Whitewash (49 page)

Sabrina didn’t want to believe it. But the whole time the woman Eric called Bosco went through the list of contents, Sabrina had been fingering a metal disc through the plastic, trying to get a better look. Before Bosco even mentioned human tissue, Sabrina tried to make out the engraving between the many scratches and grooves on what she guessed might be the back of a watch. It looked like something in Latin above another series of letters. But the only decipherable ones were
DW
followed by scratches and rubbings and then a dissected
L,
more scratches and then
SIK.

Anna Copello had ended up in a flushing tank. Was it possible that Dwight Lansik had been pushed into a slaughterhouse refuse tank? Before yesterday she would have laughed at such a bizarre idea. Now she realized she might be looking at the only remains of her late boss.

Suddenly she pushed the bag away and bolted from the table, stumbling over chairs.

“Bree,” she heard Eric call out, but all she cared about was catching her breath and trying not to give in to her nausea.

She ended up at the edge of the pier, staring out at the black, rolling water and the twinkling lights of homes across the sound. She could hear the water sloshing against the boats in their slips. The sensation of movement was overwhelming. It was enough to make her dizzy. She grabbed on to a piling and maneuvered her way to a sitting position.

She felt Eric’s presence, but thankfully he said nothing. No more questions. No more explaining.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin on top, waiting for her stomach to settle and the throbbing in her head to subside.

At some point he sat down next to her and she watched his long legs swing over the edge of the pier. He sat so close his shoulders brushed Sabrina’s, but that was their only contact. He was like their dad, Sabrina realized. Not able to find words or gestures to comfort. Only able to offer his presence and his actions. That’s where the hot-fudge sundaes usually came in. It used to throw their mother into a dramatic fit, sometimes worse than her original outburst of emotion.

“Sometimes a woman just needs to be hugged,” she’d tell their dad and he would quickly accommodate her, almost relieved to be instructed.

Sabrina laid her head against Eric’s shoulder and closed her eyes. The urge to retch out her insides subsided little by little. The throbbing in her head eased until it was only the thump of her heartbeat. A cool, gentle breeze came across the water.

“So what do we do?” she asked so softly she wasn’t sure if he heard her.

“We find out who the enemy is,” he told her calmly and without a hint of anger. “And then we get the son of a bitch before he can get you.”

His words surprised her. She jerked her head away from his shoulder so she could look at him. He kept his profile to her as he continued to stare out at the black water. A streak of light appeared on the surface, little by little, as the passing clouds unveiled the moon.

“You think it’s William Sidel?” she asked, but she knew the answer. Who else would try to have her killed and when it failed have the power to convince the State Patrol she was the killer instead of the intended victim? Who else would be able to have Dwight Lansik shoved into a tank of chicken guts and announce that the scientist had simply resigned?

“He has access and he definitely has motive. Sounds like he might have some political influence, too.”

Sabrina rubbed at her eyes and pushed her fingers up through her hair. She couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be exhausted. Her eyelids actually hurt and she knew she was a bit dehydrated. Even her feet seemed to be protesting. She wasn’t used to walking in flip-flops. Her internal clock, the one she had spent years disciplining to a daily routine, had been thrown way off track. Once again she was in a place she had never been before, surrounded by people she’d just met—an odd assortment that her brother was insisting she trust. Trust to keep her from being killed by her boss. And why? Because William Sidel was processing Grade 2 garbage without investing the money to do it the right way.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sabrina said. “William Sidel has raised millions of dollars from investors. He’s garnered millions of dollars in government funds. He’s on the verge of locking up a $140-million contract. Why would he risk all that?”

“What is Grade 2 garbage?” Eric asked. He pulled up his legs and shifted to face her.

“Various metals, mostly old appliances. Plastics, PVC, wood, fiberglass. Plastic bottles can yield large amounts of oil. The problem is that with Grade 2 garbage most of the breakdown comes in the second stage and it also takes an extra flushing. The hydrogen in water combines with the chlorine in PVC and some of the other garbage to make it safe. Without doing it properly you get dioxins, which are highly toxic. With Grade 1 garbage, the slaughterhouse waste, the process is more organic. It’s full of nitrogen and amino acids, but we’re able to separate those off and they’re used in liquid fertilizer.” Sabrina suddenly realized talking about the process and her work actually calmed her. She checked Eric’s eyes to see if he was registering any of it. Sometimes she got carried away with the techno-babble.

