The Outsider (James Bishop 4)

by Dean, Jason

  ‘Delaney? So you did have something going with her then.’ When Bishop didn’t reply, he said, ‘What are you planning to do now? Kill me? In cold blood?’

  Bishop shook his head. ‘I considered it, but then I realized that for some people there are fates worse than death. Like loss of position and career, for instance. Or public humiliation. Or the break-up of a long marriage. That one can often lead to financial ruin, too, especially if the wife has definite proof that the husband was cheating on her.’

  Whitaker looked at him. ‘You’d actually send these photos to my wife? So is that what this is about? Blackmail?’

  ‘You’re not listening, are you?’ Bishop said. ‘I’m not interested in anything you can offer me, Whitaker. All I want is to make you pay. And I have.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What have you done?’

  ‘A couple of hours ago an associate of mine went to your nice house and handed your wife another manila envelope containing those same photos of you and Miss Knapp, and that same DVD, which contains explicit footage from which those shots were taken, along with copies of that rental agreement of hers. My sources tell me you and your wife haven’t been getting along for a while, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’s beginning divorce proceedings as we speak. At the very least I expect she’ll get that nice house of yours, along with everything in it.’

  Whitaker looked at him.

  ‘And by now Director Christiansen has probably already taken possession of an identical package to the one on your lap, minus the stuff concerning Miss Knapp, so I think it’s safe to say your career’s history too. Similar envelopes have also been delivered to the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Huffington Post, and a few other outlets. Also, the Internal Revenue. I couldn’t really leave them out. They love hearing about secret overseas accounts full of undeclared income.’

  Whitaker was glaring at him now, his eyes filled with hate. ‘You bastard.’

  ‘Takes one to know one,’ Bishop said. ‘And like you said, it’s all circumstantial. Not nearly enough for a conviction, but there’s more than enough in there to ruin you. I’ve got a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a very interesting day for you, in all kinds of ways.’

  Whitaker was silent as he looked down at the documents and photos that constituted the end of his life as he now knew it.

  Bishop was done here. Now he’d said his piece he just wanted to drive back to New York. Pocketing the plastic gun replica he’d been threatening Whitaker with, he opened the door and got out. Leaning down, he said, ‘Just so you know, I tossed your Glock in the back with a round still left in the chamber. Personally, I think the easiest thing for everybody would be to simply stick the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger, but it’s up to you.’

  Then Bishop shut the car door with a clunk and kept an eye on the man as he crossed the street towards his car. But Whitaker barely paid any attention to him at all. He was still staring down at the contents of the envelope.

  Once inside the rental, Bishop turned the key in the ignition and released the handbrake and stuck the gearstick into Drive. He took a long, deep breath and let it out. That was for you, Angela Delaney. Rest in peace.

  As he pulled away, he glanced over at the Audi and saw Whitaker was half turned in his seat. He looked as though he was searching for something on the floor in the back.

  Bishop just smiled to himself and drove on.

  For more in the James Bishop series, try

  Keep reading for an extract from

  an exclusive James Bishop short story

  I

  The gas station was an old, one-storey, stucco structure with two ancient self-service pumps out front under a rusted steel roof. There were no customers. To the right of the store was a wide brick building containing two raised overhead garage doors, and above these was a long sign with faded black lettering that said CARTRIGHT VEHICLE SERVICES.

  After walking three miles, this was practically the first sign of civilization I’d come across. So far I’d seen acres of peanut crops or thick woods on either side of me, and not much else. But now up ahead I noticed a couple of ranches hidden among the trees on the left side of the road, and I presumed the town of Sagamore, Georgia – population of 1,100, if the road sign I’d passed a half-mile back was to be believed – was a little further over the rise.

  I went over to the first garage door, peered in and saw a pick-up with the hood open. Leaning over the engine, using a spanner on the distributor, was a stocky, bearded black guy in faded blue coveralls. He looked about ten years older than me, so late forties, maybe. An old Stones tune was blaring out of a stereo somewhere inside. There was just him.

  ‘You Cartright?’ I asked.

  The guy paused in his work and turned to me. ‘Maybe. Something you want?’

  ‘My vehicle up and running again. It’s currently by the side of the road about three miles back, with a busted front axle.’

  Placing the spanner on the engine block, Cartright pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands. ‘And you want me to just drop what I’m doing and go take a look for you.’

  ‘I’d sure appreciate it.’

  He scowled at me for a few seconds, as though weighing the pros and cons. Then he gave a deep sigh and said, ‘Better follow me, then, I guess. My truck’s out back.’

  I followed Cartright to an open area of scrubland at the rear, where I saw a two-storey clapboard house further back. An old tow truck also stood there. We both got in and Cartright drove us onto the main road. After I gave basic directions, the rest of the three-mile journey passed in silence. Cartright wasn’t the most loquacious guy I’d ever met, but then I wasn’t exactly known for running my mouth either.

  We passed the same farmland I’d already seen coming the other way, and soon we came to my old BMW, still parked on the grassy verge by the side of the road where I’d left it. The front wheel on the driver’s side was at a noticeable fifteen-degree angle to its partner. Cartright parked in front of the car, and we both walked back. There were no other vehicles in sight, either coming or going.

