The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense

by Brendan DuBois

  I made a point of peering down.

  “Handsome-looking gent,” I said.

  “Don’t you think that looks like you?”

  I put an aggrieved tone in my voice. “Lots of people look like me. And why would I be here yesterday? I came here today only because I heard about the shooting. And as you saw back at the inn, I don’t drive a Pilot.”

  Detective Shaye looked down at the photo, and looked back up at me. I could sense the wheels and gears spinning around back there, and I quietly said, “There hasn’t been much news about that shooting, including the name of the dead man. Who was he?”

  He still kept looking back and forth to me and the photo, like he was about to see a prominent mole on the man’s face and match it to mine, which was going to be a waste of time, since I don’t have such a mole.

  “Out of state guy.”

  “How far out of state?”

  “Far enough,” Detective Shaye said. “Ohio.”

  “That’s pretty far. And his name?”

  He shook his head. “Mike Dillman.”

  “Have you tracked down his background?”

  “Not as of yet,” he said. “Why piss off the State Police and the Attorney General’s office so early in the investigation?”

  “I see,” I said. “And his passenger?”

  “Still looking into that, as much as I can.”

  “Sounds pretty thorough on your part,” I said. “But if you don’t mind … how did you come to visit the inn and talk to me? What kind of instructions had you left with the inn’s staff?”

  Like he was accepting defeat, Detective Shayle drew the photo back and returned it into his desk drawer. “What makes you think I left anything with the inn’s staff?”

  I gestured with my open hands, hopefully reaffirming the mistaken notion that I had nothing to hide. “Because you came so quickly after I got there. I don’t think you were just wandering around the neighborhood and came in by chance. I bet you asked the inn to contact you if somebody arrived and asked a lot of questions about the shooting. True?”

  “Not bad,” he said, and from his computer terminal came a little bleep. He tapped the keyboard, frowned, and pushed his chair back. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, there’s a gentleman from the Department of Justice who’s here, who wants to see me about this case. I guess he didn’t get word about the State Police and the AG’s office.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Can I leave as well?”

  He headed out the door. “Wait until I come back.”

  Detective Shaye walked out and left the door open. I heard voices.

  Something tickled at me.

  I got up and peered around the door, saw Detective Shaye talking to a guy just outside of the dispatcher’s office.

  Well, well, well … whaddya know.

  I doubted the man was a gentleman, and I wasn’t sure if he was from the Department of Justice or not.

  But I did know this:

  The good detective was involved in a very animated discussion with an older man I knew as George.

  Ten

  Decision time once again, and a quick one.

  I walked out the hallway and turned left, strolled quickly and with my head held high, like I belonged here and owned the joint. I went past two crowded offices and only one raised eyebrow—from a secretary typing frantically away on a computer keyboard—and when I turned a corner, next to a bulletin board listing State of Vermont work rules, some Wanted posters, and a sign-up sheet to play softball next weekend against a local VFW team, there was a door blessedly marked EXIT.

  I went through the door, got dumped into the municipal parking lot. I gently and quietly let the door close behind me—I didn’t want that curious secretary to investigate the noise of a slamming door—and then I resumed my careful, law-abiding stroll.

  But I felt empty, out of place, and quickly figured out why.

  Something was missing.

  In the parking area where Detective Shaye had left his cruiser, I checked the driver’s door. It was unlocked. I opened it and reached a hand in, quickly retrieved my Beretta, and then felt much better.

  It was a beautiful day.

  I kept on walking.

  After a pleasant and unobtrusive stroll through Bellows Falls, I walked into the offices of O’Halloran & Son and asked if Tracy Zahn was in. A pleasant young man, blond with brown horn-rimmed glasses, looked at a large scheduling book and said, “She’s out on a sales call right now, but I expect her back in about fifteen minutes.Would you like to wait?”

  “I certainly would.”

  I took a comfortable padded chair in the small lobby area. There were large plate glass windows overlooking the downtown at my rear, and before me was said pleasant young man, his desk, and three other desks, all of which were empty. Maps of the area and posters of ski areas and lake resorts were up on the walls. If I were a blushing man—which I’m not—I might have reacted to the site of the conference room toward the rear, where Miss Zahn and I had had a pleasant encounter the day before.

  To pass the time, I picked up a copy of the local newspaper, The Brattleboro Reformer, which had a front-page story about yesterday’s shooting, complete with a photograph of the shot-up Buick, stuck in the drainage ditch where I had pushed it. As noted from my conversation with Detective Shaye—no doubt wondering where in hell I had gotten to—I didn’t expect much from the story, and wasn’t disappointed. Buick was a rental, rented from Burlington International Airport, about two hours north, and the ID of the man or men who had rented it was being kept quiet.

