Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

Vincent continued to loom above him.

  “You screwed up your fake suicide plot, leaving Special Agent Jackson alive and wondering why she was targeted. She isn’t going to forget about you. She’s going to want to know why you came after her. Unless you’d care to tell me now. Save yourself the trouble of having a pissed off investigator after you.”

  Dawe refused to let his gaze waver under Vincent’s hard stare.

  “‘Investigator?’” Dawe asked skeptically. “The way I heard it, Jackson’s out. Lost her badge. She can’t ‘investigate’ me.”

  Dawe paused, considering the wisdom of adding in a little bluster. What the hell, he decided.

  “And now that I think of it, she’d already lost her badge when she shot me. A civilian using deadly force? I could sue her and probably win a shitload of money to compensate me. I should look into that….”

  Vincent leaned farther over the bed, blocking out the glare of the fluorescent light overhead. Dawe forced his eyes to remain focused on Vincent’s implacable features, but in his peripheral vision, he saw the investigator slowly coil his fingers around the bed rails.

  The guy was physically restraining himself. Dawe suppressed a smile. At last, proof that he was getting under the detective’s skin. Now, his adversary was primed to make a mistake. All he had to do was find the right motivation.

  “You’re damn lucky that I still have my badge,” Vincent growled, his eyes burning with anger. “Because it’s the only thing preventing me from finishing what she started right here.”

  Dawe grinned at Vincent and gave a petulant laugh, baiting him openly now. Maybe he’d get lucky and be able to sue Vincent for assault too.

  “Pfft,” he said, letting spittle fly into Vincent’s face. “I’ve heard it all before. Idle threats…just like your lady. Can’t finish the job. No stamina.”

  Vincent’s facial expression darkened, and his fingers seemed to tighten on the bed rail, but the punch to the jaw never came.

  “Tell your ‘partner’ it was nothing personal,” Dawe said, hoping to give him the push he needed. “It was all part of my job.”

  Vincent paused slightly before returning to an upright position and peeling his fingers off the rail.

  “A job?” Vincent asked, his voice still hard. “Who hired you? And to what purpose?”

  Dawe pressed his lips together. Dammit. What had he been thinking? He was supposed to be riling up the cop, not the other way around. Now he’d gone and said too much.

  “Were you hired to kill Special Agent Jackson?” Vincent demanded. “Was that the job?”

  Dawe shrugged again. It seemed to be the safest gesture, noncommittal and sarcastic at the same time.

  “Treat yourself to a few syllables, Dawe. I don’t have all day.”

  Silence fell for a long moment, and, contrary to his previous claim, it was clear that Vincent might just hang around all day waiting for some sort of response. Dawe pulled reflexively at his restraint. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere, and he didn’t relish the idea of the meathead sticking around much longer.

  “Something like that,” Dawe said finally.

  “Something like that?” Vincent repeated, his voice laden with sarcasm. “That’s your answer? Don’t be an idiot. You know how these things go, Dawe. If you work with me, you’ll have a much easier time of it.”

  “Please, a threat? Whatever. You can’t torture me like they do at Gitmo. This isn’t a gulag,” Dawe snorted and then mimicked a German accent. “Ve have vays of making you talk!”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors,” Vincent chided dryly. “Much as I might want to waterboard you right now, we have a little thing called the Bill of Rights that prevents me from torturing an American citizen, even though the law of reciprocity demands it.”

  “Law of reciprocity?”

  “Because you drugged Jackson, jammed her in a trunk, tried to mess with her head, and then shot at her when she tried to escape.”

  “She shot me first.”

  “Details,” Vincent said, meeting Dawe’s insouciant gaze with steely resolve. “She allowed you to live. I would have shot to kill.”

  The room fell silent again, but Dawe was not going to fill it this time.

  Finally, Vincent blew out a long breath. “So that’s how you’re going to play it?” he asked. “I ask about your mission and who hired you to do it, and you clam up. That about right?”

  “I believe you’re underestimating my response,” Dawe said, mustering a smile. “Before I plead the fifth, I’d tell you to go to hell.”

  “I thought as much,” Vincent said, turning to exit the room.

  Dawe figured he was in the clear, but then Vincent paused.

  “I’ve been on the job a lot of years,” he said, striding back to the bedside. “I’ve seen a lot of dumb people do dumb things, but you have experience with the system. You know how it works. You’re supposed to be an intelligent person. So why are you acting as stupid as the average jerk-off? You’re going to go down in order to ‘protect’ someone else, but you know that once you’re in jail, no one will come for you. Whoever hired you will get off scot-free while you’re trucked off to prison. Is that really what you want?”

  Dawe turned away from the detective, looking out the small hospital room window, and considered the truth in Vincent’s words. Would his employer throw him under the bus?

  He knew it was a distinct possibility.

  But given the risks and possible rewards, it was a chance he was willing to take.

  Besides, holding out now gave Dawe another card to play in the future, if he needed it. He alone knew the identity of the person who hired him. He could use this information after he got a feel for how the rest of the game would unfold.

  “I’ll take this opportunity to invoke my right to remain silent.” As an afterthought, he added, “Oh, and you can go to hell.”

