Sarah Armstrong: Blood Lines Part 8

David was on his way back to his office, when I tracked down Houstons central booking office, responsible for making appointments for Realtors to see houses. They had no such records, but I was told that the security company that monitored the computerized lock-box system might. I called that number, and the woman I spoke with verified that the company kept records on which homes an individual Realtor entered, and at what time. I gave her information on Grant Roberts, including the name of his real estate company, and we agreed that with a subpoena, I could have the information the following morning. As soon as I got off the telephone, I asked Janet to draw up the paperwork. By then, it was nearly three. My agreement with the captain had been for half-days at the office, but I hadnt made it home by one once since Id returned.

An hour later, after sending the subpoena to the Houston D.A.s intake division, to get it signed by a judge, I left the office for home, then, I had another thought. I reached for my cell phone.

"Mom, everything okay at the ranch?"

"Yup," she said. "Bobby finished up at the office early, so hes here helping me make desserts for his barbecue cook-off party tomorrow night."

With Emma Lou and work, Id been so busy, Id forgotten about the cook-off. On the weekend before the rodeo opens, the parking lot outside Reliant Stadium fills with smoke-belching barbecues. Teams of folks, many whom routinely man desks and computers, slow-cook briskets, ribs, chickens, shrimp, even buffalo and alligator, over smoldering hickory and pecan. In the end, the best efforts win trophies. Like everything else, Bobby takes the event seriously. The Barker Oil tent is as big as most folks homes with a smoker the size of a restaurant kitchen, a bar, a catered buffet, and a tw.a.n.ging, strumming country western band.

"Hows Maggie?" I asked.

"Shes up at the shed with Strings, tending to Emma Lou. The horse had a good day. That antibiotic has kicked in, I think. Shes looking healthier all the time. Doc stopped in around noon, drew more blood, and said he thinks weve got a chance of coming out of this with both horses."

"Good news," I said, feeling relieved. "Mom, if you dont need me at home, Id like to work a couple more hours. Ive got one more stop to make."

"Thats fine, Sarah," she said. "You do what you need to do. Well all be here when you get home."

Century Oil officed on the eighth floor of a mirror-skinned office building on the I-10 energy corridor, home to oil companies big and small, west of downtown Houston, just off the Sam Houston Toll-way. I prowled around for an hour or so after I arrived, interviewing Billies employees, including her a.s.sistant. Her coworkers told me how Billie had worked her way up in the business and been personally chosen as president by one of the two founders, Carlton Wagner, a wildcatter whod started out speculating in the fields sixty years earlier. The old man treated Billie like a daughter, they said, and was so devastated by her death that it led him to put the place up for sale.

No one I questioned at Century admitted knowing anyone angry with Billie or any reason someone would take her life, and all said she meticulously kept her personal life out of the office. None knew the ident.i.ty of the man she dated in the months before her death. I needed an official to sign a consent-to-search form for Bil-lies office and tracked down one of the vice presidents. When I told the man that Billies death was now cla.s.sified a homicide, he appeared shaken but had no more answers for me than the other employees Id questioned. He did, however, sign my paperwork and unlock Billies office.

Billie lived well. Like her home, her large corner office was decorated with antique furniture, a heavily carved desk and credenza, and ornate Oriental rugs. I thought about how she must have swelled with pride every time she walked into the place. c.o.x was a young woman whod risen quickly to a place of prestige in Houstons powerful energy circle. How heady that must have felt. How quickly and sadly it ended.

There were no family photos or personal items, but then Faith had already told me about her trip to claim them. I went through the files on Billies desk, wis.h.i.+ng a forensics team had searched the office immediately after the murder. How many others had been in that office during the previous week? What had they taken with them? Evidence leading to the murderer could have walked out the door.

I shuffled through the drawers and found nothing that jumped out at me, until I spotted a folder marked prospectus: stanhope field. On a Post-it note, white with her initials and the outline of an oil well in red, Billie had written: "Withdraw offer. Call B. Barker on Monday to explain details and tell him to do same." That struck me as odd. I wondered if this could be the East Texas oil field Bobby mentioned, the one he and Billie were working the deal to buy. Yet Bobby talked as if he and c.o.x were ready to make the offer. Perhaps, he didnt know she was backing out, since she hadnt lived until that Monday to call him?

I opened the file and saw lists of numbers. They could have been in Russian for all the figures meant to me. In the back of the file, I paged through brightly colored charts, with layers of different colors, but no explanation of their meaning. So I put the file on the corner of the desk to take with me.

