A Quiet Vendetta

TWENTY

‘We have nothing on the wife,’ Schaeffer said. ‘Not a single fucking thing.’

‘It’s been twenty-four hours,’ Hartmann replied. ‘Even you guys can’t expect miracles.’

‘And now we have two kids to find, not one. I cannot believe that with the most advanced, state-of-the-art security database systems in the world we cannot find any evidence of this woman having existed.’

‘But you’re going off one name,’ Hartmann said. ‘And who’s to say that the name he’s using is actually his real name?’

Schaeffer didn’t reply. He looked awkward for a moment. The most complex and advanced security database in the world was only as effective as the information given to it. Bullshit in, bullshit out – wasn’t that the technical phrase?

Woodroffe stood up from the table in the main office. It was five of seven. Perez had been returned to the Royal Sonesta a little after six. Hartmann was aware of the fact that he had an appointment to keep with the man.

‘So we get our answer tonight,’ Schaeffer said, and in his voice was a tone of philosophical resignation. Though it had not been discussed further, there was no doubt in Hartmann’s mind that they were all fully aware of what that answer would be. Perez was not interested in a trade-off, and that had never been his purpose. It was that simple. Perez was here to make himself heard, and right now it seemed the whole world was listening.

‘You guys are now looking into Ducane’s involvement in these things, right?’ Hartmann asked, and – truth be known – he believed he was asking it merely to stir up dissent.

Schaeffer shook his head. ‘Transcripts of everything Perez has said have been passed directly to the attorney general and the director of the FBI. It’s their decision, not ours. Like I said before, and I’ll say again, we are here to get the girl, not to involve ourselves in the comings and goings of corrupt politicians.’

‘Allegedly corrupt politicians,’ Hartmann said, his tone a little sarcastic.

Schaeffer nodded. ‘Allegedly corrupt politicians, right.’

‘Whaddya reckon?’ Hartmann asked.

‘About Ducane?’ Schaeffer shook his head. ‘I’ve been too long in the FBI to be surprised about anything, Mr Hartmann… and that’s all I’m gonna say on the matter.’

‘So where from here?’ Woodroffe asked.

‘I go have some dinner with Perez,’ Hartmann said. ‘I hear him tell me how we can go stick our proposal up our collective asses, and then I go back to my hotel and get some sleep. I got a busy day tomorrow.’

Woodroffe shook his head and sighed.

‘Let’s get it done then,’ Schaeffer said, and rose from his chair.

‘Filet mignon,’ Perez said, and indicated a chair at the table in his room at the Sonesta. ‘It appears they have done a serviceable job. I shall perhaps recommend this hotel to some of my friends.’

Hartmann removed his jacket and took a seat at the table. A cloth had been laid, there were candles, warm plates already in place and on a trolley beside them covered dishes emitted a number of very pleasant aromas.

Perez remained standing as he served dinner, as he offered vegetables, as he poured the wine, and when he too was seated he unfolded a napkin and laid it across his lap.

‘I have considered your proposal,’ he said quietly, ‘and though I am in no way ungrateful for the concern of the attorney general and the director of the FBI about my welfare, I have decided, after long consideration, that I shall decline their offer.’

‘Long consideration?’ Hartmann asked. He smiled knowingly. ‘You knew the answer to the question before it was even asked.’

Perez shrugged, ‘Perhaps my consideration of the proposal served no other purpose than to enable us to spend a little time together this evening, Mr Hartmann. We are both in the best company we can find at this particular juncture in our lives, and I felt it would be good to take advantage of it. I believe that we are both humble enough to realize that something mutually educational and beneficial can be gained from this relationship.’

‘I have learned something,’ Hartmann said.

Perez looked up. ‘Pray tell.’

‘That no matter the situation a person might find himself in there is always a choice, and dependent on that choice his life will advance or decline.’

‘You believe, of course, that I perpetually made the wrong decisions?’

‘Yes, I do. I accept that you made your decisions based on what you believed at the time, but I consider that your beliefs were fundamentally wrong. Hindsight is a tremendously effective tool for determining the correctness of a man’s decisions, but unfortunately it is always too late by the time you have that advantage.’

‘You are a closet philosopher, Mr Hartmann.’

‘I am a closet realist, Mr Perez.’

Perez smiled. He speared a piece of steak and ate it. ‘And now?’

Hartmann raised his eyebrows.

‘You have made a decision about your life from this point forward?’

‘I have.’

‘And that is?’

