Clean: A Conspiracy Thriller

By Tom Lytes

When police officer Peggy Whitfield receives a series of social media messages that instruct her to commit murder, she is plunged into a nightmare. She has no desire to kill anyone, but if she doesn't obey the mysterious messenger, she herself could be killed. Can she solve the mystery behind the messages before anyone is murdered?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543968248

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© 2019 Tom Lytes. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. ISBN 978-1-54396-823-1 eBook 978-1-54396-824-8

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1

Floyd was already far ahead when he started up the hill, running from the stranger who moved like he spawned from a shadow. Where did the guy come from - suddenly just there, dressed in black? Floyd’s whole life trained him to know when things were going to be bad, and after one look it only took him a second to start running.

Stay calm and keep thinking, he muttered, legs pumping, looking ahead to the forest. Too far— won’t make it.

A transformer pad, a dozen yards up the hill and to the left, jutted past a clump of honeysuckle and he willed himself towards it. The fence to keep people away from the squiggly wires and fat conduits connecting electrical components on the concrete pads supported poison ivy, while small white signs promised deathly shocks in red lettering. Floyd cursed his lack of a better place to go, fighting the urge to collapse. Just when he feared an imminent reintroduction to the fried wontons he ate for lunch, he arrived, looping chain link into his splayed fingers to take weight off his aching legs.

A fallen tree had dented the chain link above him, causing fasteners to pop off where they connected the corner post. The small opening created by the damage became filled with Floyd as he squeezed through it, the metal cutting deep into his stomach and leaving scratches. Hugging the inside of the chain link, he slowly shuffled away from the opening. Through tears he concentrated on being small and pulled at his stomach with both hands to keep from bumping the electrical equipment. He gazed at the starry night and tried to catch his breath, anything to momentarily blunt his fear.

The other man approached, and Floyd heard the chain link move against his push. Seemingly without effort the other man slid into the enclosure and now stood within what Floyd thought was spitting distance. Of course, Floyd could really spit so it was still several feet away.

Unlike Floyd, the man moved nimbly, closing the distance between them easily. With his arm extended, reaching, Floyd could smell Axe Dark Temptation deodorant, Floyd’s preferred brand, when he wore it. What were the chances of that? The man tripped on poison ivy vines as he stretched further, and Floyd arched his back to eke out a little more space and time before the man would be upon him. His attacker’s stabilizing hand rested upon an exposed metal coil of the transformer, making the night explode into a sea of sparks. The other man didn’t have a chance to even cry out before the whole area smelled like the Mongolian Grill that just opened in Hoosick Falls.

It took a while for darkness to take over from the arcing electricity and flying sparks. Mouth agape, Floyd stood still for a few seconds before he made it back to the hole in the fence. This time, he was less careful shoving himself through the opening. The cuts in his skin, both front and back, went deeper, discoloring his pants with blood.

Floyd lumbered down the hill, feeling queasy by the time he reached the greenhouse complex. He didn’t bother locking up and a disquieting glance back to the electrical transformer made him question whether he’d ever come back. There was the guy frying on the transformer to think about, and his boss, Doyle, too. Doyle’s family had owned the greenhouse complex since its 1902 construction. To say he’d be pissed Floyd didn’t deadhead the petunias and finish watering the back greenhouse would be a gross understatement. Floyd decided then and there that he wouldn’t be around to sit through one of Doyle’s bitch sessions about it. He’d move to Florida or Arizona or somewhere he could pick up easy work and buy a little trailer, an idea so attractive, it almost made him feel better.

Buoyed by the freedom embodied in the idea, Floyd went to the trunk of his car and grabbed a twelve pack of Natural Light Beer. Balancing the carton of cans on his lap, he did a three-point turn on the grass. When his headlights panned greenhouse number eleven, Floyd thought he saw at least one and maybe two crouching figures along the concrete walkway, moving towards his car. Floyd froze for a second.

What the—

Clay filled soil smeared under the weight and momentum of his vehicle. He hadn’t bought the Ford Focus from that old crook Robby Smetzer at Vintage Road and Reliable Used Cars for its horsepower. But when he finally got around to punching the gas pedal to the floor, it had enough torque to spin the tires and swiftly get him out the long driveway of the greenhouse complex, fishtailing the whole way.

Some of his first beer spilled on the front of his shirt, and now he couldn’t tell if the bleeding from the cuts was out of control or if pouring beer on himself caused moisture to drip down his legs. Either way, the fear of possibilities propelled him to relieve his bladder. Too scared to care, he took the left on New York Route 20. Not one other car passed him all the way home, which wasn’t unusual at all. It was surprising when he forgot to stop his car at the end of his driveway and smacked into a stack of pallets he’d had in his front yard since the previous winter. The wooden pallets scooted into the cast iron bathtub he’d pulled out of the second floor of the convenience mart thinking someday he would plant flowers in it. Missing one of its claw feet, it toppled, denting the plastic siding of his doublewide trailer.