The desktop computer screen was dark and none of the indicators were lit, so I turned it on. A log-on screen came up asking for a pa.s.sword. I hacked around for a while trying Faiths and Grants names, Billies birth date and her Texas drivers license number, but couldnt get in. Giving up, I turned the computer off, watched the screen go black, and then concentrated on the credenza, finding only more files, nothing that caught my attention. Finally, I sat in Billies desk chair for a full fifteen minutes, simply letting my eyes randomly scan the office, looking for something, anything that looked out of place. Nothing. I looked at my watch. It was going on six, and Mom and Maggie would be waiting.

I grabbed my purse and took two steps toward the closed office door, when I heard the computer click on. Startled, I looked around for someone else in the room. But there was only the one door, still shut, and I was alone. Feeling more tentative than entering a crime scene with my .45 drawn, I walked back to the computer.

"This some kind of a joke?" I muttered.

To my astonishment, Billies log-in screen booted with the Century Oil logo. I didnt touch the computer, but watched mesmerized as this time six black dots appeared in the pa.s.sword slot. In an instant, Billies opening screen flashed on and then off, replaced by a photograph.

I again looked around the office, convinced someone had to be orchestrating the events. I thought about Faiths six-oclock experiences, including the one with this same computer that had offered up the suicide note.

"Oh, I dont think so," I murmured. I thought about turning and leaving but couldnt. No matter how it was happening, I figured it was best to pay attention, so I surveyed the photograph on the computer screen. The image was dark, of a field at night. In the photo, three men stood near the shadowy silhouette of an oil well. One had his back to the photographer, but the two whose faces were visible looked up in years. The stars were s.h.i.+ning in the night sky, and across the bottom of the photo, someone had handwritten: "Stanhope Field, East Texas."

"Okay," I whispered, "I dont know whats going on here, but I gather this is important."

I printed the screen, picked the copy up, and slid it in the file with Bobbys phone number on the Post-it note on top. I tucked all of it under my arm. Now I really had to leave.

But I hesitated, thought for a minute, and whispered, "Anything else?"

I waited, but only silence. The place was starting to give me the chills.

Back in the reception area, I told Billies a.s.sistant, "I need thick tape, and the key to Miss c.o.xs office door."

The meticulously dressed young man, who appeared young enough to be right out of college, searched through his desk, took out a roll of clear strapping tape, and handed it to me along with the key. I pulled Billies door shut, locked it, and then slipped the key into the top front pocket of my black Wranglers. Then I peeled off long strips of tape and slapped them down, crisscrossing the door. When I finished, I said, "Now I need a black marker."

He handed me a Sharpie, then stood back, watching as I printed police line, do not cross, over and over again on the strips of tape. I left him there, staring at the makes.h.i.+ft crime-scene tape, and stepped out in the hallway, near the elevators, most importantly out of earshot, and called Janet. I was lucky to find her working late.

"I need a search warrant for Billie c.o.xs office at Century Oil," I said. "When can you get a judge to sign it?"

"Not until morning, by the time I round up a prosecutor to draft it and get everything in order," she said.

"Okay," I said. "Ive got a signed consent, but Id like a warrant, just to be sure were covered. Ill pick it up first thing. Schedule a couple of forensic guys to meet me at Century Oil around nine, including a computer specialist. Get a search warrant for her house, too. Well go there second."

Finally, I ducked back inside Century Oils offices for one last piece of business. I returned the Sharpie to Billies a.s.sistant and shot him one of those looks, the kind that says, "Dont mess with me."

"Are you here until lockup tonight and back first thing in the morning?" I asked.

"I can be," he said, his voice faint. He cleared his throat. I figured the stare I had focused on him was making it tight. "Almost everyones already gone for the night, but I can wait until the last ones leave."

"No one, and I mean no one goes in Billies office," I said. "I hold you personally accountable."

He nodded, and I turned and walked back toward the elevators with the file on the East Texas oil field tucked under my arm.

Fifteen.

I was puzzled to see Doc Larsons old green Chevy pickup blocking the driveway, when I pulled up to the ranch. Hed already dropped in once that day.

"So, what do you think?" Mom asked Doc as I walked into the shed. Maggie and Strings held on tight to the mare, expressions of utter worry crowding their young faces. Theyd braided the horses white mane, and I wondered if that made Emma Lou feel any better or only the kids. Bobby stood nearby, more than a bit somber.

