Fatal Harvest. Catherine Palmer
didn’t know the answers to any of her questions, and he didn’t care. But they’d been married forever, it seemed, and so he tried.
He’d been a good husband, all in all. Cheryl had everything she could want or need. Their kids had been educated in the best private schools Chicago had to offer. The eight-thousand-square-foot house sprawled over some of the most exclusive real estate in the city. An indoor-outdoor swimming pool, membership at three country clubs, a regular pew in a dignified church, seven cars, a chauffeur—it was nothing to sniff at. Maybe Vince hadn’t always been faithful to Cheryl, but he’d done his job as a provider. Better than most, he reasoned.
He didn’t like the idea of anything rocking his boat. Had never tolerated trouble of the sort that dogged him now. Oh, through the years there had been the occasional stirring of the waters. An accountant who had threatened to blow the whistle, transportation snafus, problems with one or another of Agrimax’s international divisions, the terrorism threat. Things had grown hotter than usual since the press got wind of the new terminator gene being developed. Vince felt sure he had that under control. But this—the retired scientist and his teenage sidekick—this was making him nervous.
Seemingly nothing more than a fly in the ointment, the problem should be dealt with swiftly and decisively by Agrimax’s security division. It had to be. The meeting to finalize the merger was less than two weeks away. But if…if for some reason his people lost track of the data…if it got into the wrong hands…if his executive board learned of the unsavory aspects of the plan he had put into motion more than two years before, and right under their noses—Worst of all, if word of the merger leaked to the media, the public outcry would scuttle the whole scheme.
Vince removed the olive from his martini glass. Tomorrow was Friday, and he’d need to be at the office early. He tipped his glass and drained the last of the drink. Then he stared at his phone. Why hadn’t Mack Harwood called? This should all be taken care of by now. Everything under lock and key once again. He slipped the olive from its toothpick and squeezed the pimento onto his tongue. Then he dropped the olive into his mouth and chewed it.
He wouldn’t sleep until he’d heard from his security man. Better make himself another martini.
Cole switched off the cell phone. The three faces staring at him were etched with fear.
“What did the sheriff say, Mr. Strong?” Billy asked.
Cole knew there was no point in trying to keep anything under wraps. The Artesia Daily Press would have the story by morning. The Albuquerque Journal would print it statewide. It would probably headline the evening’s TV news.
“A deputy found Matt’s phone in Jim Banyon’s yard,” he said. “They’ve got tire marks and a weapon, and they’re dusting for fingerprints inside the house.”
“They can’t possibly think Matt had anything to do with the death,” Jill Pruitt said. “That’s absurd.”
Cole studied the petite teacher with her bouncy, shoulder-length blond curls and bright green eyes. She was the most tightly wound woman he’d ever met.
“Sheriff Holtmeyer is suspicious,” he told her. “There was sign of a struggle in Banyon’s house. And the blood spatters…something doesn’t look right to him. He’s not sure it was a suicide.”
“Matt did not kill Mr. Banyon,” Billy said. “There’s no possible way! Matt was like Mr. Peace Activist. He wouldn’t even touch a gun. I couldn’t get him to go hunting with me or nothing!”
“Es verdad,” Josefina echoed. “It’s true. He wouldn’t even kill a cockroach.”
“We’ve got to find out who those two men were,” Jill said. “They’re involved in this somehow.”
“I bet they’re from Agrimax!” Billy exploded. “I’d like to blow that company to smithereens!”
“Calm down, boy,” Cole said. “Anger isn’t going to do us any good. Miss Pruitt, find out what you can about—”
“Call me Jill, for goodness’ sake. And I’m already doing all I can. Marianne will phone me the minute she hears from the high school secretary.”
“That’s not good enough. Somebody took my son out of school today. I want to know who those men are—and I’d better find out which numskull is responsible for sending a sixteen-year-old kid off campus with a couple of total strangers.”
“I’m telling you, if two suits signed in as Princeton recruiters and asked to talk to a top student, they’d get into the building with no problem. It’s not like we check credentials or take a thumbprint or anything.”
She crossed her arms and glared at Cole as if daring him to respond.
“Well, maybe you should,” he said. “Maybe I’ll talk to the principal about the flaws in his security system. And while I’m at it, maybe I’ll mention the fact that instead of teaching computer science, one of his teachers spends class time filling her students’ heads with idealistic tripe about feeding the hungry.”
“The principal knows exactly what goes on in my classroom, Mr. Strong. My teaching evaluations are always among the highest—”
“I’m sure they are, Miss Pruitt. I’m sure everyone thinks you’re just the cat’s pajamas. But you carry the major responsibility in this fiasco, and I’ll nail your hide to my barn if I don’t find my son pretty soon.”
“Mr. Strong—” she set her hands on her hips “—you’re the one who just told Billy that anger isn’t going to do us any good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check Matt’s computer.”
“You do that, lady. And make it snappy.”
Jill glared at him.
Before she could speak again, Billy grabbed her arm. “C’mon, Miss Pruitt. Maybe Matt will answer an e-mail.”
“Show me what you know, Billy.”
Rage curling through his chest, Cole followed the others into the large adobe house. As they stepped into the living room, Jill and Billy turned down the hall to Matt’s bedroom. Cole dropped onto a leather-upholstered couch.
“I need to let my mother know what’s going on,” he told Josefina. “Matt may be headed toward Amarillo.”
“Yes,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “That’s where he would go, Mr. Strong. He would go to his abuela. She loves him. She would take care of him if he was in trouble.”
“I don’t know if that pickup could make it all the way there,” he muttered, listening to the phone ring in his mother’s house. “The thing’s on its last leg.”
“I’ll fix you something to eat, Mr. Strong,” Josefina said. “I made carne adovada today. Does that sound good?”
“Sure, sure.” Cole waved a hand to dismiss the little woman. Why did Josefina always think food would fix things? If Matt brought home a B on a report card, out came the empanadas. If a hailstorm damaged the chile crop, nothing would please her until Cole ate a huge plate of enchiladas and refritos. National tragedies were the worst. The attacks on the Pentagon and the World Trade Center had led to three solid weeks of constant cooking. If Cole hadn’t ordered Josefina to cease and desist, she would have kept on indefinitely. The freezer stayed jam-packed, and the refrigerator was always bulging at the seams. Thank God for Billy Younger and his appetite.
“Geneva Strong speaking,” a woman’s voice carried through the receiver.
“Mom.” Cole felt a flood of warmth at the familiar greeting.
“Hey there, boy. What’s going on with you? How’s my little Matthew?”
“That’s what I’m calling about. Listen, Matt may be coming to see you, Mom.” Before she could respond, he quickly explained the situation. “So if he doesn’t turn up here at the house in the next hour or so, I’m going