Protecting Peggy (17 page)

“There it is,” Lummus said as he cleared the path's final zigzag.

The black station wagon lay on its side on the small spit of sand, looking like a beached whale. Its front was caved in, the hood crumpled. Rory theorized the wagon had smashed into the beach front-end first, then rolled. He glanced up. He could see only the cliff's jagged face, then the brooding sky. Lummus had been right—if the survey crew hadn't come along, it might have been a while before the wreck was discovered.

Rory noted the lab tech snapping photos of the wagon. He turned, looked at Lummus who had just stepped off the path onto the wet sand. “Are your lab people going to wait to go over the wagon until you get it to your impound lot?”

“That's the plan. One of the techs sealed it after they got O'Connell's body out. The lab guys can do a better job of dusting for prints and vacuuming in their evidence bay.”

Rory nodded as they walked. “I'll call you from San Francisco to get an update on what they find.
Right now I'm interested in the white paint on the rear bumper.” His thoughts went to the white car that Blake had spied parked beside O'Connell's at the hay shed. “A couple of times, I pulled into the inn's lot and parked behind the station wagon,” he continued. “I don't remember seeing white paint on its bumper. I could be wrong—it might have been there. But I don't think so.”

Lummus slid him a sideways look. “My guess is, if you didn't notice it, it wasn't there.”

Rory settled his evidence kit on one of the craggy rocks that humped out of the sand like an arthritic knuckle. He retrieved his Polaroid and walked to the rear of the station wagon. The wisps of white paint were minimal. Still, he knew they were enough for the lab's sophisticated instruments to establish the exact color, year and make of the vehicle that had left them.

After snapping several photos, he turned to Lummus. “There's not enough paint for me to take samples here. What lab does your department submit its forensic evidence to?”

“The state's crime lab in Sacramento. We usually have to wait a hell of a long time for results.”

“Not this time. After your lab techs get the wagon into impound, have them remove the entire bumper and submit it to me.”

Lummus gave him a long look. “Submit it where? The FBI lab in San Francisco or in D.C.?”

Rory needed to stay on the west coast. It had nothing to do with the fact that Prosperino had come to mean something to him. Had nothing to do with his feelings for Peggy. He needed to believe that. He had
a job to do, had promised Blake answers. That was all.

“San Francisco,” he answered. “I'll be there until I get an ID on the contaminant in Hopechest's water.” He glanced back at the wagon. “Make sure your lab people pull one of the headlights.”

Lummus raised a brow. “Why?”

“In older cars like this where the headlights don't come on automatically and stay on all the time, checking the condition of a headlight can help establish time of an accident.”

“That's a new one on me.”

“If the filament is stretched and broken, that means the headlights were on. If it's in a tight coil, the lights were off. It's a good bet no one would try to drive this road at night without light. You said the M.E.'s aide estimates O'Connell has been dead at least a day.”

“That's right.”

“If the wagon's lights were on at the time of impact, that probably means O'Connell died a couple of hours after he left the inn.”

Turning, Rory walked toward the front of the station wagon, peered through the shattered windshield. A foam cup, map and a small, thin box with “Art Kit” scrawled across its side had been tossed against the dash. Samantha's art kit. He thought of the possibility of Peggy and Samantha having been in the wagon when it plunged off the cliff. Just the thought shattered his heart.

Fists clenched, he rose, walked back to Lummus. “Peggy shouldn't be alone, not until we know for sure who attacked her. Not until I can prove that her station
wagon isn't here because someone thought
she
was behind the wheel.”

“You don't need to worry about Peggy,” Lummus said. “I'll take care of her.”

“Yeah.” Rory's stomach twisted at the thought. “I figured you'd say that.”

T
wo days later Rory carried a cup of steaming, bottom-of-the-pot coffee and two computer printouts to his borrowed desk in the FBI's San Francisco headquarters. The desk was squeezed into an office that was a little more than an alcove between the trace and drug analysis labs. The alcove was windowless, dimly lit and reeked of the cigarette smoke left by a former occupant. The desk was government-issue decrepit, with flaking gray paint and handles missing from two of its drawers.

