Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

“You’d have to send the original to a business that specializes in data recovery. They have programs and means of getting back stuff that gets accidentally-or maybe on purpose-deleted. But there’s only so much they can do.” Junebug gave a long sigh. “Let’s check the others.”

The story repeated itself five times. Each of Greg’s diskettes was blank. “So what happened to them?” he said, half to himself. “One, Greg or someone put these labels on perfectly okay blank disks but never put information on them. To me, that doesn’t seem likely. I never label a disk until I’ve put information on it. Or the disks did have stuff on them-at least the ones that were labeled-and someone has either erased or destroyed the information.” I stopped and turned to him. “But if someone wanted to get rid of the information, why not just steal the disks and destroy them later?” “Maybe they didn’t want them on their person. And if they can destroy them by using the computer, they don’t need to steal them.” “There might be the risk that the data could be recovered, though.” I scratched my nose with one plastic-sheathed finger. “But, like I said, I don’t know how much the data-recovery folks could do. Maybe it was enough to destroy the stuff on these files.” “You said that there would also be information on the hard disk on his machine,” Junebug said. “Let’s look at that.

God, I hope it hasn’t been erased.” “I can copy what’s on the hard disk onto diskettes, if you like, or we can look directly onto his hard disk.” Junebug considered. “Better make the copies.” I did so.

There were plenty of files on the hard disk, so at least it hadn’t been erased. We both confessed to skipping lunch, so Junebug called the Dairy Queen and ordered two country baskets, with strips of fried chicken, peppered cream gravy, buttery Texas toast, and french fries.

Cholesterol’s not something we worry about, what with all the fresh air we get. I finished up the copying while we waited for the food to arrive. (Dairy Queens don’t usually deliver, but Junebug’s a special customer, what with being the law.) When the food came, we wolfed it down like a couple of good bachelors. The feeding frenzy completed, we took the several disks that held the contents of Greg’s hard drive and went back to Nelda’s computer. I slid the first disk in and accessed its contents. There were a lot of spreadsheet files and word-processing files, and I went to those first. “You’re sure we’re not breaking the law by doing this?” I said. “I mean, if you find evidence in here, you’ll be able to use it, right?” “Yes. Don’t you worry about it, just don’t erase anything.” He leaned over my shoulder as I typed. “Unless he’s passworded the files, I should be able to see everything here,” I said. “If he’s put a password on any of them, they’ll be locked.” He made a noise in his throat, and I got to work.

The first files I looked at were word-processing files; I preferred to deal with language over numbers first. The files were organized into directories: LETTERS; MEMOS; REPORTS. I peeked first in LETTERS and looked at the contents, then began opening each file to read it.

“Couldn’t we print out copies?” Junebug asked. “Yeah, but let’s skim through the stuff first and see what’s most interesting. Then we can print hard copies.” There weren’t many letters, and they all seemed to do with the condo project in Mirabeau. There was a letter to the Lower Colorado River Authority, asking for a list of any environmental requirements that developments on the river had to adhere to (regardless of any local or county regulations); a letter to Chester Blanton at the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast, requesting reservations for Gregory Callahan and Lorna Wiercinski; a letter to Frederick Jacksill of Rivertown Real Estate of Mirabeau, confirming him as their commercial real-estate agent in Bonaparte County; another letter to Martin H. Noone, Attorney-at-Law, in Bavary, seeking a bid on legal services for land purchases in Mirabeau. The letters were written in a no-nonsense corporate style I’d become awfully familiar with in my days in the business world. “All square and boring,”

