by Tony Wiley
So he got the big V8 going again and started in the direction of Harris’s place. The businessman lived ten minutes away in a large house planted on a vast estate. When he drew near the tree-lined driveway, he saw Harris’s car emerging from there, at the head of a thick dust cloud. Morrison slowed down. Harris merged on the two-lane road, in the same direction he was going.
Morrison then slowed down even further. In fact, he almost stopped in the dust cloud that was washing across the road. He kept his sights firmly on Harris. When the wily old fox was far enough ahead, he picked up some speed and began tailing him.
He went at it nice and slow from far behind. No pressure.
Harris drove at a steady pace. He was heading to town.
For a moment, just as he had thought as he stared at the Harris Corporation building, Morrison pondered the possibility of going at Harris full frontal. Maybe he should drop these shenanigans and just confront him: I know you stole our money, old bastard, and you’re going to have to pay us back. But Harris would deny it, of course, wouldn’t he? And then what would he say? I know it’s not the others so it must be you? Harris would say this was no proof and he would be right. Harris could even say that it was he, Morrison, for all he knew, who had stolen the money somehow. Morrison was still on shaky ground. He needed something solid before he could corner Harris. And that’s where Cowgirl could help him move faster.
Harris led him into the heart of Acton’s downtown, on Main Street. From seven or eight cars behind, he saw the wily old bastard pull into an angled parking spot. While Harris parked his car, Morrison continued with the slow traffic. Once he was past, he kept one eye on his rear-view mirror.
The son of a bitch was dressed business casual—dark pants, gray jacket and black open shirt. Had a wide smile on his face. He ambled down the sidewalk with a spring in his step. In a few strides, he made it to his final destination. There, he extended his hand, pulled the door open and went in.
The place was Flanagan’s. The same bar where Cowgirl was.
Chapter 38
As always in these events, the respected citizen headed straight for the bar right after setting foot into Flanagan’s. The afternoon had been long and filled with hard manual labor under a scorching sun. The respected citizen took a mental note. Go easy on the wine. It’s gonna go straight to your head. And make sure you munch a bit.
There were a dozen glasses of red and white wine laid out on the counter at the far end of the room. The respected citizen went for the red. Remember, squeeze your fingers around the stem. Don’t wrap them around the bowl like you do at home. The citizen took a first sip. Not bad but not great. Typical stuff you drank at fundraisers. A big plate filled with hors d’oeuvres sat next to the wine glasses. The respected citizen gobbled up two of them, wiped its hand with a napkin then started to work the crowd.
In contrast with the bright sunshine outside, the place looked somewhat dark. Like one of those after-hours spots. The subdued lighting produced a casual atmosphere that was pleasant. Infinitely more so than when these functions took place at the chamber of commerce or the Kiwanis club.
The respected citizen joined a first group. Shared a joke or two. Those were all familiar faces, the same people you always met at these events. This was business as usual. The trick was never to remain still for too long. Share a few good words, have a few laughs then move on. Remain on the surface. This was not the place for deep conversations. Keep the banter light and, above all, keep moving. Show your face around. That’s what it’s all about. Getting some face time out there.
*
Morrison parked his big SUV one block down from Harris’s car and walked back to Miss Italia. He had an hour to kill before he would meet Cowgirl next door at Flanagan’s, so he figured he’d use the time to get a proper meal.
Inside, the new Korean owner was sitting behind the cash register. The guy nodded to him when he walked by, like he recognized him. Morrison nodded back and went for the same booth where he’d had dinner then dessert with Johnson two nights before. The same quiet music filled the background. And like last time, there were only a couple of tables with patrons.
The same young waitress came over to his table with a pleasant smile. She too had recognized him, he could tell. There was something personal in that smile.
“Welcome back,” she said. “What will you have tonight?”
He didn’t bother to look at the menu. In restaurants, he was a creature of habit. When he really liked something, he tended to stick to it.
“Spaghetti-meatballs with a glass of house red,” he said.
The waitress nodded. Didn’t bother taking down the order. Way too simple. Instead, she said, “You know the waitress you asked me about two days ago? Sara. Redhead. Medium height. Rather cute?”
“Yeah, that’s her description all right,” he said.
“I asked another girl yesterday,” she said, “and she told me that she knew her but that she’s been gone a long time. About three years.”
He nodded. That made sense. Right when he had been sent to prison. He couldn’t blame her for not sticking around. Not in a million years.
“Do you know where she lives now?” he asked.
The waitress frowned. “She told me that she heard Sara had moved to New Hampshire or Vermont or even possibly Maine, she wasn’t sure. But she didn’t live around here anymore, she was positive about that.”
That didn’t surprise him. Like him, Sara was not originally from these parts. There was nothing to hold her back in Acton.
They remained silent for a beat. Then the waitress said, “She told me Sara looked heartbroken when she left.”
