The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense Page 10

  Her hand trembled some but it easily slipped into mine, and we started around to the front of the building, but then she tugged me into another direction.

  “Here,” she said. “This way.”

  At an unmarked door, she stopped, pulled out a key from her purse, and unlocked the door. It led into a storage area, and she said, “Back way in.”

  To the left was a small bathroom, and to the right was a small conference room. We went into the conference room and she closed and locked the door, and then sat up on the shiny table.

  Tracy’s legs were shaking.

  She hiked up her skirt to her waist, shifting her weight from one side to the other.

  “Hurry up,” she whispered, grabbing my belt, pulling me forward. “I have a client meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  I kissed her and whispered, “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  Her hand caressed me. “You certainly seem to be.”

  In the city of Keene, over the border from Vermont, I parked on a side street, made a phone call, and waited.

  The street had a hair shop, a corner grocery, and old three-story wooden buildings subdivided into apartments. It was a nice, sunny day. Lunchtime would be coming soon.

  A tow truck rumbled its way down the road, backed up, and the driver came out, a stout young woman with a black ponytail pulled back, wearing a dungaree jumpsuit, who quickly went to work. Her hands were stained with dirt and oil, but her fingernails were painted a light pink.

  In a few minutes and with a whine of the winch, the damaged Pilot was lifted up and, based on prepurchased plans and arrangements, would probably be shredded into scrap heading for Taiwan within a week.

  The driver went back to the truck, winked, and said, “Happy motoring.”

  “You, too, ma’am.”

  She left, towing the Pilot behind her.

  A few more minutes passed, and then another SUV rolled down the road, a black Ford Expedition. It took the space where the Honda had been parked, and another young lady came out, dressed better than the tow truck operator—tight blue jeans and a red turtleneck top—but just as attractive. She tossed the keys to me and I caught them with one hand.

  “Aren’t you the skilled one,” she said.

  “Years of practice.” She laughed. I said, “You need a ride?”

  “My dad always told me not to get into cars with strangers.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tiffany.”

  I shook her hand. “Tiffany, nice to meet you. I guess we’re not strangers anymore, are we.”

  Tiffany smiled. She had a dimple on one side. “Agreed. I guess we’re not strangers anymore.”

  I drove her to a car dealership out on Route 111, waved goodbye to my new friend, and went back to Litchfield.

  After checking home base, I traveled out to a library in the near town of Merrimack. After spending a couple of minutes using the Great God Google, I located the website of the Boston field office of the FBI. It had a spiffy homepage with lots of links about cybersecurity, FBI employment opportunities, FBI news, and a color photo of the current special agent in charge.

  However, if you were looking for information about how this office was corrupted by the local Irish mob years back and helped put a number of innocent men into prison, you were out of luck.

  Once I scribbled down the phone number, I went outside and made a phone call with one of my numerous burner phones. After being passed around from one office to another and finally leaving a message, I returned home.

  Along the way I paused by the Merrimack River and tossed in my Sig-Sauer and the burner phone.

  The next day I got a phone call on a reserved burner phone from Special Agent Carla Pope, and much to my surprise and gratification, she agreed to a late lunch at my home. I did some shopping and spent some time on an outdoor gas grill—I know the mystique and glamour of cooking on real charcoal, but please, I have a life—and when she arrived promptly at two p.m., I was ready with small salads, cooked brown rice, and two nice little steaks, cooked medium rare.

  I guess she was being more conscientious today, for she turned down my offer of red wine and asked only for water, while I went wild and had both the water and a glass of red wine, a nice Cabernet from Australia.

  She had on a two-piece black suit similar to her first visit, except this one’s skirt was a bit shorter, and the white blouse looked like it was bought at a real fashion outlet, instead of being issued from FBI Fashion HQ.

  “I contacted the Vermont State Police,” she said. “You’re right, a woman’s body was found in a motel room, throat slit.”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Really? The skills of the FBI are disappointing.”

  She expertly sawed of a piece of steak. “It’s all about the turf. Boston is Boston. Vermont is run by the Albany office, hence, New York. You think New York and Boston ever get along?”

  “They should. How long until you get an ID from the body?”

  “Not sure,” she said.

  “And the water glass with the fingerprints?”

  “Being processed as we speak.”

  “We’re not speaking, we’re eating.”

  Her fork stopped in midair. “Picky, aren’t you.”

  “That’s what makes me memorable,” I said. “Anything else you can offer up?”

  “No,” she said. “How about you?”

  I sliced off a piece of steak that had a nice charred bit of fat on the end. I know fat like that is bad for you, that it has potential carcinogens and can do no good for you and your heart.

  I ate it anyway. It tasted delicious. I took a nice swallow of Cabernet, hoping it would at least thin out the fat.

