Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1) (16 page)

*

Just like the previous
night, the pillows and bedspread went flying in all directions. And just like
the previous night, he and Cowgirl were left panting on the giant mattress, their
bodies spent, totally covered in sweat.

It could have been just a
pleasant repeat of their previous session. But this time, Morrison saw her in a
different light. A much different light. While before he’d had no suspicion of
her involvement in anything fishy, this time she was one of two suspects in the
theft of four million dollars from him. At least four million, but more
probably eight. And yet, by looking at her, you wouldn’t suspect anything.

Morrison lay on his back.
She rested her head on his chest, her body at a slight angle across his. He
could feel she was relaxed, totally at ease. If he didn’t have any reason to
doubt her, he would have sworn she was genuine. But maybe it was just a façade.
Maybe she was just acting that way precisely so he wouldn’t suspect anything. After
all, she was a good actress. He had seen her fool many a sucker in their previous
operations. At that moment, the old saying came rushing back to Morrison’s mind:
if you’re sitting around the poker table and can’t spot the sucker, then you’re
probably it.

Out of the corner of his eye,
Morrison caught a glimpse of the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was already 10:30
a.m.

“I’m surprised you’re still
in bed at this hour,” he said. “Don’t you have a full stable? I thought you horse
people were always up at dawn to take care of those beasts.”

Cowgirl shook her head. “No,
no, I’ve got some people just for that,” she said.

“Oh, so you’re the big
shot owner and they do all the work for you.”

“Isn’t it supposed to work
like this? Last time I checked, it was called capitalism.”

“How many employees do you
have?”

“Depends on the time of
the year. But usually six or seven.”

Morrison whistled. “Must
cost a fortune to keep that operation running.”

Cowgirl raised herself up on
her elbow. “It’s not cheap. I’ll grant you that. That’s why I was anxious for
you to get out of prison so we could think about making some good money again.”

Very nicely played
, he thought,
very
nicely played. But if you’re the one who pocketed the four other banks’ money,
you can afford to lie down in bed all day for the rest of your life without a
worry in the world.

“So you haven’t burned
through all your war chest yet?”

“What’s the matter,
Morrison? You want to become my business manager now?”

“No, it’s just that I
would’ve thought you’d be more active. That’s all.”

“I told you, I’ve been
enjoying the good life. I mean, what’s the point in living the life we do if
you’re going to work your ass off? I’m leading this life precisely so I do
not
have to work my ass off. Aren’t you?”

Morrison nodded. “That’s
not a bad way to put it,” he said.

“Well, now that you’ve
made me feel guilty for lying around in bed, I’m gonna get up and take a bath.”

She inched closer to him
and landed a warm kiss on his mouth. “Stick around, OK? I’m gonna cook us a
nice breakfast. You’re in for a real treat.”

“I’m not moving an inch. Promise.”

He watched her beautiful
naked body saunter away from the bed and disappear behind the bathroom door.
Heard the water start running in a muted splash. The ceiling fan started whirring
away in a hushed buzz.
Good
, he thought. Before he got down to work, he decided
to stay there a couple more minutes. Just long enough for her to settle down in
there.

He raised himself and reached
for the tablet she had left on the nightstand. Cowgirl had it open on a browser
page from the local newspaper website. It displayed a short piece on the
previous night’s motorcycle accident. It stuck to basics. There was the name of
the dead rider that Morrison indeed knew. A brief profile of his past deeds. The
dead rider was a small-time fry who had a knack for getting into trouble. The sheriff’s
department knew all about him. The piece said nothing too specific about the circumstances
of the accident, just that after being chased at high speed, the motorcycle had
crashed into Sheriff Sanford’s patrol car and that the rider had met with an
instant death. It also added that Sheriff Sanford had suffered a slight shock
but had been able to gather herself and leave the scene unattended. Morrison browsed
the rest of the site to kill some time. Then he heard the water stop running, followed
by some mild splashing. Cowgirl would be in there for a while now. He could get
right down to business.

