I opened my mouth to speak.
‘No, Ernesto, you will listen to what I have to say.’
I closed my mouth and looked down at the table.
‘Whatever this thing is,’ she said, ‘I want you to tell me if it has endangered the lives of our children.’
I shook my head. ‘No Angelina, it has not.’
‘You would not lie to me Ernesto, I know that, but this time I am going to ask you to give me an answer, and whatever the truth might be I want to know. Tell me now if this thing will endanger the lives of our children.’
‘No,’ I said quietly, and I shook my head once more. ‘It will not.’
‘Okay,’ she said, and her very being communicated her relief. ‘So, what does it mean for us?’
‘It means we will have to move soon,’ I said. ‘We will have to go to another city and make our home all over again.’
Angelina did not say anything for some time, and then once again she squeezed my hand. I looked up and there were tears in her eyes. ‘I married you because I loved you,’ she said. ‘I knew who you were, I knew enough about the people you worked with to know how this life would be, and if we have to move then I will come with you, but I will ask one thing of you and I want you to give me your word.’
‘Ask it, Angel, ask it.’
‘I want you to promise me that nothing will ever happen to Victor and Lucia . . . that is the only thing I ask of you, and I want you to promise me that.’
I reached out and took both her hands. I held them for a moment, and then I touched her cheek, with my fingers, wiped away the streaked tears that were trailing down it.
‘I promise,’ I said. ‘I promise on my life that nothing will ever happen to them.’
She smiled. She bowed her head, and when she looked up she was smiling. ‘I wanted to stay here, Ernesto . . . in California. I wanted the children to feel sunshine on their faces and swim in the sea—’
She stifled her tears and was quiet for some moments.
She looked up at me again.
I felt my heart like a dead fist in my chest.
‘How long do we have?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. They will tell me when they have a place for us.’
‘Not New York again, Ernesto . . . anywhere but New York, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay.’
We waited three months. The worst three months of my life. There was nothing for me to do. I was told to stay home, to be ‘a family man’, and Ten Cent would call me to make arrangements when things were in place.
Three times, seated there at the window in the front of the house, I saw squad cars pass by slowly. I imagined they knew who I was, where they could find me, and they were just waiting for me to leave the house so they could follow me and make their arrest.
They never did. I left the house very infrequently, and by the time November arrived, by the time Ten Cent finally called and told me where we were going, I believed that I could not have stood another day in that place.
Angelina was the soul of patience. She became the perfect mother, investing every ounce of her attention, every second of her time, in the children. I watched her, I envied her ability to lose herself entirely in what she was doing, but I also realized that this was the only way she could cope with the situation I had created. I could have given her such a life, but I brought her to this. I felt bad for that, guilty, and I cursed the day I had been so eager to please Don Calligaris. He had said to kill one, but I had killed them both. That was my mistake, and I paid for it dearly.
‘Chicago,’ the voice said at the end of the line. ‘Don Calligaris is moving to Chicago and taking a large part of our operation there. He wants you to be there with him, you understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘You leave the day after tomorrow. Make your way out to O’Hare and I will meet you there.’
I said nothing.
‘Ernesto?’
‘Yes?’
Ten Cent smiled; I could hear it in his voice. ‘Tell Angelina to pack some warm things for the kids . . . Chicago is a fucking icebox this time of year.’ He laughed and hung up the phone. I stood there with the burring sound in my ear and a cold stone inside my heart.
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 N
ew 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—
R. J. Ellory Page 40