Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

  Eyes demure, I smiled at Dawe, but he sat silent and still. Whether or not he handed over the evidence, my ploy would tell us something. If he showed me the photos and video, then it would signify his recklessness, and at the same time it would show that he probably wasn’t using his evidence to blackmail Blissett. But if he refused, well, it could mean a couple of things. Either he was using his leverage for some other purpose, or he was afraid we’d use it against him.

  “Thanks again for your time,” I said, preparing to leave.

  Before I could open the door, Dawe quietly called me back. “I don’t have the Blissett files on hand right now, but if I find them, I’ll call you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, trying to read his expression, and gave him a bright smile.

  Dammit. That hadn’t told me anything.

  Fifteen

  My phone rang just as evening began to fall like a soft mantle around the shoulders of a chilly town. As I sat bundled in the warm light of my office, my brain tried to trick my body into serenity and calm. Unfortunately, that wasn’t happening. My legs jigged beneath the desk, and no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that worry would not help my situation, I couldn’t make them stop.

  The ring shattered every pretense at relaxation, and I jolted and then stiffened. Quickly looking around to make sure no one saw my reaction, I picked up my phone and checked the caller ID.

  My attorney, Henry Martling III.

  My shaky legs carried me to the door, which I closed and then leaned against to take the call.

  Martling and I exchanged the usual social niceties, and I endeavored not to read much into the fact that he called personally rather than farming out the task to one of his staff members. I hoped he wasn’t going to charge me for his time.

  Who was I kidding?

  Of course he would charge me, but it didn’t matter.

  I couldn’t afford him with or without an additional five-minute phone call tacked onto the bill.

  One thing at a time, I thought.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “I’m calling to assure you that everything is progressing at the expected rate, and we’re in a good position.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut as I attempted to decode the message hidden in lawyer-speak. Had he spoken to Tricia about the lineup? Had he arranged something with the judge? Finally, I gave up.

  “So that means…?”

  “We’ll meet with Judge Preece on Friday at two.”

  I covered my still-closed eyes with a shaking palm. The plan was in motion, and nothing could stop it.

  My fate officially rested in someone else’s hands.

  “What about Tricia? Have you talked to her?”

  “I have,” he said. “But as you predicted, she balked at the idea of a lineup.”

  I nodded even though he couldn’t see me.

  “Though her identification of Slidell would have strengthened our position, we’re not depending on it. As I said, we’re in a good position.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Helena says you’re the best, so I’m putting my faith in you.”

  “I’ll certainly do my best,” he said. “That’s all I can promise.”

  We disconnected, and I didn’t allow myself to linger dramatically at the door. Instead, flung it open—I rarely worked with it closed—and marched back to my desk and the Blissett investigation.

  According to Jacob Dawe, Blissett may have deserved workers’ comp in the early years, but now he was faking his injuries.

  Why would Blissett continue the ruse? That question bothered me.

  Sure, laziness and easy money often motivated good people to try their hand at fraud, but I’d seen the guy’s bank statements. Blissett was hardly raking in the dough. The vast majority of his workers’ comp money went to doctors and medical bills, and as far as living money went, Blissett only received a percentage of his former salary. Most of those funds went straight to alimony and child support, and the balance was applied to house payments and utilities. As such, Blissett was barely scraping by on workers’ comp.

  Surely he knew that returning to work and earning his full salary would make his life a lot more pleasant.

  What was motivating him to turn to fraud?

  I sighed.

  What motivated any of us to commit a crime?

  Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing, like I had. Or perhaps Vincent and I were right in suspecting some outside force at work.

  But what? Or, more likely, who?

  I sat back in my chair. Our investigation was in its early stages, so my wildly varying conjectures were normal given that we had received all our information secondhand and had seen absolutely nothing of Blissett for ourselves.

  Tomorrow, our surveillance would pick up again. I truly hoped we would see something new with our own eyes.

  My phone trilled softly again. This time, I didn’t hit the ceiling. Instead, I glanced at the screen and let out a relieved breath. It was my mother.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Hey honey,” she chirped. “I brought Tricia into Mercer for a follow-up doctor’s appointment, and we ended up waiting longer than expected. We’re still in town. Want to meet us for dinner?”

  My lips parted, but no words came out. Just a few weeks ago, my mother would not have called with an invitation to an impromptu meal. Given the current state of affairs, I almost wished that she and Tricia hadn’t come around. If they still hated me for arresting Slidell, then they wouldn’t care that I’d simultaneously ruined his prosecution.

  But now they wanted him to be punished, at least as long as they got to stay as far away from the situation as possible.

  Maybe this invitation was a sign that I should warn my sister of the potential problem. After all, she had a right to know what was going on.

  She seemed lighter now that Slidell was behind bars, and she deserved to know that he might not stay there much longer.

  Because of me.

  “Where?” I finally managed to ask.

  “Varnie’s okay?”

  We agreed to meet at the restaurant, and after shutting down the computer, I headed to the small country-cooking joint. Varnie’s served nothing but the best of the South and smelled like freshly baked biscuits. I inhaled deeply when I entered the dining area, realizing just how hungry I was.

