A Dark Perfection

by James, Mark

  The time when they brushed hands, as they’d left the manor, he’d felt that familiar touch of guilt. And then it had passed.

  He’d had relationships since Maura’s death, yet none that had ever “taken,” as he would sometimes say, deflecting the friends who would try and breach that place. He had always tried to “be there” in these relationships, but some part of him never made it.

  With Lani it was different. He didn’t feel any sort of lack when he was with her. Their time together was fluid, of a piece. Whether enough time had passed since Maura’s death, or it was the comfort from his and Lani’s shared past, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that the feeling of both existed in different spaces; when he remembered Maura, he remembered Maura, when he was with Lani, his mind was only on her. And yet, the feelings of each, their gestalt, were not separate. It was something he couldn’t quite explain.

  He turned and looked at her as she slept. She told him that it was silly to continue sleeping on the floor, right before she fell asleep from the champagne, “We’re adults, aren’t we?”

  If they allowed themselves to go deeper into that unknown, those feelings, would it cloud their path ahead? Or, unexpectedly, would it somehow make it clearer? If they’d been at home, and none of this had happened, he knew what he would’ve done.

  He looked out the window – veils of clouds rushing across a full moon – and then to her. She barely wore any makeup, her eyes upturned at the corners, her hair glistening even in the dark.

  He moved to the bed and crawled in next to her. She instinctively moved back into him, warm and safe, surfacing from her dreams and then falling back.

  Tomorrow, they would meet with Inspector Garneau and move closer to a final reckoning, perhaps closer to their freedom.

  From the window, he heard the start of sounds from the streets below.

  The Paris light was coming.

  30

  Garneau entered the station at precisely 8:29 a.m., finding the letter on his desk exactly a minute later. It was odd it would be marked, URGENT, and in handwriting, no less. He looked closer: the writing was composed of block letters, rendering handwriting analysis impossible. It appeared as if made by a male – hasty, unconcerned.

  He opened the letter and was immediately stopped by the words:

  Did you see their eyes?

  It was his mystery e-mailer, resurfacing. He dropped down and read the text, short and to the point, allowing no leeway. He started to think. If he chose to play along, then how would he do it? More importantly, should he even try? He thought of the eyes from the St. Regis, still pulling him on.

  The only colleague he could think of who could help him was his fellow inspector, Jacques Demais. Yes, he considered: same height, same weight, same approximate age.

  He walked down the hall and stuck his head into Demais’ office, “Jacques, tell me, what’s your schedule this morning?”

  “Only paperwork,” Demais said, laughing at the stacks strewn across the floor. “It’s the Legrice case, we’re trying to box it up. What do you need?”

  “To be honest, Jacques, I need a rather large favor – the no-questions-asked kind.”

  Demais looked over his glasses, “Henri, you know that answer. How many do I owe you? I’ve surely lost count. Any mission short of offing the prime minister and I’m yours.”

  Twenty minutes later, Garneau stood in front of his office window. He watched as a man in his trench coat below walked across the parking lot and entered his beloved Citroen.

  He remembered the letter’s warning: We’ll be watching…

  Was it a bluff?

  He looked around – toward the windows across the street, at the people sitting in the cars below, at anyone who shouldn’t be there. He finally accepted that nothing looked out of place. He took Jacques’ wool coat and started descending the back stairs, following the letter’s instructions. He exited the back door and walked across the lot of police cars, looking for the right one. He found it: a nondescript Renault temporarily assigned to Inspector Jean Andrepont, a vehicle that could never be traced.

  Garneau recalled Andrepont’s last look, right before Jean had tossed him the keys, “Don’t worry, too much,” Garneau had said. Andrepont laughed back, “Of course, Henri, that’s precisely what I am worried about!”

  Garneau entered the Renault and looked at his watch: 9:12 a.m. According to the email, he was still on schedule, since he didn’t need to be at the Hotel Concorde-Crillon until 9:50.

  Driving down the avenue, he looked into the rearview mirror, then quickly to his left as he slowed, trying to catch someone following him. He saw no one.

