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

by Tony Wiley

  “There you go. Anybody else you want to check on that list?”

  “No. Just tell me what proof of identity Harris carried with him through security.”

  “Let me see …” Johnson said, “… it was his passport. I’ve got the number and the expiration date right here. You want them?”

  “No, thanks. That won’t be necessary.” He made a small pause. Then he said, “Have you gone back to work on that other thing?”

  “That other thing being banks number four and five?” Johnson said.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he said.

  “I just got back to it. You know, this motel room is not the best place to work, Morrison. I hope I’m not gonna be stuck here for too long.”

  “Well, stay there. Don’t move until I tell you it’s safe. I mean it.”

  Morrison hung up and pocketed his phone. He was completely at a loss.

  “You’re right, Cowgirl. You and Harris have nothing to do with that.”

  Cowgirl nodded. Of course. He paused for a beat. Then he said, “But who in the hell stole all that money?”

  Cowgirl drank the last sip from her glass. “Couldn’t it be Mike or Tommy?” she said.

  Morrison shook his head. “Can’t be. Mike’s the one who put me back on that trail. When I was released from prison two days ago, this was nowhere on my radar. Mike kind of forced my hand to revisit the operation. So if he or Tommy had had anything to do with stealing that money, they would’ve kept quiet. The last thing they would’ve needed was someone sticking their nose into this mess.”

  Cowgirl concurred. “Yet somebody did get their hands on a nice big pile of money. At our expense,” she said. “This means that an outsider had access to our plans. Got a list of all the accounts we were going to hit.”

  “Yes, with the codes and everything,” he said. “Yet, I was the only one with them.”

  “What about your hacker?” she asked. “You trust him?”

  “Can’t be him,” he said. “If he had anything to do with it, he’d never have given me all the information on Chelfington and Candela Banks. He would’ve pretended that nothing had been stolen.”

  Cowgirl nodded. “Makes sense.”

  Morrison was still shaking his head in disbelief. “Who on earth was able to pull that off?”

  Right at that moment, he was happy to have the polished brass key safely tucked under his right shoe’s inner sole. If any of his partners knew he had been released from prison with this key as one of his few possessions, he would certainly have faced a series of tough questions. And he wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to provide satisfactory answers to them.

  He got up. “I need to go to the bathroom,” he said. “Order another round. I’ll have whatever you’re having. It’s on me.”

  The fundraiser crowd had thinned out. The far end of the bar appeared less busy than when he had come in. There were still a lot of people, but now he could clearly make out the poster that had been printed for the event. It was a simple but very effective image: a tiny child’s hand tucked into the large paw of an adult.

  Morrison pushed his way through the bathroom door. The room was empty. He went to a urinal. Oh, what a mess, he thought about his current situation. He thought he had nailed Harris, but then it turned out the wily old fox had done nothing wrong. Morrison sighed. So who had done it? Who had put their filthy hands on his money? He was dejected. Had no clue. And worse, he had no clue where the next clue could come from.

  The bathroom door’s hinges creaked, allowing the bar’s rumor to sneak in briefly before the door swung shut again. Morrison zipped up and turned around to go wash his hands.

  That’s when he saw the shadow at the corner of his eye.

  Moving toward him at warp speed.

  He heard the hiss of a clenched fist swinging for his head.

  He ducked and avoided the punch by a few millimeters.

  Carried by the momentum, his attacker swung past him but straightened up in a flash. Morrison looked at him. The guy was six feet tall. One hundred eighty pounds. Reasonably fit. In his mid-twenties. Head all dark hair.

  Angry Eyes. The ATM guy he had knocked out with a kick to the side of the head on Main Street.

  Even angrier now.

  Morrison knew at once that he was in big trouble.

  Angry Eyes showed a mean smirk. Like the asshole could read his mind.

  When it came to fighting, Morrison was a one-trick pony. He literally had one effective trick up his sleeve. That was it. And he had already used it, with stellar success, on Angry Eyes.

