Firefly Island (33 page)

Sheila squeezed into the booth beside Al. “Here, I can help. What are we looking for?”

“See if there's anything about a planned recreational development called Kingdom Ridge, northeast of Dallas, near the Oklahoma border.” I fished my cell phone from my pocket again. “I need to call my dad and get some ideas. I'm not sure what we're looking for.” There had to be some reason Mason was conducting meetings in secret. If we dug in the right places, sooner or later we'd hit pay dirt. Hopefully, Dad could tell me what the right places were.

I dialed my parents' number, hoping I'd get my father and not Mom. Usually by now she was in bed asleep with a book on her chest while Dad alternately dozed and watched the late-night news recap in the great room. Hopefully she wouldn't hear the phone ringing in Dad's office. She had
never allowed a business phone upstairs, because Dad's clients and contacts tended to call at all hours of the day and night.

Dad answered on the fourth ring, his voice drowsy and thick. He was surprised, of course, when I was the one calling. “Everything all right? Hang on, let me go find your mom.” Generally, crises were Mom's domain. Dad's job was to listen, nod, act curmudgeonly, and offer to pay for things.

“No, no, Dad, I called to talk to you. Don't wake Mom, okay? I have a . . . technical question.”

“Technical question . . .” Dad was doubtful, but there was a hint of intrigue in his tone. He missed the old wheeling and dealing days.

I realized that everyone in the room was looking at me, trying to follow the conversation. I switched to speakerphone. “Dad, what kinds of things might cause a problem with a property development? I'm talking about a large recreational plan—ten thousand acres, crossing state lines, manmade lake, golf course, that kind of thing. Very upscale. What kind of holdup might come along?”

“You and Daniel thinking of investing in something, because in this economy . . .” The sentence ended with the cautionary clearing of the throat that conveyed Dad's disapproval without his saying it. “Never make investments after ten o'clock at night. That's always been my rule. Sleep on it and let it ruminate a few days, Mudbug.”

Al lifted a brow at the nickname I'd inherited when I ran away and hid during a crawfish boil in Charleston. The whole concept of cracking the head off something and slurping out the brains was a little much for a city girl.

Right now, though, I wanted to get at Mason's brain, to figure out what he had brewing there. “We're not investing, Dad. I just need to know. What might get in the way of a
development like that? What might bring on some . . . sneaking around. Some under-the-table deals?”

Dad considered the question for a moment. “Well . . . any number of things. Water-rights issues, with the building of a lake involved, access issues, of course—roads, right-of-way disputes, and that sort of thing—possibly zoning, fire control, environmental issues like natural watersheds, financing and debt capacity of the developer. Any of those can hamstring a big project like that. Eminent domain issues, habitat for any kind of endangered species—doesn't matter if it's tree moss or little green beetle bugs, that can be one whopper of a snag. Issues with mineral rights, easements for things like pipelines and power transmission . . .” Dad hesitated, waiting for me to speak. I was busy making notes on the back of a take-out menu. “That enough, or you need more? Could you narrow it down for me a little?”

I pushed strands of wet hair off my face, looking at the list, trying to imagine which might apply to Kingdom Ridge. “I'm looking for something big. Something that might have implications on a federal level. Something that might involve calling in favors—where connections in the House or the Senate could make a critical difference.” Both Dad and I knew what I was talking about.

“Well, now you've got my interest. What's this place called, and how does it involve my baby girl?” Dad was suddenly wide-awake, ready to swoop in and take control and handle everything for me. My independent streak flared. Once Dad started asking questions around DC, word would circulate.

“I'll tell you all the rest later, Dad. I'm just working on a story.” My attempt at sounding casual was pathetic, but it seemed to convince Dad. “For right now, could you just give me some ideas? The most likely things?”