As he sat there stunned, he realized his Ford Focus was ding dinging at him to fasten his seat belt. Ironically, as he tried to remove himself from the car, the same seatbelt caught his arm, pulling him off balance. Floyd fell with a thud, instinctively putting his hands down on his sore belly. Blood and beer and pee mixed with the sandy gravel of the driveway, coating him with a textured wet layer of debris like a battered catfish.

He lay on the ground amidst the junk in his yard. Crickets drowned out the sound of the Ford Focus which now dinged a chorus of chimes because the motor was off with the key in the ignition. With the racket, and through his beer and battered catfish haze, Floyd didn’t hear two soft-soled black sneakers make their approach, one careful step at a time down his driveway. By the time he heard the explosion of sound erupting from the gun pointed at the back of his neck, none of it mattered anymore.

2

Early the next morning, Doyle hooked a set of van keys onto his black leather belt and stared at the gold-leaf lettering that ran the length of the van. Whitman’s Greenhouse Establishment, 1902 shimmered as sunlight found its way through the tight canopy of maple leaves and reflected brightly. Right away things pissed him off and the day had barely freaking started yet.

First off it was the shimmering gold-leaf. Over twelve hundred dollars it had set him back when his business was financially stable and growing. But lately it seemed that as soon as the gold-leaf dried, his business fell apart. These days he couldn’t afford another car too, so the delivery van was his single mode of transportation and the gold-leaf felt cheesy. It didn’t help that the van alternated between smelling like old socks and rotten seaweed salad. No matter how meticulous he was at the onset of the van’s life about cleaning up old plant matter, eventually the messiness of the business overcame him. And once the rotten smell took hold of the vehicle, it was there for good, setting a mood that clashed terribly with the fancy gold-leaf. Even the numbers were irritating in their own way. Since 1902 taunted him as he wondered each month how he’d cover expenses.

The second and third things pissing Doyle off came back to Floyd. That dingbat left the door open to one of the greenhouses again, and Doyle could see right away that Floyd hadn’t deadheaded the petunias. He’d been over it with Floyd a thousand times; new flowers only grew when the old ones are removed. Doyle could feel himself getting worked up, and if he was being honest, he kind of looked forward to chewing Floyd out and making him squirm. Eating the cookies-and-cream flavored protein bar in his desk would make sure he didn’t get too tired if he really got on a roll, bitching Floyd out.

A car driving towards him, down the driveway, interrupted Doyle’s thoughts. He was hoping to see Floyd and was surprised to see Peggy pull up in the town’s only police car with the lights flashing. Her face looked like she’d been in the wind all day, tight and braced. It wasn’t even seven in the morning yet and there wasn’t a breeze.

Officer Peggy stood five feet with shoes on, and her hair came down near her waist. She rode horses better than anyone else in the county, and over several years had accumulated plenty of regional fame at shows. Her horse riding ended abruptly when Peggy signed up for the police academy and then became the town’s fulltime police officer. No one saw that coming, especially her family.

Doyle enjoyed having her around even if she was threatening to bust him all the time, but he figured sisters were like that sometimes.

Hi, Sis, Doyle said as Peggy blocked in the van and turned off the ignition to her squad car. She climbed out of the cruiser and stood in front of him.

Peggy just looked at Doyle and Doyle knew it was bad. He watched her eyes leave his and look past him, taking in the scene around them.

What’s going on? he asked.

Floyd’s been killed.

Wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand, Doyle took an involuntary step back. His bushy beard extended off his face, making his head seem unnaturally long when he cocked it to the side like he was doing now.

Killed, by who? Doyle asked. Who’d take the time to kill Floyd?

I dunno, Doyle, Peggy said. Duck hunter stumbled upon him early this morning. She took a step towards him. I thought you might know something about it.

You know I wouldn’t do anything to Floyd, Doyle said.

Peggy nodded slowly, looking past Doyle, pointing to the third greenhouse down. That door been open all night? Was that Floyd’s doing?

He swung his arm towards the open greenhouse door. Yup, and I wouldn’t even think to fire him, even when he does totally stupid stuff. So, you know I’d never do anything to harm him.

That’s what I’m getting at, Peggy said. I was surprised you kept him when you let some of the Hondurans go. Word around town is that Floyd kept his job because he had something on you.

