Fear and Loathing

by Hilary Norman

  Blazek: her Jerry. Bodine: her Andy. López: her CB.

  All finished.

  So be it.

  Only Copani – her Leon – left now.

  And then, her Plan B.

  Education. Of others.

  She was old, with no certainty of how much time was left, and she’d squandered too much of that, stuck up here with all her comforts, though at least these past several years, planning how to end her years honorably, finally being true to her beliefs – saying her piece – had been stimulating.

  This past month had been little short of sublime.

  And all good things had to end.

  A phone rang in the alcove. She turned, picked up, took a look at the screen.

  ‘Got it,’ she said.

  Time.

  She returned to the table.

  ‘Allow me,’ she said to Leon, and removed the cloche with a flourish, the way waiters did in expensive restaurants.

  Copani stared at the dish beneath.

  An envelope.

  ‘Better than money,’ she told him.

  She saw doubt on his stupid face, knew that Copani could imagine nothing finer than money, with the possible exception of a Golden Opulence Sundae from Serendipity 3.

  ‘It’s your freedom, Leon.’

  He frowned, picked it up.

  ‘It’s everything I had on you,’ Constance Cezary said.

  He opened it tentatively.

  ‘I’m setting you free,’ she said. ‘You’ve followed my orders well, been the best of my Crusaders. You deserve to follow your own destiny now.’

  ‘You serious, Mrs H?’ he asked, not sure at that moment how to feel, because this had been the time of his life, and if he was honest with himself, he wanted more.

  ‘Always,’ she said.

  ‘You’re OK,’ Gabe had kept telling Luc.

  OK, considering the guy had been struck on the shoulder with a mallet, then, while he was still stunned, threatened with a knife, bullied down into the wine cellar and tied with cord to a pipe.

  ‘Where’s Cathy?’

  The most important thing Gabe had wanted to know once he’d established that Meyer wasn’t badly hurt. He’d been sufficiently composed to have given Gabe the number of the security company so he could make the call about the smashed window, give the code, assure them there had been a minor accident but all was secure, and the operator had accepted it, though both men still expected a police car any moment.

  Neither of them wanted that, not once Luc had told Gabe what had happened.

  ‘It was a meat tenderizer,’ Luc had said, still trembling. ‘The mallet. From our kitchen.’

  ‘You told me that already,’ Gabe had said.

  Meyer had told him something else, too, something that had made the small hairs on the back of Gabe’s neck stand up.

  ‘He told me to keep quiet for three hours, that if I made a noise and the cops were called, Cathy would be the one to suffer.’ He’d hesitated. ‘Except he didn’t call her Cathy, he called her Catherine.’

  Gabe had sat him down at a corner table, poured him a cognac and Luc had gone over it again. How Cathy had gone for pizza, and he’d heard a bang from below, had gone to see if she’d come back, maybe had a fall.

  ‘He was waiting for me. On the first floor. He jumped me.’

  ‘And you don’t know who he was?’

  ‘Not then.’ Luc had rubbed his shoulder.

  ‘But now?’ Gabe had wanted to shake the guy. ‘Luc, come on.’

  ‘I need to find the photo.’

  ‘What photo?’

  ‘Of the man Cathy’s father told me about, back in Miami.’

  ‘What man?’ First Gabe had heard about it.

  ‘The Frenchman,’ Luc had said. ‘Hasn’t Cathy talked about him?’

  Gabe had watched Luc reach for more cognac, leaned over, laid a hand over his glass. ‘Luc, be more specific. What photo?’

  ‘Upstairs.’ Luc had stood up. ‘My room.’

  ‘I can’t believe she never mentioned him to me,’ Gabe said now. ‘She’s told me so much about her past.’

  ‘Maybe it didn’t loom very large, by comparison.’

  Gabe stared at the picture. ‘You sure it’s him?’

  ‘I think so, though this guy wasn’t wearing glasses, and his hair was short.’ Luc shook his head. ‘But it figures, doesn’t it? The way he called her “Catherine” – and Sam said Chauvin had been arrested for stalking in the past.’

