Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

He paused for a moment, then said, “These farmers in third world countries are under pressure from their governments to use Lunhill’s seeds. Lunhill kicks in a few million bucks to these fat cats at the top, and they start pressuring, sometimes mandating, that these farmers use high-yielding varieties, which is cockamamie bullshit for GMOs. And worse yet, some of these governments force the farmers to buy the seeds on credit or extension programs.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit. And then you know what happens?”

“What?”

“They get in over their heads, have a bad year, and then they blow their brains out.”

“Suicide?”

“Since the late nineties, when GMOs first started gaining popularity, 300,000 farmers in India have killed themselves.”

“Did you say 300,000?”

He pursed his lips. “Yeah, and that’s just India.”

“And if they introduce Terminator seeds, farmer suicide might go even higher?”

“No ifs about it.”

We both sat in silence for a long moment, conjuring the implications.

“So if that’s what Neil Felding was working on...” I said, more to myself than Randall.

“Then maybe he had a change of heart,” Randall said, “or maybe he finally realized what these seeds would mean for the world.”

I spit-balled, “And he decided he wouldn’t be a part of it.”

“And then he confronts Lord Ramsey and threatens to go public.”

“And that would have cost them millions.”

“Try billions,” Randall corrected. “Several countries have already banned the use of Terminator seeds, and they haven’t even come out yet. It’s not a stretch to think that if a country found out the ill effects of Terminator seeds, which are just slightly altered GMOs, they might ban GMOs altogether.”

“True.”

“And if Felding had solid proof, some hard science proving just how bad they were—shit, coming from one of Lunhill’s top scientists—it could have bankrupted them.”

I thought about this for a moment, then said, “What if they were already out there? What if the GMOs these farmers think they’re planting are actually Terminator seeds?”

“If Neil found that out or was part of it and was gonna blow the whistle on it?” He blew out his cheeks. “I’d say that’s motive for murder, my friend.”

I was still thinking about Randall’s last statement when he asked, “So what are you gonna do?”

I didn’t have a lot of options. The murder was four years old. Neil Felding was long dead. Lunhill was locked down. And I was on Blackwater’s watch list. I didn’t for a minute imagine there was any evidence out there that would prove my theory. And without evidence, there was only one option—confession.

I would need to get the players to talk.

“I’m gonna do what I do best,” I said. “I’m gonna ruffle some feathers.”

I told him my plan.

His eyes lit up and he ran to his Bronco. He came back a moment later with a copy of the Tarrin Weekly.

He slapped the paper into my hand and said, “This would be a good place to start.”

I looked at the article on the front page and read aloud, “Mayor Van Dixon Campaign Luncheon.”

There were a couple pictures of some of her biggest backers.

One was Chief Eccleston.

Another, Lunhill CEO David Ramsey.

“If you’re gonna ruffle some feathers,” Randall said, “you might as well get some lunch while you’re at it.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Mayor’s luncheon was supposed to be outside, a white tent affair in the park, but the torrential rains of the past few days sent the organizers scrambling for another venue. I’m guessing there weren’t many options capable of holding the one hundred or so guests who would be attending the $500 per plate gala, hence, the Tarrin High School gymnasium.

The bleachers were pushed back into the walls, the basketball hoops were retracted up near the ceiling, and the court below was crowded with round tables, each with a different colored or patterned tablecloth.

It wasn’t all that different from my prom, except in place of the banner that read “Puget High Prom ’99” there was a big banner that read “Paula Van Dixon, Mayor ‘16.” And instead of green and blue balloons—our school colors—the balloons here were red, white, and blue.

God bless America.

The luncheon began at noon and it was now fifteen after. Most of the seats at the tables were taken, and I approached a woman sitting behind a desk near the entrance.

“Well, hi there,” she said. She had an aura of PTO president or the lady who ran the local bake sale. “Is it still raining outside?”

I should note that I was drenched. Head, drenched. T-shirt, drenched. Jeans, yep, drenched.

“Uh, yeah, it stopped raining.”

“You look wet,” she said with a cock of her head.

“I had a water fight with some pesky kids out in the parking lot.”

“Really?”

I wasn’t sure why I was harassing this poor lady and I decided I would attempt to act like a functioning member of society for at least a little bit. “I was just joking. It’s still raining.”

“Oh,” she said, blushing. “Of course you were.” She gave her head an imaginary smack, then she asked, “Are you here for the luncheon?”

“I’m here for the dodgeball tournament.”

Dammit, Thomas.

I took a breath and said, “Yes, I’m here for the luncheon.”

She checked a printout to make sure I paid my $500—which I’d done online twenty minutes after Randall showed me the article in the paper—then handed me an adhesive tag with my name and occupation from the online form.

“Here you go, Mr. Prescott,” she said, glancing at my occupation with raised eyebrows. “You are assigned to the lavender table right over there.” She pointed to a table that had a lavender tablecloth.

I made my way through the many tables, searching out the faces. I saw a few I recognized from around town, but not many I knew by name. There was a long rectangular table up front, and I could see Mayor Van Dixon, Chief Eccleston, David Ramsey, plus a few other official looking people and presumably their spouses.

I came abreast of the lavender table and stopped.

Filling one of the six seats, wearing a dress nearly the same color