Текст книги "Airtight"

Автор книги: David Rosenfelt

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

It was that report that convinced Hanson to make the purchase, and which in effect started the entire controversy. Hanson had great confidence in their chief engineer. Once Oliver said there were huge amounts of natural gas to be gotten efficiently from the shale under the ground, they relied on it without question.

Now that the purchase had just been finally approved by the courts, Oliver was brought into town for meetings with the engineers who would conduct the actual fracking process. Some of the equipment was still in place from when the tests were conducted, and the drilling that had been done put them ahead of the game.

But for all the violence that critics said the fracking did to the environment, it needed to be done with some care, almost delicacy. Mistakes could be costly, in both time and money. And despite what the citizens of Brayton claimed, the engineers also were concerned about the environmental impact. Everyone in that room, except Oliver, had children of their own, so they understood.

Oliver laid it all out for them, providing a road map for what they were going to find underground. They met for six hours, and he assured them he would be available by phone and computer back in Tulsa to answer any further questions they might have.

Oliver couldn’t wait to get back home, but felt compelled to accept the invitation of the executive in charge of the project to have dinner that evening. It would be an early one, and Oliver would get a late flight to Chicago afterwards. He’d stay overnight there, and get a short flight to Tulsa in the morning. It was not ideal, but anything was better than staying in Brayton.

When he arrived the previous evening, he had made the mistake of turning on CNN in the hotel and watching the interview with Edward Holland. The situation was dangerous, or at least Holland made it sound like it was. The only saving grace for Oliver was that he was anonymous; there was no way that anyone in Brayton knew who he was, or what his crucial role in the situation had been.

After the meetings he went back to the hotel and packed, putting his one bag into his rental car and heading for the restaurant. It was a Japanese steak house in Central Valley, one of those places where they cook for you right at the table. There were six of them there, the executive, four senior engineers, and Oliver.

His dinner companions were in a great mood, but all Oliver was focused on was getting out and on that plane. The only good thing about the dinner was that it was not in Brayton; Oliver was out of there and would never be back.

So at seven thirty, he said his good-byes, pretending that he wished he could stay longer. He knew it would be the last time he would ever see these people, but he certainly didn’t tell them so. They would likely be lifers at Hanson, while his time there was coming to an end.

Once out the door, he went to find his rental car in the parking lot. For a few moments he forgot which car was his, but rather than figuring it out, he just pressed the button on the key that unlocked the door. It also caused the rear lights to flash on and off, providing an easy way to identify the car.

Oliver trotted to the car; he hadn’t left that much time to get to the airport, and was not about to miss that flight.

He got in, turned the key, and ended his life. The explosion took out three cars on either side of him, and brought everyone in the restaurant running outside to see what had happened.

His colleagues were afraid that his was the car that blew up, but there was no way to know, because it would take an army of forensics people to find any sign of what used to be Michael Oliver.

I heard about the latest violence on the way to meet Julie.

The explosion was followed by a second explosion, this one in the media. It firmly put Brayton onto the national map, in a way that hadn’t happened before. Edward Holland had been on some TV shows making his case, but it hadn’t really registered on anything but a local level.

That was then.

The main difference was that this act, unlike the guesthouse destruction, took a life. In fact, the purpose of it was to take a life. Michael Oliver was not collateral damage; he was the target. It was an execution, pure and simple, an act of domestic terrorism.

Moreover, it was a sophisticated act. The perpetrator knew who Oliver was, even though he was an obscure part of the process. That is not to say he was an unimportant player; the reports were crediting him with making the determination that the land contained natural gas in amounts worth literally billions of dollars.

But he was barely known; he was not the head of Hanson Oil and Gas, nor a public spokesman for them. He was actually based in Tulsa, and was simply in town for meetings. For the killers to have known that, and to have isolated him as a target, represented a level of planning and calculation that was as impressive as it was ominous.

There were signs that this was going to trigger a national debate about fracking itself. It was an incredibly important factor in the energy landscape, and had already prompted countless lawsuits. Yet it had stayed somewhat below the radar, a place where it would never reside again.

