Peak Oil Page 3

  The officer unlocked the door, and Neil saw barred cells through the opening. Some men in a cell whooped and jeered as Alexa entered. Neil heard a cell door open and slam shut again. The officer came out and walked straight to Neil, eyeing him suspiciously. “You family?” he asked.

  Neil shook his head. “Nope, colleague.” He stuck out his hand. “Neil Allen, pleased to meet you.”

  The officer nodded and shook it. “Harvey. Deputy Dwight Harvey.” His jowls bounced as he spoke.

  “What are you booking her for?”

  The policeman shrugged. “Disorderly conduct, I guess.”

  “How do I get her out?”

  The officer nodded. “If you have $500, you can bail her out.” His brow twitched slightly as he spoke.

  Neil nodded and pulled out his wallet from his back pocket. He counted out five bills and dropped them on the counter. “Where do I sign?”

  Dwight Harvey pulled a sheet of paper from a tray on the counter and clipped it onto a clipboard. He stabbed the paper with his finger. “There—there—and there, on the X.”

  “How long till you release her?” Neil asked.

  Harvey shrugged. “A couple of hours. Maybe three.”

  Neil leaned toward the officer. “A couple of hours? Are you shitting—?” He pursed his lips. “Very well, then.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back in exactly two hours.”

  Harvey grinned. “Have a good one.”

  The deputy turned around and disappeared through a second door behind the counter.

  Neil screeched the car to a stop in front of the bar. He jumped out, jogged to the door, and flung it open. As he entered the gloomy room, he pulled a knife from a sheath on his back and walked straight to the barman. The man placed his hands flat on the counter, flexing his triceps. “What can I do you for?”

  “Now, that wasn’t nice of you,” Neil said and punched the blade through the barman’s hand, deep into the wood of the bar counter, pinning it in place.

  The barman roared in pain and tried to pull the knife from his hand. Neil grabbed the man’s free hand and slammed it onto the counter. He pulled a Glock from his shoulder holster and pressed the barrel down on the mustached man’s hand.

  Neil leaned forward and locked eyes with the man. “I said, ‘That wasn’t nice of you.’”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” the man stammered, the handlebar mustache quivering.

  Neil narrowed his eyes. “Getting your Harley buddies to come beat up on a small girl like that.”

  The barman grimaced, casting pained glances at his bleeding hand. He looked slowly back up at Neil, his eyes wide with shock. “It’s freakin’ bleeding, man.” He blinked. “I’m gonna die from loss of blood.”

  Neil chuckled. “Then you better tell me what I need to know.” He tapped the handle of the knife with the Glock’s barrel.

  He cocked the gun and pressed the barrel onto the man’s hand. “Now I have a couple of questions, and I want some straight answers.” Neil leaned closer. “Understood?”

  The barman nodded, his lower lip trembling.

  “Did you see two French men in town? One is five ten, the other six four. The tall guy, Latorre, is blonde with blue eyes. The shorter one, Voelkner, has black hair, a skinny guy.”

  The barman nodded. “Yes, yes. They were here. Shot some balls. Got drunk.” He swallowed hard. “But they left here in one piece, I swear.”

  “Where did they go?” Neil asked, forcing the barrel down on the man’s hand. “Did they mention anything to you?”

  The barman shook his head. “You’ll have to ask the sheriff. He picked them up. They got into a scuffle, and I phoned the cops.”

  Neil studied his face for a moment and then nodded. “Thanks.” He pulled the knife out of his hand, took the cloth on the counter and cleaned it, then slipped it back in its sheath.

  The barman’s face contorted in pain. “Ouch, dang it,” he yelled and held his hand to his chest.

  Neil tossed the cloth into the man’s chest. “Good chatting with you, cowboy.”

  The barman wrapped the cloth around his hand and cast an accusing glance at Neil. “No problem. Don’t come back.”

  Neil nodded and ducked out of the door. He popped on his sunglasses and stood still for a while, scanning up and down the road. An approaching truck wobbled and danced in the late-morning haze, and a warm breeze thrummed through the branches of the forest next to the road. It looked cool and inviting.