  ‘So this bastard tracked Cathy down in Cannes’ – Gabe started pacing Luc’s living room – ‘and got in here somehow—’

  ‘He said he’d been here watching. I forgot he said that. Oh, God, I’m such an idiot.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Gabe said. ‘What matters is he must have been waiting. Cathy wouldn’t have let him in, and the door would have locked behind her when she went for pizza, so he had to have been inside already.’

  ‘The cops haven’t come,’ Luc realized abruptly. ‘The alarm people must have bought your story.’

  ‘That’s something.’

  ‘Is it?’ Luc was doubtful. ‘I think we could use some help.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Gabe headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Luc asked. ‘We need to do something, call Sam.’

  ‘We need to look around first.’ Gabe was on the stairs. ‘If he’s been watching …’

  ‘He must have had a hiding place,’ Luc said, following.

  Everyone poised, again.

  Enough men and firepower to take down a small terrorist cell.

  Maybe all for just one seventy-two-year-old woman.

  A woman possibly behind the brutal wiping out of ten innocent lives.

  Ten that they knew of. Who knew how many more over time?

  The three assault teams were all in radio contact.

  Commander Grove replaced by Special Agent Casey Newton, compact build but exuding power; Grove now outside one of the fire exits, still in overall command.

  Which was fine by Sam.

  ‘I still think there must be a huge mistake,’ Barbara Kellerman said.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Sam said, raising an index finger to his lips.

  She nodded.

  All set now, contingency plans in place, should Cezary refuse Kellerman access.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Duval whispered.

  Sam inserted Kellerman’s key, turned it, and the elevator door opened.

  Tight squeeze for four men.

  Martinez handed Kellerman the phone.

  She pushed two keys, waited.

  They all waited.

  ‘Miss Cezary,’ she said, ‘I need to see you.’

  A moment of deathly silence.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kellerman said.

  She handed the phone over to Martinez and stepped back.

  The elevator door slid shut.

  They began to move.

  ‘How about a cigar, Leon?’ Constance Cezary opened the lid of a rosewood humidor which stood on the marble surface of a cabinet. ‘Cuba’s finest.’

  Copani still sat at her table. ‘I wouldn’t say no, Mrs H.’

  She took out a cigar.

  ‘I don’t think I want you calling me that any more.’ She handed it to him. ‘Just roll it under your nostrils.’

  ‘I’ll do just that,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Thank you, Mrs Cezary.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to the cutter and lighter, Anthony.’

  She took something else out of the humidor.

  A Heckler and Koch P2000 compact pistol.

  Waited for the elevator door to slide open.

  ‘For the avoidance of doubt,’ she said.

  And shot him through his left temple.

  The sound still reverberated in the air as the other two teams crashed their way through the two fire exits and thundered into the sitting room.

  ‘Put down your weapon,’ Thomas Grove ordered.

  ‘By all means,�
�� Cezary said, and laid it on the table.

  They were on her in less than a second.

  No one thrown by the strangeness of patting down an old woman, while two FBI agents approached the shot man slumped sideways in his carver chair, frisked him, then, despite the blood- and brain-spattered evidence of his fatal injury, checked his pulse and pronounced him dead.

  ‘Detective Becket,’ she said, ‘I’m glad you’re here. Will you be the one to cuff me?’

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’ Sam stepped forward, caught a whiff of jasmine. ‘Put your hands behind your back.’

  ‘Cuff me, by all means,’ Constance Cezary said. ‘But please do not touch me.’

  The room went silent.

  ‘I don’t want your skin touching mine,’ Cezary said.

  And there it was, right out in the open.

  The hideous, flesh-crawling stuff that made ‘Virginia’ tick.

  ‘Hands behind your back,’ Sam said, more sharply, and gripped her hands.

  Cezary gave an intense, theatrical shudder, and Sam suppressed the urge to yank her wrists violently into the cuffs, felt Martinez’s furious, protective gaze on him, was aware of other eyes watching.

