Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [38]
Tyler’s mind raced. I know this voice, he thought. I’ve heard it before somewhere, and not just from his previous call. Who? Where would I have heard it?
“Pretty brave talk for a guy who’s never in the line of fire. The reason I’m calling you is you’re the only agent who has deep pockets. By the way, I know to the penny what’s in your bank account. I want money. I don’t want it for nothing. I’m willing to give up what I know in exchange. And just so you know how serious I am, I know your deep dark secret, the one your daddy doesn’t know. Just tell me if you’re interested or not.”
Tyler started to shake. Who the hell was this guy? Was he interested? Damn, he knew the voice. If he could just tie it to a real live person, he’d have something to go on. He surprised himself when he said, “How much money are we talking about? What exactly do I get in exchange for it?”
“You get your reputation back. The governor will be proud of you. You won’t have to slink out of the DEA with your tail between your legs. Your colleagues will look at you differently. In time, they might even come to like and respect you. And best of all, your secret remains safe. A hundred grand should do it.”
Tyler laughed. “Just like that, a hundred grand. You must be smoking something illegal. What’s the guarantee the information is solid? By the way, this is blackmail.”
“Agent Tyler, there are no guarantees in life. You buy the poke, you open it, then you do your share. Call it whatever you like. I have something to sell, and if that includes your secrets, and you’re willing to buy, then, hey, it’s a simple sale. Just for the record, I’m just a conduit. You really should think about my offer because that task force is closing in on you. Two weeks, tops, and you’re out on your ass. I’m going to give you till noon. And then I’ll call you for your decision. Go back to bed, Agent Tyler, and have sweet dreams.”
Tyler held the phone to his ear until he heard the dial tone. Maybe this was all a bad dream. He pinched his arm. Nope, he was wide awake. He fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He felt like he was seven years old in that fancy school they’d sent him to, the one where he had to wear white socks, saddle shoes, shorts, and suspenders over a starched white shirt. Just like the von Trapp kids from The Sound of Music. For days, for weeks and months, he’d tried to figure out a way to run away to join the circus, where people would care about him. Why he thought people in a circus would care about him he had no idea. It didn’t matter because even back then he’d been a gutless wonder.
Tyler sat up and swiped at his eyes with the bottom of his shirt. He might as well get up. He’d never fall asleep now. His head buzzed like a beehive as he trotted out to the kitchen. Talaga always left the coffeepot ready to go. All he had to do was press a button. He’d never made a pot of coffee in his life.
He sat down and tried to think. The wireless caller’s voice, disguised or not, was somehow vaguely familiar. He rubbed at his temples as though that would somehow magically make a name surface. Was the caller primarily a blackmailer or an informant? The first time, when he’d called a year ago, he hadn’t tried to blackmail Tyler. A hundred thousand dollars was a boatload of money. But, as everyone knew, blackmailers never let up. They kept coming back again and again.
The coffeepot pinged, the signal that it was ready to be poured. He yanked open the dishwasher, pulled out one of the heavy DEA complimentary cups, and filled it to the brim. He’d taken it from the office back in Phoenix to a mall, where he had his name stenciled on it. It made him feel important. He looked up at the dishes in the cabinet to see only fine bone china, thanks to his mother.