Acting Dead (Michael Quinn Thriller)

by John Moralee

  She pointed the shotgun at my chest. “Don’t think I won’t use this.”

  “Has someone from Heaven and Earth threatened you?”

  She smiled crookedly. “I said I’ll ask the questions.”

  She directed me to the back of the house; then locked the gate behind me. “How do you know Taylor?”

  “We were in high school. He was my best friend.”

  “He’s a good man – for a lawyer.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him because of me.”

  “I know what you mean. Ever since I came back from Los Angeles, I’ve felt like I’m stepping on people’s toes.”

  There was some lawn furniture in the garden at the back of the house. A well-used punch bag hanging on the porch looked as though it had received the worst end of fight with Bruce Lee. A Compaq laptop computer was on a plastic table with a white sun-shade protecting its screen. The laptop bleeped as we approached. Beck must have been working outside when I interrupted her.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Writing,” she said defensively.

  “A novel?”

  “A dissertation. I hope to have it published in Nature.”

  “You’re a scientist.”

  “Marine biologist.” She sat down and saved her writing to disk, then closed the laptop. “Okay, why are you really here?”

  I told her the background, then how I’d looked in Scott’s files.

  She recoiled on hearing that. “I thought files like those were confidential?”

  “I’d have to ask a lawyer,” I said. “But there seems to be a shortage.”

  She massaged her graceful neck, relieved whatever tension had built up. “Hell. This is terrible.”

  “Can you tell me what your lawsuit is about? I’ve read the file, but it doesn’t give a flavour of what it’s about.”

  “You mean you couldn’t understand it?”

  “You could say that. So, will you explain it?”

  She thought about it for so long I thought she was going to refuse. “I’m not saying anything that isn’t public knowledge. I’m suing Heaven and Earth on behalf of Emerald Point’s silent majority.”

  “Silent majority?”

  “By that I mean the natural wildlife. Emerald Point is a national resource. There are 23 species of snails and insects that are extremely rare in the marshland that Heaven and Earth intends to drain and make into a golf course.” She went into details about the snails, her eyes shining as she explained why they were so important. I didn’t understand everything she said – you’d need an advanced degree to do that – but her passion was infectious. She cared for them like most people care for their family (if you’re lucky). More importantly, she made me care. “We can’t just let someone screw it up. It’s a rape of the land. Unfortunately, Heaven and Earth Enterprises can’t see that. They just see dollar signs. And they have lobbied the state commission to agree with them. But you see in their original applications they didn’t refer to the environmental effects. They’ve made false promises. They say they’ll move the species to a new location. Transplant them. But it’s not that simple. A unique habitat is exactly that: unique. I’ve studied the ecosystem for three years; I know I can prove that the species can’t be transplanted. The snails will die if it goes ahead because they can’t live anywhere else. It’ll screw around with the migration patterns of the geese, which will kill them as surely as bullets. That’s why I hired Taylor. Hopefully, they’ll have no choice but to stop the project or at least cancel the golf course. We were going to court next month, but now … if something’s happened to Taylor …”

  She sighed and poured herself a drink of Dr Pepper. She looked at the shotgun.

  “You think I’m paranoid, walking around with a shotgun?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you?”

  “They’ve tried intimidating me since I filed the lawsuit.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, they sent some big guys over. Guys who looked like they pumped iron all day and injected steroids all night. They watched the house through binoculars, took photos. I asked them what they were doing. They said they were looking for rare birds. Look up - do you see anything but gulls around here?”

  I looked and shook my head.

  “Exactly,” Beck said, “you don’t. I asked them some questions any amateur would know. They didn’t know the answers. When I asked them why they were taking pictures of my house, they left in a hurry. A couple of guys have been back four times. Sometimes I hear them creeping around at night. Nothing overt, you understand. Nothing I could go to the cops with. But it’s clear harassment.”

  “You don’t look like the kind of woman who could be intimidated.”

  “I’m not, but …”

  “It bothers you?”

  “Wouldn’t it bother you?”

  “Yes, I guess it would.”

  “I also think they’re trying to get their hands on my research, ruin my case. Next time, I’m going to give them some extra holes to breathe through.”

  “Maybe that’s what they want.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you shoot at them, it will look as if you’re crazy.”

  “It makes me sick. Guys like them just don’t care about the planet. I just want what’s right. Why can’t they just be reasonable? They could build their stupid hotel somewhere else. There’s acres of land they could use just a few miles down the coast. Land where nothing grows. But no, they have to be awkward. They have to destroy everything.”

  She was trembling with rage.

  “I want to help,” I said.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. But I need to know more about what Scott Taylor was doing for you. When was the last time you spoke to Scott?”

  “A week ago on Friday.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “He told me he’d met Van Morgan’s lawyers, Mason and White. They were adamant I had no case, but as a so-called gesture of good will for dropping the lawsuit they’d donate fifty thousand dollars to the charity of my choice. I was tempted, but I told him no. What they were doing was bribery. Taylor agreed. He said he’d meet them again to reject their offer, then get back to me. That was the last thing he said to me. I’ve been waiting for his call. You don’t think I got him killed?”

