Fatal Greed (20 page)

Concerned I might run off the winding road, I slowed to twenty miles per hour and checked my notes one more time. The powdered dust left a gray plume behind my car, and the loose gravel popped under the tires like hundreds of punctured balloons.

“That’s it, 1624,” I said out loud.

I glanced around the neighborhood. Not a single person outside. Few cars hulked in front of houses. I parked in Rosemary’s old driveway, a combination of grass, dirt, and half-buried rocks.

The deserted, ranch-style house looked to be forty years old, give or take. The yard was laced with wiry weeds, some as high as my waist. Window panes had been broken, and two boards were nailed across the front door in an “X.” Rust-colored bricks from the collapsed chimney cluttered a patched roof.

The gas well crouched to the right of the driveway. I walked the paces, one hundred twenty-two of them, to reach the barbed wire fence.

I didn’t see or smell anything odd, only an incessant humming sound felt like it was searing into my brain. With each step, I lifted my knees to make my way through the giant weeds that encircled the ten-foot barrier. A rusted sign warned passersby to stay out of the fenced area. I ran my fingers across the bumps of the black bold letters where it spelled out the name of the company, Tomball Gas. Under it, in smaller print read: a wholly owned subsidiary of OG, LLC.

“OG, Omaha Gas, right in her backyard.”

I thought about knocking on nearby doors to inquire about the health of Rosemary’s former neighbors. But I didn’t want to announce to the world what I was doing. And I wasn’t some ambulance-chasing lawyer looking for suckers to join a class-action suit that might net them a couple hundred dollars. I took a half dozen snapshots, then hit the highway for the trip back home. I thought about veering west and surprising Pop at his farm just north of Lone Grove. Instead, I called him.

“Hi there, Pop. If you look east, you might see me driving by.”

“Feel free to drop in, if you have time. I can throw in another micro meal for dinner.”

We both laughed. He asked why I was in Oklahoma. I gave him a high-level answer, not wanting him to worry about my connection to a murder investigation.

“Pop, what do you know about Omaha Gas?” I asked.

“I’ve known a few folks who’ve worked for them over the years,” he said.

“Have they been in the news for anything you can recall?”

“Hmmm, can’t say I do. Nothing stands out. You
lookin
’ at a possible investment? I know, none of my business.”

“I’m just trying to learn more about the gas business in general.” I heard three dings from a microwave finishing its cycle.

 
“I’ve seen some of their wells around but don’t know much about the company,” he said.

I caught a glimpse of a dead armadillo in the middle of the road and veered the car right to straddle it.

“That makes me think about a saying your granddaddy told me when I was young,” he said.

Pop could always find something wise or at least memorable to add flavor to a conversation. “What’s that?”

“He just said, ‘You know land, they don’t make that anymore.’ It didn’t make much sense back then, but looking at the ridiculous real estate prices and companies that make money off the Earth the good Lord made, I can see where your granddaddy was coming from. I get it now.”

We said goodbye. I gazed at the sun clinging to the rim of the barren western horizon and thought some more about the last two days, ending with Pop’s message. Something clicked in my head.

Greed.

Victoria watched Harrison mope around the house early Monday morning. Slumped in his chair at the octagonal kitchen table, he ate only half of his bagel. He appeared to stare at sesame seeds on the table, not noticing other family members milling about. His shirt half-
untucked
, he shuffled out the door for work, lugging his computer bag behind him. “Spoiled brat,” Victoria muttered to herself.

It was almost certain Harrison wouldn’t survive all the layoffs. Victoria understood
Turug’s
business mind. He and his comrades were programmed to squeeze the last profitable nickel out of the former family-owned firm. Only the strong would survive.

Victoria reheated her morning java in the microwave. She sat on the stool at the kitchen bar, then unfolded the newspaper, crossed her legs, and sipped the near-boiling, hazelnut-flavored coffee.