  Pulling a pencil light from his pocket, the mechanic crouched down and shone the light at what was left of the front axle. Then he slid the top half of his body under the vehicle and looked it over from a different angle. Thirty seconds later he came out from under and stood up. ‘Okay, I got good news, bad news, and worse news. Which one you want first?’

  ‘Surprise me,’ I said.

  ‘Well, the bad news is you got a cracked front axle shaft as you can plainly see, which means you’re going precisely nowhere until you get a replacement put in. But I can probably find you a used shaft and install it and get you back on the road again by, say, tomorrow lunchtime. That’s the good news.’

  ‘And the worse news?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s gonna cost you.’

  ‘Walked right into that one, didn’t I? How much?’

  He paused, and did his scowl thing again. Finally he said, ‘Let’s say three hundred for the front axle, and then another two hundred on top for labour and miscellaneous, which’ll make it an even five hundred. And I don’t haggle, so don’t waste your time trying. And that’ll be in cash, up front. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘That’ll be half up front,’ I said, ‘and the rest when it’s done. Otherwise I’ll leave it.’

  He looked at me silently without blinking. I eyeballed him back.

  ‘I don’t haggle either,’ I said. ‘In case you were wondering.’

  After a few more beats, he gave a casual shrug and said, ‘In cash.’

  ‘In cash,’ I agreed.

  Without another word, he turned to his truck and began lowering the hook on the rear mounted crane. Less than five minutes later he had my BMW’s front wheels secured onto the raised lifting grid. Cartright then took us back to the gas station where he expertly reversed my vehicle into the empty garage. After we had got out of the truck, he went to the rear and began manually lowering my car
to the concrete floor.

  I pulled out my billfold and extracted three fifties, four twenties, two tens, and handed them over to him. ‘So are there any motels in town?’ I asked.

  Cartright stuck the bills in his pocket and then continued lowering the crane. ‘No motels. There’s a boarding house, except it’s usually full up. You want, you can ride into Albany with me later, then get a cab back tomorrow.’

  I didn’t like that idea for a number of reasons. ‘Nothing else in town at all?’

  Cartright looked at me for a few moments. ‘Well, I got a room above my garage out back that I use as a stockroom. It ain’t much but it’s got its own entrance and there’s an old sofa bed in there as well as a fully working bathroom. You want it?’

  ‘Depends. How much?’

  ‘Fif—’ He stopped and smiled. ‘Sixty bucks. And that’s in cash, all up front.’

  ‘Let me guess. I can take it or leave it, right?’

  ‘You must be a mind reader.’

  ‘And you must have been a pirate in your last life.’

  ‘I ain’t forcing you to stay here, mister. That’s the price. You want it or not?’

  I wanted it. Opening my billfold, I pulled out three twenties, leaving me with just forty dollars. I hoped there was an ATM in town. ‘Do I get a key?’

  Cartright said, ‘I’ll go see if I can drum one up for you.’

  II

  Once Cartright had found me a key, I let him get back to his work. I didn’t bother checking the room. Since my time in the Corps I’ve learned not to be fussy about accommodation. Instead, I walked into the town of Sagamore.

  After five minutes, the minor state route I’d been walking along grew sidewalks as it morphed into Main Street, which continued eastwards with more roads branching off on either side. It didn’t look like much of a town at first glance. And at almost three o’clock on a Friday afternoon it was almost completely dead. There was no traffic at all and, other than me, just three other pedestrians. I saw plenty of one- and two-storey retail buildings lining both sides of the street, although a good percentage of them looked closed and shuttered. Possibly forever. Many of these places were interspersed with vacant lots. A few pick-ups and sedans were parked in the angled bays on the right side of the street.

  About a half-mile to the west, I saw a modern-looking water tower rising into the sky and a large factory building next to it, but everything else looked old and faded and used up. Sagamore had definitely seen better days, assuming it had ever had them in the first place.

  It wasn’t quite a ghost town yet, though. There were still a good few businesses in operation. I passed an open hardware store, a large grocery, a small branch of the Wells Fargo bank, a dry goods store, a Western Union, a payloan store, a large drugs store, an insurance place, a barber, a beauty salon, a clothing store, and a few more besides. At each intersection I made a mental note of the street name. I was looking for one in particular.

  It was 15.06 when I found it.

  Kelsey Avenue was the northbound street at the third intersection. A diner called Lacy’s Eats stood guard at the north-west corner, while directly opposite was a bar called The Heavy Lifter. Further on, I could see an old railroad track running across Main Street, and past that a church, a school, and some civic buildings in the distance.

  I turned left onto Kelsey and saw it was mostly residential, a ragtag collection of clapboard houses and old brick buildings interspersed with more empty lots. Several houses I passed looked as though they were deserted, and had been for a while. The street was generally litter-free, though, and most of the houses had fairly tidy front yards.

  Number forty-seven was located about halfway down the left side of the street. I stopped and looked the place over. It was a single-storey adobe house with a raised front porch and a wooden front door. The window to the right of the door had its drapes drawn. The front yard was gravelled over, while in front of the garage to the right of the house was a fairly new-looking silver Chevy Silverado pick-up.