First, he wanted to get a
hold of her mobile phone. Earlier that morning, when he had called her on that
number, she had answered reasonably fast, with a sleepy voice. So it had to be
somewhere in the bedroom. Morrison opened the two drawers in the nightstand next
to him and found nothing besides the small gun and a box of ammunitions.
Caliber .22, like he had guessed. He rolled to the far side of the bed and
checked out the other bed stand. In the top drawer was a small pile of fashion
magazines and a couple of paperbacks. In the bottom one was her smartphone,
next to a box of tissues. Morrison picked it up and pressed a button to bring
the screen back up. It wasn’t password protected. He started looking into it.

First thing he checked was
her phone call logs. There weren’t many of them. Either Cowgirl was not a big chatter
or she used her landline for most of her communications. Morrison couldn’t say.

The log ran back
approximately one week. During that time, she had exchanged barely a dozen
calls. Most of these displayed a name in addition to the number, so they tied
back to contacts she maintained in her address book. But two of them simply
referred to plain numbers without any further identification. The last one was
his own prepaid number. And the last but one, late the previous night, was a
number he didn’t know. Crucially, there was no phone exchange with any of the
other partners in their failed deal during that period. No trace of Mike or
Harris. And obviously none of Tommy since he was still stuck in prison.

After that, he opened her
email account. There was a deluge of messages. Apparently she never cleaned or
sorted them into subject-related folders. Everything was in the inbox. Morrison
checked the first few of them.

Most were related to her
horse business. Pedestrian emails exchanged with customers and service
providers. Setting up appointments. Sending and receiving invoices. And through
them all, a few that looked more personal with friends and family members. Morrison
scanned the list over a six-month period and found nothing special. Again, no
trace of Mike, Harris or Tommy.

Next, Morrison opened her
agenda and perused the last couple of weeks. Most of the entries he saw were
related to some of the emails he had just read. Morrison spent long minutes
looking for something, anything that would seem out of the ordinary. But there
was nothing. No big surprise there either.

He decided to put the
mobile back in the bed stand and switch his gears to the rest of her bedroom.
Starting with the chest of drawers. He got up and started sifting through the
top left one. It was full of all kinds of underwear, piled up one on top of the
other—as messy as her email inbox had been, come to think of it. The items were
all mixed up together. Nothing was folded. It was just there. Lacy, cotton and
sporty all in a big tangle. Morrison patted through them but suddenly felt
ridiculous about it. What could he possibly hope to achieve going through a
beautiful woman’s underwear? That’s when the idea struck him. The mess. He
stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of his search. Pushed back the drawer.

He’d just had an idea. A
crazy idea. That was so long ago. But maybe, just maybe, there was still a
trace.

He trotted back to the bed
stand, pulled open the drawer and picked up her mobile again. Revived the
screen. Then he opened Cowgirl’s email account. This time, he didn’t focus on
the last couple of months. Instead, he wound his way back through the mess of
emails three years in the past.

Cowgirl’s messages were all
still there. She hadn’t cleaned them up. Morrison went all the way back to the
exact day of his arrest.

Of course, during their
operation, they hadn’t used their personal emails or phone numbers. But
Morrison hoped he could still pick up something. Anything.

And he was not
disappointed.

During the days preceding
their failed operation, her email log had run thin. This was normal. She had
been pretty busy working on the operation. Didn’t have time to chitchat
virtually. But the exact day of Morrison’s arrest, she received an intriguing
email. Late at night, so it was definitely after Sheriff Sanford had handcuffed
him and taken him into custody at the county jail.

It had come from an
airline. A ticket-booking confirmation.

It contained all the
details of her flight. One way. Due to take off from JFK at 6:20 a.m., probably
the earliest flight available. And it was going to LAX. Los Angeles. It even displayed
her seat number, 16A.