  I kept on reading the story. The Vermont State Attorney General’s office, along with the State Police, were investigating the death of the vehicle’s driver. No identification released, even though I knew the man’s supposed name, for whatever good it might do me. The vehicle also looked like it had been involved in a hit-and-run accident. Witnesses who might have seen an accident yesterday were asked to come forward and do their civic duty, and I pondered what my civic duty exactly was when the door opened up and Tracy Zahn strolled in. She had on crisp black slacks, a short black jacket, and a white blouse with decorative lace around the collar. In one hand she held a soft leather briefcase, and her pretty eyebrows seemed to fly off her face when she saw me sitting there.

  “Well,” she said. “What a surprise.”

  I got up, dropping the newspaper behind me. “A pleasant one, I hope.”

  She smiled. “The day’s still young. What can I do for you?”

  “A private word, if I may?”

  “Certainly,” she said, gesturing to me. “Patrick, I’ll be taking … my friend here to the rear conference room.”

  “You got it, Tracy,” he said.

  I followed her and she made a point of leaning over to get phone messages from Patrick, and when she leaned over, she really put some thought into it, protruding her shapely behind right in front of me, and I quickly determined she was wearing a thong.

  Back in the conference room, she closed the door, laughed, and dropped her briefcase on the floor. After a brief yet energetic greeting, I said, “I hate to say this, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Could you give me a ride?”

  She reached behind her, slapped the top of the conference room table. “Right here? We’d have to keep quiet so we don’t shock young Patrick.”

  “No, you naughty lady,” I said, rubbing her back. “I need a ride back to my Ford. It’s parked at the Green Mountain Inn and Resort.”

  “Ford? You drive a Pilot.”

  “I did drive a Pilot … but I think you’ll recall how it got dinged up a bit.”

  “Oh, yes I do,” she said, smiling widely. “So how did you get into town, then?”

  “I was offered a ride by a fine police detective.”

  “Mike Shaye?”

  “That’s
the one.”

  “So why aren’t you getting a ride back from him?”

  I rubbed her back. “Excellent question. It seems I’ve escaped police custody.”

  Another laugh. “For real? Are you under arrest?”

  “Not at the moment,” I said. “But that might change very shortly. I managed to walk away from the police station … without him noticing. Or approving. Or giving me permission to depart police custody.”

  She squeezed me in a very intimate place. “Such a wicked boy. Sure, I’ll give you a ride. Let’s duck out the rear, then.”

  Which we did.

  She drove me quickly and efficiently back up to the Green Mountain Inn and Resort, and I said, “How was your showing today?”

  “Dull. Boring. Some days you feel like sitting in a corner and yawning as a house-buying couple fight in the kitchen over granite or Corian counters.”

  “So why do you stick with it?”

  She got us onto Route 5. “Because when I’m good, I’m very good, and it’s a great feeling to match a property to a client.”

  “Nice.”

  “But I won’t lie to you, it’s been a rough start to this year. Not much is moving in the market.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Tracy slowed down at a stop sign. “And besides escaping from the police, how’s your day been?”

  “Interesting,” I said, “with a chance of cloudy coming my way soon.”

  A slight pause, and she said, “There was a story in the newspaper about the shooting yesterday.”

  “I saw it.”

  “It said a man was killed.”

  “It did.”

  She said, “How do you feel about that?”

  I said, “He was a bad man, working for another bad man. I don’t feel much about it. How about you?”

  “I was happy to see you alive and breathing before the shooting, and very happy to see you breathing and alive afterward.”

  “That makes me happy.”

  “Still, it was a pretty thin story.”

  “It was,” I agreed. “Did you have any temptation to call the newspaper or the police to fill out the story?”

  “No.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Up ahead was the intersection where the inn was located. “You want to know why I didn’t call?”

  “I’d love to know why.”

  She turned, her hair looking sweet indeed around her lovely face. “Because if I did that, you might get arrested. And that would mean I would never see you again. And I didn’t want that.”

  Not sure what to say to that, except “thanks,” and she smiled back at me, turned on her directionals, and we made a right.

  “Stop,” I said. “Right here.”

  She pulled the Volvo over to the side of the road. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong here,” I said. “It’s up at the inn that I’m concerned about. They have a surveillance system up there to keep track of customers and traffic on the adjacent roads.”

  “Oh, shit,” she said. “Did they catch the two of us yesterday?”

  “Fifty percent of us,” I said. “Me. The photo’s fuzzy enough so I couldn’t be positively identified, but it was good enough to catch Detective Shaye’s very professional attention.”

  “I see,” she said. “Thanks for having me stop here. What’s next?”

  “I get out, walk up to the inn, grab my Ford, and get the hell out of here.”

  “Oh.” She pouted. “No time for dinner? Or fun?”

  “I’d love a chance for dinner and fun,” I said. “But I think Detective Mike Shaye is going to be looking for me, and rather quickly. Tell you what, you have any showings taking place over in New Hampshire?”

  “No,” she said. “But I can make sure I’ll have one there tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let you know … and, well, there’s one more thing.”

  She leaned over, kissed me, and I kissed her back. It felt damn good. “Most times I don’t like men taking advantage of my good nature, but this must be your day. What is it?”

  “You’ve got friends or contacts at the police department?”