  Dawe expected anger, but Vincent smiled broadly, genuinely.

  “Another bad decision,” the agent said. “In a way, I’m glad you’ve chosen to play it this way.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. Because now, I get to say this. And you’d better listen carefully.”

  Dawe rolled his eyes, and Vincent’s control cracked into a thousand slivers of glass. He grabbed Dawe’s jaw, forcing his head to turn up at an awkward angle.

  “If you ever come near Julia again—badge or no badge”—his fingers tightened so that Dawe swore he could feel the man’s fingerprints on his skin—“I will end you.”

  Despite himself, Dawe swallowed convulsively.

  Vincent gave his head a hard shove into the pillows and then stood up straight, lording over the bed again.

  “You should also rethink your sudden onset of PI/client confidentiality ethics,” he added. “Because Julia Jackson doesn’t let go easily, believe me. You’ll be hearing from her. In the meantime, enjoy the Georgia prison system. I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

  Thirty-seven

  After an entertaining evening of blood tests followed by a delicious—and nauseating—activated charcoal cocktail in the emergency room, a nurse pushed my wheelchair to a cozy private room upstairs. Luxury accommodations for the poison victim whose blood levels needed to be monitored overnight.

  Exhausted and still reeling from Dawe’s drugs, I didn’t have the energy for visitors. I didn’t call anyone, except Vincent, who had left me approximately a hundred messages. He showed up in my room, but I was so out of it, I barely remember what we talked about.

  But he was there, and I was glad.

  The next morning, a gentle knock woke me. I sat up and realized that Vincent was gone. Then, I remembered he had wanted to question Dawe after he got out of recovery.

  I smoothed my hair, wondering if my parents had heard about my hospital stay, and called, “Come in.”

  I was surprised to see Tripp Carver ambling toward me with a smile.

  “You know,” he said, still grinning, “I’m getting the impressi
on that all my warnings about being careful are falling on deaf ears.”

  Confused at both his presence and his playful tone, I managed to smile back at him. He should still be upset with me over the evidence tampering issue. Why was he joking and flirting? I didn’t understand, but I was happy to see that the old Tripp seemed to have returned.

  “I guess I have a special knack for finding trouble,” I said, studying him.

  “You should have called me,” Tripp said as he glanced around my empty hospital room. He perched on the edge of my bed.

  I shrugged. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of this.”

  Tripp’s eyebrows flew to his hairline. “You didn’t want to make a big deal out of a homicidal maniac serving you poison-laced coffee? I think that qualifies as a major life event in and of itself.”

  “Takes more than one crazy guy to kill me,” I quipped.

  Tripp laughed politely at my joke, but this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I’m worried about you, Jules.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “I’m only here for observation, and I really needed some time to think things over. It’s been a rough few weeks. Months, actually.”

  “Well, things are looking up.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Maybe it’s just my current perspective,” I said, gesturing at the bleak chamber, “but I don’t quite see the golden lining yet.”

  “Well, one Mercer reporter seems to have come over to your side,” he said.

  My eyes widened. “Emily….”

  “Donwell from Channel 2. Cute one, too. She’s showing some impressive footage of you scaling a ten-foot fence to save a man’s life. And I got the honor of cuffing that bastard Jacob Dawe to his hospital bed after he got out of surgery.”

  “That does brighten my mood a bit,” I admitted.

  Tripp nodded. “And Vincent took a crack at him earlier this morning.”

  “I hope you mean that figuratively,” I said. I could well imagine that Vincent might have wanted to pummel Dawe.

  “Mostly,” he said. “Dawe wasn’t excited about talking, and Vincent gave him a little nudge at the end, but nothing I’d call assault. Not officially, anyway.”

  “Is Vincent still here?”

  “Somewhere in the building, I think,” Tripp said. “He had a meeting with the hospital psychologist. Not sure what about.”

  I nodded. He must be following up on Blissett.

  “We did learn that Dawe was working a case,” Tripp said. “Someone hired him to sully your good name.”

  “Okay,” I said, drawing out the word as I tried to comprehend what that meant. Then, I said the only name I could think of that made sense. “Slidell?”

  “Smart money’s on him,” Tripp agreed, “but we can’t prove it yet.”

  I leaned back against the pillows and raked a hand through my greasy hospital hair.

  “I guess that makes sense, but I’m not sure the timetable fits. How would Slidell have known about my involvement in the rape investigation in the first place? I’ve stayed as far away from the guy as humanly possible.”

  Tripp considered my question. “He might have become suspicious after the pre-trial viewing. His lawyer would have told him about the anomaly in the DNA evidence.”

  “So maybe Slidell hired Dawe to investigate the anomaly and then managed to find out about my admission.”

  “And then you became his target.”

  I nodded slowly. “That gave Slidell a very good reason for discrediting me.”

  “Hence Dawe’s attempt at murder.”

  My mind traveled back over my interactions with Dawe. The Slidell/Dawe connection theory made sense, but some questions remained. If my admission had set off the chain of events leading up to my attempted murder, then why had Dawe given me the illegally obtained evidence on Blissett? Why was Blissett involved in the first place? Why not just leak the evidence theft story to the press and leave Blissett alone?