  He approached the hotel – it was already 9:49 a.m. – and pulled around in front, exiting and paying the valet to hold the car near the entrance.

  He walked into the lobby and across the scarlet red carpet to the back of the hotel, flashing his badge to the dock employees as he exited the back door and proceeded down the docking stairs and through an alley, finally exiting onto another main avenue. As instructed, he looked across the street. “Look towards the park,” the letter said, “it will be taped to the side of the NE corner bin, a red envelope.”

  He looked at his watch – 9:59 a.m. He was on time.

  From above, Jack and Lani looked down from the apartment window as Garneau stopped to avoid a passing car and then proceeded across the street and towards the park, angling towards the northeast corner. He found the letter and opened it. He looked all around and then scanned up towards the apartment building as they momentarily moved behind the drapes.

  “Proceed towards the southwest,” the letter read, “to 6 Place, St-Germain-des-Pres. Inspector, many lives depend on this…”

  Overly dramatic, Garneau considered. Very well, he would play along with this game for one step more, as he recognized the address.

  Per the letter’s instructions, he waited exactly ten minutes and then began walking down the street. As he turned onto the avenue, he noted that it was relatively quiet for a weekday morning, only a smattering of tourists and businessmen. He checked his position, stopping twice at a store window and looking in for a moment, watching in the window’s reflection for someone behind him. Certainly, if there was someone there, they were professionals, which would be of concern. Approaching his destination, he looked up at the familiar awning: Les Deux Magots.

  It hadn’t been lost on him that the letter referred to, “we.” As in, we will be watching.

  He walked through the tables of outdoor patrons drinking coffees, eating croissants and jam, sitting under the awnings and people watching, and entered the restaurant. During the day, the front of the restaurant and bar operated as a café and there were more patrons taking coffee inside – men talking business, a group of Chinese tourists ordering midday cappuccinos and fumbling with their change, a couple, perhaps German, with their walking sticks beside them staring down at a map. No one looked familiar.

  The back restaurant space was empty, all of the china and silverware waiting. It was as the letter had said: no one would stop him. He spied the back office entry.

  Inside the office, Jack and Lani saw the shadow through the opaque glass on the other side, reaching for the handle. As Garneau had waited at the park, they’d proceeded to the restaurant and entered through the back door to the owner’s office. The owner, an elderly man, had met them at the rear of the restaurant and had shaken her hand gently. He provided no name, nor asked for hers. In turn, he’d then shaken Jack’s hand like he didn’t want to let go, like older people do sometimes when an old memory comes back. If the owner had recognized them from the television, he never said anything. Either he didn’t care, or cared too much for it to matter.

  The shadow paused.

  “Come in,” Jack said towards the door. “There won’t be any problems.”

  Garneau entered the office, carefully. Admittedly, he was somewhat relieved to see only one man – tall even behind the desk, white teeth, obviously American – a
nd a single woman – similarly white teeth, but Asian in complexion and coloring, smiling and welcoming from the corner chair behind the desk.

  “Please, inspector,” Jack said, motioning to the opposite seat. “Thank you for coming. We’re sorry for the run-around. It was necessary.”

  No, Garneau considered, they were not intelligence professionals – and he was quite familiar with the type, the spooks. Not arrogant enough. Nor were they mercenaries or freelancers – not shifty enough. Still, there was something about them. It was in their confident body postures and their eyes that held his gaze steady. Yes, definitely not amateurs.

  “Why was it necessary?” Garneau asked, taking his seat without unzipping his coat, as if he weren’t staying long. “Why am I here?”

  Jack was impressed: the inspector was asking questions first, going on the subtle offensive.

  As they’d planned, Jack and Lani removed their false badges from their pockets and leaned across the table, presenting them to Garneau.

  “I’m Special Agent Eubanks and this is Special Agent Kinkaid, FBI,” Jack said, watching Garneau carefully as he examined the identification badges Mac had given them at the cottage.