"Im glad you called. Youre right, Nora. Its looking more and more like we havent got much time," Doc said, inspecting the horses bulging girth. Just since morning, Emma Lous belly appeared sunken around the base of her tail, a common sign that foaling is near. "Could be tonight."

"Too soon?" I asked.

"I hoped for at least another day or two. This is right on the edge," he said, shaking his head. "I dont know, Sarah. Could be a rough one. Someone needs to sleep within earshot of the horse tonight and call me if her contractions start."

"Ill do it," Maggie said.

"Maggie . . ." I started to argue, but then I thought better of it. Emma Lou was her horse, and this was no time to pull rank. "Okay, but Ill be out here with you."

"Now the important thing is to keep the mare comfortable," Doc said. "And dont rile her up. Let Emma Lou handle it without help, if she can, until I get here."

"We know what to do, Doc," Mom said. "Weve birthed a few foals at the ranch over the years."

"This times different, Nora," Doc said. "This little one is going to need every bit of luck to make it through."

That evening, we had a quiet dinner at the picnic table under the corral elm tree, the lights blazing, Mom, Bobby, Strings, Maggie, and I. Afterward, Maggie and I set up our cots outside the shed, and then I went inside to talk to Bobby. I still had work to do, and I found him helping Mom with dishes. She was was.h.i.+ng the pans and he was drying.

"Ive got some questions on the oil business, Bobby," I said. "Could we sit down and look at some papers together? Its for a case, and I need your help."

"Of course, Sarah," Mom said. "You go now, Bobby. Im almost through."

"No, let me help you finish, Nora," he said. "Only a few more to go."

"Dont be silly. Sarah needs your help. Ill finish these up."

He kissed her tenderly on the cheek, which made me think of David. I shrugged it off, and Bobby and I sat down on the living room couch, where I put Billie c.o.xs file with the Post-it note on the c.o.c.ktail table in front of us. I didnt have to say anything. Bobby took his rimless reading gla.s.ses out of his pocket and put them on, picked up the file, and started slowly working through it, digesting each page. As he did his smile dissolved, replaced by a scowl, and pretty soon his brow grew heavy and his eyes formed angry slits. When he finally put the file down, he folded his hands on his lap.

"Explain all this to me," I said.

"Not much to explain, Sarah," he said. "But I think you just saved Barker Oil close to fifty million, maybe more."

"Howd I do that?" I asked.

"Looks like I was about to buy a bunch of dry holes," he said. "Looks like those oil leases in East Texas arent as lucrative as Billie c.o.x and I were led to believe."

"Show me," I said. "I need to understand what Im looking at."

"Just a minute," he said, getting up and walking back to the kitchen. A minute later, he returned with a pad of paper and a pencil, and again sat next to me. He pointed to one line of numbers on the list inside the folder and copied it onto the top sheet of paper. Then he flipped through to the back of the folder and pulled one page out of the stack of colored charts.

"This is well number one-forty-four of the Stanhope Oil Fields," he explained. "Stanhope is the field Billie and I wanted to acquire in that joint mineral-rights purchase I told you about the other night."

"I thought that was probably the case," I said. "Now, tell me what the numbers mean."

"Well, the first is the number of the well, one-forty-four. The second is the year it last operated, and third the number of barrels per month produced during its final year. The fourth number is the date the well could be operational again, basically how long it would take to get it in working order, and the fifth is the projected number of barrels the well is expected to produce per year. The final is a projection of the number of years before the well plays out."

"Whats the chart, the colored drawing you pulled out?" I asked.

"Thats part of a study on a section of the field, the section that includes well number one-forty-four. The company that a.n.a.lyzed this report used that study to predict how much oil was below the ground," he said.

"Did you know this was being done?" I asked.

"Not a clue," he said. "My guess? I cant be certain, but Id bet Billie had doubts about how much the wells were really worth, some reason to question the figures wed been supplied. She must have brought someone in to study the wells, to verify the expected profits from the field."

"And the important thing about all this is?"

Bobby sat back against Moms old sofa and resolutely folded his arms across his chest. "I dont like to say this," he said. "But it sure looks to me like we were being bamboozled. Must have to Billie, too, based on the note. Wed been given other numbers, much higher ones for this field. These wells, they ought to stay abandoned. No reason to drill, because theyre verging on dry holes."

