“That gain you another paycheck?”
“Yes.”
“Then you invited me to sneak into your condo at night when I was done meeting with Eddie Century. But I rang the front door. I didn’t like the thought of sneaking in the back door. A single woman like yourself could shoot an intruder like me, and get away with it.”
“I … I … why do you say that?”
“I saw you moving around after I rang the doorbell, like you were trying to conceal something. And when you led me upstairs, I smelled oil. A special kind of oil. Gun oil. That must have been one heck of a payout, to shoot me dead in your condo’s rear entrance.”
“I … I … ”
“Things that tough?”
“Yes … but please, I tried to protect you. I really did.”
“Without saying anything?”
“No … I couldn’t dare say anything … but I did my best to protect you.”
Something I hadn’t thought about came to me. “I’ll be … you told Detective Shaye I was at the Putney Homestead, didn’t you. Pretty damn clever.”
Tracy started rubbing her hands together, tight and tighter, like she was trying to break her own fingers. “I thought that if you were arrested, you’d be in custody. Until George left the area. I … hoped it would protect you.”
“Some thinking.”
“Please … ”
Enough, I thought. Enough. I reached to my side, took out my Beretta, and she stared at it. I said, “Just to make my point, and one more question. You’ve done very good … so far.”
Tracy couldn’t speak anymore. She just nodded.
I said, “Did you only talk to George?”
“Yes, that’s all,” she managed to say.
“Anybody else?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“God, yes, please … ”
I put the Beretta back under my coat. “Very good. We’re done here.”
Her eyes were filled with tears and I said, “I mean it. I’ll be heading out and nothing will happen, just as long as you don’t talk to anyone. Do you understand what I’m saying? Do I need to explain it any further?”
She shook her head. “No … no, you don’t.”
I got up from the chair. “Fine. Now put a smile on your face and walk me out the door. And if all goes well, we’ll never see each other, ever again.”
Tracy wiped at her eyes, nodded, and silently got up. I opened the door and went out into the office, and young Patrick turned and said, “Tracy, you’ve really got to get going to make that appointment.”
“I’ll be right along,” she said, her voice a bit stronger.
I leaned over and extended my hand. “Patrick, am I right?”
He grinned, shook my hand. “That’s right.”
“Glad to meet you,” I said. “Hey, if you get a moment, you know what you should do later today?”
Patrick was still smiling. “I don’t know, what’s that?”
“Buy a lottery ticket,” I said. “Even if you don’t know it, you’ve had one lucky day.”
Outside Tracy grabbed my arm, pulled me back, tried to kiss me. Her lips brushed my cheek and in my left ear she whispered, “Please, can I make it up to you? Please? I-I’m so sorry … so very, very sorry.”
I kissed her cheek and disentangled myself from her touch. “No,” I said.
“Please.”
“No,” I said. “And it’s not negotiable.”
Twenty-Two
Driving back to Springfield and its hospital, I was whistling with increasing happiness and satisfaction. Things were wrapping up nicely, and then after heading to Massachusetts and handing over the safety deposit key to the widow Wanda—all right, I had to smile at the expression, so sue me … if you can find me—I’d take a week off, and then get back to work. The past several days had drained my energy and bank account, and it was time to refill both. It had been quite a while since I had checked my special iPhone that presented job offers to me, negotiating complex and highly illegal deals. I was really looking forward to getting back to work.
I parked in the hospital’s lot and hesitated.
Something wasn’t right.
Something was wrong.
What was it?
I stepped out and slowly walked past the cars and saw a late model Chevrolet sedan, with US government plates.
The gendarmes had arrived.
Damn.
I thought about spinning on my heel and getting the hell out of Dodge—or Springfield, as it were—but I had promised Carla I was going to come back.
So let’s do it, I thought, and I strolled into the Springfield Hospital’s main entrance.
Up on the second floor, I made my way down a wide corridor, and spotted Room 213, where Carla was a patient. It was about five rooms away from a central nurse’s station, and standing by the counter I saw two young and hard-looking men in fine suits, shoes, and an attitude that said they belonged to the unmarked government car down in the parking lot.
I tried to ignore them and slid into Room 213, whose door was wide open. Carla was sitting up in a bed, a bandage on her right temple, and she was wearing a flowered pajama top. An IV was in her right hand and there were sensors blooping and bleeping on a stand next to her hospital bed.
She smiled. “Ah, my savior has returned.”
“I have,” I said, “and probably not for long.”
“Why, you have a bus to catch?”
“No, but I see a couple of strapping young men out by the nurse’s station that look like they’re teammates of yours. True?”
“Very observant,” she said. “But I insist, really, that you pull up a chair.”
“I really don’t—“
She held a call button in her hand. “Sit. Or I press this switch, and a nurse and two well-armed and suspicious men will roll right in here. Now, you can try to bolt out, but I’ll still press that button. And you’ll still catch the eye of those two FBI agents. Or you can sit down and we can have a nice visit.”
