Man in the Middle

mother’s letter. She wrote that the agent she had trusted must have leaked the information. “My mother certainly didn’t trust you,” Peter blurted.

Dawson caught the implication. “How do you know that?”

Peter hesitated, regretting the slip. “Because nobody trusts you.”

“Clever. You didn’t look surprised when I said your place was bugged. Unless I miss my guess, I showed up in the nick of time.”

“Nick of time? My problems all began with that damn photo of you and me at the sports bar.”

“Photo?” The surprise in Dawson’s voice made it clear he hadn’t known anything about a photograph before now.

“That’s right,” Peter continued. “A picture of us at the sports bar. I had to talk my way out of that mess. I’m lucky to still have a job.”

“No,” Dawson said, shaking his head, “you’re lucky to be alive. You must have something they desperately want.”

“They, again? How about you? You didn’t show up to get a year-end tan. Leave me alone or I’ll phone your former boss and tell him you’re harassing me.”

“Calling the director—his name’s Ackerman by the way—is a bad idea.” Dawson kept looking side to side, as if he expected an interruption.

“Oh, that’s right. You said the SEC had some people who had crossed the line. I should check with you before I call. Convenient Catch-22.”

“Whoever you call will relay the message to the director’s office. Once his special assistant—a scumbag by the name of Freeman Ranson—finds out, you’re history. You do not want them to think they must eliminate you.”

“You’re the one posing the danger,” Peter wanted to scream. “They followed you the night they caught us together.” Peter pointed a rigid finger at Dawson. “If they thought I was meeting with you again, no telling what would happen.”

“Because of that picture of us in the bar, you think they were following me?” Dawson asked. “Are you serious? Did they have a photo of us at Sammy’s?”

“No, thank goodness.”

“Think. How hard could it have been to follow me a few hundred yards down the beach in my car? It was you, sneaking out the back, using your runner’s speed down a railroad track, getting back before anyone missed you, that avoided detection. That piece of pretend-dumb-blond who paid you so much attention was the one following you.”

Peter’s heart beat fast. He didn’t have a convincing response. “I’m going into my house, feeding my cat, and relaxing,” he whispered: “Whatever’s got everybody so interested in me is my business. Mine. Not yours.”

“Then it’s true. You’ve found something.”

“I didn’t say that.” Peter reached for the door to the stairwell leading into his condo.

“Watch what you say,” Dawson warned, “’cause someone’s going to be listening. When you pee, they’ll hear the tinkle. On top of everything else I’ve said about why you’re not dead, I think they’re afraid to plant you.”

“Plant me? Are you trying to be funny?”

“Nothing funny about this, Peter. No matter what your mother thought about me, it should be obvious that I’m trying to solve this thing. To help you.”

“I don’t want your help. I am tired of being pushed, shoved, prodded, blood-tested, lie-detected, bullied. Who in God’s name is afraid of me? I am a nothing.”

“Who? Everybody’s afraid of you. You’re alive because of inconvenience. No. I take that back. It’s more than inconvenience.”

“I understand you think you’re doing your job, Dawson, or at least your former job, but this sounds like a case of paranoia. I’m in enough trouble. Time for me to mind my own business.”

“With what happened to your mother,” continued Dawson, skipping over Peter’s comments, “and the questions that would arise with you working for Stenman Partners, they are being careful to—”

“There you go again. If you’re after Morgan Stenman, then you’ll have to do it without me. She’s aggressive. So am I, for that matter. So is everybody else in the hedge fund bus—”

“You’ve broken securities laws, haven’t you?” said Dawson crossing his arms.

Dawson, Peter figured, had made an educated guess—correctly. For a nanosecond, Peter wanted to confess, to trust this small man with the passionate voice. Instead, his brain defied his heart and forced his mouth to say: “You lost the Treasury case. Now you’ve managed to get yourself fired. I trust you, I’m history.”

“You’re going to need to make a deal.”

“Deal? With an unemployed SEC agent? No thanks. I’m going back to work and pretend I never met you. If you persist, I’ll check with our attorneys.”

“I can’t force you to do anything, Peter, but one day you’re going to realize this is your business. Once that happens, I pray you survive. And don’t forget what I said before: if it isn’t you they go after, it’ll be your friends.

“By the way,” Dawson continued, “that off duty cop? The one who saw your mother ‘crash and burn’? He retired a month later. Says he came into an inheritance from a distant, foreign relative. Guy’s got a sweet life, living it up on the beach in Coronado. Another coincidence?”

A pain stabbed Peter.

Dawson grabbed his .38 and tucked the snub nose into his shoulder holster. With that prop back in place, he said, “Don’t bother showing me the way. I’ll let myself out.” Dawson headed in the direction of the open window but, after a couple of steps, spun around and returned to Peter. “Here,” he said, reaching over and stuffing a slip of paper into Peter’s breast pocket. “If you need to get hold of me.” The agent turned and stepped towards the damaged window a second time.

Outside, a dog barked and his master shouted, “Shut up!”

A dull pain hammered deep in Peter’s gut. “His name?” he asked. “The retired cop.”

Dawson turned. Peter detected a faint smile.

“Name? Ellis. If you decide to visit, I’d make up a story about working for a woman by the name of Sarah Guzman.”

“Sarah Guzman?” Peter bit his tongue, wishing the damn cat had gotten to him first.

“You’ve heard the name?” Dawson sadly shook his head. “No. Let me guess: you’ve met her. How’re you at hitting breaking balls?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asked, exasperated.

“I’d say that having Sarah Guzman in the vicinity means you’ve got two strikes against you. Better watch for the curveball.”

“I don’t know anything,” Peter said, convincing not even himself.

“She’s Ensenada Partners. You ever heard of Enrique Guzman?”

Peter didn’t show it, but he knew that name, too. Guzman had been one of the most notorious drug bosses in Mexico. His death, Peter recalled, had been big U.S. news for a couple days three or four years ago.

“She took over the business. Reorganized. Got out of import-export of the white stuff. Rumor has it she’s making more cleaning dirty money throughout Latin America. Her nephew, Carlos Nunoz—now there’s a scary guy —is head of security for her. These two do not screw around when they get unstrung, and it’s a short trip to unstrung. Remember reading about the hundred bodies found in that mass grave along the California-Mexican border? That was the aftermath of her withdrawing from the old business. Most bodies were friends and family of those who’d worked for her dead husband.”

“Why would she do that? It makes no sense.”

“She did it to convince former competitors—the other cartels throughout Latin America—she was serious and had a new business plan that included them as clients. She snuffed-out her husband’s former network. Oops, I mean she allegedly snuffed-out her husband’s former network. Nothing was ever proved. She lowered her overhead at the same time she made a statement about where her new interests lay.”

Craning forward enough that his neck appeared to lengthen, Dawson continued: “You scared yet?”

Peter was thankful the garage light was dim and his pallor shadowed.