The Last Lie Page 9

  I wasn’t hearing anything about the process that helped me understand how a bad ingredient would be traceable unless it was exclusive to a specific flavor. I made a note to ask Seth about the time frame and how he’d discovered the problem.

  “What is the lead time from order to delivery?”

  Olivia leaned in as the fan from the ventilation system kicked in, drowning out her words. “Right now we’re running about eight weeks, order to out the door. We prefer to keep it closer to four, but we’ve been having trouble keeping up. I guess there are downsides to success,” she shouted, then tilted her head and moved further down the line away from the noise, joking with one of the employees as she passed.

  “What about refrigeration?” I asked when we could hear each other again, wondering whether spoilage was a concern.

  “Technically, that’s not necessary unless a bottle has been opened. If not, shelf life is a year. Some of our stores stock the product in refrigerated cases, but that’s just their marketing. I guess they think it seems fresher that way.”

  “I understand the ingredients are sourced domestically. Are you involved in that?” Thinking back to my conversation with Seth, he’d indicated one vendor and one ingredient, as the problem. I made another note to ask him for those details.

  “I don’t go out and meet with vendors, if that’s what you mean,” Olivia said, pushing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “Martin does that. I complete the purchase orders, follow-up on delivery. And make sure Martin knows if something is not going to be here on time or if somebody short ships us.”

  Olivia seemed knowledgeable, competent, perhaps even a bit passionate about the work she did despite her initial attitude. Employees on the line had smiled or waved at her. She seemed comfortable here, liked even. I was curious about her background.

  “How long have you worked for VTF?” I asked.

  “About two years. I was working in food service, hostessing at the Waldorf for minimum wage.” She rolled her eyes at the memory. “One of the regular customers hooked me up here. It’s a much better gig and I’m not working for slave wages. But it’s been crazy. Who knew this stuff would catch on the way it has?” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans and shrugged.

  “I’m imagine your family is very proud of you. You’re young to have so much responsibility.”

  “My mom would be, if she were still alive.” A shy smile crinkled her eyes. “My dad, he’s just some loser who walked away before I was born. I’m on my own now.” She looked at me, resilience in her stance.

  “I can imagine how difficult it’s been.”

  She shrugged.

  “Yeah, well that’s life,” she paused and took a few steps down the line. “We’re nearing our capacity in this plant,” she said. I guessed she was done with questions on her personal life. “And not all of our vendors are up to it.”

  “You mean speed or quantity?” I said, switching with her back to business.

  “Both. We’ve needed to expand our vendor base to meet the demand. And not everybody has been able to ramp up.”

  That was a slightly different spin than Martin had given me.

  “What about quality control? Can you trace a batch back to a date or a lot number once it’s in the retailers’ hands?”

  “Of course.” She walked down to the end of the line where a group of women were pulling bottles off the line and packaging them in cardboard cases. I followed.

  She picked up a bottle, saying something in Spanish to the woman packing, then showed me the label. “The back of every bottle has a ten-digit code, a lot number. I can trace this back to the exact day and batch.”

  “What about ingredient testing? How do you know what you’re getting from your supplier is exactly what you ordered?” The issue was at the heart of Seth’s argument.

  “We’ve worked with these people for a long time. It isn’t complicated.”

  “Didn’t you say that you’ve been forced to take on new vendors and suppliers? Do you have some kind of testing program that would authenticate the quality of the ingredients? Do you tour their facilities?”

  “Well, that’s Martin’s area,” she said. “We’ve been so overloaded, I’m not really sure.”

  “So, it’s possible that a vendor could slip something in that been diluted or adulterated.”

  “Why would they do that? And piss off a big customer?” I sensed her mood changing a little with my question, and I wondered whether I’d insulted her or if the process had gotten a little slack. Were the demands of their success putting strains on the organization beyond what I could see in capacity to store ingredients and finished inventory? While the process itself seemed militaristic in its precision, disorganization was showing in the inventory control.

