Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

  The watcher agreed.

  Shoving his glass aside, he picked up a pen.

  Vincent had spoken to the reporters, so where would he go next?

  He listed a few possibilities. The lawyers’ offices. The courthouse. Probably both.

  He must know that someone at either of those two places had leaked the story. From there, it would only be a matter of time before Vincent found Bonnie and was able to ID the watcher. Identifying him wouldn’t be easy, even with Bonnie’s help. He’d never given the woman his real name. At this point, the only benefit of that move was that it bought him a little extra time.

  But the watcher might need that time. When you’re playing a high-stakes game, a few seconds could mean the difference between success and failure.

  The watcher became conscious of Marty’s voice buzzing in his ear. He didn’t need the guy anymore, so without listening to another syllable, he disconnected the call. What he needed was to locate Bonnie immediately.

  Opening his GPS tracking application, the watcher tapped his pen on the desk as he waited for the program to load.

  When it finally did, Bonnie’s location was unavailable.

  “Damn it.”

  The watcher shoved the chair away from the desk, lurched to his feet, and crossed the room for his car keys. He had to find Bonnie before Vincent did. The DOI agent would break her.

  What would the watcher do once he found her?

  He had no idea, but he would think of something later. Right now, he merely had to find her.

  The watcher hurried to his car, remembering to pop a breath mint on his way out the door. Now was not the time to argue with a cop about his blood alcohol level.

  Once he was behind the wheel, he considered his options. If the GPS application couldn’t register the woman’s location, it could mean one of three things.

  Bonnie could be at work, having parked her vehicle in a lower level of the courthouse garage where the signal wouldn’t penetrate.

  It could also mean that the batteries in the GPS unit had died.

  Or worse, Bonnie could have discovered the tracker.

  Was that even a possibility?

  Until Marty’s call, the watcher hadn’t given the possibility a moment’s consideration. No one would know to look for a tracker, but now that Vincent was involved, the idea seemed less far-fetched. If Bonnie confessed that someone was threatening her, that he seemed to know where she was at all times, then Vincent might put things together. A civilian might not consider a tracker, but a former military cop? For him, it would be a simple deduction.

  As the watcher covered the distance to the courthouse, he wondered if he was overreacting. Was alcohol clouding his judgment? Did he really need to ensure Bonnie’s silence?

  After all, he had already completed the specific task he’d been hired to do. Julia Jackson’s professional reputation would remain in tatters regardless of Judge Preece’s decision, and he hadn’t broken any laws to get that done.

  Well, no one could prove he’d broken any laws.

  Marty, despite his bluster, wouldn’t rat him out, so it would come down to a “he said/she said” impasse. Bonnie could ID him, but there was no proof that could connect him to the crime.

  Except that GPS tracker.

  If Vincent, or any investigators, found that tracker, they could prove his connection to Bonnie. They would know he’d threatened her, harassed her, and tracked her illegally, which was in itself a felony. He absolutely refused to waste a couple of years of his life in jail.

  But if the watcher removed the tracker with no one the wiser, then he could collect his fat paycheck, maybe cool his heels in jail for a few hours while they tried to wrangle some charges against him, and then return home empowered with increased influence in Mercer.

  That didn’t sound so bad, all things considered. He wasn’t wild about jail time, but it would be a minor inconvenience rather than the major catastrophe a felony charge would be.

  He had to get to that tracker before anyone else did.

  The watcher pulled into the courthouse garage ten minutes later, but he was a few seconds too late.

  He could only watch impotently from the next aisle over as Bonnie led Mark Vincent toward her Maxima.

  “Damn it,” he snarled, his hands tightening on the steering wheel with crushing force.

  How had Vincent found Bonnie so quickly?

  Did it even matter? The fact was that Vincent had found her, she had told him everything, and….

  Yup, he found the tracker.

  The watcher cringed as Vincent knelt, feeling around the back bumper, and finally revealed that piece of crap tracker he’d planted there.

  Even in the dim distance of the garage, the watcher saw Bonnie’s reaction clearly. Her eyes widened and her fingertips lifted to her mouth.

  He could practically hear her saying, “Oh my Gawd! Oh my Gawd!”

  Vincent returned to his feet and closed the distance between himself and the woman. He looked as if he might want to comfort her, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. He did, however, manage a quick pat on the shoulder.

  The watcher would like to do more than just pat the bitch on the arm. He wanted to make her disappear.

  And Mark Vincent too.

  Vincent had proof to use against him now, but the game wasn’t over. The watcher still had his freedom, and he could make a countermove. He wasn’t quite sure what that move was yet. He needed to think, clear his head, so he pulled out of the garage, trying to ignore the fact that Bonnie was probably giving Vincent enough information to lead the investigator directly to his door.

  Options were quickly dissipating, while the list of potential charges against the watcher grew exponentially. Jesus, he could go to jail for years. That was practically an eternity, at least in terms of local politics and power plays. By the time he got out of prison, all his hard work with Julia Jackson would prove meaningless.

