Maggie O Dell 09 Hotwire by Alex Kava
“Electric fencing?”
Lucy took off her eyeglasses. “What exactly are you thinking?”
“Not sure. I don’t remember seeing the facility when we were there. Can you see it from the kids’ campsite?”
Lucy gave it some thought before answering. “I don’t think so.”
Maggie sighed, disappointed.
“However,” Lucy added, her long fingers massaging her right temple, “I think you might be able to see the private road that goes from the main route to the facility.”
Maggie’s cell phone rang in her jacket pocket. She jumped up to retrieve it realizing that she hoped it was Platt. He had caught her off guard earlier with his question about children. Recently she had almost convinced herself she wanted to take their relationship to the next level, but not if it meant embarking on an emotional mission to replace his beloved dead child.
She yanked the phone from her pocket. It wasn’t Platt. She tried to keep her disappointment from Lucy. Too late. The woman didn’t miss a thing.
“Investigator Fergussen, you must have some new information.”
“Not anything good but I thought you’d want to know. Car accident. About an hour ago.”
She could hear sirens and voices yelling. He must be on the site.
“Victims are Courtney Ressler and Nikki Everett. Looks like they were coming around a curve. Ran right into a six-point buck.”
“A buck?”
“Deer. Probably didn’t see it until it was too late. You know teenagers. Might have been going too fast. Texting.”
“Are they okay?”
“Negative. Both were dead on impact. It’s pretty messy. Just thought you’d like to know.”
“Thanks.”
Lucy hadn’t taken her eyes off Maggie but waited patiently.
“We just lost two more teenagers from last night.”
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10
FORTY-FOUR
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Platt felt like he’d only been asleep for a few minutes when Bix’s phone call dragged him back out of bed.
“United ticket counter. Reagan National. Meet me there at five thirty. We’ve got a six thirty flight.”
“I’m hoping you mean five thirty this afternoon,” Platt had said looking at his bedside alarm clock that read three forty-five.
“Very funny. I’ll see you there.”
Now seated in first class beside the CDC chief, Platt was pleased to see that Bix looked even worse than he did. Bix’s hair was tousled and his eyes were bloodshot. But Roger Bix in a suit and necktie was serious business even if the tie hung loose. The jacket had come off as soon as they stepped onto the plane and was sent away with a flight attendant while Bix rolled up his shirtsleeves and shoved them above his elbows. Platt wore his uniform as instructed, but he had surrendered his jacket to the flight attendant, too.
It wasn’t until they were in the air that Bix started to explain why they were making an early-morning flight to Chicago.
“I think our friend”—friend being their code word for the anonymous caller—“got pissed by the USDA’s announcement last night.”
“What announcement?”
“You didn’t hear the news?”
“I went to USAMRIID then home.”
“The secretary of agriculture himself said that the school contamination was caused by a negligent kitchen worker who was being suspended.”
Platt thought about poor Velma Carter. “How did they come up with that? We didn’t even mention the woman at our meeting.”
“Exactly why our friend is pissed. So he’s given us a bigger piece of the puzzle.”
“In Chicago?”
“A processing plant on the north side. They get scraps and chunks of beef from various slaughterhouses, combine them, then grind them up. They take the ground beef and make it into patties, meatballs, spice it up for tacos.”
“Let me guess, those get shipped off to schools.”
“If only it was that simple.” He pulled out a thick file from his briefcase. “I’ve been trying to make heads or tails out of this mess.”
“You’re assuming it was the beef in the taquito that was contaminated?”
“Not assuming.”
“Your guys found something?”
“I can’t frickin’ sit around until you lab nerds finish studying your crap and vomit slides. I pushed our anonymous caller. He was feeling slightly guilty. That ridiculous statement from the USDA pushed him to tell me where to look.”
“He told you it was the beef?”
“Suggested. Not told. My lab nerds are checking it out this morning.”
“So why do we need to go to Chicago?”
Bix shrugged. “Maybe this guy isn’t really a whistle-blower. Maybe he just wants to yank our chain. But I got the feeling giving us this tip was huge.”
“So did you have time to check out this processing plant?”
“Family owned. Been in business for fifty years. I tried to pull up the inspection records at the USDA, and get this—I was told that information was only available by filing a request through the Freedom of Information Act because the records must contain ‘proprietary information.’”
“Why don’t they just black it out?”
“That’s what they will do once we’ve filed our request.”
“I thought Baldwin was going to make everything available?”
“That’s what she said, didn’t she? However, I couldn’t reach her this early in the morning. Got her voice-messaging service. Told her to fuckin’ call me. We need an immediate notice to all schools about beef products and we need a recall.”
“So?”
“Didn’t hear from her before I had to switch off my phone.”
“She seemed genuine last night. Give her a chance to do the right thing.”
“I am. But she has less than forty-eight hours.”
FORTY-FIVE
Mary Ellen hated leaving her husband and son fast asleep. She had barely gotten to see the two of them last night before bedtime. And now, on a Saturday morning, she was back outside the conference room, all props sorted and collated, coffee and Danish laid out. Everyone was here, except for Irene Baldwin. Once again, she was keeping them all waiting for an emergency meeting she had called.
