Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

  I didn’t know how to feel about that. In my fantasy world, Vincent would sweep me off my feet, carry me to the bedroom, and we would live happily ever after. But this was the real world.

  We had backed off, but why did he have to act like he was okay with it?

  Yes, I am a hypocrite. I can’t seem to help myself.

  I studied Vincent, who looked much the same as he always did. But upon closer inspection, I realized that he wasn’t truly relaxed. The muscles in his jaw were tight, and for Vincent, that was tantamount to hand wringing and gnashing of teeth.

  Preoccupied with my own troubles, I hadn’t given much thought to what was happening with him behind the scenes.

  Ever since his son Justin had been expelled from Middle Mercer College and gotten busted for illegal drag racing and underage drinking, fatherhood had taken over Vincent’s life.

  Unfortunately, not in the way he had always hoped.

  Rather than gaining his son’s respect and friendship, he was now playing the role of confused, well-meaning father. Justin’s mother cut him off, leaving him no means of financial support, and against his better judgment, Vincent decided to give his son some time to find his footing. He made sure Justin’s portion of his apartment rent got paid, saw that the kid had groceries, offered to help him find a job, and spent weekends with him fishing on the lake, going to the gun range, or whatever it was that estranged fathers and sons did.

  He was trying to be the father Justin needed, but in reality, I think he knew he was just prolonging the inevitable.

  I snorted at the thought. I was definitely in no place to judge.

  We were both at crossroads: Vincent was dealing with Justin, and I was trying to prosecute a rapist while not taking myself down in the process. Now was not the time to take our relationship to the next level. We were too preoccupied, too vulnerable.

  But Vincent? Vulnerable?

  Nah, maybe it was just me.

  I glanced at his left forearm, where his “Hold Fast” tattoo hid beneath his sleeve, and I smiled at it rather stupidly. That ink was a nice summary of our relationship. If we could just hold on, we’d eventually reach the point where our past issues were resolved enough that we could have a future.

  A future together.

  The nautical star tattoo suited his personality too. Like wearing his heart on his sleeve.

  “There it is,” Vincent said, startling me out of my reverie for the second time that day.

  This time I didn’t bother trying to say anything intelligible. I simply looked out the window at a shotgun-style home with a small front porch.

  Randy Blissett’s house seemed even smaller in person, but it looked freshly painted and well kept. The front lawn was groomed to perfection, and a little sign by the mailbox advertised “Mercer Lawn Care.” The floral patio furniture and the sheer volume of matching pillows and potted plants on the porch suggested a woman’s presence; perhaps his ex-wife had left the furniture after the divorce.

  Vincent drove slowly past the house and then turned onto the first cross street so that we could see the property from all angles.

  Which yielded precisely nothing.

  As we rounded the corner, the fence blocked the view into the backyard.

  “Wonder what ole Randy is doing back there,” Vincent said as the fence slats flicked by his window.

  “Meth lab?” I wondered aloud, mostly joking.

  Vincent rolled down the window and sniffed the air like a bloodhound.

  “I don’t smell anything. If he were cooking, we’d be able to tell.”

  I studied him a moment to see if he was serious, and upon discovering that he was, I laughed.

  “What?”

  “That was supposed to be a joke,” I said, still grinning at him. “Well, mostly a joke.”

  Completely unabashed, Vincent rolled up the window.

  “Well, I wouldn’t put much past anyone who’s associated with a ‘simple’ case assigned by Ted.”

  “Sensible. Given what we’ve dealt with in the past, I guess a meth lab shouldn’t surprise me.”

  We made the complete circuit of Randy’s block, and as far as I could tell, it was unlikely that any of his neighbors could see into his yard either. That ruled out inviting ourselves to do surveillance in the comfort of a house.

  “Let’s try the hill,” I suggested.

  Vincent headed the GMC up the grade, and I turned in my seat, straining for a useful view.

  “Nothing,” I said once we reached the apex. “That fence is like the Berlin Wall. We’re going to have to get higher.”

  Vincent swung the truck back toward the main road and up a little slope just beyond the sparse trees, and I saw his intent: the high-rise we’d seen on the computer. Keeping his hand on the wheel, Vincent pointed an index finger at the building. “Is that a hotel?”

  He leaned forward and angled his head up so he could see high out of the windshield.

  “No, not a hotel,” I said, craning my own neck. “It’s a senior living center, actually. Public housing.”

  “Ah, a hotel would have been easier. We could have just rented a room.”

  I looked doubtfully at the tree line that separated Randy’s road from the building. “You think we’ll be able to see something from the top floor with a telephoto lens?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Seven

  Randy Blissett’s case would lead Jackson and Vincent directly to the watcher’s doorstep, and he looked forward to their arrival.

  He figured that “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer” wasn’t a cliché for nothing.

  Besides, the watcher not only wanted to control Jackson and Vincent’s movements; if he could, he wanted to influence their decisions as well. To do that, he had to keep tabs on what they knew, just in case their actions required him to alter his own plan.

  The time for them to come calling had not arrived. They were still occupied with case logistics, leaving him free to sniff around the person he’d chosen as his most likely avenue to success: Justin Montgomery, Vincent’s son.

