Page 30 of Flash Freeze

As the two men jogged down the few front steps, Athena and Bach stepped out of the car. The air was dry, warmer than she’d expected with a snowstorm supposedly looming, and infused with the grape soda fragrance of Texas mountain laurel and the airy mix of sweet, fermented silage, damp earth, and dry hay. A hawk’s piercing cry swallowed the distant drone of a tractor.

Rounding the car, Athena displayed her badge, as did the detective. She let him do the talking.

“Mr. Whitmore is expecting us,” he said.

It privately pleased Athena to see Bach perform in a calm, professional manner, even though the two larger, armed men were clearly meant to intimidate. It bolstered her opinion of him.

One guard jerked his chin toward the door. “If you’ll come with us.”

With no railings to mar the majesty of the broad steps, Bach caught Athena’s elbow, probably out of his ingrained sense of chivalry—that and stilettos and sandstone stairs didn’t make the best dancing partners.

They passed under a porch fan with six-foot blades, not spinning at the moment, and were escorted through double wooden doors, each embossed with a brand-style “W.” Whitmore’s taste became instantly apparent as they walked into the entryway. Polished hardwood floors matched the ceiling beams. Paintings of regal ancestors adorned adobe-colored walls, housed in ornate gold frames. Hat and coat racks flanked the opening, and a dormant hearth dominated the opposite wall. But the centerpiece of the room was the original bronze Remington displayed on a marble pedestal.

Athena moved closer, admiring the piece. She’d seen the famous Western sculptor’s work in museums, and she’d seen recasts. This wasn’t a recast.

“Mr. Whitmore will see you in his study,” said a guard, urging her to move along. Could Athena help it if she appreciated fine art? Without protest, she followed the lead guard through a massive great room, replete with antique furniture, taxidermy trophies, and an original Maynard Dixon painting. Through an archway, the guards led them down a hall lined with more recent family photos. Athena recognized Whitmore and his wife with two young adult males and an adolescent girl.

The brawny men halted at a dark-stained wooden door and knocked. “The cops are here.”

Inhaling, Athena noticed that the house even smelled like inherited wealth: old wood and old tobacco. “Let ’em in,” a man’s voice growled.

A guard opened the door and ushered Athena and Bach into a library that dwarfed Athena’s own. Crimson velvet drapes were tied back with golden cords, letting light stream through two windows flanked by rows of shelves like those lining the other three walls. Where Amanda Kerrington’s desk had been sleek with rounded edges, Whitmore’s looked heavy enough to require a crane to move it. The sturdy walnut piece must have been a hundred years old, given its grandeur, yet it remained in pristine condition. Only the ergonomic, swiveling office chair and flat-screen computer monitor reminded her of the present century.

The man seated in that chair raised his chin like a pride lion after polishing off a zebra leg. “Well? Have you caught the bastard who blew a hole in my factory’s office building yet?” Whitmore’s voice was surprisingly light for a man who owned a kingdom, a brisk tenor honed by decades of issuing orders and expecting compliance.

“Good day, Mr. Whitmore,” Bach said, approaching slowly. Athena followed, observing for now. “I’m Detective Bach of the Houston PD, and this is ASAC Bouvier with the FBI. May we sit for a moment?”

He huffed impatiently. “I reckon.”

They took the two leather wingbacks nearest the massive desk. Athena found hers slightly stiff, as if it had been reupholstered and no one had sat in it again. “Mr. Whitmore, are you aware that your Houston plant was about to be cited for EPA and OSHA violations before Inspector Nolan’s untimely death?”

“Nuisance is all.” He waved her comment away, returning his attention to Bach. “The federal government is always meddling. Nothing to get bent out of shape about, am I right?”

Bach just blinked at him, working his jaw, and probably his brain, for an appropriate response.

On a dime, Whitmore whipped a glare at Athena, narrowing his eyes and pointing at her. “You folks over at the FBI don’t have a damn thing to do with industry regulations. Your job is to catch whoever damaged my property and lock them away.”

“Yes, sir,” Bach jumped in, “it is.” Whitmore settled back with a nod at Bach. “But in order to do that, we have to look at everyone who might have a motive to damage your factory.”

“I can promise you,” he said with an arrogant smirk, “that it wasn’t the folks at the Environmental Protection Agency. They’re making a killing off me paying fines every year for their little ‘violations.’ Now, those yuppie ecoterrorists are another matter.”

“Are you aware that three of your employees died in the fire, along with the inspector?” Athena questioned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “And I’m sure you saw Amanda Kerrington grab the spotlight with her press conference yesterday, the conniving bitch. Trying to make me look like some needy, heartless tycoon. Well, I don’t need her charity, and I already sent out checks to those workers’ families. First thing I did! No need to broadcast it on television.”

Bach shook his head with a tight smile. “Women,” he muttered under his breath. Knowing this was their plan, Athena didn’t react. Lifting his gaze to meet Whitmore’s, he said, “We’ve learned about the Whitmore-Kerrington feud during our investigation. Do you think the CEO of Lone Star Industrial might have hired someone to damage your Houston facility to knock you out of the running for the big government contract you both bid on?”

“Amanda?” he mused. “Well, now, that’s a thought.” He stared at a spot on the ceiling, as if the notion hadn’t occurred to him before now. “In the past, our dealings have always gone through lawyers, nothing violent.”

Whitmore met Bach’s gaze with an amused expression. “Unless you count the time my brother and I egged her house as teenagers. We were never found out.”

Athena wondered what other pranks, innocent or otherwise, the man had pulled without being discovered.

Then Whitmore’s expression hardened. “I wouldn’t put it past her, though. Gulf Allied was a shoo-in for that contract, and now I’m afraid it’ll go to Lone Star. Frankly, I’ve been puzzling over what to do with that factory. I know it’s old and not up to code—been thinking about shutting it down. I mean, is it worth sinking millions of dollars into, especially since our facilities in Baton Rouge, Beaumont, and Corpus Christi are so much newer and more profitable? That’s why I’ve just been paying the fines, putting off the decision. My boys are off to college, and it’ll be a while before either is ready to take over running a portion of the business. But Amanda?”

So, Athena mused, both CEOs were sure they’d win the contract before the bombing. Interesting, if true.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Whitmore added.