Rory didn't care about the size, brightness or scent of the office, the condition of the desk, or that he had forgotten to eat the plastic-wrapped sandwich and bag of chips he'd bought five hours ago from a vending machine. His total concentration was centered on the printouts he had just retrieved from the lab's gas chro
matograph, a supermachine that overheats a substance to vapor and then computer-analyzes the gasses to determine chemical composition.

Over the past two days he had introduced separate samples into the chromatograph from each of the vials found in the shoe box Charlie O'Connell had hidden in the greenhouse. Each sample had flowed through various columns and chambers, undergoing a finite series of separation processes, molecular weighing, filtering and amplification. The final detection stage sent information to the chromatograph's computer, which acted as a clearing house that recorded all data produced, and converted electrical impulses into both visual displays and hard copies.

The computer also contained a library of several thousand compounds, which enabled searches that assisted in the identification of unknown compounds.

One of the printouts Rory had settled on the desk in front of him was the final hard copy analysis on all of O'Connell's samples. The second printout showed the results of the computer's comparison of that final analysis to its library of known-compounds.

The second printout drew Rory's immediate attention. He read slowly through the pages showing numerous graphs of compounds that had characteristics similar to the contaminate in Hopechest Ranch's water. When he flipped to the last page, his heart picked up speed. The analysis had come up with an exact match.

After a moment he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his gritty eyes. He now knew the identity of the substance that had contaminated the water on Ho
pechest Ranch. Knew, too, that the EPA inspector had to have known what it was within days of his arrival in Prosperino.

“Bastard,” Rory said through his gritted teeth. He checked his watch, saw it was just after noon. He snatched up the phone, hoping to catch Blake before he left his office for lunch.

After six rings someone picked up on the other end. Rory winced when he heard a hard clatter, then a muffled curse.

“Yeah, what?” Blake's voice came across the line, thick and slurred with sleep. “Hello?”

“What the hell you doing, Fallon?” Rory asked as he reached for his coffee. “Sleeping on the job?”

“Sinclair?”

“Right the first time.” Rory took a sip of coffee, then grimaced. If he fed the thick brew through the chromatograph he would probably get a hit in the nuclear range.

“This is important, right? Otherwise you wouldn't be rousting me out of bed at midnight.”

“Midnight?” Rory narrowed his eyes. “Hell, I thought it was noon.”

“How long since you've gotten out of that lab?”

“I haven't left since I got here two days ago. When I need sleep, I bunk on a couch in a vacant office.” Rory glanced around at the small, dim alcove. “It doesn't have a window, either.”

“Trust me, it's dark out. My office phone is programmed to ring here after hours.”

“I'll take your word for things.” As he spoke, Rory raked a palm over his jaw. He had grabbed a couple
of quick showers while he'd worked at the lab, but hadn't wanted to waste the time it took to shave. Now the stubble on his face felt like sandpaper.

“I hired you to figure out what's in the water,” Blake said, his voice clearing of sleep. “Killing yourself while you're doing that isn't part of the deal.”

“The deal's about to close. I've got you an answer.”

Blake remained still for a moment, then said, “You found out what the contaminant is?”

“Yes, by using the samples from the box O'Connell stashed. I got an ID about two minutes ago. I haven't had time yet to research the stuff—that'll take me a couple of hours—so I can't answer a lot of questions about it yet.”

“What is it, Rory? What the hell is it in Hopechest's water?”

“It's an organic compound. The chemical fingerprint shows it's made up of dimethyl-butyl ether, DMBE for short.”

“English, Sinclair.”

