Lethal Misconduct Read online

  There hadn’t been a lot of red meat on the Thompson table when he was a child. His father had struggled to support his small family, often having to take up odd jobs out of town and send money home to his wife.

  Truth be told, Mac Thompson knew his father was a simple man, but an honest one. Never in his life would he have considered a hand-out. His father believed in an honest day’s work and helping your neighbor.

  The fact that he’d somehow held on to the pastures handed down through three generations of Thompsons, despite his limited income, showed his father’s resolve. There’d been times when it’d been so cold in the deep Wyoming winter that Mac and his younger brother had slept in their parents’ bed, the tiny bedroom being the only room other than the kitchen with a wood-burning stove.

  They’d been hard years, with young Mac learning early on the value of hard work and toil, but his parents had been loving. Mac excelled in sports and academics, receiving an athletic scholarship to play baseball at the University of Southern California. His mother and father had been so proud, scrimping and saving to make it to as many games as they could. His father had even been there to see Mac win the College World Series in 1973 against Arizona State.

  He’d died of a heart attack later that year, leaving his wife, Miranda, with a pile of bills and a parcel of land the bank was eyeing for foreclosure.

  Luckily, Miranda Thompson was something of a beauty, and she was quickly targeted by a local real estate developer named Darron Weber for courtship. The relationship started slow, mostly due to Mac’s mother’s concern for her two boys, the youngest, Jake, still a senior in high school. But Darron was a good man and a patient one. He’d settled the Thompson family’s debts without the least bit of coercion.

  So although he’d at first been angered by his mother’s new relationship, Mac quickly saw how much Darron loved his mother, and she in return was learning to love him.

  They waited until both Thompson boys graduated college to get married. Darron Weber had become a second father to Mac and Jake, teaching them about business and giving them their first taste of a better life. It was Darron who’d taken Mac out to dinner and bought the young man his first ribeye, bone in, of course. Senator Thompson remembered that the damn thing had been as large as his plate and he’d eaten it hungrily, savoring every bite. It was during that meal that Mac Thompson silently declared to the world that he would become somebody and would never lack for anything again.

  He smiled as he looked back at all he’d accomplished. A loving family. Wealth. Power. His was a life to envy. Up until his wife’s death, and now his son’s illness, he’d thought the same. With his world unraveling, Sen. Thompson took the only path he knew, his path.

  Just as he was finishing the last bite of cabbage slaw, his guest arrived, wearing a loose fitting grey suit, not well tailored. Certainly not to Sen. Thompson’s standards.

  “Have a seat, Colonel,” he said, pointing to the chair across from him with his fork.

  Col. Cromwell nodded and sat down without saying a word, his disfigured face a mask of intensity. That was one of the things Thompson hated about the man; he could never read his facial expressions. The senator figured that Cromwell knew that and used it to his advantage.

  “I take it you received my payment?” asked Thompson.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “You’re building quite a retirement for yourself, Colonel. I hope you’re putting it somewhere safe.”

  Cromwell smiled, the gesture pulling his scarred skin grotesquely. “You know me, Senator, always watching my six.”

  Thompson nodded, not wanting to push the point further. Cromwell had his uses, but the powerful senator preferred to keep the man at arm’s length.

  “Where are you in your search for the missing doctor?”

  Cromwell took a sip of water, a tiny dribble escaping from the damaged corner of his mouth. He quickly wiped it away with his napkin. “We found him again, but he got away.”

  Sen. Thompson wanted to slam his fist onto the table, but took a steadying breath instead. “How is that possible?” he growled. “We’ve been looking for him for almost a year, for Christ’s sake.”

  Cromwell shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. The movement made Thompson burn inside. They’d covered every other contingency, transferred old colleagues to far off laboratories, destroyed records. They’d even gone so far as to get rid of all traces of the thief’s life. His identity had effectively vanished.

  “He’s a smart man, Senator, and I’m sure he is not without his own network of contacts.”

  “So find them and squeeze them for information, dammit.”

  “We’re working on it. One of my staff thinks they may have found a banker who could be controlling the doctor’s financials. If that turns out to be the case, we should be able to cut off the money supply.”

  At least that was something.

  “Are you any closer to finding where he hid his files?”

  “No, sir. He must have taken them with him. The good news is that we have a nationwide alert out with any lab that could provide him with the capability to replicate the strain. His options are limited and I’m sure his supply is dwindling.”

  “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but we need him alive. Make sure your goon knows that.”

  Cromwell smiled again. “Don’t worry about Mr. Vespers, Senator. He’s very good at his job.”

  Chapter 9

  Miramar Beach, Florida

  1:45pm, April 5th

  He gazed out over the emerald green water, breathing in the cool salt air from his seat on the white sand. There was a young family with a giggling toddler playing in the surf, jumping the small waves that lapped onto shore.

  Dr. Hunter Price loved the beach. The first time he’d visited Florida was with his grandfather. They’d come through after a business trip to New Orleans. Back in those days his grandfather let him tag along, sharing bits of business and lessons of manhood along the way. They always drove even though the trip from the Northeast was long.

