The Shadow Broker (Mr. Finn Book 1)

by Trace Conger

  “We do have this,” said Allen, nodding again to Tipton. The photo of Bishop, Fat Sam and me dissolved into another image. The screen showed five boxes, each contained a smudgy fingerprint. “And then there’s this.” Tipton clicked a few more keys and the display on the flat screen split into two. On one side, the fingerprint image remained. On the other was a form. There, in big block letters it all came into focus. “Private Investigator, Bail Enforcement Agent, Watch, Guard or Patrol Agency Application.”

  “You want us to connect the dots for you?” said Allen.

  I didn’t need them to connect the dots. When I applied for my private investigator license, I had to submit an electronic fingerprint scan. The same application on screen in front of me. The FBI let me dig a hole for myself and I’d fallen in. And landed on my face.

  “Funny thing about wiping for prints,” said Allen. “If you’re gonna do it, you gotta get them all. We pulled two partials from the file cabinet in Banks’ office. Didn’t find any other prints in his house. You were pretty good, just not thorough enough.”

  I’d worn gloves while I was casing Banks’ place, but not when Little Freddie and I went back for him. I must have left a print when I ran upstairs to grab the bitcoins. My throat tightened and went dry. My tongue ballooned up to twice its size, and I wanted that coffee more than ever, to prove to myself that I could still swallow. My shoulders shuddered as though the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.

  Allen smiled. “We’ve looked into you, Finn, and here’s what we got,” he said. “We got one private investigator who loses his license for unethical behavior, who then takes up company with some shitheads, namely one Charles Bishop. Then, we got a dead guy in the woods, who was helping us investigate Bishop. And we got your partial prints on the inside of said dead guy’s home. We can match that partial to the prints on your PI license application. So we can place you inside his home.”

  “We’ve also got a DNA sample from what looks like vomit from the parking lot by the dam,” said Tipton.

  I wasn’t concerned about the vomit. The elements would have degraded that, so they wouldn’t get a strong match. The print was another story. It was a partial print, so it wasn’t a slam dunk, but they had enough to really fuck things up for me. No way they’d let me walk out that door. They couldn’t risk me telling Bishop about their investigation. The only way I was leaving this room was in cuffs, and given they would file a murder charge and could argue I was a flight risk, I’d sit in a cell until trial.

  “You’re not smelling as fresh as when you first came in here,” said Anders. “You’re in a real shitty position and there’s only one good way out. So you ready to deal?”

  I shifted in my seat. “How about that coffee?” I said.

  ALLEN, TIPTON AND ANDERS RETURNED with my coffee twenty minutes later. The coffee didn’t take that long. They wanted to hotbox me. Let me stew and comprehend the hopelessness of my situation. Make me understand that delivering the intel on Bishop was the only way my life wasn’t going to swirl down the toilet drain, and right now I didn’t see any other way out.

  They offered me a deal, and the terms weren’t open to negotiation. If I gathered intel on Bishop, they’d make all this go away. They wanted Bishop’s connection in Cincinnati and Detroit. Rollo was his Cincinnati link, but I wasn’t keen on turning over his identity, considering I’d splintered him into two pieces three days ago. No need giving the Feds any more evidence that could put me away. It’s possible the FBI wasn’t even aware of Rollo’s death. This was the cybercrimes division, and they might not be tapped into Rollo’s activities, since he wasn’t some cyber mastermind. Cincinnati PD would investigate Rollo’s death, if they were called in at all, and they had no reason to turn it over to the FBI, so that link was safe for now. I didn’t know who Bishop worked for in Detroit, but that shouldn’t be too difficult to uncover.

  Next to the names of the Cincinnati and Detroit connections, Anders also wanted a user list with logins and passwords for Bishop’s website. I told them that computers weren’t my thing, and while Banks had some expertise that allowed him to get into Bishop’s site using a back door, the extent of my technical knowledge began and ended with my laptop’s power button. They gave me a flash drive and told me to plug it into Bishop’s laptop and something on the drive would do the rest. No need to hack and crack, but I did need access to Bishop’s computer, which I’d have to figure out how to get.