The various players in the drama were already reacting in an expected manner. Carlton issued a vehement condemnation of the “terrorists,” and Hanson’s spokesman did the same. They said that they would not back down in the face of the unlawful acts and would take additional steps to beef up security, in order to ensure the safety of their employees. Nothing would stop Hanson from pursuing their goal of providing affordable energy to the American people.

Alex Hutchinson, the de facto leader of the protesting townspeople, also condemned the action, and claimed that neither she nor anyone in her group had anything to do with it.

Edward Holland, trying to remain above the fray, added his strong disapproval of any violence, and pleaded for calmer heads to prevail. He talked of his own anger at what was happening to his town, and the need to protect the children, but added that this was not the way to go about it.

Holland went on to remind everyone that he had asked for preemptive state and Federal intervention to cool things off, but that his requests went unfulfilled. He once again renewed those requests publicly, and media reports were very favorable to him.

“How does all this help Bryan?” were Julie’s first words when she saw me.

I had been thinking about it, and wasn’t pleased with my own point of view. “I don’t think it does,” I said. “At least not much.”

She seemed surprised. “Why?”

“Well, first of all, keep in mind that the entire jury here is composed of Chris Gallagher. And the fact that there has been some violence is not a surprise to him; he already knew that Emmit and I were targeted to be killed.”

“So, if he’s a jury, treat him like one, Luke. Make a persuasive argument; make him understand. Put the facts out there in a clear, concise manner; that’s what is done for juries. Let me do it; I’ll convince him.”

“I’ve been trying, Julie. And I’d be happy for you to try. But there’s a logical flaw in our argument.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Our focus, Gallagher’s focus, is on the Brennan murder. Brennan was considered pro-Brayton, or at least more pro-Brayton than Judge Dembeck. So the side that might have had any interest in killing him would have been the company side, not the town.”

She had to know where I was going with this, but I spelled it out. “This new violence is being committed against the company, most logically by people who would have wanted Brennan to take the seat. The people that killed Michael Oliver would have placed Brennan in a protective cocoon if they could have.”

“And Gallagher is smart enough to see that?” she asked.

“Without a doubt.”

She seemed lost in thought for a few minutes. I had no idea what she was thinking. I had known Julie for almost seven years, and this made the seventh consecutive year that I had no idea what she was thinking.

“I did something you’re not going to like.” She said it in a challenging way, as if she was comfortable with what she did, and not worried about my reaction.

“I already don’t like that sentence.”

“I hired Lou Rodriguez to find Gallagher.”

“Shit, Julie … what do you mean ‘find’?”

“He’s not going to do anything, just keep track of where he is.”

“Keep track of where he is? He’s been following me. He’s probably at the bar in the next room right now.”

“Then Lou’s on the stool next to him,” she said, obviously annoyed by my attitude.

“Great. So the bad guys are following me, Gallagher’s following them, and Rodriguez is following Gallagher. I’m leading a procession. I’m like the goddamn Grand Marshal of the Rose Bowl Parade.”

“Maybe he’ll lead Rodriguez to Bryan. Probably not. But he’s not going to walk away from this, Luke. No matter how it turns out. I wouldn’t be doing my job if he did. Nor would you. He’s a kidnapper, at a minimum.”

She didn’t say what the maximum was, but she didn’t have to. She was right, of course, but on some level it didn’t sit well with me, and she could see it.

“What’s your problem with this, Luke? That he’ll make Rodriguez, and take it out on Bryan?”

“No, he couldn’t care less who’s following him, or why.”

“Then what?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer that, but my mouth seemed to make the decision for my brain, and started talking without permission. “I killed his brother, Julie. I guess on some deep level I understand what he’s feeling. I don’t know what I’d do in his shoes, but it wouldn’t be pretty.”

She spoke in a much softer voice, trying to keep herself from crying. “You might find yourself in his shoes.”

I nodded. “And then I’d feel completely different. Then I’d find him and kill him. And on some level he’d understand that completely, and he’d be fine with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he’s decided that his life is over, one way or the other.”

“If he hurts Bryan,” she said, “it will be.”