  He pounded the steering wheel, causing the horn to blow and nearby drivers to stare at him.

  He forced a smile and shrugged at the guy in the next lane.

  The watcher felt his control eroding, and there wasn’t much he could do to stop the pending mudslide of rage.

  What had possessed him to install that tracker on Bonnie’s car? He’d known that such flamboyant techniques carried real risks, but he’d been willing to take them when he thought his only foe was a perky file clerk.

  He hadn’t played a good long game, and he realized that now. But it wasn’t over. There were still a few possible moves remaining.

  And the watcher had a distinct advantage: he had nothing to lose, but Mark Vincent did.

  If Vincent planned to use Bonnie, the watcher’s woman, then he would return the favor.

  The watcher would take Julia Jackson away from Mark Vincent. Permanently.

  His face stretched into a smile as he took the idea to the logical conclusion.

  Jackson had to die by her own hand. After all, she had disgraced herself publicly, and she could no longer live with herself. Suicide would go along with the narrative he’d created.

  It would be the perfect ending to Julia Jackson’s sad story.

  Thirty-two

  It seems like I’m never quite prepared for those big moments, the ones that define you as a person. Somehow they always manage to sneak up on me, even if I know they’re coming.

  Ted’s return to Mercer meant that it was time for me to face the DOI’s decision about my fate. It also meant that I had a decision of my own to make.

  Would I use Peters’s file against Ted?

  I still had no idea what to do. Every time I thought I’d talked myself into a particular course of action, I talked myself right back out of it.

  It came down to one question.

  Was I the kind of person who would resort to blackmail, even for a good reason?

  I’d never thought so before, but I’d also never faced circumstances that might bring about the release of some truly evil
criminals. Not to mention the end of my career and potential jail time.

  I wanted to keep my options open, so I carried the file to my meeting with Ted just in case.

  Ted positively gleamed. He always took his grooming seriously, but today it looked as if he had prepared himself for a high-fashion photo shoot. I squinted at him, wondering if he’d put on bronzer or maybe hit a tanning bed in Atlanta.

  “Thank you for coming,” Ted intoned as I entered, the file folder tucked in the bag draped over my shoulder.

  I nodded and took the chair opposite his desk.

  When Ted opted to take the other visitor’s seat instead of keeping to his own place behind the barricade of his desk, I knew the interview would not go in my favor. He was trying to make himself my equal, bring himself down to my level, have a nice chat. At least there wasn’t someone from human resources lurking behind him. Maybe I wouldn’t be fired right away.

  Why this technique of sitting side by side is taught as a method for employer-employee relations, I will never understand. All it accomplished was to make Ted look even phonier than usual. Or maybe it was the tan.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and clutched my workbag in my lap as if it were a life preserver. Ted’s pretentious expression drove away my eye contact, so instead I focused on the glint of his reflection in the polished desk surface.

  That’s all Ted was: a shiny projection. He never showed his true self.

  But I knew the real Ted now. I had pictures of the real Ted in my bag. Knowing his secret was like seeing what lay hidden inside his heart.

  How nice it must have been for him to conceal his worst deeds from the eyes of the world, to garner only success and promotion from his maneuvering. And there I sat, waiting for him to pass judgment on me, just like everyone else had done.

  Taking a last deep breath, I finally willed myself to face Ted, meeting his eyes without letting my gaze waver.

  “It must have been a difficult couple of weeks for you, Special Agent Jackson,” he began.

  “I’ve had better.”

  Ted’s laugh bounced hollowly in the closed room.

  “Before I say anything official, I want you to know that I’m on your side. Solidly on your side.”

  I nodded.

  “And I’m not going to mention the fact that your actions yesterday—though they saved a man’s life—were taken under false pretenses.”

  How gracious of him not to mention it, I thought.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I believe your intentions were not criminal and never have been,” Ted said, looking at me expectantly.

  I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to defend myself or hoping for blubbering gratitude. I gave him neither.

  At length, he continued. “I’ve spoken with the Atlanta office, and they are concerned about how your actions might backlash on past, present, and future investigations and on the DOI as a whole, especially now that the media is involved.”

  Well, I certainly couldn’t fault the bigwigs for that fear. They couldn’t have been more right in their concern about the perceived integrity of my investigations. Even now, Helana and the US Attorneys’ office were fighting to ensure that a criminal did not use my reputation as a method for bonding out of prison.

  “So what does this mean for me, Ted?” I asked, blowing out a nervous breath.

  “The DOI has no choice but to terminate your employment.”

  I sat back.

  I’d expected to be fired, but that didn’t prevent me from feeling the pain of the blow. I’d devoted years of my life to the DOI, and this was how it would end?

  “You’re firing me?” I repeated.

  “Let’s call it a layoff,” he said.

  “Semantics,” I grumbled.

  “You gave the DOI little choice,” he said, sounding almost regretful. “The organization must take whatever action is necessary to protect itself and the people it serves.”

  I narrowed my eyes and tried to wade through the political double talk. A message hid somewhere in there, but I had no idea what it might be.