  He was a small guy. He could fight anybody once and have his chance. But not twice. No way. Unless the other guy was a complete idiot. Which Angry Eyes didn’t appear to be.

  At this point, there was only one option left. Run away. Get out of this place as fast as his legs would carry him. But he couldn’t do that. Angry Eyes stood right between him and the bathroom swing door.

  Angry Eyes knew he was in a good position. Knew he had the upper hand. It was written all over his face.

  The asshole came at him with a powerful right. Morrison dove on his left to avoid the punch. But only just. The guy’s fist flew dangerously close to his ear.

  Then Angry Eyes came back in a flash with a hard left to the stomach. Morrison felt like he had just been hit by a mile-long train.

  It took the wind out of him.

  His knees weakened.

  Angry Eyes knew better than to stop there. He followed with a right uppercut that landed square on his chin.

  Morrison saw bright flashes.

  His legs suddenly felt like wet cotton.

  Then it was lights out.

  Chapter 40

  The respected citizen heard a few shouts and turned around. There was a commotion just outside the bathroom. Two large guys held another one by the arms, like they wanted to prevent him from fleeing the scene. Some sort of bar brawl, it thought with a shrug, not unusual on a Saturday night.

  The respected citizen threaded its way through the crowd, drawing nearer to the action. Some people stood in the doorway to the bathroom, keeping the swing door half open. In there, a man lay on the floor in front of the urinals. He’s just been knocked out by the other guy, someone said. The respected citizen could see only the man’s legs. A Good Samaritan crouched in front of him, blocking the view. After a moment, the still legs started to shift. With help from the Good Samaritan, the man sat up.

  Despite the dazed look on his face, he was instantly recognizable.

  The respected citizen froze.

  Frank Morrison, he thought. What are you doing down there?

  *

  The light in Morrison’s face was so bright it made him squint. Felt like he was staring straight into the sun. As if that was not enough, his eyes had trouble focusing. There was a man and a half crouching in front of him. Strangely, he could hear everything sharp and clear. He’s coming back to his senses, he heard. The guy is all right, another voice said. Morrison closed his eyes and cupped his forehead with his right hand. Massaged his temples. Then he opened his eyes again. It was already better. There was now only one man crouching in front of him. “You OK?” the man asked. “Do you want a glass of water or somethin’?”

  Morrison felt like shit but he remembered Angry Eyes’ punches and thought it was only natural. The son of a bitch had hit him pretty hard.

  “I’m all right,” he said,” I’m all right. Can you help me stand up?”

  The Good Samaritan extended his arm and Morrison grabbed it with both hands. He was up on his feet in a second, but he had to hold on to the guy’s arm for a moment to steady himself. He heard a voice beaming from the doorway.

  “Making trouble again, Morrison?” it said.

  Morrison veered his head. It was Sheriff Sanford, still spectacular in her black cocktail dress but now very much the sheriff in her demeanor. She was walking toward him.

  “Me? I didn’t do anything,” he said.

  “Then wh
at were you doing on the floor?” she said.

  He shrugged and let go of the Good Samaritan’s arm. He didn’t want to appear too weak.

  “I was going to the bathroom and that guy knocked me out,” he said, pointing to Angry Eyes, who was still being held down by two big guys.

  “What, just like that? For no reason?” she said.

  “I don’t usually run around asking for this, you know. If you want to know why, you should ask him,” he said. Then he shook his head. “Hell, I’d like to know myself.”

  Sheriff Sanford turned around to face Angry Eyes. “What do you have to say?” she said.

  Morrison could read the embarrassment on Angry Eyes’ face. By now, the guy should have been long gone, but he hadn’t counted on some of the bar’s patrons intruding. The asshole had probably acted on the spur of the moment. Just my luck, Morrison thought. Obviously, Angry Eyes couldn’t tell her the truth. That this little altercation was only retribution for their first encounter, when Morrison had knocked him out cold. Angry Eyes had to come up with something, anything. But he seemed at a loss to find a suitable nugget of bullshit.

  “The little prick disrespected me,” he ended up saying.