Floyd? Doyle asked, mustering a surprised and bewildered look to hang across the hardened features of his face. What would he have on me?

Ha, Peggy said, genuinely laughing at her brother. She looked behind her and scanned the bushes to the side of the greenhouses. Her eyes kept moving, only resting on Doyle for a second at a time. "Floyd could have plenty on you. The whole town probably has something on you. You aren’t exactly a saint, Doyle."

What would anyone in town have to say now? Doyle asked. I’ve kept quiet… just growing petunias.

I haven’t brought it up, Peggy said, but people say you had quite a few insurance claims over the winter. Seems like some of them coincided with when your taxes were due and when the cold snap settled in. They think maybe the insurance payments helped out with the heating bills.

Hmmm, Doyle said. He’d drifted towards the back of the van and leaned over to dust off his bumper sticker: Carson Miller for Governor.

Peggy said, It was a cold winter. Must have been tough keeping this old place warm, and it must have been expensive too, with cost of oil the way it is.

Well, c’mon Peggy, Doyle said. He covered his left nostril and blew a string of snot out his right one. That doesn’t count for anything. Of course I filed faulty insurance claims. I would do it again too. The snippy little insurance inspector they send down here from Hartford doesn’t have a clue what it takes to run a greenhouse. Every year his company tells me they’re going to drop my insurance if I don’t do upgrades within a thirty-day period. Now, how the hell am I going to budget that? But I need the crop insurance, so I go along with it. They want a new handrail in the front, then improved steps with taller risers. When I needed money in the winter and didn’t have it because those pricks made me put up handrails, they needed to step up.

So, it’s true? Peggy asked.

Her face looked like the wind picked up, like it was blowing head-on at eighty miles per hour.

Hell yes, it’s true, Doyle said unapologetically.

Why did I ask, Doyle? Peggy looked away, I don’t want to know about it.

Doyle shrugged, and told his sister, I sold everything I could for cash, and then I reported it stolen.

Peggy asked, All those insurance reports were from stuff you sold? The generator, flower pots, rototiller, all that?

Yep, and I’d do it again, Doyle said with his arms crossed defiantly.

You broke a lot of laws that I’m bound to honor and enforce. The insurance company’s fraud division called me on it. Did Floyd help you? Peggy asked.

Floyd didn’t help anybody but Floyd, ever, Doyle said.

He blew his nose to the side again, without a tissue.

Peggy said, Always did wonder why you kept him around.

Did you ever know who Floyd was, like really was, as far as his family? Doyle asked.

Nah, Peggy said as she continued looking carefully around the greenhouse complex.

He’s the nephew of Bobby Touro.

Peggy’s surprise overflowed, affecting her facial expression. Bobby Touro? Floyd was kin to Bobby Touro?

Through marriage, Doyle said. Floyd being killed isn’t going to be good for anybody. What happened to him?

He got shot at his house, Peggy said, looking around again. He died outside in the yard after he came home.

Doyle nodded.

Peggy said, I don’t see any other tire tracks in the driveway here, or any of last night’s dew disturbed outside the greenhouses either. She pointed at the grass that needed mowing. But it smells a little weird. You smell something?

Nope, Doyle said. Just mold from the van. It fills my nose up with snot first thing I smell it, Doyle said.

Peggy nodded.

You gonna do anything about the insurance claims? Doyle asked his sister.

Peggy shook her head no, and she moved to the side a little to get a look down the corridor of the greenhouse with the door open.

You looking for somebody, Sis? Doyle asked.

Just making sure nobody else is here, Doyle, Peggy said.

Nobody here but you and me, Doyle said. I guarantee it.

Peggy pulled out a small black .22 caliber pistol and shot Doyle in the head.

Snot dribbled into his beard, and his eyes seemed to see everything one last time before his bulky frame hit the ground. Peggy knelt next to him, filtering through childhood memories – the good ones with Doyle, swimming at the lake and playing capture the flag.

Back to her police cruiser a few moments later, she tucked the .22 in the door compartment, flipped the switch to power up the rack lights, and called in back-up from the neighboring town. She notified the FBI office out of Albany to be thorough and prepared herself for what was sure to be a long day.

3

A thousand miles away, Leonard’s computer tracked progress: one-thousand-three-hundred-twelve purported deaths this week from his program, Clean. The pace continued to accelerate.

His ringing phone brought attention to Bobby Touro’s number on caller ID.

When voice-to-text finished, Leonard read, Len, look, it’s Bobby. There’s been some killing going on that don’t seem like everyday stuff. Three people bought it up here last night, including my nephew Floyd. Update me on the program right away. Call me.

Oh, I’ll call you, Bobby, you can count on that, Leonard mumbled to his computer screen.

