Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1) (20 page)

“I am totally, one hundred
percent certain that Harris did not steal the money,” she said, “because I was
not alone on that plane. Harris was sitting right beside me. And he stayed with
me the whole time we were down in California. In fact, for the full three weeks
that we spent around LA, it was like we were joined at the hip.”

This didn’t compute in
Morrison’s head.

“You flew out to California
with Harris?” he said.

“Yes.”

“And you stayed with him
the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“How close?”

“Couldn’t have been
closer.”

Morrison was stunned. “You
were having an affair with him? With Harris?”

Cowgirl nodded.

“And what about now?” he
said.

She smiled. “Don’t worry,
that’s ancient history, Morrison. It was just a temporary fling. It only lasted
a couple of months.”

He shook his head. “God,
you two? I never suspected anything.”

She shrugged. “We had to
be discreet. Harris was married. Still is. Besides, we knew this wouldn’t
thrill any of you guys. That whole rant about not mixing business with
pleasure, you know. You would’ve been the first to disapprove.”

“Damn right,” he said.

Cowgirl took a sip of wine.
She tilted her head to the side. “I’m surprised you didn’t also find out about
Harris when you got the confirmation I had flown to LA. Whatever record you
checked, Harris’s name must have been next to mine.”

“Well, I’m going to check
that right away,” he said.

He took his phone and
punched Johnson’s number. The hacker answered on the first ring.

“Do you still have the
documents for that flight out to LA?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s on my
computer. Why?”

“Can you check if there
was a Roger Harris in the boarded passenger list?”

Morrison heard some faint rapid-fire
clicks in the background. In front of him, Cowgirl took another sip of wine. Johnson
came back with the answer.

“Yeah,” he said, “there
was a Roger Harris on that plane. Seat 16B, right next to your lady friend.”

Morrison was incensed. “Hell,
Johnson, why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Whoa, get off your high
horse, Morrison. Who’s this Harris guy anyway? Why should I care about him?”

Morrison had almost
forgotten. Segregation of duties. It was his policy to reveal as little as
possible about his business to his associates. Of course, he had never
mentioned Harris to his hacker. Didn’t need to. So he hadn’t.

He calmed down and said, “You’re
right. You didn’t know about him so you couldn’t tell me.”

“There you go. Anybody
else you want to check on that list?”

“No. Just tell me what proof
of identity Harris carried with him through security.”

“Let me see …” Johnson
said, “… it was his passport. I’ve got the number and the expiration date right
here. You want them?”

“No, thanks. That won’t be
necessary.” He made a small pause. Then he said, “Have you gone back to work on
that other thing?”

“That other thing being
banks number four and five?” Johnson said.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said.

“I just got back to it. You
know, this motel room is not the best place to work, Morrison. I hope I’m not
gonna be stuck here for too long.”

“Well, stay there. Don’t
move until I tell you it’s safe. I mean it.”

Morrison hung up and
pocketed his phone. He was completely at a loss.

“You’re right, Cowgirl.
You and Harris have nothing to do with that.”

Cowgirl nodded. Of course.
He paused for a beat. Then he said, “But who in the hell stole all that money?”

Cowgirl drank the last sip
from her glass. “Couldn’t it be Mike or Tommy?” she said.

Morrison shook his head.
“Can’t be. Mike’s the one who put me back on that trail. When I was released
from prison two days ago, this was nowhere on my radar. Mike kind of forced my
hand to revisit the operation. So if he or Tommy had had anything to do with
stealing that money, they would’ve kept quiet. The last thing they would’ve
needed was someone sticking their nose into this mess.”

Cowgirl concurred. “Yet
somebody did get their hands on a nice big pile of money. At our expense,” she
said. “This means that an outsider had access to our plans. Got a list of all
the accounts we were going to hit.”

“Yes, with the codes and
everything,” he said. “Yet, I was the only one with them.”

“What about your hacker?”
she asked. “You trust him?”

“Can’t be him,” he said.
“If he had anything to do with it, he’d never have given me all the information
on Chelfington and Candela Banks. He would’ve pretended that nothing had been
stolen.”

Cowgirl nodded. “Makes
sense.”

Morrison was still shaking
his head in disbelief. “Who on earth was able to pull that off?”

Right at that moment, he
was happy to have the polished brass key safely tucked under his right shoe’s
inner sole. If any of his partners knew he had been released from prison with this
key as one of his few possessions, he would certainly have faced a series of
tough questions. And he wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to provide satisfactory
answers to them.

