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“And then, well, I told him about some of the stuff that we had done up there.”
“And he was interested?”
“Yeah, asked a million questions. I answered what I could.”
“Did you ever tell him about Mary Rice?”
“No, I never did.”
“How did you leave it with him?”
“I didn’t leave it any way with him. If he followed up on any of it, I didn’t know nothing about that.” He paused. “You said he’s missing. He was a right nice young fellow. Proud to serve his country. You think he’s okay?”
“I’m hoping he is, Mr. Daniels. But in my business sometimes hope isn’t good enough.”
* * *
Decker filled Jamison in as they left the facility.
“So Ben Purdy did learn about the WMDs from the same source that Irene Cramer did—Brad Daniels.”
“Yep,” replied Decker. “But we still have a lot to figure out.”
As they passed the land ringing the installation, Jamison pointed out a large John Deere combine that was kicking up dust in an adjacent field.
“Do you think the Brothers have anything to do with this?”
“I can’t say one way or another,” answered Decker.
Jamison pointed in the other direction. “At least that’s a positive.”
Decker looked in that direction where there was an operating oil rig. “What?”
“The pipe over there. No methane gas flare. They must be piping the gas out instead of wasting it, or maybe separating the bad stuff out like Stan was talking about.”
“Will miracles never cease,” replied Decker, smiling.
His phone buzzed the next instant.
Decker said, “Hey, Kelly, what’s up?”
“Decker, we have a situation here,” said Kelly, the strain quite clear in his voice.
“What situation?”
“Stuart McClellan has been found dead.”
“Dead! How? Where?”
“In a car at one of his storage facilities. Looks like he committed suicide.”
“Give me the address and we’ll be there as fast as we can.”
IT WAS THE PERFECT PLACEto off yourself, thought Decker as they drove up to the old wooden building that was about the size of five large barns melded together. In a fenced-in area were remnants of what looked to be broken pieces of drilling equipment. Three police squad cars and Kelly’s SUV were parked by the entrance.
Yellow police tape fluttered and crackled in the stiffening breeze that heralded the storm system marching on them.
Kelly met them outside and led them into the building. In the center of the sprawling space was a late-model black Cadillac sedan with its driver’s-side door open. They eyed the hose running from the tailpipe to the rear passenger window, which was open a crack, allowing the hose to fit through.