  They also told me I might have to testify against Bishop if they could build a case and take it to court. I didn’t like the idea of testifying and making my involvement public knowledge, but I also didn’t like the feeling of having my balls in an FBI vice.

  I agreed to the terms, and they gave me ten days to get the information they needed, or they would open an official investigation into Banks’ murder. They also threw in a business card with Anders’ contact information, a second cup of coffee and a free ride back to the coffee shop. The Feds didn’t have any muffins.

  ALLEN, TIPTON AND I WERE on our way back to Winans. I needed to pick up my car and get to work on gathering any intel that could save my ass. We were about ten miles north of the coffee shop when my phone rang. Brooke’s home number. I saw my grin reflected back at me in Allen’s rearview. Ear to ear.

  “Finn. Hi, this is Daryl, Brooke’s ...” he stopped, “Daryl Jennings. How are you?”

  My smile dropped like an elevator with a broken cable. “Peaches, Daryl. How are you?”

  “Good. Look, I’m sure this is a little odd ... me calling you, but I wonder if you and I could sit down and converse.”

  People “talk”, “chat” or “shoot the shit.” Only doctors “converse.”

  “What do you want to talk about, Daryl?”

  “Not on the phone. I want to meet in person. Maybe over a cup of java. My treat.”

  People drink “coffee” or maybe “joe.” Only doctors drink “java.”

  I ran down the mental checklist of discussion topics that would warrant a face to face and couldn’t come up with much. No reason to talk about money. I had some and he had more. I already knew about the weekend getaway. His voice wasn’t rushed. Not an emergency. He’s a doctor, so he’s probably a confident guy. Plus, he’s got my wife, so he should be overconfident with me. But that wasn’t coming through in his tone. He was quiet and a bit shaky. Anxious. As though he didn’t want to be talking to me.

  “I’m on my way to a coffee shop now. Winans. On Eighth and Walnut. You know it?”

  “I know where it is. When can you meet?”

  Mile marker twelve blew past the window. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I hung up before he could respond.

  AGENT ALLEN AND TIPTON DROPPED me off in front of the coffee shop. I walked in and surveyed the muffin case, looking for anything that could improve my day. Sold out. No luck. “What can I get started for you?” asked the man behind the counter.

  “Nothing yet. I’m meeting someone.” Daryl was further fucking up an already shitty day, so the least I could do was take him up on his free coffee.

  I took a seat near the front window, next to a thin brunette in a low-cut top and a skirt too short for an office, but just right for everywhere else. I smiled and she smiled back. She returned her eyes to her mobile phone, and I focused on my watch’s second hand as it ticked closer to the inevitability that I’d indeed be joining Dr. Dickhead for java. I’d had run-ins with him a few times since he shacked up with Brooke. Occasionally we’d chat when I picked up Becca for the weekend, and I always had the impression it was as painful for him as it was for me. He was tolerable in short bursts, but I never looked for an in-depth conversation. Just the usual hello and how are you.

  A few months back, Brooke got it in her head that we four should all have dinner together. Our daughter was having a hard time with the split, and Brooke wanted Becca to see her real daddy and the new man in her life breaking bread together. One big, happy family. The food was good, but the atmospher
e was as pleasant as an anal fissure. Brooke must have realized my discomfort because she never pushed dinner again.

  Daryl’s black Mercedes pulled into the lot across the street. S-Class sedan. Current model year. He had told me all about it over dinner that night. High-res dashboard displays, heated everything and a shit-ton of safety features that I hoped one day he’d actually need.

  He walked in and waved. “What’cha having?” he said.

  “Large coffee. Black.” It’s yuppity to use more than three words to order coffee. I didn’t hear his entire order, but I made out “soy,” “foam,” “two pumps” and “almond.” Point proven.

  I stared out the front window, waiting for Daryl to bring the caffeine. Downtown was quiet. The lunch crowd was already back to work. Just a few stragglers and light traffic. A faded powder-blue van with no rear windows passed by. One of those clunkers you warn your kids to stay away from. Daryl sat down and I kept my eyes on the window, watching the cars pass by. The longer I stared at them, the less time I had to look at Dr. Dickhead. A navy-blue BMW. Then, a black Dodge SUV.