  “Hey, is Olivia giving away our secrets?” Seth. Dressed in his uniform of tight workout gear and sneakers. His shoulder was still padded under the Lycra and thankfully he had the sense not to give up the sling. He gave me a peck on the cheek as he joined us. It made me uncomfortable, but Olivia looked at me with a new curiosity and at Seth with alarm.

  Although a little color had returned to his face over the past few days, the whites of his eyes had taken on a jaundiced yellow and he appeared shaky. He hadn’t looked well the night of the Gala. Was this the aftereffects of his injury or his energy drink? He ran his hand over the stubble on his chin as if he were unfamiliar with the feeing. He shouldn’t be at work at all, let alone here traipsing around a factory.

  “Don’t worry, your secrets are still safe. Olivia has been quite professional.” No reason not to give the girl her props.

  “Good to hear.” He smiled at Olivia and grabbed my arm. “You don’t mind do you, I just want to reinforce some of the highlights.” Olivia rolled her eyes and returned to her office while Seth shuffled me over to the staging area for finished product.

  “Morning Splash is our top seller, a kiwi-blackberry mixture.” He picked up the bottle, holding it like he was a model at a trade show. “It’s refreshing and not overly sweet, gives a nice energy boost. Would you like a case?”

  “Thanks Seth, but no.” He started to pitch the health benefits of the drink.

  “I can get the PR speech from you on the phone. You should be at home resting or since you’re being stubborn, sitting at your desk in your office with your feet up. Your staff can manage a brief factory tour without you.”

  He put the bottle back and gave me a weak smile.

  “Can’t help myself. You’re always a salesman when you own the company. But don’t you think your readership would want to know about the health benefits?”

  “You tell me all about them when I call you later.” I was feeling guilty and conflicted. He wasn’t up to this even if he didn’t know it, but the sooner I had some answers the sooner we’d both feel better. “I think I have everything I need for now.”

  “Okay, then I’ll walk you out,” he said, wearing his disappointment.

  His gait was slow, although steady, as we walked back to the production office so I could thank Martin and Olivia for their help. Then Seth escorted me out through the reception area.

  I stopped for a moment trying to sort through my impressions of the plant and Seth’s commentary yesterday.

  “Is there something else you want me to know about what’s going on here at the plant? I said, giving him one more opportunity to fill in the gaps.

  “It’s all good. I’m just happy to be back to work.”

  “Then do you want to tell me why you didn’t mention that you dated Kelly Cavanaugh?”

  16

  Seth’s insistence that there was no romantic relationship between Kelly and him was still on my mind as I returned to the office. According to him, she had a teenage crush that was completely one-sided. He was simply being a nice guy to his employee’s daughter. Yes, they’d spoken about a possible photo shoot, but he’d made no promises. Loathe though I was, my instinct was to believe Cavanaugh over Seth. And I knew
I’d never look at Seth again with the same respect.

  I waved at Brynn who was deep in a phone conversation as I walked into my office. Plopping my bag on the file cabinet beside my desk, I did a quick scan of email, deleted the junk mail that filled half my screen, read a note about payroll numbers I’d been cc’d on between Ramelli and Borkowski, and then reached for my phone. I hadn’t spoken to my father yet this morning. He’d been staying at Lane’s apartment at night when the nursing staff kicked him out of her room, but it was just a place for him to shower and get a few hours of sleep on her couch.

  I’d suggested he go back to Milwaukee, told him I’d call if there were any news, but the idea had been rejected out of hand. His protective streak wouldn’t allow it.

  Lane was still asleep when I got through, however, my father informed me that the doc had stopped by, indicated he wasn’t finding anything in his testing, and her heart rate seemed to be was normalizing. He was considering sending her home in the morning. It was great news and I could hear the relief in my father’s voice. I told my him I’d stop by after work.

