Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  “Kate?” Peter asked. She turned her head. “Let’s see how we feel over the next few weeks. While you’re away, let’s talk, email, see each other a few times. When you come back as a high powered legal-eagle, can we revisit our feelings?”

  Million-watt delight lit up her face. “Yes. I’d like that.” She took several steps away from him before halting in mid-stride. She turned one last time, and said, “No. I’d love that.” She blew him a kiss, then disappeared.

  An hour later, Peter sipped coffee and pondered how this had turned out the way it did. Far from clinging, Kate was willing to blow the whole thing off as a needed emotional interlude. If nothing else, she was capable of keeping him off-guard.

  “I think you’d have gone with her, old man,” Peter said to Henry.

  A knock came from the direction of the kitchen, in the back of his apartment. Peter looked at his watch, puzzled over who might be visiting at such an early hour and why they chose the rear door, rather than the front door. “Come on, Henry, let’s see who’s a-visitin’ us this fine morn’.”

  Once inside the kitchen, Peter saw a man’s head through the glass door-panes. A combination of shadow and a tilted Cubs cap hid the face. The man held up a clipboard for Peter to see. In a voice loud enough to carry through the glass, he said, “Got a delivery from a . . .” the man squinted at the writing on a slip of paper. “Can’t read the name, but delivery’s for a Mr. Peter Neil.”

  Peter immediately guessed that Kate had sent him something. Flowers? Candy? He felt like a cad. He should have been the one to send something. Still, it was typical of her. Sensitive and kind. Peter nodded. When he unlocked and opened the door, he saw a second man, his features also hidden, standing behind the first, three steps down.

  With the swiftness of an athlete, the first man struck Peter across the neck. By the time he hit the linoleum floor, Peter was unconscious.

  “We reported four hundred twenty-two million, one hundred-fifteen thousand, three hundred-fourteen this week.” Sarah Guzman calculated the numbers a third time as she spoke into her speakerphone. “I checked with Howard and we are in agreement.”

  “How is the marketing campaign progressing?” Morgan Stenman asked.

  “We have reached agreement with the second of the four cartels in Colombia, and made contact with the others,” Sarah said, removing her reading glasses and setting them on her desk. “They are interested in an arrangement similar to our Mexican clientele.”

  “That you could organize the enemies of your dead husband and make them eat from your hand is impressive.” It was a rare Stenman compliment.

  “Not so much so, but thank you. Giving up our share of the north-south traffic, then burying our organization, was an enticement. Your financial sophistication has simplified my efforts.”

  “Please,” Stenman said, “finish your report.”

  Sarah replaced her glasses and looked back at her numbers. “If we can close on the three organizations we are pursuing, we will double our take. But can you can handle this many transactions?” Sarah heard Morgan exhale filtered cigarette smoke.

  “We can,” Morgan answered. “I will get our attorneys to set up additional accounts.”

  “How is the flow from your end?” Sarah asked.

  “The Russian money is impressive. It is convenient. The politicians, like those in your world, are participants.”

  “And there are no developments with the Neil situation?” Sarah asked.

  “No, but we shall all continue to monitor the one person likely to find anything, if it exists. Now, I must go. Thank you for the update. Things are good.”

  “Yes,” Sarah agreed. “Good.”

  Once they disconnected, Sarah Guzman pulled up the computer file on Hannah Neil. She read:

  HANNAH NEIL:

  Husband, Matthew Neil, deceased, cancer, age fifty-one.

  Son, Peter Neil, age twenty-eight.

  She stopped reading. Clicking the down arrow, she scrolled through several pages of photographs. She stopped when she reached a close-up of Peter. She studied that picture and two others that followed. He had a square jaw and a rugged, handsome face. Brown hair. Broad lips. She returned to his bio. He was six foot, one inch, one hundred and ninety-six pounds. No close relatives. Best friend, Drew Franklin—Sarah Guzman highlighted the name. She continued: no athletic scholarship, but ran track and cross-country at UCLA; earned a double major in English and math; outstanding grades. Obviously, she concluded, he had also been a financial underachiever. Until now.

