by Tony Wiley
Morrison went pensive. Is that guy tailing me?
The car was a light gray Chevy Impala. Pretty anonymous. The kind that you could get at a rental car counter. That an elderly couple could buy with their pension money. That a law enforcement agency could source to accomplish surveillance work. It was really a multipurpose vehicle, inconspicuous by virtue of its ubiquity. But then again, perhaps it was just a car that happened to be passing by when he merged on the road—the most likely occurrence. He peered back again. The Impala was too far back for him to have a clear view of the driver. With the glare coming off the windshield, he couldn’t even see if the driver was alone. Could’ve been a man or a woman. He really had no way of telling.
Morrison continued on his way. With the cruise control locked at fifty, he kept driving toward town as if he were oblivious to his surroundings.
But a discreet inquiry was definitely called for.
When he reached the outskirts of Acton, he veered into the shopping center’s parking lot and stopped in an empty spot in front of the wine store.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the gray Impala nose its way into the parking lot as he covered the few feet separating him from the store’s entrance.
He wanted to do this anyway. Buy a good bottle or two. Of course, it hadn’t been his priority this morning, but now that he had about fifteen minutes to kill, why not enjoy it?
Wine was relatively new for him. A year before he was busted, he had worked on a deal with a Frenchman. An old guy. Looked like an amiable retired civil servant. Nobody could have guessed how he made his living in a million years. A real pro. Morrison had struck up a friendship with him and in the course of their collaboration, the Frenchman had introduced him to wine.
There was nothing snobbish or uptight in his appreciation of it, just a deep, heartfelt love that he communicated really well. Under his tutelage, Morrison got to know the different varietals. Learned how terroir influenced their expression and taste. For his part, he had fallen hard for a quintessentially American wine, California Zinfandel. Red, of course. Not the bubble-gum syrup marketed under the label White Zinfandel. The store had a good selection of them. Those he preferred came from Lodi in the Central Valley. Old vines. They had that inimitable roasted red pepper aroma that he liked so much. He grabbed a bottle of Herzog. Then he ran his fingers over the surface of a dozen different ones before opting for a bottle of bold Ravenswood. Since he had some time, he perused the aisles, taking in all the beautiful labels. The austere Bordeaux. The refined Bourgogne. The flamboyant Australians. When he was done, he brought his two bottles to the counter and grabbed a cheap corkscrew with the store’s logo from a display. He paid in cash and didn’t ask for a bag. He wanted his purchases to be clearly visible when he left the store.
Back in the Navigator, he dropped the two bottles on the passenger seat and got going again. Without making a show of it, he paid close attention to his mirrors as he pulled out of the parking lot. Sure enough, when he rejoined Acton Road, he saw the gray Impala emerge from its own parking spot and inch carefully after him.
Earlier, that could’ve been just another car heading from the countryside to Acton’s shopping center at exactly the same time he was. Would have made a lot of sense. But the probability of its driver then spending the exact same amount of time as Morrison shopping and rejoining the road immediately after him was infinitesimal.
So he was really being followed.
But the question was, who exactly was being followed—him or the Navigator? Nobody knew he was staying at Mike’s. It had come as a complete surprise even to him. And he knew he had not been followed to or from Mike’s compound the previous night. So it meant that the Navigator was being followed. The gray Impala must have been lying in wait by the side of the county road, as far away from the mouth of Mike’s private road as it could be without losing sight of it.
With the light morning traffic, Morrison made his way downtown at a steady rhythm. The Impala kept shadowing him from a fair distance.
Morrison wondered if Mike knew his compound was under surveillance. If he did, his partner certainly never mentioned it. And if he didn’t, well, that could be something to use against him later. Morrison’s mind raced. He also wondered who was keeping a close eye on Mike’s crew. Some representatives of law enforcement? Some rivals? Some untrusting business associates? The previous night, Laura had mentioned that Mike and his crew were getting busier and busier recently. Maybe that had something to do with it?
Bottom line, Morrison needed to know more about his follower. But he also needed to act like he didn’t know he was being followed.
He could think of a few ways to achieve that objective.
In the end, he settled for the option that best suited his immediate taste. After all, he still wanted to have cinnamon buns from Elena’s. So when he arrived downtown, he paid close attention to the angled parking spots. Main Street was busy. Most of the spots were taken. He passed at least twenty of them before he saw the first free one, then he made sure he nosed into it, like any other motorist not believing his luck would.
The choice of the first free spot was deliberate.
It would force the Impala to continue its way. There really was no place to stop on the side of the road. Along a row of cars parked at an angle, the Impala would be far too conspicuous. And the driver couldn’t make a U-turn either. That would be worse.
Morrison was able to time his exit from the big SUV perfectly.
The gray Impala entered his peripheral vision just as he stepped out of the car. The driver was alone. A guy with brown hair, nothing immediately striking about him.
The car went past and Morrison gave a casual glance in the general direction of traffic, like most people did when they got out of their car. Nothing unusual about it. Only seemed natural.