He let that sink in. Dear Sara. He could imagine her pain. Then he smiled at the waitress and said, “Thanks for the information. I really appreciate you sharing this.”
The waitress nodded, like it was only natural. Then, instead of turning around to go place his order in the kitchen, she lingered there for a few moments.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, staring at him.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Your eyes. Are they natural?”
His eyes. He kept forgetting that his eyes produced such an effect on people. Especially on women. He could see from the waitress’s face that she was fascinated by them. Just like Laura had been back at Mike’s house.
“Yes, they are. It’s something called heterochromia,” he said. Then he cracked a thin smile. “I haven’t done anything to deserve it, really. I was born that way.”
“Well, it’s striking,” she said, “pretty striking.”
She retreated to the kitchen and left him all alone at his table. The quick chat had brought back memories, bittersweet ones. He had loved Sara. Very much. In addition to being strikingly beautiful, she was witty and lively, very intelligent. They had been together for a few months, but he had never told her what his real occupation was. Could never summon the nerve. He stared at the empty seat across the booth and shook his head. It must have been a huge shock for her when he was arrested. He couldn’t blame her for vanishing like that, without a trace. He felt it was all he had deserved, really.
The waitress came back with the glass of wine and a kind, sincere smile. He thanked her. Took a first sip of wine.
This all reminded him that he, too, should have been far away from Acton at the moment. He was not even supposed to still be in the state of New York. His plans had been so different. He wiggled the toes in his right shoe and felt the small bump from the key hidden under the inner sole.
He was supposed to be in an entirely different place, doing an entirely different thing, but there he was. Stuck in Acton again.
With a fresh new worry.
It came crashing down in his head right at that moment. His eyes. His bloody eyes. Shit, he hadn’t thought about that. The different colors in his eyes made him easier to identify than the average Joe. Far easier. It had completely escaped him since his brief encounter with the young family down at the dead
hacker’s place. He sure hoped they hadn’t noticed his peculiar eyes. He paused and tried to remember how the sequence had gone. Sequence was probably too strong a word to describe what had happened. It had been only a moment, a fleeting moment. A brief encounter, without any incentive for the young mother and father to take special notice of him. But still. Morrison tried to put himself back there. He was pretty sure he had looked down while they were leaving the apartment building. Pretty sure their eyes hadn’t met. But he couldn’t swear it.
He ate his meal with a cloud over his head. Like the last time, the spaghetti-meatballs was flawless and the house wine pretty respectable. When he was finished eating, he grabbed a newspaper from the nearby booth and read it for the remainder of the hour. Before he got up to leave, Morrison left a huge tip on the table, then he walked to the cash register to pay the Korean guy. Just before he pulled the door open, he caught the waitress’s eye and nodded to her. She nodded back with warm friendly eyes.
Outside, the sun had begun to set and now hung much lower on the horizon. He had it right in the face as he made his way along the sidewalk. Luckily, Flanagan’s Bar was only a short stroll away.
In there, the atmosphere couldn’t have been more different than at the restaurant. The far half of the big open room was packed with people. Their collective chatter produced a rumor well above the level of the background music. He gave a quick glance around. Everybody was well dressed but in a relaxed way. This was a casual function. Among the guests, there was a stand carrying a poster. He could see its contour, but he couldn’t make out what it said. Probably outlined what the event was all about. He stayed away from the crowd and aimed for the nearest open stool at the bar. He ordered a beer, then he scanned the room with a lot more attention.
At the far left, he spotted Harris right away. The tanned, mustachioed son of a bitch stood in a circle of five people, talking animatedly with a glass of wine in his hand. He saw him from a three-quarter back angle. The wily old fox seemed to be having a great time. Morrison continued to look across the room. The next person he spotted surprised him. He hadn’t expected to see her there at all. Especially not wearing these clothes. In fact, he realized that it was the first time he had ever seen Sheriff Sanford in something other than her uniform. Tonight, she had slipped on a black cocktail dress with cap sleeves. She looked good. Really good. Not at all shaken like at the crash scene last night. Even better, her whole body had a fresh tan as if she had just spent the entire day under the sun. The stunning law officer stood among a small group of older men. Naturally, their attention all focused on her. No wonder, he thought. She was so stunning that he almost had trouble taking his eyes off her to continue scanning the room.
In the right corner, he saw Cowgirl, facing him. She appeared to be locked in a one-on-one conversation with another woman doing most of the talking. He kept his gaze focused on her. She was nodding with a polite expression on her face. Seconds later, she looked up and made eye contact with him. Then she excused herself and walked over to him.
“I hope I did not interrupt anything,” he said.
“Christ, no,” she said. “You’re saving me, Morrison. She’s such a bore.”
They sat together in an empty booth. Cowgirl looked very good herself in a simple dark blue dress with a tiny white floral motif.
