Bad Guys

by Linwood Barclay

  “I’m telling you,” I said, “I’ve had the car the whole time.”

  Bullock considered that. “Then that means the drugs were taken out of the car before it went up for auction. But we know the cops never found them, because they were never entered into evidence.”

  “Which means someone else knew what was in the car, and got to it before we had a chance,” said Blondie.

  Bullock’s head went up and down, very slowly. “I think we’re going to need a little more help with this,” he said, and then took in a deep breath and shouted so loud it made my ears ring, “Trimble!”

  What?

  There seemed no mistaking what Bullock had said. He hadn’t exactly whispered it.

  And then the side door to the garage opened, and Detective Steve Trimble stepped in. He strolled over to where Bullock and I were standing.

  “You called,” he said to Bullock.

  I had a feeling my situation had gone from bad to much, much worse.

  32

  “It’s got to be Eddie Mayhew,” Trimble said.

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Bullock said. “Mayhew, that son of a bitch, and after all we’ve done for him.”

  I thought back. The man I’d interviewed, for my feature on the government auction.

  “Don’t we pay him enough, that he shouldn’t double-cross us?” Bullock asked.

  “He knew you were interested in the car, right?” Trimble asked.

  Bullock nodded. “So if he knew we were interested, he had to suspect why, and he got into that car before it went up on the block.”

  “And sold the stuff himself.”

  “I’m betting the Jamaicans,” Bullock said.

  “What an absolute moron,” Trimble said. “First, crossing you; second, dealing with the Jamaicans. They’re crazy. They can’t be trusted.”

  “Pay him a visit,” Bullock said. “He either coughs up the stuff, or the money he got for selling it to someone else.”

  “Even if he sold it, he won’t have got for it what you would have,” the police detective said.

  “Either way, bring him back here so that I might have a word with him,” Bullock said. “And you know what, why don’t you take your new friend along with you.” He nodded in my direction. “Only a minute ago he offered to do whatever he could to help us get our goods back. As long as the girl’s here, I don’t think he’s going to give you much trouble.”

  Trimble shrugged. “Sure,” he said, and turned to me. “I love company.”

  “You know where Eddie lives?” Bullock asked.

  Trimble said he did, out in Delton, a town just beyond Oakwood.

  “And call in,” Bullock told Trimble. “Every half hour. I don’t hear from you, then our friend here doesn’t have to worry about coming back here for his daughter.”

  I swallowed hard. And I wanted some clarification. “You mean a half hour from now, which would be, like, 1:16 A.M., or every half hour on the 12 and the 6, which would be a lot easier to keep track of?”

  Bullock stared at me, rolled his eyes. The kinds of decisions you had to make when you were in charge. “On the 12 and the 6. First call, 1:30 A.M.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I just wanted to be sure. And can I say goodbye to Angie before we leave?”

  Bullock shook his head. “Would you just fucking go?”

  “Come on,” Trimble said to me. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we get back.”

  We walked down the cobblestone drive together, neither of us speaking, then hiked up Wyndham to where he’d left his unmarked cruiser. “Ever get to drive a police car?” he asked. I said no. “Here’s your big chance.” He unlocked the car, and once I was behind the wheel and he was in the passenger seat, he tossed me the keys.

  “You know the way to Delton?”

  I nodded, turned the engine on, and started taking us in the direction of the expressway. It was dark in the car, the only light coming from the gauges on the dash and the streetlights as we passed under them. I suspected the gun was going to slip out of the bottom of my pants any time now, but the odds were that Trimble wouldn’t notice. My foot, down by the accelerator, was shrouded in darkness, and the police communication system in the center of the dash further obscured the view.

  “I guess you’re thinking you’d have been better off calling 911,” Trimble said, turning slightly in the seat so he could watch me without getting a crick in his neck. I figured he wanted me behind the wheel so I wouldn’t have my hands free to try anything.

