The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense Read online

  “Ex-married name. After the divorce, I decided to keep it, especially when Clarence started getting … more active in his illegal activities. It’s also a pain in the ass to change all those official documents.”

  “You didn’t want the family connection recognized by your employer?”

  She glanced down at her hands. “Those in the FBI who know, they know. But why spread the word? Why make it easier for me to get shit from higher ups or the DoJ in D.C.? So yeah, that’s why I kept my married name.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Because Clarence wanted to make sure somebody in his family besides his ex-wife knew what he was doing when he was working with you, in case … just in case something happened.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Why the drawn out grunt?”

  “Because I thought I had done a pretty good job of insulating myself from Clarence. Not that I didn’t trust him … it’s just, I wanted to keep things separate, avoid complications.”

  Carla brushed her fingers against the three small bandages on her neck. “I guess you made sure to change vehicles, make sure there were no tracking devices, doubled back, that sort of thing.”

  “You got it.”

  She smirked. “Did you ever think of seeing who might be following you from the air? Someone in a rented Cessna or helicopter?”

  Clarence, Clarence, Clarence, I thought. Never thought you had the interest or inclination.

  “I guess I didn’t.”

  “So I knew where you lived, and from Clarence, got a very good idea of what you did for work.”

  “Not bad for an Office Services Supervisor … whatever the heck that is.”

  “I have my days.”

  I got up. “Glass of wine?”

  “God, yes.”

  Back to the kitchen and I killed off one of Australia’s better exports and then returned to the living room and passed the glass over. “Why come to me, then? Why not go to your fellow FBI folks in Boston?”

  She took a healthy sip. “I tell them that my ne’er-do-well brother is missing, what will they do? They’ll issue a bulletin or two, but even if it’s personal, do you think they’re going to expend many resources to track him down? With nothing to follow up on?”

  “No. They’d do nothing.”

  “Which is why I came to you.” And another swallow of wine. “And why I want to see this right to the very end.”

  When we were both done with our wine, I went back to the kitchen, put the glasses in the sink, and picked up the broken pieces of the plate, the fork, and the chunk of steak that had all gone airborne a while ago.

  Back once more into my living room, Carla was stretched out on my couch. Her skirt had ridden up some, and she had cuddled herself up against a couple of puffy pillows.

  I took the footstool once more and said, “Now that you’re secret is no longer a secret, what now?”

  “We keep on. And remember that I know a lot about you and your illegal activities. So don’t forget that.”

  “I’ll do my best. By the way, how did you get that FBI ID produced, and what about that drinking glass from the motel?”

  “How else?” she replied. “I have friends. Favors were exchanged. If you put in a request for assistance from my office, you could get it in three days. Or three hours. Depending on how I felt about you.”

  “I would think a fake FBI ID would be pretty high up on the feeling level.”

  “No, not really. Not if you say you’re doing it for a Halloween party and promise to return it when you’re through.”

  “This is May. Halloween’s not for another five months.”

  “It was for last Halloween.”

  “And you still have it?”

  “The guy who produced it for me is on a long-term assignment in Kabul, doing his part to save the world from medieval warlords. Once he gets back, then I’ll square it with him.”

  “And the drinking glass?”

  “With a friend as well.”

  “Must be some friend.”

  “What, you think I’m trading sexual favors for information? I don’t like your tone.”

  I said, “I’m sure what you don’t like about me is a long list. What’s your plan once you get the woman’s fingerprints ID’d?”

  “What do you think? We’ll do something about it.”

  “Still avoiding your coworkers?”

  Carla said, “You know it. I … I want to get this handled. Once I get the fingerprint report back, I’ll let you know, and we’ll go on from there.”

  “Go on from where?” I asked. “You still looking to put your brother’s killer away in jail?”

  She didn’t say a word.

  “I think you’d agree that my way is quicker, more permanent, and will draw less publicity. A winner all around.”

  Carla kept on looking at me. I kept on looking at her fine legs.

  “Come along to the dark side, Carla,” I said. “We have chocolate.”

  She swung her fine legs off my couch and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m sure. Oh, and by the way. You left out something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An apology, to start. For deceiving me.”

  Her face was sharp, indeed. “I follow the rules of Henry Ford in that one.”

  “Blaming the Jews?”

  “No, what his son said, the other Henry,” she explained. “Never apologize, never explain.”

  Then she left.

  After she departed, I did the dishes and carefully took her wineglass, knife and fork and kept them separate from everything else. Then I made sure everything was locked up nice and tight, and went to bed, whereupon I slept just fine.

  The next day I had a light breakfast of tea and cinnamon toast, and then decided it was time to return to the Green Mountain State, with one detour along the way. I placed the wineglass, knife, and fork in a plain paper bag, and then took the interstate up to Manchester, departing at Exit 6, getting on Bridge Street heading into Manchester. At the top of a rise that looked down upon the city and the Merrimack River, I pulled over and took a brief stroll into Stevens Pond Park. It was a sunny day, just a slight breeze, and I found my usual park bench and sat down, stretching out my legs, looking like an ordinary, peace-loving citizen, enjoying the view.

