A Quiet Vendetta

SIXTEEN

‘We have the salesman… we don’t have a body, but we have a confession,’ Woodroffe said.

They were seated in the main office of the building, he and Hartmann and Schaeffer; it was early evening, an hour or so after Perez had been escorted back to the Royal Sonesta.

Hartmann had a headache the size of Nebraska. He was drinking too much coffee, smoking too many cigarettes; felt as if he had been cornered in a nightmare of his own worst devising.

‘We have the murder of Gerard McCahill, Pietro Silvino, this guy McLuhan, two people in the Shell Beach Motel and this Chester Wintergreen, whoever the fuck that might be. Now there’s the three Puerto Ricans and Giancarlo Ceriano in Vegas. We believe that we can verify at least six of these killings, and we have no reason at all to suspect that Perez is not guilty.’

Hartmann looked across the table at Schaeffer. Schaeffer’s expression was black, the expression of a tired and desperate man, and Hartmann believed that there was nothing in the world that could help him. They were all in the same predicament, the same tortured reality that Perez had so effortlessly created, and at the same time the three of them were ultimately responsible for what might happen as a result.

‘So?’ Hartmann asked.

Woodroffe looked at Schaeffer; Schaeffer nodded and Woodroffe turned back to Hartmann.

‘The men we sent out have still found nothing.’

Hartmann looked down. ‘Perhaps she is not even in New Orleans,’ he suggested, a thought that he imagined had been present in all their minds from the very start. Perez had been ahead of them by days, and he could have driven the girl halfway across the United States and they would have been none the wiser.

‘So we have the authority to make a deal with him,’ Woodroffe said, and even before he had explained his rationale Hartmann started to smile. He smiled like the similarly tired and desperate man he was.

‘We have authority from both FBI Director Dohring and the attorney general himself, Richard Seidler, to make a deal with Perez,’ Woodroffe went on. ‘And we want you to go over to the Sonesta and speak with Perez and see if he is willing to trade.’

‘And what would the proposal be?’ Hartmann asked.

Once again Woodroffe glanced at Schaeffer.

‘At least six counts of murder,’ Schaeffer said. ‘Six counts of murder that Perez has confessed to and that we can find evidence to corroborate, and in exchange for information on the whereabouts of the girl and her safe return-’ Schaeffer looked down at his hands. He paused for a moment and then looked up once more. ‘In exchange for the girl he walks.’

‘He walks?’ Hartmann was astounded.

‘Well, he walks as far as the United States justice community is concerned. He will be extradited back to Cuba, and if the Cuban government wants to make something of whatever crimes were committed on Cuban soil, then that’s their business. We would not be willing… well, let’s just say that we would not put ourselves in a co-operative position as far as forwarding any evidence to them is concerned.’

‘And if she’s already dead?’ Hartmann asked. ‘If she’s already dead, and this wasn’t just a kidnapping but a seventh murder you can corroborate?’

Schaeffer shook his head. ‘That is a gamble we are prepared to take.’

‘We?’ Hartmann asked, his tone a little accusatory. ‘Don’t you mean you, or Dohring and Seidler, and back of them Charles Ducane with whatever pressure he’s brought to bear through his political connections?’

Woodroffe leaned forward. He rested his hands flat on the table. ‘We are operating on the assumption that the girl is still alive,’ he said. ‘We have simply been granted the authority to put this proposal forward to Perez, and seeing as how he chose you to come down and hear him out we are choosing you to go over and tell him what we are prepared to do.’

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Hartmann said, ‘and in all honesty I don’t think you’ll accomplish anything but pissing him off. Don’t you see, this isn’t about the girl? It isn’t even about the kidnapping, and it sure as hell ain’t about Perez murdering Gerard McCahill or anyone else. This is about Perez’s life… it’s about the things he’s done and the people who told him to do them-’

‘Aah for Christ’s sake Hartmann, you’re talking out of your ass,’ Woodroffe snapped.

‘Am I?’ Hartmann interjected. ‘You really think you understand what’s going on inside this man’s head?’