  After his grandfather’s death, he’d continued his trips to the Florida Panhandle. So many memories. Before, it was his way to escape the stresses of his job and remember his grandfather. Now it was brief respite on his way to another town. Part of him enjoyed the thrill of the vagabond lifestyle. Another wanted to settle down, maybe find a wife and have some kids.

  But that wasn’t possible. He was on the run. He no longer had an identity. Anything of importance had been stripped from him. He was like a ghost, haunting his former employer, living a half life in the shadows.

  Price took a pull from his bottle of beer, wishing he could stay on the beach forever. It was like it was calling him saying, “Stay and forget everything else.”

  He couldn’t. As stupid as it sounded, he felt like he had an obligation to keep going, to show the world what was possible. Finishing the last swig of beer, he reluctantly pushed himself up and took a long look at the ocean. It was time to get back to work.

  He’d found a cheap room just off the main strip. It was actually a subdivided trailer owned by a middle-aged divorcee by the name of Janice who was happy to take his cash in exchange for a week’s rental. He wouldn’t be in town that long, but most places were less likely to ask questions if you paid for a full week in advance.

  Price ducked under the sagging aluminum awning, dodging the drops of brown rust water dripping into a murky puddle. Entering his tiny room, he threw his backpack on the bed and flopped down next to it. The cheap bed sagged under his weight, creaking with the effort as he closed his eyes. A moment later, the cell phone in his pocket buzzed. Price tensed at the sound. There was only one person who knew how to reach him. He pulled it out carefully, praying for a wrong number. It wasn’t.

  He answered the call.

  +++

  Wilmington, Delaware

  It had been a very bad morning for Brad Turnberry. First, he woke up with a raging hangover, memories of the celebrator
y drinks the night before a fading wisp. Luckily, his wife was out of town on a girl’s trip or she would have given him the ‘I told you so’ eyes.

  Just as he dragged himself out of the bathroom for the fourth time, his phone rang shrilly, making his gut clutch. It was his boss. He’d been at the party with Brad the night before. He sounded almost as bad as Brad felt.

  “Hey, I need you to meet me at the office. We’ve got some Fed assholes coming in to look at a couple of your clients.”

  The mention of the Feds shouldn’t have bothered Brad, especially with the increased scrutiny after the latest economic slide, but this time he had reason to worry. Normally a by-the-book banker and financial planner, he had one client that was getting harder and harder to hide.

  “Okay. I can be at the bank in fifteen minutes.”

  The two Feds were waiting in his office when he arrived.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting gentlemen. I’m Brad.” He moved to shake the two men’s hands, pausing when he got a look at the shorter man’s face. There was something wrong with the left side of it. Stroke? The man didn’t offer his hand and Brad took the hint, taking his position behind his desk.

  “I’m sure your boss let you know why we’re here, Mr. Turnberry.”

  “Yeah. He said something about you wanting to take a look at some of my accounts.”

  The man with the warped face nodded.

  “We have an ongoing investigation concerning an escaped fugitive.”

  Sweat broke out on Brad’s back despite the cool temperature in the room. The hangover wasn’t helping.

  “And you think one of my clients is involved?”

  “What can you tell us about Frank Rounders, Mr. Turnberry?”

  “I…I’ll have to look that up.” He glanced to the man in black sunglasses, who had yet to say a word. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but I forgot to ask your names and who you’re with.”

  “My name is Cromwell and this is my associate Mr. Vespers. We’re with the securities and exchange commission. Would you like to see our identification?” The question came out as more of a dare than a friendly offering.

  Brad shook his head. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Now, let me see what I can find about Mr. Roundup, did you say?”

  “Rounders. Frank Rounders. But you may know him better as Dr. Hunter Price.”

  Brad tried not to let the shock show, but he felt himself pause, trying to avert his gaze toward his computer screen. Moisture tickled his upper lip, seeping out of the pores on his forehead.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said a bit too hastily.

  While he did his best to look like he was clicking through files, his head spun, trying to come up with a plan. Cromwell watched. Vespers stood and walked to first one, then the second window facing the interior of the bank, closing the blinds, then locking the door.

  Brad felt whatever contents were left in his stomach churn. He somehow held back the acidic bile in the back of his throat. His mind began panicking as he noticed Mr. Vespers out of his peripheral vision moving around the desk.

  “I think I’ve got…yeah, here’s the account,” Brad blurted, hoping that would make the imposing Vespers retake his seat.

  “I want you to freeze all accounts owned by Hunter Price,” said Cromwell.

  “You mean Rounders?” asked Brad.

  Cromwell nodded to Vespers, who pulled out a silenced pistol and pointed it straight at Brad’s shocked face.

  “How about we stop playing around, Mr. Turnberry. We know about your relationship with Dr. Price. High school friends. Both went to Yale. Ran cross country together. Should I go on?”

  Brad shook his head, all blood drained from his face.