He answered with a disappointed grunt. Dad still hated it when I wouldn't just be his little Mudbug. “Federal . . . federal . . . Well, if I were looking at why someone might be calling in favors on that level, I'd look specifically at endangered species, anything of historical or archaeological significance on the property, anything that might stoke up the Environmental Protection Agency, any abutments to federal properties like park land, military facilities, preserves, or federal research facilities.” He paused again. I could almost hear him scratching the five o'clock shadow on his saggy chin. For a minute, I wasn't wet and cold in a booth at the Waterbird, I was curled up on the arm of my dad's big chair, laying my head on his strong shoulder.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You know, anytime you need me you can call.” The wistfulness in those words was unmistakable. My mind stumbled ahead to some day far in the future, my children grown, my house empty.

“I know, Dad. I love you.” I blushed a little, the moment feeling gushy with everyone staring at me.

“Power corridors.” It wasn't exactly the
I love you
that I'd been expecting in return. “There've been some interesting issues with a couple large-scale development plans out west over the years, where Congress had previously established a massive power corridor right-of-way through the property. No power lines in place at that point, but a pre-established corridor location like that one is the kind of obstacle only congressional action can help you deal with. You want to move something like that, you need friends in high places . . . and some luck.”

Power line corridors . . .
Holy mackerel!
I'd heard something about that, not that long ago. What was it? Why was that ringing a bell? “Tell me more about that, Dad. How
would you get rid of an obstacle like that? What would a developer do?”

Dad chuckled in his
well-you-know-that-as-well-as-I-do
way. “Pony up the campaign contributions, host a few fundraising events for committee members with power, give generously to their PACs, and then mention—and when I say
mention
, you know and I know there are a lot of people in this town who'd go far beyond what's legal here—that you've got a problem with the power corridor plans. Typically, relocating something like that is the type of issue that'll be tucked quietly in the non-germane amendments to a bill where nobody's going to bother to read the fine print. You understand how that works, daughter.”

Did I ever. My mind was ringing like a firehouse bell. The back of the Clean Energy Bill—all the pork attached by Congressman Faber's office. Faber was from Arkansas. He and Senator Reirdon had served on at least one joint committee together, and probably more. The Reirdon family were longtime friends of Mason West. If we checked Reirdon's contributors and Faber's contributors, no doubt Mason West, or interests connected to Kingdom Ridge, would be there. That didn't explain why Mason was here now, hovering around Jack, but it might get us started. “Okay, thanks, Dad. I think you just helped me out in a big way.”

“It's what I live for,” Dad answered ruefully, and then we said good-bye.

I turned to Sheila and Al. “Look up the contributions to Congressman Faber and Senator Reirdon. Look for anything connected to Mason West, interests he owns, or Kingdom Ridge Trust.” While they were busy searching and making notes, I pawed around for information on a planned power corridor through Texas, Oklahoma, or Arkansas, possibly involving the border area where Kingdom Ridge was located.

It wasn't hard to find. The Gateway To the Coast corridor was massive, a mile-wide right-of-way for high voltage transmission lines traveling from Texas, all the way to the big cities in the northeast. Communities and property owners everywhere were raising petitions, claiming that the planned route for the corridor had been changed without reason. The proposed new route was not only more costly, but it traveled through a federal preserve. It also grabbed thousands upon thousands of acres of private land, rather than making use of existing power rights-of-way . . . including the one that ran through the property that would become Kingdom Ridge.

Who wants to spend a half million on a vacation home that will someday have massive high-voltage transmission lines dangling over it? According to the map, the power corridor was supposed to run right over the lake at Kingdom Ridge. Of course Mason West and his partners, whoever they were, couldn't let that happen. They needed to find a means of moving the corridor right-of-way before they could begin selling lots.

Faber's pork in the back of the Clean Energy Bill would be a perfect way to do it. Tuck the relocation of a portion of the power corridor into a nice little bill about wind farms and renewable energy—the sort of bill no one would ever look that closely at.