‘No… but I suppose you do,’ Schaeffer said.

Hartmann sighed; this was going to be a circular and pointless confrontation. ‘I believe I do,’ he said. ‘At least a little of it.’

‘Then please enlighten us,’ Schaeffer said, ‘because right now it seems we are no closer to understanding anything about what happened to Catherine Ducane than we were a week last Saturday.’

‘It’s about being someone,’ Hartmann said. ‘It’s about being no-one at all, and then becoming someone, and then realizing that you’re no-one at all once more.’

‘Come again?’ Woodroffe said.

‘Ernesto Perez was a nobody… some beaten-to-shit kid with a crazy father, and then his father kills his mother and he’s gotta get out of the US. So he heads to Cuba, and there he meets people with money, people who want him to be whatever he is, and he does these things and he has money, reputation, he has people afraid of him, and now I believe he has been excommunicated from that life. He has found himself in a situation where the people who were supposed to be his friends, his family if you like… well, they’ve turned their backs on him and he finds himself alone.’

‘What the fuck is that all about?’ Woodroffe asked. ‘You’re a fully qualified criminal profiler all of a sudden?’

‘It’s a gut feeling,’ Hartmann said. ‘I’ve sat in there for God only knows how many hours listening to this man tell the story of his life, and there is a great deal we don’t know, that is for sure, but there is a great deal we can surmise. What I can see, what I have read in what he has told us so far, is that he has come to realize he has been the pawn of more powerful men, and now he is in a position, for what reason we don’t know, where perhaps he has needed something and they have not been willing to help him.’

‘Hypothesize all you like,’ Woodroffe said, ‘but the truth of the matter is that we follow protocol, and protocol is established by senior authority, and that senior authority is directing us to put forward a proposal and see if a deal can be struck.’

Hartmann didn’t reply.

‘We need you to get behind this, Hartmann,’ Schaeffer said. ‘We need you to be on the same team as us. We got something to do here-’

‘So do it yourself,’ Hartmann interjected.

Schaeffer sighed audibly. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He spoke again without moving his head and Hartmann could tell how utterly and completely frustrated he was. ‘We need you to do this,’ he said slowly. ‘We need you to handle whatever doubts and reservations you might have about this and go over there and talk to this whacko. We need you to give it your best shot, and who the hell knows… it might not come to anything, but right now everything you’re saying, everything any of us are saying, is merely supposition and assumption. Perez might go for the deal, he might not-’

‘He won’t be interested,’ Hartmann said.

‘And why the fuck are you so sure of that?’ Woodroffe asked.

‘Because he’s a murderer and a psychopath. He’s an old man who’s spent the whole of his life killing people, right from his teens. We didn’t know anything about him. He could have stayed wherever he was and never made a sound, and none of us would have been any the wiser. He’s kidnapped the girl for a reason. He hasn’t just turned himself in to confess all these things to make himself feel better. This isn’t an exercise in conscience, it’s a calculated method of accomplishing something that we know nothing about. He has an agenda, a rationale, and however fucking crazy that might be, it’s still a reason, right? The man has a reason for doing this and it ain’t because he likes the sound of his own voice, and it sure as fuck ain’t because he wants to barter for a lesser jail sentence. These are things we would have never known anything about. He never had a jail sentence to begin with… why on earth would he go about creating one?’

Woodroffe shook his head and looked at Schaeffer. ‘He’s right. Why has he turned himself in at all? Why didn’t he just stay wherever the hell he was and die quietly?’

‘Because he’s fucking crazy, and crazy people do crazy things all the time,’ Schaeffer said. ‘You cannot apply reason to an unreasonable action.’

Hartmann raised his eyebrows. He remembered having that exact same thought himself.

‘So what the fuck do you propose?’ Woodroffe asked Schaeffer.

Schaeffer shook his head. ‘We don’t have a choice. We have been asked to put a proposal to this man, and that’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna give it our best shot. Hartmann is gonna go over to the Royal Sonesta Hotel, and with a hundred federal agents present, he’s gonna sit in a room with Ernesto Perez and ask him if he wants to make a trade for the life of the girl. We’ll see what Perez has to say, and if he tells us to go fuck ourselves then we’re in no worse a situation than we are right now.’

