Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

  I didn’t want him sleeping on the couch again.

  Sliding my fingers off the railing, I crossed the room and put a halt to his bed-making.

  “Come on,” I said. “There’s no need for you to sleep on that sofa again.”

  Forgetting everything else, I led him up the stairs and to my bedroom door, where he hesitated. I turned to him.

  “I’m inviting you in here to sleep. That’s all. Just sleep.” When he didn’t respond, I said, “Please. I just want you here with me.”

  I ventured another look at him and found his blue eyes conflicted.

  “I know this doesn’t make much sense,” I admitted. “I don’t want to mess things up by starting something physical during all this mess, and I’m not suggesting that…. All I know is that I want you with me tonight.”

  And he let me lead him to the bed.

  I awoke to the diffused light of the sun filtering through my sheer curtains and the warmth of a hard body beneath my head. At first, I didn’t think at all; I just snuggled closer and let my eyelids flutter shut again.

  Then they flew open when I realized that Mark Vincent was in my bed.

  Mark Vincent was in my bed, and I was half-lying on him.

  Without moving a muscle, I tried to take better stock of the situation.

  Bare chested and with my bed linens skewed across his lower body, he lay on his back with one arm looped around my waist, his hand resting on a hip. He wore his sweats. And me.

  I was draped all over him.

  My left thigh was positioned over his, and my calf rested between his legs. My head lay on his shoulder, and my traitorous left hand rested quite brazenly on his tight abs.

  I closed my eyes and thought back over the night. I had invited him to share my bed, and then we’d fallen into an exhausted sleep almost immediately.

  Now it was morning, and that was supposed to be awkward, right?

  I was supposed to try to peel myself off Mark, get out of the bed without waking him, and sneak from the room as if the night had never happened.

  Technically, nothing had happened. Last night was definitely not the right moment to begin an intimate relationship, but I didn’t regret sleeping beside him. We both needed a little comfort.

  Besides that, I didn’t want to sneak away. I didn’t want to move at all.

  Finally, I was somewhere I wanted to be.

  So I closed my eyes and feigned sleep so I could enjoy being near Mark a little longer.

  Beneath me, Mark must have been pretending to sleep through my surprised scrutiny of the situation, letting me make sure I didn’t want to slink away, but now that I’d elected to stay put, he came to life.

  His left hand moved on my hip, gently stroking along it. Occasionally, I felt the brush of his fingertips on the sliver of skin that was exposed where my polka dot pajama top had been rucked up around my waist a bit as I slept.

  Taking my cue from Mark’s actions, I let my hand begin to explore his chest and shivered.

  God, I’d wanted to get my hands on his chest since the first time I’d caught a glimpse of it. It felt even better than it looked. My finger glided along the hard planes of his abs, and I felt his sharp intake of breathe as I traced the contours of a pectoral.

  His touch became bolder, sweeping up and down my bare arm, and eventually landed on the soft skin on the side of my stomach.

  Still, we had neither spoken nor made eye contact.

  And suddenly, these small touches were not enough.

  Apparently, Mark had come to the same decision because just as my head lifted from his shoulder, he pulled me along his body so our faces were close and I was draped completely over him.

  His fingers dug into my hair, pulling my lips closer to his.

  “I’m really glad you’re here with me,” I whispered, recalling my invitation last night.

  “I’m here for you,” he said, voice gravelly, “and I always will be.”

  I don’t have any idea what might have happened next, but all thought of intimacy evaporated the moment my phone rang.

  Groaning, I reached for it and saw Helena’s name on the screen. I had to take the call.

  “Hels,” I said as I rolled away from Mark and sat up.

  “Hey, Jules,” she said. Her tone was markedly strained. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling dread descend to my stomach.

  “I’ve been following your situation with Judge Preece,” she said. “I’m sorry it turned into such a drama, and I’ve even sorrier that I have to add to it.”

  Even though I braced myself, I wasn’t prepared for what she said next.

  “The defense attorney for Michael Lacarova started making some noise,” Helena said.

  “Lacarova?” I repeated, taken aback by the abrupt change of mental focus from Blissett and Ted to the big bads from my previous case. Michael Lacarova was one of the many lackeys involved in the massive fraud ring Vincent and I had cracked a while back. Not only had the ring turned out to be larger and more convoluted than anyone expected, but the arrests of the leaders had gotten complicated. We were still uncovering guilty parties in three states.

  “The guy who tried to kill me?” I asked, still confused.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Vincent, who was listening to my side of the conversation with unconcealed concern.

  “That would be the one,” Helena confirmed.

  “What do you mean his lawyer is ‘making some noise’?”

  “Well….” Helena paused and seemed to collect herself to deliver the news. “He claims that you fabricated the evidence against Lacarova. He’s asking the US Attorneys’ office to drop the charges against him.”

  Dumbfounded, I stood and began to pace the room.

  “What? How? What?” I asked, my voice pitched dangerously high.

  “Lacarova claims he’s innocent of all charges. He says you instigated the car chase, beat him, and then arrested him wrongfully.”