  “Yeah, in retrospect,” I said. “Although it proves Bullock’s no liar. He has someone on the inside.”

  “Yeah, well, I doubt I’m the only one. Lenny Indigo was pretty resourceful that way, developing friends where he could best use them.”

  “It didn’t keep him out of jail.”

  “Yeah,” Trimble said. “Things finally caught up with him.” He paused. “It happens sometimes.”

  “I’m just gonna go out on a limb here and guess that, back on that night when you and Lawrence Jones were partners, and that kid took a shot at him, and you hesitated?”

  I glanced over at Trimble. His eyes had become slits.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t just hesitate out of fear or anything. I’m guessing you recognized that kid. I remember Lawrence saying that he worked for Indigo’s organization, and when you saw him, in the light, you recognized him. Maybe even knew him. And you also knew that he and you reported to the same guy, which made you think that maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to shoot him.”

  Trimble’s tongue was poking the inside of his cheek.

  “So you didn’t just freeze. You chose to protect a partner in crime instead of your partner on the force.”

  “Just drive, okay?” Trimble said. “If I want entertainment, I can turn on the radio.”

  “Bullock’s never going to let me and Angie walk away from this, is he?”

  “I don’t know that. We get his goods back, he might look a lot more favorably on your situation.”

  “That’s not how he dealt with Lawrence.”

  I got onto the expressway ramp, gave the cruiser some more gas. It roared ahead. “I don’t suppose I could use the siren,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Did you know that Bullock did Lawrence? Did you know he was going to?”

  “You don’t have any proof that Bullock, or any of those clowns working with him, tried to kill Lawrence. I asked him about it, he says he didn’t do it.”

  I shook my head. “And you believe that.”

  “There’s no reason for him to lie,” Trimble said, but with little conviction.

  “Maybe Bullock thinks if you knew he killed your former partner, that might be too much of a test of your loyalty to him. And open your eyes, man. You deal in evidence. Bullock has my check. The one I gave to Lawrence. But that’s not enough. This one goes into your cold-case file.”

  “Someone’ll take a fall for it.”

  “Let me guess. You get that switchblade off Bullock, plant it on some punk who tries to resist arrest, or maybe some kid who dies of an arranged overdose, you plant the knife on him, they test the blood, figure out he did it. Something like that?”

  “Sure, why not. Maybe I could even find it on you, or in your car.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That would make sense. Feature writer stabs detective. What possible motive could I have? Who’d believe that?”

  Trimble appeared to be giving it some serious thought. “How about this? You two were having an affair. Getting it on. You’d been in the closet for years, decided to come out with him. Then Lawrence threatened to tell others, tell your wife, and you didn’t want her to find out you’re gay. That might work.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Only problem is, Lawrence didn’t die. I don’t think he’ll corroborate that story.”

  Trimble smirked. “I’ll try to come up with something better. In the meantime, why don’t you stop being such a smartass and be a bit more cooperat
ive so I’m not pressed to think of scenarios that end up with you being dead.”

  I glanced at the clock on the dash. A couple of minutes past one. I found myself looking at it every few seconds. I didn’t want Trimble failing to check in with Bullock on time.

  I couldn’t see down by the gas pedal, but I had the feeling the barrel of the gun I’d taken from Lawrence’s car was poking out below the hem of my Gap khakis. Even if I could get hold of my gun, was this the time to use it? Let’s say I could somehow stop Trimble, would that get me any closer to rescuing Angie? Especially if it meant he couldn’t make his check-in call? For all I cared, Trimble and Bullock and Blondie and Pockmark could all walk away free and clear, with their drugs or without, so long as I was able to take Angie home with me.