‘Good point,’ Woodroffe said. ‘Mr Hartmann?’

Hartmann shrugged his shoulders. ‘You guys are in charge here… I’m just the ex-alcoholic who drove a twelve-wheeler through his life and then got dragged down here against his will and wants nothing more than to go home. But don’t blame me if he gets so pissed off he decides he’s never gonna tell us where the girl is.’

‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take,’ Woodroffe said.

‘Agreed,’ Schaeffer said. ‘I ain’t gonna be the one to call the FBI director and tell him go shove his proposal up his ass.’

‘It’s your call, boys,’ Hartmann said, and he rose to his feet. ‘But I ain’t doing it tonight.’

Schaeffer frowned. ‘Whaddya mean, you ain’t doing it tonight?’

‘I have a migraine the size of most of Louisiana and then some. I didn’t sleep good last night. I am not in the best frame of mind to negotiate a trade for Catherine Ducane’s life. You want me to do this then you gotta cut me some slack on how it’s done. I need some time to think about this, to work out how I should best speak to him. I think it’s a fucking waste of everybody’s time, but I also understand that if he says no then we haven’t really lost anything either. I have more reasons not to be here right now than you guys could ever imagine, and the last thing I wanna do is blow my only chance of leaving here as soon as possible by going at this in completely the wrong frame of mind.’

‘I agree with Hartmann,’ Woodroffe said.

‘You wanna call Bob Dohring and tell him we ain’t doing this right now? If we ain’t doing it now then when the fuck are we gonna do it?’

‘Tomorrow,’ Hartmann said.

‘Every twenty-four hours is another twenty-four hours of Catherine Ducane’s life. You understand that, right?’

Hartmann nodded. ‘I understand that… of course I understand that, but if she’s dead then another twenty-four hours ain’t gonna make the slightest bit of difference, and if she’s alive then she’s alive because Perez wants her alive, and if that’s the case then she’ll stay alive until he’s got to the end of whatever the fuck it is he’s decided to tell us.’

‘So what do we tell Dohring?’ Schaeffer asked. ‘You have any bright ideas for that one?’

‘Tell him Perez refused to speak to us ’til tomorrow. Tell them that he wants to tell us all about New York before he discusses anything else. Tell him whatever the fuck you like. I’m getting out of here. This place is driving me fucking nuts, and the last thing I’m gonna do right now is go over to the Royal freakin’ Sonesta and barter with Ernesto Perez. And if whatever you tell Dohring doesn’t work, tell him I’ll quit unless he gives us some flexibility on this… and he can come down and work his charm on Perez and see what the fuck happens then, okay?’

‘Have you been drinking?’ Woodroffe asked. ‘Is this getting to you so much that you’ve fallen off the wagon, Mr Hartmann?’

Hartmann closed his eyes and clenched his fists. It took everything he possessed to restrain himself from lunging across the table and belting Woodroffe.

‘No, Mr Woodroffe, I have not been drinking… apart from the poisonous fucking coffee that you people have somehow managed to concoct.’

‘It’s okay,’ Schaeffer said, ‘I’ll handle Dohring. There’s a good deal of sense to what you’re saying. You go back to the Marriott. Get some rest. We’ll hear Perez out tomorrow, and then we’ll put our proposal to him. We’re all agreed, right?’

Hartmann nodded. Woodroffe grunted noncommittally.

Schaeffer rose from his chair. ‘Then it’s settled. Tomorrow we listen to what the man has to say, and when he’s done Mr Hartmann will go to the Sonesta and speak with him alone.’

Hartmann nodded his thanks to Schaeffer and walked across the office to the exit. He glanced back when he reached the door and saw both Woodroffe and Schaeffer standing silently, neither of them looking anywhere in particular, each of them lost somewhere within their own thoughts. Perhaps they had families too, Hartmann thought, and for a second he realized that he had paid no mind at all to what either of them might be going through as a result of this. But the fact of the matter was that they had chosen this life, this line of work, and he – Ray Hartmann – had seemed to wind up here by nothing but default.