  I waited a while and when I was reasonably confident I wasn’t catching anybody’s attention—not hard to do since I had this park to myself—I put the paper bag under the park bench, went back to my new vehicle, and started driving. A few minutes later, using one of my burner phones, I made a quick call, and then destroyed and dumped the phone along my route.

  I got to Vermont about ninety minutes later.

  I retraced my steps—or, more accurately, my poor late lamented Honda Pilot’s route—and stopped at the road off Route 5 that led to the Green Mountain Resort and Inn. I parked my Ford and walked over to the ambush site. The brush and saplings were crushed and there were skid marks on the asphalt and gouge marks in the nearby gravel. Other than that, not much of a sign that a gun battle had taken place here the other day.

  I got back into my Ford with the pleasurable new-car smell and drove the short distance to the Green Mountain Resort and Inn. As previously noted, it looked like one of those grand hotels of the nineteenth century that had missed being flattened to make a state-of-the-art parking lot. It had a center building, three stories tall, and attached wings on both sides that were a story shorter. The roof was red tile, the shutters were black, and the clapboards were a dazzling white. A wide front porch with white wicker furniture was in front of the center building, and I quickly bounded up the steps like I belonged there.

  The main lobby was quiet. Oriental carpeting, comfortable couches and chairs, and a large stone fireplace in one corner that looked like it was big
enough to cook an ox. I went up to the front desk and after a few pleasant minutes of lying to an eager young man wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and tartan bowtie, I was directed to a nearby sofa next to a coffee table and picked up a copy of that day’s USA Today. I was still puzzling over the incredibly ugly design of the front page when a bulky yet sleek man came over to me wearing loafers, gray slacks, blue blazer, white shirt, and red necktie. On the jacket’s right breast was a nametag with the inn’s logo and a name. OLIVER SIMMONS.

  “Mr. Simmons,” I said, getting up and extending a hand. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  He was clean-shaven, with a thick pompadour of jet-black hair that looked like it belonged in Tupelo, Mississippi, circa 1955. His handshake was firm and to the point, and we both sat down at the same time.

  “As I explained before,” I continued, “I’m a freelance writer, researching a book idea.”

  “I see,” he said, sitting there, legs crossed at the ankles, soft-looking hands pushed together in a triangle above his waist. “And how does your book idea involve my resort?”

  “The book idea concerns a new trend in crime,” I said, doing my very best to spin a story that could be believed, “involving sudden outbursts of violence that take place in rural areas.”

  “I still don’t see your point.”

  My smile didn’t waver, but I had to wonder what kind of manager Mr. Simmons really was. “Then I’ll get to the point,” I said. “There was a deadly shooting out on Route 5 yesterday. At least one man was killed, another was possibly wounded.”

  “I see.” He nodded in a slight and delicate way that indicated he didn’t see at all. “But that crime didn’t take place on our property, now, did it. It occurred out on the intersection of Route 5.”

  “You’re certainly correct,” I said, allowing him that slight victory. “But the gentlemen involved were guests of this establishment.”

  “Says who?” he replied, with just a hint of Vermont frost in his voice.

  “Says some sources I’ve been working with,” I said. “My book idea is just in its initial stages, so I’m looking for some background information about these two men, what they were like, what kind of guests they were.”

  Simmons nodded once more. “You seem to be a thorough individual.”

  “I do my best.”

  He grunted and got up from the couch. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll check with the front desk and see what I can do for you.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said, thinking to myself that perhaps the cautious old bean was going to help me out after all.

  I was still thinking that when a detective from the Bellows Falls Police Department showed up and took me into custody.

  Custody, I suppose, because he didn’t have an idea of what to arrest me for, and because I decided to be a cheerful and cooperative guy and respond affirmatively to his requests. Detective Mike Shaye was a young guy, with a dark gray suit that looked like it was purchased in New Hampshire at some Wal-Mart—since Wal-Mart is still banned from the precious lands of the Green Mountain State. He had short black hair, streaked with some gray, a pug nose, and hard blue eyes, and he made it quick as he came into the lobby and showed me his badge.

  “Can I ask you why you’re so interested in yesterday’s shooting?”

  He was standing and I remained sitting. I looked up at him and said, “Yes.”

  He frowned. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, you may ask me why I’m so interested in yesterday’s shooting.”

  He seemed confused at that and said, “Can I see some ID please?”

  “Sure.”

  I passed over a New Hampshire driver’s license, and in the spirit of today’s activities, I also passed over an official press pass issued by the NH State Police. He glanced at them both and gave them back to me.

  “How about we talk at my office?”

  I stood up, surprising him, and I said, “Sure. Why not? Can I follow you?”

  He shook his head. “I’d rather you’d ride along with me.”

  Feeling gracious and in a reasonable mood, I said sure.

