After Midnight (9 page)

“Not much. But I've got a few rumors to check out about Seymour's connection with Mosby Torrance.”

Kane laughed coldly. “Dig deep. I may need some leverage if he finds anything. Good God, I take a few days off and everything falls apart. I'd
better telephone the plant and talk to that new man.”

“I wouldn't,” the other man advised. “Let me check around first.”

“Why?”

“If there's any under-the-table dealing going on, the fewer people who know we suspect, the better.”

“It won't do me any good to wait if Seymour's investigator finds anything illegal going on.”

“That's what worries us,” Lawson said. “Our sources think Seymour has found something. Worse, they think there may be some deliberate evidence.” He stressed the words.

Kane rubbed the back of his neck, wincing as he touched a sunburned area. “When it rains, it pours,” he said to himself.

Lawson put down his glass. “Well, all I have are suspicions right now, mainly because of Haralson's involvement. But I'll let you know if anything surfaces.”

Kane nodded, his mind already away from the small problem of waste disposal and back on Nikki.

 

John Haralson was sitting in Mosby Torrance's office, grinning from ear to ear.

“What do you know? Lombard's company just kicked out CWC in favor of old fly-by-night
Burke. Remember him? He was charged with dumping toxic waste in a swamp a year or more ago and he weaseled out of the charge.”

“How do you know?” Mosby asked curiously.

Haralson pretended innocence. “Contacts. I have all sort of contacts.”

Mosby studied the older man curiously. Haralson tended to work miracles, and usually Mosby didn't question how he accomplished them. But just lately, Haralson seemed to be getting a bit out of hand. He had to be more careful. His private life was precarious right now, he couldn't afford to have Haralson making anyone angry enough to start digging into Mosby's past.

“Go on.”

“Well, Burke ordinarily charges about one-fifteenth of what Lombard was paying CWC for hauling off the waste. Now he gets what CWC used to get, and he doesn't have their overhead.”

Mosby frowned. “That puts the onus on Lombard's hired man, not on Lombard himself. He's not getting anything out of it.”

“We can make it look as if he is,” Haralson said smugly. “We don't have to mention the kickbacks to his janitorial man. We can say that Lombard was cutting costs. It's a well-known fact that he's just recently laid off some employees because of the recession.”

Mosby hesitated. “You're talking about concealing facts.”

“Not permanently,” Haralson said smoothly. “Just long enough for the news media to pick up the story and run it a few times. They love dealing with industrial polluters. Save the planet, you know.”

“But…”

Haralson's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward intently. “If you don't get Lombard's neck in a noose and squeeze, his man is going to eventually uncover the truth about you and Nikki and your marriage. Can you think what that will do to you, if the press get wind of it?”

“Oh, my God,” Mosby said, shaken. “It doesn't bear thinking about!”

“That's right. It could cost Seymour the election, and you your seat.”

Mosby was sweating. It wasn't the first time he'd compromised his ideals to save his career. And this time he had no choice. “All right. Go ahead and do what you have to.” He glanced up. “But make sure that Clayton doesn't know how you're doing it. Do you have an investigator in mind?”

“You bet I do. He works for the Justice Department. He's FBI.”

“Hold it, what if we get charged with appropriating personnel…”

“It's all right. He's on vacation. They had to threaten to fire him to get him out of the office. He's been sitting around muttering for days about the inactivity. He jumped at the chance when I mentioned I had a small problem.”

“Can he keep a confidence?”

“He's a Comanche Indian. You tell me.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Sure. It's Cortez.”

Mosby found himself grinning, the fear subsiding a little. Haralson always seemed to work magic. “You're kidding me.”

“I'm not. One of his great-grandfathers was a Spaniard. He calls it the only bad blood in his family tree. His sense of irony is pretty keen, which is why he uses the anglicized name of the Spanish conquerer of Mexico. He spends his free time in Oklahoma with his parents. There, you couldn't pronounce his name.”

“You say he's a good investigator.”

“One of the best.”

“There won't be a conflict of interest involved?”

“Only if we tell anyone he's helping us,” Haralson said innocently.

He got a glare in return for his helpful comment.

“It was a joke! There's no problem,” Haralson chuckled. “When he's on vacation, what he does
with his free time is his own business. We're not asking him to do anything illegal, are we?”

Mosby wasn't so sure about that. “No. I suppose not. In essence, we're asking him to look for a violation of the Environmental Protection Agency codes.”

“That's right. So just pretend I never said a word. I'll do what's necessary to save your bacon.”

Mosby's light eyes narrowed. “Don't sweep anything under the carpet,” he said.

“Not unless I have to,” Haralson promised.

 

“You want me to save the hide of a
Texan?”

“Not at all, Cortez…” Haralson said quickly, trying to pacify the darker man. Cortez was powerfully muscled, scar-faced, with deep set large black eyes and a rawboned face that seemed to be all sharp, dark angles.

Cortez wasn't handsome, although the tall lean man seemed to draw women just the same. Anyway, his record since he'd joined the FBI was impressive and far outdistanced that of some of the handsomer agents.

“You know I hate Texans,” Cortez was saying. He didn't blink. It was one of the more disconcerting things about him.

“If I remember my history, Texans weren't too fond of Comanches, either. But I'm not asking you
to help a Texan. I'm asking you to help put one in front of a congressional subcommittee.”

“Ah,” Cortez said smoothly. “Is that so?”

“It is, indeed. I need a little help. A little detective work…”

“I'm on vacation. Do your own detective work.”

