Sabotaged (16 page)

N
ORTH
S
TAR
O
IL
H
EADQUARTERS
A
NCHORAGE
, A
LASKA
M
ARCH
14, 9:20
A
.
M
.

Jake followed Kayden into NorthStar Oil headquarters in Anchorage, the engagement ring still burning a hole in his faded jeans pocket. When he'd hoped for a memorable proposal, it being amidst a hostage situation wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

A woman in her thirties stood guard behind the receptionist's station—her blond hair twisted up into some kind of bun-type arrangement. Her cold green eyes fixed on them. “May I be of service?” Her words said one thing, her rigid demeanor another.

“I'm sure you can.” He flashed his badge. “We need to speak with Mr. Potler.”

“I'm afraid Mr. Potler only sees people by appointment.” She tapped on the keyboard with her perfectly polished fingernails. “Looks like I can squeeze you in for a quick chat the end of next week, if it's truly urgent.”

“It's urgent, but next week is unacceptable.” Jake leaned forward—resting his arms on the granite counter. “We need to see Mr. Potler now.”

She arched a frighteningly narrow brow, plucked pencil thin. The look was drastic, but perhaps that's what she was going for. “That's not possible.”

“Let me put it in a way you'll understand. Either he sees us now or we camp out here in your lovely lobby with a gaggle of policemen for the day. Trust me—I think you'd rather have us gone in fifteen minutes than drawing all your high-profile clients' attention for who knows how long.”

Her jaw twitched. “Just a moment.” Turning her back to them, she lifted the receiver and spoke low into it. After a moment she turned back around, her ivory cheeks flushed crimson. “Mr. Potler will see you now.”

Jake smiled. “I thought he might.”

“You took way too much pleasure in that,” Kayden whispered with a smile.

He couldn't stand uppity people who treated others as their inferiors. He'd grown up around too many people like that in high-society Boston. He no longer had a tolerance for it.

The woman led the way down the long black hall, her four-inch heels clicking along the white ceramic tiles. She paused before the double black wooden doors at the end, lacing her red manicured fingers around the ornate silver knob. She turned and pushed in. She led them through a seating area, straight to a second set of doors that opened automatically.

A man—tall, early fifties, impeccably dressed—stood to greet them. “What's this all about, Officer?”

“Detective,” Jake said.

“Detective.” The man's tone echoed his disinterested stature.

“Detective Cavanaugh,” Jake said. “And this is Miss McKenna.” Though not for long if he had any say about it. Kayden Cavanaugh had a much better ring. “We're here to speak with you about Frank Weber.”

“Who?” The man returned to sit behind his mahogany desk, not bothering to offer them a seat. Jake took one anyway, and so did Kayden. Potler had brushed them off long enough. They weren't leaving without answers.

“Frank Weber.” Jake handed him the picture they'd printed out from Frank's Iditarod entry. “He's an employee of yours.”

Potler barely glanced at it before tossing it aside. “And . . . ?”

“And we need to know what he does for you.”

“Fine.” Potler steepled his fingers—his Yale graduation ring prominently displayed on his right ring finger. “I can direct you to Personnel.”

“We don't have time to jump through hoops.” Which was exactly what would happen if they were passed off to Personnel. “We simply need to know what Mr. Weber does for you.”

Potler leaned forward with an irritated sigh and pressed the intercom button. “Audrey. Shoot me what you have on a Frank Weber.”

“Right away, Mr. Potler.”

“So . . .” Potler tapped his steepled fingers. “What is your interest in this man you claim is my employee, Detective Cavanaugh?”

“He's being forced to do a job and we're trying to determine what that particular job may be.”

“Why not just ask him?”

“We can't locate him. He's off grid at the Iditarod, and we have great concern for the safety of his daughter.”

“His daughter? I thought you said this was about Mr. Weber?”

“It's about them both.”

At his computer's
ding
, he turned his attention to it. “Well, let's see. Ah, yes. Mr. Weber has been a freelance contractor with us off and on for the past”—his eyes skimmed the screen—“four years.”

“Contracted to do what, exactly?” Jake asked.

“He designed the schematics for several of our off-shore oil rigs along Alaska's coast, and most recently . . . he's done the same for our interior pipeline.” Mr. Potler smiled for the first time since they'd entered his office. “It's a very exciting project that will bring energy and power to the sparse interior of this beautiful state.”

“Anyone not happy about the project?” Kayden asked.

“All great projects are going to have detractors.”

“And the pipeline is no exception?”

He exhaled. “I'm afraid not. Whenever an oil company starts a project, we attract the environmental groups.”

“Any groups in particular drawn to this project?”

“I couldn't tell you one from the other, but ask Audrey on your way out. Someone manages a file of every complaint we get. I'm sure she can steer you in the right direction. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a teleconference in five minutes.”

They waited while Audrey printed them out a list of over a hundred groups that had protested the laying of the interior Alaskan pipeline—from huge environmental watchdogs down to small campus groups.

Jake tapped one of the sheets. “What was the name of the environmental group Meg's associated with?”

“Reef said it was an acronym. Something like ROW or SEW.”

He scanned the sheet. “ROW—Rescue Our World?”

“Sounds like it.”

“And they're based on the University of Alaska, Fairbanks campus.”

“Is there a contact person listed with the complaint?”

“Yes. Samuel Matthews. And, according to this, they did more than just complain.”

“Oh?”

“ROW staged an on-site protest when the first of the pump stations went in at Anchorage. Later that night, some valuable equipment was vandalized.”

