Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1)

by Tony Wiley

  Morrison stared at her. She had dark brown wavy hair, shoulder length. Average height. Slim. Petite. He scanned her down. A body that did not stand out. Rather pretty without being a bombshell. Probably turned heads on Main Street, Acton, NY, but not at all on Fifth Avenue, Manhattan. He had never seen her. Mike’s wife, obviously. Morrison checked her left ring finger. She was not wearing a wedding band. His girlfriend then.

  Mike made a dismissive gesture of the hand. “That was nothing,” he said. Then he made the presentations. Rather dryly. Morrison suspected that Mike was probably always sloppy with introductions.

  The woman’s name was Laura. Morrison shook her hand. What stood out about Laura was her face. Not her features, even though you could definitely say she was pretty. No, it was her expression. The eyes. Full of worry. Not just instant worry prompted by the sudden ringing of those two gunshots. A heavier kind, borne by a prolonged, reticent contact with fear and danger.

  She stared back at Morrison. Seemed intrigued by him. “Your eyes,” she said. “They’re really strange.”

  Morrison’s eyes were of different colors. His left one was brown and his right one was hazel green.

  “It’s called heterochromia,” Morrison said.

  “Were you born like this?” she asked.

  “Doctors say it can be acquired or genetic. In my case, it’s genetic.”

  Mike cut him short. “Morrison’s gonna take over the blue room,” he said.

  Laura turned her head toward Mike and started to say something, “What ha—” but she quickly interrupted herself.

  The worry exploded in her eyes.

  That was the slicked-back hair guy’s room. She had put two and two together.

  Just then the muted sound of baby steps on the carpet attracted Morrison’s attention. A little girl had walked in from a nearby room. Their daughter. She quickly threw herself to Laura, who lifted her in her arms. The girl was about two years old. She had the same worried look as her mother. Exact same look. Carbon copy.

  Morrison disapproved of this. It wasn’t right to expose a girlfriend and a child to this type of life. Guns. Criminal associates. Shady dealings. Although he lived that kind of life himself without any question, he would never expose a daughter or a girlfriend to this. Never. It didn’t seem fair. An unnecessary violation of innocence.

  Laura and her daughter retreated back to the girl’s room. Mike showed Morrison his blue room and left him there. Morrison closed the door behind him and perused his new surroundings.

  The room was all white and blue with the same dark wood trimmings as in the foyer downstairs. Very clean. Very nicely done. There was a queen size bed. Drawers full of XL clothes. Useless, not his size at all. They would have to be thrown away. A private bathroom with standing shower only. A cabinet with toiletry. Shaving foam. A new bag of twelve disposable razors. Morrison looked at himself in the mirror. His cheeks showed a dark five o’clock shadow. Ready for a new shave even if he had shaved just before leaving prison that morning.

  Morrison went back to the sleeping room and lay down on the bed, his head resting on open palms. It was cozy, comfortable. And he was all alone. He could hear absolutely no sound. What a contrast.

  That morning, as he’d been lying on his thin prison mattress in a cacophonic pool of constant auditory aggression, he’d never have thought he’d spend the night here. According to his plan, at this hour, he was supposed to be in a different state, doing something else altogether. Yet here he was.

  Chapter 8

  You couldn’t think straight on an empty stomach. Some people maintained that fasting could somehow lead you to a form of enlightenment. Morrison had always taken that to be unsubstantiated gobbledygook. Maybe it could work for undirected mystical musings. Maybe. But certainly not for deep rational thought. The brain cells were voracious beasts. They consumed twice the amount of energy as any other cell found in the human body. They needed a steady supply of glucose, just the right concentration. Not enough and you lacked focus. A little too much and you were all bouncy and excited but would soon crash into a stupor. Morrison had some deep thinking to do. And so far that day, he had only had a lousy prison breakfast and an equally lousy fast food lunch. It was time for a proper meal. So he decided to venture out into town.

  He left his blue room, went back down the creaky staircase, walked across the foyer to the front door and stepped outside. All without encountering anyone.