  “I promise I’ll find out.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I believe you.”

  I gave her my phone number; she gave me hers. “Call me if those guys show up, or if you think of something new.”

  “Good luck,” she said.

  “You, too.”

  On my return journey, I noticed a brown pickup following. The route I was taking was pretty chaotic because I didn’t know the roads well, so the pickup stood out. It had to be deliberately following. I slowed down. The pickup passed and went ahead, just as if it had not been following. But I’d seen enough to know the truth. Two men were in the truck, and neither had looked at me as they went by. Precisely as if they didn’t want me to see their faces. The driver had the thick, rounded knuckles of a prize-fighter, with gold rings on each finger. He had dark purple tattoos on his muscular arms, though I couldn’t tell what they were supposed to be; they were just a blur. I only glimpsed the back of the passenger’s head; he was wearing a baseball cap and sitting low in his seat. His neck was red like he’d been in the sun too long. I would have memorised the licence plate, but mud covered it. That was illegal. I thought about speeding up and forcing them off the road, but what good would that do? They could have been armed. So I slowed down some more until they were out of sight, then I drove in reverse back to the last junction (there was no room for turning around). I accelerated down the rough road. I did not see them again, but my uneasiness would not go away, even when I drove onto the ferry. Their pickup was not there, luckily. But I half expected the brown pickup and its redneck occupants waiting on t
he far shore.

  They weren’t.

  But why would they need to?

  They knew my licence plate for sure.

  Chapter 9

  I entered the town’s public library. It was cold and empty and smelled of old, musty books and wet afternoons. The Quakers built it in the 1870s, and it was the oldest building in Cape Mistral. It felt like a church with the sanctity that deserved, but as I looked around I noticed several computer terminals that looked oddly anachronistic. The head librarian was a small man with a bald head and a ginger goatee beard. He looked like a college professor - his clothes didn’t match: brown slacks, yellow shirt, blue cardigan. God knows what colour his shoes were. His eyes lit up when he recognised me. Inwardly, I groaned. “Mr Quinn! I love your movies!”

  And to prove it he quoted my lines from a dozen roles.

  “Er, thanks.”

  “Would you sign something?”

  “Sure.” I remembered I’d used up my photographs. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to write on.”

  He looked for a piece of paper. The library was highly computerised with little paper around, so he ended up handing over a pamphlet on an art exhibition from six months ago. I signed it. He tucked it into his shirt pocket as if it were a winning lottery ticket. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome. Now. How can I help you?”

  “I need some information on Heaven and Earth Enterprises.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “Any. It’s important.”

  “Researching your next part, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ll do it for you, Mr Quinn.”

  “Michael, please.”

  “I do so love your movies, Michael.”

  He’s a nut, I thought. But I smiled. Let’s get this over, I thought.

  The librarian typed several keywords at my suggestion into his computer terminal. “We have the text and pictures of the Tribune on a database for the last ten years. Any articles including the words you search for will be listed in seconds. Here. There are 62 references to Heaven and Earth Enterprises. I could even do an Internet search if you like?”

  “Good idea. Can you print out everything?”

  “It costs twenty cents a sheet.”

  “Fine.”

  I watched him use the computer with something like awe. Generally, I avoided technology. It seemed like most technology started off simple and usable – like VCRs with record and play and fast forward/rewind and stop – but then design experts added ‘user-friendly’ functions that nobody ever used. Then you had a VCR with fifty buttons and dials and ‘convenient’ fast-access shortcuts. They made it something NASA engineers would have difficulty just reading the 100 page manual written in pseudo-English by a committee of Japanese sadomasochists. To me, computers were the ultimate manifestation of the design process gone wrong. They used to be simple – you turned them on and in an instant it was ready to use. Remember the Apple Mac? But now you turn one on and you have to wait for ten minutes as it loads Windows 2000 or something. Sure, they looked easy to use, but making them do what you wanted was another thing all together. However, the librarian had the skills. Click. Click. Click. Screens and screens of information appeared. The laser printer at the end of the counter beeped and started spewing out sheets.

  “Amazing. Could you look up a person?”

  “A famous person?”

  “No. A businessman: Charles Van Morgan.”

  “He lives in town, doesn’t he?” I said yes. “I’ll try the local network first. I never did that before. Oh, incidentally, did you know there’s a web page on you?”

  “No. But thanks for telling me.”

  After he’d printed everything, I carried a thick pile of A4 to a desk. The librarian would have wanted to chat, but, mercifully, someone else came in and drew him away. Fans like the librarian made me uncomfortable, as well meaning as they were, because they made me feel like a fraud. The person they admired wasn’t the real me. It was a screen image. A character. Somehow they expected me to be the same in the flesh as the wild and crazy dude they saw in the cinema.

