The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense

by Brendan DuBois

  “I kid thee not.”

  “I’ve worked with Clarence for some time,” I said. “The thought of him entering the arena of national security … I find that hard to believe.”

  “He’s been dead now for how long?”

  “Three days.”

  “You try to contact his family, tell him he’s dead? Or at least missing?”

  A dull dagger of stone seemed to strike my chest. “I did not.”

  “Why? You were business partners, right? Why wouldn’t you do that?”

  “Because I’ve been busy, trying to find out who shot him.”

  “What, you couldn’t spare ten, fifteen minutes?”

  “I was busy.”

  “Fifteen minutes worth of busy?” she asked. “Or did you hate the thought of having to tell his ex-wife how you got him killed?”

  I wished I had another glass of wine to sip from. “Probably.”

  “Probably? I’d say exactly. You were cowardly, not telling her what had happened.”

  “So says you,” I said. “But when I do talk to her, I want to be able to tell her what I had done, in finding the man called George.” I paused. “His body … has it been located?”

  “No.”

  “And his ex-wife?”

  “All she knows is that he’s missing.”

  “And his vehicle?”

  “Where did you last see it?” she asked.

  “I parked it off a road in Chester. It’s not there now.”

  “I see.” She got up and said, “This is how we’re going to do this. You’re going to go down to the cellar, check on my clothes. If they’re dry, then you’ll go upstairs and get that glass with the woman’s fingerprints. While you’re doing that, I’ll get dressed, and you’ll come back and hand me the glass.”

  “My, you seem to have that well-planned.”

  “Trying to earn my taxpayer’s salary.”

  “And what happens after you leave?”

  She tightened the sash to her borrowed robe. “I’ll poke around, ask some questions. If I need some additional information from you, I may contact you. But don’t be surprised if I don’t.”

  “Can I contact you?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll reach out to you when I need to.”

  I shrugged. “Do what you want, it doesn’t matter to me.”

  I turned to go to the cellar and she said, “Wait a sec. What do you mean by that?”

  “Exactly what I said. What you’re doing doesn’t impact me at all.”

  “Hold on,” she said. “Just what the hell are you going to be doing while I’m conducting this investigation?”

  I walked to the door leading to the cellar. “Doing what you’re doing, I suppose. Looking for this George character. But there’ll be one key difference between you and I.”

  “Which is what?”

  I opened the door, switched on the light to the cellar. “You intend to find him and arrest him. I intend to find him and kill him.”

  “Don’t do that. You hear me? Don’t do that.”

  “Loud and clear,” I said.

  Seven

  Eventually Special Agent Carla Pope got dressed—in private, of course, since she wasn’t that kind of girl—got the room service glass, and exited my home after telling me in so many words to be a good boy. I said I would, while keeping one hand behind my back with the fingers crossed.

  After cleaning up the kitchen, I took my old Raleigh ten-speed and went out for a mind-clearing ride in the neighborhood. Litchfield is near the Merrimack River so it’s pretty much flatland, which makes biking easier for me. I admire the guys and gals who get all dressed up in multi-colored spandex gear and go for long rides on bicycles whose frames were inspired by NASA technology, but I’m a bit old-fashioned. I just throw on comfortable clothes, sneakers and helmet, and a fanny pack with some water, a granola bar, and my Sig-Sauer.

  I also stay away from Route 3, a state highway that cuts right through the center of Litchfield. For one thing, it’s a busy road. And for another thing … well, it’s a busy road. It would be easy for some distracted motorist to swerve over and catapult me into some trees, where my bike helmet would only be good in keeping my shattered skull and leaking brain matter in one place.

  Oh, and I always think it would also be easy for an undistracted motorist, maybe somebody from my checkered past, to run me down on purpose and claim it was an accident.

  The afternoon bike ride went well, all along flat roads, most of them back roads with cute suburban homes and farms, and then I got home and put the bike away, checked all the telltales, and made it a point to also check the shower.

  When all was clear, I showered and got changed, and right about then, one of my phones rang, and I was soon driving back to Vermont.

  Tracy Zahn met me at a diner outside of Bellows Falls on Route 5, where she had the pot roast and I had the traditional Thanksgiving dinner of turkey breast, gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and corn. As we ate Tracy eyed my plate and said, “I see you’re a breast man.”

  “That’s an old joke and unworthy of you,” I said. “But still, I like the directions your mind works.”

  When we were finished and plates were cleared away, I said, “Go on and tell me more.”

  She looked around. I had made it a point of taking a corner booth, to give us some bit of privacy. Her hair was still looking pretty good, as was she. She had on a tight white turtleneck blouse with some sort of red and black Norwegian sweater that didn’t button up front.

  Tracy said, “I’ve been keeping my ears open, that’s what I’ve been doing.”

  I interrupted her. “But you’ve been careful, correct?”

  “Except for having an endless taste for nameless, naughty men, I’m quite careful, indeed.”

  “I like your tastes,” I said. “Then go on.”