This is major
, he thought. If she had
flown to LA the day after he was arrested, that alone would disqualify her as a
potential suspect. Because this was
before
the other four banks had been
skimmed, in
New York City
. If she had engineered that covert operation after
his arrest, she would never have left before it was actually carried out. Never
would have left without the money. You didn’t leave that kind of amount in
somebody else’s hands, especially if you were already double-crossing your
partners.

So maybe Cowgirl has
nothing to do with this after all
, he thought.

But on the other hand, it
could also be a smart move. A very smart move. If you wanted to build up an
alibi, pretend that you were away, all you had to do was buy a plane ticket and
lay low. That way you left a trace. You could argue that you had boarded that
plane and left the city before that nasty second operation had ever taken
place. Morrison could see Cowgirl thinking this through easily. She was one
smart cookie. So right there and then, Morrison knew that he absolutely needed
to establish if Cowgirl had boarded that plane or not.

He raced to the spot where
his jacket lay on the floor. Lifted it and fished his own mobile from one
pocket. Then he punched a text message for Johnson with all the details of that
flight, followed by a simple question.
Can you verify if she actually
boarded that plane? This is real important.

The head of IT security at
Candela Bank called up his counterpart at a huge telecommunications company.
After years of dealing with him for work, they had become buddies. And buddies could
ask favors of one another, right? Even on a bright Saturday morning. His buddy
was enjoying a nice round of golf. Was shooting for par after the first nine
holes. So he was in a great mood. He had returned the head of IT security’s
phone call on his break before heading off for the back nine.

The head of IT security
hadn’t specified which IP address interested him, just that he needed to access
their logs for a few minutes. Of course, there were official ways to do that. He
had been through them on countless occasions. But now, he didn’t have the time.
So could he just forego all the official demands and cut through the red tape? It
was important. A personal matter. Could he just give him a user ID and a
password? This wouldn’t take more than four or five minutes, promised. Nobody
would hear about it. The buddy was happy enough to comply. He owed him anyway.
Thanks to the head of IT security’s internal contacts at Candela Bank, he had
just signed a mortgage renewal at very favorable terms. So what was it to give
him his personal password for a few minutes? He would change it later on that
day, that’s all. After his golf game. It was the least he could do. Between
buddies.

As promised, the head of
IT security didn’t spend too much time logged into the telecom servers. Took
him all of four minutes and he had a physical address to match with that IP
address. He googled it: it was an apartment building on the periphery of
downtown Acton. The intruder lived in a three-story brick building divided into
six to eight individual apartments. Having this information in hand emboldened the
head of IT security. He was beyond tired, but this would soon be over.

He left his house and
drove his luxurious German sedan all the way to the disgusting phone booth in
the abandoned gas station lot. Now that it was broad daylight, he felt exposed,
unlike for his previous call when he had enjoyed the cover of night. But he
figured he wouldn’t be there too long. So he stepped into the booth and called
the same number.

“Took you some time,” the
respected citizen said at the other end of the line.

“You try it yourself,” the
head of IT security said. “We’ll see how long it takes you.”

“In these matters, time is
of the essence.”

“Tell me something I don’t
know. You got pen and paper?”

“My head will be fine. Go
ahead.”

“The hacker’s name is
Robert Walter. He lives here in Acton at 49 Fowler Street, apartment 5.”

The respected citizen
repeated the name and the address and said, “OK, got it. I’m going to arrange
to send somebody down there. Right now.”

*

After Cowgirl had finished
taking her long bath, Morrison hopped into the shower stall and spent a long
time under the hot and steamy stream. Then he got dressed again and trotted
down the stairs to join Cowgirl.

A pleasant waft of
sizzling bacon welcomed him into the kitchen. She looked very busy but totally
in control behind the gas stove. She jockeyed two frying pans, one for the
bacon on her left, one for the pancakes on her right. Above her, the hood
sucked in the fumes at full blast. The room was very noisy.

“Can I do something?”
Morrison shouted loud enough to be heard.

Cowgirl turned and nodded
toward the espresso machine. “Why don’t you make us some cappuccinos?” she
said.

