A Quiet Vendetta (27 page)

‘I have become someone,’ I whispered to her, and though she did not reply I knew – I just knew – that
someone
was all she had ever wished me to be.

‘The man does not exist,’ Schaeffer said matter-of-factly. ‘Right now we have used all the resources at our disposal, we have trawled through every database we have access to, and this Ernesto Cabrera Perez does not technically exist. There is no record of anyone by that name ever having entered, exited or resided in the mainland United States. There are no Social Security numbers, no passports, no work permits or visas . . . absolutely nothing.’

Woodroffe sat beside Schaeffer, silent and expressionless.

‘Silvino’s death, however, we can verify,’ Schaeffer said, as if this was some sort of consolation prize.

Hartmann leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. Back of his eyes a narrow pain threatened to become a migraine and he was using much of his concentration to make it disappear. He believed he would not succeed. It was late in the afternoon, and Perez had spoken almost continuously. They had stopped to eat around one o’clock and, in between the questions, Perez had commented on the quality of the food.

Later, when he was done talking, he was once again escorted to the Royal Sonesta with his two dozen bodyguards.

‘But I don’t get the Shakespeare connection,’ Schaeffer said.

Hartmann shrugged. ‘I believe he is merely showing us that he is not an ignorant man. Christ knows what it might mean, but sure as hell it will keep your Quantico guys busy for the rest of next week.’

Schaeffer smiled drily. Hartmann was surprised to see the man did indeed have a sense of humor.

‘So what now?’ Hartmann asked.

Schaeffer shrugged. ‘Hell, what the fuck do I know? We all take the rest of the day off, go see a movie or something? I got God knows how many people available to me and I don’t know where to send them. I got phone calls coming on the hour every hour from everyone in the Senate and half the fucking United States Congress. I tell ’em what we’re doing. I tell ’em we’re listening to the guy, we’re working through every word he says to see if we can’t get some kind of fix on where he might have put her. I’ve got agents going back through DMV records to try and find some record of this car and where it’s been all these years. Jesus, I’ve got people re-fingerprinting every callbox he used, going through his clothes for trace fibers and samples of dirt he might have picked up on his shoes. I’m doing every goddamned thing I can think of, and right now, as we speak, I have zip.’

Hartmann rose from his chair. ‘I gotta get outta here, get some fresh air or something. That okay with you?’

‘Sure,’ Schaeffer said. ‘Get a pager from Kubis so we can call you if we need you. Seems to me that there ain’t one helluva lot that you can do until tomorrow.’

Schaeffer stepped away from the doorway and let him pass. Hartmann went to see Lester Kubis. Kubis gave him a pager and checked that it was working.

Hartmann nodded at Ross as he left, and passing out through the front door onto Arsenault Street he was at once surprised by the clear blue of the sky, the warmth of the sunshine. There was a tangible difference between here and New York, a difference he had missed in some ways, but beneath that there was the awareness of all that New Orleans represented. He thought about Danny, and thoughts of Danny became thoughts of Jess which, in turn, became thoughts of Carol and what would happen come Saturday. Right now it was not a problem. This matter could conclude tomorrow, perhaps the day after, and he decided that he would not concern himself with it until the latter part of Friday. It was Sunday evening. He had five days to hear what Perez had to say.

Ray Hartmann walked for the sake of walking, no other reason. He took a left at the end of Arsenault and headed downtown. He looked at the façades of buildings he had not seen since early 1988, the better part of fifteen years before.
Plus ça change
, he thought. The more things change the more they stay the same.

He kept on walking, trying to keep his mind absent of anything specific, and before he could take stock of where he was he found himself at Verlaine’s Precinct House. He went up the steps and passed through the double doors. It was quiet inside. Seemed as though nothing moved. The duty sergeant didn’t even look up from his paperwork, not until Hartmann reached the desk and cleared his throat to attract the man’s attention.

The sergeant, his brass-colored name-tag identifying him as one Walter Gerritty, looked up, peered over the rim of his horn-rimmed glasses and raised his eyebrows.

‘I was after John Verlaine,’ Hartmann said.

‘And I should imagine you are not the only one,’ Gerritty said. ‘And who might you be?’