He got up. “I need to go
to the bathroom,” he said. “Order another round. I’ll have whatever you’re
having. It’s on me.”

The fundraiser crowd had
thinned out. The far end of the bar appeared less busy than when he had come
in. There were still a lot of people, but now he could clearly make out the
poster that had been printed for the event. It was a simple but very effective
image: a tiny child’s hand tucked into the large paw of an adult.

Morrison pushed his way through
the bathroom door. The room was empty. He went to a urinal.
Oh, what a mess
,
he thought about his current situation. He thought he had nailed Harris, but
then it turned out the wily old fox had done nothing wrong. Morrison sighed. So
who had done it? Who had put their filthy hands on his money? He was dejected.
Had no clue. And worse, he had no clue where the next clue could come from.

The bathroom door’s hinges
creaked, allowing the bar’s rumor to sneak in briefly before the door swung
shut again. Morrison zipped up and turned around to go wash his hands.

That’s when he saw the
shadow at the corner of his eye.

Moving toward him at warp
speed.

He heard the hiss of a
clenched fist swinging for his head.

He ducked and avoided the
punch by a few millimeters.

Carried by the momentum, his
attacker swung past him but straightened up in a flash. Morrison looked at him.
The guy was six feet tall. One hundred eighty pounds. Reasonably fit. In his
mid-twenties. Head all dark hair.

Angry Eyes. The ATM guy he
had knocked out with a kick to the side of the head on Main Street.

Even angrier now.

Morrison knew at once that
he was in big trouble.

Angry Eyes showed a mean
smirk. Like the asshole could read his mind.

When it came to fighting, Morrison
was a one-trick pony. He literally had one effective trick up his sleeve. That
was it. And he had already used it, with stellar success, on Angry Eyes.

He was a small guy. He
could fight anybody once and have his chance. But not twice. No way. Unless the
other guy was a complete idiot. Which Angry Eyes didn’t appear to be.

At this point, there was only
one option left. Run away. Get out of this place as fast as his legs would
carry him. But he couldn’t do that. Angry Eyes stood right between him and the
bathroom swing door.

Angry Eyes knew he was in
a good position. Knew he had the upper hand. It was written all over his face.

The asshole came at him
with a powerful right. Morrison dove on his left to avoid the punch. But only
just. The guy’s fist flew dangerously close to his ear.

Then Angry Eyes came back
in a flash with a hard left to the stomach. Morrison felt like he had just been
hit by a mile-long train.

It took the wind out of
him.

His knees weakened.

Angry Eyes knew better
than to stop there. He followed with a right uppercut that landed square on his
chin.

Morrison saw bright
flashes.

His legs suddenly felt
like wet cotton.

Then it was lights out.

The respected citizen heard
a few shouts and turned around. There was a commotion just outside the
bathroom. Two large guys held another one by the arms, like they wanted to
prevent him from fleeing the scene.
Some sort of bar brawl
, it thought
with a shrug,
not unusual on a Saturday night.

The respected citizen
threaded its way through the crowd, drawing nearer to the action. Some people stood
in the doorway to the bathroom, keeping the swing door half open. In there, a
man lay on the floor in front of the urinals.
He’s just been knocked out by
the other guy,
someone said. The respected citizen could see only the man’s
legs. A Good Samaritan crouched in front of him, blocking the view. After a
moment, the still legs started to shift. With help from the Good Samaritan, the
man sat up.

Despite the dazed look on
his face, he was instantly recognizable.

The respected citizen
froze.

Frank Morrison,
he thought.
What are
you doing down there?

*

The light in Morrison’s
face was so bright it made him squint. Felt like he was staring straight into
the sun. As if that was not enough, his eyes had trouble focusing. There was a
man and a half crouching in front of him. Strangely, he could hear everything
sharp and clear.
He’s coming back to his senses
, he heard.
The guy is
all right
, another voice said. Morrison closed his eyes and cupped his
forehead with his right hand. Massaged his temples. Then he opened his eyes
again. It was already better. There was now only one man crouching in front of
him. “You OK?” the man asked. “Do you want a glass of water or somethin’?”

Morrison felt like shit
but he remembered Angry Eyes’ punches and thought it was only natural. The son
of a bitch had hit him pretty hard.

“I’m all right,” he said,”
I’m all right. Can you help me stand up?”

The Good Samaritan
extended his arm and Morrison grabbed it with both hands. He was up on his feet
in a second, but he had to hold on to the guy’s arm for a moment to steady
himself. He heard a voice beaming from the doorway.

