The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense

by Brendan DuBois

  “I think their names were George and Beth.”

  She nodded and said, “Seven fifty, please. You might be right.”

  I passed over a ten-dollar bill. “Do you know them?”

  “Can’t say that I do, sorry.”

  The change came back into my hand and I dropped it all into a glass tip jar near the register. That got her attention and I said, “So they’re not from around here, are they.”

  “Oh, I can guarantee that,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She pointed out a window overlooking the road. “When they left, I saw them drive over to the Chester Motel, get out, and check in.”

  Four

  With my purchases safely secured, I was in the parking lot of the Chester Motel. It was a typical off-the-major-highway motel—an office and tiny swimming pool at one end, a long row of one-story units stretching out to the left. You parked in front of your unit, where management had thoughtfully left out white plastic chairs to sit in.

  The nice lady from Devitt’s Gas & Go & Baked Goods told me that her sweet murderous customers had been driving a light gray car—“Maybe a BMW or Mercedes, they all look the same to me”— but no car in the lot matched her description. Some sad-looking four-door sedans, two pick-up trucks, and a dented red minivan that had a bumper sticker claiming my springer spaniel is smarter than your honor student.

  I munched on a cookie, considered my options, and then stepped outside. I squatted down on the ground, wiped some dust on my fingers, and then rubbed my fingers in my eyes and went to the little place with a red-lit sign that said office.

  This door didn’t jingle-jangle, but it did give out a steady buzz as I came in. There were three hard orange plastic chairs on the scuffed tile, a waist-high counter, and a wooden stand with a collection of brochures promoting the historical sites and areas for happy visitors to the Green Mountain State.

  A young woman came through an open door, nodded to me. She had black hair cut high on the sides, some sort of stud through her lower lip, and both bare arms were covered with intricate tattoos. She was wearing a simple black shift that was high around her throat and seemed to go to the floor. I had caught a flash of pink when she entered the room and I think she was wearing pink sneakers.

  Based on her appearance, I was expecting a sullen greeting, coming in here as an ambassador from the alleged Real World, interrupting her time in the back office where she might be studying poetry by H. P. Lovecraft or the collected writings of Kate Millett, but she gave me a cheery good afternoon and asked if I wanted a room.

  I wiped at my reddened eyes. “No … sorry … this is going to sound awkward, but I’m hoping you can help. I’m looking for mom and dad … they drove off a few days ago and my sister and I, we’re frantic looking for them.”

  “Wow,” she said. “I’m so sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  I wiped again at my watery eyes. “You see, they’re both getting along in age, and Dad … well, he’s slipping. He’s forgetting more and more, and my sister and I … we’ve tried to make sure he doesn’t drive any more, but he won’t let us take the car keys. And Mom … she’s slipping, too, and tells me and my sister to mind our own business.”

  I took a breath. “Every now and then, they’ll go out for a drive, like they’re going for lunch or something, and then we don’t hear from them for days! I mean, last month, they said they were driving to Maine to visit an aunt, and they ended up in Troy, New York. But this time, we knew they were heading for Vermont, and sis and I have been trying to track them down. The cops won’t help, because they’re both adults … have you seen them in the past couple of days? Older man and woman, driving a gray … ”

  “Sure!” she said, her face brightening up. “A gray Audi. They were here, three days ago.”

  “Really? Do you know when they left?”

  She went to a filing box, flipped through, took out a card. “You know, it says here they haven’t checked out.” She leaned over the counter. “But I don’t see their Audi there.”

  “Maybe Dad went to get some groceries for the trip home. Can you tell me what room they’re in?”

  “Unit 14,” she said. “Do you want me to come along?”

  I smiled, took out a handkerchief, and blew my nose. “No,” I said. “I don’t want to embarrass them. But thank you.”

  I took my time, going down the narrow concrete walkway leading its way to all of the motel’s rooms. At one of the units one of those carts housecleaning uses in the morning was parked, with folded sheets, towels, various soaps and sundries. I passed the open door and saw a grandmotherly type woman in white slacks and a black smock, tossing a sheet around like she was an exiled and expert bullfighter.

  At Unit 14 there was a surprise: a Do Not Disturb sign hanging off the doorknob. There was one wide window to the left, with the blinds down.

  How to get in, then?

  I checked the parking lot again. None of the earlier vehicles had moved, and nothing new had rolled in. I supposed I could go through the window—after all, I did have experience—but I didn’t like the thought of going in blind. Besides, the only furniture available was those white plastic chairs. I could pick the lock, but that would certainly look suspicious if someone were to wander by.

  A bit of whistling from Unit 12. I checked out the housekeeping cart and saw something delightful: a lengthy key chain dangling from one of its corners.

  I moved as quickly as I could to the cart and to Unit 14, then back to the cart. I had carefully unlocked the door without opening it, and with the nice housekeeping lady otherwise occupied, now was the time. Sig-Sauer in my right hand, I grabbed the doorknob with my left hand, spun it quick, and propelled myself into the room.

  It was cold.

  Not a good sign.