That enabled him to have a clear view of the back of the gray Impala.
And to pick up its license plate number.
Chapter 17
Elena’s Bakery was a local institution. The kind of place where politicians made sure to be seen when there was some election up in the air. State, federal, local. Any of them. The reason was simple. Everybody went there. Throughout the day, you could see old folks lounging with a newspaper and a Danish, young mothers coming in and out with their strollers to pick up a fresh loaf of bread or two, workers refueling with a thick sandwich on their lunch break, students picking up buns on their way to school. Most of what Elena’s baked was really good. They hadn’t been open for more than fifty years for nothing. But for Morrison, what stood out above everything else were the cinnamon buns. They were spectacular. Whenever he thought about them, he started drooling. Right at that moment he was. And he was happy to. For on this morning, he was standing third in line at the counter, only minutes away from getting reacquainted with them.
When his turn came, he ordered two buns with a cappuccino. But he didn’t ask for his coffee in a paper cup and the buns in a bag. That had been his first intention. Now, he said he’d be having everything right here. The girl ducked behind the counter for a few seconds and came back with his two cinnamon buns on a big plate. God, they looked good. So good his saliva glands were hurting. He laid out a few dollar bills on the counter, including a generous tip. The girl said she’d bring him his cappuccino at the table. Morrison picked up the big plate, grabbed a paper from the rack on the way and headed for a quiet table at the far end of the seating area.
There, he pulled out the phone from his coat pocket and flipped it open to call Johnson.
“There’s been a change of plans,” he said. “I won’t be bringing you buns after all.”
“What about the money?” Johnson said.
“Not either. I can’t go to your place right now.”
“How come?”
“I need you to do me a service.”
“What kind?”
“Can you trace a license plate for me?”
Johnson sounded surprised by the mund
ane request.
“A plate?” he said. “Don’t you have your own contacts at DMV?”
“Sure I do. But I haven’t had time to renew them yet and I need this ASAP.”
“Why the rush?”
“A car’s been tailing me this morning.”
Johnson let out a small laugh. “Morrison,” he said, “you sure have a knack for getting into trouble.”
“It’s nothing personal. I’ll explain it to you later, but I really need to know whose car that is.”
Johnson’s voice showed some concern. “Were you being followed when we met last night? I don’t want any kind of trouble, Morrison. I’m laying low and I want to keep it that way.”
“No, no, don’t worry. There was nobody last night. And that’s why I don’t want to meet with you before I know who’s tailing my car.”
Johnson sighed. “OK,” he said. “But I’ll have to push your other stuff aside.”
“Of course,” Morrison said.
“And it’ll cost you.”
“Sure, put it on my bill.”
“What’s the plate number?”
Morrison recited the number from memory, then he hung up. It coincided with the girl bringing him his cappuccino, a small one, sprinkled with cinnamon on top of the foam.
The first bite into the bun was unbelievable. The dough was warm and soft, the glazing melting. Totally decadent. Even better than he remembered. And he had two of them right there, just for him. A bun in one hand, he buried his head in the newspaper, beginning with the sports section as he always did. Then he moved to Arts & Life, then the general news, working his way in parallel through the buns and the cappuccino.
From time to time, he looked up to take in his surroundings. Nothing special was happening. Just people coming and going. Some doing exactly what he was, dragging on a coffee and a pastry. Whenever he checked, he saw no trace of the gray Impala’s driver. Not surprising. The guy must have been lying in wait behind the wheel of his car, ready to resume his tail whenever Morrison was finished at Elena’s.
It took Johnson a full hour to call him back. For a hacker of his caliber, Morrison found that a disappointing performance. He had expected no more than thirty minutes. At the same time he flipped his phone open and put it to his ear, he couldn’t help thinking, So is this a car from the sheriff’s department? From the Feds? Or has Mike made new enemies in the business?
“Took you some time, Johnson,” he said.
“Had to outsource it. Don’t ask me why. Long story.”
“As long as you don’t charge me double, I don’t mind.”
“That’s the last thing I do for you this morning. I’m going straight to bed right after. I’m tired.”
“Fine. So whose car is it?”
“Have you ever heard about the Harris Corporation?”
“Business address on Chambers Road in Acton?” Morrison said.
“Yep,” Johnson said, “One twenty-one Chambers Road.”
Harris Corporation. This came as a surprise to Morrison. A big surprise.
“I know about them,” he said. “I really do.”
“The car has been registered with them since it was bought new two years ago.”
Morrison stayed silent while he pondered this. Johnson was the one who resumed the conversation. “So is this good or bad for you?” he asked.
“Certainly not good,” Morrison said. “I just don’t know how bad yet.”
“You heard it here.”
“Thanks, Johnson. Don’t worry about your money. I’ll find a way to give it to you pretty soon.”
“What about the buns?”
“Sorry to say this, but they’re still delicious.”
“They?”
“I just had two of them.”
“Pig,” Johnson said before hanging up.