Mary Ellen felt on edge. It didn’t help matters that she had allowed herself three coffees already this morning. Her stomach burned and her nerves were stripped raw. She wanted to be angry at Benjamin Platt and yet all she could think about was how good the bastard looked. She should, at least, take pleasure in his obvious misery when he discovered that she was married and had moved on.
Last night, lying in bed she told herself that she was the luckiest woman in the world. She had been given a second chance at having a family. When she closed her eyes she was shocked that all she could think about was Benjamin Platt and remember so vividly what it felt like to have him make love to her. She rolled over and cuddled into her husband’s back, pressed her cheek against his shoulders, and begged for sleep.
“Wychulis.”
Baldwin’s heels clicked up the hallway. She looked like a woman who had slept eight hours and, unlike Mary Ellen, didn’t need three cups of coffee this morning to get her moving. But on closer inspection Mary Ellen saw that her boss’s attempt at concealing the bags under her eyes had not been totally successful.
“Have you heard from the secretary?”
“No.”
“Of course not. He makes a ridiculous statement, and we’re supposed to deal with the fallout.”
Mary Ellen remained quiet. She knew her old boss must have had the necessary evidence before releasing his statement to the press.
“Are we ready here?”
“Yes.”
Baldwin opened the door to the conference room and stopped. She stayed in the doorway and Mary Ellen almost bumped into her.
“Good morning, everyone. Thanks for coming. We’ll be right with you.”
&nbs
“Who the hell are all those people?” she whispered.
“You asked to convene the Recall Committee. These are all standing members.”
“There must be a dozen people in that room.”
“Actually fourteen. Joseph Murray brought two of his techs and Karena McFerris has her deputy field inspection manager with her. What exactly are we going to talk about recalling?”
“Ground beef that the USDA bought specifically for the school lunch program.”
“You do understand we won’t be able to actually order it. All meat recalls are voluntary. We negotiate with the supplier.”
Obviously Baldwin did not know because the look she gave Mary Ellen was one of disbelief.
“You’re telling me the FDA can order a recall on a defective toy that might hurt children but the USDA cannot order a recall on contaminated meat that could kill children?”
Mary Ellen controlled her frustration.
“Our agency is to assist producers as well as protect consumers.” She shouldn’t need to remind Irene Baldwin that the reason she was hired over more qualified candidates— including Mary Ellen—was for her ability to bridge that gap.
“Is Undersecretary Eisler at least here?” Baldwin finally asked.
“He sent Deputy Administrator Jerold from Marketing Service. Jerold is actually the person directly responsible for overseeing the National School Lunch Program.”
Mary Ellen had never seen Baldwin like this. Since day one, the woman had appeared infallible. Mary Ellen wondered what her old boss, who hired Baldwin, would say if he could see the exCEO now.
FORTY-SIX
NEBRASKA
Maggie had forgotten about Johnny Bosh’s cell phone. When she unpacked her suitcase to dress for another day of puzzle solving in the Sandhills, she found it buried in her dirty, musty-smelling clothes. Immediately she was reminded of her claustrophobic crawl underneath the Boshes’ house. She shook off the thought and plugged her universal adapter into his phone.
By the time she showered and had breakfast with Lucy, the phone had charged.
And suddenly she had access to Johnny Bosh’s world. What she wanted to see most were the text messages from the minutes or hours before his death. Text messages didn’t disappear unless the cell-phone user erased each one. And even then it was sometimes possible to retrieve them.
Johnny’s mother had said that she had spoken to a couple of his friends, but they hadn’t heard from or seen him. Since he had his phone with him, Maggie suspected he had talked to or was waiting to talk to someone. She was right. But she wasn’t prepared for what she found.
Johnny B DAW’S OK.
Amanda: WHO CARES? HE’S A LOSER.
Amanda: THEY’RE ALL LOSERS.
Johnny B: THEY’LL KEEP THEIR MOUTHS SHUT.
Amanda: YEAH, JUST LIKE TAYLOR.
Johnny B: THAT WAS DIFFERENT.
Amanda: NOT SO DIFFERENT. THIS TIME WE R SO SCREWED.
Amanda: U R NOT EVER LEAVING THIS PLACE.
Johnny B: THAT’D MAKE U HAPPY.
Amanda: YEP. YOU’LL BE STUCK HERE WITH THE REST OF US.
Amanda: NO FOOTBALL. NO SCHOLARSHIP.
Amanda: LOSER, LOSER, LOSER!!!!!
There was nothing more for almost an hour. Then several more from Amanda, asking where he was then demanding he answer her.
He never did.
Maggie decided she’d pay another visit to the girl.
FORTY-SEVEN
CHICAGO
Platt figured there might not be such a thing as a surprise inspection. Even the rain beating down on the tin roof sounded like it was announcing their arrival. The state health inspector had met them at the front entrance, bringing with him the last several inspection reports. Bix exploded when he saw the blacked-out sections.