“Making trouble again,
Morrison?” it said.

Morrison veered his head.
It was Sheriff Sanford, still spectacular in her black cocktail dress but now very
much the sheriff in her demeanor. She was walking toward him.

“Me? I didn’t do anything,”
he said.

“Then what were you doing
on the floor?” she said.

He shrugged and let go of
the Good Samaritan’s arm. He didn’t want to appear too weak.

“I was going to the
bathroom and that guy knocked me out,” he said, pointing to Angry Eyes, who was
still being held down by two big guys.

“What, just like that? For
no reason?” she said.

“I don’t usually run around
asking for this, you know. If you want to know why, you should ask him,” he
said. Then he shook his head. “Hell, I’d like to know myself.”

Sheriff Sanford turned
around to face Angry Eyes. “What do you have to say?” she said.

Morrison could read the
embarrassment on Angry Eyes’ face. By now, the guy should have been long gone,
but he hadn’t counted on some of the bar’s patrons intruding. The asshole had
probably acted on the spur of the moment.
Just my luck
, Morrison thought.
Obviously, Angry Eyes couldn’t tell her the truth. That this little altercation
was only retribution for their first encounter, when Morrison had knocked him
out cold. Angry Eyes had to come up with something, anything. But he seemed at
a loss to find a suitable nugget of bullshit.

“The little prick
disrespected me,” he ended up saying.

Morrison countered
immediately. “I didn’t say anything. You hear voices, buddy,” he said.

“He bumped into me, I told
him to watch his step and he told me to eff myself,” Angry Eyes said.

“Pure bullshit,” Morrison
said.

Sheriff Sanford raised her
right arm. “That’s enough,” she said. “Somebody’s lying here. We’re gonna go
clear this up at the station.”

“You’re kidding, Sheriff,”
Morrison said. “He knocks me out cold and I have to go to the station? It’s not
fair.”

“You’re both coming in,”
she said. “End of story.”

Somebody had already called
the sheriff’s department because two deputies arrived promptly on the scene. Sanford
gestured for them to take both men into custody. The two deputies parted ways.
The younger one, a thick muscular man with a buzz cut, drew near Morrison and
made him turn around and put his hands behind his back. He sighed and complied.

“Go easy with the cuffs,”
he said.

But the deputy snapped the
handcuffs around his wrists and ratcheted them hard into place. The cold metal ate
into the flesh all the way to the bone. Morrison made a face. Son of a bitch,
that hurt.

The deputy with the buzz
cut grabbed his right elbow. Walked him out of the bathroom.

Back in the bar’s wide
open room, Morrison caught sight of Cowgirl. She was still sitting in the booth
with a look of surprise and worry on her face. He didn’t lock on her eyes.
Didn’t want to emphasize their association. A few feet ahead, the other deputy,
a tall lanky fellow, walked Angry Eyes in a similar fashion to the door.
Morrison looked around the crowd and saw Harris. The wily old fox was staring
at his protégé. He seemed furious at Angry Eyes. Then Harris turned his face
toward him and his facial expression changed. Now, he looked more puzzled than
anything.

Outside, a small crowd of
curious onlookers had gathered on the sidewalk. Two patrol cars were parked
right in front of Flanagan’s with their flashing lights ablaze. It was a small
consolation, but at least Morrison wouldn’t have to ride with Angry Eyes.

The deputy with the buzz
cut brought him to the nearest black Charger. He opened the rear door, put his
hand on top of his head and pushed him inside. The deputy slammed the door shut,
skirted the front of the car and slid behind the wheel. They stayed there for a
while. The other car was still out in front, not ready to go. The lanky deputy
was talking on his radio.

Morrison looked around. He
wanted to avoid the onlookers’ gazes. It was becoming embarrassing.

On his left, he saw Sheriff
Sanford trot across the street. She walked fast, in her natural athletic way.
She had a mobile phone pressed to one ear. With her other hand, she raised a
remote toward a row of parked cars. The lights on one of the cars blinked. He
frowned. It was her civilian ride.

He watched her cover the
last few feet to the car. Pull the handle open and slide into the driver’s
seat.

His eyes widened.

The car was unexpected.

To say the least.

It was a slick
convertible. A Mercedes SLK. Silver with twenty-inch rims and wide low-profile tires.
Very recent. In fact, it looked brand new.

That struck him.

That struck him hard.

Now, isn’t this an
expensive car for a sheriff?
he thought.