  Just before closing the computer file, she nodded approvingly. “Intelligent eyes.”

  Opening an unrelated file, she went back to work.

  Peter came to with Henry licking his face. Still on the floor, he rubbed the point of impact below his right ear, guessing a metal rod did the damage. The bruise went deep.

  The outside door was open, and despite mingling with freeway stench, a stiff breeze brought welcome relief. Pushing himself to his feet, he swooned, clutched at a nearby counter-top, and noticed his small microwave was missing. A robbery? Everything he owned, including the microwave, was antiquated junk. An untouched dirty skillet sat on a burner next to a jelly-jar glass.

  Thank God they didn’t use the steak knives to slit my throat, he thought.

  Peter managed to stagger to the living room. Sprawled across the floor were the contents of his moving boxes. Spiral notebooks with college class-notes had been strewn throughout the room. Elvis Costello tapes not taken. That qualified as the first piece of good news. A box of photos, dumped. A framed picture of his mother, missing. Why?

  “What happened, Henry?” Peter’s voice sounded ragged. “You’re my only witness.”

  Peter suddenly noticed his color television was stolen. “What’s the point?” he asked himself. “The thing’s four years old and cost two hundred bucks, new.”

  The six-year-old stereo, also gone. His wallet lay open, tossed on the floor. Ten, twelve dollars was all he had. His new credit card, still unauthorized, gone. Through the open bedroom door, he saw evidence of additional ransacking. The mattress was askew. Someone, apparently expecting to find something underneath, stripped the sheets off his bed. Also taken was the clock radio.

  “What a bunch of morons,” Peter shouted to the walls. “The damn clock radio ran twenty minutes slow.”

  Peter heard a knock on his front door. For the first time, he realized his diver’s watch was missing from his wrist. Brilliant. That’s worth about three bucks. Still tentative in his steps, Peter made it to the door and peeked through the watch-hole. Thank god, he thought, when he saw Drew Franklin’s face outside his door. Drew’s arrival meant it was noon—the time he had agreed to come and help Peter move.

  Drew, entering the opened door, saw Peter’s face and the neck bruise. “You get in a fight?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Peter answered. “Somebody beat on me to steal eighty-nine bucks’ worth of crap.”

  Drew examined Peter and determined the injury wasn’t serious. “They either knew just the right spot to knock you on your ass without serious injury, or you were damn lucky,” he explained.

  After Peter’s quick summary of what had happened, Drew found himself equally bewildered. “Doesn’t make a bit of sense,” he agreed. “Probably drug addicts, desperate for a fix. We see them all the time at the hospital.”

  Peter shook his head. “This guy, the one who hit me, he didn’t move like someone impaired. Too quick to be a druggie. I’m no slouch when it comes to moving fast, but he caught me flat-footed. And while everything they took was crap, they were thorough and fast. Methodical, I’d say.”

  “Let’s call the cops,” Drew said.

  “We do that and I’m stuck here at least another day. You and I both know they’ll never find anything or anybody.”

  Peter reached into his left trouser pocket: empty. He patted his other pockets. Nothing. He went to the kitchen and checked the floors.

  “What are yo
u looking for, White Bread?” Drew asked.

  “I can’t believe it,” Peter mumbled.

  “Can’t believe someone robbed you? It’s not as if you live in the safest neighborhood—”

  “Not that. Never mind.”

  Bad enough they stole crappy appliances and took his sheets and pillowcases to cart the stuff off in. But why, Peter wondered, did they take his moonstone?

  It took the rest of the day to move out, but by dinnertime, Peter, Drew, and Stuart Grimes sat comfortably on Peter’s ragtag sofa in his new home. They sipped Heineken and enjoyed an ocean view on one side and colorful sightseeing balloons on the other.

  Stuart took a deep swig and said, “Well, neighbor—glad I talked you into moving here?”

  “Yeah,” Peter began, “especially after getting my head dented as a send-off.”

  “I’ll tell you something, dude: as bachelor pads go, you and I live in the best. You’ll have bimbos hanging from chandeliers.”