  I glanced briefly at my clothes: black windbreaker over a grey shirt and black pants. I felt I looked presentable without appearing in any way official. Which I wasn’t.

  This was personal business.

  I stepped onto the drive and was glancing at the pick-up when the front door was yanked open and a young, unshaven, well-built Latino guy in T-shirt and cargo pants appeared in the doorway, gripping a baseball bat. He looked pissed off.

  ‘No trespassing, pendejo,’ he said. ‘Get the hell off my property. Right now.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not looking for trouble,’ I said, raising both hands. ‘I just wanted to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’

  ‘Goddamn repo men,’ he said, and jumped off the porch and marched towards me, slapping the bat into his palm. ‘You asswipes never learn. How many heads I gotta break before you people leave me alone?’

  ‘Look, you got completely the wrong idea about me,’ I said, and started backing off towards the sidewalk. But the guy kept on coming, matching me stride for stride, at which point I knew it wouldn’t make any difference if I reached the property line or not. This guy was looking to wail on me, no matter what. So I stopped backing up and moved towards him instead, already working out the next few moves in my head.

  He frowned as I quickly closed the distance between us. I kept my eyes focused on his right arm as he raised the bat to slightly above his right shoulder. Then just as he began to swing it down towards my face I made a fist of my left hand with the knuckle of the middle finger extended. As the bat continued its downward swing I darted to the right of him and ducked down and launched my left arm towards his stomach, aiming my fist at the precise point where the abdominal muscles meet the groin area.

  The moment my knuckle connected, the man gave a startled yelp and shouted something in Spanish as he fell to the ground in a heap. The bat clattered to the asphalt, he doubled up into a foetal position and clasped both hands to his lower stomach area.

  I kicked the baseball bat away and saw it disappear under the pick-up. Then I crouched down a few feet from the groaning man, who was clearly in some pain. He glared at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Bastard,’ he hissed between gritted teeth.

  ‘I told you you were making a mistake,’ I said, ‘but you wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Goddamn repo malparido,’ he said, still not listening.

  ‘Look, I don’t give a damn about your pick-up. That’s not why I’m here. As far as I’m concerned that vehicle’s yours until the next ice age, okay?’

  He looked at me then, and for the first time he looked unsure of himself. ‘You mean you really ain’t from the repo company?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about—’

  ‘Smile, creep,’ a female voice said from somewhere to my right.

  I looked up and saw a large middle-aged white woman in jeans and shorts, with her hair in a towel, standing just behind the pick-up, holding up a cell phone. There was a loud click and she said, ‘Gotcha, you sumbitch. How’d you like that? Hey, you okay over there, Ramon? Want me to call the sheriff?’

  With a sigh, I turned to the downed man and said, ‘Is that what you want, Ramon? The cops? Or do you want to just answer a couple of questions and then never see me again?’

  Ramon slowly raised himself to a sitting position and waved an arm at the woman. ‘Hey, forget it, Trish. It’s okay. I made a mistake. He’s all right.’

  ‘Well, he don’t look all right,’ the neighbour said. ‘And you’ve looked better too.’

  ‘It was just a misunderstanding,’ I said and stood up. I offered Ramon a hand and helped him to his feet.

  ‘Yeah, it’s okay, Trish,’ he said. ‘But thanks, I appreciate it.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ The woman gave me another dubious look, but she finally began walking slowly back to her house next door, watching us over her shoulder.

  ‘Damn, that’s some punch you got there,
man,’ Ramon said, rubbing his abdomen.

  ‘You kind of forced my hand in the matter. So are you up to talking now?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Okay, a man named Leonard Williamson lived at this address a while back. Did you know him?’

  Ramon frowned and shook his head. ‘I couldn’t tell you who the last tenant was, man. This place was empty before I moved in.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Six, seven months ago.’

  ‘In that case have you got your landlord’s contact details? I’ll talk to him instead.’

  ‘Sure. His name’s Lewis Hawkins. He runs Sagamore Financial, got an office on Main Street. You probably passed it on the way here.’

  The insurance place. ‘Yeah, I did. Okay, Ramon, thanks.’

  ‘You mean that’s all you want from me?’

  ‘That’s all,’ I said. ‘See how easy life can be sometimes?’

  I turned and began walking back towards Main Street again, hoping this Hawkins would be able to give me some of the answers I was looking for.

  Because if he didn’t, somebody would.

  III

  SAGAMORE FINANCIAL, the circular sign on the window said. Inside the circle was a generic symbol of two hands shaking. Underneath the logo were the words: Auto – Home – Health – Life – Retirement. Which pretty much covered all the bases right there.

  I opened the front door and entered a small, neat, brightly lit office area containing just two people, a middle-aged black man and a younger black woman. The man had his own glass-partitioned office at the rear. The woman was currently on the phone at one of the front desks in the main part of the shop. They each looked up as I entered. The woman then went back to her phone conversation, while Hawkins came out of his office to meet me, one hand outstretched and a smile affixed to his face.