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

by Tony Wiley

  “What did Mike say after that?”

  “Nothing much. I insisted he tell me what that was all about. But he clammed up. Don’t worry about it. It’s just a business thing. The guy’s not gonna be there for long anyway. In the meantime, he asked me to prepare something to eat for the guy.”

  “Is that when you first saw him?”

  “No. I prepared a sandwich for him but the blond guy brought it out.”

  “Then how do you know he was a young guy?”

  “By his voice, when I heard him through the door. He sounded really fragile, really lost. Almost like a little boy, you know? And then I saw him two days after, when it happened …”

  She paused for a moment to recollect her thoughts. Morrison could sense what was coming. No wonder she was so shaken up. He waited in silence until she was ready to resume her story.

  “Two days after, Mike was out,” she said. “I was alone at home with my daughter and the blond guy. At noon, I made another sandwich for the prisoner, added some veggies on the side, you know, so he would have a good meal. Then the blond guy brought it to him, and I returned to my room with my baby. I was trying not to think about that poor kid, but then I heard some shouts. I went to the window. From up there, you can see the front of the shed. When the blond guy opened the door, the kid must have tried something because the plate I had just prepared was lying on the ground, broken in two pieces, with the food messed up all around. And they were fighting. Not with their fists, you know, more like a body-to-body thing. More like struggling. They went one way and the other. Then the blond guy had the upper hand. He tripped the kid and pinned his back to the ground. He must have stunned him a bit because the kid seemed to lose it. He still tried to defend himself, but you could see he was no match anymore. He could only give these half-hearted punches with the side of his fists. The blond guy didn’t care. He just kept his hands locked on his throat and strangled him to death. Just like that.”

  The kitchen was bathed in complete silence. Morrison shook his head. What a horrible, completely dreadful thing.

  “Christ,” he said, “why don’t you just go away?”

  Her face teared up. “I can’t. I just can’t,” she said. “If I do that, Mike will find me and he will kill me. Then who’s going to take care of my baby?”

  Morrison heard a low rumble coming from the front of the house. Not from the wind. More like the deep hum of big V8 engines, at least two of them. That didn’t last long. It stopped with the screeching of worn brake discs and the squealing of tires biting into the pavement. Then a couple of sharp quick bangs followed, like doors opening and shutting in a hurry.

  Laura heard it too. She turned her head toward the front of the house. She swiveled back to him, her eyes exploding with worry. More than ever. One short step shy of panic.

  “It’s Mike,” she said. “It’s Mike.”

  She put her glass of milk down on the counter and quickly aimed for the staircase. She paused briefly. “We haven’t talked, OK? We haven’t talked,” she said, and then she scurried up the stairs like a scared mouse.

  Chapter 30

  The front door slammed into the jamb with a heavy bang. Then there was the urgent clatter of boots on the hardwood floorboards. Two guys. Moving fast. Not happy at all. Their hurried pace already said as much. But they also verbalized it loud and clear.

  “Goddamn bitch …” Morrison heard coming crystal clear from the hallway. “Goddamn bitch …”

  A second later, the boots were with him in the kitchen. Mike and the blond guy. Upset. Agitated. Sweaty.

  “That goddamn bitch! I’m gonna plug her some day! I swear I will!” Mike said to no one in particular, like he just needed to get this off his chest.

  Both men took in Morrison’s presence but they didn’t say anything. Mike went straight to the fridge and plucked two bottles of beer. Threw one at the blond guy, who caught it one-handed. Cracked one open for himself. Upstairs, the wail of a crying baby erupted and made its way down the dark service staircase. A piercing, shrieking sound. Twinges of acute and inconsolable pain, endlessly repeated. Mike looked up at the ceiling with a face that meant, Oh Christ, please make this stop …

  Morrison stared at them. With their worn jeans and their print T-shirts, both men seemed out of place in the richly appointed kitchen, full of polished granite, deep wooden tones and high-end European appliances. Like they were hired hands that had just snuck in for a surreptitious visit while their masters were away.