“It’s proprietary information,” Inspector Alfred said without apology. “I do as I’m instructed. Besides, I think it’s just their recipe for the taco seasoning. No big deal.”
“Really,” Bix said. “What if it’s something in that seasoning that’s making kids sick?”
“I doubt it.”
Platt grimaced at the man’s foolish attempt to argue with Bix. He started flipping pages while the other two men established their territory. He noticed several warnings and citations, but they appeared to be minor infractions.
Finally they were ready to move on. The three of them stopped at security so Bix and Platt could present their credentials. They were issued badges and security key cards that would allow them access throughout the facility. A tech handed out several pairs of shoe covers, telling the guests to change each time they entered a new area. The covers would be available at each entrance.
Platt still wasn’t sure what Bix expected to find. Worse, he didn’t think Bix knew.
They started with the production lines. The first one shaped ground beef into patties. A supervisor explained the process, step by step. Alfred didn’t appear to be listening and concentrated instead on making notes and conducting his own checks. Platt wandered away from the group to look through glass doors into other sections.
They were told that the shift would end in an hour and they would be able to observe the wash down and cleaning of the equipment. They could take samples of the cleaning chemicals and do their own “wipe down” to check for residue. But Platt wasn’t interested. He was certain it wasn’t chemicals or residue of chemicals that was making these kids sick.
He watched another production line where scraps and chunks of beef were fed into a huge grinder. The beef would supply the other production lines. Lots of raw meat. Lots of potential.
“Where does the beef come from?” Platt asked the supervisor when the group caught up.
“Various places.”
“Not just Illinois?”
“Oh gosh, no. Colorado, Nebraska, Florida, California, and Illinois—just to name a few states. We get the scraps and chunks from slaughterhouses that aren’t used for commercial cuts.”
“USDA contracts with you for the school lunch program?”
“USDA contracts with us, but I don’t know about the school lunch program. We don’t really know where all our products end up. We ship to state warehouses or other processors who might repackage and put their brand name on it for retail sale. Some of the product is bought by hospitals. And yeah, some is sent to school distribution centers.”
“You don’t have records of where your products end up?” Bix asked.
“No, sir. We only have records of which state warehouses we ship to. Those warehouses would probably have records of where they shipped the products.”
“What about the slaughterhouses?” Platt asked. “Do they provide you with test samples for bacteria or do you do your own testing?”
“They provide their test results but we pull routine samples after we grind the meat.”
“What happens when you get a positive back?”
“We’re supposed to shut the line. Clean everything. Pull another sample.”
“Every time?” Bix asked.
“Yup, every time.”
Platt was concerned that the supervisor had said “we’re supposed to” rather than “we do.” Grinding beef that might already be contaminated usually ended up spreading it. Taking random samplings was a crapshoot at best.
They moved on to another area, and again Platt ventured off on his own. He noticed two workers entering one of the security doors. As they changed their shoe covers Platt noticed the old covers looked wet. One of the men carried a clean plastic bucket that he took over to the grinding line and filled with ground beef.
Curious, Platt went to check if this particular door actually led to the outside, wondering why a worker would be allowed to bring in an unsterile container, but he saw through the glass window that the door didn’t lead outside. It led to what looked like a small warehouse.
Platt used his key c
“I was just curious,” Platt said.
Without going into the room he saw what had made the shoe covers wet. A drain in the middle of the floor was filled with murky sludge that gave off a rancid smell.
“Oh yeah, it backs up sometimes when it rains,” the supervisor explained. “We’ve talked about that before.” He exchanged looks with Alfred like it was okay since they had talked about it. “George,” he called to a worker sorting supplies on the back shelves. “Clean this up.”
Platt watched as George complied, going to a stack of plastic buckets exactly like the one Platt had seen taken inside the production area and filled with ground beef. George took one off the same stack to mop up the floor.
“Are those disposable?” Platt asked.
“Not to worry. We send them through a special rinse cycle.”
“Plastic?” Platt said and looked over at Bix, who was already trying not to scream.
FORTY-EIGHT
NEBRASKA
Wesley Stotter had done his homework. It was something his fans expected. He knew almost everything there was to know about the Nebraska National Forest. He could list every type of tree and every species of bird. He knew the forest was ninety thousand acres—fifteen miles wide and eleven miles from north to south. Twenty thousand of those acres were covered by trees, the rest, rolling pasture land. He had visited the campgrounds, climbed the observation tower, and been inside the nursery. But he didn’t have a clue what went on inside the field house between the Dismal River and the forest.
Ordinarily he wouldn’t care. But when the sun came up after his sleepless night in his stranded Roadmaster with his Colt .45 cradled in his hands, the first thing he noticed was the sunlight hitting the tin roof below. Where his vehicle had stalled had given him a bird’s-eye view of the field house. Tucked between sand dunes with the Dismal River winding behind it and the forest ridge on the other side, the complex remained shielded from view of the main road. It was easy to forget it existed. No one took an interest in something they couldn’t see.