Whitewash (18 page)

EchoEnergy

Sabrina snapped off her car’s air-conditioning, if only for a few minutes before the windshield fogged up again. The rain had stopped. The storms had moved through, leaving behind a freshly scrubbed blue sky and a short break from the last several days of torturous heat and humidity. It was Florida brochure-beautiful and yet Sabrina couldn’t stop shivering.

Back at her office she had changed out of her wet clothes into a pair of running shorts, running shoes and a baggy T-shirt she kept in her locker. One of EchoEnergy’s employee benefits was the use of a state-of-the-art fitness center with indoor track and an Olympic-sized pool. But Sabrina always felt there was something counterproductive about running indoors, breathing regurgitated air.

Even with the sunlight Sabrina felt on edge. Dwight Lansik was missing. She was sure of it. Reactor #5 seemed to be processing Grade 2 garbage without anyone in the lab knowing about it. Maybe Lansik had approved it, but Sabrina doubted he would agree to bypass the flushing tank. If all that wasn’t bad enough, the thunderstorms and Robocop security guard had frayed the last of her nerves. Ironically, the fiasco had kept her mind off her father.

She managed the pitted two-lane highway with ease, no tanker trucks to battle on the weekends. She rolled down the car windows when the windshield started to fog again. Then she breathed in the fresh air, crisp with pine and wet dirt. Despite the deluge, the air was now lighter, no longer the hot, thick blanket that wrapped around you like a wet Turkish towel.

Sabrina had chosen to stay at the university for her undergraduate and graduate studies when her mother, who grew up in Philadelphia, suggested she give the East Coast a chance. She barely left the city except for one or two yearly conferences where she saw more of the luxury hotels than the designated host cities. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken a vacation, at least not one that didn’t include a conference, a workshop, a presentation or a guest-teaching session.

She didn’t mind. Her main goal for the last ten years had been to make tenure. It had superseded everything else in her life, including, some might say, a life outside her career. Even Daniel claimed she treated him at times like a distraction or obligation. He hated coming in second behind her career, sometimes third behind her family. Her only defense was that she just wasn’t good at relationships. People, in general, were illogical, prone to mistakes, too unpredictable. She was used to dealing in resolutions and equations that, despite the complex factors involved, could always be solved with logic and patience.

The truth was she never once—not even a little bit—felt the kind of passion that she watched and observed in her parents’ relationship. Maybe she simply didn’t want to settle for anything less. And maybe that was why her family still came before Daniel.

When Sabrina decided she needed to leave Chicago to be closer to her father she didn’t even discuss it with Daniel. She simply told him her decision. He assured her it wouldn’t change things between them. Likewise, even her dean insisted she take a sabbatical from the university rather than resign her post.

“How much time do you need?” both men had asked her separately, both with genuine concern.

Six months. She wouldn’t need more than six months, a year at the most. Her father’s condition remained unchanged, perhaps a slight decline if anything. In another month her year would be up and she’d need to ask for more time from her dean. She already knew she wouldn’t be asking for more time with Daniel. Now it was just a matter of how to tell him. What initially seemed to be a temporary glitch in her disciplined, orderly life had become a limbo in too many ways.

Sabrina thought of her brother, Eric. She approached I-10 and noticed the sign: Pensacola, 190 miles. Why would her father hallucinate a visit from Eric? Wishful thinking seemed possible, but why such an elaborate story?

She hadn’t seen Eric since their mother’s accident. As far as she knew, her father hadn’t seen Eric, either. Funny how the same event could change people in such different ways. One day you’re arguing over turkey or ham for the traditional Christmas feast. The next day you’re taking sides over whether your mother’s battered remains should be cremated or buried.

It had been an accident. Slippery Chicago streets. A car spinning out of control and slamming into their mother’s car. When her father called and said, “Your mother’s been in an accident,” Sabrina had grabbed a pen and notepad from her office desk ready to scratch down the details and which hospital. Nothing had prepared her for her father’s follow-up. “She’s gone.”

Sabrina still remembered her hand with the pen hovering over the notepad. Her breathing stopped. Every buzz and hum around her came to a sudden halt, replaced by the banging of her heart. She waited for what seemed an eternity for the words to register, for her father to continue with something, anything that would erase what he had just said. Instead, she had heard his sobs. She had never heard her father cry before, and a sudden lump in her throat obstructed any hope she had of breathing. She remembered gasping for air, not sobs, not a cry but a primal struggle to catch her breath. How could she be gone, just like that? Yes, life was funny that way. One day you’re splurging on red and white poinsettias and a few days later you’re arranging them in front of your mother’s casket.

Eric blamed their father. How could he let her go out in the snow to deliver one of her sculptures all by herself? He knew she hated driving on slick streets. The arguments were ridiculous and painful. A hurt and stubborn father and an angry son throwing down a gauntlet neither would retreat from. One man running as far away as possible, the other turning deep inside himself. And a daughter and sister left without either.