She prided herself on being a sophisticated, worldly person, informed on key business and political events across the country, around the globe, and even locally. At times, she’d rather ignore the unpleasantness outside of their compound. But, like her father, she forged ahead for the reputation of the family and its legacy.

She also had keen interest in ensuring the coverage of the Tiffany Chambers murder didn’t impede the most important operation anyone in the family had engineered. As the unofficial leader, she allowed the egotistical men with their fancy titles to act like they were the thought leaders. She had learned to dismiss their self-importance as easily as she turned the pages of the newspaper.

Headline:
Zoning Commission Member Commits Suicide

Subheader
:
Prominent Local Businessman Found Hanged in Warehouse

Victoria slammed down her coffee, splashing the hot liquid on her hand. The numbness in her body allowed her to ignore the burn. She jerked the paper closer to study the article.

Raymond Williams committed suicide? She tossed the paper aside. This operation can’t be exposed. This smelled like another fuckup by Chuck’s operational chief—that goddamn, smug, son of a bitch Tony. She’d had a bad feeling from the get-go about that low-life being associated with her intricate plan. There was something about Tony that made her uncomfortable.

Victoria dialed Chuck’s number as she marched up to her suite.

“Chuck, what the hell is that thug of yours doing to this operation?” Victoria’s voice grew louder with each word.

“I was going to call you this morning, Victoria,” Chuck said. “We’ve had some unexpected developments.”

“Please explain.”

“One of our two targets on the zoning commission acted uncharacteristically. He put us in an impossible position, and we couldn’t let him continue down such a destructive path.”

Victoria sighed heavily, convinced that Chuck could downplay a natural disaster that wiped out half the world’s population if he needed to,

“I’m tired of playing games, Chuck. This is going to create major problems for us to change the zoning of the old J&W building.”

“Which is why we had no choice.”

There was a pause in the conversation, then Victoria heard Chuck exhale.
There is more
, she thought.

Chuck said, “I wanted to let you know, while we have the police moving in the direction we’d like, thanks to our gift to the chief, we’ve recently seen some meddling from the
Times Herald
.”

“I’m not entirely against using creative methods of persuasion. But every time we think one issue is resolved, two more come out of the woodwork. It’s starting to feel like we’re herding cats.” Victoria slammed her bedroom door shut. Her burnt hand now writhing in pain, she balanced her phone under chin while she ran water over the pink, swelling burn. “We’re taking steps to ensure the people associated with your local paper don’t continue down their current path,” Chuck said.

“And am I to believe Tony has everything under control?” she asked.

“You know, Victoria, it would be nice if you were more positive about the effort we’re putting into this. Tony is the best man, the only man, for the job. We’ve all got a lot of skin in this game, including me.”

Victoria kicked the door shut, losing her balance and falling into a chair in the process. “Shit!” Victoria regained her balance and searched her bathroom cabinet for gauze pads for her blister, now bubbling off her
veiny
skin.

“Excuse me?” Chuck said.

“Never mind. Just keep me informed, Chuck. Try some good news next time.”

***

Chuck calmly laid his phone down, despite the uptick in his heart rate. Things were happening quickly—mostly disastrously—and he had to keep his head about him to be able to mitigate the potential damages.

Worse, the game had become much more personal for Chuck.

“Hello, Michael, son. Are you with us?” Arthur snapped his fingers to catch my attention.

“Uh, yes, Arthur. Sorry. I’m listening.”

I’d been in a catatonic daze because of the chilly reception I received when I returned home the prior evening. Actually, it was the lack of a greeting. I’d called Marisa when I was about an hour outside of town, and it rolled to her voicemail. When I finally arrived home, she was nowhere to be found. She’d left a tiny sticky note saying she needed to run an errand and would be home later. I fell asleep on the couch. When I awoke at seven a.m., she’d already showered, dressed, and left for work.

I called her twice on my way to Arthur’s office, but I heard only her ringtone, which added to my melancholy mood—a romantic Norah Jones tune, “Turn Me On.” I pictured Marisa on Christmas Day holding the sudsy dish scrubber like a microphone and crooning her own rendition of the soulful song. I made an attempt at a grin, but my face muscles wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t understand why she was avoiding me.