Hartmann was quiet for a second. ‘I have come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as the perfect answer, Mr Perez. I do not believe Man is capable of always selecting the perfect answer. What may be perfect in that moment will not neces-sarily be perfect five minutes later. There is always the ultimate variable.’

‘Variable?’

‘People,’ Hartmann said. ‘The variable of people. The choices you made were, by their very nature, inherently connected to the people in your life. You believe you understand them well enough, especially if they are the people you live with, and you make choices based on what you consider will be not only the best for yourself, but also the best for them. The problem is that people change, people are unpredictable, and they have other factors that influence their opinions and viewpoints, and opinions and viewpoints are subject to change. The connections and interrelationships between people are tenuous and fickle, Mr Perez, and thus I don’t believe there will ever be a solution which is right for everyone involved simultaneously.’

‘You have made a decision about your own family?’ Perez asked.

‘I have.’

‘And?’

‘To make it work… to do everything in my power to make it work.’

‘And you believe you can do that?’

‘I have to believe it, or everything else becomes sort of pointless.’

‘And there is action that you can take?’

Hartmann did not speak.

‘Mr Hartmann?’

Hartmann looked up. ‘There was an action I was planning to take, but events have conspired to make that action perhaps impossible.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I was supposed to meet with my wife and daughter.’

‘Here?’

‘No, in New York.’

‘When?’

‘This Saturday at noon.’

Perez paused for a second. He leaned back. He set his knife and fork down, took the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. ‘And I have been the event that has conspired against you,’ he said quietly, almost sympathetically.

‘You have… though I understand that this is important, and that there is significance to our meetings. Of course these events may not be as important to me as they are to you, but I have nevertheless made an agreement, and that is something I will stand by.’

‘There is your realist, Mr Hartmann, the very thing that you are afraid of becoming.’

‘Afraid? How so?’

‘To accept the fact that you can do nothing about this because of me is fatalist. A realist would take action regardless of other causes.’

‘I will take action.’

‘Action sufficient to repair whatever damage might be done by failing to meet your wife and daughter on Saturday?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

Perez nodded. He placed the napkin on his lap once more and lifted his knife and fork. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘I believe you will take whatever action is necessary and deal with the situation effectively.’

Hartmann looked at Perez and saw that this line of conversation would go no further. He continued to eat, though eating was the last thing on his mind, and when he was done they spoke more – of music, of art, of philosophy – but Hartmann knew that it was all a pretence, a face Perez was wearing for the world, a means by which he could talk without saying anything at all. He wished to reserve his revelations for the FBI office. This was the way he wanted it, and this was what he accomplished.

Hartmann left a little before eight-thirty. He met Woodroffe and Schaeffer in the downstairs foyer. They had been party to all that had been discussed in Perez’s hotel room, and already Perez’s response had been relayed to the attorney general and the director of the FBI.

‘Still nothing on the wife,’ Woodroffe told Hartmann. ‘We can only assume that both the names, Perez and Tiacoli, are assumed. There is no record of any woman with those names ever having been born, resident, married, divorced or anything else in the mainland United States. But we keep looking,’ he added, ‘and we keep looking until we have something better to look for.’

‘And Criminalistics and Forensics have come up with nothing else to help us? And the teams of people you sent out to search the different routes in and out of the city?’ Hartmann asked. ‘Nothing that gives any kind of indication of where he might have her?’

Woodroffe shook his head. ‘Absolutely zip.’

‘You got people tearing their hair out.’

‘I got people tearing my hair out,’ Woodroffe said, and for the first time Hartmann saw how utterly exhausted these people were – mentally, physically, emotionally. Upon this their entire futures could rest, and that was something Hartmann had never really taken into consideration. He had only considered how this affected him. Perhaps here he had found another lesson worth learning.

‘I’m going,’ Hartmann said. ‘Gotta get some rest.’

‘I didn’t know this thing about your wife,’ Schaeffer commented.

Hartmann shrugged. ‘What’s there to tell? I screwed it up… up to me to un-screw it up as best I can.’

‘Good luck,’ Schaeffer said.

Hartmann nodded. ‘Need as much as I can get.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Schaeffer replied, and then he smiled, and as Hartmann turned towards the door he said, ‘Sleep good, eh?’ and Hartmann realized that when he saw Schaeffer the following morning the man would probably have not slept at all.

From the Royal Sonesta he drove across town to Verlaine’s Precinct. Verlaine was off-shift but the desk sergeant called his mobile and put Hartmann on the line.

‘You ready for this?’ Hartmann asked.

‘As ever,’ Verlaine replied. ‘You wanna meet me somewhere?’

‘Where?’

