R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

That evening, the evening of Saturday 6 September, a day that marked the two-week disappearance of Catherine Ducane, a day that should have seen him in Tompkins Square Park with his wife and daughter, Ray Hartmann – he of the bruised heart and broken mind – lay on his bed in the Marriott Hotel. He could have transferred to the Royal Sonesta just as Schaeffer and Woodroffe had done, and it was not the threat of another bombing that had kept him away. It was simply the fact that he was attempting, seemingly against all odds, to maintain some distance between himself and what was happening. If he woke, showered, shaved and dressed in the same hotel where he had to speak with Perez, then it would feel as if that was all there was to his life. The Marriott was not home, could never have been anything even close, but at least it gave him the impression that there was a division between what he was doing and who he was. Now he believed that even if he had been given the choice to walk away he could not have done so. Even if someone had called and told him it was okay, that he could go back to New York and see his wife and daughter today, he imagined there would have been a question in his mind as to whether that was the right course of action to take.

Nineteen murders. Ernesto Perez had detailed to them nineteen different murders. Right from the encyclopedia salesman here in New Orleans to the Cuban constabulare who had been stabbed and burned in September of 1991, there were nineteen lives, nineteen people who no longer walked and talked, who no longer saw their husbands, wives, girlfriends, brothers, sisters, parents, children. Nineteen people who had vanished from the physical reality of life, who would never come back, who would never have another thought or feeling or emotion or passion. And beyond that, there were the additional eleven unnamed victims that had been summarily despatched when Perez worked for Giancarlo Ceriano. All killed by one man. Ernesto Cabrera Perez. A psychopath, even a homophobe, but at the same time strangely eloquent and cultured, considerate of feelings and the necessity for family, the power of loyalty and the giving of one’s word. A paradox. An anachronism. A mystery.

Hartmann found that all he believed in had been in some way challenged. The importance of his job, his so-called career. The value of friendship. The necessity to be trusted, to trust others, to make a promise and keep it. Just as Jess had asked him – would he now keep his promises? He believed he would. The deaths of Ross and the others, even the deaths of those who had been murdered by Perez, seemed to do nothing but highlight the importance of making every moment count for something, however insignificant it might seem at the time.

He had been an asshole, and it had not been because of his father, and it had not been because of genetics or some hereditary trait; it had been because of himself, he alone.

Perez had asked him whether circumstance governed choices, or if choices governed circumstance. Hartmann, now – perhaps in the most meaningful change of heart he had experienced since Carol and Jess had left him – believed it was the latter. He had made choices: to work, to stay late, to give too little credence and weight to the little things that Carol and Jess had considered important; and he had chosen to drink, whether it had been with Luca Visceglia or alone, he had nevertheless been in a situation where he could have said no. But he had not. Despite his word he had not. And this was the price he had paid. Choice governed circumstance, of that he was sure, and he knew that now, after all of this, his choices would be different.

During those early hours of Sunday morning, as New Orleans went through its routines; as people walked and laughed and danced down Gravier and through the districts of Arabi and Chalmette; as they ate at Tortorici’s Italian and Ursuline’s; as they drove along Chef Menteur Highway and the South Claiborne Avenue Overpass; as they talked their words out, expressing what was in their hearts and minds and souls; as they ran barefoot through Louis Armstrong Park, slowing down as they passed Our Lady of Guadalupe Church because they could not be sure, could never be sure that there wasn’t a God, and God didn’t mind the drinking, but the blaspheming and rowdiness around His house might just piss Him off enough to fly a thunderbolt through your heart; as they lived life in the vague hope that there might be something better just around the corner, and if not that corner then perhaps the next one, and everything came to those whose tongues were silent, whose hearts were patient, whose thoughts were pure and clean and simple; as people throughout the city went about the business of being frail and uncertain, impulsive and cautious, headstrong, passionate, unfaithful, honest, loyal, childlike, innocent and hurt… as all these things unfolded in darkness around him, Ray Hartmann believed that possibly – in some small and awkward way – what had happened here in New Orleans had been a second chance. If he came out of here alive, if he just remembered to keep breathing, then there might be a chance he could rescue his life from the depths to which it had fallen.

He hoped so. God, he hoped so.

And it was with that thought that finally, gratefully, he folded down into sleep.

Sunday morning Sheldon Ross did not come to collect him from the Marriott, because Sheldon Ross was dead.

That, above all else, reminded Ray Hartmann of the transient fragility of it all.

Hartmann arrived at the Royal Sonesta alone, but in ample time for his appointment with Perez. Yet even as he approached the front of the building he sensed that something was very different. There were cars outside that he had not seen before, men also – two of them, dark-suited, one with sunglasses – but there was something about their manner that told Hartmann they were not part of Schaeffer’s little family. He paused on the other side of the street, intuition telling him that something was altogether awry. The taller of the two men watched him intently as he cleared the road and started down the sidewalk. When he reached the main entrance of the hotel a federal agent stepped out and raised his hand at the two men and Hartmann passed inside.

‘New kids on the block?’ Hartmann asked.

The agent smiled warily. ‘You don’t even wanna know,’ he said, almost under his breath, and indicated that Hartmann should speak to a second agent at the reception desk.

‘First floor, second room to the right,’ Hartmann was told. ‘Mr Schaeffer and Mr Woodroffe are up there waiting for you.’

Hartmann paused once more. He looked at the man behind the desk but it was obvious there was nothing further to say.

Hartmann crossed the lobby and started up the stairs. He made it to the first floor landing, and as he turned he could hear voices. There was no-one in the corridor, and he hesitated before making himself known.

‘-don’t know. That’s the plain truth of it… we just don’t know yet.’

It was Schaeffer’s voice – clear as anything.

‘But Agent Schaeffer,’ another voice said, ‘you are paid to know. That is the entire purpose of your existence… to know things that no-one else knows.’

Hartmann frowned and took another step towards the doorway of the hotel room.

The second voice started up again, the sort of voice that belonged to someone who very much liked the sound of it.

‘You have entrusted almost every chance of success to a burned-out alcoholic from New York-’

The hairs on Hartmann’s neck rose to attention.

‘-and this man, this Ray Hartmann, has already failed to secure a deal with this maniac Perez. I don’t understand it, Agent Schaeffer. I just don’t understand how a man of your background and experience could have entrusted the most important and delicate aspect of this matter to someone such as Hartmann.’