Got your e-mail too late … you’ve already had your dinner. Not much for me to say to Julie, anyway. Just tell her not to feel guilty about this; she had nothing to do with it.

Remember the time you were going to have a fight with Randy Singer after school? Nobody could believe I wasn’t going to watch, but I didn’t because I didn’t want to see you lose, and I thought you might.

I never remembered you losing at anything, and I wanted to keep it that way.

I still do.

This was not going the way Chris Gallagher expected.

It was actually going far better, which was causing him to reassess. Nothing wrong with that, not in his mind. A battle plan only lasts until you first meet the enemy. Then you make the necessary adjustments in the field.

Luke Somers was better than he thought, far better. He had dug deeply into the investigation, and was on his way to creating reasonable doubt as to Steven’s guilt. Which might have been enough, had Steven been allowed to go before a jury.

Somers had recognized the inherent difficulty in proving Steven innocent without finding the real guilty party. Because whoever killed Brennan had also set Steven up to take the fall; they had planted the bloody clothes, and called in the anonymous tip.

The violence interested him in that it was counterintuitive. It was targeted at those intent on mining the land, yet if Somers was right, Brennan was likely to be opposed to the miners’ position. Why would the same killers be going after players on both sides?

He discounted the possibility that there were two separate sets of killers; the world didn’t work that way. And the fact that Brennan was killed in a knife attack, rather than the type of explosions that did the subsequent damage, did not surprise him. On the Brennan hit, they wanted someone to blame, and Steven was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had Brennan’s garage been blown up, Steven could not have been set up as easily.

The fate of Bryan Somers, in Chris’s mind, still very much hung in the balance. Someone was going to die for Steven. If it had to be Bryan, that was fine with Chris. Justice would be served, since no matter who killed Brennan, it didn’t change the fact that Luke Somers had gunned down Steven.

But if the real killer was found in time, then he would have been the one to set Steven up. And then Chris would see to it that he would die, and Bryan would be spared.

One way or another, Steven would get his justice.

So the goal was still to find out who killed Daniel Brennan, and to do so fast. Somers would do what he would do, but Chris could operate in a way that Somers could not. And he was about to do exactly that.

Chris believed that the one person most likely to have all the answers was Richard Carlton. The money was always the key, and Carlton was the one who had walked away with a fortune.

So Richard Carlton was the person who was about to receive a visit from Chris Gallagher.

Why was Michael Oliver chosen to die?

That was the question I was interested in, partly because I had run out of other things to be interested in. But on any level it was strange, which made it something I needed to understand.

I had Julie run a search on Oliver on something called LexisNexis. She had once assured me that if anyone was mentioned anywhere at any time for any reason, it would show up there. Ten minutes later she called to tell me that Oliver had never been mentioned in connection with the situation in Brayton anywhere in the media, at any time.

But he was very specifically targeted. He was at a dinner with five other employees of Hanson Oil and Gas, all of whom would be involved in the actual drilling operation. It would have seemed that from that group Oliver would have been the least likely candidate to be attacked.

He had merely performed his analytical function, and had done so in anonymity, at least as far as the people of Brayton were concerned. Between the Hanson and Carlton companies, there was a target-rich environment of people who were about to do damage to Brayton, yet Oliver was plucked from obscurity to die.

Frank Lassenger spent thirty years in the Army Corps of Engineers, retiring as a Lieutenant Colonel six years ago. He had done it all, building and repairing dams, creating structural solutions for buildings that were in earthquake-threatened areas, advising mining companies on safety and structure, and even providing expert guidance for underground rescues. After leaving the service, he had done some private consulting, but nothing that kept him away from his kids and grandchildren for any length of time.

I know all this because we both like bagels.

There’s a bagel store I stop off at almost every morning on the way to work, and Frank is usually there. We got to talking about each other’s jobs; he was more interested in mine, and I was more interested in his.

I instructed officers to contact Frank and tell him that I needed to speak to him about a matter of great urgency. I knew Frank would respond, and he was waiting for me at the precinct when I got there. Frank is the type that if you need him, he is there. I really like that type.

“You know anything about fracking?” I asked.