  I was about to express my concerns to Tripp when he took my hand. “I’m sorry about not being around lately,” he said.

  I gave him a half smile. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “No, you don’t,” Tripp said, shaking his head vigorously. “You don’t. See, I thought about everything, and I realized that what you did doesn’t have to matter. Well, it matters, but not so much.”

  “Uh, I’m not following that,” I said, frowning. “I’m working on a less than a full night’s sleep here.”

  “You wanted to make sure Slidell was taken off the streets, right? See that he didn’t get away with his crimes.”

  I nodded.

  “The evidence debacle might prevent that.”

  Looking away, I nodded again.

  “But only in your sister’s case,” he said, his voice indicating that I was supposed to be getting something from this, inferring something from his words.

  My brain was moving obstinately slowly.

  “Only in that one case,” he repeated.

  My eyes flew to his.

  “His other victim? Kaitlyn Jacobs,” I whispered. “You mean Kaitlyn.”

  I stared at Tripp, and he nodded triumphantly.

  “You were right. With Slidell incarcerated, it seems that Kaitlyn felt free to talk.”

  “And she did?”

  “She called the hotline, just like you hoped.”

  I beamed. “What about Marnie?”

  “Well, at first, Kaitlyn was on her own. The truth surprised Marnie, and she was in serious denial, but she’s turning out to be a real mother bear. When she started putting together the facts of the situation and really listened to Kaitlyn, she demanded that they file charges against Slidell.”

  I blinked in total and abject shock.

  “So you mean…?”

  “That’s right. They’ve brought their own charges against the bastard. Aggravated child molestation. That means twenty-five years to life imprisonment when convicted. ”

  “So if Judge Preece’s decision doesn’t go in my favor….”

  “He’ll still have to face up to his crimes in court. I know it’s not ideal, but at least a manipulative, raping asshole will not walk free.”

  Tripp paused and looked at me seriously.

  “I know it’s not the same, but—”

  I cut him off by throwing my arms around him and hugging him as tightly as my exhausted body would allow.

  Was this the way I’d dreamed my search for my sister’s rapist would end? Hardly. But her attacker would go to prison. He would stop hurting other women, and Tricia could move on. My family could move on. Even my father would accept this alternative in time. He would have to.

  “Thank you,” I said through a painfully tight chest. “Thank you for everything, and I’m sorry for putting you in an awkward position.”

  Tripp just hugged me back.

  “So we’re good?” he asked.

  I nodded into his shoulder.

  “We’re good,” I confirmed as I leaned back against the pillows.

  “And I promise not to tamper with evidence ever again,” I added cheekily. “Although I doubt I’ll ever be faced with the temptation again.”

  “I’m glad you learned your lesson,” Tripp said in an overly fatherly manner.

  We both laughed, and then he asked, “When do you meet with the judge?”

  “Friday,” I said.

  He nodded. “I hope it all goes in your favor, Jules. I really do.”

  “Me too, but if it doesn’t, I’ll be okay,” I said.

  And I really meant it.

  Thirty-eight

  On Friday, I drove myself to my own execution.

  Okay, not really, but I did drive myself to the Mercer courthouse, and the outcome of the meeting would basically decide the course of the rest of my life.

  Not two days prior, I’d told Tripp that no matter what happened, I would survive, but in the cold light of reality and with the law bearing down on me,
I got nervous.

  I sat in Judge Cathleen Preece’s chambers, my legs jigging up and down in an attempt to expend my extra energy. I tried to keep my mind on hopeful thoughts. If Slidell escaped the rape charge, he would still have to face the charge of aggravated child molestation. He would go to prison for a long time. I knew that.

  Still, my fate was on the line, and it’s impossible to face a situation where a third party has complete control over the course of your immediate future and not be somewhat flustered.

  No matter what, it was time to face the consequences of my actions.

  I was ready to move on.

  Beside me sat Henry Martling III, immaculately dressed and exuding confidence.

  “You ready?” he asked, inclining his salt-and-pepper head toward me.

  I turned in my leather chair to face him.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he said, giving me a mysterious wink. “We’ve got this.”

  I tried to read his expression, but he was already facing forward again.

  What did that mean? Was he referring to the new charges that Marnie and Kaitlyn had filed against Slidell? Had he found some connection between Slidell and Dawe that he hadn’t told me about?

  We hadn’t had the opportunity to confer much before the meeting due to my hospital stay, and that didn’t bother me. After all, we had spoken our piece when I’d confessed, and this meeting was simply to hear the judge’s decision.

  But now I wondered if he had something up his sleeve.

  I wanted to question him, but the judge swept into the room through the rear door and took her place behind the huge oak desk. Framed by about four tons of law books on the massive shelves behind her, she exuded power and authority.

  We all stood while she arranged herself.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Please be seated.”

  She looked first at Henry and then at me.

  “I understand you were wounded in the course of saving a man’s life, Ms. Jackson. Are you well now?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And you’re certain about proceeding, Mr. Martling?”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  The judge addressed Kay Lanyon and Nora Hild in turn, and both the prosecutor and Slidell’s attorney confirmed their readiness.