Let Justice Descend. Lisa Black
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new grid would pay for itself, elevate the populace from poverty, blah blah blah—so overoptimistic as to be an outright lie. The grid was set up, yes, but didn’t generate nearly the projected income, the loan proved crushing, and Indonesia owed out the wazoo. Then the oil companies moved in, and there wasn’t much the country could say about it. If any uppity locals argue, like Mossadegh in Iran and Torrijos in Panama, they have mysterious accidents.”
“What’s this got to do with Diane Cragin?” Jack asked when Boudelet paused for a hacking cough. A dog wandered in, missing half of one ear. His tail wagged to see visitors.
“She was one. An economic hit man for Parsons Corporation, like me. We worked together on my last project, before I finally grew a conscience and got out. Diane, if she ever had a conscience . . .” His graying, shaggy curls quivered above faded green eyes.
“And that project was . . .”
“Site location specialist work. It’s the domestic version of IHM work. Instead of raping a country for its natural resources, we do it to our own cities for their tax breaks and subsidies. We convinced the state of Washington to give Boeing the largest corporate tax break in the country’s history, with an estimated lifetime value to Boeing of nearly nine billion dollars. Billion. The problem isn’t Boeing, the problem is the public servants who don’t seem able to crunch grade school math.”
“Again—”
“I just wanted to remind Diane where she came from.”
“You called her a soulless jackal.”
“As I had been. Difference is, I admit it. Why does the media spend all day pushing our buttons instead of telling us why, after seventeen years, we’re not getting anywhere in the Middle East? Because it’s easier to get people hot and bothered about abortion and gun control and flag-burning amendments than it is to impart real information. It’s easier to sell Us versus Them than it would be to propose any real solutions or even ask any real questions. Because people on both sides have a full-time job dealing with that issue.” He slumped back into the armchair, his spine hitting the leather with an audible thump. “I sold my soul for a job that made me a ton of money and then gave it all away, trying to buy it back.”
The dog had wandered out but now returned, carrying a bag of treats in his mouth as gently as if it were a newborn kitten. It presented the bag to Jack with reverence. “Uh-huh,” Jack said. “About Diane Cragin—”
“Let me tell you about foreign aid.”
“No.” Riley said. “Tell us about Diane Cragin.”
“I am. Because that was the last place I ran into her. As I said, I had found a conscience—so I did the logical thing and started working for a charity, an NGO . . . that’s a nongovernmental organization—”
“I know,” Riley said.
“Figuring I could use my mad economic skills for good and not evil, right? What an eye-opener! Unfortunately—okay, people’s hearts are in the right places, or at least they start out in the right places, but foreign assistance on a large scale can become one more group of issue people. They’ve found a cushy job and don’t want to give it up.”
Jack gave the dog a treat, which it smacked happily and noisily. “Diane—”
“Getting to it. The earthquake in Haiti, 2010. I ran into Diane working with an NGO to install a water filtration system to replace the earthquake-damaged delivery system. The company’s name was Vepo. Sounds like a brand of gum, right? They were headquartered in Utah, and she wanted them to get the contract for Port-au-Prince. Did you know we’ve sent over two billion dollars to Haiti since the quake? Do you know how much of that went to Haitian firms and organizations? Less than two percent. Sixty-five percent went to firms within the DC area. Engineering materials, specs totaling a few hundred million. Not a million dollars, a few hundred million. And the kicker? They still haven’t finished. Years later this charitable effort is still milking the taxpayers and dehydrating the Haitians.”
Jack sealed the treat bag and set it on the end table. The dog’s gaze turned reproachful at this grievous disappointment.
“Then Diane comes to Ohio and brings in Vepo to work on the water intake renovation. The facility out in the water has to be inspected and cleaned and installed with newer state-of-the-art equipment for detecting dead zones—”
“We know,” Jack said. “So that’s why you wrote the letter?”
Boudelet leaned forward, and the dog looked toward him with renewed hope. So did the cops. “The same concepts that I used to convince third world countries that letting Shell build a refinery on their coast would solve all their economic problems can be used to sell Cleveland a water system renovation that it probably doesn’t even need. Lots of money comes in, one company gets rich, maybe two or three Clevelanders get jobs they wouldn’t otherwise have, and most of the funds get eaten up by consultancy costs or feasibility studies. Diane goes back to DC, and the city has a huge debt to pay off. It’s a sad situation that’s been repeated over and over again until no one even argues against it anymore. I see a tidal wave coming, but why bother to get off the beach?”
“So Cleveland gets overcharged. Then—”
“It’s not just money! While the work is being done in the lake, the water intake is going to be switched to the river. They’ve built the temporary crib, you’ve probably seen it, what looks like a little house suspended over the river—”
“Yeah.”
“Problem is, the EPA reports say the pipes they’re going to use won’t work and that there may be toxins in the river—but do you think Diane’s going to say, Hey, let’s wait before we start sending drinking water to a million and a half people and first make sure it’s safe to drink? And Vepo sure as hell isn’t going to speak up.”
“Because they want to keep their jobs,” Jack said.
Boudelet gave a pleased look as if an exceptionally slow student had answered a question correctly. “Exactly.”
“So why do you think Ms. Cragin was killed? For the sins she committed elsewhere, or the sins she’s committed here?”
Boudelet’s mouth fell slightly open. The dog’s tail stopped wagging.
“What?” he asked. “She’s dead?”
Chapter 8
With her lab back to its more normal quiet hum, Maggie powered up the stereo microscope and held a mental debate about lunch. Wrap or pita? She had not had a tough-enough day to indulge in a burger. What about a portabella burger? Decadent or no? She examined the plug and wires without finding anything of interest. The kegerator had been the victim’s own, so there would be no point in tracing its manufacture. Maggie found no interesting hairs or fibers or adhesives or paint sticking to it. She packaged it carefully; wrapping the ends in their own piece of brown paper on the off chance that they found, somehow, the killer’s wire cutters; and then found an analyst who still did toolmark comparisons. Without all that, the wires could not help them.
Carol emerged from the DNA lab, stripped off her gloves, and rubbed the back of her neck.
“You still here?”
“Might as well milk the OT. Mama needs a junket to Atlantic City. Where’d all the money go?”
“Locked up tight.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I’m not really going to filch it. Not much of it, anyway.”
Maggie pulled the metal grate from its brown paper evidence bag and placed it on a clean piece of examination paper. “I know. I have complete faith in you.”
“Well, that’s fifty percent more than I do. That much cash would turn stronger heads than mine. Is the coffee fresh?”
“Just made it.”
“Are you really