“Some. I’ve never done it myself, but I’m familiar with it.”

“Ever heard of a guy named Michael Oliver?”

“The guy that got killed? Sure.”

“Did you know him before that?” I asked.

“By reputation.”

I was glad to hear that Frank was familiar with him. “What kind of reputation did he have?”

“Let’s put it this way,” he said. “These companies are spending hundreds of millions, billions, of dollars to take energy from under the ground, sometimes under the ocean. They know it’s there, but until they go after it, they don’t really know how much or, more importantly, how easy it will be to get to.”

“So it’s a crap shoot?”

“Ever hear the term ‘dry well’? Anyway, people have to make the judgment about what’s there and what isn’t, and there are maybe fifteen people in the industry who are considered the best at doing that. Michael Oliver was one of those people.”

“Could he be wrong?’

“Sure, anything’s possible. But if Michael Oliver said ‘drill here,’ I’d invest my money in it, no questions asked.” He laughed, “Well, of course I’d have questions, but you know what I mean. And I don’t really have any money.”

I showed him copies of the information that Gallagher had gotten from Kagan and Rhodes’s room, except for the information about Carlton and the Hanson executives. He seemed most interested in the schematic layouts of the land, as I knew he would.

“Oliver prepared these?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Not sure. Why?”

“They’re well done, very thorough, so it was probably him.”

“Does it show where the natural gas is?”

“It shows where Oliver thought it was, and based on what I see, I would say he was right.”

“So there’s nothing unusual about it?” I asked. “I was struggling to come up with a reason that Oliver was a specific target, but that reason probably did not exist.”

“Well, there’s one thing that surprises me, but there’s probably a good explanation for it.”

“What’s that?”

He pointed to the map. “You see these arrows? That’s where Oliver was telling them to drill.”

“So?”

“So I don’t know why they’d drill in that many places, and it’s too spread out. You drill in the best spots, and then expand if you have to. He was telling them to start out wider. He must have had his reasons, but I don’t know what they were.”

“Would Oliver be important to the process from now on?” I asked. “Would they have needed him to do the drilling?”

Frank shook his head. “I doubt it. I’m sure he’d told them all he knew, and they had his notes and reports. Now it’s just a question of going down there and sucking the stuff out. Guys in his role become expendable once they’ve finished their analysis.”

I nodded. “Expendable people seem to have a short life expectancy.”

Bryan … I’m not going to lose this time, either.

There’s been a lot of violence surrounding this Brayton situation. You may be seeing it on television. Gallagher is going to understand that it’s all tied in to Brennan’s death. I will make him understand, and at the very least he’ll give you more time.

Do not give up hope. We’ve been through a lot, Brother, and we’ll make it through a lot more.

It took Bryan almost six hours to break into the box.

That was not a lot, when you consider that it took almost five days to even notice that it was there. It was a fairly large metal box, technically a strongbox, and it was in the kitchen pantry, partially hidden by shelves and dishes.

The reason it took so long to break open was not just that it was locked with a fairly good-sized padlock. It was also just at the end of the range that Bryan’s chain allowed him to reach, so prying it open became that much more awkward. But with the help of a heavy screwdriver that was in a kitchen drawer, he was finally able to get it done.

The result was something of a disappointment. He hadn’t known what to expect, and his expectations had been low. Certainly there was not going to be a key to unlock the chains, thereby allowing him to get the hell out of there.

Only a slightly greater hope would be a handgun, locked away for safety. He might have been able to shoot the chains off, though with his lack of familiarity with guns he knew he might kill himself in the process. Maybe he could have used it to shoot Gallagher if he returned; then they could at least die together.

The third hope, and the most realistic one, was that there was some clue to his location, something that he could use to help Luke find him.

But he was zero for three. All that was in the box were rations, labeled US Army MREs. Bryan had no idea what that meant, but he assumed they were long-lasting rations for soldiers out in the field. Never having been in the army himself, he had no idea if they were any good, but doubted it.

In any event, he had no need to experiment with them; food supply was not his problem, air supply was.

And Bryan had already planned his last meal.

He would dine on the two pills that Gallagher left him.