  A minute later, the tanker honked its horn and roared past, blasting leaves and hot exhaust fumes into the air. Neil glanced at his watch and climbed into the rented Chevy. He pulled a Kleenex from the glove compartment and mopped his sweaty brow. He cranked the ignition and turned the air conditioner to its maximum setting. He had some time to burn.

  Houston, Texas

  Anderson Fitch smiled down at the crowd in front of him. Some people stood up, applauding excitedly and shouting his name. He waved and nodded his head, gesturing for everyone to take their seats. He squinted and cupped his hand over his eyes as a barrage of camera flashes lit up the stage in the Imperial Banquet Hall.

  The thousand tickets had been sold out for this memorable event. Dignitaries got in for free; their tables positioned close to the stage, they had front row seats to see the charming entrepreneur in action.

  Two dozen men wearing black suits formed a human chain in front of the stage, arms interlocked, trying their best to contain the mob of reporters and cameramen.

  Fitch lifted his hands in the air, and the ovation slowly died down. “Thank you, thanks, ladies and gentlemen.” He cast a quick glance to his left where a short man wearing a dark suit and a bowtie sat, nodding and punching the air. “And thank you to Benjamin for the sparkling introduction.”

  The man beamed and nodded at him.

  “Everything he said was a damn worn-out lie, of course, but thank you anyway.” Fitch made an elegant bow as the hall burst out laughing.

  Anderson Fitch scanned the excited crowd. He held on to the front of his jacket while he spoke, rocking back on his heels. “A famous man once said that the meek shall inherit the earth, but not the mineral rights.”

  The crowd laughed and clapped.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is the ultimate honor to be awarded the Texas Businessman of the Year award.” He leaned forward over the podium and shook his finger at the crowd. “I won’t say I don’t deserve it, because I do.”

  The crowd whooped. Fitch winked, tipping his Stetson at the people.

  “For years I have been building my business and, along the way, helping those struggling to survive. I’ve invested in charities and funded libraries and schools.”

  He nodded and glanced sideways at Benjamin.

  “Bennie asked me to elucidate you good folks on the secret to my success.” He looked around the room and smiled. “I put it down to one thing,” he said holding up his index finger. “Integrity.” He shook his finger and let the words sink in.

  “Integrity in all my daily business deals. Integrity in my relationships. I want to go to bed at night knowing I didn’t screw anyone out of anything today.”

  The crowd clapped, and he smiled at the people, making eye contact with the men and women seated in front. He gripped the front of his jacket with both his hands and twiddled his thumbs, waiting for the applause to die down.

  “My advice to any up-and-coming businessman or woman is this.” He held up his index finger again. “One, be honest in everything you do. You can fix a lot of screw-ups you create, but you can never fix a tarnished name.”

  He held up a second finger. “Two, learn to give more than you’re willing to receive. The more you give, the more you will receive.” He shrugged. “It’s a universal law.

  “And three, pay your taxes. Those bastards will always get you.”

  The crowd laughed and rose to their feet, clapping. Anderson Fitch grinned and acknowledged the applause. He bowed and waved a final good-bye. He was escorted down the
stairs by a large black man. Reporters shoved microphones into his face as cameramen jostled for position.

  He smiled at a blonde reporter as he walked to his table. She thrust a microphone with a CNN logo at his face, trying her best to get her voice heard over the din. “Mr. Fitch, Mr. Fitch. Is it true you’re constructing a refinery in China? What would the political implications be?”

  Fitch stopped and faced her. “Maggie, I’m a businessman, not a politician. China is the second largest consumer of oil in the world.” He shrugged. “Don’t you think it would be pertinent to serve a well-paying customer?”

  The woman pushed the microphone closer. “Yes, but shouldn’t you be focusing your efforts closer to home? What about supporting your loyal American consumers? Employing more people?”

