Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1) (19 page)

Johnson had a bad case of
snoring. It was loud, deep and frankly disgusting, Morrison thought. From time
to time, his breathing almost stopped, only to resume with a sudden cackling burst,
as if he suffered from some sort of sleep apnea. Morrison had spent the whole
afternoon at his side in the motel room and could barely stand it anymore. No
wonder his hacker friend was single. No woman could ever put up with that.

But however bad Johnson’s
snoring was, it hadn’t prevented Morrison from thinking. In the relative calm
of the room, he had come to a conclusion. He could use some help. Especially
now that he knew Cowgirl was the real deal. That she’d had nothing to do with
the stolen eight million dollars. Morrison rang her number.

“Can I drop by your
place?” he asked when she picked up the phone. “I need to talk to you about
something.”

“I can’t right now. I have
to go,” she said.

“Where you going?”

“To Flanagan’s for a
fundraiser.”

“Lucky you,” he said.

Cowgirl giggled. “Yeah.
Those are always such bores,” she said. “But if you want to talk, why don’t you
just meet me there? I’ll be more than happy to step away from the crowd once
I’ve put in some face time.”

He thought about the
events of the early afternoon, when he had stumbled upon the two bodies at the
dead hacker’s place. He’d have to make a few checks before he ventured out in
public.

“I’ll try to make it,” he
said. “When will you be there?”

“Between six and eight o’clock.”

He made a mental note of
the hour before he hung up.

After that, he connected
his phone to the motel’s router and launched the browser. Searched for local
media websites. Went through a couple of them. They all reported on the double
murder but there wasn’t too much detail—only factual reports that gave the
number of victims along with the street name of the apartment building where
they were found. The victims’ names weren’t even mentioned. Nor was there any
suspect identified. No official description. Nothing that could single him out.
He relaxed, at least for now. The last thing he needed was to become a suspect
in a double murder case and have his face plastered all over the county.

He looked at his watch. It
was 5:30 p.m.

He decided it was safe to
leave the motel, so he broke off the Wi-Fi connection, got up on his feet and
left the room, making sure the doorknob was locked before he closed the dull
blue door behind him.

Across the street, the
shopping center parking lot had thinned out. Most of the shoppers had gone home
for supper. His big black Navigator now stood alone in one corner, not too far
from Johnson’s little old lady’s car. Morrison made his way to the SUV, got it
going and rejoined the main road. He would only be meeting Cowgirl at
Flanagan’s around seven. In the interval, he decided to go sniffing around
Harris.

He drove cautiously to the
northern edge of town, to Chambers Road, where Harris Corporation was located.
When he came within sight of the standalone fabricated steel-paneled building,
he pulled up to the curb and killed the engine.

On this, an early Saturday
night, all the machinery was huddled in the yard behind the light gray and blue
building: the eighteen-wheelers with their trailers, the tractors, the pickups,
the diggers, the dump trucks and the snowplow attachments discarded until next
December. There was even more machinery than when he’d driven by the place yesterday.
That was normal. On a weekend night, there was no outgoing job. The workers
were at home until early Monday morning, when the place would turn into a
beehive again and foremen would send them out in all directions.

He stared at the unsightly
building. There they were, his eight million dollars. Metaphorically, of course.
He was sure that after he snatched up the money, old wily Harris promptly laundered
it through his company’s accounting system. Nice and clean. Even paid a bit of
taxes on it. Not much, but just enough. So the dirty stolen money harbored the
same appearance as the legit stuff.

He looked carefully around
the building. There were no cars in the parking lot. No guard or foot patrol of
any kind. The cash from those eight million dollars wouldn’t be there, of
course. But he bet there were still traces of them in the accounting system. He
bet that if he could have a look at the books, he could spot the trickle of
fresh cash infused in them during the months that had followed the theft. For a
moment, he was furiously tempted to go have a peek. Only a lock or two stood
between him and the proof that Harris had robbed him blind. Picking locks was
nothing for Morrison. He’d done it so many times he could do it blindfolded. But
again, there was no rush to do it right now. And there probably was an alarm
system of some kind in the building. This wasn’t a big problem either. He could
handle them. But not right away. Not without a minimum of preparation.