It was turning into a public relations fiasco for Hanson Oil and Gas.

Of course, Hanson’s bottom line did not rely on public relations, so it could fairly easily absorb the damage. But no one wants their company to look bad, especially in a part of the country so close to Wall Street.

Hanson’s CEO, Randall Murchison, was kept updated on the calls and e-mails coming from the public. They were overwhelmingly negative, as was to be expected. Also in line with expectations was the fact that very few shareholders were among the complainers. Those who stood to benefit financially from the Brayton natural gas find were inclined to be tolerant of it.

Ironically, the death of Michael Oliver, while a damaging blow to the company, provided a public relations bright spot for Hanson. Through Oliver, they had become the victims of vigilante justice. People didn’t countenance water and air pollution, but that was a somewhat less immediate and dramatic danger than bombs blowing up in parking lots.

There was a shareholders meeting coming up, and Murchison wanted it to go as smoothly as previous ones. He didn’t want angry townspeople to storm the meeting, yelling their claims that Hanson was going to be poisoning their children. Murchison was known to be a bit of a loose cannon, prone to straight talk that sometimes got him in trouble. But he didn’t want to be fighting with a bunch of panicked and angry parents on national television.

So he placed a call to Richard Carlton. The deal hadn’t officially closed yet, and the money therefore hadn’t been paid, so this was when Murchison would have the most leverage.

“You need to get that situation up there under control,” Murchison said. “My people are telling me we don’t need this aggravation.”

“I’m going to release a statement,” Carlton said.

“You’re going to release a statement? I got a dead chief engineer, people conducting a goddamn pep rally on the land I’m supposed to be drilling on, half the country sending me nasty e-mails, and you’re going to release a statement? Better be a damn good one; that had better be the goddamn statement of the year.”

“I will say that we’re going to use part of the resources from the sale to expand the auto parts business. It’ll mean a thousand more jobs for the locals.”

“You’re lying through your teeth,” Murchison pointed out. “You ain’t dumb enough to pour more money into that shit-ass company.”

The fact that Carlton was in fact lying through his teeth did not mean that Murchison’s accusations didn’t make him angry. The truth was that the auto parts company was going to close within a year and the angry people of Brayton would have something else to get angry about.

“My company has been a leader in its field for sixty years.”

“Yeah. Until you got hold of it. I’m instructing my people to not make the payment.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Watch me,” Murchison said.

“There are plenty other companies that would love to get their hands on that land.”

“Right. Every company in America wants to get their people blown up and be accused of poisoning toddlers. It’s every CEO’s dream.”

Carlton was in a panic, and he forced himself to sound conciliatory. “Randall, we don’t need to fight like this. What is it you really want?”

“You pay for security for the first year, and you announce it in your statement. Say you’re trying to protect innocent people from these vigilantes, and say that Hanson is a responsible corporate citizen who is committed to preserving clean air and water. We’ll release the same kind of statement.”

“OK. That’s fair,” Carlton said. “Done.”

It was an easy promise to make, because it would be an impossible one to keep.

In a very short time, providing security would be both unnecessary and impossible.

Lucas … did I ever tell you I had decided to follow you and Dad and become a cop? In my junior year, I decided to chuck it and I signed up to take the test. But I never took it, I went down there but left before it started. I decided I wouldn’t have the courage in dangerous situations. I guess I was right, because right now I’m scared to death, and not handling it well.

I haven’t thought about it in ten years. It’s amazing how old memories come back when you think you’ll never again make new ones.

That’s it for now … power on the computer is getting low.

Make Gallagher understand. Please.

Chris Gallagher spent almost two hours gauging the level of security.

It wasn’t so much that he was concerned that he couldn’t handle whatever was presented. He had entered Taliban strongholds undetected; getting into Richard Carlton’s house would be a comparative piece of cake, no matter how many guards he employed to protect himself.

What Gallagher learned in two hours he could have learned in ten minutes. There was no outside security in place, other than motion detector floodlights, which he could easily elude.

The wreckage of the guesthouse had been mostly cleared away, and Gallagher could see the foundation with his night vision goggles. It just added to the question that had already formed in Gallagher’s mind; why would someone like Carlton, already the victim of violence, not have more security?