  The watcher raised the collar of his plaid flannel shirt and squinted out the car window, wishing he’d been able to find better concealment than the dumpster he’d parked beside. Down the street, a group of testosterone-laden idiots played a pick-up game of basketball on the asphalt court. One of them was Justin Montgomery.

  His plan? Find information on the kid, blackmail Vincent with it, and go from there.

  So here he was in what probably used to be a nice, family-oriented apartment complex that was now overrun by college students. The architecture looked to be from the 1980s, when everything had a flat facade and little detail or depth.

  Justin Montgomery was easy to identify, thanks to the pictures he’d posted of himself online.

  He was a big bastard, but there was nothing else particularly remarkable about him. He seemed to be a carbon copy of his buddies: college-age males who were out to prove that they cared about nothing and no one.

  Of course, these uncaring loners were unsuccessfully portraying the stereotype. They all dressed the same, spoke alike, and clearly wanted to be a part of the group even while pretending they didn’t care. And maybe they didn’t care about some things, like hygiene, judging by their unkempt appearances. They all wore wrinkled sports attire and variations of the same shaggy haircuts—some curly and some greasy straight, but all too long. They bore beards that barely even lived up to the moniker, thanks to the large patches of exposed skin where stubble refused to grow.

  Ah, youth. They tried.

  Justin’s obvious insecurity and desire to fit in could be used to influence him, but the watcher needed more than that if he wanted to take the kid’s daddy down.

  During a pause in the game, Justin jogged to the sideline, picking up a raggedy towel to mop his face. Then, he checked his phone.

  “Shit!” he yelled toward the boys on the court. “I gotta go.”

  “Ha!
” one boy replied in a loud baritone. “Ain’t like you got a class to go to. Get your ass back on the court.”

  “Can’t,” Justin shouted back. “Work.”

  “When did you get a job, slacker?”

  The watcher would have liked to get an answer to that question too. His searches hadn’t uncovered any evidence of employment.

  Justin casually extended his middle finger to his friend, dropped his towel in a nearby duffel bag, and trotted back to his apartment a few buildings away from the court.

  The watcher made out a door swinging open and then heard it slam closed. Fewer than ten minutes later, Justin reemerged, wearing jeans and the same T-shirt he’d worn to play ball. A set of work boots dangled from one hand, and he dug in his pocket with the other, finally coming up with a set of keys that he used to unlock his Honda Civic.

  Justin tossed the boots into the car and jumped in. The engine whistled to life, and the Civic buzzed out of the parking space.

  The watcher started his own vehicle and followed Justin at a distance. Maybe this mysterious new job would provide the necessary ammunition. If he were lucky, he’d find out that the kid was a pimp or hoed the fields of a local pot farm. That would be nice.

  Keeping tabs on the Civic was simple work. Its painted-on flames and high-pitched engine noise made it stand out among the neutral trucks and super-quiet SUVs on the road. The watcher tracked Justin to town and then out the other side, heading toward the industrial district. Before they got to their destination, wherever that was, the watcher’s phone rang.

  Taking one hand off the steering wheel, he pushed the Bluetooth button.

  “Yeah,” he said, slowing to stop at a red light.

  “Yo buddy,” the voice on the phone replied. The watcher recognized it as belonging to a janitor who worked in the MPD building. “I found something for you on that investigator you asked about. I think you’ll like it.”

  The watcher casually rolled up his car window so that no one would overhear his side of the conversation.

  He realized the gesture was excessive, but he couldn’t be too careful.

  “Yeah? Which one?” he asked, lowering his voice.

  “Julia Jackson,” his source said. “Word around the PD is that she’s about to find herself in deep shit.”

  The watcher listened carefully as the voice on the phone explained Jackson’s predicament—about the GBI and their suspicions—and by the time he turned onto the next block, he had forgotten about Justin Montgomery. He wheeled the car around, speeding toward his office.

  He couldn’t have planned it better himself.

  All hell was about to break loose, and the realization that he’d focused on the wrong player had almost come too late. He must formulate a new plan and fast. Julia Jackson had provided the perfect opportunity, and he intended to exploit it.

  Eight

  The GMC bumped its way into the crumbling asphalt lot, and Vincent carefully maneuvered it into an unofficial parking spot between an aged Cadillac and a stucco-edged sign that read, “Dowell Heights, 2121 Sherwood Road.”

  “I doubt we’ll be able to get into a vacant apartment today,” I said, eyeing the jam-packed parking lot dubiously. “But at least we can make an educated decision about pursuing some sort of agreement with the Mercer Housing Authority.”

  “If Ted approves the expenditure.”

  Vincent grimaced at his own words and killed the engine. He twisted his body and stared out the back window, assessing the building. “If we could find a window on the top floor with a westward-facing view, we’d have a chance of seeing past those trees and into the yard.”

  Both of us managed to exit the truck without dinging the doors, and together we strode into the large, busy lobby. Comfortable furniture littered the open space, and old people filled absolutely every piece of it. Like cats attracted to an empty box, they rested on sofas, watched TV, filled card tables, and dozed on rockers.