  “Here you go,” he said as he slid the paper cup across the table. “Like your coffee like your women, huh, Finn?” He laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

  “No. I like tall redheads. But you already knew that.”

  His laugh died and he shifted in his seat. “Thanks for meeting me. I’m sure this is a bit awkward for you.” His voice still low. Still shaky.

  “Not really. Awkward isn’t the right word. I’d go with unpleasant. Displeasing, perhaps.” I fought back a smile.

  “Okay.”

  “Or dreadful. Nauseating, even.”

  He spun the coffee cup in his hands. “Okay, I get it,” he said.

  “I really just wanted the free coffee. So thanks for that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I took a drink. “Although it doesn’t really seem like an even trade, I get a large black coffee and you get my wife and kid. I feel like I should get something else to balance it out. Maybe a scone or something.”

  He waited for me to crack a smile, but I didn’t. Daryl was sleeping with my ex-wife and tucking my daughter into bed most nights. I knew that Brooke was keen on having me around—for Becca’s sake—so that meant Daryl had to put up with my bullshit.

  I took another drink. “I’m still not clear on the reason we’re sitting here,” I said.

  Daryl sipped his coffee and winced. He seared his mouth on whatever pretentious coffee drink he poured down his throat, but he didn’t want to show it. You never want to show weakness in front of your girlfriend’s ex-husband.

  “Look, this isn’t the easiest conversation for me to have with you. In fact, Brooke doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll get right to it, Finn. I care a lot about Brooke. Becca too. That’s why I called. I love Becca, but I’m not her father. Never will be. It’s not my intent to fill that role. That’s all you. But she hasn’t been herself lately. She always seems down. Depressed. She’s in a pretty bad funk and won’t snap out of it.”

  He waited for a response, but I let him go on.

  “We’ve done everything we could to ease this transition for her. We even painted her room and put up those big My Little Pony stickers all over the wall. She’s just not herself. Brooke thinks it might be because of you.”

  I slipped a hand inside my pocket and traced the edge of my key fob. This one wasn’t sharpened to a point. The sharp one sank to the bottom of the Ohio River, clipped to an alligator-shaped paperweight. That didn’t stop me from imagining plunging it into Daryl’s neck right there in Winans and watching him bleed out on top of his almond-flavored drink.

  He rolled his cup between his hands again. “Brooke and I don’t think you’re providing a very good atmosphere for Becca,” he said. “And there’s no stability. You’ve got her on a boat, for Christ’s sake. That’s no place for a six-year-old. We’ve never considered getting the courts involved. I mean ... for you and Becca.”

  My grip tightened on the cup and I saw the lid release from the lip. “I’m going to stop you right there,” I said. “If you’re threatening to take my daughter away from me, you might want to rethink your play, Daryl.”

  In Ohio, divorced parents with children have to file a joint custody claim form with the state and document a formal visitation schedule. It’s a formality, and Brooke and I have never stuck to it. We coordinate visitation with our schedules. I usually took Becca on the weekends; sometimes not. Legally, Brooke had primary custody, and if she really wanted to, she could make some waves in the visitation department. So far, she hasn’t wanted to and I didn’t need Daryl convincing her to start.

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Finn. Brooke and I ... we haven’t had that conversation, but that’s why I’m here. To let you know that’s what Brooke might consider if Becca keeps acting this way. Showing signs of depression.”

  “She seemed fine to me this weekend,” I said.

  “That’s just it. After you dropped her off yesterday, she reverted to this depressed kid. I think her getting sick at school that day had more to do with her depression than a stomach bug.”

  “You don’t need to psychoanalyze her. She misses spending time with her father, that’s all.”

  “Look, we have to get her over this. Maybe you can talk with her. Find out what exactly is bothering her. She’s not opening up to us. I know Becca loves spending time with you. I can see that, and I don’t want that arrangement to change. It’s a good fit. But we have to do what’s right for Becca here, and if that means changing things up, than we might have to go that route.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’m here as a friend, Finn. I wanted to talk to you and see if we can fix this thing before it escalates. Before Brooke thinks about exploring other options. That’s all.”

