R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

‘Right, right,’ Hartmann replied. ‘And then there’s the coroner and the Homicide guy as well.’

‘Cipliano, Michael Cipliano, and the detective was John Verlaine.’

Hartmann nodded. ‘Yes, those three. Figured I should at least go over their reports with them and see if there’s anything else they remember.’

Schaeffer rose from the table and walked to the open doorway. ‘Agent Ross!’

Sheldon Ross came hurrying down the room and stopped just short of the door.

‘Get hold of the assistant ME Jim Emerson, County Coroner Cipliano and John Verlaine from Homicide. Pull whatever strings you have to and get them down here.’

Ross nodded. ‘Sir,’ he said, and turned to hurry away.

Schaeffer came back and sat facing Hartmann. ‘So – you have any thoughts about our caller, Mr Hartmann?’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘Nothing comes to mind, no. Can’t say I place his voice, and there’s nothing about what he said that makes me feel I know him.’

‘But he knows you,’ Woodroffe interjected.

‘And you guys as well,’ Hartmann replied. ‘Seems he knows an awful lot more about us than we do about him.’

For a moment there was an awkward silence.

Hartmann could sense the reaction to what he’d implied: that information was making its way out of their office. Such a thing was unlikely, very unlikely indeed, but if these assholes wanted to play hardball then he would give them a run for their money.

‘The names of agents in most branches of law enforcement are not withheld from the public,’ Woodroffe said matter-of-factly. Again there was that element of defense in his tone. Here was a man who’d perhaps violated protocol a few too many times and taken a rap from someone upstairs. Here was a man destined to be careful for the rest of his life.

‘True,’ Hartmann said, ‘but there must have been a specific reason for him to request my presence.’

‘No question about that,’ Schaeffer said. ‘And if he comes in, or should I say when he comes in, perhaps he will tell us.’

Hartmann looked up. Ross stood in the doorway.

‘Here within half an hour, all three of them,’ he told Schaeffer and Woodroffe.

Schaeffer nodded. ‘Good work, Ross.’

Ross did not smile, merely nodded and left the room once more. Hartmann watched him go and felt a sense of sympathy, even empathy , with the kid. One day Sheldon Ross would wake up and realize he was like the rest of them, and within them Hartmann included himself. One day he would wake up, and find that no matter how hard he rubbed his eyes, no matter how many times he sluiced his face with cold water in the bathroom, it would seem as if he was looking at the world through a gray film. Colors were duller, less bright and vivid; sounds always gave off an element of alarm; meeting people became a game of guessing what their motive or intent might be, and whether you were prepared to risk your own life, the well-being of your family, by getting to know them; all these darker aspects and shadows crept up on you insidiously, and then they were there; they were as much a part of you as the sound of your own voice, the color of your eyes, your own darkest secrets.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

‘Tired, Mr Hartmann?’ Woodroffe asked.

Hartmann opened his eyes and looked back at the man. ‘Of life? Yes I am, Agent Woodroffe. Aren’t you?’

Emerson and Cipliano were straightforward enough, as were the vast majority of those in Forensics and Criminalistics. They were scientists, doctors, morticians with three degrees from Harvard and an insatiable appetite for facts. The physical evidence was what it was. The condition of the body, the map of lines on the back, the knife wounds and adhesive tape, the rope burns and hammer blows. All these things had been investigated as thoroughly as could be, and the documents were typed and copied and filed and numbered.

Verlaine, however, was a different story, and in John Verlaine Hartmann recognized a little of himself.

‘Sit down, Detective,’ Hartmann said, and Verlaine shed his coat and hung it over the back of the chair before he complied.

‘Any coffee around here?’ Verlaine asked. ‘Can we smoke?’

‘I can get you some coffee,’ Hartmann replied, ‘and yes, you can smoke.’ He retrieved the ashtray from the floor beneath his own chair and set it on the table in front of Verlaine.

Hartmann left, returned within moments with a fresh cup of coffee. Woodroffe had been sufficiently co-operative to send out for a cafetière and some half-decent grounds.

‘Intriguing, eh?’ Verlaine asked.

‘It is.’

‘What’s your position on this then?’

Always the detective , Hartmann thought. This guy probably questions all the parents at his own kids’ PTA meeting .

‘My position?’

‘Sure,’ Verlaine said, and smiled. ‘You’re not a Fed, right?’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘No, I’m not a Fed.’

‘So what’s your position in this circus?’

Hartmann smiled. He appreciated Verlaine’s honest cynicism. This was a man he could have worked with in New York.

‘My position, Detective, is that I am officially employed within federal jurisdiction. I work for the Deputy Investigative Director for the House Judiciary Subcommittee on Organized Crime.’

Verlaine smiled. ‘You must have one helluva’n office.’

Hartmann frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, title like that you’d need one helluva door to put the sign on.’

Hartmann laughed. The man was hiding something. Humor always the last line of defense.

Hartmann lit a cigarette and let the silence between them return.

‘So you went down there?’ he asked.

‘Where? Gravier? Sure, I went down there.’

‘And the pound too. You saw the car, right?’

Verlaine nodded. ‘Beautiful car, really beautiful. Never seen a car like that before, and more than likely never will.’

Hartmann nodded. He was watching Verlaine’s eyes. Next question was important. Eyes were key. People always looked to the right when they were remembering something, to the left when they were imagining something or lying.

‘So you wrote everything up, or at least relayed everything you found out to the Feds here… who was that? Luckman and Gabillard, right?’

Verlaine smiled. ‘Sure,’ he said, and his eyes went left.

Hartmann smiled too. ‘So what else was there?’

‘Else?’ Verlaine said, sounding genuinely surprised.

Hartmann nodded. ‘Something else. You know, the little thing we always keep back from the suits, just in case it winds up back on our desks and we want to get a head start? You’re a veteran at this shit, Detective. You know exactly what I mean.’

Verlaine shrugged. ‘Came to nothing.’

‘You wanna let me be the judge of that?’

‘It was just a message.’

‘A message?’

‘Someone called the Precinct House and left me a message.’

Hartmann leaned forward.

‘Someone called and left me a message of one word.’

Hartmann raised his eyebrows, questioning.

‘Always,’ Verlaine stated matter-of-factly.

‘Always?’

‘Right. Always. That was the message. Just that one word.’

‘And that meant something to you?’

Verlaine leaned back in his chair. He took another cigarette from the packet on the table and lit it. ‘Rumor has it that you’re from New Orleans originally.’

‘Word gets around fast.’

‘However big New Orleans might appear to be it ain’t ever big enough to lose a secret inside.’

‘So?’

‘So you’re from New Orleans, and anyone from New Orleans must have run by the Ferauds.’

‘Always Feraud,’ said Hartmann.