It certainly couldn’t be financial; just based on the house, and the money Carlton was getting from Hanson, he could have hired an entire army division to protect him. And with his guesthouse destroyed, and a Hanson employee already dead, surely Carlton couldn’t be oblivious to the danger.

People like Carlton did not react to physical danger well. Things like that happened to other people, not them. So they overreacted, spending whatever it might take to shield themselves from that world.

Yet Carlton didn’t even have his curtains drawn; Gallagher could see him sitting serenely in what looked like his study, on the main floor, reading.

So the question answered itself beyond any doubt in Gallagher’s mind. Carlton was not afraid, because Carlton was behind the violence. It was why he knew that he had nothing to be afraid of.

But he was about to find out otherwise.

Gallagher could only see one other person in the house; he looked like he could be a security guard, but there was no way to be sure of that. The challenge was going to be putting him out of commission while not giving Carlton enough warning or time to call 911.

So he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

Carlton didn’t move, showing no concern whatsoever. Through the glass window at the top of the door, Gallagher could see the other man in the house walk towards the front door. As he approached, while his momentum was still going forward, Gallagher kicked in the door. It was a sudden, violent move that he had perfected long ago.

The door smashed the man in the face, probably rendering Gallagher’s blow to his head unnecessary. He was not dead, Gallagher saw no reason to go that far, but he would not be waking up for a while.

For Gallagher, it represented the final crossing of a line. His life was essentially over; he recognized that and was comfortable with it. After tonight he would either soon be dead or live on as a fugitive. But he was positive that the answer to Steven’s death was in this house, and he wasn’t leaving until he had it.

Gallagher raced to the study, just as Carlton was getting to his feet in response to the crashing noise. When he saw Gallagher coming towards him, he looked towards the phone, but even in his panicked state he knew there was no chance of that.

Gallagher grabbed him at the front of his throat and pushed him against the wall. Choking, Carlton tried to strain upwards and away, but Gallagher just pushed him higher, cutting off his air supply. But Gallagher was not there to kill; he was there to get information.

Maybe fifteen seconds before Carlton would have passed out, Gallagher released his grip and pushed him into a chair. He waited until Carlton could speak his first words: “Who are you?”

“I am Steven Gallagher’s brother.”

“Who is that?”

“He is the person you framed after you had Judge Brennan killed.”

“No, no, no.”

“You don’t know me, but I am telling you this. Right now I control you, I control your pain, and I control your life. Do not lie to me.”

“I swear, I had nothing to do with that.”

Gallagher was surprised by the statement. Carlton was petrified; there was no question about that. Gallagher would have guessed he would have caved by then; perhaps the man was tougher than he thought.

So Gallagher tried another approach.

He broke Carlton’s arm.

He did it like one would snap a twig, only arms make a louder cracking noise than twigs. Carlton screamed in agony, an appropriate response considering the circumstance, and then started to mix in sobs with the screams.

“Why did you kill Brennan?” asked Gallagher in a calm voice, stepping back.

“NO, NO…”

“Why did you frame my brother?”

“NO, PLEASE … I DIDN’T … I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THAT.”

Gallagher started walking back towards him, and saw the total panic in his eyes. The fact that Carlton was not caving was a major surprise to him, and he was not often surprised.

It was a dilemma, in that inflicting more pain would get Carlton to confess to anything; Gallagher could have him admit to killing Kennedy. But Gallagher didn’t want a confession that way; he wanted the truth.

“You’re lying.”

By now Carlton was whimpering. “I swear, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know anything about that.”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

And Carlton did exactly that.

I should have done it long ago, even though it had little chance of success.

I hadn’t wanted to spook Gallagher in the process, but I could no longer worry about that. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost thirty-six hours, and in any event I couldn’t be confident that I would be able to convince him to give Bryan more time.

I needed Barone’s help, and wasn’t positive I could get it, at least not on my terms. But I was waiting in his office to make my pitch when he got in.

“Uh-oh,” he said, when he saw me. Then, “Let’s hear it, fast. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”