  ‘I asked you not to touch me,’ Cezary said.

  ‘You have the right to—’

  ‘Wait. Please.’ She twisted around, faced Duval. ‘In that drawer, please. My gloves.’

  Beside Sam, Martinez made a small explosive sound.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Duval said, pleasantly. ‘No gloves.’

  Sam restarted the Miranda. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—’

  ‘You,’ she said, to Duval again. ‘You may touch me.’

  Anger seared through Sam and he checked her cuffs again, laid his hand on her wrist.

  They all heard a weird, low sound in her throat.

  A growl. Like a vicious dog on the brink.

  ‘Someone else read her rights,’ Sam said, disgusted, ‘and get her out of here.’

  ‘No problem,’ Newton said.

  ‘In case you’re wondering,’ Cezary said, ‘I shot that man in your presence so you would see that I am capable of murder. His name was Anthony Copani, and he was one of the men the media have called “The Four”. He enjoyed what he did for me, I think, but he was a terrible glutton who would probably have eaten himself to death, had he lived.’

  Sam turned his back on her, heard Casey Newton beginning the Miranda again.

  ‘I do look forward to speaking to you, Detective Becket,’ he heard Cezary say. ‘I shan’t mind that at all. After all, you need to realize how much of the responsibility you and your wife bear for all these deaths.’

  ‘Someone shut her the fuck up,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Only you all need to learn,’ she went on. ‘Because as Virginia said, I knew I couldn’t stop you all. I just needed to say my piece.’

  June 19

  At midnight-thirty, Gabe glanced up at the ceiling over the bar and saw the trapdoor, scarcely visible. Three minutes later he was up there in Chauvin’s space, Luc halfway up a short ladder, head and shoulders in the gap, holding a flashlight so Gabe could take photos.

  They looked at a small pillow, glucose tablets, Evian bottles – two filled with urine – and wondered how long the man had spent up here spying.

  ‘There’s something in the pillow case,’ Gabe said.

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t touch it,’ Luc said. ‘Evidence.’

  ‘Video me. Use your phone.’ Gabe withdrew a large white envelope, took a photo himself, then opened it carefully, shook out its contents.

  Two photographs of Cathy, plainly altered to resemble Grace Kelly.

  ‘Definitely Chauvin, then,’ Gabe said grimly.

  ‘We need to call Sam,’ Luc said.

  ‘Shine the light.’ Gabe took photos of the pictures and a piece of paper folded around something. He unfolded it, saw it was a letter encasing two more photographs, and took his own shots, careful of clarity.

  ‘Seems the bastard wants us to find him,’ he said. ‘Look.’

  Luc leaned in, stared at a picture of a small white house with blue shutters and a red tile roof. No house number or street sign.

  ‘Could be anywhere,’ he said.

  Gabe picked it up by a corner, turned it over. Blank.

  The second was more help: part of a signpost at the entrance to a camping and caravan site. Park “Les Cigales”.

  Gabe put the photo down, then, taking the torch from Luc, started to read the letter.

  ‘Oh, man,’ he said after a moment. ‘Now we call Sam.’

  June 18

  Hectic scenes at Rosement House just after seven, Tuesday evening – Eastern Daylight Time.

  A homicide scene now, the building and surrounding area cordoned off, police vehicles everywhere, media penned up as far away as possible, locals rubbernecking behind yellow tape.

  Inside, residents were still penned up for their own safety, some of them protesting, others scared. Rumors flying that the single gunshot heard by some had been the suicide of their benefactor – for that was how they thought of the wealthy lady who’d opened her home to them and said to call her ‘Connie’.

  The body of the man believed to be Anthony Copani was still slumped on a dining chair in the penthouse living room pending the ME’s arrival.

  Cezary, Bodine and Blazek were at South Beach, along with López, all in separate holding cells awaiting interrogation, Task Force investigators exercising the greatest care; no slip-ups, all efforts now going into driving the arrests toward multiple charges, successful prosecutions and justice for the victims.

  Barbara Kellerman, too, had been taken in for questioning.