Junebug murmured over my shoulder. I nodded and opened another file, marked ZADICHI. Junebug and I had each read about three sentences into the letter when we said “Oh, shit,” in near synchronization. The letter read: 1213 Brennan Street Boston, Massachusetts 02114 Mr. Gary Zadich Chem-Solutions, Inc. 1600 Port-of-Call Road Deer Park, Texas 77536 Dear Mr. Zadich: I believe that the purchase of land in Mirabeau, Bonaparte County, Texas, will proceed according to our timetable. The land is zoned for both commercial and residential use (private homes and commercial farms are already side by side) and there are very few controls set on which businesses may operate on the river. The land is ideal for your needs as a chemical waste storage facility. Labor in the area is cheap. The slow economy and local unemployment should prevent any grass-roots campaign against your facility. Of course, I will be reselling you the land as soon as title clears. Undoubtedly some environmentalists will be deeply upset at the idea of a chemical waste storage facility on the river, but I think the community will welcome business of any sort. These bumpkins need the money. I will contact you again as soon as the purchases are complete, or if I run into any difficulties. Sincerely, Gregory Callahan “Holy shit!” Junebug crumpled back and collapsed in his chair. “Bumpkins? Bumpkins!” I exploded. “That smarmy little bastard.

Does he think we all just fell off the turnip truck? We are not idiots, Junebug. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing…” My voice trailed off as I remembered that the source of my ire was in the past tense.

“Shit! He was going to buy up that land then resell it to some chemical dump. How could he do that?” I took a long breath. “I don’t know-maybe declare insolvency, say that his other investors pulled out of the project and he had to sell the land. Voila, here’s this chemical waste company that needs some land and oh, I just had to sell it to them. Maybe it’s not even the chemical company itself, but another company owned by them so the folks who want to protect the river don’t know.” Junebug nodded grimly. “And then, that company dangles the promise of new jobs. God knows we need ‘em, what with so many family farms having troubles. He’s right. Some folks would even be willing to put up with a chemical site on the river if it meant food on the table.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “But others would do anything to keep a chemical dump off our river.” I heard everything that he was saying, but I had my mind elsewhere. Lorna. Did she know about this? Had she lied right to my face, telling me all about their delightful little condominium development while knowing they were going to sell the land right after they got it? I felt a slow burn of anger. “Oh, lordy,” I heard Junebug say. “If anyone here found this out, they’d have a helluva motive to kill him.” I blinked at Junebug.

“Well, this should clear Lorna, right? This gives a lot of folks in Mirabeau a motive, and if she knew about this, what motive would she have?” I was babbling and I knew it. I fought back an urge to push my fist against my mouth. God, if she had lied to me about this for the sake of profit- Junebug saw my vexation. He put a steadying hand on my shoulder. “C’mon, Jordy, let’s look at the rest of the files.”

Believing in the innate goodness of people (most of the time), I kept hoping we’d find another letter from Greg to Mr. Zadich, calling off the collective lie to Mirabeau. Greg, apparently, was not innately good. There were drafts of letters to the city council in Mirabeau, explaining that the condo deal had “fallen through due to investor withdrawal” and that he was actively seeking new investors, followed by another draft that claimed he couldn’t find any investors, and so was selling the land to another “commercial concern.” That commercial concern was no doubt Chem-Solutions, near Houston, but the letter didn’t state that. The financial files lent heartbreaking support to the letters. There was a set of spreadsheets for the condo project; this was probably what Greg planned on showing the landowners. Another set worked out Greg’s profit on selling the land to Chem-Solutions, with money thoughtfully laid aside for any messy legal actions. As we read each file I felt slightly ill. I’d felt sorry for Greg Callahan at first, but my sympathy was now tempered with the knowledge that he must’ve been a supreme bastard. There was only one other file that was on the disk, and it didn’t work with Nelda’s spreadsheet or word processor. It was a calendar program, the kind that businesspeople use to set up appointments. I donned my gloves again, went back to Greg’s computer, and copied the entire calendar program over, along with the associated files. I then installed the program on Nelda’s machine, and we began to look through Greg’s last days. The past week and a half were all that were there. Apparently he’d spent most of those days in Boston, in a few meetings with names that meant nothing to us. He’d taken one side trip to Houston, apparently the day before he came to Mirabeau. That day was marked 9:30-12:00: MEET WITH ZADICH. CONFIRM DEAL. Junebug busily jotted down all the information into his notes.