  “The thing is,” Trimble said, after we’d driven several miles without saying a word to one another, “I feel badly about Lawrence. I honestly do. He was a good cop, a good partner. But he was such a fucking idealist, so holier-than-thou. Always believed in playing by the rules, doing things by the book. Didn’t seem to understand that no one else was playing by the rules, that cops get shafted from every corner. They send you out to clean up everybody’s shit, put your life on the line, for a joke of a salary, and then you put your toe over that line the tiniest bit and they pull the rug out from under you. Lawrence didn’t understand that you had to bend the rules, not a lot, just a bit, to make the job work in your favor. I still got a great record, I got loads of collars, I’ve got commendations. I’ve put a lot of bad people behind bars.”

  “I’m moved,” I said.

  I could feel the gun slip further from its flimsy masking-tape harness. Too bad Lawrence’s glove compartment hadn’t contained duct tape.

  “Never mind,” Trimble said. “Let’s just do this.”

  And we sat quietly for the next ten minutes. As signs appeared for Oakwood, Trimble said, “It’ll be coming up soon, just another couple of exits.”

  Trimble told me where to get off. We drove through the so-called downtown of Delton, then north, through a neighborhood of small, post–Second World War houses. We came upon a two-story brick house, and even in the darkness, I could see the paint peeling off the window frames, the sag in the roof. There was an old Volvo in the driveway.

  “Kill the lights before you turn into the drive,” Trimble said, and I did.

  I stopped the car, turned the key back, and felt the gun slip from my ankle to the floor.

  “We’re going to go straight in,” Trimble said. “Then right up the stairs, to his bedroom. I don’t think he’s got any kids. Don’t see any tricycles or bikes around.”

  “He doesn’t have kids,” I said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “He told me. I interviewed him for a story.”

  Trimble almost looked impressed. “You’re everywhere, aren’t you? Okay, let’s be very quiet.”

  With my foot, I shifted the gun to the right of the accelerator, down behind the police communication equipment. If Trimble made me drive back, there was no chance he’d see it down there.

  “Wait,” I said. “It’s 1:27. Depending on what happens once we get inside, you’re not going to be able to call Bullock. So check in with him now.”

  Trimble sighed, dug out his cell, punched in some numbers. “It’s me,” he said. “Just checking in, everything’s fine, we just got to Mayhew’s place. I’ll talk to you at two.” He looked at me as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Satisfied?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Out,” he said, and we opened our doors at the same time. I was afraid the inside dome light would make the gun visible, but it remained hidden in shadow. We walked toward the front door, gravel crunching under our shoes. Trimble mounted the steps to the front door ahead of me, opened the aluminum screen door, then tried the knob on the main door.

  It turned.

  “What an idiot,” Trimble whispered. “These people move to the suburbs, they think they’re going to be safe.”

  He opened the door quietly. I held on to the screen door behind him, keeping it from slamming shut. It was about then it occurred to me that I was breaking and entering. Under some sort of duress, sure, but I was breaking and entering. With a cop, no less.

  Once inside, I eased the screen door shut, and we waited a moment for our eyes to adjust. Just inside the door, on the right, was a set of stairs. We both held our breath, and upstairs, we could hear snoring.

  Trimble smiled devilishly at me and pointed up. He had his gun out now and was taking the carpeted steps one at a time. I let him get a couple of steps ahead of me before I began to follow.

  The stairs turned at a landing, and as we reached it, the snoring grew louder. These were loud, rumbling snores. We could have stomped our way up these stairs and not wakened Mayhew.

  Once we reached the upstairs hallway, Trimble paused again, making sure he could tell which room the snores were coming from. He crept ahead of me to the doorway of the bedroom on the left, where, from the soft beam of moonlight that was coming through the window, we could make out a shape under the covers, which were pulled up so far you couldn’t see any more of the person than what appeared to be a few tufts of hair. I didn’t remember Mayhew having that much hair.

  Trimble pointed to the lamp on the bedside table and whispered, “Get ready to turn that on.”

  I slipped my hand under the shade, found the small grooved knob, and held it between my thumb and forefinger as the snores continued to echo through the room. Trimble gripped his weapon with both hands and held the muzzle to within a couple of inches of Mayhew’s head. He nodded to me.