  “Very well and good,” Garneau said, “but, again, why am I here? More importantly, why are you? No one contacted my office – normal protocol, at the very least. And if I’m not mistaken, the FBI is a domestic agency with no international reach. Isn’t that correct?” Garneau didn’t mention the letter, or the elaborate way he’d ended up at the restaurant – not a usual contact scenario between law enforcement officers.

  Three more questions, Jack observed, watching Garneau as he said it, trying to gauge him – his orientation to the unknown, his facility with the new. Jack decided to deflect the questions with vulnerability.

  “Well,” he said, looking back at Lani, “we’re not here officially. We were pulled off a case. We’re here on our own.”

  Garneau considered whether to ask if their actions were known to the Bureau, but he didn’t. “I could ask if your superiors know what you are up to, but I’m not sure I actually care. Besides, if not, you’d probably lie to me anyway. So, I will ask you again – the last time before I leave: why am I here? Your message said, Did you see their eyes…what did you mean?”

  Garneau was becoming mildly combative, but Jack didn’t buy it; if he’d wanted to leave he could have done so already. Rather, Garneau had gone right after the mention of the ‘blood eyes.’ Whether he knew it about himself or not, he was as driven as they were.

  “Blood eyes,” Jack said, holding Garneau’s attention. “We have our own victims, a U.S. Army Major, also with a mistress. The male victim was high-level military, worked on classified projects – that’s why you haven’t seen anything on them. But we do know about the ambassador and his own mistress, about their blood eyes, and about how you were pulled off the case.”

  Jack didn’t know this last part, he’d only surmised, but thought it was worth the gambit – to take the initiative, to make Garneau think that they knew more than they did.

  “And so, you were pulled off too, I assume,” Garneau said, leaning back into his seat, showing that he was comfortable with his position in this repartee.

  “Yes,” Jack said firmly. “There’s something wrong here. I’ve been an agent for years and have never done anything like this before.” He looked back at Lani, her face serious. “Neither has she. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t critical.”

  Garneau looked at them both, knowing that some of what they’d told him was true, but most was probably a false construction, and he may never know which was which. The possibilities were myriad: Had something happened on the ambassador’s case at French Intelligence and this was one of their operations, trying to test him, perhaps trying to draw him in and use him as a pawn? Were these alleged agents actually operatives with this mysterious and reckless GMA, throwing their weight around again, ignoring jurisdictions and attempting to pull him down into something he may never fully see? The possibilities were infinite. He could either press on, or walk away. The inspector in him knew what to do, but the part of him that wanted justice, that felt something was deadly wrong with all of this, kept him in this seat. If these agents – whomever they were – had gambled that the ‘blood eyes’ would lead him here, keep him in this seat this long, they’d gambled correctly.

  “Tell me then. Why are you here?” Garneau asked.

  “We’re here only for the truth,” Jack said, offering a half-truth, omitting the truth of their run. “And, inspector, we need your help. These victims need our help. We owe them that.”

  Garneau studied the man’s face. Whatever he’d said before, his passion in this moment was real. Garneau could feel it; like looking into a mirror, he recognized that same passion in himself. “Show me then,” he finally said.

  Jack reached behind and removed the laptop from its carrying case and placed it on the desk, turning it sideways. Both Lani and Garneau moved their chairs up.

  “Inspector Garneau,” Jack began, “let me answer your question: why are we here? The simplest answer is we believe there’s a relationship between the murder of the ambassador and that of the major in Kauai, but we don’t know what that connection is. The Kauai victims have the same burn patterns, the same red eyes…”

  “The same?” Garneau said, startled by this information.

  “Not exactly the same patterns, but the means – the instrument which caused the injuries – appears to be the same. The difference is in the patterns, which you may have realized are not random. We’re trying to find an ally – someone who’s as motivated as we are – to solve these cases. It’s very important to us. We thought you might have some information from your investigation that we might’ve missed. And then, of course, our contact in D.C. sent us this, on another possible killing in the U.S., a man named Daniel Huff.”