He shook his head and went out through the doorway. The images of Catherine Ducane looked back at him from each wall as he walked. The effect unnerved Hartmann, unnerved him greatly.

Schaeffer watched him disappear into the corridor and turned to Woodroffe. ‘You think he took it?’

Woodroffe shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Seems to have done.’

Schaeffer nodded. ‘It’s important that he thinks we’re actually going to make this deal with Perez. If he doesn’t believe that this is our position then he will not communicate it with any conviction.’

‘I think he’ll give it his best shot, but I think he probably knows Perez better than both of us. I think Perez won’t take it… think he’ll tell us to go fuck ourselves.’

‘And I think Ernesto Perez is going to die,’ Schaeffer said. ‘Regardless of whether he agrees to a deal or not, regardless of whether he tells us where the girl is, or if we find out she’s been dead from day one… whatever the hell happens he’s going to die.’

‘I know,’ Woodroffe said. ‘I know.’

‘So we go with this. We let Hartmann think we’re making the deal. We let them both believe that we will let Perez walk, right up to the point where he tells us about the girl, and then we fuck him, okay?’

‘That’s the brief we’ve been given, that’s what we do.’

Schaeffer nodded and reached for his jacket.

‘And Hartmann?’ Woodroffe asked.

Schaeffer turned and looked at his partner. ‘What about Hartmann?’

‘He will not be happy to find that he’s been cut out of the loop.’

Schaeffer seemed to sneer for a moment. ‘You really think anyone gives a rat’s ass about whether Ray Hartmann is happy or not? Come on, Bill, get real. This thing is gonna go forward regardless of who gets stepped on. This is Ducane’s daughter for Christ’s sake. You really think how anyone feels is gonna be taken into consideration?’

Woodroffe shook his head. ‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s okay, we go with it whichever way it’s supposed to go. We’ll do a body count later and clean up the battlefield.’

‘Always the way,’ Schaeffer said. ‘Always the way.’

‘And Ducane? When do we start knocking on his door and asking who’s home?’

‘Right now we don’t,’ Schaeffer replied. ‘That is not part of our gameplan, and as far as I know it never will be. It’s our job to find the girl, and once the girl’s found then whatever happens to Charles Ducane is gonna be someone else’s business.’

‘What d’you think?’ Woodroffe asked.

‘About Ducane?’

‘About Ducane.’

Schaeffer shook his head. ‘I don’t think anything. I cannot afford to think anything. I start sidetracking into whether or not Charles Ducane is in some way involved in all the shit we’ve been hearing then I’m gonna get into discussions I don’t want with people I don’t want to meet. You understand what I’m saying?’

Woodroffe nodded. ‘As clear as daylight.’

‘So until we’re invited we don’t show up, because whatever the hell kind of garden party that is I can guarantee you we’ll not be welcome.’ He rolled down his shirtsleeves, put on his jacket, and then held the door open for Woodroffe.

Woodroffe rose from his chair. ‘One day it’ll make sense,’ he said.

‘Who told you that?’ Schaeffer asked.

Woodroffe smiled sardonically. ‘The patron saint of liars.’

‘There you have it,’ Schaeffer said, and smiled. ‘Only man that can be trusted in this line of work.’

Two blocks down Hartmann stopped at a callbox. He called information for the number of Verlaine’s Precinct House. When he was put through he found Gerritty once again on the desk.

‘He’s out somewhere,’ Gerritty said when Hartmann asked for Verlaine. ‘You want his cellphone number?’

Hartmann took it, hung up, dialed the cellphone number and found Verlaine in transit.

‘Where are you?’ Hartmann asked.

‘About three blocks from the Precinct. Why? This isn’t another one of your insane fucking ideas, is it?’

‘No,’ Hartmann said. ‘I wanna ask if you’ll do something for me. Don’t worry, it’s harmless enough… it’s something personal.’