  ‘Someone has to be left in charge here,’ she’d protested.

  ‘You mentioned a deputy earlier, ma’am,’ Sam had said.

  ‘On vacation,’ Kellerman had said.

  ‘The Florida Department of Elder Affairs will be ensuring the welfare of Rosemont House residents,’ Joe Duval had informed her.

  ‘You think they’ll close us down?’

  ‘Too soon to say,’ Duval had said.

  Sam’s guess was that it would close almost immediately, and he felt bad about the upheaval for the residents. Major change never easy for the elderly or frail.

  More of Cezary’s victims.

  Photographs taken, sketches made, Crime Scene at work, he and Martinez returned to the station, to an atmosphere of relief as well as jubilation. Mary Cutter passing the news to the families, Beth Riley organizing the press conference they’d all hoped for, telling South Florida and beyond that four arrests had been made, one suspect was dead, and one individual, still to be named, had been arrested for his murder.

  ‘Don’t forget to tell them that Hildegard Benedict’s off the hook.’ Kovac poured cold water, as per usual. ‘Some screw-up there,’ he went on. ‘Don’t be surprised if the Benedict family sues our sorry asses, Becket.’

  ‘At least we got them all,’ Captain Kennedy said. ‘Good job, Sam.’

  ‘Good job, Task Force,’ Sam said.

  ‘Lucky break,’ Kovac said. ‘If that Mexican scumbag hadn’t gotten pissed out of his skull and taken a swing in that bar, we’d still be whistling in the dark.’

  ‘Degree of luck in most big breaks, Ron,’ Kennedy gently chided.

  Sam’s cell phone rang. He frowned, saw who was calling, answered.

  ‘Just a minute, Luc,’ he said, saw Martinez’s questioning eyes on him, left the hubbub of the squad room to take the call.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, walking down the stairs.

  Less than a minute later, emerging from the building onto the plaza, his legs suddenly so weak that he needed to sit down on a low stone wall, he was already checking flights on his G1 while listening to the agitated voice of his daughter’s friend.

  ‘Put Gabe on,’ Sam said.

  June 19

  One-forty a.m. Wednesday in Cannes – Central European Summer Time – and Ga
be was fighting to be coherent.

  ‘Chauvin must have figured we’d find it.’

  In Miami Beach – still Tuesday, seven-forty p.m., Eastern Daylight Time – Sam stopped checking flights, listening intently.

  ‘The letter’s handwritten,’ Gabe went on. ‘Writing’s steady, so I guess he was calm when he wrote it, which I’m hoping is good.’

  ‘Just read it to me,’ Sam said.

  ‘“Dear Detective Becket,

  I suppose that someone at the restaurant is reading or scanning this to you. It can only be a matter of time before this letter is found, and if it’s taken a little longer, that’s OK, since more time alone with Catherine can only be wonderful for me.

  So please, dear Sam – for this is how I think of you, as my friend, as Catherine’s treasured papa – don’t be alarmed, and I send the same message to dear Grace – or Grace-mère, as I call her now. I will not hurt Catherine. I love her too much. She is everything to me.

  But you must come.

  The only way any harm could befall Catherine would be if you were to notify the police. If I see a single cop, or the waiter, if I see anyone but YOU, dear Sam, I will have no choice. She will be hurt. And that would break my heart. It would kill me.

  More than anything in life, I want Catherine. But I want your blessing too.

  I’ve left two photos to aid your search for us. Maybe Jones or the waiter will work out where we are, but tell them NOT TO COME. Only you.

  I’m guessing you’ll be on the next flight.

  (She is a little mad at me, which is to be expected, but she will remain safe so long as you come ALONE.)

  Your admiring future son-in-law,

  Thomas.”’

  Gabe stopped reading. ‘Mr Becket, I’m pretty sure I know where that campsite is, and I’m assuming the white house is somewhere nearby. I know what I want to do, but I’ll take my orders from you.’

  ‘You do nothing, Gabe.’

  ‘But I’m here, and you’re nearly five thousand miles away.’