“So, if Grade 2 garbage takes more steps and is more work, why bother to sneak doing it?”

“That’s why I said it doesn’t make sense.”

“Bottom line, how much does EchoEnergy make for taking slaughterhouse waste?”

“Actually, we pay them twenty-five dollars a ton.”

“You’re kidding?”

She shook her head. She knew it sounded strange. “We’re competing with companies that buy it strictly to make fertilizers.”

“Okay. So how much does it cost to haul away Grade 2 garbage?”

“EchoEnergy would be paid to haul away Grade 2 stuff.”

“How much?” Eric sat up.

“I’m not sure. We’ve never done it before so it’s never been a part of our calculations.”

“But you must have some idea?”

“After the hurricanes there was talk of the federal and state governments paying up to fifty dollars a ton for debris. I remember Dr. Lansik—” Sabrina stopped for a minute. The mention of his name reminded her that they weren’t just having a chat about what she did for a living. “Dr. Lansik talked about it last fall, saying it would take EchoEnergy at least two years to add all the necessary equipment and facilities. But the hurricane areas wanted the mountains of debris gone before we could be up and running. He talked about it like it was only a missed opportunity.”

“Maybe Sidel didn’t want to miss out on it,” Eric suggested and she recognized that look, that tone. He thought they had found the motive.

“No,” Sabrina told him, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe it would be enough to kill two people over.”

“How many tons of slaughterhouse waste does EchoEnergy process now?”

“Anywhere from two hundred to three hundred tons a day.”

“And they pay five thousand to seventy-five hundred for that. But if they were able to process that much Grade 2 and were paid fifty a ton, that’s ten thousand to fifteen thousand dollars a day they’d bring in.”

“But murdering people…”

“Bree, do the math—we’re talking about three hundred thousand to four hundred fifty thousand dollars a month that EchoEnergy could be taking in without reporting it. That’s—” He stopped to do the calculation in his head. “That’s almost five million dollars a year. I hate to tell you, Bree, but people have been murdered for a lot less than that.”

Sabrina didn’t want to believe it. But the whole time the woman Eric called Bosco went through the list of contents, Sabrina had been fingering a metal disc through the plastic, trying to get a better look. Before Bosco even mentioned human tissue, Sabrina tried to make out the engraving between the many scratches and grooves on what she guessed might be the back of a watch. It looked like something in Latin above another series of letters. But the only decipherable ones were
DW
followed by scratches and rubbings and then a dissected
L,
more scratches and then
SIK.

Anna Copello had ended up in a flushing tank. Was it possible that Dwight Lansik had been pushed into a slaughterhouse refuse tank? Before yesterday she would have laughed at such a bizarre idea. Now she realized she might be looking at the only remains of her late boss.

Suddenly she pushed the bag away and bolted from the table, stumbling over chairs.

“Bree,” she heard Eric call out, but all she cared about was catching her breath and trying not to give in to her nausea.

She ended up at the edge of the pier, staring out at the black, rolling water and the twinkling lights of homes across the sound. She could hear the water sloshing against the boats in their slips. The sensation of movement was overwhelming. It was enough to make her dizzy. She grabbed on to a piling and maneuvered her way to a sitting position.

She felt Eric’s presence, but thankfully he said nothing. No more questions. No more explaining.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin on top, waiting for her stomach to settle and the throbbing in her head to subside.

At some point he sat down next to her and she watched his long legs swing over the edge of the pier. He sat so close his shoulders brushed Sabrina’s, but that was their only contact. He was like their dad, Sabrina realized. Not able to find words or gestures to comfort. Only able to offer his presence and his actions. That’s where the hot-fudge sundaes usually came in. It used to throw their mother into a dramatic fit, sometimes worse than her original outburst of emotion.

“Sometimes a woman just needs to be hugged,” she’d tell their dad and he would quickly accommodate her, almost relieved to be instructed.

Sabrina laid her head against Eric’s shoulder and closed her eyes. The urge to retch out her insides subsided little by little. The throbbing in her head eased until it was only the thump of her heartbeat. A cool, gentle breeze came across the water.

“So what do we do?” she asked so softly she wasn’t sure if he heard her.

