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.

She stopped whatever she was doing, looked at me, raised an eyebrow.

I nodded, putting both hands to the side of my ears, then rolling my eyes to the direction of outside. She nodded in understanding—she’s a quick study, I had to credit her that—and then reached into her leather carrying bag. Carla took out a pen and small notepad, and I gently put my hand over hers.

“Honey,” I said, “would you mind if we took your vehicle to dinner? My Ford’s been acting up some.”

“Your Ford—” And I knew she was surprised because she knew I drove a Pilot, but she hardly skipped a beat and said, “I thought you were going to bring that back to the dealership.”

“I was,” I said, nodding in appreciation. “But the day just got away from me. Let me get my coat.”

I grabbed my coat and we left my house, with me locking the door behind me, and I noted Carla was driving a black Mercury Impala. She had her keys in her hand and I snapped them out of her grasp, and said, “Thanks, love bug. You know how I like to drive.”

She gave me a smile with about one degree of warmth. “How can I forget?”

I made sure I stayed between her and the inquiring eyes up the street, and bundled her into the front seat. I was also tickled to see that her Impala was registered in Massachusetts. I got into the front seat, started the car, adjusted the rearview mirror.

Carla said, “Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

“In just a minute or so,” I said.

I put my seatbelt on, and so did she, and I took a moment to make sure the side mirrors were also in place, so I had a good view of what was behind me.

Which was just an empty street.

I shifted the Impala into reverse and slammed my foot down on the accelerator.

We flew back with the engine humming like the warp engines on the original Star Trek, and Carla was also smart enough not to disturb me as I was racing up my street in reverse. With the way still clear, I stepped off the accelerator for a moment, made a slight motion with the steering wheel—at this speed and direction, even the slightest touch will have a large response—and the Impala started skidding to the right, the front end flipping around. I shifted into neutral, kept my foot off the accelerator and the brake, and when we had spun a nice round 180 degrees, I shifted the Impala into drive and goosed it.

We got to the intersection of Route 3, where I made a legal and lawful stop, and spared a second to look in the rearview mirror.

Nothing. “All right,” I said. “Being this is a car registered in Massachusetts, the only license plate is on the rear bumper. Good chance the folks in the van didn’t spot that. And the way I walked out with you, I don’t think they got a clear shot of your face.”

“Christ, you really do think things through.”

“It’s what I do,” I said.

She kept quiet.

“Still hungry?” I asked.

“Yes,” Carla said.

I drove up Route 3, heading to Manchester.

Less than thirty minutes later we were in downtown Manchester, at the Hanover Street Chop House, a fine old steak restaurant that’s pretty well known in this part of northern New England. I left the Impala in an out-of-the-way parking spot, which gave us a brisk ten-minute walk to our dining spot. The restaurant was in an isolated three-story building almost directly across the street from a grand old pillared building that had new hampshire fire insurance co chiseled overhead, but now housed the Manchester campus of the Hellenic American University.

After we settled into a corner table, and after salads, sea scallops, and a nice Pinot Noir from Chile was ordered, we got back to the issue at hand.

“Who’s watching and listening?” Carla asked.

“Beats me,” I said, buttering a roll. “But I’m pretty sure it’s coming from your side of the fence.”

She flipped a white napkin onto her lap. “That parked van up the street?”

“Very observant, Agent … er, Office Services Supervisor Pope.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. “I try to get good marks on that through my annual performance review. How certain are you that watchers were in that van?”

“Extremely certain,” I said. “I made a bogus call to the Litchfield police about a suspicious van in the neighborhood. When the cop showed up, I saw the driver flash something, and a few minutes later, they were yucking it up like police academy chums from way back.”

“Interesting,” she said. “But now they know you know.”

I took a bite out of the roll. Warm and freshly made. “Yeah, we’re a couple of knowledgeable folks. Which means they’ll have to work harder to get whatever it is they’re looking for.”

“Which is what? Information about my brother? The stolen painting? Anything else nefarious you’ve been up to?”

The wine tasted great. “Very good, Carla, it’s been a long time since I heard someone use the word nefarious in a conversation. Let’s take out Bishop Occam’s Razor and give it a go. All of my business dealings over the … past periods of time, has ended in a reasonably peaceful manner. Save for the last one. And it’s getting more complicated every day.”