  There was a dead woman on the room’s only bed.

  Good or bad, she would have to wait.

  I closed the door behind me and got to work.

  Clearing the room took about thirty seconds. The only other space was the bathroom, empty. A small closet near the door. Also empty. I made a quick check under the bed. Nothing.

  Time to check the dead woman.

  It was Beth, the woman who served Clarence and I the sugar cookies three days back, and the one I had shot at three times before getting the hell out.

  But it didn’t look like it was my fault she was dead.

  Because her throat had been slit, ear-to-ear, gushing out blood and soaking her pillow and the floral bedspread.

  So not my fault.

  Not that I would have felt any guilt.

  Beth still had on the nice outfit from before—complete with the Kevlar vest—but her hair was short and brown. A wig, then, when I had last seen her. Beth was younger than she had appeared, but with being dead for some time, her face swollen and grayed out, it was hard to tell her real age.

  A heavy knock at the door.

  “Housekeeping!”

  Well.

  Another heavy knock. “Housekeeping!”

  The sound of keys jangling was quite loud. I moved to the door and lowered my voice, “Hey, can you give me five minutes, please?”

  She said, “Buddy, c’mon, you’re one of the last ones to do, I’ve been waiting long enough.”

  The doorknob vibrated from the housekeeping key sliding in. I went over quickly and grabbed the doorknob and said, “Please … ma’am … I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll leave a nice tip.”

  “Really?” Her voice was full of suspicion.

  “Honest.”

  “This ain’t the kind of place where people leave tips.”

  “Then it’ll be a nice surprise for you, won’t it.”

  My hand was still tight on the doorknob. She said, “You promise?”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll tip you right now. Look
under the door.”

  I made the gamble to free my right hand from the doorknob, and I still moved quick, taking a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and sliding it out to the outdoors. I was fortunate that the twenty was crisp and clean. It slid through with no problem.

  There was huffing and puffing from outside the door. A slight chortle.

  “Mister? You can stay for exactly sixty-four minutes.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But why sixty-four minutes?”

  “’Cause I punch out in two hours, and that’ll leave me enough time to clean up after you.”

  Another chortle, and she went down the walkway.

  And I went back to work.

  I gave the room a quick scan, checking the drawers, under the drawers, and under the bed. Nothing, save for an empty Trojan condom wrapper I found lodged in a corner under the bed.

  The room’s cooling system was rattling along, and I recognized the tradecraft: cooling down this room would help screw up determining an exact time of death.

  I stood over the dead woman, whoever she was. Looking closer and at the sorry condition of her face, I noted her make-up was cracking and falling to pieces. She was definitely younger than she looked when I had first met her, and the wig had helped as well.

  I lifted my left leg, reached underneath my pants leg, withdrew a Ka-Bar combat knife from a scabbard strapped to my shin. I went to the dead woman, spotted the three pockmarks in her bulletproof vest where I had successfully shot her and knocked her down.

  “Nice shootin’, Tex,” I whispered as I used the knife to pry out my 9mm bullets, which were deformed and squashed but could still be used down the road as evidence. I didn’t want to go down that road or be a passenger on it. It took a good while to dig the slugs out, and once I had to walk away when the woman’s body shuddered and released some decomposition gases, causing me to breathe through my mouth. But eventually I got all three slugs out, and pocketed them in my jacket.

  The woman was still there, was still dead. I figured out what must have happened back on the day. She had been retrieved by George and whoever else was in on the ambush, and she was brought back here. My three slugs had probably broken some ribs, maybe her sternum. She had been in a lot of pain. Maybe raising a fuss. Yelling. Loud noises that could attract unwanted attention.

  A quick and brutal decision. She was left behind, ensuring she also wouldn’t talk.

  One more look around the room. Nothing.

  Just one dead woman who wasn’t going to say anything.

  I went to the door.

  Stopped.

  Went back to the bathroom, where I located a paper-wrapped drinking glass. Holding it by the rim, I went back to the bedroom, and slowly and carefully pressed her fingertips on the glass.

  I replaced the glass into the paper, casually held it in my hand, and then walked out the door.

  My friendly housekeeper was now two rooms down. I closed the door, went to my Honda Pilot, and drove out of the parking lot.

  Ten minutes later, the unexpected presence of a conscience decided to flutter down and rest on my shoulder, whispering into my ear.

  I wasted a minute or two ignoring the voice—I blame my twelve years of Catholic school education, if you’re looking for an excuse—then I pulled over to the side. I went into the glovebox, took out one of my disposable cellphones, and dialed 911.

  When the police dispatcher answered—local, country, state, I didn’t care—I spoke clearly and calmly:

  “There’s a dead woman in Unit 14, the Chester Motel.”

  I disconnected the call, removed the SIM card, broke it in half. I resumed driving and when I came across a bridge spanning a small stream, I tossed it in. There. My good deed for the day. I didn’t want that nice grandmotherly housekeeper unlocking the door to Unit 14 and opening it up to find that charnel house.

  I checked my watch. If I drove straight and well, I’d make it just in time for my dinner date.