“Michael, do you want me to get you some coffee, soft drink?” Arthur asked.

“Something cold would be nice,” I said.

Arthur handed me the drink, then sat back down with his hands clasped, his right thumb tapping his other hand. I could see he was eager to hear my commentary on my trip to Stillwater. I had sent him and Stu an email with a synopsis of my notes.

I set my glass on a silver tray to my right. “As you guys can see, the trip to Stillwater was productive. I had time on the way home to let it churn a bit. We still have open questions, but, for me, it leaves the door open on who killed Tiffany.”

Arthur and Stu nodded.

“The biggest questions I want answered are, who is this Tony person, and is he still around?” I said.

 
Arthur picked up his hard copy of the notes I’d sent him. “I’m just not sure we can sit on all of this. Michael, you’ve learned more in two days than we’ve learned as a newspaper in weeks. No offense, Stu.”

“None taken,” said Stu, who rolled his eyes slightly.

“Arthur, we can’t afford to scare the wrong people. They might crawl back into a hole and never come out,” I said. “This might be bigger than a simple murder, if there is such a thing.”

Arthur hopped out of his chair and began to draw on the whiteboard. “To show the public we haven’t forgotten this poor girl who was murdered, let’s create a softer personal background piece on Tiffany, and include pictures of her, Rosemary, her old home, and maybe a prom picture. We want to show the human side of this story, without showing our cards on the other clues.”

“I like where you’re going, Arthur.” Stu flipped through the notes I’d sent. “Michael, you’ve done a good job gathering all of this information. I’m not sure how you did it, how you got Tiffany’s mother to open up so much. Can I have some of your magic dust?”

“Sure, I’ll have Tinker Bell drop some off on her way to
Neverland
,” I said, drawing laughter from the two journalists.

“One more thing,” Arthur said. “We believe the DA’s office is finally ready to formally charge Reinaldo, and the coroner has settled on cause of death. Stu will also write up that story and try to pull in feedback from the defense. He’s started talking to Brian Gentry in the last few days.”

I walked to the bar for a refill on my beverage. I took a drink and chewed on a piece of ice, then picked up a copy of today’s paper and flopped back into my chair. My ice jingled against the glass. When I read the headline, I sat up.

“Jesus, guys. I’m assuming you saw this story on this suicide?”

“I wrote it,” Stu said.

“Any note left by this Raymond Williams?” I asked while skimming the story.

“Nothing, according to the police,” Stu said. “I think I know where you’re going, Michael. Why would a respected, small-business owner commit suicide in a warehouse? Seems like a lot of trouble. He had a couple of kids. Maybe he didn’t want them to find him.”

“But no note,” I said.

We all paused for a moment.

“I haven’t seen this much death in our town in a long time,” I said.

“All good points, gentlemen,” Arthur said. “Please keep your journalistic juices flowing, but for now, we have our plan in front of us. Michael, please remember to grab the Sunday paper. I want to get your feedback on my first editorial.”

“Will do.”

Arthur rose like a judge in a courtroom, minus the gavel, signaling to us the meeting had ended. The new branch of clues had brought about renewed energy amongst our small team.

“Hey, Michael,” Stu called out as we walked toward the office foyer. “I saw Marisa at the pub last night. I waved at her, but I guess she didn’t see me. She was involved in a pretty intense conversation, by the looks of it. Do you guys have family in town?”

“Uh, no,” I said, feeling a knot in my stomach. “Why would you ask?

“Well, the guy she was with looked like it might be her uncle.”

Images darted through my mind, some factual, some fiction…I couldn’t keep the two separated. I was confused, hurt and angry, given the lack of response from the person I trusted most in this chaotic world. Who was she with and why was she avoiding me? I wondered if I could maintain my composure to understand what the hell was going on in the most important relationship I’d ever known.