A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(2)

“Do you want a warm drink? I can get you a thermos with hot coffee or tea.” Those sounded amazing to her right now. Surely they sounded just as good to him. But he tightened even more. As if the suggestion made him suspect trickery.

Was it getting colder? She let go of the icy metal pole and shoved her other hand in her pocket as well. Even though she sat safely on the scaffold, letting go felt like a mistake. She accidentally glanced down, and the darkness below yawned endlessly. Another wave of dizziness hit her, even worse than the first one, and the blood drained from her face. She dug her fingernails into her palm as hard as she could, the pain clearing her mind.

She quickly raised her eyes and focused on the skyscrapers. It was an amazing view from up here; she had to give the guy that. He’d chosen the location well. There were few things Abby found more awe inspiring than New York’s skyline. Brightly lit spires and countless rooftops. The Empire State Building, awash in white, and beyond it the colossal Freedom Tower, its blue light almost spectral. Surrounding them stood numerous buildings and towers, each dotted with dozens of windows offering small glimpses into the lives beyond. Even now, at four in the morning, there were still scores of lit windows as well as many cars traversing the streets below, their red and yellow lights glimmering in the night.

“How did you get those scratches?” she asked.

On and on she tried, asking questions, labeling his feelings, prodding for a way in. She did so tirelessly, making sure her mounting frustration and concern didn’t creep into her tone. The man seemed to tense up, fidgeting more, shutting his eyes, taking fast, shallow breaths. She was about to lose him. It was time to call the ESU guys.

Would they get to him in time? She doubted it. But she was out of options, and they had to try.

And then she thought of the stubs and the empty cigarette box on the floor by the window. The way he’d patted his pockets as if searching for his cigarettes. She could imagine him standing by that window earlier, having his last smoke before climbing over the windowsill and stepping out.

She didn’t want to offer him a cigarette, remembering his reaction to her previous offer. Instead, she turned to the window and said, “Hey, I’m dying for a smoke. Does anyone have a cigarette?”

One of the ESU guys handed her a cigarette and a lighter through the window. She carefully reached over and grabbed them both. Then she placed the cigarette between her lips and lit it. She hadn’t smoked since college, and the taste of it in her mouth nauseated her. But she sucked on the cigarette as if it were the best thing in the world, then expelled the smoke slowly.

The man turned to watch her. She took another drag from the cigarette.

“Mind if I have one of those?” he finally said.

“Absolutely,” she said and turned to the window. “Can I have another one for the guy over here?”

The ESU guy held out the entire box.

“Toss it over,” the man said.

She’d hoped he would reach for the box. It would have forced him to let her come closer.

Still, at least he was talking. She carefully tossed the box over to him. A gust of wind nearly knocked it off the scaffolding, but it ended up on the edge. The man pried one cigarette out and lit it with his own lighter. It took him four tries, his fingers trembling, the wind puffing out the lighter’s flame. Finally he managed it and took a long drag.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No.” He gave her a small sad smile. “I’m Phil.”

She returned a smile. “Nice to meet you, Phil. What made you come here?”

He took another drag. “Life.”

She was used to vague answers, knew how to pry the truth out. “Life,” she echoed.

“Yeah. Life. Things didn’t go the way I wanted, I guess.”

Once she got them talking, her main role was to keep them talking, and to listen. Good negotiators didn’t talk much at all. They mainly listened, prodding their subject to keep on going. Buying time. Gathering information. Looking for the things that would help influence the subject.

“The way you wanted?” she repeated his words. It was the number one tool in any negotiator’s arsenal—mirroring. Repeat the subject’s words, demonstrate that you were listening, and make them elaborate more.

A few seconds of silence followed, and then he said, “My sister died two days ago.”

“I’m sorry. It must have been very painful to lose her. How did she die?”

“Cancer.” He glanced at the cigarette between his fingers. “Lung cancer. She didn’t even smoke.”

“I see.”

“I went to her funeral, and I could see every person there thinking the same thing.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “That it should have been me.”

Abby waited. The words were pouring out now. All she needed to do was listen.

Phil took another drag from the cigarette. “I’ve been drinking my life away for the past twenty years. Spent two of those years in prison. My parents gave up on me. But not my sister. She kept trying to get me to go to AA or to talk to her priest.”

“She sounds like a good sister.”

“She was. And a good daughter. Gave my parents three lovely granddaughters. She was an amazing mother.” He stubbed out the cigarette on the scaffolding. “You know what I thought as they lowered the coffin?”