Black Oil, Red Blood

Chapter 17



“She thinks they’re trying to kill me,” I explained to Nash, my voice a little louder and a little higher pitched than I intended it to be. I wanted to stay cool, but my flesh burned and my insides felt like jelly. I needed to reapply lidocaine gel to my injured tissue, but I’d left it at Miles’ house by accident this morning.

“Hmm,” Nash said, leaning back and propping his boot-clad feet up on the desk. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s possible. After all, if there was incriminating evidence in those files, they can’t be certain you’re not aware of it too.”

“But I’m not! I don’t know anything!”

“That’s not entirely true, is it?” Nash said. “You know lots of stuff. You sure schooled me last night on a few things.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But that’s all public knowledge.”

“Public record maybe, but not public knowledge.” Nash took a sip out of the coffee cup on his desk. “But you’re right. Killing you wouldn’t make any of that information go away.”

“What about me?” Miles asked. “I don’t know just as much as she doesn’t know. And I was in the house, too.”

“Has anyone tried to kill either of you today?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Dorian Saks tried to give me a heart attack on purpose this afternoon, and I’m not sure he’s not going to get away with it.”

“Dorian Saks?” Nash asked.

Miles rolled his eyes. “Her ex fiancé. New opposing counsel in the PetroPlex case. And a whole lot of other things, too, apparently. Don’t ask.”

“Don’t tell,” I said, prompting a second eye roll from Miles.

Nash rubbed his eyes with the base of his palms and yawned. If he were at all interested in my sordid romantic past, he sure didn’t let on. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to arrange protective custody for the both of you.”

I groaned. “Just what I need. A bunch of police types shadowing my every step, stirring up the gossip mill even more. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“Well, if you don’t want me around,” Nash said, “all you have to do is say so. But I did save your life last night, and I might come in handy again.”

My jaw dropped. “Wait, you? You’re the protective custody detail?”

Nash’s eyebrows raised. “Why, is that a problem?”

“Yes! I mean no!” Yes, it was a problem because the very last thought I’d had before passing out last night was about how his lips might feel on mine, and because now Dorian was in town, and the thought of having those kinds of feelings about two men at the same time was. . . well, a problem. But I hated Dorian.

I wasn’t really sure yet how I felt about Jensen Nash. I didn’t hate him, but the man was a stone. He seemed all but unattainable. And yet here he was offering to hang out with me around the clock. . . did that mean something? Maybe he was attainable after all? Ugh! Mental head slap! How could I even be thinking this way when there was someone out there potentially trying to kill me!

Nash lowered one eyebrow and cocked the other one. “So that’s a. . . what? A yes? A no?”

“But. . . but you’re a detective,” I stammered. The last time I checked, detectives didn’t do the kind of mindless schmoe jobs that required nothing more than two good feet and a gun. At least, not without a good reason. Nash’s potential reasons sent fun little tingles up my spine.

“In case you haven’t noticed, this is a small town, and we’re kind of short on staff around here. A lot of people wear a lot of different hats. Don’t read anything into it that’s not there.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

“You sure?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m living with Miles now, so we’re kind of a package deal.”

I turned my head toward Miles just in time to see his face light up.

“Don’t you go getting any ideas,” I snapped.

“Sure, sure,” Miles said, lifting his hands over his head and forming a halo with his fingers. “Nash is all yours.”

Nash actually grinned. Oh dear. What was I about to get myself into?

“Can you find Gracie Miller?” I asked.

Nash laughed. “Your priorities are all wrong. If we find Gracie but not the killer, you’ll potentially make money but not be alive to spend it.”

“Is that really so much worse than being alive with no money to spend?” Miles asked.

“Money isn’t everything,” Nash said.

“It’s not the money I care about,” I said. “It’s the food it might buy. I’m sick of Ramen.”

“Can’t blame you for that one,” Miles said.

Nash pulled his feet off the desk, sat up in his chair, grabbed a handful of paper and plopped it front of me. “Schaeffer’s phone records,” he said. “There are over a hundred calls in the last week to a number registered to a Cameron Gilbert. The area code is 214, which puts the phone in Dallas.”

That got my attention. “C.G!”

Nash nodded. “But there is no address listed with the number. Anywhere.”

“How can you get a phone number without giving an address?” Miles asked.

“You can’t,” Nash said. “Unless it’s one of those disposable cell phone numbers, which this is not. That’s why this is interesting.”

“It wasn’t interesting before?” Miles asked.

Nash shrugged. “Well, it’s more interesting now. The plot thickens, so to speak.”

I drummed my fingernails on the desk as I scanned the list of Schaeffer’s last phone calls. “So now what?”

“I have a call in to an old friend at the FBI,” Nash said. “There’s an address record somewhere, and he’ll find it.”

Nash’s office door slammed open without warning. The police chief, Chief Scott, who I recognized from some judicial fund raising events, walked in. He stopped short when he saw me.

“Oh. Hello, Ms. Taylor. Nice to see ya,” he said, in a way that made it clear that it certainly wasn’t. He seemed anxious and in a hurry. Turning to Nash, he said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, especially with Ms. Taylor in the room—“

“And me,” Miles said. “I’m Miles.”