  On the laptop, Jack pulled up an image comparing the patterns in the three killings: the ambassador and his mistress in Paris, Major Grindel and Della in Kauai and from Daniel Huff, which looked like nothing more than six dots forming a circle.

  As they all leaned over, Garneau took the opportunity to look more closely at these people who had lured him here. He thought he’d noticed something about Agent Eubank’s skin. There was a thin line tracing a shape, an unnatural shape, across his upper brow. He decided, for the moment, to say nothing. “Tell me about your Huff victim,” he began instead, “did he also have a mistress? If so, the connection between all five victims might be related to some type of moral outrage on the killer’s behalf – he hates adultery, say, or hates his mother for her boyfriend, and so on.”

  “We were initially attracted to the mistress/adultery angle too – wondering about the same potential motivations by the serial killer. And, of course, inspector, that’s exactly what we have here – a full-blown serial killer. A global one, it seems. In any event, since we know that serial killers always possess an underlying, psychological motive, the morality idea intrigued us. The problem is that Huff was blissfully married, had two kids, loved his job and was loved by everyone. Plus, we don’t see a connection in the victims’ backgrounds, or their locales – the divergence is too great between them. It has something to do with the kill patterns. Otherwise, why would anyone do it this way? One strike was sufficient to kill each victim, so why the extra effort, the extra time, the added risk?”

  “Agreed,” Garneau said. “I’ve been focusing on the pattern too, the exact same pattern existing in both the ambassador and Ms. Eckenstein – it can’t be a coincidence, the killer is trying to say something here. To be honest, I felt almost pulled in that direction. Old instincts, perhaps.”

  While Jack and Garneau talked, Lani listened and continued staring at the patterns. As Garneau had said, she felt almost pulled in by them, as if, by looking long enough, she’d suddenly see the answer.

  “Did you develop any theories?” she asked.

  Garneau told them about his meetings wit
h Professors Dresden and Dagneaux and their suppositions on the pentagon pattern. He also explained how, turned upside down, the kill pattern for the ambassador became an inverted pentagram, the symbol for Satan. He took a piece of paper and traced the pentagram pattern, tying the dots together. “The problem is that the various shapes have so many meanings – as early Christian symbols, as pagan symbols, and later, as the symbol for Satan. And, in the end, does this have to mean anything at all?”

  Garneau looked down again at the dots for the ambassador and noticed a difference. “But, you know, as I look at your pattern, I see another mark that we don’t show. Your pattern for the ambassador is different than ours. And that shouldn’t be.”

  “Down there,” he pointed, “below the last two dots on your diagram, below them is a sixth. It’s quite faint. Our examination only found the five kills marks for the ambassador. Did your forensics team find another?”

  “We don’t know. This is the last image we received from Dr. Takamura. He originally thought it was five marks, but Mac – our friend – told us this morning, when he sent us the Huff information, that Takamura might have found another. Faint, yes, at the bottom. He’s the top FBI forensics guru. He said it was easy to miss – showing up on some photos and not others.”

  Garneau took his cell phone from his pocket, “Do you mind?”

  “Who are you calling?” Jack asked.

  “Dr. Prevot. He’s our Chief Forensic Pathologist. He did the examination on the ambassador and Ms. Eckenstein. I need to ask him if his photos show anything else.”

  Jack nodded.

  Garneau asked the clinic operator for Prevot and a minute later the doctor was re-examining his slides under the microscope, “Maybe, Henri,” he said, “there is a recurrent image mark that occurs in three of the slides, but in none of the others. I saw it originally, but discounted it as a discoloration due to tissue degradation. It’s an imprecise science, you know. But, yes, it could be another strike mark, albeit tentative, as if the killing mechanism didn’t go as deep as with the other holes. Perhaps that’s why it’s not on all of the slides. It’s hard to say with any certainty without a reexamination and, as we know, the ambassador is in U.S. custody and that circumstance will not be changing any time soon. But if Takamura is on record, I’d be willing to agree. He’s a very good pathologist. Quite well respected.”