  “If I fall into that trap, Stu, Drew has instructions to castrate me.”

  While the three men bullshitted their way into the evening, Peter watched Henry explore his new home. The calico liked the place. Three bedrooms to claim as his new territory, rather than half-of-one. A new, oversized kitchen. Even a new food dish. By the time the others left at ten o’clock, the animal had deposited a layer of fur throughout.

  The two roommates—Peter and Henry—went to bed an hour later. They heard real waves through the windows, not the horns, screeching tires, and occasional fatal accident they’d become accustomed to. Before he fell asleep, Peter resolved to call Kate. Ask her to lunch. Maybe invite her over and show her around the new pad.

  After all, this bathtub was twice the size.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ON MONDAY MORNING, A NEW VOICE ECHOED THROUGH HIS INTERCOM, and Oliver Dawson found it disconcerting. His new secretary, Carol Larson, came from the secretarial pool, assigned to him while he and the other two agents sharing a secretary interviewed and agreed upon a permanent replacement for Angela. Young Carol had a pretty face, but it was her full breasts, straining the buttons of her blouse, that drew everyone’s attention. At ten o’clock, this newest attraction at the SEC Enforcement Division rapped on Dawson’s door.

  “Come in,” he called out.

  “This just came for you, sir.”

  Carol batted her eyes as she handed him an oversized envelope. On the outside it read:

  CONFIDENTIAL—TO BE OPENED BY ADDRESSEE ONLY (Under penalty of law)

  OFFICIAL BUSINESS

  FBI Laboratory—Washington, D.C.

  At first baffled, Dawson suddenly remembered his request for the lab results, and for the original documents anonymously sent to him in the San Diego case. He used an index finger to rip apart the seal. Reaching inside, he withdrew the contents.

  A short cover letter read:

  Attention: Agent Oliver Dawson

  Re: Tests

  From: Dr. Isaac Hermanson

  Apologies for the delay, but we found it necessary to inventory Agent Carlson’s projects. I have included a summary of the lab findings already sent to your offices by Carlson, shortly before his death.

  To reiterate, a clear set of fingerprints (unidentified) was lifted from these pages. We additionally determined that the weight and texture of the paper, on which the letter was printed, was an expensive grade used by an exclusive clientele—mostly law firms.

  The manufacturer of this paper—as identified by their watermark—is International Paperworks, Inc. out of Portland, Oregon.

  In each case, as you are undoubtedly aware, we were instructed not to conduct additional follow-up. If that directive changes, please advise.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Isaac Hermanson—Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Dawson slammed the packet on his desk. He retrieved and fished through his files on Jackson Securities. Hadn’t he been told the investigation turned up no fingerprints? He was sure he had. Flipping pages, though, he found nothing in writing to confirm his vivid recollection.

  “How the hell did I reach that understanding?” He drew a blank.

  He phoned Angela, hoping she had an answer. After a brief exchange of soft endearments, she asked, “Do you have a problem, Oliver?”

  “Yeah. Brain lock.” He then asked about the evidence from the lab. “Who informed us about the results, and when?”

  “You were in San Diego. I relayed the information.”

  “That’s right.” He shuddered at the memory of the cheap hotel room, the sleepless night, and the mission’s failure. “Where did you get your information?” He tried to contain his mounting wrath.

  “Let’s see . . .”

  Dawson stared at the FBI letter while he waited for Angela’s answer.

  With what the lab had now concluded, he was certain it could identify who had contacted him, if he asked. “What a damn waste of time,” he whispered into the back of his hand, the one covering the mouthpiece.

  “Did you say something?” Angela asked.

  “Uh, no. Any recollections?”

  “Yes. I got a call from Director Ackerman’s office.”

  Dawson had known Donald Ackerman for ten years—before Ackerman became an SEC director. Their respect for each other stemmed from their equally strong commitment to their work. So why did Ackerman try to scuttle the investigation?

  “Ackerman said the tests were negative?” he asked.

  “Not the Director, his office. Maybe his assistant. Yes, I’m certain. Freeman Ranson notified us. I don’t think we received anything in writing, though.”