So he got the big V8 going
again and started in the direction of Harris’s place. The businessman lived ten
minutes away in a large house planted on a vast estate. When he drew near the
tree-lined driveway, he saw Harris’s car emerging from there, at the head of a
thick dust cloud. Morrison slowed down. Harris merged on the two-lane road, in
the same direction he was going.

Morrison then slowed down
even further. In fact, he almost stopped in the dust cloud that was washing
across the road. He kept his sights firmly on Harris. When the wily old fox was
far enough ahead, he picked up some speed and began tailing him.

He went at it nice and
slow from far behind. No pressure.

Harris drove at a steady
pace. He was heading to town.

For a moment, just as he
had thought as he stared at the Harris Corporation building, Morrison pondered
the possibility of going at Harris full frontal. Maybe he should drop these
shenanigans and just confront him:
I know you stole our money, old bastard,
and you’re going to have to pay us back.
But Harris would deny it, of
course, wouldn’t he? And then what would he say?
I know it’s not the others
so it must be you?
Harris would say this was no proof and he would be
right. Harris could even say that it was he, Morrison, for all he knew, who had
stolen the money somehow. Morrison was still on shaky ground. He needed something
solid before he could corner Harris. And that’s where Cowgirl could help him
move faster.

Harris led him into the heart
of Acton’s downtown, on Main Street. From seven or eight cars behind, he saw the
wily old bastard pull into an angled parking spot. While Harris parked his car,
Morrison continued with the slow traffic. Once he was past, he kept one eye on
his rear-view mirror.

The son of a bitch was dressed
business casual—dark pants, gray jacket and black open shirt. Had a wide smile
on his face. He ambled down the sidewalk with a spring in his step. In a few
strides, he made it to his final destination. There, he extended his hand,
pulled the door open and went in.

The place was Flanagan’s. The
same bar where Cowgirl was.

As always in these events,
the respected citizen headed straight for the bar right after setting foot into
Flanagan’s. The afternoon had been long and filled with hard manual labor under
a scorching sun. The respected citizen took a mental note. Go easy on the wine.
It’s gonna go straight to your head. And make sure you munch a bit.

There were a dozen glasses
of red and white wine laid out on the counter at the far end of the room. The respected
citizen went for the red.
Remember, squeeze your fingers around the stem. Don’t
wrap them around the bowl like you do at home.
The citizen took a first sip.
Not bad but not great. Typical stuff you drank at fundraisers. A big plate filled
with hors d’oeuvres sat next to the wine glasses. The respected citizen gobbled
up two of them, wiped its hand with a napkin then started to work the crowd.

In contrast with the
bright sunshine outside, the place looked somewhat dark. Like one of those after-hours
spots. The subdued lighting produced a casual atmosphere that was pleasant.
Infinitely more so than when these functions took place at the chamber of
commerce or the Kiwanis club.

The respected citizen
joined a first group. Shared a joke or two. Those were all familiar faces, the
same people you always met at these events. This was business as usual. The
trick was never to remain still for too long. Share a few good words, have a
few laughs then move on. Remain on the surface. This was not the place for deep
conversations. Keep the banter light and, above all, keep moving. Show your
face around. That’s what it’s all about. Getting some face time out there.

*

Morrison parked his big
SUV one block down from Harris’s car and walked back to Miss Italia. He had an
hour to kill before he would meet Cowgirl next door at Flanagan’s, so he
figured he’d use the time to get a proper meal.

Inside, the new Korean
owner was sitting behind the cash register. The guy nodded to him when he
walked by, like he recognized him. Morrison nodded back and went for the same
booth where he’d had dinner then dessert with Johnson two nights before. The
same quiet music filled the background. And like last time, there were only a
couple of tables with patrons.

The same young waitress
came over to his table with a pleasant smile. She too had recognized him, he
could tell. There was something personal in that smile.

“Welcome back,” she said.
“What will you have tonight?”

He didn’t bother to look
at the menu. In restaurants, he was a creature of habit. When he really liked
something, he tended to stick to it.

“Spaghetti-meatballs with
a glass of house red,” he said.

The waitress nodded. Didn’t
bother taking down the order. Way too simple. Instead, she said, “You know the waitress
you asked me about two days ago? Sara. Redhead. Medium height. Rather cute?”

“Yeah, that’s her
description all right,” he said.

