After Midnight Part 8

"What do I do best," he asked absently, "run the company or make waves for the local politicians?"

"Both. I don't run a major business, but I know one thing. It's d.a.m.ned risky to leave subordinates in charge, no matter how competent they are. Things go wrong."

Kane turned to study his friend. "Something you know from experience, right?"

Jake chuckled. "Yeah. I sat out half a race and we lost the Cup."

"Not your fault."

"Tell me that every day. I might believe it." He glanced out over the sea toward the horizon. "Storm blowing up. We're in for some weather. It might be a good idea to head back, before you get caught up in the joy of fighting the sea again," he added with a dark look.

Kane had cause to remember the last time he'd been in a battle with the ocean during a gale. He'd laughed and brought the boat in, but Jake hadn't enjoyed the ride. He'd been sick.

"Go ahead, laugh," Jake muttered.

"Sorry. I need a challenge now and again, that's all," he said apologetically. "Something to fight, someone to fight. I guess the world sits on me sometimes and I have to get it out of my system."

"The world sits on us all, and you've more reason to chafe than most. It's just a year today, isn't it?"

"A year." Kane didn't like remembering the anniversary of the car bomb that had killed his family. He scowled and turned the wheel, tacking suddenly and sharply, so that the sailboat leaned precariously.

"Watch it!" Jake cautioned. "We could capsize, even as big as we are."

"I hate anniversaries," Kane said heatedly, hurt in his deep voice. "I hate them!"

Jake laid a heavy, warm hand on the broad, husky shoulder of his friend. "Peace, compadre," he said gently. "Peace. Give it time. You'll get through it."

Kane felt sick inside. The wounds opened from time to time, but today was the worst. The sea spray hit him in the face, and the wind chilled it where it was wettest. He stared ahead and tried not to notice that there were warm tracks in the chilled skin.

Chris was waiting for him in the beach house when he returned. He didn't like her a.s.sumption that she could walk in and boss his people around whenever she felt like it. She was giving Todd Lawson h.e.l.l because he was drinking up Kane's scotch whiskey. Ironically, she was sharing it with him.

What, he wondered, was Lawson doing here?

He walked in, interrupting the argument. They both turned toward him. Lawson was tall, just over six feet, very blond and craggy-faced. He was an ex-war correspondent and had the scars to prove it. He also had a real problem with career women, and his expression as he glowered at Chris punctuated it.

"I see you've met," Kane remarked. He went to the bar and poured himself two fingers of scotch, adding an ice cube to the mixture.

"Wouldn't collided be a better choice of words?" Chris asked testily. She glared back at Lawson. "Shall I leave, so that you men can discuss business?"

"Why?" Lawson asked innocently. "Don't you consider yourself one of us?"

Chris's face went an ugly color. From the severely drawn back hair to the pin-striped suit and bralessness under it, she felt the words like a blood-letting whip. She whirled on her heel and departed, so uncharacteristically shaken that she did it without even a word to Kane. Normally, Kane might have taken up for her. But today was a bad day. His grief was almost tangible.

"No purse, either," Lawson drawled, watching her empty-handed departure. "Don't tell me. It's a sellout to carry something traditionally female."

Kane lifted an eyebrow. "What do you want?" he asked, irritation in the look he bent on his family's star reporter.

"To tell you what I've uncovered."

Kane's hand stilled with the gla.s.s of scotch held gingerly in it. "Well?"

"You take your scotch neat," Lawson remarked, moving closer. "I suppose you can take your bad news the same way. Seymour is after you. The rumor is that he's got something he can use to get you on environmental charges. Since that little incident last month, he's confident that he can find something."

"That incident was an accidental spill into the river," Kane said curtly. "We weren't charged."

"Not for that, no. But evidently Seymour thinks where there's one accident there are bound to be others."

Kane ran his hand through his windblown hair. He knew there were problems with his plant manager being absent so much, and there was a new man in charge of waste control. The new man had been responsible for the sewage leak. He was just new, that was all. He told Lawson so.

"New or not, he's clumsy. You can't afford to let this go without looking into it."

"Why is Seymour on my tail?"

"Because your family's tabloid is crucifying him over his support for the loggers, because your brother Norman is Sam Hewett's new executive administrative a.s.sistant for his campaign, and because your whole family is endorsing Hewett, Seymour's major Democratic opponent. But I think Seymour's ex-brother-in-law is behind this campaign to smear you."

"What ex-brother-in-law?"

"Senator Mosby Torrance."

Kane frowned. "Why would he be after me? He's a business advocate-notoriously a jobs-over-environment man. The Sierra Club would furnish the firewood to burn him at the stake. Like Seymour," he continued, "he's supporting the opponents of the spotted owl in the northwest."

"The spotted owl won't hurt Torrance very much right now because he doesn't have to run for reelection this year. But Seymour does, and the spotted owl bill has hurt him at home," Lawson said cynically. "However, a few well-placed and well-timed blows at industrial pollution in his home district could kindle a lot of public opinion in his favor and put him back in Was.h.i.+ngton. I don't know what he's found, but he's got something. You can bet if John Haralson is helping him-and he is-he's got something."

"Haralson."

"Senator Torrance's district director. Mr. Sleaze," he added curtly. "The original dirty tricks man."

"Working for Seymour? That doesn't sound like Seymour. I'm a Democrat from the feet up, but even so, from what I've read about Seymour, he's never been a politician who tried to smear anybody for personal gain. He's an idealist."

"Perhaps he's learned that idealism is a euphemism for naivete in politics. You can't change the world."

"That doesn't stop people from trying, does it?"

"Seymour is going to concentrate on you. Your family news tabloid has been his major embarra.s.sment since this spotted owl thing began, and the press coverage he's been given has cost him points in the polls. If he can connect you with anything shady, the inference is that he can cost your family some credibility. That will also hurt Hewett-because your brother is his senior advisor. That's what your father thinks, anyway," he added.

"You're his star reporter," Kane said. "What do you think?"

Lawson put his empty gla.s.s down. "I think you'd better make sure there's nothing to connect your company with any more environmental damage."

"I told you, that sewage leak was purely accidental. I don't have anything shady to worry about."

"You sound very sure of yourself," Lawson said quietly. "But you've been away from work for a couple of weeks."

"I have competent managers," Kane said, getting more irritated by the minute.

"Do you?" Lawson straightened. He was almost Kane's own height. "Then why have you turned out a reputable company like CWC?"

"CWC." Kane nodded. "Oh, yes, I remember. I had a talk with the new solid waste manager. He said that CWC had done a sloppy job at enormous cost. He wanted permission to replace the company and get someone more efficient-and a little less expensive."

"That's very interesting. CWC has a very good reputation. One of the national news magazines recently did a piece on them. They're very efficient and high-tech."

Lombard pursed his lips and scowled. "Are they? Well, perhaps they've fallen down on the job. I'll look into it when I get back to Charleston. Meanwhile, what have you found out about Seymour?"

"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 G.o.d, 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 gla.s.s. "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 G.o.d," 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 p.r.o.nounce 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.