"With crude prices so high, why would anyone have to run a scam to make money?" I said. "These days most of us are bleeding money for oil. Every time I go to the pump, gas has gone up. The price for a tank is plumb crazy."

"Thats why theyre doing it. The price is so high, companies like mine are buying old wells up right and left, planning to use all the new high-tech equipment to recover more oil," he said. "When oil prices were low, no one could afford to invest enough to pull the hard-to-get-to reserves out of the ground. But with prices sky high, its worth the cash, even if the wells not the gusher it once was."

"But these particular wells . . . ?" I asked.

"Theyre not worth sh.e.l.ling out the investment it would take to try," he said. "Anyone in the business can look at these figures and tell you this field is played out, probably thirty years ago."

"Who owns the fields?" I asked. "Whos running the con?"

"Dont know," he said. When I looked skeptical, he explained, "Mineral rights are complicated, lots of layers of owners.h.i.+p over many generations. We were told that its some kind of partners.h.i.+p that wants to remain anonymous, that they bought the rights up years ago when oil was cheap and want to cash in now that its high. We were proceeding based on a prospectus presented by their attorney. Hes the one we were dealing with."

"I need his name," I said. "And anything else you can tell me about all this."

Bobby reached into the back pocket of his blue jeans. "By the way, you shouldnt blame me for the price of gas," he said, as he rifled through his worn-out black leather wallet. He flipped through a stack of business cards and pulled out one, white with black print.

"Arent you oil tyc.o.o.ns the ones making all the big profits?"

"Well, yeah," he said, with a reluctant shrug. "I guess you could say that."

"Why wouldnt I blame the folks cas.h.i.+ng in?"

"Most of the oil in the world is owned by nations, like Venezuela and Saudi Arabia, not companies or individuals. Theyre the ones setting the price and limiting production, not us," he said. "And you need to talk to the developing nations, like India and China. Theyre fueling the demand. Couple that with our own government, thats blocked drilling in most of the nation. Americas playing in a world market now, Sarah, and we dont control the action. War in the Middle East, prices climb. Third World needs energy to develop, prices climb. Just last year, no one wanted our oil. The price of a barrel was bargain bas.e.m.e.nt, and we couldnt afford to invest enough to drill. No profit in it. We couldnt control the price then and we sure cant control it now."

"Okay," I said, taking the lawyers business card from him. "But thats probably not going to make me any less annoyed next time I hit the gas pumps."

"Sarah, you are something," Bobby said, with a guttural laugh. "Well, Im not going to tell you oil isnt making a lot of folks, including me, richer, but it truly is a bunch more complicated than the way it sounds on the evening news."

"Ill try to keep that in mind," I said.

"Id appreciate that," he said. "But lets get back to this Stanhope Field. Ive got a question to ask."

"Sure," I said. "What?"

"Were talking about all this because now you dont think Billie c.o.x killed herself. Billie was murdered, right?"

I paused for a moment, wondering how to answer that. Then figured he needed to know. "Yeah," I said. "The folks at her office know, so itll get out soon, but keep it as quiet as you can for now, okay? I need some working room."

"Sure," he said. "So, who killed her?"

"I dont know," I said, "Could have something to do with this scam, or it might not. It could be totally unrelated, like maybe that married man she was dating. But there is something else you can look at for me."

I opened the file to the back, where Id paper-clipped the computer photo. I handed it to Bobby, and asked, "Can you tell me anything about this?"

Bobby eyed the photo, and then flipped through the chart inside. "Well, its the Stanhope Field all right. See, the number on the oil well in the picture is on your list. And thats Clayton Wagner, one of the owners of Century Oil," he said, pointing to one of the elderly gents. "Crazy old man. Lives larger than life. The guys made fortunes and lost them, then made them and lost them again. A real speculator, but he has always had a knack of betting on the wrong horse, if you know what I mean. Until Billie, that company was constantly in the red. She was the best thing that could have happened to that old codger."

"Who are the other two men?"

"This is Ty d.i.c.kson," he said, pointing at the other man whose face was visible. "d.i.c.kson is Wagners partner and just as explosive as he is. But I thought he was sick, and that hed retired. Strange that hed be involved in any of this."

"Any ideas on the ident.i.ty of the man with his back to the camera?" I asked.

Bobby sized up the man, taller than the other two, younger, an awkwardly built man. "Maybe he looks familiar, but from the little I can see, Im not sure," Bobby said. "Sorry."

"Thats okay," I said. "Youve been a big help."