Morrison gave a nod and
headed for the fridge to pick up a carton of milk. Then he grabbed a stainless
steel cup on top of the espresso machine, filled it halfway with milk and hit
the steam button. It was a good machine. A genuine one, made in Italy with solid
brass, like they have in bars and restaurants, not some cheap plastic knockoff
made in China. This was the real deal. Probably cost as much as a small Japanese
car. It worked great, but it also added a lot to the ambient cacophony. On top
of that, a phone started ringing. Morrison turned his head. It came from Cowgirl’s
mobile lying on the kitchen island’s marble countertop.

“Gotta take this,” Cowgirl
shouted. “Do you want to take over here for a minute?”

“Sure,” Morrison said, “no
problem.”

He had just finished
frothing the milk, so he turned off the steam knob, set the hot stainless steel
cup on the white marble counter and moved toward the stove while she picked up
her mobile and left the room.

One pancake was ready to
be turned over. Morrison flipped it with the spatula without making a mess of
it, which made him happy. It was golden brown, with lots of blueberries in the
batter. It looked real good. Cowgirl was an organized cook. She had a cup nearby
with a wide spoon to drain the bacon fat from the frying pan as she went, so it
didn’t explode all over the stovetop. And she had the oven on at medium
temperature to keep the pancakes warm. When he pulled the oven door open to slide
a new one in, he saw that she had already made a stack of them.

All this cooking kept Morrison
pretty busy. After a while, the bacon looked just about ready. Morrison turned
down the knob to put out the flame under that pan and drained another couple of
spoonfuls of bacon fat out of it. Then he got to the bottom of the pancake
batter bowl. When he finished frying the last one, he dropped it on the stack
in the oven, put out the flame on the stovetop and then turned off the hood fan.
It was suddenly a lot quieter in there.

Cowgirl came back to the
kitchen with her mobile in hand.

“Sorry, I really had to
take this and it was just too noisy in here. It was my vet, for the horses.
These guys are so hard to get your hands on. When they call back, you just drop
everything and run to them.”

“No sweat,” he said. “I
managed to take care of things in here.”

She looked around the
room, noticed the cup of milk with a thick foam top in front of the espresso
machine. The crisp bacon strips lined up on a clean plate. The dirty bowl and
utensils discarded in the sink.

“You look good enough to
marry, Morrison,” she said with a smile. “Let me finish off the cappuccinos.”

While she operated the
machine, Morrison brought the plate of hot pancakes to the table. Then they sat
down to eat.

She had brewed some lean
and mean coffee, with a devilishly strong kick. The rest of her breakfast was as
she had promised—really awesome. She had buried the pancakes under an avalanche
of fresh fruits and smothered them with her neighbor’s maple syrup, freshly
boiled just a few weeks before.

This was a pleasant and leisurely
breakfast. But while he ate, Morrison couldn’t get the thought out of his head.

He still didn’t know if
Cowgirl was the real deal, just the charming and relaxed gal that she appeared
to be. Or a ruthless, conniving, calculating bitch who had robbed him blind and
was making a fool out of him by faking this casual charade to perfection.

He couldn’t wait to finish
breakfast and then go to Johnson’s.

Hopefully, his hacker
would have some answers for him.

*

The demand was unusual,
even for a professional hitman. Killing was what he did for a living. Somewhat
ironic, but the dichotomy didn’t trouble him in the least. What was unusual was
the swiftness asked of him. The assignment had to be carried out immediately.

Usually, the hitman had a
few days to stake out his prey. Get to know its habits. Get comfortable with
its surroundings. But in this case, time was of the essence. The killing had to
happen right now. Of course, this sense of urgency put the killer in a strong
bargaining position, and he used the leverage wisely to impose very favorable
terms.

After putting down the
phone, the hitman immediately started his preparation. Blending in would be
paramount. He had to be anonymous. Physically, he didn’t display any features
that could single him out. Didn’t have a beard, mustache, sideburns or goatee. His
face was clean shaven, his hair cut short. Didn’t have any tattoos or peculiar physical
marks.