I pondered that and took an empty chair. “That’s a compelling argument, Carla, so how can I say no?”
I sat down and she smiled, happy at roping me in. I hoped that was the only victory she was seeking this afternoon.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh, physically, I’m doing all right. I’ll probably be released tomorrow, which is going to pose a problem for me.”
“Why?”
She motioned her head to the open door. “Let’s just say my two agents out there aren’t very happy with me. They want to know how me, an Office Services Supervisor from the Boston field office, ended up here in Vermont, injured at about the same time police are investigating the death of two men in an empty field, about twenty minutes away. Seems like one hell of a coincidence.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I don’t remember. All I can recall is that I was driving around in Manchester, minding my own business, doing some shopping, when somebody kidnapped me. I had a hood over my head, and couldn’t hear, smell, or feel anything that would be worthwhile for an investigation, even while I was being … hurt. And the next thing I knew, some handsome stranger had picked me up, wandering on the road, and took me to the hospital.”
“You really think I’m handsome?”
“You’ll do,” she said. “Now, I’ve answered your question. Here’s mine. What do you intend to do with that safety deposit key that belonged to Clarence?”
I dug into my coat pocket, pulled it out. “This one?”
“Ha ha,” she said, no humor in her voice. “That one.”
“I intend to give it to Wanda,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Clarence put her name on the access card so she could get to it.”
“But how do you kn
ow what bank it belongs to?”
I held up the round Red Sox plastic badge attached to the keychain, rotated it so she could see. There was the logo of a bank—Seacoast Savings Bank of Devon, NH.
“Pretty apparent clue.”
“Very apparent.” I put the keys away and said, “Hey, you said your leaving tomorrow is going to pose a problem. What kind of problem?”
“The lack of employment kind,” she said. “Those two FBI men have informed me that unless my story changes, they’ll make sure my worn and tired ass will be fired by tomorrow. So I’ll be out of a job.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s too bad.”
“You know it,” she said. “So tell me … should I keep my mouth shut, or should I tell them a new story when they come back from their coffee break?”
“A new story … ”
The call button was in her hand again. Story. The one she had told, the one that had protected me, but which was going to put her out of work. Or it could be a new story, an accurate one, of who I was, how I worked, and where I lived. And more importantly, what I had done this morning in a school playing field. A new and accurate story that would save her job, her career.
“Well?” she asked.
“I’m not sure what I can do,” I said.
“Then start thinking.”
“Carla … ”
She jiggled the call button in her hand. “Fact is, I’ll stop torturing you. It’s not much fun. Look, I have a suggestion.”
“Go for it.”
“I want to work for you.”
I spoke before I thought. “No. I work alone.”
“You work alone now,” Carla said. “Earlier you had my brother working for you. From what you’ve told me, it was a satisfactory arrangement, until the two of you ended up in Chester.”
“Carla, no.”
She went on and ignored what I had just said. “Think about how it’ll work to your advantage. I know how to access, collate, and provide information. I have contacts in law enforcement all across the country. I can provide security, safety, and backup, and the people involved in your negotiations will think I’m just a pretty face that you have tagging along. Doesn’t that sound inviting?”
“But Clarence, he had … well, he had experience. In weapons, for example.”
“So do I.”
“Carla … ”
Her face narrowed and her voice lowered. “Do I need to remind you what I did to George this morning?”
“No,” I said. “But in the past few days—please don’t take offense—you weren’t particularly stable and upfront about who you were and what you were up to.”
“Offense not taken,” she said. “Let’s just say that was special circumstances, due to the death of my brother. A one-off that will never happen again. I promise.”
Good point. And I hate to admit it, but she had maneuvered me right into a very tight spot, with no apparent way out. The window here was too small to make a crashing escape, like I did back in Chester, and if I made a move to get the hell out of here, then Carla could press that call button and I’d have a handful of FBI trouble to deal with.
Maybe I could get away.
Maybe I couldn’t.
And now I was used to working with a partner.
“Well?” she asked.
“Miss Pope?” I turned and the two FBI guys were at the door, looking in at me and her.
“Hey, can you give me a moment, please? I just want to wrap things up with my visitor.”
The lead guy nodded, and they both went out into the hallway, but not far away.
Carla caught my eye. “Anything you’d like to say?”
“Sure,” I said.
A pause.
“When can you start?”
about the author
Brendan DuBois is the award-winning author of twenty novels and more than 160 short stories. He’s currently working on a series of novels with best-selling author James Patterson.
His short fiction has appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and numerous anthologies including The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century, published in 2000, as well as The Best American Noir of the Century.
His stories have thrice won him the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, and have also earned him three MWA Edgar Allan Poe Award nominations. He is also a Jeopardy! game show champion. Visit him online at www.brendandubois.com.
The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense Page 24