“What do you have?”

So I told her about my visit back to Bellows Falls and my encounter with the earnest Detective Shaye, and she stopped me when I told her I saw the man known as George standing in the police station, saying he was from the Department of Justice.

“George? The one who killed my brother?”

“That’s right.”

“You … fool. Why didn’t you go up to Detective Shaye and have him arrest George?”

We kept quiet as the salads came. When the waiter left, I leaned over our booth’s table and said in a low voice, “Carla, I know you’re under pressure. You’ve had a rotten week. Your brother is dead, and his body’s still not been recovered. You have my sympathy.”

Her eyes teared up. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “But if you call me a fool, or stupid, or any other insult from this moment forward, then I am getting up, walking out, and that will be that. And before you get your FBI-issued panties in a bunch and threaten me with arrest, water boarding, or anything else, I’ve dropped out before, and I can do it again. All it will take is me getting up from this table and walking down the sidewalk. And you’ll never see me or hear from me again, and your brother’s death will go unsolved, and those who did it won’t be punished. Is that what you want?”

Her voice was quiet but hard as steel. “No.”

“Good. Now. Figure out why I didn’t go race up to Detective Shaye and start yelling, ‘He’s the one officer, he did it!’ For one, at the time he thought I was a true-crime writer. That means telling him I had been lying to him for the past half hour. Second, our killer George was there as an official of the Justice Department. Who do you think Detective Shaye would really trust then?”

“George is a killer. He can’t be from the DoJ. It has to be a front.”

“With a fake ID, right? Since you’re the expert?”

She blushed. “Maybe so. And it’s a small Vermont town. They tend to get … overly impressed by someone claiming to be from the FBI or the Department of Justice. Did the detective tell you about the man you shot? George’s driver?”

“Just his name, Mike Dillman.”

“Where was he from?”

“Ohio.”

“And what about his background?”

“Detective Shaye didn’t have that with him,” I said. “The State Police and the Attorney General’s office are playing it all close to their vest.”

“Did you find anything out that can help us?”

“Not at the moment.”

She frowned. “Seems like a wasted trip, then.”

Our main courses were served and I said, “Let’s talk about something else for a while.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate to dine on a fine meal with a companion who seems to want to chew on something else,” I said, picking up my knife and fork. “Like my shin bone.”

With dishes cleared away and check paid with cash, I said, “And you, madam? What did you find out about our mystery woman?”

“Pretty much still a mystery.”

“Oh? Did the fingerprints come back with any identification?”

“Yes, but that’s about it. Her name was Kate Salzi, and she was from Pennsylvania.”

I nibbled on a roll crust. “Really? That’s all?”

“That’s all I could get.”

“Don’t get pissy at me,” I said. “I find it hard to believe that you’d get a fingerprint report with such a thin result.”

“Oh, well, I was expecting more but my source … he got called away.”

I stopped eating. “Carla, tell me more.”

“My source … he called and left me a message. ID’d her as Kate Salzi, and that he’d have more in ten minutes. But he never called me back.”

“Did you call him?”

“Yes.”

“And…?”

“One of his coworkers said he had been suddenly called away.”

“Any reason why?”

She seemed disquieted. “No … ”

“Any follow-up? Email? Texts? Phone calls?”

“No,” she said.

I got up from the booth. “Let’s get going.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here,” I said, leading her out. “Tell me, your source, a close friend? Someone you’ve had a long relationship with?”

“No, not really,” she said, scrambling to keep up with me. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I’m pretty sure he or she is dead,” I said. “Or has been sent to the Boise field office. Whatever might be worse.”

“You can’t believe that. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

“If you’d like to believe that, go right ahead. I can’t afford it. Let’s roll.”

Outside on Hanover Street, I turned to Carla and said, “Your phone. Personal or government-issued?”

“Personal. What difference does that make?”

Too late.

Two men were on opposite ends of the sidewalk, quickly and confidently centering in on us. We were in the most urban city in this small state, which wasn’t that urban. Nobody else was on the sidewalk save for us.

“I need two answers and need them quick,” I said. “Number one, are you in this for real? To find your brother’s killer, no matter what?”

“Yes.”

“Number two, are you armed?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Damn,” I said. “Wish you had gone all-in on your FBI agent disguise.”

With that, I pulled out my Beretta and opened fire.