  I’d also gotten two call messages from the vocal tenant in our three-flat. Sounded to me like Lane had done nothing to appease him before falling ill. Why wasn’t I surprised? I threw my pencil down in disgust. Unable to track her down, the tenant was now moving on to me. I called the companys who’d provided repair quotes, arranging for estimates on a new furnace system for the building, then phoned the tenant to assure him it would be handled. My bank account wouldn’t be happy, but Lane and I could fight this out later. For now, it was close my eyes and write the damn check. After that, I was done. I needed to untangle myself from Lane’s messes and sell the place, even if it meant a loss.

  “Knock, knock.”

  I looked up to see Brynn and motioned her in. “Please don’t make me cover another daycare center opening. I don’t understand how women do that mother thing. All those dirty hands grabbing at you and wanting to sit on your lap. Ick.” She leaned against the door frame, shuddering as she spoke.

  “Don’t ask me. I haven’t been there either. Although I do have an older sister that occasionally qualifies as a child. Do you need hand sanitizer?” I laughed. “This is just Borkowski trying to see how tough you are.”

  “No, he’s trying to see if I’ll quit.” She pushed up the sleeve of her oxford shirt, otherwise known as her uniform. She dressed like she spoke. Straight forward, functional, easy to understand. She shared none of my fashion taste for drapey architectural cuts from little-known designers. If Brynn’s attire described her personality, what did mine say about me? Something to ponder another time, perhaps after a few glasses of wine.

  “I know you two have mended fences,” she said. “But he’s still a jerk in my book even if he is the boss. So, what’s got you running around? Sorry, I meant to ask about your sister. How’s she doing?”

  “Stabilizing apparently. I just got off the phone with my father. She might go home tomorrow.”

  “That’s good news.”

  The fact that Lane was showing signs of improvement was comforting. However, not knowing what had caused the episode, or if it would reoccur, still had me holding my breath. Replaying the mental tape of Cavanaugh’s anguish wasn’t helping either. My thoughts about the whole damn situation bounced between panic and this-is-too-crazy-to-be-real. But I couldn’t seem to get it out of my mind.

  “I took a tour of the VTF plant this morning,” I said to Brynn.

  She looked at me, confused. “Does Borkowski know about that?”

  I shook my head. “I have to play this out a little bit. I also spoke to Cavanaugh yesterday. He insists that this drink played a role in his daughter’s death.”

  Brynn shook her head, closed the door, and sat down.

  “Don’t give me that look,” I said, seeing the amusement in her eyes. “I’ll tell Borkowski if there’s a reason to tell him. Well, maybe.” I laughed. “Do you drink it? The VTF stuff? Everyone else around here seems to.”

  “No,” she said, looking a bit disgusted. “I’m not giving up my coffee. I like my drinks the color of my skin. Green is for grass, mint ice cream, and the Chicago River on St Paddy’s day. So, are you going to tell me what you’re hearing? You can’t bring me under the tent and then leave me hanging. Especially if it involves something fun like working around Borkowski.”

  Brynn leaned forward in the chair and I gave her the CliffsNotes version of my conversation with Cavanaugh, and my impression of the VTF facility.

  “You’re making one of those faces you make when your mind is fifteen steps ahead of everybody else,” she said when I’d finished. “Is something bothering you about the plant?”

  “I’m not certain. Something feels off but I can’t pin it down,” I said, images of the disorganized raw material storage in my head. “I saw a facility starting to feel the strain of its success. I guess it’s not hard to imagine cutting corners or people making mistakes. But beyond that…” I didn’t share with her Seth’s comments about sabotage. It still seemed too sensational and over the top to be taken at face value, nor had I discounted the idea of a pissed off employee making a statement.

  My phone rang and Michael’s name popped up on caller ID. I’d sent him a text earlier this morning asking if he’d seen Kelly Cavanaugh’s autopsy report. He was probably annoyed that I’d asked but oh well.