  I put the lid on my coffee and took a long drink.

  “You and I are in this thing together,” said Daryl. “I wish the circumstances were different, but it’s not, so we’ll have to deal with each other. I just want to make sure Becca’s happy and wanted to let you know what’s in Brooke’s head. Maybe you can course-correct. Just think about it.” Daryl glanced at his watch and stood up. “I’ve got to get to the hospital.” He slid a business card across the table. “That’s my direct number. If there’s anything I can do, just please let me know. Okay?”

  I didn’t thank him.

  “Take care, Finn.”

  I watched him walk out the door, cross the street and dip into his Mercedes.

  I SAT FOR A FEW minutes and finished my coffee. I thought about grabbing a refill, but I needed to get back to my boat, make sure Albert was still shipshape and figure out this Bishop thing. I dropped my cup in the trash and started the two-block walk back to my car.

  The faint clapping of dress shoes on pavement echoed behind me. The sound quickened and I could make out at least two distinct pairs. One sounded like high heels. They closed, and I turned around to quell my curiosity.

  Then everything went dark.

  BISHOP SAT AT HIS OFFICE desk. The local news was muted on the wall-mounted flat-screen television across the room.

  “He still out there?” said Bishop.

  Fat Sam walked to the balcony, eased the drapes back with one finger and saw Mercer sitting in the SUV across the street.

  “Still there.”

  Bishop stood up. “We have to get the fuck out of here.” Something on the television grabbed his attention. He snatched the remote and clicked on the sound. A dark-haired news reporter named Norma reported on a string of pawnshop robberies downtown. A blurry black-and-white still from a shop’s security camera footage showed the suspect’s face. Then, a composite police sketch appeared side by side to the video still. Then, a phone number.

  “Anyone having information on the suspect is urged to call the police tip line,” said Norma. “You won’t have to give your name.”r />
  Bishop pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed the number on the screen. It rang busy and he hung up. He dialed three more times before he got through.

  “Tip line,” said the woman on the phone.

  “That guy you’re looking for, the guy I saw on the news ...” said Bishop.

  “The robbery suspect? You have information to provide?”

  “I think he’s outside of my home. He’s sitting in a black SUV on Fort View Place. I saw the news piece and went outside to walk my dog when I saw him. He’s sitting there right now. He looks a lot like the sketch I saw on the news.”

  “Whereabouts on the street, sir?”

  “He’s sitting across from 1134 Fort View Place. I’m staring right at him.”

  “Okay, we’ll send a unit by.”

  “You’d better hurry. His SUV is running and he could leave at any minute.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll have a unit check it out.”

  Bishop hung up the phone. He pulled out a desk drawer and rummaged through it, looking for something. After a moment, he found a canary-yellow business card and dialed the phone number on the front.

  “Yellow Cab. How can I help you?”

  “I need a car at the corner of Fort View and Hatch in Mount Adams. Can you be there in fifteen minutes?”

  “Drop off?” said the dispatcher.

  “Reading Road in Blue Ash.”

  “How many?”

  “Two.” Bishop looked at Fat Sam. “Two and a half.”

  “The corner of Fort View and Hatch in fifteen minutes. I’ll have a car there.”

  “Have the driver start the meter when he gets there. I’m finishing packing and might be a few minutes late. Tell him I’ll tip him ten bucks for every minute he waits.”

  Bishop hung up the phone.

  “Where’re we going?” asked Fat Sam.

  Bishop unzipped a backpack and slipped his laptop inside. “Moving to the RV. Pack whatever you can carry.” He disappeared into the bedroom and stuffed a change of clothes into the bag, along with a toothbrush and a few other items. He returned to his office and watched through the balcony’s glass doors as a police cruiser stopped in front of the parked SUV. One officer approached the driver’s window as the other stood behind the cruiser, his service weapon drawn but held low, out of Mercer’s sight.