  Fitch smiled. “Maggie, refineries are not labor-intensive operations. Isn’t our good president always saying we should decrease the budget deficit?” He raised his eyebrows and smiled at the other reporters. “Raise taxes? Take more from the rich and give to the poor?”

  He waited for a moment as the questions died down. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m bringing foreign spending into the States with a product that I’m sourcing from a third party. Last year, Refatex paid more than $800 million in taxes.”

  The reporter tried to ask another question, but Fitch said, “Phone me, let’s set up something formal.” He winked, and the woman nodded gratefully.

  Fitch nodded curtly and strolled toward a table at the front of the large hall. He greeted the people in the hall, shaking hands and smiling as he went.

  Anderson Fitch felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He fumbled for it and snapped it open as he walked to a quiet corner, cupping his hand over the microphone.

  “Yes, what is it?” he whispered into the phone. “I’m in the middle of something important right now.” He looked back and smiled at the people sting at his table.

  The caller sounded apologetic. “Hi, boss. We got a couple of sniffer dogs down here.”

  Andy Fitch took off his black Stetson and scratched his head. “What are they looking for?”

  “The Frenchies. I told you we should have let them be. They didn’t have a clue.”

  Fitch clenched his jaw. “You don’t know shit. For heaven’s sake, Pete, I pay a crapload of money to keep that pile of shit of a bar afloat, and you can’t handle a couple of freakin’ snoopers?”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  Fitch shook his head. He thought for a moment and shrugged. “Okay, get Chris to sort them out. No mess, I want a clean job.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  He disconnected the call, turned around, and ambled back to his table with a forced smile.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alexa lay flat on her back on the cool cement floor, her jacket rolled up beneath her head. Apparently prisoners weren’t afforded the luxury of air conditioners in the holding cells. It didn’t matter to her; she was used to hot, confined spaces. Her living quarters in the French Foreign Legion had barely been large enough for a bed.

  Bis Latorre and Reg Voelkner had been drafted into the legion with her. She had been promoted to captain, and she had chosen them to serve with her on her first mission. They had gotten her out of a couple of sticky situations.

  Laiveaux probably felt he owed it to the two of them to give them their own investigation. Laiveaux was overprotective of her, being best friends with her dad. Now that Neil was with her, they probably felt more comfortable that Voelkner and Latorre weren’t always around as her semipermanent bodyguards. Not that she needed Neil’s protection either; she was a big girl now, and she could take care of herself.

  She smiled as she recalled a vivid memory of herself beating Neil up in an explosion of fury. She felt embarrassed. He was still pissed about the stupid misunderstanding.

  She had suspected that he had double-crossed her, so she had slipped some Rohypnol into his drink. After he passed out, she had taken him to an abandoned hangar at an airfield where she stripped him naked and hoisted him to a ceiling beam. She tried to beat the truth out of him. The only problem was that he hadn’t been lying. Once Neil had explained himself, she realized that he was innocent, but she had left him with a broken rib and a bruised ego.

  She closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to wander. Neil was cute. He reminded her of her adoptive father, Bruce, in many ways. He was kind of shy, but he was always there when she needed him. He had saved her life, taking bullets that were meant for her. And he was passionate about finding out the truth, righting wrongs. No shaded hues of honesty existed to him; he was a black-or-white kind of a guy. And she had a feeling that he was falling in love with her.

  But he was like her dad, for God’s sake. She had always imagined falling for the rugged, tough, cowboy type. Helping him herd the cattle and taking baths in drinking troughs. Yee-hah!

  A man in the cell next to her stopped snoring and sat up groggily. He stretched out, yawned, and wiped the grit from his eyes. He blinked and then glanced at Alexa in surprise. The day-old stubble on his face made a rasping noise as he scratched his chin. He smiled at Alexa and then stuck his arm through the bars. “Give daddy a kiss, then.” He stank of old beer and stale smoke.

  Alexa stood up and approached the man, pouting her lips. His eyes widened and she could see his foggy mind trying to discern the difference between alcohol-induced dream and reality. He grinned and leaned forward. “Come to daddy.”