“We find out who the enemy is,” he told her calmly and without a hint of anger. “And then we get the son of a bitch before he can get you.”

His words surprised her. She jerked her head away from his shoulder so she could look at him. He kept his profile to her as he continued to stare out at the black water. A streak of light appeared on the surface, little by little, as the passing clouds unveiled the moon.

“You think it’s William Sidel?” she asked, but she knew the answer. Who else would try to have her killed and when it failed have the power to convince the State Patrol she was the killer instead of the intended victim? Who else would be able to have Dwight Lansik shoved into a tank of chicken guts and announce that the scientist had simply resigned?

“He has access and he definitely has motive. Sounds like he might have some political influence, too.”

Sabrina rubbed at her eyes and pushed her fingers up through her hair. She couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be exhausted. Her eyelids actually hurt and she knew she was a bit dehydrated. Even her feet seemed to be protesting. She wasn’t used to walking in flip-flops. Her internal clock, the one she had spent years disciplining to a daily routine, had been thrown way off track. Once again she was in a place she had never been before, surrounded by people she’d just met—an odd assortment that her brother was insisting she trust. Trust to keep her from being killed by her boss. And why? Because William Sidel was processing Grade 2 garbage without investing the money to do it the right way.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sabrina said. “William Sidel has raised millions of dollars from investors. He’s garnered millions of dollars in government funds. He’s on the verge of locking up a $140-million contract. Why would he risk all that?”

“What is Grade 2 garbage?” Eric asked. He pulled up his legs and shifted to face her.

“Various metals, mostly old appliances. Plastics, PVC, wood, fiberglass. Plastic bottles can yield large amounts of oil. The problem is that with Grade 2 garbage most of the breakdown comes in the second stage and it also takes an extra flushing. The hydrogen in water combines with the chlorine in PVC and some of the other garbage to make it safe. Without doing it properly you get dioxins, which are highly toxic. With Grade 1 garbage, the slaughterhouse waste, the process is more organic. It’s full of nitrogen and amino acids, but we’re able to separate those off and they’re used in liquid fertilizer.” Sabrina suddenly realized talking about the process and her work actually calmed her. She checked Eric’s eyes to see if he was registering any of it. Sometimes she got carried away with the techno-babble.

“So, if Grade 2 garbage takes more steps and is more work, why bother to sneak doing it?”

“That’s why I said it doesn’t make sense.”

“Bottom line, how much does EchoEnergy make for taking slaughterhouse waste?”

“Actually, we pay them twenty-five dollars a ton.”

“You’re kidding?”

She shook her head. She knew it sounded strange. “We’re competing with companies that buy it strictly to make fertilizers.”

“Okay. So how much does it cost to haul away Grade 2 garbage?”

“EchoEnergy would be paid to haul away Grade 2 stuff.”

“How much?” Eric sat up.

“I’m not sure. We’ve never done it before so it’s never been a part of our calculations.”

“But you must have some idea?”

“After the hurricanes there was talk of the federal and state governments paying up to fifty dollars a ton for debris. I remember Dr. Lansik—” Sabrina stopped for a minute. The mention of his name reminded her that they weren’t just having a chat about what she did for a living. “Dr. Lansik talked about it last fall, saying it would take EchoEnergy at least two years to add all the necessary equipment and facilities. But the hurricane areas wanted the mountains of debris gone before we could be up and running. He talked about it like it was only a missed opportunity.”

“Maybe Sidel didn’t want to miss out on it,” Eric suggested and she recognized that look, that tone. He thought they had found the motive.

“No,” Sabrina told him, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe it would be enough to kill two people over.”

“How many tons of slaughterhouse waste does EchoEnergy process now?”

“Anywhere from two hundred to three hundred tons a day.”

“And they pay five thousand to seventy-five hundred for that. But if they were able to process that much Grade 2 and were paid fifty a ton, that’s ten thousand to fifteen thousand dollars a day they’d bring in.”

“But murdering people…”

“Bree, do the math—we’re talking about three hundred thousand to four hundred fifty thousand dollars a month that EchoEnergy could be taking in without reporting it. That’s—” He stopped to do the calculation in his head. “That’s almost five million dollars a year. I hate to tell you, Bree, but people have been murdered for a lot less than that.”