R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

I would follow Don Ceriano to the ends of the earth, and Las Vegas… well, Las Vegas was only half as far.

At first they spoke of nothing but Charles Ducane, how the present governor of Louisiana may have been instrumental in ordering the brutal killing of two people so many years before.

Schaeffer challenged Woodroffe and Hartmann, challenged them to say nothing beyond the confines of the FBI Office, but challenged also the veracity of the information given by Perez.

‘The guy’s a killer… not only a killer, but a psychopath, a homophobic fucking death machine,’ Schaeffer said, more venom and anger evident in his voice than Hartmann had ever heard before.

‘But he knows shit,’ Woodroffe said. ‘He knows about Ducane-’

‘And he knows who killed Kennedy,’ Hartmann said, and later he would think that he’d said it just to throw a further curve into the proceedings.

‘Aah fuck off!’ Schaeffer snapped at him, and tempers were thinner than ever, and emotions were frayed at the edges, and it seemed like all it would take was a single wrong word and everything would fall apart at the seams.

‘Why the hell not?’ Woodroffe said. ‘Someone knows who killed Kennedy… why not our man?’

‘Yes,’ Hartmann added. ‘Perez knows who killed John F. Kennedy.’

Schaeffer rose from his chair. ‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘Enough already. We’re dealing with the present, the facts… we’re dealing with the kidnapping of Catherine Ducane. We’re dealing with nothing but those things that relate directly to what has happened to Catherine Ducane.’

Hartmann and Woodroffe looked at one another, and then at Schaeffer. There was something unspoken between the three of them – the knowledge that Ducane was in this as much as Perez himself, the belief that unless someone way up high curtailed it there would be an in-depth inquiry into Ducane once his daughter had been found…

It was there. No-one said a word. It didn’t need to be said.

‘I don’t wanna hear another word about Charles Ducane and what he might or might not have done or been involved in God knows how many years ago,’ Schaeffer said, ‘and I sure as fuck don’t wanna hear anything about John Kennedy or Marilyn fucking Monroe, or anyone else for that matter, okay?’

He glared at both Hartmann and Woodroffe. Neither of them challenged him.

‘Now will someone get Kubis in here?’ Schaeffer said, his teeth gritted, his fists clenched.

Woodroffe rose and left the room.

A moment later Kubis stood beside the desk.

‘Exactly,’ Schaeffer said. ‘What did he say exactly ?’

Kubis looked down at the sheaf of papers in his hand. He cleared his throat. ‘The road is long, Mr Hartmann, and she is already at the very end of it. We play this game the way I wish it to be played. We follow my rules… and perhaps, just perhaps, the Ducane girl might see daylight again,’ Kubis said.

Schaeffer turned towards the larger office behind him and shouted for Sheldon Ross.

Ross appeared within moments.

‘Ross, get me a map of New Orleans, something that covers all the roads and highways. I mean every road and every goddamned highway running into, through and out of the city.’

Ross nodded and disappeared.

‘You reckon he’s given us something?’ Woodroffe asked.

Schaeffer shrugged. ‘Christ almighty knows. Seems to me he’s the sort of person who only says something if he means to say it. He said that she would not be heard even if she screamed continuously at the top of her voice, and then he says this thing about the road being long and that she was at the very end of it, and that if we follow his rules she might see daylight again.’

‘Buried?’ Hartmann asked. ‘You figure he’s hidden her underground?’

‘Could be nothing more than an expression,’ Woodroffe said.

‘We check it out,’ Schaeffer said. ‘Whatever the fuck it is we check it out.’

Ross returned, in his hand a map which he passed to Schaeffer. Schaeffer spread the map out before them, took a pen from his shirt pocket and began to scrutinize the network of lines that indicated every road in and out of New Orleans.

‘What makes you think she’s even in the state?’ Hartmann asked.

Schaeffer waved his question away as inconsequential. He had his mind on something, and he would not be diverted.

‘Write these down,’ Schaeffer said to Woodroffe, and Woodroffe took a sheet of paper, his pen suspended over it, and waited for Schaeffer to speak.

‘From where we sit we go north,’ Schaeffer said. ‘You got Highway 18 out through Mid City, becomes Pontchartrain Boulevard and goes all the way out to Lakeshore West. Cutting across that and heading west you got Highway 10 out towards Metairie. South-east you got the Pontchartrain Expressway to the Greater New Orleans Bridge, heading across the river into Algiers and McDonoghville. East you got Florida Avenue. South you’ve got the Claiborne Avenue which cuts back up towards Carrollton, but you gotta take into consideration the area all the way down through the University district and as far as Audubon Park. That’s five zones in all.’

Schaeffer looked up at Woodroffe. ‘You got that?’

Woodroffe nodded.

‘So how many people we got altogether?’

‘Fifty, maybe sixty at a push,’ Woodroffe replied.

‘Divide them up equal, ten or twelve men to a unit. Separate them into twos. Section each of the five zones equally and map out every road and highway, every dirt track and footpath that heads out towards the Mississippi River or Lake Pontchartrain, everything that takes you as far as the land will let you go. Have them drive the routes, check out every empty house, every motel and truckstop, anything that could be considered the end of the road, so to speak. And tell them to look in basements and outhouses, anyplace that looks like it might go underground.’

‘You really think-’ Hartmann started, but stopped dead when Schaeffer raised a warning hand.

There was a moment’s silent tension as Schaeffer looked first at Hartmann, then at Woodroffe.

‘Yes I do, Mr Hartmann. Whatever you were gonna say, yes I do. You don’t take the calls from the director of the FBI, who is all too eager to tell me what Governor Ducane is telling him every hour on the hour. You don’t have to file reports at the end of every six-hour shift detailing what we are actually doing. Not what we are thinking about doing, but what we are actually doing. If you wanna take the calls, if you wanna explain yourself, then fine, you come back to me with something better. Seems to me that in this situation we can either wait for Perez to tell us or we can do something proactive.’

Schaeffer once again looked at them both in turn, and then added, ‘So, any questions, or do we do something effective?’

‘We do this,’ Woodroffe said, and rose from his chair.

Hartmann nodded and leaned back.

‘Right. No more fucking about,’ Schaeffer said. He rose also, and before he left the table he turned and looked at Hartmann.

‘There isn’t a great deal more you can do,’ he said. ‘I’d go back to the hotel if I were you and sit tight.’

Hartmann nodded. ‘Maybe you should ask for some more people. Seems to me sixty men ain’t an awful lot to cover the kind of territory you’re talking about.’

‘I got what I got,’ Schaeffer replied. ‘If they send me some more then so be it. Right now I gotta use what resources have been assigned and that’s just the way it is.’

Hartmann nodded. He felt for the man. He stood up slowly and silently thanked God he was not in Stanley Schaeffer’s shoes. ‘If you need me, if there’s anything I can do, you know where I am.’