The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense

by Brendan DuBois

  No offense to the boys and girls at the J. Edgar Hoover building, but I didn’t think the FBI had that particular skill set.

  I then stopped tapping on the steering wheel. “Okay, that’s it. We’ve been sitting on our collective butts for too long.”

  “You thinking of going away?”

  I started up the Ford. “No. In fact, hell no. We’re going to drive over to the Putney Homestead and see if our man George is staying there. I’m tired of doing surveillance, waiting for him to make a move. Time for us to make a move.”

  “He might be in there, waiting for us.”

  Considering what I had seen of the Cadillac Escalade, I doubted that, but I wasn’t going to let that on.

  “Then he’ll be in for a big frickin’ surprise, won’t he.”

  She paused. Why? Because I was screwing up whatever plans she and George might be working on?

  Finally Carla said, “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t really care,” I said. “Besides, I’m not as sprightly as I used to be. The days of me being on a day-long stakeout and using an empty Pringles can for relief are long over. I need to hit the head.”

  “Stakeouts,” she said. “What kind?”

  “Mostly the boring kind.”

  I parked at the rear of the bed-and-breakfast, where there was one open space available in the tiny paved lot, which wasn’t surprising considering who I had seen earlier drive off. If God was working miracles in this neck of the woods today, it would have been fine if George were to drive up, so we could once meet again, face to face, and get everything settled.

  But God must have been busy elsewhere, so Carla and I walked around to the front of the Putney Homestead, unmolested and unbothered. Yet I walked with my hand within easy reach of my holstered Beretta, more to keep Carla thinking that I was being cautious, even though I knew George wasn’t around.

  We went up a porch, enclosed by screens, and went through the front door. The charming interior nearly knocked me back. There were two settees on the right, a covering of roses and flowers on a round coffee table, and a small dining room to the left. Before us was a staircase going up, and an ornate wooden desk. A young woman—late twenties, early thirties—got up and extended the both of us a smile. She had shoulder-length brown hair parted to one side, bright brown eyes, and a small nose. From what I saw she had on a gray skirt and scoop-necked yellow sweater, and after exchanging greetings, I said, “Tell me, I’ve missed George, right? He and his friend? He told me he wouldn’t wait for me, the son-of-a-gun.”

  Our gracious host hesitated just for a moment, and I laughed. “Oh, that’s my George. He’s so secretive and mysterious, especially when he’s hooking up with his friend.” I added air quotes to the word friend. “You know who I mean, nice older man, about my height, several pounds heavier, looks like a slimmed down Santa Claus that had to shave off his beard.”

  The hostess—named Natalie—blushed. “Yes, he left a few hours ago.”

  “Checked out?”

  Natalie glanced down at an open appointment book on the desk. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Dear me,” I said, turning to Carla. “Sorry, honey. I guess we should have left the zoo earlier.” Carla wasn’t sure how to respond, so I went on. “Tell me, the kitchen smells great. Any chance of dinner later on?”

  Natalie sat back down behind her desk. “I don’t see why not.”

  “Hey, thanks,” I said. “And … okay, I’m pushing it, I know, but do you have any available rooms?”

  Natalie ran a cute finger across the book. “Well … since your friend and his friend left, we do have their rooms available. They’re among the older rooms we have, each a single with a connecting bathroom.”

  I turned again to Carla. “Gosh, honey, think you can survive a night without snuggling up against me?”

  Carla said, “I’ll manage.”

  After checking in and bringing up our respective coats and belongings, we settled in our new lodgings. I opened both doors leading into the small bathroom and examined our new home for the night. The rooms were twins of each other, with small beds, a comfortable chair, bureau, armoire, and nightstand with lamp, phone, and digital clock.

  Carla said, “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re going to be eating, and then we’re going to be sleeping,” I said. “We’re also going to talk to the other guests at dinner, see if anybody can remember George and what he might be up to.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “No, that’s a hell of a stretch, unless you can come up with a better idea.”

  She frowned. “No, I can’t.”

  Liar, I thought, but I let it slide.

  While Carla was in the shower, her side of the bathroom door locked, I took off my shoes and padded around to her door, where a minute or two of lock-picking expertise got me into her room. Using a tension wrench I held the lock cylinder firm, and with a skinny metal lockpick, I quickly moved back five lock pins. Then I rotated the tension wrench and undid the lock with a satisfying click. Door open, I headed straight into her room and to her large black purse, lying on the edge of the bed.

  Bingo, I thought as I dug into it. A TracPhone disposable cellphone. I turned it on and saw that I needed a four-digit password to get access.

  Suspicious young lady, I thought, and switched the phone off, put it back into her purse. Something else was in the bottom of her purse, and it was bingo squared.

  A .32-caliber Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol.

  “Very suspicious young lady,” I whispered, and then that went back into the purse and I got the hell out.