“Cortez…?” Haralson held out an object on his palm.

The other man hesitated, his brow furrowing. “What is that?”

“You know what it is. You've been trying to beg, borrow, buy or steal it for the past five years. Help me out on this,” he added, “and I'll sell it to you at the price you first offered.”

Cortez's face hardened. “I don't want it at that price.”

“Yes, you do.” Haralson flipped it, emphasizing his possession of it.

Cortez groaned. “That's right, hit me in my weakest spot!”

“Always know a man's weaknesses when you plan to trade with him,” Haralson chuckled. “Well?”

Cortez pushed back his raven-wing hair, his long fingers settling on the ponytail he wore it in when he was among whites. It seemed to draw more attention when he wore it down. “All right,” he said
bitterly. “But only because I'm a certifiable collector.”

Haralson handed him the coin, a nineteenth-century two-and-a-half dollar gold piece.

“If you knew,” Cortez murmured, handling the coin with something akin to reverence, “how many years I've been looking for one of these…”

“I do know. After all, I'm the one who bought it out from under you the day Harry in the code section put it on the market and I happened to be at FBI headquarters doing some research for Senator Torrance. I had a feeling it would come in handy one day.”

Cortez gave him a skin-scorching glare. “So it did. All right, you'll get your pint of blood. I'll see if I can connect Lombard's larcenous employee to Burke's with something concrete. If I find anything illegal going on, I'll inform the appropriate people.”

“Would I expect anything less from you?” Haralson asked with a wicked smile. “Trust me.” He put his hand over his heart. “I have a soul.”

“If you do, you keep it in your wallet,” the Native American agreed. “I know you too well, Haralson. Just don't forget that you may have something on me, but I've got something on you, too. You had knowledge of a crime and didn't report it.”

Haralson stared at him uncomfortably. He hadn't
thought things through that far. He and Cortez were acquaintances, not really friends, but they occasionally did each other some good.

Cortez didn't smile, he smirked. He didn't like Haralson, but the man could be useful at times. It wouldn't hurt to do him one small favor, so long as it didn't breach any legalities. Cortez followed the very letter of the law in most things. He turned away, coin in hand, and went to pick up his jacket. “I'll be in touch as soon as I've checked out a few people and places.”

 

Nikki had waded out into the surf to watch the distant freighter sail out toward the horizon. She wondered how it had been during Charleston's early days as a port city, when great sailing ships came here, carrying their precious cargoes of spices and rum and, sadly, slaves.

Pirates had come from here, people like female pirate Anne Bonney and her cohort Stede Bonett. Descriptions of those early days had fascinated Nikki in college, so much so that she'd done three courses in colonial history. The somber and dignified George Washington came to life as her professor lectured about the way the old warhorse had put on his old Continental uniform in 1794 and led 15,000 volunteers off to put down the Whiskey Rebellion—and how the rebellious Pennsylvania distillers had quickly dispersed at little more than
Washington's threat of dire action. Far from the conventional image of George Washington with his little hatchet, the real man emerged from legend with stark clarity.

She wandered along with her toes catching in the damp sand and felt suddenly alone. Funny how a man she hadn't even known a week ago had made a place for him in her mind, in her heart. He didn't want Nikki in his, of course. He'd made that very plain. She supposed that, not knowing her, he'd classed her as a gold digger and decided to cut his losses before she found out who he was. How amusing that she did know, and had tried to subdue her own interest for equally good reasons.

She felt a chill and wrapped her arms around herself. Just as well that it was over, she told herself. The chill grew worse. She laughed, because her chest felt cloggy and she'd been sure she was completely cured. She'd make herself a hot cup of soup and see if that wouldn't help. Then she'd have an early night, and soon enough Kane Lombard would become a sad memory.

 

She woke in the middle of the night coughing uncontrollably. Her throat was sore and her chest hurt. This was going to need the services of a doctor, she realized. She dialed, but Chad Holman wasn't at home. She lay back down. He'd be back
soon, she was sure. She'd just close her eyes and phone him later.

But it didn't quite work out that way. She slept and didn't waken until morning. When she did wake, she couldn't talk at all and she was coughing up colored mucus. It didn't take a high IQ to realize that meant an infection. She had bronchitis or a recurrence of pneumonia, and a fever to boot. She was too nauseated even to sit up. She couldn't talk, so how could she call anyone? She could tap on the receiver, but Chad was a doctor, not a communications specialist. She couldn't get word to him to come and see her, although he certainly would, just as he'd come to see Kane. The same would be true of Clayton.

But sailors knew Morse Code, she thought foggily. Certainly, they did! So if she could remember just the distress signal and how to spell her name in Morse, she could get Kane to come. He didn't want her, but in an emergency, that didn't even matter. Thank God she'd taken an interest in Morse Code when Clayton's senior legislative counsel Mary Tanner's boyfriend had bought his first shortwave. He and Mary had broken up years ago, but Nikki still remembered the code.

She had Kane's number. He'd given it to her to telephone him that last morning they'd gone out together. She painstakingly pushed the buttons. There was a pause and then a ringing sound. She
waited. Waited. Three rings. Four. Five. Her heart began to sink when the phone was suddenly jerked up and an impatient male voice demanded. “Who's there?”

He was in a hurry. It didn't dawn on her that his housekeeper would normally have been answering the telephone, which was a good thing or she might not even have tried to get him. She tapped on the receiver.

“What the hell…?!”

She made a hoarse sound, afraid that he was going to slam the receiver down. She tried again. S…O…S…