As Sabrina entered the outskirts of Tallahassee, she decided the lousy day called for a drastic pick-me-up measure. Instead of heading to the condo, she’d treat herself to lunch. She’d already failed her gradual withdrawal from caffeine; she might just as well give in to a cheeseburger at the Club Diner, greasy but cheap therapy.

Washington, D.C.

Jason ordered his second Jack and Coke. The first one had gone down a bit too quickly. He’d slow it down, not because he had to, but because he wanted to be sharp. He wanted all his reflexes firing and on alert.

He stayed at the end of the bar, swiveling the stool to survey the tavern. The lights were dim. Cigar smoke prevailed over cigarette, but the clouds stayed mostly over certain booths in the corner. Jason hated the stink, hated how it would cling to his clothes and stay in his hair when he got home tonight.

He recognized a staffer for Texas senator Max Holden. Zach was tall, blond and lanky with a pedigree that insured handsome be used in his description. He had elbowed Jason into the wall at a charity basketball game they had both participated in. Thing is, they were supposed to be on the same team at the time. The asshole had shoved Jason out of the way just so he could hog the ball. He couldn’t remember Zach’s last name. Probably something short of Kennedy. It didn’t matter. Mentally, Jason crossed him off the list, dismissed him. Zach didn’t play well with others. It’d be too much work to pry any information out of him. Nothing there. Or was there?

A messenger for the same service Jason used to work for, a messenger who Jason recognized but couldn’t name, put a hand on Zach’s back. Jason watched the hand trail down a bit too far south to be anything less than an advance. Ordinarily it wouldn’t mean much. What’s a little flirting in D.C.? Except the messenger was male. Jason wondered what Senator Max Holden would think, especially since Holden was the strapping cowboy of the John Wayne era much more so than the
Brokeback Mountain
type.

Jason tucked the tidbit away for further consideration. Right now he was more interested in the brunette across the room, the center of attention for a group of probable staffers. They were holding their glasses up, toasting her. Jason was pretty sure he had seen the brunette with Senator Shirley Malone. If he remembered correctly, she had been feeding the senator notes and briefs at the last session of Congress.

Jason took a sip of his Jack and Coke, a long, satisfied sip. This was more like it. He could be charming. Okay, he was out of practice, but he was capable. Where better to get information, to find out Senator Malone’s weaknesses, than one of her own. It was like infiltrating the enemy camp. Talk ’em up a bit. Have a little fun, a few drinks. Loosen up the tongue. Who knows what else.

Jason didn’t realize his attention had been so obviously focused until he heard someone behind him say, “She is something else, isn’t she?”

He glanced around, half hoping the comment hadn’t been meant for him, that he hadn’t been caught. No such luck.

“Excuse me?” he said, knowing it was too late to play dumb.

The tall, attractive woman came around him and hiked herself onto the stool beside him without effort, not in the least concerned that her skirt had also hiked up to reveal the promise of shapely thighs. She didn’t seem to mind that he noticed, his eyes no longer paying attention to the younger woman across the room. Jason only hoped that his jaw hadn’t fallen, because that was exactly how it felt.

“It’s her twenty-eighth birthday,” the woman said, setting her wineglass on the bar. “A worthy cause for celebration and a very worthy young woman. Are you a friend of Lindy’s?”

So much for charm. Jason couldn’t even find his voice. Instead, his brain was screaming at him,
I can’t believe I’m sitting next to Senator Shirley Malone.

Washington, D.C.

Jason ordered his second Jack and Coke. The first one had gone down a bit too quickly. He’d slow it down, not because he had to, but because he wanted to be sharp. He wanted all his reflexes firing and on alert.

He stayed at the end of the bar, swiveling the stool to survey the tavern. The lights were dim. Cigar smoke prevailed over cigarette, but the clouds stayed mostly over certain booths in the corner. Jason hated the stink, hated how it would cling to his clothes and stay in his hair when he got home tonight.

He recognized a staffer for Texas senator Max Holden. Zach was tall, blond and lanky with a pedigree that insured handsome be used in his description. He had elbowed Jason into the wall at a charity basketball game they had both participated in. Thing is, they were supposed to be on the same team at the time. The asshole had shoved Jason out of the way just so he could hog the ball. He couldn’t remember Zach’s last name. Probably something short of Kennedy. It didn’t matter. Mentally, Jason crossed him off the list, dismissed him. Zach didn’t play well with others. It’d be too much work to pry any information out of him. Nothing there. Or was there?

A messenger for the same service Jason used to work for, a messenger who Jason recognized but couldn’t name, put a hand on Zach’s back. Jason watched the hand trail down a bit too far south to be anything less than an advance. Ordinarily it wouldn’t mean much. What’s a little flirting in D.C.? Except the messenger was male. Jason wondered what Senator Max Holden would think, especially since Holden was the strapping cowboy of the John Wayne era much more so than the
Brokeback Mountain
type.

