Free Badwater (The Forensic Geology Series) by Toni Dwiggins Page A

Just outside this tunnel, white mine tailings spilled to mix with the native soil.
    Walter knelt to sample.
    It didn’t take a forensic genius to read the story. Marks in the dried mud—knees, elbows, one unmistakable butt print, bootprints hither and thither—showed one hell of a fight and chase.
    Walter agreed. “Preliminary,” he said, peering through the hand lens, “but I suspect the driver acquired his mud here.”
    I glanced at the rough road that ran down to join the road our convoy had taken. Not fit for the radwaste truck but a more nimble vehicle could navigate it. In fact, there were faint tire tracks. I looked back to the tunnel. Gated, with a padlocked chain. I wondered if Roy Jardine had a key.
~
    C hickie was astonished that some fucker changed the lock on her gate and she grudgingly gave permission for Scotty to use bolt cutters.
    It didn’t take Scotty long to meter the tunnel. “Not hot,” he said, “but you won’t believe what’s in there.”
    I swallowed. What’s in there?
    Soliano went in. Then he summoned Walter and me, Hap and Ballinger.
    The tunnel was wide and straight and dead-ended in a large room, like a driveway into a garage. A two-car garage. The vehicle on the left looked like it belonged here. It was dented and scratched and mud-spattered—a high-clearance offroader with a winch and cable drum mounted on the front bumper. All four tires were flat.
    Soliano shined his flashlight at the right front tire, illuminating a ragged hole.
    I registered the tire damage, and the mud, which I was going to want to sample, only right now the tires were not the main event.
    The main event was the trailer behind the offroader.
    It was a brutish beast. Big enough to haul a hefty payload. Tough, clearly, with big-knuckle bolts and beefy tires, now flat. Built for crazy guys on testosterone weekends hauling their gear where the pavement doesn’t go. Built for a crazy guy hauling stolen resin casks. The back of the trailer was gated with a fold-up steel ramp. A vaulted steel cover hung open and wide, like a clamshell.
    The vehicle parked beside it was another beast entirely.
    Half forklift, half crane, all business. It had a telescoping crane boom with its grappling arms wide open, as if for a hug. Slotted into one side were attachments: hooks, fork tines, a scoop. It had pneumatic tires with deep treads. It looked like it could go anywhere.
    Arrayed against the mine wall were open crates of protective gear. Gloves, booties, suits, silvery tarps.
    Hap whistled—surprise, marvel. “Lookee here. Boy’s got his own setup.”
    Soliano eyed Ballinger. “This equipment is from your facility?”
    Ballinger gaped. “Knothead helped himself to the store.”
    One thing I knew for certain—Roy Jardine was in no way a knothead. Or, despite the events of last night, a screwup. This setup showed a level of competence that put me on high alert.
    Soliano made a slow survey of the room. “I believe we have found the place of the swap. Mr. Ballinger, tell me how it is done.”
    Ballinger jerked. “Me?”
    “Easy Milt,” Hap said, “Hector just wants you to role-play. Pretend you’re Roy.”
    “No friggin way.”
    “If you please,” Soliano said. “You know this equipment, Mr. Ballinger. I wish your perspective.”
    Ballinger gave Soliano a cautious look, then a nod.
    “And so. You steal a cask, bring it here—perhaps in your blue Ford pickup. And here you fill it with talc, using this...forklift?”
    “Telehandler,” Ballinger said sourly. “Roy could’ve.”
    “Very good. So now you have a cask of talc. Meanwhile, your partner Ryan Beltzman approaches on the highway—that is the radwaste truck route?”
    “That little twerp,” Ballinger said, “he was in on it?”
    “Difficult to make the swap on your own, yes?”
    “Wouldn’t know.”
    Soliano’s face incised into a smile. “Let us put it all together. It is late night, little traffic, so Mr. Beltzman pulls just off the highway so