  In front of the garage, the three big black Lincoln SUVs were still parked with the cute little BMW. The three Navigators looked absolutely identical to one another, impossible to differentiate apart from their license plate. Morrison dug into his pocket for the set of keys, then pressed the unlock button on the remote. The lights blinked twice on the one sitting at the far right. He aimed for it.

  Before he set off for town, though, he had one important task to complete. It began with him walking around the vehicle to open the four massive doors and the rear hatch. Then he set about a meticulous inspection of every side pocket, cup holder, glove box, console cradle and carpet underside that he could find. He inspected every nook and cranny for weapons, drugs, anything that could land him in trouble. When a law officer found that kind of stuff in the car you’re driving, your neck was sticking out. Try to explain it wasn’t yours. Good luck. Especially if you were now a convicted criminal. For his part, Morrison preferred to be safe than sorry.

  When he was finished, he climbed into the driver’s seat. Adjusted its position by flipping a few buttons. Did the same for the rear-view mirrors and then fired the big V8 into life.

  The sun was setting. On the far horizon, a thin belt of clouds was turning all purple and pink. Morrison drove the private dirt road all the way down, raising a cloud of dust behind him. After a few minutes, he passed by the shredded “No Outlet” sign, then he merged on the blacktop county road. As he did so, he paid close attention to his surroundings, especially to his rear-view mirrors. Three years of prison had not dulled his senses. He was still on the lookout for tails. It came with the territory for a guy like him.

  On the two-lane, he settled the Navigator into a comfortable cruise. The big V8 engine hummed smoothly. It had power to throw away, but it barely needed to pull two thousand RPM to propel the vehicle at fifty miles per hour.

  Morrison kept scanning the rear-view mirrors. All was well. Nothing to report there. He was driving all alone toward Acton.

  OK, he thought, time to make that call.

  He flipped open the prepaid phone in his right hand.

  Then, his eyes alternately scanning the road and the screen, he punched a phone number with his right thumb and pressed the mobile to his ear. Heard three rings followed by an anonymous voicemail greeting.

  After the beep, it was time for Morrison to leave his carefully crafted message. He said, “Sorry I can’t make it tonight. I have to see Anna at eight thirty. Talk to you soon.” Then he hung up.

  *

  Morrison reached the outskirts of town shortly after leaving his message. From the side of the county road, the first sign of civilization rushed up to him. The Perkins Electronics compound. In the dark, it looked no less stunning than in the daytime. Some clever lighting had been applied to the office space, which underscored the elegance of its lines. On the lawn, the floating signage seemed even more ethereal. The diffused lighting coming from behind the stainless steel letters created a smooth halo. Very slick. Very well done. Morrison noticed that the parking lot was now about a third full, even at this hour. That meant they had a pretty busy night shift. Must be doing good business, he thought. Must be doing really good business.

  He veered left on Acton Road and drove through the thin industrial estate. It was not a big one. There seemed to be as many buildings up for sale or rent as were operating. Just like three years ago. Acton was that kind of town. Not a village by any means. It supported a diversified economy, but it was far from a city. It had never taken off as some of its farther regional neighbors ha
d, and Morrison suspected it never would. A perennial underachiever. You sensed it could easily do better but somehow it never did. But it didn’t go crashing down either. It just always stayed more or less the same.

  Next in line, there was a small shopping center with still the same stores too. Morrison was really hungry but he also had some time to kill, so he made a stop there. At night, the air was chilly. He could use a light coat. While he browsed the clothing store’s alleys, he also picked up two extra pairs of pants, khakis and dark chinos, some shirts, black T-shirts, socks and underwear.

  Thirty minutes of shopping was about all Morrison could bear in one session. And anyway, timing-wise, he was now doing good. So he went back to the Navigator, stowed his bags in the cargo and continued on his way.