  “Rough night?” Morrison said.

  Mike took a long pull from his bottle. At his side, the blond guy stayed silent. Like he deferred to Mike in all circumstances, including when a strange kind of colleague he felt vastly superior to made an inquiry. Morrison saw it in his face that the blond guy resented him. Deeply. And that he should expect no gift from him. Mike let out a long sigh of frustration, then he said, “The bitch has killed one of my men.”

  Morrison frowned. “What bitch?” he said. “What man?”

  “Sanford,” Mike said. “Your good friend, Sheriff Sanford.”

  Morrison’s eyes widened. “That motorcycle, that’s one of your guys?” he said.

  Mike nodded. “So you saw the crash.”

  Morrison nodded too. “I did. I drove through the scene on my way here a half-hour ago. Pretty nasty. Looked more like a plane crash to me.”

  “Well, it was a bike crash all right,” Mike said. He took another pull from his bottle.

  “Who was riding?” Morrison asked.

  Mike told him. Turned out the rider was a foot soldier they had used on their operation three years before, one of the guys who had made the rounds and collected the two million dollars from Chelfington Bank’s ATMs with the forged debit cards. A simple soldier. Had done what he was told to do. Had not asked questions, complained or bitched about anything. A good, steady soldier: the kind you’re always looking for but rarely find. Morrison understood why Mike was gutted. You never had enough of these guys.

  Morrison still had no idea what Mike and the blond guy were up to these days. He figured that now was the perfect time to try to pry something away from them. “Why was he running away?” he asked. “Was he just speeding?”

  Mike shook his head.

  “Anything to do with last night’s ATM bust?” Morrison asked.

  “No,” Mike said. “I already told you. I’ve no idea who set up that ATM job, but it’s not me.”

  “What was he up to, then?”

  Mike took another long drag from his bottle. Suddenly, he no longer seemed interested in sharing anything about his dead employee. He just clammed up tight and drained the remainder of his beer in silence while the blond guy did the same.

  Morrison was not ready to give up. But he knew if he was to achieve anything, he would have to try from another angle.

  “You said Sanford killed your guy,” he said. “Don’t you think it was an accident?”

  Mike put the empty bottle down on the counter and leaned his butt on the drawers behind him.

  “I’m sure Sanford knew who was coming on that bike. He was known in these parts. During the chase, she must’ve been in contact with her deputy. Let’s put it this way: I’m pretty sure she didn’t make much of an effort to get out of the way when he came rushing up to her.”

  “Anything they find on him that can put you in trouble? Anything special the guy was carrying?” Morrison asked.

  Mike and the blond guy exchanged a quick sideways glance, then Mike waved the question off with his hand. “Christ, for that, they’ll have to get to his body first,” he said. “He must’ve flown two hundred feet in the air. They probably haven’t found him yet.”

  They hadn’t thought this through properly yet. Morrison figured that’s why they had rushed to the house so fast. A lot of question marks were hanging above their heads after the rider’s death, and they needed to make some sense of it. They needed a quiet place to ponder all this. Evaluate the threat to their operation, whatever it
was. And they also needed to come by the house to grab anything that might be helpful if they were to leave for a while, to avoid some heat.

  Morrison continued his probe.

  “Sheriff Sanford looked pretty shaken at the scene,” he said. “Obviously not in a state to start investigating on the spot. And her workforce is tiny, not very sophisticated. Deputies who can take care of barroom brawls and give away speeding tickets, yes. But not investigators. Not thinking men. So I wouldn’t worry too much about the coming hours.”

  Mike made a face like he already knew all of that, but it didn’t look convincing to Morrison.

  “Of course, if you’re not just worried by Sanford, then it’s a different ball game,” Morrison said.