  “A couple,” she said. “Go on.”

  “There was a man there just a while ago, claiming to be from the Department of Justice. I’d love to know his name and where he’s spending the night.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Do you want me to ask you more?”

  “No,” she said, kissing me again. “That’ll be fine. Now, get going before I grab you and toss you in the back, and have my way with you.”

  I put my hand on the door handle. “I might put up a fight.”

  Another laugh. “No, no you wouldn’t.”

  I got out, knowing she was right.

  I walked through the woods back up to the Green Mountain Inn and Resort, thinking this was probably the same route that mystery man George took after I gunned down his driver. Along the way I searched for clues, like a leather wallet or man bag that might have been dropped in a panicked run away from the shot-up car. Alas, the only clues I found were a Pabst beer can and a Budweiser beer bottle, existing near each other in relative peace.

  When I emerged from the woods and onto the finely manicured lawn of the Green Mountain Inn and Resort, I strolled briskly across the grass and onto the parking lot. Keys in hand, I got into my brand-new Ford and drove out of the parking lot.

  Just for the hell of it, I waved in the direction of whatever surveillance cameras were at work.

  Back in Manchester, I returned to Stevens Pond Park and went back to the earlier park bench, and I got my wineglass and silverware back. When I returned to my Ford Excursion, I made a phone call from my rapidly depleting stock of burner phones.

  It was answered on the first ring.

  “Yes?” a man answered.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “All right,” he went on. “The basic. Subject came back as one Carla Briggs Pope, with date of birth and Social Security number of”—followed by a string of numbers—“and currently resides at 14 Healy Drive, Quincy, Massachusetts. She’s a GS 9 Office Services Supervisor with the FBI field office in Boston. Currently unmarried. One sibling, Clarence Briggs. Any more information required?”

  “Not at the moment,” I said.

  “Have a nice day,” the male answered, and I signed off, now down one burner cellphone and five hundred dollars from one of my anonymous Cayman Island accounts.

  Back home, I drove down my street in Litchfield and noted a black GMC van parked about two telephone poles away from my house. The windows were tinted black. How about that.

  I turned around and stopped for a moment. I was severely tempted to drive back and rear-end the van, claiming that I had lost control of my Ford because the sun was in my eye, a fly was buzzing around my head, or my naughty bits were itchy and needed to be scratched.

  But damn it, I just had gotten this Ford. It still had that new car smell that made me feel like I was accomplishing something in my life.

  So I slowly drove by the van—noted its license plate—and pulled into my driveway, and this time, I didn’t wave at my watchers. There’s having fun and then there’s tempting fate and being stupid, and I didn’t want to mix up the two.

  Inside my house, I checked my telltales one more time, and then washed my silverware and wineglass, which were stained with graphite fingerprint powder.

  When I went back out to my living room, the van was still there.

  I decided to shake things up.

  With another phone activated, I made a phone call to the Litchfield Police Department with a slow, querulous voice, saying I had just been walking my Dachshund dog Fritzie along Palmer Road, where I had strolled by a parked black van—with the following license
plate number—and despite my advanced age and loss of hearing, I was sure I had heard a girl screaming from inside.

  Oh. And my name?

  “Oh,” I said. “I forget.”

  And then there was one less phone in the universe.

  I made myself a cup of tea and went out to my living room. I sipped at it and didn’t have to wait long. A blue and white Litchfield police cruiser came down my road, went up and swung around, and then came up behind the van. An officer stepped out, cautiously approached the van, and did a very good job of standing behind and away from the driver’s side door as he talked to the driver. The window lowered, but I didn’t see the usual and customary sliding over of driver’s license and registration. I saw a brief motion of a hand, and even at this distance, I could see the Litchfield cop relax.

  The tea was hot and soothing. Why not be relaxed? The driver had just produced some sort of identification from whatever law enforcement agency was keeping close view on my house and its favorite occupant. The cop and the unseen driver—unseen to me because of my angle—had an apparently friendly conversation, and the cop went back to his cruiser with a friendly departing wave.

  The cruiser rolled away.

  The van remained.

  I finished my tea.

  Later I was on my couch, watching one of the finest thriller movies ever made—Ronin, directed by John Frankenheimer and which redeemed him of the sin of The Island of Dr. Moreau—and thinking about what to have for a meal when my doorbell rang. I went up and took a glance through a side window at the front door. I do have one of those peepholes in my door but after seeing someone I had once worked with get an icepick in his right eye after being surprised one evening, I’ve never trusted them.

  Carla Pope was there, looking impatient. I looked beyond her. My snoopy van and its friends were still there as well.

  I unlocked the door, opened it up, and Carla came in, and before she could say a word, I closed the door behind her, said “Darling!” and gave her a big ol’ sweet kiss on her mouth.

  That earned me a muffled grunt and a knee to my private parts, which I managed to dodge fast enough so that it struck my inside upper right thigh instead. I broke free and made it quite clear what was going on by pushing my first index finger up to my lips and shaking my head.