  Dawson knew for damn sure nothing had been sent in writing. Writing left a trail. This way, Ranson could deny having said any such thing, or he could simply claim misunderstanding. Dawson’s dislike for the man quickly ballooned into hatred. Ranson had always been far too interested in matters that did not concern him. Prior to this latest outrage, Dawson had considered the director’s assistant merely a prying annoyance. Now, he had other suspicions. What did he know about the man? Thinking deeply, Dawson recalled that Ranson, before joining the SEC, had worked in compliance for an investment-banking firm. Was there a connection or a conflict of interest going on here? Dawson would give odds on it.

  As a follow-up, the agent made a quick call to a friend in the SEC’s personnel department. Ranson, he discovered, had indeed worked for the investment bank Stratton Brothers prior to joining the Securities and Exchange Commission seven years ago. His educational and professional history suggested he had been a top-notch attorney, ambitious and connected. Now, Dawson wanted to know, what had possessed Ranson to leave a much higher paying job in the private sector for the SEC? It didn’t make sense.

  That Freeman Ranson had come from Stratton Brothers represented another potentially disturbing piece to this puzzle, Dawson decided. Stratton was one of the two brokers in bed with Stenman Partners at the time of the Treasury manipulation investigation. And it was well-known that Stratton Brothers and Stenman Partners had a long-standing relationship—a relationship that predated Ranson’s leaving the investment bank. It was circumstantial, but Dawson’s instincts told him Ranson hadn’t been playing straight with him.

  “Freeman-fucking-Ranson,” he said under his breath.

  An hour later, Dawson convinced Director Ackerman to meet him in Dawson’s car, heading toward Silver Spring, Maryland. The director’s six-foot frame scrunched into Dawson’s undersized, unkempt Toyota. Director of Enforcement Donald Ackerman had slate eyes and the tan face ofan outdoorsman. Now fifty, he had achieved quick success at the SEC—a byproduct of his smarts and political savvy. Dawson believed him to be among the most competent people he knew.

  “I like you, Dawson,” Ackerman said, “but this had better be good.”

  “Sir, bear with me. As much as I hate to say it, you may have become an unwitting part in what I believe is massive securities fraud.”

  Ackerman’s skepticism stretched his face.
“You are on the thinnest of ice, Agent. Does this have to do with your dead-end investigation in San Diego—those two suicide crackpots who busted a brain-vein and went nuts? Tell me that’s not what you’re babbling about.”

  “Not a suicide-murder, sir.”

  “Good. What is it then?”

  “I don’t believe Zerets committed suicide—I think someone, and I don’t know exactly how—set him up. These same people murdered Cannodine because of my investigation. And Drucker—”

  “Oh my God, this is about San Diego. You’re anal-compulsive, Dawson. Turn this heap around and get me back to my office.”

  “No, sir.”

  “This is insane. You can’t kidnap the head of SEC Enforcement.”

  “Nearly fifteen years, sir—that’s how long I’ve knocked my head against a wall. Tried to enforce the laws with piss-ant results. This time, we’ve got some big fish dangling. Hear me out. Please.”

  “You’ve got until we reach the Maryland border, then home. That’s fifteen minutes. Make it good.”

  “I will. And thank you.”

  “Don’t waste your time thanking me.”

  Dawson lifted his foot off the accelerator, enough to cut ten miles per hour off his speed. Then, after laying out the coincidences, he asked, “Why didn’t you see the lab report indicating there were prints on the letter? Not told the paper was distinctive? Why did Ranson give me misinformation? Any potential source of information in this case seems likely to end up involved in an accident, suicide, or a murder. Someone leaked information. It wasn’t me, and it sure as hell wasn’t you.”

  “We’re a huge agency and sometimes there are slipups. Shit happens.”

  “This toilet’s stopped up and overflowing, and Ranson’s the one sitting on the pot.”

  “In my book,” the Director said, “Freeman Ranson’s an exemplary employee. You have ten seconds to reconsider and withdraw your accusations.”

  “No thank you, sir. I may be wrong, but I’m willing to go with my gut, and my gut tells me I’m on to something.”