Jason tucked the tidbit away for further consideration. Right now he was more interested in the brunette across the room, the center of attention for a group of probable staffers. They were holding their glasses up, toasting her. Jason was pretty sure he had seen the brunette with Senator Shirley Malone. If he remembered correctly, she had been feeding the senator notes and briefs at the last session of Congress.

Jason took a sip of his Jack and Coke, a long, satisfied sip. This was more like it. He could be charming. Okay, he was out of practice, but he was capable. Where better to get information, to find out Senator Malone’s weaknesses, than one of her own. It was like infiltrating the enemy camp. Talk ’em up a bit. Have a little fun, a few drinks. Loosen up the tongue. Who knows what else.

Jason didn’t realize his attention had been so obviously focused until he heard someone behind him say, “She is something else, isn’t she?”

He glanced around, half hoping the comment hadn’t been meant for him, that he hadn’t been caught. No such luck.

“Excuse me?” he said, knowing it was too late to play dumb.

The tall, attractive woman came around him and hiked herself onto the stool beside him without effort, not in the least concerned that her skirt had also hiked up to reveal the promise of shapely thighs. She didn’t seem to mind that he noticed, his eyes no longer paying attention to the younger woman across the room. Jason only hoped that his jaw hadn’t fallen, because that was exactly how it felt.

“It’s her twenty-eighth birthday,” the woman said, setting her wineglass on the bar. “A worthy cause for celebration and a very worthy young woman. Are you a friend of Lindy’s?”

So much for charm. Jason couldn’t even find his voice. Instead, his brain was screaming at him,
I can’t believe I’m sitting next to Senator Shirley Malone.

Tallahassee, Florida

Leon signed the receipt, proud of the one-line scribble that started with an
L
and then flatlined. By now the signature was second nature though Leon wasn’t his Christian name. He had given himself the nickname years ago when he decided to go into business for himself. It was something he picked up from a book about chameleons.

He’d actually bought one of the lizards from a guy who ran an exotic-animal store in Boca Raton. Well, it wasn’t so much a store as the back dock of a warehouse. The guy had all kinds of lizards, pretty much any size and color you could imagine. The chameleons fascinated Leon, changing colors right before his eyes, half the lizard green on a leaf and the other half still brown as the bark. How cool would that be if people could do that crap? But Leon didn’t bother with disguises like so many of his colleagues. He didn’t need to. He already had the best one of all.

The waitress picked up his receipt while she filled his coffee cup. Not a word. Barely a glance. If someone stopped her later and asked about him she’d never be able to describe him. She’d hardly remember him. That was the beauty of being plain and ordinary. No one ever noticed Leon. He couldn’t buy a better disguise if he tried. And he didn’t ruin it by wearing bright colors or anything trendy. No stripes. No patterns. No cute designer logos. He wore short-sleeved, button-down shirts, the kind that didn’t need ironing and were easy to pack. Same with the sport coats and trousers. Even his sunglasses were off the rack at Walgreens. Absolutely nothing to draw attention to himself.

So yeah, he may have gotten Leon from “chameleon,” but not because the lizard could disguise itself and change colors. The book said the word
chameleon
meant “earth lion.” Lions were the king of the jungle. Life was a freaking jungle. Leon liked thinking of himself as a lion.

He sipped the coffee. No use wasting the warm-up. He fished out a couple of Tums from his pants pocket, checked them for lint and separated them from a bullet, a nail clipper, three dimes and a quarter, then popped the Tums into his mouth.
Fucking indigestion.
In the past two years he’d survived a box cutter slitting his throat, a gunshot through the shoulder and more broken bones than he cared to count, but in the end it’d probably be his own fucking gas that did him in.

He took another sip of coffee to wash down the crumbs of antacids, wishing for a beer instead of the cup of joe. But then he didn’t choose this two-bit diner. One of those occupational hazards. And from the looks of it, Leon knew he wouldn’t be frequenting any bars or clubs on this duty call. Although she’d surprised him earlier, stopping by a liquor store and picking up what looked like a bottle of whiskey. Maybe she wasn’t as straitlaced as she looked. ’Course, it could have just been that freaky lightning storm and the even freakier security guard. Leon still wasn’t sure what the hell that was all about, but it certainly kept him in the shadows when he could have taken advantage of a prime opportunity. All kinds of weird accidents happen when the electricity goes off.

He sat in the far corner of the diner with his back to her, but he could watch her in the plate glass mirror above the soda fountain. For a small woman she could sure put it away—cheeseburger, onion rings smothered in ketchup. But just one cup of coffee that she’d been nursing for the last half hour—the burger and rings devoured long ago. He’d watched her wave off the waitress three times, nursing the original brew while absorbed in the contents of a plain manila folder. Probably the same stuff that got her into trouble in the first place. He didn’t care what was in the folder. It wasn’t his job to figure out what the trouble was. Nope, his job was simple—
stop the trouble.

He waited for her to get out the door, and then he left the three dimes and a quarter for a tip, pocketed the bullet and nail clippers and followed.