  Morrison countered immediately. “I didn’t say anything. You hear voices, buddy,” he said.

  “He bumped into me, I told him to watch his step and he told me to eff myself,” Angry Eyes said.

  “Pure bullshit,” Morrison said.

  Sheriff Sanford raised her right arm. “That’s enough,” she said. “Somebody’s lying here. We’re gonna go clear this up at the station.”

  “You’re kidding, Sheriff,” Morrison said. “He knocks me out cold and I have to go to the station? It’s not fair.”

  “You’re both coming in,” she said. “End of story.”

  Somebody had already called the sheriff’s department because two deputies arrived promptly on the scene. Sanford gestured for them to take both men into custody. The two deputies parted ways. The younger one, a thick muscular man with a buzz cut, drew near Morrison and made him turn around and put his hands behind his back. He sighed and complied.

  “Go easy with the cuffs,” he said.

  But the deputy snapped the handcuffs around his wrists and ratcheted them hard into place. The cold metal ate into the flesh all the way to the bone. Morrison made a face. Son of a bitch, that hurt.

  The deputy with the buzz cut grabbed his right elbow. Walked him out of the bathroom.

  Back in the bar’s wide open room, Morrison caught sight of Cowgirl. She was still sitting in the booth with a look of surprise and worry on her face. He didn’t lock on her eyes. Didn’t want to emphasize their association. A few feet ahead, the other deputy, a tall lanky fellow, walked Angry Eyes in a similar fashion to the door. Morrison looked around the crowd and saw Harris. The wily old fox was staring at his protégé. He seemed furious at Angry Eyes. Then Harris turned his face toward him and his facial expression changed. Now, he looked more puzzled than anything.

  Outside, a small crowd of curious onlookers had gathered on the sidewalk. Two patrol cars were parked right in front of Flanagan’s with their flashing lights ablaze. It was a small consolation, but at least Morrison wouldn’t have to ride with Angry Eyes.

  The deputy with the buzz cut brought him to the nearest black Charger. He opened the rear door, put his hand on top of his head and pushed him inside. The deputy slammed the door shut, skirted the front of the car and slid behind the wheel. They stayed there for a while. The other car was still out in front, not ready to go. The lanky deputy was talking on his radio.

  Morrison looked around. He wanted to avoid the onlookers’ gazes. It was becoming embarrassing.

  On his left, he saw Sheriff Sanford trot across the street. She walked fast, in her natural athletic way. She had a mobile phone pressed to one ear. With her other hand, she raised a remote toward a row of parked cars. The lights on one of the cars blinked. He frowned. It was her civilian ride.

  He watched her cover the last few feet to the car. Pull the handle open and slide into the driver’s seat.

  His eyes widened.

  The car was unexpected.

  To say the least.

  It was a slick convertible. A Mercedes SLK. Silver with twenty-inch rims and wide low-profile tires. Very recent. In fact, it looked brand new.

  That struck him.

  That struck him hard.

  Now, isn’t this an expensive car for a sheriff? he thought.

  Chapter 41

  The sheriff’s department station was located on Acton’s main road, only a short ride away from Flanagan’s. Three minutes after Morrison was pushed into the back seat, the patrol car entered the front parking lot and came to a halt in front of a thick hedge. The building was an old-fashioned brick structure with black window frames and three tall flag poles. One for the American flag, one for the state of New York and one for the county of Acton.

  The deputy with the buzz cut helped Morrison out of the car and ushered him through the automatic sliding door. Just a few steps ahead, the tall lanky deputy was escorting Angry Eyes.

  “What do we have here?” the desk sergeant said.

  “No big deal,” the deputy with the buzz cut said. “Just a bar fight at Flanagan’s.”

  The desk sergeant looked over at Angry Eyes first, then at Morrison. He sneered. “Doesn’t take a Ph.D. to figure out who won,” he said. “Bring the tall guy in number one and the little fella in number two.”

  Morrison followed the deputy to processing room number two. It was a small room with cinder-block walls painted white. It had two chairs and a table, all steel, bolted to the sealed cement floor.

