“I’m no longer a city councilor. I resigned yesterday.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve served this community well for many years.”
“Thanks. What do you want?”
“To talk. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” He burped and stepped aside to let her in.
Trina looked around for a light switch. The glow from the thirty-six-inch TV was not enough for her. Krumble must have sensed her discomfort because he fumbled around the living room, turning on lamps. Trina sat on the couch and looked around, surprised by how tidy the house was.
“Would you like a drink? Rum and diet coke is the house specialty.”
“Sounds good.” She didn’t have to drink it, but alcoholics were always happier when someone joined them.
He served the cocktail in a short fat tumbler with lots of ice. Trina decided to consume a little. Her day was over and she didn’t have far to drive. “What made you decide to quit the council?” She reached into her pocket and turned on her tape recorder as Krumble flopped into the recliner across from her. He splashed his drink on himself and didn’t seem to notice.
“I couldn’t stand the sight of Betty Thompson anymore.”
Trina laughed out loud. Thompson was even older than Krumble, and a lot more rigid. “She’s quite a character.” After a pause. “I’d like to ask about your last vote. The one on Prolabs and its land-use permits.”
“What about it?”
“It seemed unusual for you. Were you pressured?”
Krumble closed his eyes. He tried to chuckle, but it came out more like a dry hack. “This is Eugene, Oregon. There’s no Mafia here.”
“But there is a lot of money to be made in pharmaceuticals.” Trina pulled out her ace in the hole. “I have a copy of a withdrawal slip from a Prolabs’ bank account for fifteen thousand dollars. Your name is on the notation line.” She leaned forward with the slip.
Krumble made no move to take it.
“Why would the company give you fifteen grand?”
He sat very still, eyes closed.
After a very long moment, he said. “I couldn’t turn it down. My life has been pretty bleak since my wife died. I’d thought I’d take a trip. Maybe buy a Harley, something I’ve always wanted but Karen wouldn’t let me have.” He shook his head. “It was stupid. The money’s just sitting there. I couldn’t spend it. I couldn’t even stay on the council.”
“You can still give it back and call for a new vote.”
“You know what’s sad?” He gave her a pathetic smile. “I was going to vote in favor of amending the law anyway. This town needs those jobs more than it needs a few acres of scrub grass.”
“Who approached you and offered the money?”
“Neil Barstow, Prolabs’ chief financial officer. He called me at home and was, at first, very circumspect. He talked about an offer of stock in the company. I wasn’t impressed. Then he got serious with a cash offer.”
“Did he give you the money in person?”
“No. He had it delivered by courier service.”
“What day was that?”
“I don’t know, middle of March.”
“Mr. Krumble, I can’t keep this story quiet. Prolabs has some funny bookkeeping going on, and it’s all going to come out. I wish I could keep you out of it, but I can’t. I’ll give you one day to come forward on your own first. If you decide to do so publicly, please call me.”
He nodded.
She handed him a business card and stood to leave.
“I’m not a bad guy.” Krumble seemed close to tears.
“I know.” Trina smiled sadly. She had always enjoyed Walter’s cut-through-the-bull opinions at council meetings. “Call me if you want to go on camera.” She stood, carefully shut off the recorder, and headed for the door. She felt sorry for the old man and hoped he would do the right thing.
As she drove up Willamette toward her apartment, her cell phone rang. Trina fished it out of her purse. “Hello.”
A young male voice said, “This is Cricket. We met at the council meeting the other night.”
She remembered the odd name, but not much about the guy attached to it. How the hell had he got her cell phone number? “You’re an environmentalist, right?”
“With Love the Earth, founded here in Eugene by my father.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Our group is staging a protest at Prolabs’ building site. We’d like you to give us some news coverage.”
A bolt of excitement shot through her. “When?”
“We plan to set up camp sometime in the next few days. I’m still trying to round up volunteers.”
“Call me when you’re ready to move, and I’ll be there.”
Hot damn, Trina thought. If things came together, Prolabs would be her lead story every night for the next week.
Rudker stared at a competitive intelligence report on his monitor, but could not concentrate. It was late and he was the only one in the building, but he dreaded going home. Not only would the house be empty, but he would be reminded that Tara had screwed another guy there.
Oh hell. Rudker turned off the computer. He was starving and he had to face the house sooner or later. A stop at Newman’s Fish Market for some deep-fried halibut took the edge off his physical discomfort. But as soon as he started up the stairs at home, where he’d seen Tara with her lover, fresh rage surfaced. In the bedroom he discovered his wife had stopped in while he was at work and taken most of her clothes. The finality of it hit home. Until seeing the empty closet, he’d thought she would come back, even ask his forgiveness. He hadn’t decided if he would take her. Now he didn’t have the option. The bitch.
You’ll have to punish her for that, you know, the voice mocked. You can’t let her get away with it.
Rudker changed out of his suit and fled the bedroom. He heard the voice more often now. Sometimes he could ignore it and keep his own train of thought. Other times, it was so dominant, he couldn’t distinguish between its thoughts and his own.
A trip to the kitchen for macadamia nut ice cream and the new issue of Pharmaceutical Executive soothed him for an hour or so. Soon he was agitated again and found himself in the family room throwing Tara’s collection of Asian masks into a big plastic bag. He’d always hated the damn things with their big spying eyes.
After dragging the masks out to the garbage, he drank a glass of wine, hoping it would help him mellow out enough to sleep. It seemed to have the opposite effect. Rudker fired up his laptop and tried to get some work done, but he kept hearing the voice in his head mocking him, saying “vice-president of operations” over and over. His resentment mushroomed, and he fired off an e-mail to a head hunter he knew, asking if he knew of any executive openings in the pharma industry.
At midnight he went to bed. An hour later he got back up and slipped into some khakis. The Commander fired up with its usual roar. Rudker backed out of the garage and headed down the hill. The fog was so thick he had to crawl along even though no one else was on the road. He had no idea where he was going, but night driving with no traffic often helped him settle down.
Twenty minutes later he found himself parked across from Sula’s little house on Friendly Street. He knew she wasn’t there because Jimmy had watched her board a plane for Puerto Rico.
The PI had called back that afternoon to say he couldn’t find out when Sula’s return flight was scheduled. Rudker had ordered him to stay at the airport until she came back. At first, the little prick refused, then he had demanded double his hourly rate. Rudker was unconcerned with the cost. He didn’t think Jimmy would be at the airport that long. For Sula, it was probably a quick and dirty trip, and she would be back in a day or so.
He wasn’t very worried about what she would dig up either. Dr. Hernandez was no longer at the clinic, and-if things went according to plan-neither were the Rios’ files. Rudker had contacted an acquaintance at Mova Pharmaceuticals and called in a favor. Carlos had, in turn, called in a favor and someone would remove the files from the research center. How Carlos accomplished it, Rudker didn’t know or care. He suspected a clinic employee