The Chief shifted his feet uncomfortably. He was the kind of down-home boy who found it more convenient to pretend that people like Miles didn’t exist. “Pleased to meet ’cha,” he said, without really looking in Miles’ direction. “Anyway, I’m sorry to tell you this, but the Schaeffer case is out of our hands now. The FBI has taken over jurisdiction.”

“First I’ve heard of it. Nobody told me,” Nash said.

The Chief cleared his throat. “I’m telling you now.”

“Where are the agents?” Nash asked. “Nobody’s in town, that I’m aware of.”

“I’m sure somebody will be in touch,” the Chief said shortly, and slammed the door behind him as he left.

Nash looked thoughtful. I didn’t have time to ask him what he was thinking before his phone rang.

He picked it up. “Nash.” A pause. “Is that so?”

I watched him write a Dallas address on a stray envelope. “Thanks for the info, but I’m surprised you bothered to call me back. I hear you boys swiped the Schaeffer case from me. Yeah, Dr. Joseph Schaeffer—killed in his house here in Kettle a couple days ago. Maybe you can check your database and tell me who’s running point? Thanks.” Another pause. “Nobody? Are you sure?” A pause again. “Okay, buddy. Thanks. I owe you one.” Nash hung up the phone, scratching his head.

“What?” I asked.

“The FBI has no record of this case in the database. It’s not even on their radar.”

“Holy Shinola,” Miles said. “That means. . .”

“I have to talk to the Chief,” Nash finished. He jumped up and tore down the hall to the Chief’s office.

“I’m coming with you,” I said, rushing after him, Miles trailing behind us both.

If the local police force was dumping Schaeffer’s case on a bunch of imaginary FBI agents, I felt entitled to know why.

The Chief was already barricaded behind his closed office door by the time we got to his office. We busted in without knocking (which was getting to be something of a habit for me around here lately) and caught him pouring himself a glass of Jim Beam. His hands shook as he hurriedly put the glass and the bottle away.

Nash was fit to be tied. His face was red, his eyes were narrowed to rattlesnake slits, and a faint sheen of perspiration moistened his forehead. I could understand why he was angry, but it seemed like he was over-reacting just a tad. This was one of the first times I’d seen his emotions get the better of him. Maybe there was an actual person inside of him after all.

“You just lied to me,” Nash said to the Chief, “and you’re about to tell me why. The FBI is not on this case, and apparently neither am I, so I want to know who is.”

“Shut the door,” the Chief said.

Nash acted like he didn’t hear him. “I have a friend at the FBI—“

“Shut the door!” the Chief hollered.

Miles shot out a hand and slammed the door, since Nash was still talking.

“—who was running down some phone numbers for me, and according to him, this case is not even in the FBI database.”

Chief Scott swore. “Sit down,” he said.

“Unnecessary,” Nash said.

The Chief stood up and placed his hands on his desk, leaning over it towards us. There was anger on his face, but also fear. “Sit down!” he commanded in such stentorian tones that Miles and I didn’t dare do anything but sit.

Nash, however, continued to stand. He stuck his pointer finger right in Chief Scott’s face. “Talk,” he said. “Now.”

The Chief held his ground, glaring at Nash. “What I have to say to you had best not be heard by these two.” He gestured at Miles and me.

Nash considered this for a moment and rejected it. “They stay.”

I was kind of surprised to hear him say that, but then I realized Nash probably wanted witnesses for whatever was about to go down, which was just fine with me. I didn’t intend to leave anyway.

“They go,” the Chief said. “Or I tell you nothing.”

“Oh, you’ll tell me,” Nash said, “because you haven’t got a choice. I make one phone call, and you are out of here so fast your family won’t know what hit you. I know you’re lying about the FBI, and unless you’re willing to shoot me dead right here and right now, in front of two citizens of Kettle, Texas, everyone else will know it too. What I want to know is why.”

The Chief drew in his breath and cleared his throat not once, not twice, but three times before continuing. I think he knew he was cornered.

“What I am about to tell you does not leave this room,” he said. “Agreed?”

“We’ll see,” Nash said.

“For Pete’s sake, Nash, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

“You’re not in a position to dictate.”

Oooh boy. I had a feeling this was about to get good.

Chief Scott’s face had bloomed as red as Nash’s, and it was now considerably wet with perspiration. He was sweating like a potbellied pig. “If you so much as breathe a word of this, or act like you’ve let on at all, it’s not only my career, but yours, too. And maybe your life, if you’re not careful.”

“Understood,” Nash said.

The Chief’s face screwed up into a tortured ball so that his mustache contracted and looked more like a hedgehog than a fashion statement. “I’m only even bothering to go out on a limb and tell you anything at all because I know your reputation and your history. God help me for hiring you anyway, knowing about all the corruption running this town. I wouldn’t have, if anyone else had wanted the job. I’d hate to see you do something stupid and get yourself hurt.”

My eyes widened. Nash had a reputation?

“I used to be like you,” Chief Scott said. “Above reproach. Nothing could touch me. But you live here long enough, and all your secrets will out. Not to everyone. But to people who are in a position to hold ’em over your head sooner or later.”