  A cluster of shops huddled around the shopping center. Gas stations, car wash, convenience store, car dealerships, fast food joints. The usual mix, taking advantage of the area’s bustle. Morrison drove straight through them. No way was he going to eat junk food for his first dinner out of jail.

  As he progressed, the stores gave way to houses. Big ones. Those built by Acton’s elite a hundred years ago. Morrison was sure they looked better then. Now they were all right, but they had lost their patina. Acton was not rich enough to support them all. Some of its inhabitants indulged in more square feet than they could afford elsewhere, but it seemed to be at the expense of diligent maintenance.

  Sheriff Sanford counted some supporters among these homeowners. Morrison could see lowlying banners planted here and there on the lawns, advocating for her reelection as Acton County Sheriff. Some guy named Young was running against her. Morrison saw some banners for him too, but a lot less.

  After about a mile, Acton Road turned into Main Street. It featured a proper downtown with angled parking spots and a variety of shops. The area had been through the classic American development cycle. Post-war it was booming. That’s where everybody went shopping. Then the suburbs had developed, shopping centers had opened on the periphery and the downtown stores had closed one after the other. Main Street had remained stale for a long time. But then, about ten years ago, a revival had begun with cafés, bistros, art studios, local product shops, fueled by a good chunk of state money so that it was no longer a zombie place.

  A few shops had been through it all. Elena’s Bakery, open for business without interruption for more than fifty years but closed at this time of night, of course. The bakers were only hours away from starting the next day’s shift. Too bad, those unbelievable cinnamon buns would have to wait. And Miss Italia. A mom-and-pop restaurant open since 1964. Served decent staples of Italian-American cuisine. Classics that showed their age when you compared them with authentic Italian dishes served in upscale restaurants but that had “comfort food” written all over them. Like spaghetti with meatballs the size of baseballs. Exactly what Morrison wanted to eat for his first real post-prison meal.

  There was a free spot right in front of Miss Italia. Morrison nosed the big black Navigator into it and went in.

  He had expected to see Anna behind the cash register, the original owner, with her husband. An indelible fixture. But in her place was a small Korean guy.

  Morrison picked up the day’s paper in a tray and walked to the far end, close to the kitchen doors. There he slid into a booth, facing the front entrance, of course. Always better when you can have it. And he got settled. There were patrons sitting at two other tables. An old couple and a lone woman. Quiet music filled the air. Pleasant enough after years of the noisy prison cafeteria.

  A waitress showed up to take his order. A new one he didn’t know. He inquired about Anna, and she told him that she and her husband had retired. They had sold the restaurant to the Korean guy.

  Morrison enjoyed every last bite of his meal. The spaghetti was exactly as he remembered it and the meatballs were even better. Obviously, the cooks had not followed the owners in retirement. On top of that, he had a glass of red wine, his first in three years. A humble house Chianti, but it tasted as good as a grand cru on this occasion.

  When it was time for dessert, he ordered a cannoli with a cup of coffee. Then he asked the waitress, “Can you bring an extra cover? Along with a slice of coconut cream pie and a cup of coffee? Half and half, two sugars.”

  The waitress seemed puzzled for an instant but she smiled and said, “Sure, comin’ right up.”

  Morrison checked his watch. It was eight twenty-five p.m.

  Instants later, the waitress came back with an extra paper placemat and set it up in front of him, with a fresh set of silverware. Then she brought the two desserts. And the steaming cups of coffee.

  At precisely eight thirty p.m., the front door opened and a man came in.

  Morrison smiled.

  There he was.

  Right on time.

  Chapter 9

  Segregation of duties. A principle of paramount importance in business. In order to achieve efficiency in your operations as well as curtail the possibility of fraud, you must never entrust any employee with too many responsibilities. For example, the guy who placed orders should never handle the reception of goods. The guy who approved the expense accounts should never perform any audit. And the guy who handled the books should never be allowed to write some checks. If you failed to strictly adhere to these principles, you were simply asking to be robbed blind. In any case, all Fortune 500 companies respected them, as did any manager with an ounce of common sense. You couldn’t fault Morrison for a lack of common sense. Early on, he couldn’t see why he wouldn’t apply these sound principles to his operations too. So he always made sure he did.

