Linwood Barclay - Bad Guys

“Come on, Eddie, pull it together,” Trimble said. “We got a lot to talk about.”

He opened his eyes, looked at Trimble, then at me. He recognized me, but couldn’t remember exactly who I was.

I helped him out. “We met yesterday, at the auction.”

Mayhew could figure out why Trimble was here, but my presence was a mystery. “What, what are you doing here? Why are you here?” he asked.

“I’m doing a feature on a day in the life of a bad cop, and Detective Trimble here kindly allowed me to tag along.”

“Get up,” Trimble said, grabbing Eddie under the arm and hauling him onto the bed. It was a nice-size room, with a sitting area and a set of sliding glass doors that led out to a balcony.

“I don’t think I can walk,” Eddie said. “You’ve crippled me. You’ve crippled me for life.”

“I think that’s the least of your problems,” said Trimble, walking around the room. On top of the dresser, next to the television, he found a small folder. “What’s this, Eddie? These look like airplane tickets.” He took them out of their folder. “Let’s have a look here. Rio? You’re going to Rio? Now, here’s something interesting. There’s no return ticket here. That’s really dumb, Eddie. That just makes people suspicious. Even if you aren’t planning to come back, you buy a return ticket.”

“I just wanted to get away, just for a few days, a little break, get some sun, you know, just a little break.” He looked pitiful sitting in the middle of the king-size bed. “I wasn’t sure exactly what day I was coming back, you know, like maybe Wednesday, but maybe Thursday, could be Saturday, you know, depends.”

“I see. And you’re going alone? No ticket for the missus?”

“We like to take separate vacations sometimes. It’s good for a marriage, you know? Kind of heats things up, once you get back.” He tried to smile, force a laugh. I tried to picture things heating up between Eddie and Mrs. Mayhew.

Trimble pulled up a chair, sat down by the foot of the bed. “Have any idea why I’m here, Eddie?”

He shrugged, smiled. “Honestly, for the life of me, I can’t begin to guess. You’ve got me. I’m absolutely dumfounded. This is a total bafflement to me.”

“Barbie Bullock sent me.”

Eddie’s grin evaporated. When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Really? He sent you to find me? What for? Why would a guy like that want anything to do with me?”

“He got a big surprise tonight. He was tearing apart that car, the one he told you he was interested in, the one you gave him the address for, of the guy who bought it at the auction?”

“Sure, yeah, I remember. It’s sort of coming back to me. I was just a bit fuzzy there for a minute. Was there a problem? Car not start or something?”

Now Trimble chuckled. “There was nothing in the car, Eddie. Nothing at all.”

Absolute astonishment. “Are you serious?” Eddie, still holding on to his toes, shook his head in wonderment. “That’s crazy, totally crazy, unbelievable, totally totally unbelievable.”

“The stuff’s missing,” Trimble said. “And then, what do you know, here you are in a hotel, ready to fly off to Rio with a one-way ticket, your closet cleaned out at home, and your wife has no idea that you were planning a little getaway.”

“You talked to Rita? You didn’t talk to Rita, did you?”

Trimble nodded. “She’s very upset. I think she’d like to take a vacation, too. Maybe to visit her sister in Milwaukee.”

“I was going to have her come down and join me in a couple days. Soon as I find us a nice spot. I was going to give her a call.”

Trimble nodded, like it all made sense. “That’s what I always do when I go to a foreign country, Eddie. Try to find my accommodation once I get there.”

I said, “Eddie, here’s the deal. Bullock has my daughter. If we don’t come back with the drugs, or the money you got for the drugs, then I’m guessing he’s going to kill her. And if that happens, all the bad cops in the world couldn’t do as much to you as I will.”

“I don’t know anything about any money,” Eddie Mayhew said quietly.

Trimble got up, grabbed the over-the-shoulder bag that was sitting on a chair, and dumped it onto the bed. Socks, underwear, a belt, some sundries, tumbled out. And a thick white envelope.

Trimble opened it, thumbed a thick stack of cash. “That looks like three thousand or so right there.” He slipped it into his jacket, walked over to the closet, and took out Eddie’s coat. Seconds later, he had another thick envelope in his hand. “That looks like another three or four. Where else you got it hidden?”

Eddie hung his head, unwrapped his hands from around his foot. The toes were red and bloody. He began to cry.

“Eddie,” Trimble said.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I’m really sorry. So so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am. Tell Mr. Bullock I’m sorry about this, I’ll make it all up to him.”

“Eddie, who’d you sell to?”

Eddie just looked at him, his eyes moistening.

“Eddie?”

“The Jamaicans.”

“It’s a wonder you’re still alive. What did you get?”

“One-fifty.”

“What?”

“One-fifty. A hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Tell me you’re kidding,” Trimble said, slapping Eddie across the face. “Tell me you’re fucking kidding.”

“A hundred and fifty could last me a long time. Long time. I watch my pennies.”

“You should have got half a mill, easy, maybe more. Mr. Bullock was going to make a couple million out of that.”

Eddie, his cheek red, looked up as a tear ran down his cheek. “I didn’t want to get greedy,” he said.

“So you got the stuff out of the car before it went to auction, cut a deal behind Bullock’s back, figured you’d pocket the cash yourself. So we’ve got about six, seven thousand in the room here. Where’s the rest of it?”

“I mailed it.”

Now Trimble’s face was red, without being slapped. He went very quiet. “Eddie, you what?”

“I mailed it, to Rio. Some of it I mailed, some of it I FedExed, to different hotels, to be held in care of. You know, in care of me. When I get there, I ask at the front desk, they got any mail for me, I pick it up.”

“You put more than $140,000 in the mail?”

“I didn’t want them to find all that on me if they did a search when I was getting on the plane.”

I had a sinking feeling. We were going to be returning to Bullock’s place with very bad news.

“Can’t you tell Mr. Bullock I’m sorry? I’ll make this right. I’ll go to Rio, go to all the hotels where I sent the money, and I’ll send it all back. I can put all the cash in a bank, then send him a certified check.”

Trimble looked at me, shook his head, then tossed a pair of pants at Eddie’s face. “You’re going to have to explain this to Mr. Bullock yourself. Get dressed.”

Eddie eased himself off the bed, winced when he put his foot on the carpet. “I really do think all my toes are broken,” he said. “Could we stop at the hospital on the way, get somebody to look at this? Or, I know, I know. Listen, couldn’t you tell him you couldn’t find me? You do that, and I’ll send you the money. You can have it all. Mr. Bullock doesn’t ever have to know. You could come to Rio with me, I’ll take you to the hotels. They’re all five-star, we could hang out awhile, at each one. Get ourselves some girls, have a party. But it’s all yours, you don’t want to pay for my room, that’s cool, that’s okay, I understand. I mean, if you could spare me a couple thou, that’d be great, but the rest, it would be yours.” To me, he said, “You can have some, too, I mean, if that’s okay with Detective Trimble.”