“Sorry.” Rory switched his thoughts out of scientific mode. “DMBE's some sort of gasoline additive. This stuff is new, distinctive. Most of the time when we get a hit on something like this, the computer will give us the name of the company that manufactures it. That didn't happen with DMBE.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. Could be DMBE is still in the testing phases. Maybe more than one company is involved with the stuff. I do know that the petroleum industry is as secretive about their patents as people are about
their affairs. If you aren't forced to let out information, you don't.”

“Joe Colton owns an oil company,” Blake said. “He can probably contact some of his connections and get the ball rolling on finding out what company is behind DMBE.”

“If he can, that'll save a hell of a lot of time.” Rory paused. “As soon as I wind up things here, I'll fly to Prosperino. Why don't you set up a meeting for this afternoon with Colton and the mayor? Hopefully, I'll know more by then. After that, Longstreet can inform his city council and whoever else he needs to.”

“I'll get the meeting set.”

“It'll save time if you go ahead and tell Colton and Longstreet that I'm with the FBI. Give them a rundown on your suspicions about O'Connell and why I posed as a private chemist.”

“Will do.” Blake let out a breath. “You said you got the ID from running the samples O'Connell hid in Peggy's greenhouse?”

“That's right. The samples of water I took two weeks later are what's known as ‘weathered.' Over time, the DMBE dissipated so those later samples contain only a finite amount compared to what O'Connell took. I would have gotten the same results on my samples, but my guess is it would have taken a couple more days.”

“That means O'Connell must have known about the DMBE weeks ago.”

“I'd say so.” Suddenly weary, Rory rubbed his fingers between his brows. Two nights with a total of five hours' sleep had left him feeling punchy with fa
tigue. “While I've been here, I've found out a few more things about the esteemed EPA inspector.”

“Anything to make you think that, if the station wagon was forced off the cliff, O'Connell was the intended victim, and not Peggy?”

At the mention of her name, Rory felt his chest tighten. Since she had tossed him out of the inn, he had rigidly controlled his thoughts, kept his mind on business. He had not wanted to deal with the pain that he knew would come if he allowed Peggy to creep into his head.

That she did now had Rory tightening his fingers on the phone. “Yeah, I think O'Connell was the target. I'll give you all the details when I get to Prosperino.”

“You still think he's the one who attacked Peggy?”

“Yes. He's the only one who could have hidden those samples in the greenhouse. He was probably checking on them when she came in. Putting her out of commission was the only way he could get out without her seeing him.”

“Sounds like we'll have a lot to talk about.”

“You're right about that.” Rory glanced again at his watch. “I've got to get some sleep before I climb into Longstreet's plane. After that, I'll do some research on DMBE. I'll call you before I leave here so you can let me know where and when we're going to meet.”

“Okay. Rory, thanks. I know we have a lot more answers to dig up, like
how
DMBE got into the ranch's water, but this is a start. I appreciate you losing sleep over this.”

Rory smiled. “Yeah, well, Fallon, wait until you get my bill.”

Blake chuckled. “It'll be a pleasure.”

Rory replaced the receiver, rose and strode down the dim hallway and into the small office where a couch lined one wall. Before, he'd been so engrossed in his work that he hadn't noticed the dark offices, the lack of noise and activity around him. Now he was conscious of the building's eerie stillness.

When he closed the door of the office, a lonely quality permeated the darkness around him. Slowly, he made his way past the desk, sidestepping the two visitors' chairs, finally reaching the upholstered couch against the far wall. He slid off his shoes and stretched out on the soft cushions. With the contaminant identified, the tight leash on which he'd kept his mind slipped away.

Free to wander, his thoughts went straight to Peggy.

He pictured again the anger that had sparked in her green eyes, the betrayal that had welled there.

Rory closed his eyes. He hadn't known how much it would hurt to have her look at him with such pain and fury.

Again, he tasted the panic that had raced through him at the finality in her voice when she'd told him to leave Honeywell House and never come back. Those words should mean little to someone like him. A wanderer. A nomad. A man who had never had a real home. Had never wanted one.