  One way he did was by hiring the right people for the right tasks. Very precise and specific tasks, always. Without involving anyone else. Without giving a bit more information than was absolutely required. That’s how he had handled his guest. Morrison looked at him as he made his way to the booth.

  Since he had last seen him, the man had piled on twenty pounds. At least. He appeared more out of shape than ever. For one thing, his face was pale. His eyes were hollowed out and dark. Hair longer than he cared for. Clothes ruffled and faded, in bad need of a fresh wash. Some things remained exactly the same, though. The sly grin. And the fast-talking voice.

  “Well, well, well, who have we here?” he said as he sat down. “Franklin Morrison in the flesh.”

  Morrison bowed his head.

  “Johnson,” he said, “it’s great to see you. Thanks for making it on such short notice.”

  They shook hands above the table. Johnson stared down at the slice of pie and the steaming cup of coffee. “Nice touch,” he said. “You have a good memory.”

  Then Johnson picked up his fork and attacked the coconut cream pie with a passion.

  “I remembered it was your favorite breakfast,” Morrison said.

  Johnson was the type of guy who would only get bigger as he got older. No wonder, with a diet like that and an occupation like his. Slouched behind a computer for hours on end. He was a night owl. At this hour, his day was only beginning.

  In four quick shuffles of the fork, the pie was gone. If the coffee wasn’t so hot, Morrison suspected that Johnson would’ve slurped it all just as fast. For his part, he ate his cannoli like he had all the time in the world. One small nibble at a time.

  “When did you get out?” Johnson asked.

  “This morning,” Morrison said.

  Johnson made a face.

  “You’ve chosen me to have your first dinner with? I’m touched. But I’m also puzzled. Why?”

  “I might have something for you.”

  “What, so fast?”

  “It’s not a new deal.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s about the deal that got me busted.”

  “What about it?”

  “I have a good memory. Do you?”

  It was a loaded question. Morrison knew Johnson had an excellent memory. In his line of work, you really needed to. Almost without noti
cing it, they had started to speak in a lower voice.

  Johnson said, “Depends what for.”

  “If I asked you to perform an audit, would you still have enough information to do it?”

  Johnson shrugged. He said, “When you got busted, I destroyed everything. All the code I had created. All the user IDs. The passwords. The list of proxy servers I used. Everything. I sent all my setup to oblivion. Flushed it down the toilet as hard as I could. Twice. Burned all the bridges. I’m running out of metaphors here, but I think you see my point. All that stuff’s gone and I haven’t thought about it for a second since.”

  “It’s all right. That’s what I would’ve expected from you. But could you trace it back?”

  Johnson sighed. “Why? That was three years ago. The whole deal went sour, that’s too bad. But we got away.” He tilted his head. “Of course you got busted, but fortunately I wasn’t, thanks to you for this by the way. And nobody else was busted either. So, overall, for a failure it wasn’t too bad.”

  “Who said anybody else was involved?”

  Johnson flashed a wide smile. “Come on, Morrison. You’re too smart to want to do it all by yourself. And you’re too smart to tell me who else was involved, but there must’ve been. Since nobody else was arrested with you, that means you kept your mouth shut. A lot of people should thank you, and again I do. But you should move on to another deal. There’s no shortage of ’em.”

  Johnson was a smart guy. Morrison liked dealing with smart people. They could usually deliver without making too much fuss about anything. They wouldn’t involve themselves with unnecessary crazy complications. Like guns for instance. If you gave Johnson a gun, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. Would probably shoot himself in the foot by accident. And the thing with smart people is that when the time comes, they can usually handle extra pressure without crumbling. Morrison felt it was time to crank it up one bit.

  But before he could do so, the waitress came over with more coffee. Both men kept silent as she refilled the cups to the brim, then dropped a little container of half and half on the table for Johnson.