Man in the Middle by Ken Morris Read Free Book Online Page B

If I were you, I’d accept. If you’ve got what it takes, you’ll do very, very well there.”
    “You know Morgan Stenman personally?” Peter asked.
    “My godparent. Father’s been the partnership’s counsel for thirty years.”
    “That’s a good recommendation—”
    “Excuse me, Mr. Neil, but they’re waiting.” The receptionist stepped around her desk, ready to lead him away.
    Peter and Kate agreed to meet, seven p.m., at Bully’s in Del Mar. As he made his way to Ayers’ office, he wondered if he’d heard correctly. Had the receptionist said “ they’re waiting”?
    If so, who besides Jason Ayers?
    Kate’s words, “If I were you, I’d take the position,” bolstered him. He prayed he’d have the opportunity to take her advice. If so, he vowed to work ten times as hard as anyone else.
    The overworked moonstone radiated friction-heat as Peter dropped it into his hip pocket. With a deep gulp, he knocked on the solid door. For the first time in weeks, he had a good feeling. He prayed it wasn’t a head fake.
    “Come in,” Ayers said through the solid door.
    Leaning forward, Peter obeyed.

CHAPTER FOUR

      A GENT O LIVER D AWSON ROSE FROM HIS DESK AND STRAYED TO HIS fourth floor window, grabbing a quick look at the Washington, D.C. scene. A June gloom hung over repugnant air spewing from the exhaust pipes of Fifth Street’s bumper-to-bumper traffic. He turned the latch and slid the window open, breaking cobwebs in the process. Immediately, the sounds of revving engines and horns in staccato blares filled the room. He stared at the sky, filtered through gauzy air. Squeezing a dent into the can, he clutched his fourth Diet Coke of the morning—a ritual that kept his head buzzing and his mind racing. Behind him, the inaugural photos of the last eight presidents hung in a row. “The rogues’ gallery,” Dawson called them. Ronald Reagan’s photo had his autograph scribbled across his chest. Dawson wished he had President Kennedy’s signature instead, but he was too young to have met JFK.
    It had been a depressing few weeks, as unfulfilling as any time in his life. When he returned to Washington after the Cannodine and Drucker fiascoes, Dawson handled a small insider trading case. A CEO’s in-laws had traded shares of his company ahead of a takeover bid. Having settled this brief investigation with a paltry fine, he now had additional time to feed his frustrations. For the last fourteen of his thirty-nine years, the agent had dedicated himself to enforcing the nation’s securities laws. No matter how hard he tried or cared, it wasn’t enough. Tight budgets, sophisticated lawbreakers, the explosion of wealth around the world—all made his efforts less than the proverbial drop in a bucket.
    It was like everything else in his life: one mountain to climb after another. He was always the smallest person in class, had shitty eyesight, no athletic coordination, was far from brilliant, and a social misfit. Only his dogged determination had kept Dawson from getting lost behind life’s eight-ball. He had persevered, gone to law school at night, and worked his way into this job.
    Oblivious to the spent-petroleum smell in the air, he threaded his way through the maze of boxes, each of them containing sloppily labeled manila folders stuffed with pages from cases current, pending, or dismissed. It represented detritus that continued to build as the years wore on. The tiny office was made even smaller by protruding snap-on bookshelves that jutted from every wall. Dawson’s footsteps tapped against the chipped and dingy linoleum, over to a dog-eared cardboard box with STAPLES The Office Superstore printed across its red front. He bent down and removed a stack of clipped papers. Arching upright, he tossed a shock of bangs from his forehead and, with the pad of his palm, pushed his horn-rims up the bridge of his nose. Opening the folder, he held it outright as a parishioner might hold a hymnal. He read his own