Suicide Squeeze

14

Conner’s eyes opened. He tried to focus, blinked up at the Amazon blur standing over him. Becker. Beyond her was the cracked and stained ceiling. He said, “Had enough?”

“I didn’t kill James,” she said. “Just out of curiosity, what did you think you were going to do?”

Good question. “Take you to the police?”

“You really want the cops involved?”

He didn’t say anything, rubbed his jaw.

“Let’s put our cards on the table,” suggested Becker.

She helped him up. They sat across from each other at Conner’s kitchen table, and Becker explained how James had been alive and well when she’d been there.

“You were probably the last person to see him alive.”

“Except for whoever murdered him,” Becker said flatly.

“Sure. Right.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

Conner threw up his hands. “Fine. I believe you.” And he did. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t figure a reason for Becker to do it. Somebody else had whacked James. Somebody with a motive. It was all guesswork and gut instinct. On the other hand, his gut instincts had put him in the hole with Rocky Big. His gut instincts were shit.

“Why did you go see James if you hadn’t found the sailboat?” she asked.

He thought about coming clean but lied instead. “To tell him I was dropping the case. Folger and the boat are long gone. Probably Mexico or Jamaica.”

She looked at him hard, didn’t speak for long seconds. She put her business card on the table between them, tapped it with an index finger. “I think you know more than you’re letting on, Samson. Shit happens. Things got dicey or maybe more complicated than you thought, so now you want to wash your hands of the whole deal. Am I close?”

“It’s not like that.” Yes it is!

She shook her head. “I don’t want any explanations. James meant nothing to me. Too bad he’s dead, but I have my own concerns. So chill. I’m not going to rat you. I meant what I said. I can make it worth your while.”

“Why are you looking for Folger?”

She thought for a second, then said, “He made off with something valuable. The rightful owners want it back.”

“What is it?”

She said, “None of your business.”

Conner scratched his chin, bit his lip. “How much are we talking?”

She shrugged. All casual now. “You give me something good, a name, an address, something to put me back on Folger’s trail, I could go five hundred. Cash.”

That wouldn’t even get Rocky Big off my back. “I’ll call you if I remember anything.”

“I’d prefer you remember now.”

“And I’d prefer two thousand.”

She looked around Conner’s dank kitchen, stood, wiped dust off the counter. “Take what you can get, Samson. The cell phone is always on.”

She showed herself out.

Samson knew something. Becker was sure of it. It might even be something worth two thousand dollars, but the thought of some two-bit repo man putting the bite on her irritated Becker more than anything. In the old days, she’d gotten a little impatient with some of the rat-fink informants she used on a regular basis. A black eye here, a broken wrist there. There had been complaints, warnings. That special ops stuff didn’t rub with routine fieldwork. She had refused her superiors’ suggestion to think about anger management therapy. They had trained her to kick ass and now wanted a kinder, gentler intelligence community. She’d been caught in the shift, set adrift between administrations. Her file was a checkerboard of iffy judgment calls and reprimands.

All of this had been used against Becker at her final performance evaluation. She’d been given two choices. Resign from the NSA or staff the company’s office in Blue Elk, Alaska.

“I didn’t know we had an office in Blue Elk,” Becker had said.

“We’ll open one,” the evaluation board had assured her.

So she’d gone into the private sector. Security consultant, investigations, easy money with no challenge.

Now she was looking for a baseball card. Enough was enough. With the potential payoff she could buy a villa in Spain and forget all this. But would that really satisfy her? She tried to picture herself living a life of leisure, reading a trashy romance novel by the pool, but she couldn’t quite see it. Right now, anything was preferable to the drudgery of the insurance office.

She climbed into her black Oldsmobile and drove once around the block. She came back, parked under the low-hanging branches of an oak tree and watched Samson’s apartment from a safe distance. He knows something. I get the vibe. The way he doesn’t make eye contact. Let’s see what’s on Mr. Samson’s plate today.

She lit a Virginia Slim and waited.

After Joellen Becker left his apartment, Conner watched his front door, waiting for her to walk back in.

She didn’t.

“Fucking shit.”

He should have taken the five hundred. What in hell made him think he could negotiate her up to two thousand? She’d been right. Conner should have taken what he could get.

He grabbed Becker’s business card and ran for the phone. No time to be proud. Take what you can get. Damn right. He picked up the phone, and it fell apart. His tape job hadn’t held up. He spent twenty minutes trying to put it back together again, but the telephone was finally, irrevocably, deceased.

He put the keys to the Plymouth in his pocket and headed for the front door. He’d drive to the convenience store and use the pay phone.

As soon as Conner was outside, big black hands fell on his shoulders.