The Night Detectives (David Mapstone Mystery 7)

“I always surprise. Are you calling to offer me a job?”

“Perhaps. In a way.”

“Go on. I need options.”

A fine laugh followed, not villainous at all. The kind of laugh you could have a beer with. “I bet you do. You have something that I want.”

“What would that be?”

“Don’t fuck with me.” No emphasis or emotion entered his voice. He might as well have said, “Excuse me.”

He went on, “You have something I want, and I am willing to give you something in return.”

“Did you make that same offer to Tim Lewis when you were breaking his fingers one by one?”

“Yes, I did.”

At least that was settled. I wasn’t talking to the tenure committee, calling to say they had made a mistake and wanted me back as a professor. I was talking to a stone-cold killer. Caution flooded my nervous system: he had the baby. I had to be careful not to bait him into further death. I wasn’t sure one could negotiate with a man who would slit Tim Lewis’ throat and paint the wall with blood, but I had to try.

“He claimed that he didn’t have it. So I can only assume that you do. But you present a bigger challenge because of your law-enforcement connections. I have to take a different approach.”

“I bet. You’re a murderer and I’m coming for you.”

So much for David the Negotiator.

The voice remained steady and calm. I hadn’t gotten under his skin. He sure as hell was under mine. Smooth and calm and very sure that I wasn’t tracing him. He seemed in no hurry to hang up.

“I know you want to come for me, Doctor Mapstone. I learned how you settled your Mexican trouble. Impressive. I don’t underestimate you.”

“I didn’t have Mexican trouble. I had criminal trouble. You’re no different.”

“You’re wrong there. We might even be on the same side, using different methods.”

“I don’t think so.”

He cleared his throat. “If I told you we were in a battle for this country, for whether it can remain a white nation, you’ll dismiss me as a racist nut. You work for a Mexican. And you’re an academic. You’ve been brainwashed. Samuel Huntington has it right about the clash of civilizations, but it’s happening in America. In fact, it’s killing this country. You don’t want to face the facts.”

He was mighty chatty and had done some reading. I said, “I’m not sure Professor Huntington would agree with you.” God, I wish I were tracing the call.

“David,” he switched to the familiar, “I don’t want to kill you. I had a chance already. I didn’t take it.”

I wondered if he even had the ability to change baby David’s diaper and feed him. I asked him about that chance to kill me that he didn’t take.

“The apartment. You’re very physically impressive for a man your age, getting out the way you did. But I helped you by waiting to detonate the Claymore. Do you have a new cell number since your old phone went with you into the pool?”

A man my age? Fuck you.

I said, “So you were watching.”

“How do you think I gave you time to get out of the apartment? Now answer my question because I won’t give you time ever again.”

I gave him the number of the temporary phone I had bought at the truck stop in El Centro.

“Drive to the Park Central parking lot. Be on the south side of the lot in five minutes. Come unarmed. Wait and I’ll call. Stay in your car. If any police are with you or near you or I even suspect you’re fucking with me, you won’t get what you want.”

Even the profanity was said with a businesslike calm.

Then the line went dead.