  He sensed that he had touched a raw nerve. Mike had enemies. There was a link between them and his guy’s death, he felt. If that wasn’t the case, they wouldn’t be so edgy.

  As if to prove Morrison’s point, Mike emerged from his self-imposed silence and barked an order to the blond guy. “You’ll be on watch tonight,” he said. “Go block the driveway. I want you to keep your eyes open, at least until sunrise.”

  This didn’t please the blond guy. Not at all. “All night?” he said. Then he nodded toward Morrison. “Couldn’t we use him too? Let him have his turn.”

  Mike shook his head. “No, you take care of it. Go take up your position, but before you do, make sure the Jeep is ready in the back. In case we have to get out through the backwoods tonight.”

  The blond guy frowned, left his empty beer bottle on the counter and rushed out of the kitchen, a mean sneer stamped on his face.

  As Morrison watched that sorry excuse for a human being leave the room, questions began popping up in his head. The young man that this blond bastard had strangled with his bare hands, where did he fit into all this? Was this the cause of their current trouble? Was the rider chased down as a form of retribution for the young guy’s death? Only to then be spotted and chased by the sheriff’s deputies? Those were questions worth digging into, Morrison thought. He even thought about fishing around the subject with Mike, but he quickly decided against it. Laura was the one who had told him about the young guy in the shed. He didn’t want to risk exposing her. He would have to come back at it later from a different angle.

  Mike pushed himself up from his leaning position, ready to leave the kitchen. But just as he took a first step toward the hallway, he stopped dead in his tracks and gazed at the counter next to Morrison.

  The glass.

  He had just noticed it.

  Morrison saw a flash of anger pass through Mike’s eyes. It was oh so brief, but it was there.

  Mike nodded toward the glass. “What’s with you, Morrison? Drinking milk now?”

  That was Laura’s glass. Her excuse to come talk to him.

  “Yeah, it’s good for my stomach,” Morrison lied. “Had plenty of that in prison.”

  Then Morrison picked up the glass and started drinking.

  While he did, Mike looked at him. His eyes were cold. Expressionless. His face a rigid mask. But beyond the façade, Morrison could see the man was seething. Morrison knew him well enough for that. His whole demeanor said he didn’t believe him. Not one second.

  Upstairs, the baby had calmed down somewhat. She was no longer crying her heart out. Instead, she was letting out these big sobs unevenly, like the crisis was nearing its end. Like Laura, her mother, had finally succeeded in prying her away from the throes of fear and anguish. While she herself remained their uneasy captive.

  Morrison drained the remainder of the milk under Mike’s impassive gaze. After the empty glass clicked on the hard granite surface, Mike finally came out of his silence with a barely visible smirk on his face.

  “Yeah, I’m sure you have, Morrison,” he said. “I’m sure you have …”

  *

  Inside the big house, all was quiet again.

  The baby had gone back to sleep. Mike had slowly climbed up the service staircase to join Laura in the master bedroom. And Morrison was all alone in his blue room.

  Initially, he had feared Mike would give Laura some trouble. As he himself had made his way up the stairs, he had half expected sparks and fireworks to erupt from his hosts’ room. But then again he had seen Mike’s face when the baby had burst out crying. Mike wouldn’t risk causing a riot that would wake the baby up again. He’d rather walk on burning coals than subject himself to that torture again. At least for the night.

  Morrison opened up one of his Zinfandel bottles with the cheap one-buck corkscrew he had bought that morning at the wine store. He didn’t bother with a glass but drank straight from the bottle.

  It was just a twenty-dollar wine but it tasted like a rare and precious vintage. Unbelievably good. Especially after the milk, which he rarely drank by itself. He stood by the window. Outside, the blond guy had parked his big SUV sideways two hundred feet down the driveway to block the access. The asshole sat there all alone, keeping watch from his perch up on the cleared plateau. An excellent position. No one could approach the black Navigator without giving at least a thirty-or forty-second notice. Morrison raised his bottle to him. Here’s to you, poor sucker, stuck out there for the night. Enjoy.

