Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

end tables. At the other end of the room is a circular desk, behind which sits a woman of perhaps twenty-five. Though she’s wearing a mask, from the crinkles around her eyes I can tell she’s smiling at me.

“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” she says when I reach the desk.

“I’d like to speak with Vincent Neuman, please,” I say.

Before she can ask me if I have an appointment, I pull out the leather case containing my faux FBI ID and show it to her.

“Oh, um,” she says, “one moment.”

“Thank you.”

She calls someone and tells them in a low voice who I am and what I want. After listening for several seconds, she says, “Sure,” hangs up, and looks back at me. “Someone will be here shortly. Would you like to have a seat?”

“No, I’m fine.”

I seldom sit in situations like this. Remaining on my feet makes people nervous, and nervous people talk. Not that I’m expecting to learn anything from her, but she will be motivated to get me out of the lobby. If Neuman drags his feet about meeting with me, I can count on her not waiting too long to remind him I’m here.

This turns out not to be a problem. The door behind the desk opens a minute later, and a man in his mid-thirties steps out.

I’ve been looking at my phone like I’m checking email, when in reality I have an entirely different app open and have been waiting for this moment. I press the button that starts a voice recorder and slip the device into my suit pocket, microphone up.

The man exchanges a word with the receptionist, then walks over to me. “Good afternoon. I’m Isaac Davis. I understand you wish to speak with Mr. Neuman?”

“I do,” I say, and show him my ID.

“Perhaps I can help you, Agent Springett.”

“You can if you take me to Mr. Neuman.”

“He’s in a meeting at the moment.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

“It may be a while.”

“Like I said, I’ll wait.” I walk over to one of the chairs and, in a break from my previous policy, sit down.

This is not the response he was hoping for. He considers his options for a moment. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in our conference room?”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Please, follow me.”

Davis leads me into the main part of the office. On the walls are framed pictures of crops and farm equipment and smiling workers, creating an almost utopic image of the company. We pass several offices before we reach the conference room.

“May I get you something to drink?”

“Coffee would be nice.” I sit in one of the chairs around the oval table.

Davis is not the one who brings me the coffee. The kid who does looks young enough to be in high school. An intern, maybe. Whatever the case, he says nothing as he nervously places the cup and a small tray of sugar and creamers on the table in front of me before hastily making his exit.

I’m only halfway through my coffee when Davis returns, this time in the company of Vince Neuman. Even with the mask he’s wearing, I recognize the man’s eyes from his picture on the Hayden Valley website. He’s older than in the picture, but not by much. I’d place his age around fifty-five.

He strides confidently over to the table and says, “Vince Neuman.” To his credit, he does not extend a hand toward me.

“Special Agent John Springett,” I say.

“I understand you have some questions for me?”

“If you have a moment.”

“Is this about the company or something personal?”

“Company.”

“Then do you mind if Isaac joins us? He’s our VP of operations.”

“Not at all.”

Neuman sits in the chair across from me, and Davis takes the seat next to him.

“So how can we help you, Agent?” Neuman asks.

“It’s our understanding that about a year and a half ago, you had contact with a man named Charles Price.”

Neuman’s brow furrows. “Who?”

Davis is also confused, though more, I think, because he recognizes the name but can’t place it.

“Charles Price. You met with him on August eighteenth two summers ago.”

“Two summers ago?” Neuman shakes his head. “I meet with dozens of people every week. I would have to consult my calendar.”

“A larger man, right?” Davis says, the puzzled look on his face fading. “From…um…”

“Mercy,” I say.

“Right,” Davis says. “Mercy. I remember him.” He looks at Neuman. “He interviewed for the southern rep job.” When Neuman still seems confused, Davis adds, “He’s the one we got the call about.” As he says this, he raises an eyebrow, emphasizing the call’s importance.

It takes only a second for Neuman to make the connection. “I remember now.” He looks at me. “Sorry. I haven’t thought much about him since then. Technically I never met him.”

“But, Mr. Davis, didn’t you just say he came for an interview?”

“I did,” Davis answers. “For one of our area rep positions.”

“What exactly is that?”

Davis glances at Neuman, who nods for him to go on. “Hayden Valley Agriculture is in over thirty states now. Our office’s region covers Colorado, Wyoming, Kansas, New Mexico, and parts of Texas. It’s one of the company’s largest and busiest territories. It’s further broken down into smaller areas, each covered by one of our reps, who travel between our farms, making sure everything is running smoothly. They’re also often the first to check out potential land purchases.”

“Sounds like an important job,” I say.

“We like to think all our positions are important,” Neuman says. “But, yes, some are more so than others. I think it’s fair to say our reps fall into that category.”

“So, Price showed up for this interview, and…”

“And I met with him,” Davis said.

“We were under the impression the meeting was with you,” I say to Neuman.

“Are we under investigation?” Davis asks.

I cock my head as if surprised, though I’ve been waiting for this question since the beginning. “Not that I know of. My interest is in Charles Price. We only became aware a few days