  After a brief visit at her office, I followed the Volvo station wagon for a ten-minute drive. Tracy Zahn had chosen a French restaurant outside of Bellows Falls, and we split a ten-year-old bottle of Bordeaux. She had a vegetable quiche and a salad, and I had some sort of roast pork dish that probably had way too much fat, and I really didn’t care. She had freshened up and put on a black knit dress that fit her snugly and well. She had on new make-up and had done something to her hair that made it fluff out some, like she had caught a passing charge of static electricity.

  We talked about weather, travel, business, politics, and Hollywood, and there was a lot of laughter and smiles.

  When we got to the coffee stage, she said, “Tell me about Brass Cannon Systems.”

  “It’s a holding company, has its fingers in this and that,” I said. “Real estate, a couple of software companies, that sort of thing.”

  “And what do you do for Brass Cannon Systems?”

  “This and that,” I said. “Run errands. Check out companies for sales. Promising properties.” I lifted up my coffee cup to her in a toast. “You’re thorough,” I added. “Did a license plate check on me, did you?”

  “You know it,” she said.

  “Probably when you arrived at the house,” I said, recalling her being on her cellphone as she pulled in earlier today.

  “Correct again, my friend.”

  I sipped from my coffee cup. “You also stayed a good distance from me during the tour. You let me take the lead. But you were always ten or so feet away from me. What were you carrying in your purse? Revolver? Pistol?”

  She smiled. A good look for her. “No. If I make a mistake and ventilate an over-amorous client, you can’t make it up by knocking another five percent off the selling price. Nope, I have a Taser.” She dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “That way, if I make a mistake, after he’s done convulsing and wetting his pants, I can try to make it right.”

  “You’re one smart lady,” I said.

  “Bet your ass,” she said. “I wasn’t raised to be a victim, and I refuse to be one. Too many stories are spread around meetings and conferences about real estate agents going out to show a listing and being found bound and raped the next day. Or showing up in a shallow grave a couple years later.”

  “But here you are, having dinner with me,” I said.

  “So?”

  “Still haven’t told you my name.”

  A waitress came over and dropped off the check, which I quickly called my own.

  “I like your eyes,” she said.

  “That good enough?”

  A shrug. “I get the feeling if you told me your name, it wouldn’t be your real one. So why go through the pretense?”

  I smiled at her. “I like your eyes, too.”

  Tracy leaned over the table. The zipper holding the front of her knit dress looked quite strained. I decided I liked the look. She said, “What’s it really like? What you do.”

  “I do this and that. Run errands. Check out properties.”

  “Lie, lie, and lie,” she said. “Don’t forget, part of my business is the human factor. I can tell when someone’s lying, when someone says they want to think about a nice two-bedroom house on the lake, when in fact you know they’ll be calling you later that night to make an offer.”

  “Nicely done,” I said.

  “I have the feeling you’re armed. But not with a Taser.”

  “Your talents are being wasted in real estate.”

  Her smile grew wider. “So I’ve been told. But I like the area, I like putting families into nice homes, and I like pretty much being my own boss.”

  I examined the check, pulled out my wallet, and extracted enough bills to cover the meal and to add a 20 percent tip.

  “Me, too.”

  “Ah, but I thought you worked for something called Brass Cannon Systems?”

 
; “It’s more of a consulting gig than a permanent position.”

  “Permanent with a gun?”

  “Sounds like a hairstyle,” I said.

  “You’re quick,” she said. “I like that, too.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  The waitress asked if we wanted more coffee, and we both declined. Then she asked us one more time if we wanted dessert, even having paid the bill.

  “Nope,” Tracy said. “I’m stuffed.”

  “Me, too.”

  The waitress picked up the check and went to the other side of the dining room, and Tracy’s eyes twinkled at me. “What do you want to do now?”

  I said, “I have a fresh apple pie in my car. But no utensils.”

  “I have plenty of utensils back at my condo.”

  “You up for apple pie?”

  “I’m starving,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  Five

  The next morning I got up before Tracy and put on some clothes before going downstairs. I padded around the condo for a bit, just checking it out. I hadn’t seen much of it when we had both arrived last night. There was a nice kitchen area right off the front door, which expanded into a living room. Upstairs was a bathroom, the bedroom, and another bedroom converted into an office.

  I poked around the kitchen and at some point Tracy came down, yawning. She had on a nice thigh-length shiny red robe with a dragon emblazoned on the back, like it was made for hot samurai warriors.

  “You’re up early,” she said. “I’m not sure if I like you anymore.”

  “I made breakfast,” I said.

  “All right,” she said. “You’ve got a reprieve.”

  Along with coffee and orange juice, there were fresh blueberry pancakes and bacon. Both the bacon and the blueberries had been frozen but I had adapted and overcome those particular challenges. There was a breakfast nook off the kitchen with a nice view of the condominium’s common forest. She sat down and said, “This is a pleasant change.”

  “Thanks.”

  She poured some maple syrup on her pancakes. “In more ways than one.” Tracy looked up at me, winked. “Last night … well done, sir.”