Jeffery Deaver - Bloody River Blues

Crimmins and Joshua had been drinking tea for ten minutes when a broad-shouldered man wearing a blue denim jacket and jeans entered. His shirt was dirty. He was squat, though he moved with a certain elegance. Crimmins did not approve of the common clothes, but this sort of man might be a foreman or carpenter in addition to being what Crimmins was now hiring him for.

Joshua said, "Tom Stettle. Mr. Crimmins."

"How do you do, sir." Stettle's eyes swung one way then the other, settling on Crimmins s mole of an eye for a moment.

"Stettle, is it?'

"Yeah," the voice said. "Yessir."

"Sit down."

He did. The Samsonite folding chair creaked under his weight. Crimmins let the silence run up for a moment. Rather than feeling uncomfortable, Stettle grew more at ease and gazed back at Crimmins pleasantly.

Finally Crimmins said, "Joshua talked to you?'

"Yessir."

This was not the safest way, meeting Stettle face-to-face. The identification issue later, if it all went sour, but Crimmins liked to see the people who worked for him. You could have a better conversation with someone when you knew what he looked like. You could pick up on his mannerisms, match them to his words. That helped you decide if he was telling the truth, if he was dependable, how much he could be bought for.

"You've been following him? Pellam?"

Stettle nodded.

"The police have been, too, I know. Have you seen anyone else? Anyone from Peterson's office?'

"Some. Off and on. It's funny. It's like, hey, we got the budget for it today but not tomorrow. They're not there more than they're there."

Crimmins had an urge to remind the man that he was making fifteen thousand dollars for this job. But he said nothing.

Another of his basic rules, like providing for the family, was: Don't jerk leashes until you need to.

"Stick with him."

"This being the country, pretty much, it's harder, you know what I'm saying? In the city, with a lot of people around, there are more ways to get away, like cabs and subways. You can set up things a lot faster." The measured and respectful tone of Stettle's reply made Crimmins feel comfortable. He was pleased that Stettle was giving a frank appraisal. Crimmins himself would have guessed it was easier to do this sort of thing in the country.

"All right. Keep at it. Joshua knows where to get in touch with you?"

Both men nodded.

"Thanks for stopping by. You want some tea? Some pastry?"

"No, sir."

Stettle left the club, glancing around him with studious eyes. Crimmins supposed he was surveying the shoddy paneling job and thinking he could do better.

Crimmins said to Joshua, "Is he good with it?"

"With what?"

Crimmins forgot that some people did not think as quickly as he did. "A gun."

"That's not really the question. All's I know is he's got one and he doesn't mind using it. Maddox's got a mandatory sentencing thing and a lot of guys have a problem with that. He doesn't."

Crimmins rose and poured both Joshua and himself two more glasses of tea.

"S'il vous plait, est-ce que vous avez un… guest, Monsieur Wetter?"

The crackling of the eight thousand miles of cables and airwaves filled the phone.

"Non, monsieur."

"Well, est-ce qu'il a une reservation?"

The crash behind Pellam nearly made him drop the cellular phone. He spun around. He saw the fist knock on the camper door again. Pellam leaned forward and looked outside with a sinking heart. Them. For some reason he could remember the names of the FBI agents more easily than he could those of the Italian cop and the WASP cop. Bracken and Monroe.

"Just a minute!" he called. "I'm on the phone." More knocking. "Just a minute. I'm on the phone to Paris. Repetez? S'il vous plait… He's not? Okay. I mean, merci."

Damn.

Marty Weller had left London six hours ago, supposedly bound for Paris. He was not, however, at the Plaza Athenee- where he always stayed (or where he told everyone he stayed)-and Pellam had no idea where he might be. Pellam was trying to make nice for the missed appointment with Weller and Telorian.

He dropped the phone in its cradle and opened the door. He nodded solemnly but did not invite them in.

"How you doing, sir?" Monroe said.

Silence.

Bracken, looking much less scruffy today, asked, "Mr. Pellam, you mind if we come in?"

"I think I would mind that, yes."

"It won't take very long."

Pellam asked, "I really don't-"

"We'd just like to ask you a few more questions. Our discussion-"

"Discussion?"

"-the other day wasn't very productive."

"Last night I told the cops in Maddox exactly what happened. For the second time. Maybe the third. Don't you people talk to each other?"

Monroe remained as pleasant and persistent as a door-to-door salesman. "We apologize for the other day. We've been under incredible pressure. You know how it is."

Pellam waited a few seconds and said, "Come in."

Inside, both agents sat on chairs, scooting forward to keep their posture perfect. The cuffs of their light-colored slacks were hiked high above their ankles. It was funny, Pellam thought-they didn't have the frisky presence of the city cops.

There was something anonymous about them.

They complimented him on the tidiness of the camper and Bracken said enviously he hoped to get a Winnebago himself one day. Drive up to Minnesota for muskie and pike.

So far the game was good cop, good cop.

'The fact is Maddox hasn't been cooperating with us. They don't much care for federal officers."

Wonder why.

"We'd really appreciate it if you could tell us whatever you can remember. You've got to understand, Mr. Pellam,

Mr. Gaudia's death means that two years of work could be in jeopardy."

Pellam wanted to reward them for being polite. He told them the facts one more time. In as much detail as he could remember. The beer, the Lincoln, the guy who bumped into him, bending down and looking through the window, the car pulling away, the cop. Pellam was getting pretty good at telling the story by this time.

The agents were unemotional. No eyes were rolled, much less lapels grabbed and windows broken. They just nodded and did not complain. And they didn't call him a GFY either. They just asked questions.

Finally Pellam realized that they had been here for an hour. He was growing bored. He felt like a hooked pike. He almost mentioned this to Bracken the fisherman.

"Tell us again… just one more time. Promise, just one.

"Okay. Once more." Pellam recited the story.

Monroe wrote it down. Pellam wondered what they were getting paid and how much tax money was being spent to record an incident of car window glare.

Then they began to ask questions that seemed to have nothing to do with the killing. Why was he going to get so much beer? Tell them about this poker game, would he? Did he know who Vincent Gaudia was? Had he ever seen the policeman before?

"No."

"Was it true that you gave something to the policeman just before the shooting?"

"Well," Pellam said, "I did."

"You seemed surprised just then. Why were you surprised?"

"When I gave him the bag?"

"No. Just now. When we mentioned it."

"Well, I didn't think anybody knew I gave him anything."

Their eyebrows perked. "And what was it?"

"You think it was a bribe?"

"We'd just like to know what it was."

"It was a doughnut."

"A doughnut?"

"Whole wheat," Pellam offered. "It seemed healthier."

"Yessir."

More questions, another half hour passed.

"Did the driver," Bracken asked, "have a cup caddy?"

"Are you serious?" Pellam asked. He looked at his watch.