For his clothes, he decided
to go with simple blue jeans and a white shirt. The trick was to choose what
you really wanted to show. Focus people’s attention on one or two details. In
his case, he went for a black jacket and a Yankees hat. Because on the far-off
chance that anyone he encountered while executing his mission was asked to
describe him, he wanted that person to first mention that it had been a guy
with a black jacket and a Yankees hat. For the rest, well, he was a regular
guy, you know, medium height, nothing special about him. To blend back into the
crowd, all he would have to do would be to shed the jacket and the baseball cap
and he would be virtually undistinguishable from his next-door neighbor. Nobody
he would just pass by briefly would ever recognize him.

His physical appearance
settled, the hitman switched his focus to the tools he would be using. Again,
simplicity was called for. He decided to take a 9mm Beretta with a silencer. As
a backup, he would use a snub-nose .38, a messier weapon for sure, but it
always got the job done. And of course, he would need his lock pick set.

He knew how to get to his
target’s place. 49 Fowler Street, apartment 5. A fifteen-minute drive from his
own.

He drove his car cautiously
and rolled by the apartment building once, just to take in the surroundings. There
was nobody outside. A few cars were parked in the street. Nothing special. So he
pushed on his way, pulled up at the curb of a side street, three blocks down
from his victim’s place, and walked to the apartment building.

He didn’t know how many
people would be in there. Or if his target would be there at all. As time was
of the essence, this didn’t really matter. If there were other people with his
target, he would have to take them out too. If his target wasn’t home, he would
just stay in there, wait for his return and kill him as soon as he put his foot
through the door. When you didn’t have time to plan, you stuck to the basics. Didn’t
make things more complicated than they were.

The hitman put on his
gloves and pushed his way through the front door of the apartment building. Climbed
up the stairs to the second-floor landing. Then walked a few steps to apartment
number 5 in the dark hallway.

He rang the doorbell once.
Nobody answered. Rang a second time, just to be sure. Still no answer. So his
target wasn’t home. The hitman got his lock pick set out and forced the lock in
a few seconds. Then he put the tool back in his pocket, got his silencer gun
from under his belt and pushed the door open.

The apartment was not very
big. Essentially an open living and dining room area with a kitchen corner and
a separate bedroom. Contrary to what he’d assumed after the doorbell went
unanswered, there was somebody in there: a young man sitting at the dining room
table in front of a laptop computer. Had his back to him. Was wearing big
headphones with massive ears. The type that performed some sort of noise
reduction so that you only heard what came through them, not all the parasite ambient
sounds.

The hitman smiled when he
saw this and closed the door behind him.

His target wouldn’t hear
him coming.

He stepped in closer, his
silencer gun aimed at the young man.

When he was three feet
away, he fired two shots in rapid succession. In the guy’s back, at heart level.

Then he aimed at the head
and fired two more rounds in muted thumps.

The target promptly
collapsed in his chair and fell short of the table. Ended up in a slumping
position, his body half suspended over the left arm of his chair. The laptop
got some splashing, of course. The hitman drew closer. He peered at the screen.
It displayed data from an airline company. Some sort of boarding flight list.
The hitman didn’t really care what was on there, but he had been instructed to
bring back the laptop. Because he was expected to find one. So he simply folded
the computer shut and took it under his arm.

That’s when he heard some muted
thumps, light and slow. He turned around.

A kid had come ambling
into the living room. Two years old. At most. Must have been napping in the
bedroom. The hitman froze for a moment but he quickly regained his composure.

This is just a job
, he thought.
Don’t let
your emotions take over.

The baby saw his father.
Started to cry. The hitman aimed his silencer gun at him.

Don’t let things be more
complicated than they are.

The baby cried harder.

The hitman felt trapped.

He increased the pressure
on the trigger.

But just before he
squeezed it all the way through, he closed his eyes.