‘Ray Hartmann . . . Special Investigator Ray Hartmann.’

Gerritty nodded sagely. ‘And would that mean you are a special person, or that you only investigate special things?’

Hartmann smiled; the guy was a wiseacre. ‘It would mean both, of course,’ Hartmann said.

‘Good enough for me,’ Gerritty said, and reached for the telephone at the edge of the high desk. He dialed a number, waited for a second, and then said, ‘Trouble awaits you in the foyer.’ He did not wait for a response and hung up. ‘He’ll be down in just a moment or so.’ Gerritty resumed his paperwork.

Hartmann nodded and took a step back from the desk.

Gerritty peered over the rim of his glasses again and scrutinized Hartmann. ‘Problem?’

Hartmann shook his head.

‘Good enough then,’ Gerritty said, and once more his head went down and he started writing on the sheet before him.

Verlaine appeared within a minute, perhaps less.

Gerritty watched him come down the stairs. ‘Figured it was a pissed-off husband, didn’t you?’ he asked Verlaine.

The cop smiled. ‘You are an asshole of the first order, Gerritty,’ he said.

Gerritty nodded. ‘We all have our chosen station in life,’ he replied, ‘and we do our best to keep up standards.’

Verlaine looked at Hartmann. Perhaps there was a moment of uncertainty, and then he reached the bottom of the stairwell and came towards Hartmann with his hand outstretched.

‘Mr Hartmann,’ he said. ‘Good to see you.’

Hartmann shook the other man’s hand. ‘Likewise,’ he said. ‘I wondered if you were free for a while. If you’re busy we could meet up another time.’ Verlaine shook his head. ‘Now is good. I’m done with this shift in a little less than an hour.’

‘Figured you were done with your shift half an hour after you arrived,’ Gerritty interjected.

‘Wiseass,’ Verlaine said, and then turned and started back up the stairs. ‘Come on,’ he said to Hartmann. ‘My office is up here.’

Hartmann followed Verlaine to the top, where they turned left. Three doors down and they were in a narrow office with a small window. There was barely sufficient space for the desk and two chairs. Against the wall stood a three-drawer file cabinet, and it was positioned in such a way as to prevent the door from opening to its full extent.

‘They give me the smallest office in the building . . . one day I hope to be promoted and I’ll get the broom cupboard.’

Hartmann smiled and took a seat.

‘You want some coffee or something?’ Verlaine asked.

‘Any good?’

‘Fucking awful . . . like stewed raccoon piss and molasses.’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘I’ll take a raincheck then if you don’t mind,’ he said.

Verlaine edged his way around the desk and took a seat facing Hartmann. A cool breeze sneaked through the inched-open window as if it had no business entering. Evening was on its way and for this Hartmann felt grateful. With darkness there were fewer reminders, fewer things he recognized. With the darkness he could excuse himself from the world, retire to his hotel room to watch TV and pretend he was back in New York.

‘So what can I do for you?’ Verlaine asked.

Hartmann shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know that you can do anything specific,’ he said. ‘We got the guy, you know?’

Verlaine nodded. ‘So I understand. How is he?’

‘Old,’ Hartmann said. ‘Late sixties, loves the sound of his own voice. Listened to him talk for the better part of two days and still I have no fucking idea why he took the girl or where she might be.’

‘And you have half the FBI all over you like a bad rash.’

‘A very bad rash.’

‘Why you?’ Verlaine asked. ‘You got some connection with this guy?’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘No idea . . . no idea at all.’

‘And that makes you feel real good,’ Verlaine said.

Hartmann nodded. ‘Sure as hell does.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘Out of school?’

Verlaine nodded. ‘Not a word passes beyond this door.’

‘He’s here . . . seems he wants to tell us his life story. We listen, we take notes, we make tapes, we have three dozen criminal profilers sweating blood up in Quantico, God knows how many agents down here running around in ever-decreasing circles, and we take it as it comes.’

‘So why come see me? You lonely down here in New Orleans?’

Hartmann smiled and shook his head. ‘You were the one who started this. You’ve been around some years, right?’

‘Here in Orleans, or in the Department?’

‘The latter.’

‘Eleven years,’ Verlaine said. ‘Eleven years all told, three and a half in Vice, last couple in Homicide.’