  She wiped her fingers with a white paper napkin. “Last night I was at a Chamber of Commerce function. You know, the kind of thing where the supposed business is to meet up with fellow business people, trade tips and leads, do some community work. Okay, we do that, but most of the time, it’s just a chance to have a few drinks and socialize.”

  “I bet you were the center of attention.”

  She gently kicked me under the table. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Not even close.”

  “You’re distracting me,” she said, which I hoped made sense, because after she had kicked me, I had slipped off my right shoe and was running my foot up and down her lower leg.

  “Thanks. Do go on.”

  Tracy took a breath. “So. Nat Fuller, he owns a construction firm, he was laughing about how Eddie Century had finally paid him for an excavation bill from last year, when a septic tank had to be replaced. He said something about how the dumb shit—excuse my French—had finally come into some money. And somebody said, hunh, what did he do, get a winning scratch-off ticket, and Nat said, hell, no, Eddie’s too dumb to use a scratch ticket. But Nat said that Eddie told him he had some kind of rush construction job to do, putting up a window, plastering, and that’s why he had the money to pay the old bill.”

  I said, “If I had a Spidey sense, it would be tingling right now. That sounds pretty good.”

  “It gets better,” she said. Then her eyes widened and she whispered, “Oh,” as my foot slid between her legs and went a tad higher.

  “Tracy?”

  “Ah, yes … it does get better. Just a bit more pressure … mmm … yes, well, as I was saying, there was a bit more conversation, and I didn’t catch all of it, but somebody asked something more to Nat about how dumb Eddie was, and Nat said Eddie only complained that the hardest thing to do was to get the blood out.”

  I quickly removed my foot, pushed it back into my shoe.

  “What can you tell me about
Eddie Century?”

  “Brute … ”

  “Tracy … ”

  She made a point of taking a deep breath and fanning herself with her right hand. “Local guy. What some would call a townie. Barely made it out of high school. Survives out in a rural area with some woman that’s probably his common-law wife and a couple of kids. Lives in a homemade shack with a couple of tar-paper additions. Makes money by staying on welfare, doing some snow plowing, lawn mowing, probably dealing marijuana and crystal meth if he’s lucky. And home contractor stuff, though I wouldn’t trust him to repair a birdhouse.”

  “Why do you think he was picked to do the repairs on the Chester house?”

  “Because he’s dumb and probably promised to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Can you tell me how to get to his place?”

  This time I sat back with a funny expression on my face, as her black-stocking enclosed foot slid up my thigh and rested in a favorite spot of mine.

  “I really don’t want to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Eddie … he’s dumb, he’s a leech, but he is mean to the bone and beyond. I know for a fact a couple of police departments in the area have outstanding warrants on him, but they don’t want to arrest him. They figure it doesn’t make much sense to get him for some misdemeanor and end up with two or three cops in the hospital with bruises, broken bones, and bloody lips. Nobody around here wants to get on his bad side.”

  “Maybe I’ll just be looking for his good side.”

  “Not sure if it’s there to be found.” Her foot pressed against me with some sweet emphasis. “You’ve got a nice, rugged face. It looks like you’ve spent some time outdoors, in cold winds, hot days, bright suns. I don’t want to see that face messed up.”

  I reached under the table, gently caressed her foot. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure … but Eddie … ”

  “When did it happen?”

  “What?”

  “When did he do something to you?”

  She gently removed her foot. “All through high school.”

  “All four years?”

  “Well, yeah, I wasn’t smart enough to finish it in three, and I didn’t stay back. But he made those years miserable, he did.”

  Her right hand gently brushed against her white turtleneck blouse. “My girls came in at a young age. They were big. Most boys teased me but got over it. But not Eddie. He didn’t see me as a girl who got undressed at night and cried over the sore parts of her skin where the bra straps had cut in. Nope, Eddie Century thought I was put on this earth to tease him with my mammaries, and he never stopped. Not ever. He snapped my rear bra strap, called me Guernsey, and much more. I complained to my teachers, to the principal … my mom did the same, bless her. And it might improve for a couple of days, and then he’d come right back and do it again.”

  “I see.”

  Her eyes flashed something at me, and she said, “You planning on seeing him tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I come along and watch?”

  “No.”

  “Please? I’ll be your best friend forever.” The harsh look in her eyes was gone, replaced by a cheery gaze.

  “That’s quite the offer, but I still don’t want you in the area.”

  “All right.” She made a pouting gesture with her pretty full lips, and I laughed as she got a pen out of her purse, along with a pad of paper. She wrote for a moment and then slipped the piece of paper across the tabletop.

  “Here you go,” she said. “When you’re done visiting with him, what next?”

  “Haven’t thought about it much.”

  “Then think about this. The back door of my condo will be unlocked.”

  I picked up the piece of paper.

  “You know, that’s an invitation for a bad man to slip in for a visit.”

  She smiled, arched her back. “I’m counting on it.”

  Tracy’s directions were precise and to the point, and it still took almost a half hour to locate Eddie Century’s property. It was on a remote rural road that had old stones lining each side. There were well-constructed and maintained farms, with recently planted fields, the occasional Cape Cod home, and the very occasional McMansion with recent stonewalls and gated entryways. And scattered among these expensive homes, like distant cousins who won’t go home when a family wedding reception is trying to wrap up, were the homes of the townies.