  Morrison then sat on the bed, on top of the sheets. He kept taking small sips of wine, enjoying it. Savoring it for the rare and precious treat that it was. He had missed it so much during the last three years.

  His thoughts came back to Mike. His partner hadn’t bothered to ask him if he had made progress during the day. Understandable given the circumstances of the night. But he would come back at it sooner rather than later. Which was fine. Morrison had to get another roll of money from him to keep Johnson busy. Anyway, he had been prepared to tell him all about Chelfington Bank, the first bank. That his audit proved nothing had happened there after their crew had extracted the two million dollars as planned. He had been willing to feed Mike this nugget to prevent him from asking about the others. Because Morrison was not willing to share anything yet on the four other banks, even if he now knew that First Collins had been hit for two million dollars. Especially because he knew that First Collins had been hit. He wanted to know about the remaining four banks before he shared anything.

  His mobile buzzed on the nightstand. He had put it on mute. Laura’s baby didn’t need any excuse to wake up. He reached for it.

  “Am I catching you at a bad time?”

  It was Johnson.

  “It’s always the right time when you call me,” Morrison said.

  “Very touching. I’ll remember that,” Johnson said.

  “What have you got for me?”

  “Candela Bank. My guy has just finished briefing me about it.”

  Morrison put the wine bottle down on the nightstand.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  His hacker told him everything his sidekick had discovered. It sounded familiar. Really familiar. Candela Bank had been hit the day after First Collins Bank, on day four after Morrison’s arrest. As with First Collins, the full two million dollars had been withdrawn exactly as planned. Four hundred accounts had been hit for the precise amounts, down to the last dollar. And as with First Collins, Candela Bank was hit through a series of ATMs during a three-hour stint in New York City. The only difference was the location of these ATMs. Instead of midtown, the withdrawals had all happened within a few blocks in the Upper West Side. Other than that, it was the exact same modus operandi. A small army of foot soldiers—between eight and ten in all likelihood—had been fed his carefully hatched plan and had then milked the cow in a flash mob before receding into darkness, totally unnoticed, their pockets overflowing with cash.

  “Somebody saw right through your plans, Morrison,” Johnson said when he was finished with his recap.

  “Somebody sure did,” Morrison said. He paused for a beat. “And it’s annoying like hell.”

  “Still want me to look at the remaining two banks?”

  “Yeah, ASAP
. I bet the same thing happened there too, but I need to make sure.”

  “OK, I’ll split the job with my guy.”

  “He did great. You can pass along my compliments.”

  “Will do. At the same time I give him his money.”

  “Nice reminder. Don’t worry. I’ll drop by tomorrow morning with the cash.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you, Morrison. Sleep tight.”

  “And you, work hard.”

  Morrison flipped the phone shut and dropped it on the nightstand. Then he lay down and threaded his fingers behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Somebody did see through my plans, he thought. Somebody really did …

  *

  With the massive propagation of mobile phones, public pay phones had become a scarcity. An anachronistic relic from a bygone era, just like the desktop computer and the TV antenna. What little remained of them now tended to stand at busy crossroads or in front of brightly lit and equally busy places like service stations and hotel lobbies. Exactly the types of places that the head of IT security at Candela Bank wanted to avoid at all costs. He didn’t want his face or his car license plate to be captured.

  The phone call he was about to make had to remain completely anonymous.

  He had to drive around for a good twenty minutes before he found a pay phone that was discreet enough. It was in fact so discreet that he had been driving by it twice a day for years on his way to and from work without ever noticing it.

  The phone booth sat on an empty lot, vacated by a closed-down service station a long time ago. It was perfect, planted on the right side of the lot, roughly a hundred yards from the road, in the dark. There was no risk of a surveillance camera ever registering his presence. Even his car parked in the shadows close to the phone would be next to invisible from the road.