‘You’re not married?’

Verlaine shook his head. ‘No, and never have been. I have one brother and one sister but they keep themselves pretty much to themselves . . . end of a fucking dynasty, that’s me.’

Hartmann looked towards the window, southwards to the Federal Courts back of Lafayette Square. ‘The thing I can’t get out of my head is this connection to Feraud,’ he said. ‘I can’t help but think that Feraud is the one man who might know a great deal more than he’s willing to say.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Verlaine replied.

‘And what did he say when you went down to see him? I know you told me already, but tell me again.’

Verlaine opened the drawer on the right-hand side of his desk. From it he took a reporter’s notebook and flipped through several pages until he found the one he wanted. ‘I made a note of it,’ he said. ‘’Fess me up to the Feds if you like, but there was something about what Feraud said that really got to me. Why, I don’t know, but after I told you about this I felt I needed to be clear about what he’d said, and so I wrote it down as best as I could remember.’ Verlaine leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘He said that I had a problem. He said I had a serious problem and that there was nothing he could do to help me. He said that the man I was looking for didn’t come from here, by which I presumed he meant New Orleans, that he was once one of us, but not for many years. Feraud said that this man came from the outside, and that he would bring with him something that was big enough to swallow us all.’

Verlaine looked at Hartmann.

Hartmann didn’t speak.

‘Feraud said I should walk away, that this was not something I should go looking for.’

‘And there was no mention of the kidnapping, and nothing about Gemini . . . no reference to either of those?’

Verlaine shook his head. ‘I didn’t ask, and he didn’t venture anything. Feraud is not the sort of person you push for answers.’

Hartmann nodded. ‘I haven’t been here for fifteen years, and I am aware of the man’s reputation.’

‘So that was that. He said what he had to say and I left.’

Hartmann leaned forward and looked directly at Verlaine. ‘I want to go back there to see him.’

Verlaine laughed suddenly, unnaturally. ‘You’re fucking joking, right?’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘I wanna go out there and talk to the man . . . I wanna find out how much he knows about this. I want to see if he knows this man, see if it doesn’t prompt him to tell us a little more.’

‘And compromise the entirety of the federal investigation?’

Hartmann nodded. ‘That, yes . . . I have considered that, but nevertheless, right now he’s the only person who seems to have any kind of an understanding of who this man is and what he might have done.’

‘All due respects for your cojones, but you can leave me the fuck out of that,’ Verlaine said. He looked nervous, agitated.

‘I’m not going to get anywhere near him without you,’ Hartmann said.

‘So you’re not going to get anywhere near him then,’ Verlaine said, ‘because you sure as hell ain’t dragging me into this. This is a federal jurisdiction investigation for Christ’s sake! You seen how many people they’ve brought down here? This is Catherine Ducane, daughter of Louisiana’s governor, and you wanna go do something that could jeopardize the entire operation?’

Hartmann shook his head slowly. ‘They don’t have an operation. They have one helluva lot of men and horsepower. They have radios and tape recorders and voice experts and criminal profilers, but the fact of the matter is they actually don’t have a plan between them. They are just waiting this out, hoping to hell that Perez will say something that gives them a clue as to where the girl might be.’

Verlaine was quiet for a moment. ‘That’s his name . . . the old guy? Perez?’

Hartmann nodded. ‘Ernesto Perez.’

‘What the fuck is that? Spanish or Mexican or something?’

‘Cuban . . . originally from Cuba.’

‘Mafia?’

Hartmann glanced towards the window. He was saying too much and he knew it. ‘Indirectly, yes . . . connections with the Mafia in Cuba.’

‘And he’s just sitting there telling you his whole life story, like his autobiography or something?’

‘Yes, seems that way,’ Hartmann said. ‘Man’s singing like a canary.’

‘And right now he’s given you nothing that indicates why he took the girl and where he’s hidden her?’

‘Or if she’s even still alive,’ Hartmann said. ‘He challenged me when I was talking to him. He made mention of something called the rule of threes.’

Verlaine nodded. ‘Air, water and food, right?’

‘That’s right. By implication he suggested that she was somewhere with no food and every moment I wasted time in talking to him was a direct threat to her life.’