“I asked another girl
yesterday,” she said, “and she told me that she knew her but that she’s been
gone a long time. About three years.”

He nodded. That made
sense. Right when he had been sent to prison. He couldn’t blame her for not
sticking around. Not in a million years.

“Do you know where she
lives now?” he asked.

The waitress frowned. “She
told me that she heard Sara had moved to New Hampshire or Vermont or even
possibly Maine, she wasn’t sure. But she didn’t live around here anymore, she
was positive about that.”

That didn’t surprise him. Like
him, Sara was not originally from these parts. There was nothing to hold her back
in Acton.

They remained silent for a
beat. Then the waitress said, “She told me Sara looked heartbroken when she
left.”

He let that sink in. Dear
Sara. He could imagine her pain. Then he smiled at the waitress and said, “Thanks
for the information. I really appreciate you sharing this.”

The waitress nodded, like
it was only natural. Then, instead of turning around to go place his order in
the kitchen, she lingered there for a few moments.

“Can I ask you something?”
she said, staring at him.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Your eyes. Are they
natural?”

His eyes. He kept
forgetting that his eyes produced such an effect on people. Especially on
women. He could see from the waitress’s face that she was fascinated by them.
Just like Laura had been back at Mike’s house.

“Yes, they are. It’s something
called heterochromia,” he said. Then he cracked a thin smile. “I haven’t done
anything to deserve it, really. I was born that way.”

“Well, it’s striking,” she
said, “pretty striking.”

She retreated to the
kitchen and left him all alone at his table. The quick chat had brought back memories,
bittersweet ones. He had loved Sara. Very much. In addition to being strikingly
beautiful, she was witty and lively, very intelligent. They had been together
for a few months, but he had never told her what his real occupation was. Could
never summon the nerve. He stared at the empty seat across the booth and shook
his head. It must have been a huge shock for her when he was arrested. He
couldn’t blame her for vanishing like that, without a trace. He felt it was all
he had deserved, really.

The waitress came back
with the glass of wine and a kind, sincere smile. He thanked her. Took a first
sip of wine.

This all reminded him that
he, too, should have been far away from Acton at the moment. He was not even
supposed to still be in the state of New York. His plans had been so different.
He wiggled the toes in his right shoe and felt the small bump from the key
hidden under the inner sole.

He was supposed to be in
an entirely different place, doing an entirely different thing, but there he
was. Stuck in Acton again.

With a fresh new worry.

It came crashing down in
his head right at that moment. His eyes. His bloody eyes. Shit, he hadn’t thought
about that. The different colors in his eyes made him easier to identify than
the average Joe. Far easier. It had completely escaped him since his brief
encounter with the young family down at the dead hacker’s place. He sure hoped
they hadn’t noticed his peculiar eyes. He paused and tried to remember how the
sequence had gone.
Sequence
was probably too strong a word to describe
what had happened. It had been only a moment, a fleeting moment. A brief
encounter, without any incentive for the young mother and father to take
special notice of him. But still. Morrison tried to put himself back there. He
was pretty sure he had looked down while they were leaving the apartment
building. Pretty sure their eyes hadn’t met. But he couldn’t swear it.

He ate his meal with a
cloud over his head. Like the last time, the spaghetti-meatballs was flawless and
the house wine pretty respectable. When he was finished eating, he grabbed a
newspaper from the nearby booth and read it for the remainder of the hour. Before
he got up to leave, Morrison left a huge tip on the table, then he walked to
the cash register to pay the Korean guy. Just before he pulled the door open,
he caught the waitress’s eye and nodded to her. She nodded back with warm
friendly eyes.

Outside, the sun had begun
to set and now hung much lower on the horizon. He had it right in the face as
he made his way along the sidewalk. Luckily, Flanagan’s Bar was only a short
stroll away.

In there, the atmosphere
couldn’t have been more different than at the restaurant. The far half of the big
open room was packed with people. Their collective chatter produced a rumor
well above the level of the background music. He gave a quick glance around. Everybody
was well dressed but in a relaxed way. This was a casual function. Among the
guests, there was a stand carrying a poster. He could see its contour, but he
couldn’t make out what it said. Probably outlined what the event was all about.
He stayed away from the crowd and aimed for the nearest open stool at the bar. He
ordered a beer, then he scanned the room with a lot more attention.

