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Whitewash

Alex Kava




  Praise for Whitewash

  “Engaging supporting characters…deft touches of humor…a refreshing read.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Whitewash is a rock-solid, imaginative thriller.”

  —January Magazine

  “Smartly paced, intelligent thriller.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Superbly paced…an impressively imaginative departure from the conventional thriller, mixes up greed, waste treatment, and Florida’s pressured environment (take that, Carl Hiaasen), with political powerhouses and more than one surprising love story.”

  —Barbara Peters, owner of The Poisoned Pen bookstore

  “[N]ot a book for readers with weak stomachs…[for] anyone who likes reading thrillers about corporate greed, shadow governments and international conspiracies.”

  —Bookreporter

  “Plenty of Kava’s staples—intrigue, plot twists at the speed of real life, interesting characters and excitement.”

  —North Platte Bulletin

  “Kava’s latest is relentlessly paced…. Timely, tense and thought-provoking, this one is guaranteed to keep readers up late.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  Also by ALEX KAVA

  EXPOSED

  A NECESSARY EVIL

  ONE FALSE MOVE

  AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS

  THE SOUL CATCHER

  SPLIT SECOND

  A PERFECT EVIL

  ALEX KAVA

  WHITEWASH

  This book is dedicated to two amazing women:

  Patricia Kava, my mom, whose silent support

  comes with lots of love by way of lighted candles,

  delicious popcorn balls, a nod and a smile.

  and

  Emilie Groh Carlin (1922–2005)

  My first book without you only makes me miss

  our discussions, your stories and your

  words of encouragement more than ever.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Most of my readers know by now that I do extensive research for each of my novels. I think it’s important to get enough of the details correct to make the story credible. If readers can’t tell where the facts stop and the fiction starts, then I’ve done my job. But sometimes it goes a bit deeper. Sometimes it’s not just about research. It’s about real life. Both my stand-alones, One False Move and now Whitewash, came out of very personal experiences.

  In 2004 I bought a writing retreat outside Pensacola, Florida. Six months later Hurricane Ivan roared ashore. Nine months after that, Hurricane Dennis. I grew up in Nebraska, so I thought I was prepared, having seen tornado damage. Nothing prepared me for what I experienced.

  Everyone sees the immediate devastation. Few see the months and months of the aftermath. Living amongst the ruins is perhaps the best way to describe it. We pile up the debris along the roads and the sides of our properties, waiting for their removal. For months we’re surrounded by one-to two-story mountains everywhere we go. Only, the mountains aren’t composed of just uprooted trees and boat piers, but bits of everyone’s lives.

  In the first weeks, each time I drove through those tunnels of debris I noticed something equally heartbreaking, jutting out from the piles: a blue sofa, broken toys, shredded clothing speared onto a section of chain-link fence. I wondered what would become of all that debris. Where would it go?

  Less than a year later the piles were gone. Most, not all, of the blue-tarped roofs were fixed. Pine trees started to grow up around those that had been snapped in half. Yet once in a while the rains dislodged an eerie reminder. On a morning walk I saw a plastic, hollow-eyed baby-doll head floating in a rain-filled ditch. I wondered, again, where all the piles of debris had gone. That’s about the same time that I saw an article in Discover magazine titled “Anything into Oil.”

  The article described an incredible process called thermal conversion. TCP could take just about any carbon-based objects, including turkey guts, junked car parts, raw sewage, even old appliances, and turn them into oil. Real oil, “better than crude,” that could be refined or used immediately. The article talked about a company that already had a plant in Carthage, Missouri, a plant that was already taking slaughterhouse waste from a nearby Butterball turkey packager and turning that waste into oil.

  This was amazing to me. Gas prices were on the rise. After two devastating years of hurricane after hurricane, everything seemed to be on the rise for those of us along the Gulf Coast. I couldn’t believe that this process, this company, this plant wasn’t making major headlines. Further research discovered just a few of the obstacles, including government regulations, the absence of funding, the struggle to be “officially” recognized as “renewable diesel” and even the costs of competition. Yes, competition, because turkey guts were a commodity sold for fertilizer and livestock feed. This idea as pure and simple as taking slaughterhouse waste and turning it into oil ended up being much more complicated and political than the science itself.

  So I started doing what I usually do when stuff like this fascinates me. I started asking questions, running scenarios around in my mind, taking those complications and conflicts and turning them into plot twists…or what you might call turning them into my own oil. The result is Whitewash.

  Though TCP (thermal conversion process) is a reality and many of the details in my novel are facts, I must note that EchoEnergy, its CEO, facility and employees are all figments of my imagination.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87
>
  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  1

  Thursday, June 8

  EchoEnergy Industrial Park

  Tallahassee, Florida

  Dr. Dwight Lansik refused to look down. He hated the smell wafting up from the steel grates beneath his feet, reminding him of an odd concoction—fried liver, raw sewage and spoiled meat. He knew that no matter how many times he’d shower or how hard he would scrub—leaving his skin red and bruised—he’d still be able to smell it. That’s why he usually avoided the catwalks overlooking the tops of the silver-gray tanks and the maze of pipes that connected them. He especially avoided walking over this particular holding tank, its massive lid left open like a huge, smiling mouth while the last trucks of the day emptied into it. But this was exactly where Ernie Walker had asked to meet.

  That was Ernie, always wanting to emphasize whatever his moronic point might be by going to the extreme. Just last week the man had insisted Dwight meet him directly under the flash-off water pipe so Dwight could feel the excessive heat for himself. “Ernie, you could have just told me the damn thing’s too hot,” he scolded the plant manager, who had simply shrugged and said, “Better you feel it for yourself.”