  I read the material until my eyes were sore and I had a headache and I was absolutely sick of Heaven and Earth Enterprises and Charles Van Morgan. The Tribune articles began as far back as July 1995. Van Morgan bought a section of the wharf area as well as an antebellum mansion in the Garden District. He paid $1.4 million. Since then, Van Morgan had become a major benefactor of Cape Mistral. A cynical person would say he bought his way into the favour of the rich and powerful elite, spinning the news his way with deft influence here and there. His Emerald Point project had no organised opposition discounting Sarah Beck, who was a maverick, a thorn in his side. He had good reason to hate her and her lawyer.

  I studied Van Morgan’s background. He had grown up the son of a wealthy Harvard-educated lawyer. He’d studied architecture at Stanford, joined a construction firm to learn the business, then worked in Palm Springs for a decade, where he earned enough designing houses for the mega-rich to create Heaven and Earth Enterprises. It was now a Fortune 500 company. It was the American Dream.

  There was a shadow over it, though.

  The IRS had investigated the company for tax evasion in 1987-88 and 1994-95, but had not found sufficient evidence for prosecution. Their witnesses had refused to testify, claiming they’d ‘been misunderstood’. Also, there had been some union problems a few years ago and speculation that Van Morgan had ordered violence to be used against three union members in a bar one night. Two of the men suffered broken arms; one was in hospital for eight months and could never walk properly again. Three workers were sacked for assaulting the men, but no other charges were made. No lawsuits were filed, which was highly unusual, I thought. You didn’t get beaten up and then not sue for civil damages. I circled the names of the victims and attackers as a reminder to check them out later.

  There wasn’t much else, but I had the bad feeling that I was seeing just the tip of the iceberg.

  The question was did Charles Van Morgan order the disappearance of Scott?

  And if he had ordered it, what could I do about it?

  As soon as I was home, I made a call to Sarah Beck about the men, then I called Fiona to see how she was doing. She sounded not so good; she was weary and depressed. She said her mother, Grace, was coming today from Florida, but had not yet arrived. Then Fiona cried, and she confessed she wasn’t coping well; twice this morning she’d shouted at her kids, making them cry. She said that she suddenly felt weepy for no reason. She didn’t know why. I knew why: stress. She needed a break from the kids, from worrying about Scott. I suggested dinner tonight at a fancy restaurant, my treat, just the two of us. Her mother could baby-sit the children. Fiona could get everything out of her system, I hoped. I would do my best to cheer her up. Reluctantly, she said yes.

  After organising that, I carried the phone outside. I sat in the garden in the bright sunlight, looking through the gaps between the trees at the water beyond, where sailboats wove a kaleidoscopic pattern. It was the perfect place to relax while I made inquiries about Heaven and Earth Enterprises.

  “Hello. Is that Mr Straviski?”

  “Yeah. You’re not selling something are you?”

  “No. I was hoping you could tell me about your time working for Heaven and Earth Enterprises.”

  Click.

  He’d hung up.

  “Mr Solomon?” I said.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Laurence Fish, sir.” I’d made up the name in advance. “I’m a lawyer, sir. I specialise in injury cases.”

  “So you’re an ambulance chaser. So what?”

  “I could earn you a substantial amount in damages for what happened to you in July 1996.”

  He paused. I thought he would hang up.

  I added, “You could win a million dollars, sir.”

  I heard his breathing. He said, suspiciously, “And what would you get?”


  “Nothing unless you win the case, sir. Then I charge five per cent of any damage award, which is a lot less than anyone else would charge.” I let that sink in. I wondered what laws I was breaking right now. “Now, I believe you were attacked by an employee of Heaven and Earth Enterprises?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  He coughed. “Um. It’s over. I don’t want to go into it no more.”

  “Did someone threaten you?”

  “Listen, this conversation is finished. Goodbye.”

  Click.

  “Yeah, I’m Mr Iverson. Who are you?”

  “Special Agent Bruce Campbell.” I said.

  “FBI?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “W-what do you want?”

  “I’m investigating Heaven and Earth Enterprises, Mr Iverson. You worked for the company for three years, but then you were attacked by three men, also employed by the company. You never went back after you recovered, even though the men responsible were no longer there. Can you tell me why?”

  “I just wanted a change.”

  “No one intimidated you?”

  “No.”

  “No one threatened you?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell my what motive the men had for the attack?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The answers were too quick. Too rehearsed.

  “Mr Iverson, you must tell the truth. There has to be a reason. Why did they attack you?”

  “Like I said in court, they were just drunk. They didn’t mean to cripple me. It was nothing personal.”

  Nothing personal? Iverson was terrified. If I’d been in the same room as Iverson, I had no doubt he would have been shaking and sweating. But on the phone I could just here the faltering of his voice.

  “Mr Iverson, you are in no danger if you co-operate with my investigation.”

  He snorted with contempt.

  “You would say that.”

  “Who threatened you?”

  “Nobody. Nobody threatened me. Please please please stop asking questions. I really don’t want to go through this again, okay? My family’s gone through enough all ready ... Just leave us alone. I don’t want to have anything to do with your investigation or Heaven and Earth Enterprises in a billion years.”