I needed to get another look at the bill. But all my files were back in DC, in my old office, under new management. I couldn't just call up and say,
Listen, I know it's the middle of the night, and I don't work there anymore, but can you let me snoop around in my files for a bit?

I drummed on the keyboard, trying to think of another approach. Somehow, I had to get to my old files . . . and who knew more about computers than anyone else I'd ever met? Who loved them, lived for them, and talked about them
endlessly while sharing round-robin desserts at a corner booth? If there was anyone who could help me, it was Josh, the Wizard of Computer-Oz.

I texted him instead of calling, realizing that it'd be just as well if everyone wasn't in on the conversation.

Hey, you there?

His answer was almost instant.
Yeah, we're all at the pub. What kind of pie do you want us to order you?

I pictured the old crew, cooped up at a corner table at the pub. The setting felt foreign now. The lopsided booths at the Waterbird seemed like home.

;o) No pie, but do you remember that time you hacked my email and grabbed a bunch of my stuff to prove to me why I shouldn't email my work stuff to myself as a way of backing it up? Any chance you still have those files?
The email hacking lesson had taken place after I met Daniel—when I was working on yet more amendments to the Clean Energy Bill. It was probably a long shot that Josh still had the files around, but with Josh, anything was possible. Truth be told, he could probably hack the new assistant's email at my old office, but there was no way I would ask. I didn't want the two of us to end up occupying side-by-side jail cells in federal prison.

The phone rang a moment later. Josh was on the other end. “I deleted those files. Remember? You threatened to send the FBI after me.”

I stood up from the table, pretended to be going to the cafe counter, where Pop Dorsey had prepared a fresh, hot pot of coffee. “So, did you
delete
them, delete them . . . or did you delete them in the way of deleting them where people like you can still actually find them on some hard drive somewhere?” Another lesson I'd learned from Josh. Even after standard deletion, ghosts remain unless the hard drive is sanitized by some special means only gurus understand.

“Uhhh . . . who wants to know?” Josh's answer was sheepish at best, but more like culpable.

“Just me.”

“ . . . because there's been a hot girl watching me in the gym three days in a row, and I thought it was just because I've lost thirty pounds. Do I need to worry about Homeland Security throwing me in the back of a black sedan and taking me to an unmarked basement somewhere?”

Any other time, I would have laughed at Josh's joke, but right now I was focused on other things. “Come on, Josh. Do you have the files or not? I need my copy of the amendments to the Clean Energy Bill.”

“Oh, those are a sure cure for insomnia . . . oops, I mean not that I looked at any of your private files or anything.”

“Josh . . .”

“Yeah, I can probably get it. For one thing, my system runs incremental backup every night. Everything that's on my hard drive goes there. I'll check for you when I get to work tomorrow.”

“No, I need it now.” I poured a cup of coffee, the damp clothes still making me shiver. The warmth from the coffee pot felt good.

“I'm not at my computer right now.”

Wrapping my hand around the steaming liquid, I lifted it to my lips. On the other side of the room, Al, Sheila, and the Docksiders were pointing at Sheila's laptop screen and furiously making notes, whispering among themselves with looks of
Eureka!

“Come on, Josh, I know you've got your iPad with you.” Josh never went anywhere without his little man-purse full of gadgets.

“So, you want me to hack into my own data drive and get a file for you with a Bluetooth keyboard and an iPad?” Josh
protested. “Now
that's
a challenge.” I pictured him rubbing his hands together and cracking his knuckles with relish. “Text the filenames to me, or at least some combination of letters you're sure were in the filenames, and I'll let you know when I have something.”

I did as Josh asked, then crossed the room with my coffee, looking over Al's shoulder as she made notes. “Well, he's definitely funneling money to these guys. Nothing that's obvious beyond the legal limits, but I'll bet if we dig here, here, and here—” the tip of her pen tapped the screen, indicating several PACs and named corporate donors—“we're going to find Mason West connected in more ways than one.” Al's inner reporter was showing.