  After a quick glance around, I spotted my mother and sister. I wove my way toward them and slid into the seat beside Tricia, giving her a quick squeeze.

  “How was the appointment?”

  “The doctor says the fracture is all healed. He also said my bones look much stronger. I’m cleared to resume a normal life!”

  While recovering both from the ankle injury and her withdrawal from alcohol, Tricia had been living with my mother. As she grew stronger, she had started taking small steps back toward an independent life. She had a job sweeping up at a hair salon and was planning to get an apartment of her own.

  “That’s great news!” I said, glancing at my mother, who appeared genuinely pleased too.

  “And guess what else,” Tricia bubbled.

  “What?” I asked, reaching for the basket of biscuits the waitress had left in the center of the table.

  “I’ve decided to apply to cosmetology school!”

  I beamed at her. “That’s the perfect job for you.” I reached up and tugged at my own ponytail. “Maybe you could do something with this mop.”

  “Oh, yay! I’d love to make you over!” She turned to our mother. “You too, Mom. Those bangs have got to go.”

  My mother reached up to ruffle her fluffy bangs.

  “But I’ve had these bangs for years,” she protested.

  “Exactly the problem,” Tricia proclaimed. “You need an update.”

  The meal proceeded along those lines—much discussion of hair and makeup that I only vaguely understood—right up until dessert, when my mother asked me how I was doing.

  I knew I ought t
o tell the truth, so I did.

  Only I watered it down a lot.

  “Well, I’m fine. Work is fine—”

  “What about that hunky partner of yours?” Tricia asked.

  “He’s fine too.”

  “Darn right he is,” Tricia said, smirking.

  I blushed but refused to let her teasing divert me.

  “There might be some things happening with the court case soon,” I said carefully. “Some problems have come up with the evidence, but I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

  “Yeah, some attorney named Martling called,” Tricia said. Her tone sounded a bit pouty, but not as offended as I expected. “He asked me to do a lineup.”

  I wanted to ask if Martling had explained the situation, ask how much she knew.

  Before I could compose the questions, my mother said, “I didn’t know about that!”

  Tricia waved a hand at her.

  “It wasn’t a big deal. He wasn’t pushy like that prosecutor lady. He said he understood why I didn’t want to face him, even through that fancy one-way mirror stuff. But he said I had other options if I wanted them.” Tricia paused and looked down at the table. “I just don’t want to be thought of as a slut—”

  “Oh!” my mother said, jumping to her defense. “You’re not a slut! Don’t even say that.”

  Tricia didn’t seem to hear her.

  “It’s not like I don’t want the bastard to be punished. It’s just….” She took a deep breath. “I can’t bear the thought of talking about what happened, especially not with police officers or a jury or both in the room to judge me.”

  I nodded, stunned silent for the second time that night. Tricia had never articulated her reasons for not wanting to press charges against her attacker. When we’d had these discussions, she’d always been so angry or drunk, and I’d always been so adamant about her need to get justice no matter what. I don’t think she’d ever explained her hesitations to me. Or, if she had explained, I hadn’t been listening closely.

  Tricia watched my reaction as if she expected me to push her, to encourage her to do the lineup, but I wouldn’t make that mistake again. No matter how much it might help me personally.

  Tricia was doing well on her own, and if I returned to my old habit of pushing her, she might go back to her old habits too. If she were to get involved in the case, it had to be her decision. Purely her decision.

  I couldn’t ask her to help me, but the temptation was strong. Fearing that I might slip up, I excused myself from the table. I headed to the bathroom to give the temptation a little time to pass. I took care of personal business and was washing my hands when my mother flitted in.

  “You okay?” she asked, dispensing a stream of paper towels from the machine on the wall and handing them to me.

  “Yeah,” I said as I dried my hands. “Thanks.”

  “You sure?” My mother continued to regard me expectantly. “You left so suddenly. I thought you might be sick.”

  “I’m not sick,” I assured her. “I left because I didn’t want to push Tricia to do something she doesn’t want to do. Not again. I was afraid I might not be able to stop myself.”

  “But you want to push her? Why? Everything is going well, isn’t it?”

  I looked away from my mother’s concerned face.

  “Something is wrong,” she said, grasping my hand. “What?”

  “I don’t want you to worry,” I said, gently pulling out of her grasp. “I gave up everything to make sure Tricia gets justice. I’m not going to let anything ruin it.”

  My mother blinked at me, and her expression told me clearly that I’d overspoken. Her strong protective instinct most often settled on Tricia, but I saw it landing firmly on my shoulders as clearly as if it were a winter coat.

  “What do you mean you ‘gave up everything’?” she demanded, placing a hand on my arm now.

  “Nothing,” I lied. “I was being dramatic.”

  She opened her mouth to question me.

  “Mom,” I said in a pleading tone. “Please don’t. I can’t….”

  I’m pretty sure she wanted to press me for more information, but she snapped her mouth shut. We went back to our table to finish dessert, but my mother kept a closer eye on me after that.