  Brynn stood to leave. “Yell if you need anything.”

  “Thanks for calling me back,” I said to Michael, hoping to make this sound like a business call. “Were you able to look at Kelly’s autopsy?”

  I also wasn’t being fully transparent about my relationship with Michael, at least not with anyone other than Cai. The obvious messiness of a romantic involvement between a cop and journalist had both of us feeling sensitive. It was a constant elephant in the room that influenced, or more often stifled, our conversation. We both had professional history keeping our cases at the office, but given the start to our relationship, it was hard to imagine work as a taboo topic. And harder to imagine anyone else thinking there wouldn’t be pillow talk. Better to pretend nothing was happening.

  In reality, the bigger issue was me. Talking about a relationship with Michael made it real, and I wasn’t ready for real.

  “I hope you have someone in your office because this isn’t a girlfriend talking.” His voice was tight.

  “Sorry. I’m in the office. I should have called and updated you on Lane rather than barking an order. There’s been some minor improvement.” Saturday seemed like ages ago and a good night sleep even further away. “I’m a little frazzled. Can we talk more about it tonight? Maybe meet for a drink?” All I was really in the mood for was a hot bath and an early bedtime, but that wasn’t Michael’s fault.

  “Sure, we can talk about it later. I know you’d call me if there were any news.”

  “Thank you for that. I’m just tired and distracted.”

  “So, Kelly’s autopsy. I reviewed it again yesterday, and it reads exactly as we talked about. Heart failure. The ME believes she was born with a defective valve. There was no way of knowing she had a problem until the incident happened.”

  “Do we know anything about the timing? Were they able to determine if there was anything that exacerbated the condition? Something that caused her heart to fail, now?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Exertion, sports, something she consumed that caused her heart to race?”

  “Something she consumed? Is this about Kelly Cavanaugh or your sister? Are you still thinking there’s a connection?”

  I could hear frustration in his voice. I took a drink of tea before responding afraid my tone would be sharp. Snapping at him because I was obsessed wasn’t fair, nor did he have all the information.

  “Lane is in the hospital with an undiagnosed illness and an erratic heartbeat is a primary symptom,” I said. “What you don’t know is that her refrigerator was full of the VTF energy drink. So that’s two d
ata points between the women. Coincidence? May very well be. But I’m not going to pretend it’s not worthy of consideration.”

  Michael was silent on the other end of the phone. I assumed he was contemplating how close to the line we were stepping. “Okay, I’ll get you an appointment with the ME. But I want to be there when you speak to him.”

  I agreed, and we made loose plans to meet for a drink.

  Ending the call, I then dialed Cai. “Are you free for a quick cup of coffee?”

  “I can be. Now?”

  “I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen.” More detail wasn’t needed. We both knew the shorthand.

  Cai breezed into the Starbucks in the base of her office building five minutes after I had arrived. Her dark hair was pulled back in a low, loose knot. She was in work mode, an ivory silk blouse and navy pencil skirt. But the four-inch Louboutin stilettos said something else. Cai would prefer to endure weekly visits to her podiatrist rather than wear flats. She waved, ordered her drink, and joined me at the window counter.

  “What? Nothing to do today so you decided to visit me?” She uncapped her dark roast and brought it to her lips, smiling. “You interjected yourself at the perfect time. I was reading a counteroffer that had my blood boiling. This is much more fun than storming around the block of few times to work off my annoyance.”

  “I visited our mutual friend Seth this morning.” I said, leaning against the counter and watching her face. Cai must have had meetings with Seth about the IPO prior to the shooting. Had she noticed that he didn’t look well?

  “Oh?” she said, not raising her eyes. “How’s he feeling?”

  I doubted that she didn’t already know the answer, but let it slide.

  “He looks like shit. And you know that’s not normal. How long has he looked like death warmed over?”

  “Is that why you asked to meet?” She put down her cup and looked at me quizzically.