Bobby latched onto Leonard after a night of epic spending in the VIP room of Bobby’s strip club. Somewhere along the way they became fast friends, with Bobby’s liquor flowing more freely than Leonard’s thought. Then Leonard told him about his money, how he got it, and everything else. They became inseparable that night, and not by Leonard’s choice.

When looking at the girls wasn’t enough to keep his head from losing altitude, he’d spilled it.

There’s a computer program, he’d said to Bobby out of the blue, named Clean.

So, what the fuck, Leonard. Bobby laughed. Tell me you notice the gorgeous girl, naked in front of you, and you’re not talking about computers.

Leonard had waved at everything in front of him like the girl didn’t matter.

He said, Anyone the program comes to know, online, they’re never free of Clean again. It keeps track of everything they do, forever.

Bobby had ordered another round of drinks by waving at the bartender.

Leonard, don’t get me wrong, he’d said. I’m as paranoid as the next fucking guy. Creeps with hidden cameras and these hackers, they’re a bunch of lowlifes.

Leonard had slammed an open hand onto the bar.

You’re not listening, he’d said.

It was loud enough to draw attention to them. The bartender had again glanced at Bobby, who waved him away.

Bobby had given Leonard an appraising once-over, and said, Okay boy-genius. I’m listening, now. What the fuck are you talking about?

Leonard remembered leaning into Bobby like he was going to speak quietly, but his alcohol consumption had him miscalculating social cues. When he finally started to speak, it was loud enough to make Bobby jump a little.

If the program acquires enough information to declare somebody guilty and unfit for society— Leonard had paused and played with his hand for a second. When he looked up, Bobby was paying attention, so he continued. That person will die. It might look like a car accident, or a suicide, or a mugging, but the result will be the same. And the Clean program will be behind it.

You’re shitting me.

Leonard shook his head. No, I’m not. Some historic survival gene somewhere in Leonard’s make-up kicked in when Bobby adjusted in his seat. Leonard had put his empty glass down on the bar, suddenly. I’ve got to go.

Not so fast, boy-genius. Now I’m fucking intrigued and you want to play Cinderella and run outta here? Sit down and tell me the rest.

Bobby pushed his drink to the side and held Leonard’s elbow.

How do you know so much about this program, anyway? Bobby asked.

Leonard was too bombed to follow through with leaving, and anything but the truth had seemed too hard to concoct.

I built it. It was for a computer class I was taking. I set out to create the ultimate marketing tool.

Huh, Bobby had said, thinking.

Yeah, and now I’ve got a house perched at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, right on the coast of Sullivan’s Island in South Carolina.

Sounds pretty fucking pricey. What did that set you back?

Leonard sighed. Five million bucks.

Bobby whistled softly, his eyes looked focused, and clear enough for Leonard to try and take another stab at being quiet.

Bobby had broken the silence first. If you spent that much on your house, you must have plenty left over for life-shit, expenses and such.

Leonard had nodded weakly.

Bobby didn’t say anything more at first, and they had both taken to observing a woman do backbends that would have been thrilling at another time.

As fucking hard to believe as it is, Clean is out there, isn’t it?

Leonard had nodded again.

I remember watching Star Trek as a kid. Remember their walky-talky things? Everyone said phones without wires were absurd, it would never happen. Now, my fucking smartphone tells me when my garage door opens.

Bobby had reorganized himself on the barstool again. Something about his posture made Leonard squeamish about how his time with Bobby would end.

Stuff like Wi-fi was fantasyland type shit right up until it wasn’t, Bobby continued. I know there’s geniuses like you all over the fucking world churning out ideas and shit that’s about to blow all our minds.

Leonard had nodded again, this time even smaller. He remembered feeling like he should retreat but couldn’t back out of where he’d gone.

I’ve made my money knowing when to take it, Leonard. Something tells me you and I are gonna be in business a while.

After Bobby slapped Leonard too hard on the back, the rest of the night blurred until Leonard woke up in a strange bed, alone. Bobby called him most days after that one night, looking for ways to profit from the program, proposing ideas and asking questions about how to monetize it.

A week ago, Bobby’s tone was different.

Leonard, maybe we can’t make any money from Clean. Maybe I was made to know about it for another reason.

When Leonard didn’t say anything, Bobby continued.

You don’t know everything about me.

Uh, okay, Leonard said.

To be honest, I’ve got everything I do because I know when to pounce on people’s fucking weakness. I assume the worst in everybody I meet. I really do.

Uh huh.

It’s best when I let my paranoia run wild. Let my savage instincts take care of business.

Leonard stayed silent.

