Page 26 of Nash Falls
He refocused, finished his work, and then made the call. He was now doing what he should have already done. Not finding out if his company was engaged in criminal activity, but something even more fundamental: seeing if Special Agent Reed Morris really was who he said he was.
CHAPTER
12
HELLO, HAL, WALTER NASH. YOUgot a few minutes? I’d like to pop over. Great, thanks.”
Hal Rankin lived on the next street over. A former FBI agent, he had cashed in by starting his own private security consulting business. Nash had met him at several neighborhood events and he seemed like a rock-solid guy; he had regaled Nash and other neighbors with tales from his federal law enforcement days.
Rankin greeted him at the front door with two glasses of red wine in hand, one of which he passed to Nash. He suggested they take a walk in the backyard, which, like Nash’s, had a large pool and immaculate landscaping. This was the sort of community where keeping up with the Joneses had been taken to a high art form.
Rankin was medium height, stockily built, and about twenty years older than Nash. He didn’t look like much of a tough guy, but Nash supposed modern policing required far more brains than brawn. Nash wondered how long before the day came when all cops would be superstrong and hyperintelligent robots that could not be killed or outwitted by humans.
Nowthatshould be a wake-up call to us all.
“So, what’s up, Walt?” said Rankin as they stopped for a moment to admire a stone waterfall set in the middle of the yard right off the pool. Its water cascaded down a slope and collected at the bottom before being recycled back to the top to repeat the process.
For a moment Nash saw an image of his own life in that Sisyphean endeavor.
“Walt?” prompted Rankin.
Nash had worked up what he hoped was a plausible cover story to elicit the information he needed.
“As you know, I’m in the investment business. Normally, it’s cut-and-dry, the sorts of things we buy and sell, I mean. But occasionally we get something out of my comfort zone and I just wanted to check in with you on one of them.”
“I don’t know much about your field,” began Rankin doubtfully. “I’m just a former federal cop who advises folks on how to keep safe and out of trouble.”
“Yes, and you obviously do that very well. But youwouldknow something about this potential investment, with which I have no experience whatsoever.”
“I’m officially intrigued.”
Nash said, “We’ve been presented with an offer to invest in an independent film.”
Rankin looked surprised. “Okay, not what I was expecting. FYI, I know less about making films than I do about investments.”
“The thing is the script deals with a man, an ordinary sort of person, who’s approached by an FBI agent. Late at night, in the man’s home. That’s why I thought of you.”
Rankin looked interested once more. “What does the agent want?”
“Apparently there’s some skullduggery going on at the man’s company and the agent wants the fellow to become the Bureau’s inside person, like a spy. If he helps bring down the company, he’ll go into Witness Protection or some such. And if he doesn’t agree to help, well, it might be rough going. They say they have two well-known actors lined up to play the man and the agent. The agent is a woman, and then you get the whole sexual-tension dynamic.”
Rankin said knowingly, “And the audience is on tenterhooks waiting to see when they’ll fall into bed together?”
“Exactly. But I just found the whole idea sort of unrealistic. I mean, would one meeting be enough to get the man to totally upend his life? And if an audience doesn’t believe the basic premise, then the story just doesn’t work. And there goes our investment.”
“Doesn’t the man check out the agent’s story to make sure it’s authentic?”
“No, and that’s what I believe is missing. And how does the guy even know the person who made contact with him is an actual FBI agent? And without that, I just think the story fails.”
“Can I have a gander at the script?”
“I’d love to, but I had to sign the mother of all NDAs.”
“Of course. Well, there’s an easy enough solution you can suggest to the writer.”
“There is?” Nash said innocently.
Rankin smiled. “Walt, the FBI’s not some clandestine organization keeping the identities of its agents a top secret. We leave that to our brethren at the CIA. In the script I presume the agent left the man with his business card?”