  This particular home was as Tracy had described. A trailer that had once been white and was sagging in the center. Three tarpaper shack additions on each end and to the rear. The driveway was muddy dirt, and there was a barbed wire enclosure to the left with about a dozen chickens milling about. A dented and rusting Chevy Tahoe pickup truck was parked in front, next to a rusting and dented Toyota Corolla. Pine and oak trees were scattered around the property, and smoke was easing its way up from a round chimney pipe. As I pulled to the side of the road, a German shepherd on a chain emerged from a battered doghouse and started barking. Nice early warning system.

  On both sides of the driveway were two good-sized boulders, and I walked up to the wooden porch that was barely attached to the trailer. Up the stained wooden steps, I knocked once, twice, and then three times on the door.

  It opened up, barely. I saw a grim-looking woman, long grayish hair, wearing a gray sweatshirt, stained on the front, and black stretch pants. Her feet were bare. There was a rose tattooed on her right ankle, and she said, “What?” Her teeth were brown and a number were missing.

  “I’m looking for Eddie Century.”

  “He’s not here.” She started to close the door, and I deftly slid my foot in to keep it from closing.

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s too bad. I’m looking for some construction work to be done, and he came recommended.” I took out my wallet, slipped out a hundred-dollar bill, and tore it in half. I passed the torn half to the woman.

  “If Eddie suddenly appears, I’ll be waiting for him at the end of the driveway.” I turned and then headed out.

  I sat on top of one of the rocks and didn’t have long to wait. The door slammed open and Eddie Century barreled out, coming off the porch and down the driveway, moving like there was a free beer keg waiting for him on the road. I stood up and he glared at me, though I guess he was happy to see the torn half of the Ben Franklin I had produced.

  “What the fuck is this?” he said as he got closer. He had on dirty black Wellington boots that went up near his knees, and gray sweatpants. His light blue T-shirt advertising the Boston Red Sox didn’t do a good job covering his flabby, hairy belly, which flopped over his sweatpants, and he had on a dungaree vest. His hands were red and rough, and his face was pudgy, with a bulging nose that looked like it had run into a number of fists or doorjambs over the years. His hair was thick, black, and oily looking, like the younger Elvis used to wear, and he had a black beard that looked to be a week or so old.

  “This is the start of a business relationship, I hope,” I said. I held out the other half of the hundred-dollar bill. He snatched it from my hand and, with suspicion in his eyes, held up the original piece, to make sure they matched.

  “Your wife didn’t think you were home,” I said.

  Ignoring me and staring at the torn bill, he said, “That fat cow isn’t my wife. It’s my step-daughter. And she’s as dumb as shit.” He lowered the torn bills and they disappeared into the right pocket of his vest.

  “So whaddya want?”

  If there was a cliché of a dumb country bumpkin who couldn’t pour piss out of a boot even if the instructions were printed on the heel, Eddie Century fit the bill and then some. But I wasn’t underestimating him. For one thing, under all that blubber were firm muscles that were used to being used hard, and in bloody practice. And his eyes were intelligent. He was good at sizing someone up, at looking at the situa
tion, and I knew that’s what he was doing right now.

  I slowly got my wallet out, took out another hundred-dollar bill, passed it over to him. “I need some construction work done, and done quickly. I understand you’re the man to see in Chester.”

  “Who told you that?” There was denial in his voice, but I could see pleasure in his eyes, that his talents were being noted.

  “Somebody in the same business that I’m in,” I said, giving him another hundred-dollar bill, which he quickly snapped away. “The … extra-legal contract and trade business. Do you know what I mean?”

  “No,” is what he said, but as before, his eyes betrayed him. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Hey … ”

  “Eddie, you and I, we’re men of the world, we’re out on the edges of life … why should we get caught up in names?”

  I held up another Ben Franklin. “You were called in a few days ago to do quick repairs at an old residence on 19 Timberswamp Road. There was a broken window on the second floor, at least three if not more bullet holes, and some bloodstains. You did such a good job that anyone visiting it wouldn’t notice a difference at all, unless they were forensic scientists.”

  I took out one more Ben Franklin and kept it right out of reach. I sat down on one rock and after some apparent deep thinking, Eddie sat down on the other rock, splaying out his legs. His sweatpants rode up so I could make out his hairy and fish-white shins.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Eddie … don’t you have pride in your work? Don’t you?”

  He grinned, leaned over, and I joined him halfway and he snapped the bill out of my hand. “Maybe now I’m remembering it.”

  “Good.”

  “So what if I did that work, hunh? I know the building inspector in town and you ain’t it.”

  I said, “It’s very good work. Would you be open to doing some more?”

  Another grin. “You figure on shootin’ somebody soon?”

  “My business, isn’t it.” Another hundred-dollar bill made its way across the muddy driveway. “And my business is very complicated, so I’d rather not get into it right now. So how did you get the repair job?”