Morrison closed the phone with a wry smile for his famished friend. Then he got serious again. He squared the newspaper and moved it out of his view. Then he pushed his plate and cup aside. He wanted nothing to trouble his concentration.
Harris Corporation.
He had some deep thinking to do before setting out of Elena’s again.
Chapter 18
Maybe Morrison had overindulged with the second cinnamon bun. It was delicious of course, but it left him feeling all bloated. At least the coffee had produced a nice jolt to even things out. His mind was still as sharp as ever.
After Johnson’s call, he spent a half-hour contemplating his next move. As ever, all the alternatives that passed through his mind rested in either of two camps: fight or flight. The eternal quandary. In the end, he was pretty sure he’d made the right decision. But when he stepped outside of Elena’s, he still paused for a moment under the dark green awning to reaffirm his choice. That pause allowed him to take in a view of downtown.
It was now almost 11:30 a.m. The morning shoppers were thinning out and leaving the area, on their way home or perhaps to school to pick up the kids and then fix some lunch. For its part, the lunch-hour crowd had yet to arrive. That left roughly half the angled parking spots empty. Morrison’s big black Navigator was five spots down on his right. Then, a further ten places down, on the same side of Main Street, lay the gray Impala. In between the two were half a dozen cars of all shapes and colors. Given the sheer size of the Navigator, the gray Impala’s driver had an easy job of keeping it in check. That whale of an SUV must have been the world’s easiest vehicle to tail.
Morrison got going again. He strode across the wide sidewalk toward the Navigator. But when he got there, he didn’t step down on the blacktop to go for the door. Instead, he just kept walking straight past the SUV on the sidewalk.
Toward the gray Impala.
The angle in the parking spots meant that Morrison had a better view on the guy behind the wheel than the guy had on him. To look in his direction, the driver had to crane his neck way more to the right than looked either casual or natural. So, in order to remain inconspicuous, he had to do it in short bursts at varying frequencies and rely as much as possible on his peripheral vision so he didn’t have to veer his head too far away. While he did this, Morrison could afford to keep his head straight as a rod and his gaze focused on the man. In his mind, the guy was doing a decent job. Didn’t look too eager. Reasonably calm.
Now was the time to change all that.
While the guy was looking away, Morrison covered the width of the remaining five car spots at a brisk pace. He didn’t run, but he kind of leapt on his toes all the way to the Impala. Hurt a bit whenever he landed on the key, but he kept going.
Morrison caught the driver flat back on one of his right-aiming routines. He could see the bewilderment in the driver’s eyes when he skirted the Impala’s front bumper and came knocking on his side window. For a moment, the driver seized up, like he couldn’t believe he had just been caught red-handed. Morrison knocked again.
With a thin smile on his face. Seeping with arrogance.
The driver sighed and rolled down his window.
“Hi,” Morrison said. “Can I help you with something?”
“I beg your pardon?” the driver said.
“Don’t play dumb. Although I can see you doing that really well.”
The driver furrowed his brow and made another half-spirited attempt at it.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“Cut the crap,” Morrison said. “You’ve been tailing me for two hours, from the countryside to the shopping center to here. You’ve followed my every move for two full hours. That’s no accident.”
The driver seethed. He ruminated his defeat in silence and then said, “What do you want, asshole?”
“Tell me my name,” Morrison said.
The driver sneered. “Why? You’ve forgotten it?”
“Tell me my name,” Morrison said again.
The driver frowned. “I don’t feel like playing games,” he said.
“Right, you can’t. Because you don’t know it. To you, so far, I�
��m just the guy who’s driving the black Navigator, right?”
Morrison paused for a beat. Then he said, “But we can turn the table. You want me to tell you your boss’s name?”
The driver frowned again. His face said, How could he possibly know that? I’m the one tracking him. After a moment, he even verbalized his puzzlement. “Who’s my boss?”
Morrison responded immediately. “Roger Harris. President of the Harris Corporation. A bit pompous for a company name, but you’ve got to give it to him, he’s not a business midget either. He just makes it sound bigger than it really is.”
The driver shook his head. “Christ,” he said. “I’m gettin’ out of here.” And he raised his right hand like he wanted to start the engine, but Morrison stopped him in his tracks.
“Wait,” he said, “I’m not finished with you.”
Morrison had established his ascendency. Instinctively, even though he could have just started the engine and reversed his way out of the parking spot, the driver complied. Morrison had used this kind of trick countless times. If you wanted somebody to do something for you, the first order of business was to establish your superiority. Imply that some embarrassing consequences were in store if the person failed to comprehend the importance of what you asked of him. Then you could start milking the cow.
“I want you to call your boss right now,” Morrison said.
The driver seemed less than thrilled at the prospect. Morrison pushed on.
“Trust me,” he said. ”It’s always better to be the bearer of bad news about yourself. It’s much worse when it comes from somebody else. After all, who knows how the other guy will spin it, right?”
The driver mumbled a sonofabitch between his teeth, then he took out his mobile phone and called the boss. After a long pause, somebody finally answered the call.