At the far left, he
spotted Harris right away. The tanned, mustachioed son of a bitch stood in a
circle of five people, talking animatedly with a glass of wine in his hand. He
saw him from a three-quarter back angle. The wily old fox seemed to be having a
great time. Morrison continued to look across the room. The next person he
spotted surprised him. He hadn’t expected to see her there at all. Especially
not wearing these clothes. In fact, he realized that it was the first time he had
ever seen Sheriff Sanford in something other than her uniform. Tonight, she had
slipped on a black cocktail dress with cap sleeves. She looked good. Really
good. Not at all shaken like at the crash scene last night. Even better, her whole
body had a fresh tan as if she had just spent the entire day under the sun. The
stunning law officer stood among a small group of older men. Naturally, their
attention all focused on her. No wonder, he thought. She was so stunning that he
almost had trouble taking his eyes off her to continue scanning the room.

In the right corner, he
saw Cowgirl, facing him. She appeared to be locked in a one-on-one conversation
with another woman doing most of the talking. He kept his gaze focused on her.
She was nodding with a polite expression on her face. Seconds later, she looked
up and made eye contact with him. Then she excused herself and walked over to
him.

“I hope I did not
interrupt anything,” he said.

“Christ, no,” she said.
“You’re saving me, Morrison. She’s such a bore.”

They sat together in an
empty booth. Cowgirl looked very good herself in a simple dark blue dress with a
tiny white floral motif.

“What’s all this for?” he asked.

“A fundraiser to help send
kids from poor families to summer camp,” she said. She sighed. “Fundraisers are
all there is if you want to socialize in Acton.”

He nodded. “Want to hear
something that’s not boring?” he said. “In fact, it’s so not boring that it
will probably knock the wind out of you.”

Cowgirl leaned forward. “You’ve
got my attention, Morrison. Shoot.”

“Three years ago, you and
I and our dear partners, we were robbed of at least four million dollars but
more probably eight …” he began. Then he explained how one of the partners,
without naming him, had used their setup information to pump money out of the
banks in the days after his arrest. Without telling it to the others, of
course.

While he was talking, Cowgirl’s
eyes kept widening. When he was finished, she looked shocked and angry. “Who
did that? Who the hell did that?” she asked.

“I know you didn’t,” he
said. “I got the confirmation earlier today. The day after my arrest, you flew
out to LA and stayed there for three weeks. No way would you’ve gone there if
you wanted to steal eight million dollars over here in New York. No way. So I
know it wasn’t you.”

Her reaction was one of
even greater surprise. “You suspected me?”

“Had to,” he replied. “We
were five in that deal. Each and every one of us could have been the one.”

She made like she was
about to say something. Opened her mouth but closed it again without saying
anything. Like she was trying to figure out how he could have put his hands on
that information. Before realizing that, of course, Morrison could find out
just about anything when he set his mind to it. However he did it.

“So that’s what you’ve
been up to these last two days?” she ended up saying. “Why are you sharing this
with me now?”

“Because I need your help
to nail the sucker and make him pay back all the money, Cowgirl. You’re a
respectable citizen, you’ve never been arrested for anything. You can move
around.”

“Fine,” she said, “but who
stole the money?”

He nodded toward the mass
huddled at the other end of the room.

“He’s right there, the old
wily slimeball,” he said.

“Who?” she asked.

“Robert Harris himself.”

Cowgirl leaned back in her
seat. She suddenly looked disappointed. Very disappointed. “You know he’s going
to deny this,” she said.

“Of course he will. That’s
why I need your help. We need to find the evidence or, better still, find the
money.”

Cowgirl frowned. “Well,
that’s not going to work,” she said. “Not a chance.”

It was his turn to be
surprised. “How come?” he asked.

“There’s a big flaw in
your theory, Morrison, a big no-no.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Harris didn’t steal the
money.”

His eyes widened. “How do
you know that?”

“Well, it’s all very
simple,” she said. “And there’s absolutely no place for doubt.”

Morrison shook his head. “How
can you be so sure?”

The disappointment was still
visible in Cowgirl’s face. But what he had initially taken to be disappointment
toward Harris for stealing their money turned out to be entirely different. She
was disappointed at
him
. For having missed a crucial part in all this.