  “Ted, this is worse than reading a terms-of-service contract,” I said. “Just tell me what I can expect.”

  Ted heaved out a sigh and tried to look long-suffering, though he couldn’t quite pull it off effectively. But he did drop the oily jargon and speak frankly.

  “When a state agency takes significant disciplinary action against an employee, such as a suspension or termination, the matter must be reported to the Law Enforcement Certification Board for further investigation.”

  Holy crap.

  I clutched my bag tighter, feeling as if I ought to flog myself with it. I should have realized that more than just my job at the DOI was at risk. The Georgia Law Enforcement Certification Board was responsible for accrediting all law enforcement officials in the state, and they could revoke my certification. That meant I could lose not just my job at the DOI but also the chance of getting any job as a law enforcement officer in Georgia ever again.

  I sat up straighter, my hands reflexively grasping at my bag. I could no longer bear to meet Ted’s eyes, so I looked at his reflection in the desk again, staring at it blankly. I sucked in another deep breath and tried to focus my wildly spinning thoughts.

  I had always claimed that I wasn’t meant to work in law enforcement, that I was only in this line of work for my sister, but it was the only career I’d ever known. The only way to pay my bills. The only way I could pay my forthcoming slew of legal fees.

  I had no other training or skills.

  I’d always been a cop.

  I liked being a cop.

  But this was much worse than losing a job I’d only lately come to realize I loved. This was losing an entire career path. An entire life wasted.

  Even if Judge Preece didn’t find against me, I would still lose everything.

  “I wish there were more I could do for you, Special Agent Jackson,” Ted said, pulling me out of my self-flagellation.

  “There is more you could do,” I said softly, looking Ted in the eye again. I knew my expression was pleading and vulnerable, but I didn’t care. “You could help me. You’re my boss. Your defense would carry weight. You could go to bat for me with the DOI and cert board, help them understand that my indiscretion was isolated and that my motivation was to help solve a rape case.”

  Ted looked away.

  “I need you on my side.”

  “As I said before, I am on your side.” Ted’s speech sounded even more carefully crafted than before, and he paused after each word, causing me to feel as if epochs were passing as I sat there waiting for him to say something. “But there are forces at work….”

  Ted stopped abruptly and shook his head as if reconsidering his tactics.

  “What forces?” I asked, leaning forward.

  “There’s pressure from the top, Special Agent Jackson. I hope you can understand that.”

  “What forces would oust an investigator with a closure rate like mine?” I pressed. “An officer who has taken a bullet while on the job, who has risked her life repeatedly in the name of justice. I would think if you truly understood what I did and why, if you respected what I have done on behalf of the DOI—comprehended the risks I have taken with my very life—you would go up against any pressure on my behalf. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Ted reached over to pat my hand, but I pulled back without thought, feeling somehow sullied by his attempt at a soothing caress.

  He blinked at me.

  “I cannot be of any good to you if I lose my position as head of the Mercer branch of the DOI. My job comes with the trust of some very powerful people, and I cannot violate that. Not even for you.”

  So it all came down to his damn political appointments.

  White, hot rage exploded in my chest, and I glanced down at my workbag again.

  The information I had gleaned about his dealings with Joseph Peters would certainly change his mind. I looked back
up at him and saw his shiny features creased with worry, as if he expected me to go postal at any moment.

  “I realize you’re upset,” Ted crooned. “Maybe you should just go on home now, have a nice meal. Relax.”

  “Relax, have a nice meal?” I repeated. “You’re delusional if you think steak and eggs are going to make me feel any better about this. The suspension, I understand. But for God’s sake, Ted, you’ve been my boss for years. You know my record. You always claimed to be there for us when we needed you. I need you to defend my investigative integrity, to tell people that I’m not a dirty cop. You know people. You could convince them….”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I just can’t do it—any of it—and you shouldn’t ask it of me.”

  No, I thought. I shouldn’t ask it of him; I should demand it. I should tell him what I knew. How he had gotten his appointment. How many people he had screwed—some literally—in order to ascend to power. Power he used to pay lip service to responsibility and to punish investigators when criminals didn’t cave in a timely manner or under budget.

  I unzipped the bag and reached for the file, envisioning Ted’s face when I produced the pictures. Imagining his response when I explained how his own past actions had hindered our investigation to such a degree that two civilians were put in danger and the fraudster ended up attempting to sever his own limb.

  I paused, closing my eyes to revel in the fantasy of reminding Ted that his own nefarious actions all those years ago had repercussions in the here and now, that he too ought to face the consequences.

  For once, Ted would have to do the right thing. He would have to help me. That’s all I was asking, for crying out loud. I just needed some support.

  Surely, that wasn’t wrong.

  My fingers grazed the edge of the folder, and the accusatory words formed on my lips.

  As I pulled the folder out of the bag, I met Ted’s eyes once more.

  And I hesitated.

  Let’s be honest. I was preparing to force Ted to do something against his will. I was going to blackmail him.

  Blackmail.

  Good Lord. What was I doing? Was I really that desperate?