  I turned on the light.

  Trimble shouted, “Wakey wakey, Eddie!”

  And Mayhew stirred suddenly, reached up an arm to pull the covers down, and, upon seeing the muzzle only inches away, screamed.

  Only it wasn’t Mayhew screaming. It was a woman.

  “Jesus!” Trimble shouted, moving the gun away. But that didn’t stop the woman from continuing to scream.

  “Shut up!” Trimble shouted. More screaming. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

  Screaming back at her wasn’t working, so he brought the gun back into play, putting the barrel right up to her nose. Trimble said, “Shut. Up.”

  She managed to compose herself. She struggled to sit up in the bed, and I could now see that what I’d thought were tufts of hair were rollers. She had a good dozen of them on her gray-haired head, pinned into position. She was wearing an off-white, heavy flannel, full-sleeved nightgown, and it was fair to say that we had not caught her at her best.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Where’s Eddie?” Trimble asked.

  “I just, I don’t, what do you want?”

  “I just asked you, I want to know where Eddie is. He’s your husband, right?”

  “Yes, he is. What do you want with Edward?”

  “We want to know where he is.”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I wish I did know. If he was going to be late, he should have called me. He’s supposed to call, but sometimes he doesn’t.”

  Trimble looked very tired. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

  “What? No, there’s no one else. Unless Edward’s downstairs.”

  Trimble sat on the edge of the bed, brought the gun down so that it was still in his hand, but lying on the covers. “Mrs. Mayhew,” he said softly. “It’s very important that we find your husband.”

  “Is he in some kind of trouble? Because if he is, I have to tell you, I’m not all that surprised, the bastard.”

  “If we can find him in time, maybe we can keep him out of any trouble.”

  “Are you the police?”

  “We are,” Trimble said slowly, “a branch of the police, but we work a little under the radar, if you get my understanding.”

  Mrs. Mayhew nodded. She was starting to look a little relieved now that maybe we weren’t bad guys, as she’d first thought.
>
  “Because your husband works for the government,” he said, “he’s been able to assist us in our investigation, working somewhat undercover himself.”

  “Edward? Working undercover? He’s certainly never mentioned anything to me. But of course, he hardly talks to me about anything. I ask him, ‘How was your day? What happened? Who did you see?’ And you know what he says? He says absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s good. That’s good, that he didn’t tell you. A lot of times, you figure, even when you tell someone not to tell anyone what they’re doing, you figure they’re still going to tell their wives, you know?”

  She nodded.

  “But now we’re into a situation where we’ve lost track of Eddie and need to locate him.”

  “It’s like I said in the beginning. I don’t know where he is. Did you look downstairs? Maybe he’s just watching TV. Sometimes he sits down there all night, staring at the tube, for hours and hours and hours. And I call down, and ask doesn’t he want to come up to bed with me, and still he sits there, watching his stupid shows.”

  “There was no one downstairs watching TV,” Trimble said, and walked over to the closet, opened the door. “Come over here,” he said to Mrs. Mayhew. She slipped out from under the covers, a bit hesitant at first because she was in a nightgown, but it did an excellent job of covering everything and I was betting Trimble was no more turned on by acres of flannel than I. Still, you couldn’t blame her for being worried, what with two strange men in her bedroom at two in the morning.

  She looked in the closet.

  “Are all your husband’s clothes here?” Trimble asked.

  “Uh, gee, let me see.” She moved some hangers around, looked down at the floor. “His extra pair of jeans is gone, and I don’t think all his shirts . . . I don’t see his . . . That’s gone, too. . . . That’s really odd.”

  “Take a look in the drawer,” Trimble said.

  She did, opening the second drawer down in the dresser. “My God. All his socks are gone,” she said. “And his boxers. I did the laundry yesterday and put everything in here. But it’s not here now.”