  As much as he hated to admit it, Ernie was right. Had he not dragged Dwight to the Depress Zone he would have never discovered the real problem, a much more serious problem than an overheated flash-off water pipe. And how would he? His job kept him down in the lab, exactly where he was supposed to be, where he preferred to be, analyzing and calculating cooking times and coking temperatures. He dealt in recipes and formulas.

  His wife, Adele, used to tease him and the memory brought a sting. She’d been gone almost a year and he still missed her terribly. Yes, she used to tease him—or was it goading—that he could break down any carbon-based object, including himself, just by looking at it. To which he confessed he already had. At a lanky hundred and fifty pounds he knew he amounted to exactly thirty-one pounds of oil, six pounds of gas, six pounds of minerals and a hundred and seven pounds of sterilized water. But that was the sort of thing he was supposed to know. He certainly couldn’t be expected to know whether or not every depressurization valve was fully functional or that all distillation columns remained unclogged. That was Ernie’s job.

  However, it wasn’t Ernie’s job to mess with the computer program that regulated and controlled the process—the directions and temperatures, which stage, how long and how fast the feedstock moved through the pipes, what was depressed and separated and released. No, that wasn’t Ernie’s job. It was supposed to be Dwight’s and only his. As the creator of the software program he was the only one with the authority and the access to change it and make adjustments. But those greedy bastards found a way to override it, to override him. And now Dwight hoped Ernie hadn’t discovered yet another telltale sign before Dwight had a chance to do something about it.

  Suddenly Dwight grabbed the railing to steady himself. Had the steel grate beneath him started to vibrate?

  He twisted around to look toward the ladder at the end of the catwalk. Would he even be able to hear Ernie climb up the wobbly metal slats? The safety earplugs muffled all the mechanical churning, the hissing and clanking of the pipes and coils that zigzagged from tank to tank, the hiss of hydraulics and the whine of rotors and pulleys, even that sloshing of the liquid below. Despite the momentary sway, there was no one where the railing ended.

  He waited, expecting to see Ernie’s hands reach up over the top of the ladder that poked up toward the sky. Another tanker truck rumbled below, grinding gears and sending up a cloud of diesel fumes. And the catwalk started to vibrate again. There were no hands on the railing, no sign of anyone coming up. Perhaps it had only been the truck’s vibration. That or Dwight’s imagination.

  He adjusted his safety goggles and checked his watch. End of the day. Where the hell was Ernie? Dwight had hoped to leave a bit early, but now he’d be stuck in traffic. The men at the airport Marriott would end up waiting for him. Did he care? Why should he? They couldn’t start without him. They had nothing without him. After several brief phone calls he knew they wanted any information he had. Hell, they were lucky he had decided to do the right thing.

  It was his grandmother who had insisted he be named after the great general Dwight D. Eisenhower, but never once in his life had Dwight Lansik acted like a general. Instead, ever the meek, obedient soldier or servant churning out the brilliant, heroic work and letting everyone else take all the credit. It was about time he took charge. And so what if he was a little late getting to the hotel? It wouldn’t matter. These guys were chomping at the bit for the information he had, anxious vultures, ready to rip and shred and destroy everything he had worked so hard to create. They’d wait.

  He forced himself to look down. The soupy glop they called feedstock sputtered and swirled beneath him in the 2,500-gallon tank, waiting to get sucked down and into the massive, sharp blades that would chop and dice and mince it all into pea-sized sludge. Putrid gases erupted from the mixture quite naturally without any electronic interference or prodding. No, this stink was not man-made, but simply the natural and inevitable results of dumping together rotting slaughterhouse waste: slimy intestines, rust-colored blood and bright-orange spongy lungs floating and bobbing alongside rotting chicken heads with the eyes still intact and staring. Surely chickens had eyelids?

  Christ! That smell. His eyes burned despite the goggles. Stop looking down, he told himself, willing his gag reflex to hold out.

  He glanced at his watch again, giving it a twist on his bony wrist. The Rolex was worth more than his car, a frivolous gift from the CEO when they inaugurated this plant. He wore it to remind his subordinates how vital he was to the company, when in fact, he thought it a gaudy waste of money.

  Where the hell was Ernie Walker? How dare he make him wait up here in the scorching sunlight and the disgusting fumes.

  Dwight leaned against the railing, hoping the sway of the catwalk would stop. He was getting nauseated. His undershirt stuck to his back like a second skin. He pushed at the carefully rolled sleeves of his crisp oxford, unbuttoning the collar and loosening his tie all in two quick motions. Nothing helped. The muffled noises blended together in a roar that began pounding inside his head. He yanked off the yellow hard hat and swiped at his forehead. He felt off balance, a bit dizzy, so he didn’t even notice the man come up behind him.

  The first blow slammed him into the railing, knocking the air out of his lungs. He doubled over, his stomach wrapped around the metal. Before he got a chance to catch his breath he felt his legs being lifted out from under him.

  “My God!” he yelled as he grabbed the railing.

  His fingers clutched tight, hanging on even as he felt his body swing over. His feet kicked and slipped against the inside concrete. There was nothing: no ledge, no cracks. His legs thrashed and his rubber soles fought to make contact. His arms ached and his fingers gripped the metal already slick with his own sweat.

  He tried to look up, tried to plead but his voice sounded small and far away, it, too, muffled by the earplugs, and he knew it was los
t in the vibration, the screech and clanking. Still he begged between gasps to the shadow above him, a hulking figure with the sun behind adding a halo effect. His goggles had fogged up. His hard hat had plunged into the soup. And the earplugs continued to make his screams sound like they were only in his head.

  When the pipe came smashing down on Dwight’s fingers he was sure the bones had snapped. Despite the pain, he gripped and clawed at the metal, but his fingers were quickly becoming useless. He felt his body giving out from under him just as the pipe cracked over his head.