  Cromwell continued. “We also know that your wife is currently spending a relaxing long weekend in Cabo San Lucas with her three friends Michelle, Jen and Lilly. Would you like to know what they had for breakfast?”

  Brad shook his head again, trying his best to stop shaking. The tip of the suppressor now rested against his temple, Vespers’s face placid.

  “Here’s what I want you to do. First, wire the contents of Price’s accounts to this account,” Cromwell reached over the desk and set an index card in front of Brad.

  For some reason Brad didn’t scream or call out for help. Later he would realize that the threat of physical violence had completely paralyzed him. Instead of yelling he tried to focus on his task, hoping that the two men would just leave after he finished. He hoped Hunter would understand.

  “Okay. It’s done,” he announced.

  Cromwell nodded and did something with his phone, probably confirming the transfer.

  “Very good, Mr. Turnberry. Now, I want you to pick up your cell phone and call Dr. Price.”

  That was when Brad’s bladder failed him, warm urine wetting his thigh then running down his leg into his shoes. “But, I—”

  “Let’s not do this again, Mr. Turnberry. We know you’ve been in periodic contact with your old friend. I give you my word that as soon as I finish my conversation with Dr. Price, we’ll leave your office and never come back.”

  It didn’t take long for Brad to decide. With shaky hands he picked up his cell phone and dialed a number from memory. Hunter had told him to only use it in case of an emergency.

  The call rang twice and Hunter picked up. Brad didn’t say a thing, handing the phone to Mr. Vespers, who handed it to his boss.

  “Hello, Dr. Price.”

  Chapter 10

  Miramar Beach, Florida

  3:42pm, April 5th

  Dr. Price gripped the phone, panic spreading into his chest, its cold fingers reaching for his pounding heart. The raspy sound of his old boss’s voice made him want to scream. The man was a monster, no different than Hitler or Stalin. While at first Price had sympathized with Cromwell’s mission, he’d soon come to see the truth of it. Cromwell didn’t give a damn about anyone, except perhaps his trusted employee Malik Vespers. Their relationship was the only touch of emotion left in Cromwell.

  “What did you do with Brad?” asked Price, fearing the worst.

  “Hello to you too, Dr. Price. I’m hurt that you haven’t called.”

  Price could picture his enemy’s face, cruel and unyielding. Lethargic on one side, always intense on the other. It was a vision he saw in his nightmares, Cromwell on black wings swooping down like a banshee as he ran for cover.

  “Tell me what you did with Brad.”

  “He’s sitting across from me. Of course, Mr. Vespers has a gun pressed to his head, but other than that and a little piss in his pants, Mr. Turnberry is fine.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to come in. We’ve got work to do.”

  “I don’t work for you anymore, remember? Besides, didn’t you wipe out any trace of my existence?”

  Cromwell chuckled. “What did you expect? You left in the middle of the night and took my property with you.”

  “I know what you were planning. There isn’t a chance in hell that I’ll help.”

  “Even if that means we have to shoot poor Mr. Turnberry?”

  Price heard a muffled moan in the background. He winced, easily imagining what Cromwell would do with his friend. He’d seen it before, including the body of the man they’d said was him, the one that had washed up on the shores of the Potomac.

  “I’m waiting, Dr. Price.”

  “What assurance would I have?”

  “Call it my word as an officer and a gentleman.”

  Price would’ve laughed out loud were the circumstances different. Cromwell had endlessly besmirched the honor of the Army uniform he sometimes wore, and to call himself a gentleman was preposterous. It was like calling Charles Manson a boy scout.

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “I don’t think you’re really in a position to argue, doctor. We know where you are and we have your money.”

  “You fucking—”

  “Now, now, doctor. Why
don’t you just turn yourself in and we’ll get back to work.”

  Price seethed. He was trapped. Sure he had more money hidden away, but he’d been careful. Brad controlled close to ninety percent of his accounts under various aliases including, Frank Rounders.

  I should have put a bullet in Cromwell’s head when I had the chance.

  Instead of continuing the conversation, Price said a silent prayer for Brad and ended the call. It only took him a moment to gather his possessions and step outside, dropping the cell phone on the gravel pavement and stomping it into the ground.

  His decision made, Dr. Price headed for the nearest bus station and his next destination. He had a mission to complete.

  +++

  Wilmington, Delaware

  Cromwell handed the cell phone back to Brad and nodded to Malik Vespers, who replaced the pistol in its holster. Brad hadn’t taken the conversation well, twice vomiting into his stainless steel trashcan.

  “Thank you again for your assistance, Mr. Turnberry. We’ll be on our way.”

  The two men in suits walked to the door, Vespers leading. Just before he exited, Cromwell turned back to Brad, whose head was resting on his soiled desk.

  “I suggest you find some new friends, Mr. Turnberry. As far as you’re concerned, Hunter Price no longer exists.”

  +++

  After regaining a measure of his composure, and changing into a set of seldom used workout gear he kept in his office, Brad Turnberry told his boss that he’d taken care of the situation with the Feds, but was going to take an early lunch.