  “That’s absurd,” I sputtered. “He kidnapped a little girl and tried to kill me!”

  “I know,” Helena agreed. “It’s ridiculous, and it’s unlikely that the charges will be dropped. However, there may be a chance that the judge could set bail.”

  “What?” I asked in disbelief.

  Until this point, the judge believed Lacarova to be a danger to the community and a flight risk and had not set bail. After all, he was arrested not only for insurance fraud but also for kidnapping a child, assaulting a law enforcement officer—me—and attempting to murder a law enforcement officer—me again. And he was on his way out of town at the time.

  If he got out on bail, he could disappear and never come to trial.

  Or he could come after me again.

  “What does all this mean?” I asked, feeling slow-witted.

  “It means,” Helena said, her voice heavy, “that Lacarova’s tactic—using the new information circulating about you—might work to his advantage. He’s appealed the court based on—and I’m quoting here—your ‘history of evidence tampering.’ Lacarova and his attorney are calling into question the validity of the evidence compiled against him, the evidence that compels the judge not to grant bond. The evidence you compiled.”

  “Oh, God,” I moaned, feeling my shoulders slump as understanding dawned.

  Lacarova was using my admission to claim that I had tampered with—or flat-out fabricated—the evidence used to arrest him.

  And he might get away with it. No one had witnessed the car chase or heard Lacarova threaten my life. The MPD officers had seen him trying to evade arrest by head-butting me, but that could easily be explained as the rage of a man wrongfully arrested.

  I sat heavily on the bed and jammed my free hand into my hair, trying to massage some feeling into my numb brain.

  Another of my worst nightmares roared to life.

  Why hadn’t I foreseen this possibility?

  It seemed so obvious now.

  Of cours
e, Lacarova would use my confession as a legal tactic. And what was stopping every other criminal I’d arrested from attempting the same legal move? Why wouldn’t they try it?

  From the perspective of a criminal serving a long jail sentence, a golden opportunity had just dropped into their laps. They could petition to have their convictions overturned or their sentences shortened.

  Given the way the media portrayed my admission, their argument seemed valid. After all, for all anyone knew, I was a dirty cop. I had tampered with evidence once. What prevented me from doing it again? From making a habit of it?

  How many other cases had been tainted by my alleged tampering? How many others arrested falsely?

  Would every case I’d ever investigated be called into question?

  Through the numbness, I tried to think, figure out what to do, what to ask.

  “How sure are you that the charges against Lacarova won’t be dropped?” I squeaked, feeling certain that it was a pointless gesture on his part, but wanting Helena’s assessment nonetheless.

  “I won’t say I’m certain of it,” Helena prevaricated, “but it’s unlikely.”

  “What about bail? Is there a chance Lacarova could be cut loose?” I asked, not sure how to feel about the federal court system—or anything at all—at the moment.

  “The judge knows his criminal history, realizes he’s a flight risk, poses a danger to the community at large. So the chances are slim, but stranger things have happened.”

  “So there’s a chance,” I said. “Can I do anything to improve the odds that he stays behind bars?”

  Helena made a little noise that seemed to indicate that there was nothing to be done, and then she said, “Get your story out as soon as the gag order is lifted. Henry Martling will make sure that your side is heard.”

  I nodded silently.

  “Also,” she continued, “I wanted you to be aware that, as Lacarova’s arresting officer and victim, you may be called to testify again.”

  “No problem,” I said. “What does this mean for your fraud ring case in general?”

  “Probably nothing,” Helena assured me. “There’s so much evidence and so many people involved across the Southeast. They can’t claim that you tainted it all. Lots of other investigators are involved now, anyway.”

  “You’ll keep me updated, right? I’d rather not be driving down the road only to find myself in another altercation with Michael Lacarova.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  We both fell silent.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I made your job harder,” I whispered finally. I’d made our friendship more difficult too. “I’m sorry about everything.”

  “Don’t worry,” Helena said. “Everything will turn out for the good. I’m on the case, and I’m still here for you.”

  Her words offered me some relief. Helena was a damn good lawyer, and I was glad she was on my side, even if she couldn’t go public with her support.

  “Thanks, Hels,” I said. “For everything.”

  We disconnected, and I set the phone down and explained the new development to Vincent.

  “What are you going to do?” Vincent asked, and I knew he was asking about Peters’s file.

  Peters’s offer was even more tempting now. Having Ted’s support might not make all my problems disappear, but if my boss backed my arrests and record, it might go a long way in preventing other criminals from trying Lacarova’s tactic.

  And maybe I could keep my job.

  But blackmail?

  Could I go that far? And in the end, would it even be worth it?

  “Got to admit,” I said to Vincent, “it’s awfully tempting. What do you think?”

  “I hate seeing dishonorable people climbing the ladder of success.”

  “That didn’t really answer my question,” I pointed out.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” he said. “But, yeah, I’d like to take that file and jam it down Ted’s throat out of principle.”

  I chewed my lip. “Principle?”

  “He shouldn’t get away with sleeping his way to the top when you get punished for seeking justice,” he said.