‘You know the Orleans Star? Bar in the Vieux Carre near Tortorici’s Italian.’

‘Yes, I can find it.’

‘Meet you there in about twenty minutes. I can call her from my cellphone… that way she can’t get Information to track the landline back to New Orleans.’

‘See you there,’ Hartmann said, and he hung up.

‘So whaddya want me to say?’ Verlaine asked.

They were seated in Verlaine’s car across the street from the bar. Hartmann hadn’t wanted to go inside, firstly because Carol would have heard the music in the background and figured him to be somewhere where he shouldn’t have been, and secondly because Hartmann did not want to tempt himself with liquor. What was it Perez had said: a temptation resisted is the true measure of character? Something such as that.

‘Tell her you’re a police officer, that you’re not from New York, that there’s a federal investigation ongoing and I am a very necessary part of it. Tell her I am quite some distance away and there’s a very strong possibility that I might not make it back to New York for Saturday.’

‘You gonna want to talk to her?’ Verlaine asked.

‘Don’t reckon she’ll wanna talk to me,’ Hartmann said.

‘Gimme the number.’

Hartmann gave him the number. Verlaine dialed it.

Hartmann sat there with a sweat breaking out on his forehead. His hands were shaking, he could feel his heart hammering through his chest. He felt like a teenager all over again.

‘Carol Hartmann? Hi, my name is John. I am a detective with the police department.

‘No ma’am, there’s nothing wrong, I’m actually calling on a personal matter.

‘Yes, about your husband. He’s actually away from New York right now, quite a distance away, and he’s become involved in a very important federal investigation, and-’

Verlaine glanced at Hartmann. ‘Yes ma’am, he is.’

Verlaine nodded, looked at Hartmann again. ‘She wants to talk to you.’

Hartmann could not contain his surprise. Verlaine passed him the phone and Hartmann took it. His hand was visibly shaking.

‘Carol?’

No Ray, it’s the Archangel bloody Gabriel. What the hell is this all about?

‘Like John said. I got myself into something down here-’

Down where?

‘I can’t tell you, Carol… but there’s a federal investigation going on-’

Since when?

‘Since a few days ago… and I’m away from New York right now and I wanted to call you and tell you that I might not be able to make it back before Saturday.’

So why the hell didn’t you call me? Why are you getting some guy I never heard of to call me?

‘Because I was afraid you might not believe me, Carol.’

Aah come on Ray, you know me better than that. A drunk you might be-

‘Been, Carol… a drunk I might have been-’

Well, that remains to be seen. Anyway, a drunk you might have been but you were never a liar. We’ve been married a good many years, Ray, and I know you better than anyone on the face of the earth. So what’s the deal then? When are you coming back?

‘I don’t know.’

You must have some idea… a week, two, a month?

‘No, no idea… I don’t think it will be as long as that but right now it’s unknown.’

And you can’t tell me anything about it, obviously.

‘Right.’

Well, okay then… it is what it is. You do whatever you have to do, and when you get back to New York call me and I’ll see how I feel. I had my doubts about us meeting anyway-

‘Doubts?’ Hartmann said, anxiety tripping his voice. ‘What doubts?’

I’m not going to do this now, Ray… not on the phone while you’ve got some guy sat next to you. You call me when you get back to New York and if we meet… well, we’ll see how things are when you call, okay? You want to speak to Jess?

Hartmann nearly dropped the phone. ‘Hell yes… Jesus Carol… thanks.’

Christ Ray, what the hell is up with you? You act like I’ve forgotten you’re her father. Hang on there… I’ll go get her.

Hartmann looked at Verlaine. ‘My daughter,’ he said, and Verlaine nodded and smiled.

Daddy?

‘Hi sweetpea… how are you?’

I’m fine, Daddy. How are you doing?

‘I’m okay, honey… you looking after Mom for me?’

That’s not my job, Daddy, that’s yours. So when you coming home?

‘Soon I hope, Jess, real soon. I called to say that I couldn’t get there for Saturday, but I’m gonna call Mom as soon as I get back to New York and we’ll meet up, okay?’

You’re not coming Saturday?

‘I can’t, honey.’ Hartmann felt his voice cracking with emotion.

Oh Dad, we were gonna have a picnic an’ everything.

‘I know sweetheart, but I gotta do something and I don’t think it will take long, and when it’s done I’ll come back to New York and we can see each other.’

Tell whoever it is that they should give you a day off so you can come and see us.

‘I would if I could, you know that, Jess… but right now there’s this thing I gotta finish and I’ll be right back, okay?’