“What’s all this for?” he asked.
“A fundraiser to help send kids from poor families to summer camp,” she said. She sighed. “Fundraisers are all there is if you want to socialize in Acton.”
He nodded. “Want to hear something that’s not boring?” he said. “In fact, it’s so not boring that it will probably knock the wind out of you.”
Cowgirl leaned forward. “You’ve got my attention, Morrison. Shoot.”
“Three years ago, you and I and our dear partners, we were robbed of at least four million dollars but more probably eight …” he began. Then he explained how one of the partners, without naming him, had used their setup information to pump money out of the banks in the days after his arrest. Without telling it to the others, of course.
While he was talking, Cowgirl’s eyes kept widening. When he was finished, she looked shocked and angry. “Who did that? Who the hell did that?” she asked.
“I know you didn’t,” he said. “I got the confirmation earlier today. The day after my arrest, you flew out to LA and stayed there for three weeks. No way would you’ve gone there if you wanted to steal eight million dollars over here in New York. No way. So I know it wasn’t you.”
Her reaction was one of even greater surprise. “You suspected me?”
“Had to,” he replied. “We were five in that deal. Each and every one of us could have been the one.”
She made like she was about to say something. Opened her mouth but closed it again without saying anything. Like she was trying to figure out how he could have put his hands on that information. Before realizing that, of course, Morrison could find out just about anything when he set his mind to it. However he did it.
“So that’s what you’ve been up to these last two days?” she ended up saying. “Why are you sharing this with me now?”
“Because I need your help to nail the sucker and make him pay back all the money, Cowgirl. You’re a respectable citizen, you’ve never been arrested for anything. You can move around.”
“Fine,” she said, “but who stole the money?”
He nodded toward the mass huddled at the other end of the room.
“He’s right there, the old wily slimeball,” he said.
“Who?” she asked.
“Robert Harris himself.”
Cowgirl leaned back in her seat. She suddenly looked disappointed. Very disappointed. “You know he’s going to deny this,” she said.
“Of course he will. That’s why I need your help. We need to find the evidence or, better still, find the money.”
Cowgirl frowned. “Well, that’s not going to work,” she said. “Not a chance.”
It was his turn to be surprised. “How come?” he asked.
“There’s a big flaw in your theory, Morrison, a big no-no.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Harris didn’t steal the money.”
His eyes widened. “How do you know that?”
“Well, it’s all very simple,” she said. “And there’s absolutely no place for doubt.”
Morrison shook his head. “How can you be so sure?”
The disappointment was still visible in Cowgirl’s face. But what he had initially taken to be disappointment toward Harris for stealing their money turned out to be entirely different. She was disappointed at him. For having missed a crucial part in all this.
“I am totally, one hundred percent certain that Harris did not steal the money,” she said, “because I was not alone on that plane. Harris was sitting right beside me. And he stayed with me the whole time we were down in California. In fact, for the full three weeks that we spent around LA, it was like we were joined at the hip.”
Chapter 39
This didn’t compute in Morrison’s head.
“You flew out to California with Harris?” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you stayed with him the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“How close?”
“Couldn’t have been closer.”
Morrison was stunned. “You were having an affair with him? With Harris?”
Cowgirl nodded.
“And what about now?” he said.
She smiled. “Don’t worry, that’s ancient history, Morrison. It was just a temporary fling. It only lasted a couple of months.”
He shook his head. “God, you two? I never suspected anything.”
She shrugged. “We had to be discreet. Harris was married. Still is. Besides, we knew this wouldn’t thrill any of you guys. That whole rant about not mixing business with pleasure, you know. You would’ve been the first to disapprove.”
“Damn right,�
�� he said.
Cowgirl took a sip of wine. She tilted her head to the side. “I’m surprised you didn’t also find out about Harris when you got the confirmation I had flown to LA. Whatever record you checked, Harris’s name must have been next to mine.”
“Well, I’m going to check that right away,” he said.
He took his phone and punched Johnson’s number. The hacker answered on the first ring.
“Do you still have the documents for that flight out to LA?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s on my computer. Why?”
“Can you check if there was a Roger Harris in the boarded passenger list?”
Morrison heard some faint rapid-fire clicks in the background. In front of him, Cowgirl took another sip of wine. Johnson came back with the answer.
“Yeah,” he said, “there was a Roger Harris on that plane. Seat 16B, right next to your lady friend.”
Morrison was incensed. “Hell, Johnson, why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“Whoa, get off your high horse, Morrison. Who’s this Harris guy anyway? Why should I care about him?”
Morrison had almost forgotten. Segregation of duties. It was his policy to reveal as little as possible about his business to his associates. Of course, he had never mentioned Harris to his hacker. Didn’t need to. So he hadn’t.
He calmed down and said, “You’re right. You didn’t know about him so you couldn’t tell me.”