  “Yesterday, I was in Vermont.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep,” I said. “I found out who repaired the house in Chester after the shoot-out, had a delightful conversation with the contractor, and then learned George and an armed companion were staying at the Green Mountain Inn and Resort outside of Bellows Falls. I hied my butt over there, whereupon I met up with George and his bulky and well-armed companion.”

  Carla put the fork and knife down, folded her hands tight. “What happened next?”

  “We sat in the resort’s hot tub, had some frozen drinks, and after apologies all around and exchanging favorite cookie recipes, we left.”

  “You … ”

  “I ambushed them. I ran their car off the road, and came out shooting. I shot and killed the driver, but George escaped.”

  I slowly sipped some more wine as about six minutes’ worth of obscenities, curses, and questions about my intelligence and demeanor were raised and not answered. When she finally caught her breath, I gestured to her with my nearly empty wineglass.

  “Your steak is getting cold. Finish it up and we can talk some more.”

  She jammed her fork into the remaining piece of steak, picked it up, and then tossed it against the stove. It bounced off and fell to the floor, the fork rattling around.

  “Gee honey, was it something I said?”

  “You stupid … bastard. Ignorant, thick … you shot them? Why the hell did you do that?”

  I poured some more Australian Cabernet. “Who’s being stupid now, Special Agent Carla Pope? The last time you were here I was quite clear what was on my agenda. I intended to find this George and kill him. You made it clear that you wanted to find him and arrest him. There you go. Just because I was faster and better at what I wanted to do than you, don’t blame me.”

  “I told you I didn’t want you to do that!”

  “That you did. And I ignored you.”

  “But you didn’t call me!”

  I said, “How could I? Did you give me your phone number? An email address? Some other way to contact
you? No. I was in Vermont and I saw my opportunity, so I took it.”

  I thought she was going to throw something again—this time at my head—but she regained a bit of composure and said, “Don’t you see what this means?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I scared the shit out of George. He knows I’m after him. He knows I’m not going to slink back home and brood about what he almost did to me in Chester. That means he’s going to be looking over his shoulder, he’s going to be nervous, he’s not going to sleep well at night. That all makes me happy, that’s he going to be unsettled right up to the moment I blow his brains out.”

  Carla blinked a few times, and said, “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Part of my roguish charm,” I said.

  “And what do you plan to do next?”

  “Whatever makes sense,” I said. “I’ll probably go back to Vermont, poke around, see what I can find out.”

  “No. I don’t want you to do that.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at me like I was a college student asking why the sky was blue. “Because it’s against the law, for one. And because I’m a member of law enforcement, and because I’ve told you not to. You get that?”

  “You used the word because three times in a sentence,” I said. “I think it’s too many.”

  “I don’t care what you think.”

  “But you care what I do.”

  She picked up her empty plate, tossed it across the kitchen. It made one hell of a noise as it shattered. “Got your attention?”

  “You got it the first time I saw you in my shower, and unless you’re going to put me in chains and handcuffs, I’m still going to be on the job. And congratulations to who gets it done first.”

  “Then forget about me telling you anything once those fingerprints come back.”

  “Gosh,” I said. “Me not knowing the identity of a dead woman who earlier was about to shoot me. What will I ever do.”

  “She could be a good lead.”

  “She was left behind, dead, in a motel room. If her killers thought she was going to be of any intelligence value to the police, she’d be floating in the Connecticut River now, about ready to arrive in Long Island Sound.”

  I believe the look she was giving me was something called the death look. You know, the expression that says Why don’t you hurry up and have a coronary right now so I don’t have to put up with you anymore?

  Hoping to distract her, I said, “Intelligence. Tell me more about Clarence Briggs. You said he was being investigated for something connected to national security.”

  “True.”

  “What is it?”

  “Can’t say,” she said, and her eyes softened some, such that I didn’t feel threatened that my chest was going to explode under her piercing gaze.

  “Of course you can,” I said. “Just open your mouth and sound out the syllables. Write them down first if that will help.”

  “No.”

  “Sorry, that’s a bullshit answer, and you know it,” I said. “Clarence was a lot of things. Had street smarts, worked for some crews in Massachusetts and New York, never let his emotions get in the way of getting a job done. Funny, loyal, quick with a weapon when it was necessary, in love with his boys and still in love with his ex, even though she kicked him out of the house.”

  “Is that all you know about him?”

  “Well, I have sympathy for the ex,” I said. “She came home early from a weekend trip and found Clarence in bed, not alone.”

  “With another woman?”

  “With women, plural,” I said. “Kind of hard to overlook that sort of thing in a marriage, especially when she took a shot at him.”

  “With her fist?”

  “With a .38 revolver,” I said. “The marriage was never quite the same after that. I’m surprised you don’t know those details.”

  “Those details don’t matter.”

  “Then tell me what details do matter. What else can you add to what I just said?”