  Dinner was a surf and turf for me—lobster tail and filet mignon—and some sort of salmon dish for her. I ordered a split of a French Bordeaux, and we shared it throughout the meal. The room was small, pleasant, and twice I got up to use the restroom. Both times I struck up idle conversation with three other couples—of various ages and conditions—who were staying at the Putney Homestead. Alas, nobody could tell me anything of interest about George and his muscle man. I passed the time by pretending to be a friend of George’s who had arrived late, but due to the lack of responses to my questioning, George must have holed up in his room, playing cribbage or hearts with his companion.

  As Carla examined the dessert menu, she said, “You expect to get anything out of that stupid chit-chat?”

  “You never know unless you try.”

  “How original.”

  “No, it’s not original, but sometimes the old sayings, they still work.”

  For a slim-looking woman, Carla had one heck of an appetite, and put away a hot fudge sundae, which sounded so good I had one as well. But she turned down the coffee, and I went with two strong cups.

  That caused an eyebrow to rise. “You’re going to be staying up late tonight.”

  “Might just be my plan.”

  “What kind of plan?”

  “To finally finish reading War and Peace. How about that?”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said.

  “You looking for a book report?”

  She scraped her spoon across the bottom of her dessert dish. “Maybe an oral report.”

  That caused me to smile and to sit back.

  Maybe I had misjudged her once again.

  Time to confront her?

  No.

  After dinner we sat out in the reception area in front of a roaring fireplace and we both looked through old picture books of Vermont, me having another cup of coffee, Carla having a glass of ice water. We sat, watching the couples either going outside or walking up the stairway. When the room was empty I said, “How about we retire for the night?”

  She closed the book she had been reviewing. “I suppose that was going to happen, but what’s next in our chase?”

  I checked to make sure we
were alone, and I said, “Later tonight, after all the good people and bad people have gone to sleep, I’m going to come back down here and root around the Putney Homestead’s computer system, maybe check the receipts. There should be something there to tell us more about George.”

  “That’s it?”

  “You got a better idea?”

  She stretched her back. “At the moment, no.”

  Again, I thought, another lie.

  She retired to her room and I retired to mine, and I listened to her wash up and then flush the toilet, and then I knocked on the bathroom door, and not receiving a reply, entered to do my business. I washed up and brushed my teeth and did what had to be done, and then went back to my room.

  I had a slight buzz from the Bordeaux and the coffee as I prepared myself for bed. I checked the lock on the door leading to the hallway, which was perfectly adequate for a nice bed-and-breakfast that wasn’t prepared for crime, but which wasn’t perfect for me. I had hoped for a straight-back chair to jam underneath the doorknob, but that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  Darn.

  The lock on the door leading into the bathroom was a simple deadbolt, which I secured. I opened up the bureau and the armoire, found spare blankets and a light blue down comforter. It would do very nicely. On the window side of the bed, I spread out the bedding on the floor, and then stretched out on my homemade and quite unofficial bed. I kept my clothes and footwear on, in case I had to move quick.

  Not bad. I’ve certainly slept on worse. From a nearby carry-on bag, I slipped out a Petzl headlamp, which I put over my head. I switched it on, reached up, and tugged down a pillow, and then switched off the lamp on the table.

  I settled in, pulled out a John Lukacs history of World War II, and read for a bit, my Beretta within easy reach. When my eyes got heavy, I turned off the headlamp. The room wasn’t completely dark, with illumination coming from outside and the nearby streetlamp.

  Looking good.

  I was reasonably comfortable, well-armed, and I was set for the night. With a dark room like this, if anybody broke in and started blazing away, they’d aim for the bed, and they’d miss me. And in my position, I’d be in a good place to return fire without being hit.

  Not a bad plan.

  As I fell asleep, I should have recalled that other folks have plans as well.

  The ringing phone sat me right up, and I knew instantly it wasn’t one of my burner phones, and that it belonged to the Putney Homestead, and it was three a.m.

  I kept my profile low, just in case the call was designed to stir me up and silhouette me against the window.

  I grabbed the phone and said, “Yes?”

  “Ah,” a man said. “Did I wake you up?”

  “No, I was detailing my toes when you called. Who’s this?”

  A short laugh. “My, the great negotiator, he draws blank on a moment like this? I’m quite surprised.”

  Then it came together.

  “Hello, George.”

  “And a cheery early good morning to you as well.”

  Fourteen

  I sat up against the bed, phone in my left hand, right hand grasping my Beretta.

  “Hey, George, a cheery good morning right back to you as well. How goes it?”

  “It goes. Hey, are you as good a negotiator as people say?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You open for a negotiation?”

  “I can’t imagine where this is going, but in my business, I’ve learned to never say no from the start. What do you have in mind, George?”

  “You have something I want. Your friend had it, now you have it. I want it back.”

  “Nice opening statement,” I said. “Brisk and right to the point. You’ve told me what you want. Now, let’s move on to the second part. What do I get in return?”

  “Your life.”