“And the police think ROW was responsible?”

“Samuel Matthews was one of the prime suspects.”

“You'd better call Kirra. See if she can get back in touch with Sam Matthews. He may be the key to all this.”

“What we've got is a breaking and entering that went bad,” Rydell said, returning nearly an hour later with a manila file folder in hand. He set it open on his desk and pushed it with his finger toward Reef and Kirra.

He went on to relay the basics of what they'd already learned—Frank had been part of a three-man team consisting of him, Henry Watts, and Tommy Madero. The men had broken into Phillip Webster's home, and a shootout had followed, resulting in the death of Tommy Madero and the injury of Webster and Watts.

“What more can you tell us about Henry Watts and Tommy Madero?” Kirra asked.

“Henry Watts had a lengthy rap sheet by the time Tommy Madero hooked up with him. Everything from possession of a narcotic to assault and battery. Real angry sort, with a dangerous chip on his shoulder. The kind that always think they're owed something.”

“And my uncle? How on earth did he get involved with a man like Henry Watts, and why?” Her grandparents had been fairly well off—it couldn't have been about the money.

“At the time of Frank's arrest, I asked him the same question, knowing the family and all.”

She inched forward in her chair. “And what'd he say?” She couldn't imagine anything that would make any sense out of all she was learning, but she prayed Frank had said something that would somehow bring the pieces together, and that her image of her uncle wasn't a complete lie.

“Frank was in love with a gal who was in deep to Watts.”

“For what?”

“She owed him some serious money for drugs. Watts had gotten her hooked, and supposedly she'd managed to get clean before she met Frank, but not before racking up a bill with Watts she couldn't pay.”

“So . . . what? If Frank worked a robbery with them, he'd wipe the debt clean?” Reef asked.

Rydell tapped his nose.

“But why
Frank
?” Kirra asked, feeling like a three-year-old repeating
Why?
over and over, but she wanted—no, she
needed
—answers. What skills did her uncle possess that made him so valuable? Or did Watts just need another warm body?

“Because Frank had a knack with mechanics even then. He could open just about any lock and disable just about any alarm.”

“How? Why?” With each answer, more questions came.

“Frank said at first it was just a game. He'd gotten locked out of their house a few times and finally figured out a way in. Then he started doing it at friends' houses, just to show off.”

“Watts heard about Frank's talent and snagged him into the job,” Reef said.

“Afraid so.” Rydell nodded.

“Was the girl a plant on Watts's part to rope Frank in?” Reef asked.

“What?” Kirra's mind raced through the scenario, wondering how Reef's mind had gone to it so quickly.

“I don't know if it started out that way, but I do know how it ended.”

“How's that?”

“He married her.”

“What?” Kirra was thankful for the chair beneath her. “Aunt Sarah?”

Rydell nodded with a nostalgic smile.

Reef scooted his chair next to Kirra's, the metal legs squeaking across the linoleum tile. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and she felt anchored for the first time in days.

She leaned into his hold.

“What can you tell us about that night? About the break-in?” Reef asked.

“I remember the call. It was my first case as a homicide detective. Tommy was close in age to me—only a few years younger. We'd attended the same grade school growing up. You know how it is growing up in a small community—everyone knows everyone.”

She'd “known” Reef practically her whole life, but she felt as if she was only now truly getting to know him—the
true him. And just as he'd said to her on the plane, she loved what she saw.

“Why did Watts kill his own man?” Darcy's research hadn't revealed that.

“He claimed it was an accident. That the homeowner returned unexpectedly, shots were fired, and in the confusion, Madero was killed.”

“But I'm guessing by your tone that's not what you believe happened?” Reef said.

“Not according to Phillip Webster—the homeowner—or your uncle Frank. Both testified against Watts. Once we finally caught up with Frank, that is.” He chuckled.

Kirra's eyes narrowed. “Our research indicated it took a while to connect him to the B and E and then bring him in. What took so long?”

“Why didn't Watts give him up?” Reef asked.

It didn't make any sense, though Kirra was hardly an expert on criminals.

“He probably feared Frank would plead out and testify against him on Madero's murder.”

“Which he did.”

“Yeah. But it wasn't all wrapped up in a neat package. Once we figured out Frank was our third guy, we still had to track him down.”

Kirra's eyes widened. “Did he flee?” Her uncle really wasn't the man she'd thought she'd known so well.

“In a manner of speaking.” Rydell gave a curious smile. “He went ahead with his Iditarod race.”

“Seriously?” Reef choked out.

“A week had passed, and we still weren't on to him, so he figured why not? Probably thought some time away from
Kodiak wouldn't hurt, and he was already registered and set to go.”

“So you chased him during the race?” Kirra sat back. That had to be crazy.

“No. We were waiting at the finish line.”

The timing of the Iditarod being involved in both cases—following the breaking and entering, and now with Henry Watts being released from prison and Frank's daughter being held for ransom—couldn't all be a coincidence, could it? But what could Watts want from Frank? What job could he want him to do? It wasn't like there were a lot of high-end homes to steal from along the race trail—though that possibility existed. They'd have to start compiling a list of possible targets.

“We heard that Watts was recently released from prison,” Reef said.

“That's right.” Rydell nodded.

“Do you think he'd try and go after Frank after all these years? For testifying against him?”

“Couldn't say.” Rydell sighed. “Prison either makes the need for revenge fester or it provides the distance to let it go. Weirdest thing. But you'd have to talk to Watts to see which way he went.”