  It was the exact same room he had been brought into after his arrest three years before.

  While he stood up, the deputy emptied his pockets. Removed his leather belt. Then he looked at his shoes and sighed. “You’re not gonna strangle yourself with your laces, are you?”

  Morrison chuckled. “Not exactly what I had in mind for tonight,” he said.

  “Good,” the deputy said. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Not that I mind, but isn’t it against protocol?”

  The deputy shrugged. “We’ve had a long day,” he said. “And I don’t know why we’re taking you in to start with. It’s just a bar fight, who cares? We’ve got more serious business to take care of around here.”

  The deputy uncuffed his right hand, told him to sit down and locked the cuff around the steel table leg. Then he left the room.

  Morrison moved his right wrist around to chase the numbing pain. He wished he could do the same with his other wrist. That cuff was bloody tight.

  The deputy came back shortly after with a new property bag, a Sharpie and a form stuck on a clipboard. He sat down and proceeded to write down the list of Morrison’s possessions. A wallet with a few cards. A mobile phone. A set of car keys, some spare change and loose dollar bills. His leather belt.

  Again, Morrison didn’t mind that the brass key remained safely tucked underneath his right shoe’s inner sole. Didn’t mind at all.

  While the long and slow procedure took place, Morrison couldn’t help but think that this all looked too familiar. Three years before, it had been done the exact same way in the exact same room. Only difference was the processing officer.

  Last time, Sheriff Sanford herself, then a simple deputy, had processed him in the wake of his arrest. But apart from that, it was all the same. Even the content of the property bag looked eerily similar. Morrison squinted.

  Except for an item, he thought.

  An item he’d completely forgotten about.

  Even during his incarceration, he had never given it much thought.

  The USB flash drive.

  Three years before, he’d had one in his pockets on his arrest. He had completely forgotten about it. He had to be here today, cuffed to the same bolted steel table in processing room number two, for it to spring back to his memory.

  The bl
oody USB flash drive.

  Shortly after his arrest, it had caused him big worries. It contained the list of all the bank accounts they were going to hit next. Along with the user codes and passwords they were going to use to access them. All in super-encrypted format, of course. The encryption was tight. Above even military grade. And not only was this data super-encrypted, it was also hidden. The streams of bytes were not stored in separate files. He had rather elected to conceal them within ordinary pictures files. If you looked at the USB flash drive content, all you saw were a bunch of ordinary-looking pictures that he had taken on a trip to New York City. They would look innocent enough to anybody. He had been confident that the true nature of these files would remain hidden. But you never knew. An officer cleverer than the rest could have taken a deeper look at these files. Could perhaps have pierced their secrets with some help. It was a long shot, for sure, but it was not impossible. That’s why, initially, these files had caused him to worry a lot. But these worries had proved short-lived. In the multiple interrogations he faced, nobody ever asked about them. And when his lawyer was given the detail of the prosecution’s proof, that USB flash drive and its content were nowhere to be seen. So Morrison had sighed and quickly forgotten about it to focus on his defense.

  Until now.

  The USB flash drive.

  All of a sudden, this opened up a whole new array of possibilities. He figured he’d have to give some thought to this.

  The deputy finished drafting up the inventory of his possessions. Then he flipped the notepad around and asked him to review and sign the form while he put everything into the property bag.

  Morrison scanned the list. It looked OK. He signed it and pushed the notepad back to the deputy.

  “You said you had more serious business to take care of,” Morrison asked. “What is that?”

  The deputy shook his head. “Double murder. Something we don’t see too often around here, thank God,” he said. “Some young guy and his kid. Shot at point blank at their place. It’s sick. Just sick.”

  Morrison nodded. Said nothing.

  At this point, the deputy was pretty relaxed around him, and he got up to unlock the single strand from around the leg table. Told Morrison to get up too and put his hands behind his back. Then he locked the cuff back on his free wrist, so lightly this time that Morrison could barely feel the strands.