  “Oh, and another thing,” he said, looking steadily at my coat and a slight bulge near my armpit. “Are you currently armed?”

  “I am,” I said. “I also have a permit for the pistol I’m carrying.”

  “Do me a favor and surrender it to me when we get outside, all right? I’ll make sure I’ll return it to you when we’re through. Guns make me nervous.”

  “Guns make me nervous, too,” I said, without stating the obvious, which was that the phrase when we’re through was pretty open-ended.

  Still, I continued to be in a gracious mood and I passed over my Beretta once we exited the Green Mountain Inn and Resort building.

  I was surprised and pleased when Detective Shaye allowed me to sit up front in the old dark blue Crown Victoria unmarked police cruiser, since it indicated a certain level of trust. Otherwise, I’d be sitting in the backseat, with the door handles disabled so I couldn’t get out on my own.

  It only took a few minutes to get to the police station, a brick building on Rockingham Street that shared its quarters with the fire department. Before leaving the inn, he slid my Beretta under the cruiser’s front seat. Along the way we both kept quiet, as I resisted an urge to ask him if I could play with the lights and the siren. We pulled into a municipal lot and then walked into the small police station, and Detective Shaye asked me to join him for a little chat.

  So far, so good. I was sitting in his office, and not in an interrogation room. I’ve had some experiences with interrogation rooms and they don’t frighten me one bit, but I liked seeing we were getting off to a quiet start.

  “Tell me again why you were asking questions of the inn’s staff,” he said, taking a chair. The office was small, with the metal desk, three chairs—two now occupied—and metal bookcases and filing cabinets. No windows. I wouldn’t like to spend too much time here.

  “I’m working on a book proposal that ties into what happened near the inn yesterday,” I said. “Small rural town, little slice of paradise, and shooting and mayhem breaks out.”

  “I see,” he said. Next to his desk was a computer terminal, and he turned in his chair and started working the keyboard. After a minute he turned to me and said, “According to Google and Amazon, you’ve written exactly one book, about a cold case murder in California. Called Dead Sand, Dead Sandals.”

  “That’s right,” I said, which was quite wrong, because the author of that book was dead and through some money greased here and there, the small publishing house that originally published the book thought he was still breathing and walking. And my driver’s license and press pass matched the dead author’s name.

  “That book was published seven years ago.”

  “I’m a slow writer.”

  “Still … seven years ago?”

  “I’m hoping this book will be my lucky break,” I said. “In fact … speaking of breaks, this is a lucky one for me.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Because it happened within easy driving distance from where I live,” I said. “What can you tell me about the shooting?”

  He grimaced. “Not a thing. The State Police and the Attorney General’s office have taken the lead on that, so you should talk to them.”

  “Oh, all right. I guess I will do that.” A pause, and I said, “If that’s all you can tell me, do you mind taking me back to my vehicle?”

  “Yes, I do mind. Let’s chat for a while.”

  “Sure. What’s on your mind, detective?”

  The grimace disappeared. “It’s like this. Even though the State Police and AG has taken the lead, it doesn’t mean that I’m just going to sit on my muscular ass and do nothing.”

  “Man murdered, another man getting away, vehi
cle shot up, I can see why.”

  His eyes snap-focused onto mine. “Who told you there were two men in that car?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “From who?”

  “Sources,” I said. “They said that one man was found dead in the car, and that another had escaped being shot.”

  “Considering the first people on the scene, plus EMTs and other responders, none of them saw a second party involved, that’s some interesting information you got there from your sources. Care to share?”

  I smiled the best way I could. “Please, detective, you know how it goes. First Amendment and all that. Why spoil a perfectly good conversation by raising a ruckus right from the start?”

  He said, “I see your point, unfortunately. But if I can continue … even though I’m not the lead, I’m still working some information, and if I find anything useful, I’ll pass it along to the State Police and AG’s office. You see, I don’t care about getting credit. All I care is getting a hold of the guy who decided to shoot it up in my town. That offends me. Deeply. I like the town, its people, and most of all, I love it quiet and safe.”

  “An admirable point of view,” I said. “And again, how can I help you?”

  “Besides revealing your sources?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Let’s try this,” he said, sliding open the center drawer of his desk. He removed a color photo print and pushed it across the desk at me. I picked it up and remembered how to secure my poker face. The photo seemed to be a surveillance camera shot—complete with time and date stamp on the bottom—and showed a Honda Pilot driving on the road adjacent to the Green Mountain Inn and Resort. The camera shot was clear enough to depict two people in the front section of the Pilot, and was also clear enough to show the driver.

  He sure looked familiar.

  I put the photo down.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

  He gave me a quick glare as if to say he thought I understood pretty well, and he tapped the photo with his hand. “Camera surveillance photo. Taken a few minutes before the shooting started. This is a Honda Pilot that was in the vicinity at that time. Unfortunately we couldn’t get a good view of the license plate. But look at the driver’s face.”