Miles and I shifted in our seats guiltily. I’m sure we were both thinking of Judge Delmont and his mistress. I actually had never even bothered to ask Miles how he’d gotten his hands on those photographs, but I made a mental note to do so the next time I had him one on one.

“I think it’s the size of the town,” the Chief continued. “You get to knowing everyone else here, and everyone else knows you, and you have a certain reputation to maintain. ‘Specially if you’re holding public office. Public opinion matters. It can make you or break you. Wreck your marriage. Destroy your kids. Ruin your life.”

Nash mimicked the Chief’s pose by placing his hands on the desk and leaning over it so that the two of them were face to face, only inches apart. “I don’t care about your secrets or whatever part of your personal life you think you’re protecting right now. What I care about is who told you to lie to me about the FBI’s jurisdiction and why.”

“If I tell you, son, you are gonna swear on a stack of Bibles that this information never leaves this room.”

“We’ve covered this ground already as much as it’s going to get covered. Out with it.”

The Chief swallowed hard before continuing. “The problem is, son, there’s billions of dollars at stake. And not just dollars. Lives. Two thousand people work at this PetroPlex refinery, and without it, there wouldn’t even be a town. Now, I don’t know what Schaeffer knew, and I don’t want to know. I live my little life, draw my little paycheck, and go home at night to kiss my wife and tuck my kids in bed. That’s the way I like it. So when the powers that be come down and tell me I haven’t got a case, I haven’t got a case.”

“Who are the powers that be?” Nash demanded.

The Chief collapsed into his chair. “I don’t think you need to know that.”

Nash reached over the desk, grabbed Chief Scott’s collar with his left hand and cocked his right fist, ready to strike.

“Who are the powers that be?”

The Chief was trembling. “Think about what you’re doing, son. Think about what you’re getting into.”

“Tell me now, or I make the call.”

The Chief didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to count to three. One.”

The Chief said nothing. Nash un-cocked his hand and threw the Chief back down into his chair. “Two.”

The Chief still said nothing, looking as defiant as he possibly could. “Three.”

Nash picked up the phone on the Chief’s desk and started dialing.

The Chief jumped up and ripped the cord out of the wall. “Okay! Okay!” he said. “The mayor. It was Mayor Fillion!”

What?

“But that doesn’t make any sense!” I said. “The mayor’s a good guy! He’s the one who released Schaeffer’s files to my house, and. . .”

The full import of the situation hit me. If PetroPlex was after the files, nobody could have known the files had been moved from Schaeffer’s house to mine, unless I was followed, or unless the people who made the hit were affiliated with the people who knew where the files were. Oh no. No. No. No.

No! I knew Kettle as a city was generally bass-ackwards and rife with small town politics, and I knew the judicial system here was corrupt, but I never really considered the possible extent of the corruption.

I looked at Miles. He was as white as a sheet, and I knew he could read my thoughts. How convenient for the mayor that he happened to be friends with Dick. How convenient that he was in a position to know everything that was happening at our firm. Where did that put Dick, I wondered? Was Dick somehow in cahoots, or just an innocent pawn? Who could we possibly trust? Did I dare talk to Dick about any of this?

Nash scooped the Chief’s phone off the desk and threw it within a hair’s breadth of his head. It smashed against the wall behind him and landed on the ground in pieces.

“Is Chloe’s life in danger?” he demanded.

The Chief nodded.

“And Miles?”

The Chief nodded again.

Nash bolted from the room and Miles and I were right behind him.

Nash would have slammed the office door in my face if I hadn’t caught it and deflected it back against his office’s inner wall. Not that he meant to shut me out, I’m sure. I just happened to be in the path of his fury. The door popped off my hands, swung inward, and hit the inside surface of his wall with so much force that the doorknob slammed a hole in the drywall and lodged there, stuck.

Nash was out of control, and since we were talking about Mr. Stone-faced Nash, that was saying something. He grabbed a paperweight off his desk and smashed it on the floor. His pencil jar followed, along with his coffee cup, his computer keyboard, and a sorry looking half-wilted potted plant.

“Nash!” I said. “Jensen, please!”

The use of his first name caught his attention. I’d never called him that before.

He glared at me. “I am Not. Doing. This. Again.” He said. “Not for you. Not for Miles. Not for me. Not for anybody.”

He looked around for something else to throw. I saw him eye the computer monitor and decide against it.

“I think you are,” Miles said softly. “I think you are incapable of sitting by and watching innocent people get hurt when you know you can do something about it.”

Miles was right. If there’s one thing I’d learned about Nash in the last twenty-four hours, it was that he was hyper-attuned to doing the right thing. Always. He was so by the book you’d think he wrote it. But now that the book was out the window, his own set of rules applied, and I was pretty sure those rules wouldn’t allow him to sit around twiddling his thumbs while Miles and I got ourselves killed.

“So,” I said. “We can either stay here like sitting ducks and wait to get shot, blown up, or worse, or we can go to Dallas, find Cameron Gilbert, and try to straighten this mess out. Road trip, anyone?”