  No one noticed our entrance, so we pushed deeper into the lobby and were faced with two choices: take the elevator in front of us or follow the sign to the management office down the hall.

  I glanced at Vincent and then pushed the “up” arrow on the elevator call box. Better to get the lay of the land first. The idea might turn out to be a bust, and there was no point in working a deal if we ultimately didn’t use the location for surveillance.

  The elevator creaked and groaned its way to us, and anxiety skittered through my brain, causing every other thought to dissipate. My eyes widened as the thunking sounds grew louder. The thing sounded like it was on its last legs. Again, I glanced at Vincent, just to see if he noticed. He seemed oblivious, but I began to debate the merits of climbing ten flights of stairs instead of taking this rickety contraption.

  But the doors slid open, and I followed Vincent into the too-warm, mirrored box.

  When the doors clanged shut, I found myself gripping the brass bars as the elevator lurched upward, creaking and groaning.

  I sensed Vincent eyeing me, but I was too busy pretending not to be freaked out to tell what he was thinking.

  “Claustrophobic?” he asked, his voice somehow both amused and concerned at the same time.

  “What? Me? No,” I protested, but then the elevator began to make a grinding sound, and I actually squeaked. God, how embarrassing.

  “Well, not usually,” I confessed through tight lips. “Maybe I have a tiny, insignificant elevator phobia. I don’t like to voluntarily trap myself in a machine that’s obviously not been maintained.”

  “Is fear of elevators even a recognized phobia?” Vincent asked, smirking at me.

  I blinked and then frowned at him.

  As a matter of fact, fear of elevators is a recognized phobia, but that wasn’t really his point.

  “So,” I began in a voice that dripped sarcasm, “your theory is that if it’s not on the official phobia list, I can’t be afraid of it?”

  Vincent’s rich laugh filled the space, and my tension eased slightly, if only because his laughter covered up the clinking, choking sounds of the elevator.

  “Besides,” I continued, “I don’t have a real phobia.”

  Vincent looked me up and down, taking in my obvious discomfort.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, his disbelief plain.

  I released the brass bar and faced him.

  “I just don’t like trusting my life to a machine that was probably last serviced sometime in the eighties.”

  He checked the service record taped above the control panel. “Says here it was checked eighteen months ago.”

  Upon hearing that news, I reverted to my crash position, fingers firm on the brass bar as if it might keep the elevator from falling to pieces beneath us.

  “Good grief,” I said over the clunking of the gears. “That has to be a violation of some code or other.”

  “Probably,” he said, grinning.

  “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

  “Sorry, but you’re cute when you’re phobic.”

  I rolled my eyes, but my tension didn’t fully abate until the box jolted to a halt, the doors cranked open, and we stepped into the hallway on the top floor.

  “For the record, fear of elevators is a recognized phobia,” I said, even though I knew he was just trying to jerk my chain. “Escalators too. It’s actually fairly common. But I don’t have it.”

  “I stand corrected on both counts,” Vincent said, still grinning as we walked along—on nice, firm flooring again—toward the west side of the structure. “But you’re still cute.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” Now that our lives had been spared, I was ready to get back to the task at hand. “No windows in the hallway. Let’s check the stairwell.”

  I led him through the heavy fire door only to be greeted by the stench of chlorine and urine. I didn’t want to think about how the urine had gotten there.

  But the unpleasant smell was worth enduring. A small transom window was placed high on the wall, perfe
ctly positioned in the direction of Randy’s place. Vincent had to stand on his toes to peek out. I didn’t even bother trying.

  “Yeah,” he said, his body pressed against the wall as he peered outside. “We haven’t got the height to clear most of the trees, but thankfully, they haven’t begun to bud yet. We’ll be able to get a view from this building. Not from this window, though. We need to get a better angle on the yard.”

  “And it would be nice to find a window I can actually see out of,” I said as we started down the stairs, avoiding the elevator by unspoken agreement. “I guess that means we’ll have to check with management and then run it by Ted. Maybe the person in charge will be able to rent to us by the week. Ted should be on board with that. After all, it’s the only potential vantage point we’ve been able to find.”

  Back on the ground floor, we crossed the lobby to the manager’s office. The door was closed, so I knocked gently. In reply, we heard an unintelligible voice.

  I glanced at Vincent and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as ‘come in.’”

  “That’s what I heard,” he said, pushing open the door and letting me pass before him.

  We entered the small, cluttered office to find the source of the grunt—a fiftyish man wearing a tweed jacket over a bright-colored plaid button-down. He was standing beside a tall bookshelf, and when we entered, he spun to face us, a large binder clutched in one hand. The combination of his attire and location made me think of a scholarly librarian.

  “Oh, hello,” he said, smiling so widely that every one of his thirty-two teeth became visible.

  I returned his megawatt smile as best I could without cracking my face under the strain.

  “Ah, welcome to Valhalla,” Mr. Librarian said in a slightly nasal voice. “I’m Joseph Peters, manager of Dowell Heights.”

  He set the binder on a wobbly stack of papers at the corner of his desk and extended a hand in greeting. His shirt came partially untucked as we took turns exchanging grips.