  “Ah, George,” I said. “Now we’ve reached our first road block, because you’re being unreasonable. You’re trying to close a deal with something not in your control and your possession—i.e., my life.”

  George laughed. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Don’t be insulting.”

  “I almost killed you once.”

  “And I almost did the same to you,” I said. “You caught me by surprise. Won’t happen again.”

  “Pretty self-confident.”

  “Pretty self-evident. And by the way, speaking of deals, you still owe me for my work on the Rembrandt painting.”

  Another confident laugh. It was starting to get on my nerves. “Let’s leave that be for a while, get back to the subject at hand. You have something I want.”

  “Which is what?”

  “You shitting me?”

  I paused, then said, “You don’t appear to be on the floor underneath me, so no, I’m not shitting you.”

  “Hah. Let me repeat: you, and only you, have something I want. And I want it now, in exchange for leaving you alone.”

  “Sorry, George, this is becoming very unproductive. And at such a late hour. You’re not being very considerate as a negotiation partner.”

  “All right, if you’re not that excited about negotiating with your life on the line, let’s try somebody else’s.”

  “Excuse me?”

  A slight click and clack of the phone being handed over, and then another voice, female and frightened.

  “This … this is Carla … who’s this? Please?”

  If I had been awake earlier, now I was flying high and wired, every sense of mine tingling with anticipation and danger. “Carla, you know who this is. What’s going on?”

  “I … I’ve been abducted … and Christ, I’m so fucking scared … ”

  “When did they do it?”

  “An hour … two hours ago … I’m not sure … they came into my room and grabbed me … tied me up, put a hood over my head … Christ, can you help me? Please? Can you help me?”

  “Give the phone back to George.”

  A sob. “Thanks … okay … thanks … ”

  The phone went back to George. “Well?”

  “George?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you hear me clearly and distinctly?”

  “Of course I can,” he said. “What’s this about?”

  “Just wanting to make sure there’s no confusion over what I’m about to say.”

  “Which is what?”

  I took a breath. “No.”

  “Hunh?”

  “No, non, nyet.”

  And I hung up the phone.

  And just for good measure, I disconnected the phone from the room.

  Then I went to work.

  Another quiet entry into the hallway, and another quick work with my locksmith tools. In a few seconds I was in Carla’s room. I carefully closed the door and just waited.

  Odd, I know, but sometimes I like to stand quiet in a room, just to get a sense of the place. After years on my uncertain career path, I’ve learned to note things just out of earshot, just out of eyeshot. Like furniture moved around, a television set on to a blank channel, water dripping from a faucet, a phone buzzing because the receiver is off the hook.

  Nothing seemed to speak to me.

  I switched on the Petzl headlamp but kept it cupped in my right hand and not around my skull. The bed was before me, and the bedding was tangled at the end of the bed. I moved around to the other side, and then flashed the light around the rest of the room.

  Empty.

  The bathroom door was open, and I ducked in there as well.

  Empty.

  I went around the room, flashing the light on the floor.

  No clothes or shoes on the floor.

  No luggage left behind.

  No beauty supplies left in the bathroom as well.

  May
be Carla had just packed everything up, preparing for an early start in the morning, and her alleged kidnappers had grabbed it all on their way out.

  Perhaps.

  I switched off the Petzl lamp, and then went back out to the hallway. Noises from downstairs. Probably the morning chef getting ready to start the preps for breakfast. A rough way of life.

  Back in my room, I locked the door behind me and plugged the phone back in and checked the phone console. There was a cardboard square that marked the phone number for this room, and I saw that any outside caller could dial directly into the room, bypassing the Putney Homestead’s main switchboard.

  There was a digital readout above the keypad, and I was tickled to see that it allowed me to view the last number dialed in. I pushed the keypad for that function, and it quickly came up BLOCKED CALL.

  Thanks, George, I thought. Working smart.

  But not smart enough.

  I unplugged the phone again, because I didn’t want to be disturbed.

  I stretched out on my homemade bed on the floor and relaxed my muscles, took a series of deep breaths, and eventually fell back asleep.

  I woke up two hours later, showered and shaved with the doors locked and closed, and with the shower curtain open. When I was presentable, I got dressed, reconnected the telephone, packed and went downstairs, bag in hand and coat over my arm. It was six a.m. and breakfast was being served, but I didn’t have time. I checked out with Natalie at the front desk, and after sliding over a twenty-dollar tip, I made a request.

  “I just got a new cellphone and number, and I want to make sure George can reach me if he calls here,” I explained. “I know it’s a long-shot, but if George calls here, would you pass on my cellphone number?”

  “Absolutely,” Natalie replied, her eyes bright and face smiling. I wondered how she and her husband managed to juggle all the responsibilities of running a B&B—dealing with demanding guests, keeping the rooms clean and orderly, and serving good meals day and night—and still keep an attractive smile on one’s face at such an ungodly hour.