Yeah, well, Bobby continued, I’m thinking I was made to know about your fucking program because it’s like releasing a billion psychos into society and putting them in charge. I’m thinking I was made to know about Clean because I’m supposed to stop it. Maybe get to it before it finds me and kills me for all the evil shit I’ve done.

That one call set the tone for all the rest that followed. And that was how Leonard knew what Bobby wanted to hear today.

Bobby picked up right away when Leonard dialed him back. Yeah, Len, whatta you got?

I’m just looking over the program now, Leonard said. It looks like your nephew Floyd died before the program found you. You’re still safe, not on the list.

Are you completely sure? Bobby asked.

Yes, I’m sure, Leonard said. A container ship passed by his picture window and dwarfed everything on Sullivan’s Island. There was something about the continental shelf of the island that created an underwater, mile-deep cliff close to shore. The biggest boats came within a hundred yards of Leonard’s house. You have to realize that at some point there will be too many names in the program to search through all of them. Right now, it takes over an hour. And when your name does show up, I won’t be able to stop Clean. It will be a matter of time.

Yeah, you said that, Bobby said. And you’re gonna keep checking every day for my name. And you’re gonna spend the rest of your time working tirelessly until you find out who can put a stop to this.

Yeah, Leonard said. Men on the ship were scurrying about and Leonard wanted to do what they had to do, instead of talk to Bobby.

And if I die, Bobby said, I’ve made sure you die next, a painful and horrible death. Stop this thing.

Yup, you say that every day. Leonard hung up.

He walked out the door, down the steps of his elevated house, across his grassy patch and onto the beach. He was waving at the men on the cargo-ship like a kid waves at a parade.

Leonard smiled, despite himself. Adopting a new persona, an entire identity, wasn’t without risk, but Bobby believed in Leonard. And because Bobby struggled to find a way to monetize Clean, he didn’t think anyone could. Leonard’s smile threatened to turn into a chuckle.

Oh, Bobby, if you only knew, he said to himself. Clean has always been about money. He thought about its onset, when he originally thought his program would market consumer goods. He laughed out loud into the wind coming off the water. Clean was about so much more now. "And that money will give me the power I need to do what I want."

Then he’d drop the Leonard persona, like he’d discarded others.

This time, he, Vortmit, would reap the benefits of his planning and deception– not a foreign government or even his own.

His shoulders were rising and falling from chuckling, and Vortmit kept waving.

4

Who could have predicted there’d be a crispy dead guy hanging off the transformer on the same day Peggy killed her brother? Murder being a rarity in this rural part of New York, the sensational deaths attracted everyone with a badge within a hundred-mile radius. Extending out beyond the greenhouses where Doyle lay in a pile, the crime scene hummed with a chaotic mix of lights and urgency, extending all the way up the hill and around the fenced enclosure of the electrical equipment.

So why did you come over here again? Agent Finley asked her.

He dressed like a local with the Dickies tan pants and button down short sleeve shirt, untucked. Only his crisp haircut and lack of accent gave an inkling of his roots outside New England. He scribbled in a small notebook.

I hadn’t seen my brother in a while, so I came to say hello, and talk to him about Floyd being dead.

Finley nodded, caught eye contact, You know I was talking to him about Bobby Touro?

Talking to who, she asked, Doyle?

Yeah, Finley said, closing the notebook.

I’d heard about Doyle being on the outskirts of Touro’s activity, Peggy said. Was he more involved than I thought? You’d think I would be able to answer that, him being my brother and all.

Nope, Doyle was a far removed, bit player in Touro’s dealings. So was Floyd. The guy up there, Finley said as he pointed up the hill at the transformer, is a guy the FBI has been watching for a while. He’s a suspected gun for hire usually working out of the South, so it doesn’t make sense for him to be here….

Peggy adopted her best cop stance and adjusted her sunglasses. Technically she was in charge, with the FBI invited into the situation as a courtesy. She wondered if Finley might try to take over the case by using a remote connection to Bobby Touro.

Don’t get too carried away here, Finley, she said more because it was expected of a local cop at a scene like this than because she cared. She kicked at a pebble a few times and swore under her breath.

Nah, Finley said with a broad smile. I’m not. We won’t step on your toes. Seems like this situation isn’t random, that’s all I’m saying.

Yeah, maybe the fellah that fried up there shot Doyle, and went up after, Peggy said.

No murder weapon up there. Finley pointed to the electrical enclosure and Floyd’s dead body.

Hmm, interesting, Peggy said. Let me make sure our photographer has the scene well documented. Then I’m going to have to babysit until they can send a medical examiner from Albany.

If you’re asking if I’ll be around later, Finley said, I will.

"Good.