. David thought this stuff looked worse than the couch that was on the curb in Ben Prior’s neighborhood. It appeared that modern furniture had yet to find its way to boomtown.

  David made his way over to the Calendar of Events sign and read the agenda while attaching the purloined name tag to his shirt by its safety pin. His alias for the afternoon was Scott Olson. He learned that Donovan Kincaid would hold forth in the Meadowlark Ballroom in five minutes. It was the final event of the conference.

  The ballroom had the same carpeting underfoot as the lobby. It held a bevy of round tables covered in black tablecloths with white napkins and white plates. The curved high-backed chairs had black fabric thrown over them, creating a look remarkably like cemetery headstones. At the far side of the room, the rectangular head table had a white tablecloth and white slipcovers with black napkins and plates. Seated behind the table, he saw a row of florid, middle-aged white men. Each sported a variation on the Texas dress-up code: unbuttoned sports jacket, shirt in any color but white, and a bolo tie at half-mast. Their Stetsons were lined up like trophies on a table behind them. None of them lived in North Dakota. They were just there for the oil.

  David slipped in and sat at a table in the rear that had some untouched place settings. Everyone had turned his chair toward the lectern in the middle of the head table as the master of ceremonies finished his introducti
on of Donovan Kincaid to a round of applause. Kincaid, a tall, rangy man, loomed over the podium, hanging work-roughened hands loosely over the edges. The fingers of his left hand twitched, missing the cigar that would normally rest there if he had not been forced to obey the No Smoking signs.

  “I want to wish our Helmsley Oil family—our employees and our investors with our great company—greetings,” he said in a gravelly, booming voice. “A company is only as good as its employees and investors, and our family is blessed with wonderful members.” Kincaid began to clap those big, rough hands, and the audience joined in. What crowd would never pass up an opportunity to pat itself on the back?

  “I’ll be brief and to the point today,” Kincaid continued. “Last year, we posted record earnings, and this year we hope to do even better. I know a lot of you are concerned about the price of oil and what that might mean to our future. I’m here to tell you that the future of horizontal drilling is as vibrant as it first was in 2008.”

  The audience burst into frantic applause. The flacks of the oil industry were fighting hard to redefine its reputation. Rebranding their latest trend as horizontal drilling sounded better than calling it fracking. It all sounded more family friendly; it was more investor friendly too.

  “Now, I know the price of oil has gone down,” Kincaid said, “but what goes down must go up eventually. It’s the natural order of things in the oil industry. That’s the way it’s always been. That’s business.”

  Since Harold had been killed in October, the price of oil had broken the bottom of its trading range at $79.70 per barrel—a drop of about thirty dollars per barrel. It had moved to $73.25 per barrel by the time of this conference.

  Harold was right. The triple bottom, the killdeer bottom, didn’t hold, and prices had broken down.

  Kincaid went on. “But no matter what happens to the price of oil, we are in this for the long term. Helmsley Oil will weather the storm. Everyone knows here that the oil industry is cyclical, and we have prepared for the down part of the cycle. OPEC won’t drive us out of business by flooding the markets with cheap crude. We can survive with seventy-dollar oil and hold our own even if oil drops by half from there. We have customer contracts locked in at a higher price for crude than what the spot market today is reflecting. We will come out of this bigger and stronger than anyone else because we’re Helmsley Oil. We will continue to improve our efficiency and bring our cost to produce down further and further to leverage our business and earnings when we come out of this cycle.”