  “I don’t think sleeping with a state senator’s wife is a felony. Evidence tampering is. People make political deals like Ted’s all the time.”

  “But that doesn’t make it right. He used his relationship for political gain. Ted is the corrupt state agent, not you.”

  I shrugged, feeling unable to draw a conclusion.

  “I’m meeting Ted in a little more than an hour,” I said.

  Vincent got out of bed and ran his hands through his hair.

  Even with my current level of distraction, the gesture still drew my appreciation.

  “While you handle Ted,” he said, “I’m going to continue my search for the source of the leak. From what I’ve gleaned so far, the TV stations got the story from the local paper. That means—”

  “Marty Hunter,” I supplied. “The reporter who showed up with Marnie and Kaitlyn.”

  What a worm! Not only had he exploited those two poor women for a tabloid-esque photo-op, but he’d also been the one to destroy all hope I had of getting out of this evidence-tampering mess with any sort of grace.

  “Exactly,” Vincent affirmed. “Now, I just have to make him give up his source.”

  Picturing that confrontation, I snorted. “He’s never going to talk.”

  “In that case, I’ll go to the courthouse myself and dig the mole out of the ground with my bare hands.”

  Vincent and I shared a quick and sober breakfast before he left to track down the source of the leak and I headed for the DOI. I glanced at Peters’s file where it rested in the seat of the Explorer. My stomach turned over.

  Now I had an even more compelling reason to use the information in the file on Ted. I definitely needed someone higher up on my side.

  The file couldn’t save my job, and it wouldn’t keep me out of legal trouble. I knew that. But I needed Ted’s support. I needed him to defend the integrity of the other arrests I’d made in connection with the DOI.

  I considered some of the other fraudsters who might try the same stunt as Lacarova. Some of them were dangerous, violent criminals, and I shuddered at the thought of them using my reputation as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  So much was out of my control. I couldn’t force Judge Preece to find in my favor. I couldn’t even speak up for myself until she made her decision, and even then, it might be too late to turn public opinion my way. The damage might already be done.

  But having Ted defend my arrests could help. He wouldn’t be able to pull off any miracles, but a well-known supervisor sticking up for me might persuade authorities and criminals alike that my indiscretion had been an isolated incident.

  Maybe I could resort to blackmail after all.

  Thirty-one

  “You’d better watch your back,” Marty Hunter barked.

  The watcher yanked the phone from his ear in surprise and quickly adjusted the volume.

  “Take it easy,” he ordered. “Is this a secure line?”

  “Of course, this isn’t a secure line,” Marty returned, his voice doused in sarcasm. “I’m not a paranoid techno geek. I don’t know how to do that crap.”

  The watcher rolled his eyes, stood, and tromped across the room. Still morning, already he was on his second drink. He yanked his bottle of Jack from its cabinet and sloshed it into the glass. His plan was disintegrating before his eyes. According to that ditz on the news, Randy Blissett had seen to that the night before.

  “Then at least lower your voice,” the watcher snarled, slugging down the drink. “And make this quick. Why are you calling me?”

  “You’re awful testy for a man who ought to be thanking me,” Marty chided. “I’m trying to do you a favor.”

  “Yeah, well, start talking. So far, you haven’t proven very helpful.”

  “Because you keep asking me asinine questions,” Marty grumbled. “It would serve yo
u right if I let that guy hunt you down. He looks like he could pound you into oblivion. That might make an interesting headline.”

  “What guy?” the watcher asked, setting aside his empty tumbler. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve pissed off a lot of people in my day.”

  He could think of several people out there who might want to hunt him down, but not all of them were actually threats. And even fewer of them had the power to injure him. After all, he had dirt on everyone, and he had no trouble using it to his advantage.

  “You sound proud of that,” Marty said with unconcealed approval. “And that’s why we get along so well. Not everyone sees the inherent merits of stirring the pot.”

  “Marty, come on,” the watcher prompted, considering another drink just to get him through the conversation. “I don’t have time to wax philosophical with you. Who is it?”

  “Mark Vincent….”

  Damn. Vincent was a true threat.

  “He came by the Messenger office and demanded to know the name of the source on the Jackson story.”

  “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  “No,” Marty said, clearly offended. “I have standards.”

  “Sure, sure,” the watcher scoffed. “You’ll print any story that sounds good regardless of the truth, but you won’t reveal a source? Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”

  “Hey, I may not be Mr. Ethics and Morals,” Marty said, “but the journalistic code happens to suit me. For the moment, but I could change my mind and give him a call. He left his card.”

  “No reason for that,” the watcher assured him, adding feigned gratefulness to his tone. “I appreciate your discretion, but I still don’t understand why I need to watch my back. You didn’t tell him where you got the story. Seems like the end of the road to me.”

  Bonnie lurked on the edges of his mind, but he had her terrified. He’d spent the last day tracking her movements and calling occasionally to remind her of his omniscience.

  “Yeah, well, I get the feeling that Vincent isn’t going to stop digging with me.”