  She grabbed his shoulder and pulled back, slamming his head into the bars. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

  “I shoulda’ warned you, James, she’s a feisty one.” She looked around at a guy in the cell to her left. He had a large, red welt on his forehead, having met a similar fate.

  Alexa swung around as she heard keys jingle in the lock. A female officer unlocked the door and entered the holding area. The name on her badge said, “Sergeant Evelyn Thompson”. She cast an indifferent glance at the man on the floor and arched an eyebrow toward Alexa.

  Alexa shrugged.

  Officer Thompson unlocked the cell door. “Your bail has been paid; you’re free to go.” She slid it open with a clank.

  “At last,” Alexa said and picked up her jacket from the floor. “I was running out of playmates.”

  Neil lay back in his car seat. He had parked in front of the police station and waited impatiently for the minutes to tick by as the air conditioner blew noisily. He flicked through the e-mails on his phone. Laiveaux had sent them the latest Interpol update on Anderson Fitch.

  Fitch had been awarded the Texas Businessman of the Year award. Refatex stocks had risen by thirty basis points. The Texan Daily featured an exclusive with Andy Fitch on the front cover. The man winked, smiling charismatically. He wore a black suit and a bolo necktie, holding his Stetson in one hand and saluting a victory sign with the other.

  Neil glanced at his watch. The two hours were up. He climbed out of the car and walked toward the entrance.

  The doors sucked closed behind him as he was blasted by the frigid air. It felt as if he was entering a walk-in refrigeration unit. An old guy wearing a thick sweater manned the reception desk. Neil greeted the guy who introduced himself as Tony.

  “I’d like to speak to Deputy Harvey, please.”

  Tony picked up a phone, punched in a number, and mumbled a couple of words into the receiver. Clouds of vapor came from his mouth as he spoke.

  He put the phone down and pointed to the waiting area. “Please have a seat.”

  A minute later a red-faced Harvey tottered from behind the counter. He motioned Tony over. “Tony, all the paperwork has been processed on Miss Guerra. Get Jenkins to bring her to my office.”

  Tony nodded and shuffled away. Harvey studied Neil, fidgeting with the side seam of his pants. “Please come to my office,” he said, his eyelids fluttering.

  Deputy Harvey opened a flap at the side of the reception desk and allowed Neil to duck underneath. Neil followed him down a short passage to his
office. It looked large and comfortable, unlike any deputy’s office that Neil had laid eyes on before. An elegant mahogany desk had been positioned on top of a plush terra-cotta-colored carpet. At the edge of the room, Neil noticed that the carpet covered drab linoleum tiles.

  A framed photo of Obama hung on the wall above an upholstered leather chair behind the desk. Ranks of standard, government-issued, metal filing cabinets stood against the wall.

  Harvey motioned to a chair, and Neil took a seat. The deputy paced around the office for a while, his thumbs hooked into the loops on his belt. He paid Neil no attention. A minute later, Alexa was brought in by a female officer.

  Harvey waved the officer away and heaved his heavy frame down into his chair with a sigh. He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers in front of him, resting his elbows on an ample stomach.

  “Whom do you represent, officially?” He opened his eyes and looked at them with a humorless grin.

  Alexa frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Harvey leaned forward, his chair creaking beneath his hefty frame. “Your fingerprints were classified. I need to subpoena the FBI to get them.” He blinked twice. “So whom do you represent? FBI? CIA?”

  Alexa slipped an ID badge from her purse and handed it to the man. “Interpol.”

  He examined it closely. He looked up over the badge to Alexa and studied her face. His gaze drifted to Neil. “And you?”

  Neil shrugged. “Same.”

  Harvey motioned with his hands that he wanted proof. Neil sighed and handed him his ID.

  Harvey nodded and punched a number into the phone on his desk. He slipped his forefinger between his collar and neck and pulled it open. “Is it hot in here or what?”

  Neil shrugged. Alexa rubbed her arms.