Slowly, he sat up, put his feet on the floor and rested his elbows on his knees. He had never wanted a home, yet Peggy had provided him one. In a few short days
she had given him back what had been taken away from him after his mother died. He thought of how many hotels he had slept in alone, of all the people he had walked away from. First, he added grimly. He had shunned emotional entanglements, made sure he was always the one who walked away first. Leaving had always worked because no one had held on to him before. Held on to his heart.

Until now.

Sitting there in the cool, still darkness, Rory felt the truth drop on him like a stone. For the first time in his adult life, his future stretched before him, a barren gray plain. He could travel to hell and back, and never find what he needed. He had already found it, about three hundred miles to the north. In a cozy, charming inn nestled on a hillside in Prosperino, California.

On a low groan, he buried his face in his hands. He couldn't avoid it any longer, he thought. He couldn't keep denying that he had fallen in love with Peggy. It had probably happened the moment he'd stood in the inn's foyer, watching her green eyes shoot fire while she threatened to toss the lech O'Connell out the door.

Rory scrubbed his hands over his face. Okay, so he was in love with Peggy Honeywell. Not only her, he amended when his heart clenched, but her elfin-faced daughter with dark gypsy curls. He loved them both. Wanted them. Problem was, he'd gotten himself tossed out of their lives, which was the one place—the only place—he wanted to be.

Well, Peggy could just forget it, because he wasn't going anywhere. And he wouldn't—by God, he wouldn't—let her walk away from him.

Muttering an oath, he switched on the lamp on the table beside the couch, rose and stalked to the desk. He jerked up the phone, stabbed in the inn's number. After a few rings, the answering machine picked up.

“This is Peggy Honeywell at Honeywell House.” The smooth, silky drift of her voice had Rory fisting his frustrated hand at his side. “We're taking a break for a couple of weeks, but are accepting reservations for the middle of February and beyond. Please leave your name and number and I'll get back to you.”

When the beep sounded, Rory hung up, scowling at the phone. A couple of weeks? He would be stark-raving crazy in a couple of weeks if he had to go that long without seeing her.

He was a man who had some serious crawling to do, and he didn't feel like waiting. His mouth settled in a firm line. He didn't
have
to wait, not since he knew where she'd gone. She had mentioned closing the inn when he left and taking Samantha to Tahoe where friends had offered the use of their lake house.

Tahoe, he thought.

 

Late that afternoon Rory sat on the green leather sofa in Blake's office on Hopechest Ranch. Blake sat at the opposite end of the couch. Joe Colton and Mayor Michael Longstreet had each settled into one of the wing chairs that faced the couch across the span of the small coffee table. Blake's secretary, Holly Lamb, had brought in the tray of coffee that sat on the table.

The mayor leaned forward, his face grim. “So,
Rory, you're saying there's no way the DMBE could have gotten into Hopechest's water supply naturally?”

“Not in the way you're asking. It's man-made, a gasoline additive, so it didn't fall from the sky when it rained or anything like that. As for whether the DMBE is in the water due to an act of sabotage, I can't answer that until we know if there are underground petroleum pipelines near the aquifer that supplies water to Hopechest. If there are, it's possible the DMBE could have leaked from one of those pipelines.”

“There are no pipelines.”

Rory met Joe Colton's gaze across the table and decided he had never seen anger so cold, so controlled. “You're sure?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.” Joe's hands clenched on his thighs. “The minute we knew there was a problem with the water, I had a couple of people from my oil company start researching records. There aren't any underground oil or gas pipelines on Hopechest property. That means someone dumped the DMBE intentionally.”

“Now we have to find out who.” Rory shifted his gaze to Blake. “As soon as we're done here, I'll notify the Bureau and the EPA. They should have teams here by morning to start investigating.”

Blake's mouth tightened. “Hopechest is under attack, and it could be because of me. Because my dad tried to kill you, Joe. I'm turning in my letter of resignation to the Hopechest Foundation before the close of business today.”