‘Meet you on the corner of Iberville,’ Verlaine said. ‘You know where that is?’

‘Sure.’

Hartmann drove over there and pulled up. He waited no more than three or four minutes and then saw Verlaine’s car approaching.

Verlaine parked up against the curb and Hartmann made his way over there.

Once inside he asked Verlaine if he could do him a favor.

‘Shoot,’ Verlaine said.

‘Thursday night – if we’re still in this on Thursday night – I want you to call my wife in New York.’

Verlaine didn’t say anything.

‘I want you to call her and tell her I’m on an official thing. Obviously you can’t tell her where I am, but I want you to tell her I’m on an official thing, and there might be a chance I won’t make it back to New York for Saturday.’

‘Sure,’ Verlaine said. ‘I can call her, but why don’t you call and tell her yourself?’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘Let’s say there’s a possibility she will read it as a cop-out or something. There’s a good possibility she won’t believe me, but if you call and tell her there will at least be a shred of credence to it.’

‘Trouble?’ Verlaine asked.

‘You could say that.’

‘Things gonna work out for you?’

‘I hope so.’

‘I’ll call her,’ Verlaine said. ‘You tell me what to say and I’ll say it, okay?’

Hartmann nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks, John… much appreciated.’

‘Not a problem, Ray. You okay?’

‘Sure,’ Hartmann said, and reached for the door lever.

‘Where you headed now?’

‘The Marriott,’ Hartmann said. ‘Got one bitch of a headache and I gotta get some sleep.’

‘Sure thing. You take it easy, okay?’

Hartmann made his way across the street to his own vehicle and drove slowly back to the Marriott. From his room he called for a sandwich and a glass of milk to be sent up. By the time they arrived he wondered if he had the strength to eat. He did anyway, the better part of half of it, and then he pulled off his clothes and collapsed on the bed like deadweight. He slept, slept like deadweight too, and even the alarm call didn’t manage to wake him.

He did wake though when Sheldon Ross got a passkey and let himself into the room.

It was a quarter of eight, morning of Wednesday 3 September, and Ross waited patiently outside the door while Hartmann showered and dressed.

They left together, drove across to Arsenault Street, and once there Hartmann found Schaeffer and Woodroffe seated exactly where they had been the evening before.

‘You boys even go home?’ Hartmann asked.

Schaeffer smiled and rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t fucking remember,’ he said, and before he could say another word there were voices and people, and Ernesto Perez, two men ahead of him, two men behind, and for all the world to see it appeared that he had become someone of importance all over again.

Once they were again seated across from one another, Hartmann looked at Perez and wondered if what he had said hadn’t been the truth. Had he in fact started to re-evaluate his own life? Had he started to truly accept that he was exclusively responsible for the situation he was in?

Hartmann shrugged the thought away. How could someone such as Perez precipitate anything of any worth? The man was an unconscionable psychopath, a hired killer, a brutal and unforgiving murderer. Surely there was nothing about him that could provoke any sense of mitigation or temper. Hartmann – despite himself – even considered the possibility that there might be something vaguely human within this individual, and then he closed such a thought down.

‘You are okay, Mr Hartmann?’ Perez asked.

Hartmann nodded. He tried to think of nothing at all. ‘You were going to tell us about New York.’

‘I was indeed,’ Perez replied. ‘In fact I was listening to Mr Frank Sinatra only last night in my hotel room, singing about that very same city. You care for Mr Sinatra?’

‘A little. My wife likes him a great deal.’

Perez smiled. ‘Then, Mr Hartmann, you have a wife with exceptional taste.’

Hartmann looked up. For a moment he was angry, felt invaded almost, as if mention of his wife from Perez’s lips was a personal affront.

Perez pre-empted any possibility that Hartmann could speak by smiling, raising his hand in an almost conciliatory fashion, and saying, ‘Enough, Mr Hartmann… we shall speak of New York, yes?’

For some reason Ray Hartmann went cool and quiet inside.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘New York… tell me what happened in New York.’