  Sixteen

  On Friday morning, I joined Vincent at Dowell Heights to continue surveillance of Randy Blissett, and I fully admit that I went in the hopes of distracting myself from my appointment with Judge Preece later that day. I’d come dressed for court, and I carried with me the evidence I’d stolen, but I couldn’t think about those things. Not now.

  The rain had tapered from the previous day’s downpour to a slow but constant shower that made the ground feel like a wet sponge.

  We had little hope that Randy would be working in such conditions, but stranger things have happened. Plus, surveillance was our only option.

  Vincent and I met up in the lobby and hiked the stairs to apartment 1066. Inwardly, I thanked him for avoiding the elevator. When the door opened, instead of Sydney’s gray hair, we were treated to a view of the top of a curly white head.

  “Mrs. Twilley?” I asked, surprised to find her in the old man’s apartment. “We, uh, didn’t expect you.”

  “Where did you think I’d be once I found out you started spying without me?” she demanded, opening the door wider. “I told you I was in.”

  “For heaven’s sake, woman, let them in,” Sydney called from within.

  “You heard the man,” Mrs. Twilley said, eyeing us with overt suspicion as if we might still be plotting to keep her out of the fun. She ushered us inside and shut the door behind us.

  Vincent went straight to the window, and I watched as Sydney disappeared into the bathroom, leaving me to wonder whether he was hiding himself from us or from Mrs. Twilley.

  “Well, we won’t see him again for an hour,” Mrs. Twilley said. “Once a man goes into the bathroom, it’s all over.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” came Sydney’s reply from behind the closed door.

  “He’s grumpy before his fiber kicks in,” she whispered. “So tell me where to look. I’m a good watcher.”

  Vincent’s eyes widened slightly at Mrs. Twilley’s commentary, and then he quickly dropped to one knee on the floor by the window. He attempted to busy himself by adjusting the camera equipment. He checked each leg of the tripod and reassessed the view through the lens while Mrs. Twilley leaned over him, which was quite a feat for a woman who was approximately half his size.

  Even with Vincent working from a kneeling position, they were nearly the same height.

  Mrs. Twilley watched as he removed the camera from the bag and began installing the telephoto lens.

  “That’s some camera,” she said. “One of them digital ones? Will you be able to see the bad guy alright with it?”

  Vincent grunted a noncommittal response, so I answered for him.

  “Yes, it’s a digital camera with a zoom lens, which means we’ll be able to get a pretty detailed picture of the suspect if he’ll just come outside.”

  “I know what zoom is,” Mrs. Twilley insisted, glaring at me. “What I don’t know is who we’re spying on. I was trying to be subtle.”

  I glanced at Vincent, who gave me the merest shrug without looking away from the camera assembly. So he was leaving Mrs. Twilley to me. Slightly annoyed, I scowled at the top of his head.

  “Listen, Mrs. Twilley,” I began gently. “This is a law enforcement matter. We’re not spying on a private citizen; we’re trying to catch a criminal. He could be dangerous, and it would be safer if you and Sydney left the apartment while we’re conducting surveillance.”

  My speech did not appear to convince Mrs. Twilley either to give up trying to extricate information or to vacate the apartment. She folded her arms across her faded argyle sweater and stared at me. I could tell she was waiting for me to crack.

  I did crack a bit. I decided it would be easier if we had the elderly pair’s ful
l cooperation, and since they refused to leave, they might actually come in handy. I filtered the information down to the essentials.

  “See that house down there?” I pointed out the window to Randy’s place through the bare tree branches between the buildings. “We need to monitor that fenced yard. The owner has been on disability for a long time, but neighbors say they hear him working with power tools behind the fence.”

  “So you need a picture that will prove he ain’t disabled,” Mrs. Twilley said. “Piece of cake.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears, Mrs. Twilley.” I smiled at the old woman.

  I looked toward Randy’s house, thinking how simple it all sounded when Ted and Mrs. Twilley said it. Just snap a picture. No problem. I watched the tree branches sway and reminded myself that our vantage point had an expiration date. The trees would begin to bud within weeks, and after that, our view into the yard would be as good as gone until fall came around again.

  If I lasted that long as a DOI investigator.

  After my conversation with the judge that afternoon, I could be suspended or out of a job entirely.

  I had limited time left to figure out what was going on here.

  I grimaced and added, “It may prove to be more difficult than it sounds. Lots of investigators have tried—and failed—to get this picture.”

  “Why did they fail?” Mrs. Twilley asked. “Don’t seem so hard to me. I can see almost the whole yard, and my eyes aren’t as young as yours.”

  I followed her line of sight, and she was correct. Most of the yard was visible, making Mrs. Twilley’s question a good one.

  Dawe claimed he’d been unable to see through the trees, but why hadn’t anyone come back to look once the trees shed their leaves?

  Perhaps other investigators were concerned about Blissett’s reasonable expectation of privacy. And that was a real legal issue. Investigators—private or otherwise—wouldn’t climb up a tree and take a peek into the yard. That’s how you get into big trouble. But given the fact that we could see into the yard from Sydney’s apartment, it seemed likely that, while we might have walked right up to the ethical line, we had not crossed it. At least not yet.