  “He … mostly what you told me. He worked in a number of illegal jobs, got a criminal record including arrests that were never prosecuted due to lack of evidence. He then became a person of interest at the Boston field office. We started looking into him, then we found out he worked with you … and once we tried to track you down, we came up against a blank wall. And we dug further … and came up against more blank walls. So here we are.”

  “Here we are,” I said.

  I took a hefty swig of my very good Cabernet—and God bless the Aussies for also having the roughest troops and most beautiful women in the world—and I put the wineglass down.

  “My turn to ask a question?” I said.

  Carla frowned slightly. “Ask away, but I won’t guarantee an answer.”

  “Well, I hope you answer this one,” I said, “for it’s going to determine how much further I intend to go on this little enforcement adventure with you.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, my bad,” I said. “When you live alone you tend to lose your art of conversation. I’ll say it this way: who the hell are you, anyway?”

  Her face was troubled. “You know who I am.”

  “Maybe, but you’re not a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, are you? An ID was shown but I called the Boston field office and, surprise, you’re not an FBI agent there, or anywhere else.”

  There was a three-second long pause that seemed to go on for an hour, and then she broke away from the small dining room table and tried to make a run for it.

  I got her in my living room, pulling on her hair and tossing her to the floor. I straddled her slim, fine-looking and sweet-smelling body, and I put the point of my very sharp steak knife to her throat.

  Nine

  I pushed the tip of the steak knife into her neck and a bright bead of blood appeared. My knees pinned down her arms. “Not a word, not a sigh, not a cry, or your body will be out of here in less than an hour, and I’ll have new carpeting installed tomorrow. Now you’re going to blink once if you hear me and if you agree to answer my questions.”

  No blink. A rather tough young lady. I moved the knife and pushed it again, drawing yet another bright bead of blood.

  “Stubborn,” I said. “Well done. But I don’t have much patience left, Carla Pope—if that’s your real name. You broke into my home, drew a gun on me, threatened me, and handcuffed me into working with you in finding the killer of Clarence Briggs. You did this on the false authority of being an FBI agent, fooling me, and a man in my position can’t let it be known among his future clients that he can easily be fooled.”

  I moved the knife once more, again drawing blood. “I want questions answered. I want them answered now. And if they’re answered to my satisfaction, I’ll let you go. Can I have a blink now, if you please?”

  She still looked up at me with contempt, but her eyes slowly blinked. I pulled the knife away.

  “Bad grammar,” she said. “You used the word answered three times in a row.”

  “We all have faults,” I said. “You broke a fine piece of China that I got as a thank you from a customer in Shanghai. So let’s move on. Real name?”

  “Carla Pope.”

  “See, we’re getting somewhere. And where do you work?”

  “The Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “You’re bleeding in three spots already. You really want to stick to that story?”

  “It’s the truth, damn you.”

  A pause. I said, “Oh. I get it now. What do you do? Human relations? Administrative aide? Wastebasket safety coordinator?”

  “Office Services Supervisor,” she spat back.

  “Why the interest in Clarence Briggs? Why go through all this nonsense? I mean … reasons of national security? Pleas
e.”

  Tears quickly formed up in her eyes, trickling down her cheeks, down to her fine ears. “Because … ”

  I waited.

  “Because … ”

  “Carla.”

  She worked hard to force me off of her. “Because he was my older brother, asshole!”

  I got up and went to the kitchen, tossed the knife in the sink. I opened a drawer, took out a clean cotton kitchen towel, and from the refrigerator, I retrieved a brown plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide. I soaked the cloth and went back into the living room, where I passed it over to Carla, who was sitting on one of my couches.

  She pressed it against her neck, pulled it away.

  “You cut me,” she said.

  “Poked,” I said. “Hard enough to bleed.”

  “You like to fuck around with words, don’t you,” she said. She pressed the cloth against her neck once more.

  “Sorry for screwing around with words, sorry I made you bleed,” I said. “But if I may, this could have all been avoided if you had been upfront with me from the start.”

  “Like you’ve been upfront about your background and your name?”

  “Different issue,” I said. “I’ve been very upfront about not being upfront.”

  “And if I had come to you right from the beginning, about who I was and what I wanted to do, what would have happened?”

  “We’ll never know, will we? Hold on, let me get some bandages.”

  I trotted upstairs to the medicine cabinet, took out some small adhesive bandages, and came back down. I went to her and she said, “No. I’ll put them on.”

  “Sure,” I said. “And you’ll do a sloppy job. Put your pride, anger, and other emotions aside just for a moment, all right?”

  I gently lifted up her chin and moved it so the three puncture wounds were exposed. They were beginning to clot but I still slipped on the bandages. When I was done I said, “You can probably take those off tomorrow.”

  “Fuck you very much.”

  “If you say so.”

  I pulled over a footstool and sat down near her. “Tell me about you and your brother. Is Pope your married name?”