I miss you, Dad. ‘I miss you too, sweetpea, but it won’t be long, I promise.’

You mean it this time?

‘I mean it, Jess… I really do mean it.’

Okay Dad. Don’t be long, okay? Here’s Mom.

‘Okay Jess… I love you, honey. Daddy really, really loves you.’ Ray?

‘Carol.’

We gotta go… I got to get her to bed.

‘Okay Carol… and thanks.’

Whatever…

‘I love you, Carol.’

I don’t doubt it, Ray, and never have… but the old saying is true.

‘The old saying?’

Yes, Ray, the one about actions speaking louder than words. Whichever way you look at it we made an agreement for Saturday, and that ain’t gonna happen right now. I’m pissed with you about that and I know Jess is upset. That makes me pissed twice as much. I know whatever I say ain’t gonna change what you’ve decided to do, and the fact of the matter is that the more I think about it the more I feel that most of our married life went on that premise. You have a think about that, and if you decide that what we’ve got is worth salvaging enough then I believe you’ll make it here on Saturday. If not, well you won’t, right?

Hartmann was struck dumb.

I’ll tell Jess goodnight for you, okay?

‘Carol-’

I’m taking her to bed, Ray… I don’t have anything else to say.

The line went dead and Hartmann sat there with the cellphone pressed against his ear for some seconds. There were tears in his eyes, a fist of emotion in his throat, and when he turned and handed the phone back to Verlaine he said nothing.

‘It’s gonna be okay,’ Verlaine said. ‘Hell, she let you talk to your kid, right?’

Hartmann nodded. He wiped his eyes with the ball of his thumb. He reached for the lever and opened the door.

‘Thanks John,’ he said as he started to climb out of the car.

‘Hey,’ Verlaine called after him.

Hartmann looked back over his shoulder.

‘You’re gonna come out of this fine,’ Verlaine said. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen worse. The trick is to keep breathing, right?’

Hartmann smiled. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The trick is to just keep breathing.’

He slept better. That much at least. And he did not dream. And when Ross came to collect him in the morning Ray Hartmann just held onto the memory of his daughter’s voice. Amidst everything – the madness, the killing, the brutality of everything he was hearing, everything he was witness to – that memory seemed like his only anchor in the storm.

Schaeffer and Woodroffe were no further forward on identifying Perez’s wife and children, and all of them – even if unspoken – knew that that line of investigation was a hide into nowhere. None of them voiced it because none of them wanted to lose any more hope. There was little enough to go around. First twenty-four hours were the most important in a missing persons case. They knew that as well as they knew their own names. Within another twenty-four hours Catherine Ducane would have been gone for two weeks.

Her time was running out.

Perhaps it had vanished already.

And then Perez arrived with his escort, and he was shown down to the office where Hartmann was already waiting for him. He removed his coat and handed it to Sheldon Ross, and Ross closed the door gently behind him.

‘Mr Hartmann,’ Perez said quietly as he sat down in the small office at the back of the building. ‘Have a cup of coffee and let me tell you what happened in Chicago.’

‘I have had two cups of coffee already, Mr Perez.’

‘To stay awake?’ Perez asked.

Hartmann waved the question aside. ‘You need to tell us what is happening here, Mr Perez,’ he said.

Perez frowned. ‘Happening here, Mr Hartmann? What is happening here is that I am going to tell you about Chicago-’

‘You understand what I mean-’ Hartmann started.

Perez leaned forward. His expression was cold and aloof. ‘You will listen to me,’ he said quietly. ‘You will listen to what I have to say and then I will tell you where she is.’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘We need to know that she is at least alive, Mr Perez.’

‘We need to know?’ Perez asked. ‘And who would we be, Mr Hartmann? Is this simply a matter of your own situation-’

‘Enough,’ Hartmann interjected. He could sense Schaeffer beyond the door. He knew that there was nothing he could say to impress upon Perez the frustration and anger he was feeling. Everything was closed up inside, everything tight and breathless, and he knew that whatever he said there was no way around this. Perez would tell them what he wanted when he wanted, and that was the bottom line.

‘So tell me,’ Hartmann said. ‘Tell me what happened in Chicago.’

Perez nodded and leaned back in his chair. ‘Okay,’ he said, and for a moment he closed his eyes as if in concentration.

When he opened them he looked back at Ray Hartmann, and for the first time in all the hours they had spent together Hartmann believed there was a spark of real emotion inside the man, like something had welled up inside him and was ready to burst.

‘Family,’ he started. ‘It was, and always will be, everything to do with family.’