by John Farrow
The display identified the caller as his friend in the Sûreté du Québec, Captain Gabriel Borde. What would he want at this time of night?
“Hello?”
“Émile? Oh God, Émile, I’ve heard. I’m so sorry. I told you to watch your back down there. But I never expected anything like this. Is there any word on Sandra?”
“How,” he wanted to know, “did you hear?”
“They called me.”
“Who, Gabriel, called you?”
“Sandra’s kidnappers.”
Cinq-Mars stood upon the rooftop above the lights below, which, though relatively sedate, now seemed to become a dizzying and intoxicated carnival array, not dissimilar to the night sky.
“Émile,” Captain Borde explained, “they’ve told me their first demand.”
SIXTEEN
Covering the mouthpiece on his phone, Cinq-Mars waved Flores over and issued a terse instruction. “Get Dupree now.” He returned his attention to the call as the head of Hotel Security bolted off to do his bidding.
Flores was back in no time with his catch, as Dupree had been waiting for the same elevator from which Flores burst in a panic. They went to the roof, Dupree panting after taking the jaunt up the short flight of stairs too rapidly, and they found Cinq-Mars standing near the edge, phone put away, hands on hips. They rushed over to him, then stood beside him, breathing heavily, and waited.
“I got my call,” Cinq-Mars revealed.
Dupree had hoped for and expected that news. “From the kidnappers? Good. Then she’s still alive, Émile. Let me have your phone. See if we can get a trace.”
“No point. A colleague in the provincial police called me after they called him.” Émile finally turned to face them, as if emerging from a trance. “At his home in Quebec.”
“I don’t get it. How? Why?”
“So you can’t trace the call, for one thing. My friend was awakened from his bed. He didn’t even know that Sandra was missing. He certainly didn’t get a chance to do anything that might have traced the call. He’ll look into it, of course, but understand this, these people are sophisticated.”
“I still don’t get it,” Flores admitted.
He and the New Orleans detective waited for Cinq-Mars to explain further, but when he didn’t bother, Dupree filled him in. “They want to prove to Émile that they know where he’s from, that they know who he knows, that they can get to him if and when they choose. Even when he’s back home.”
“Oh,” Flores said. “Oh.” He looked at Cinq-Mars as if the man had just learned that he had terminal cancer.
“It’s hopeful, actually,” Cinq-Mars expanded. “If they want to take the trouble to show off their power, it’s an indication they have nothing more lethal in mind.”
“What do they want?” Dupree asked. “Demands?”
“They want us to check my old room.”
“But we did that,” Flores pointed out, looking from one man to the other, baffled again.
This time Cinq-Mars was willing to break it down. “They don’t know that we did. In one sense, we’re ahead of the game. One step ahead of their game, anyway.”
“They want us to find Jefferson Grant dead,” Dupree stated. Still winded, he stood stooped, hands low on his hips, drawing deep breaths but more slowly now.
“Another scare tactic. To put the fear of God into me.”
Light that spilled through the open door to the rooftop at once outlined the silhouette of Agent Vira Sivak.
“Yeah, I left a message for her to come up,” Dupree explained. “She was in the can when Everardo ran me over.”
In low heels, Agent Sivak was finding the uneven surface awkward to negotiate in the semidark, yet she managed to stride forward with evident authority.
“I got the call,” Cinq-Mars acknowledged.
“So what’s up?” she asked. “Is it money?”
Perhaps a trifle too proud of his knowledge, Flores answered, “They want us to check his old room, but we did that already, so we’re ahead of them that way.”
“What else?” Sivak asked. She was forthright and brought an energy that Cinq-Mars appreciated. He sensed that she was someone who got things done.
“That’s the thing,” Cinq-Mars postulated. “They’re doing this piecemeal. They put their first demand through an intermediary. I’ve got a hunch their next call will come through someone else. I arranged with Captain Borde—from back home, he transmitted the message to me—to trace the call if they ring him up again, but I doubt they will when they’re being so cautious. Anyway, right now they think we’re scrambling around finding a dead body in a hotel room, that that’s going to horrify me, break me down. So I’m suggesting we do just that.”
“Say what?” Flores asked.
“He’s suggesting that we should go find the dead body,” Dupree stipulated. He addressed Cinq-Mars, “Y’all think they’re watching?”
“Just holding out on the possibility, Detective.”
Dupree crossed his arms, standing fully upright now. Cinq-Mars realized that he hadn’t shown that wild bright grin of his in a while. “I’ve noticed, Émile, that you have a knack for thinking like they do.” Flores may have missed the inflection, but both Sivak and Cinq-Mars recognized that the line was not meant to be a compliment. He was voicing a deepening suspicion.
Sivak elected to intervene. “Detective Dupree, this may be my fault. I told Detective Cinq-Mars that I called off the cavalry because we have a suspicion inside the FBI that the bad guys may have wanted to see who would show up for this. They may have wanted to find out how deep this goes.”
Dupree looked between the two of them, and Cinq-Mars bobbed his chin a tad to show that he concurred.
“So that’s why you think they’re watching us now.”
“Like I said, I’m entertaining the possibility,” Cinq-Mars said. “Look, I have no jurisdiction here. All I can do is suggest that we make it look good. They may or may not see us on the roof right now, but they might be watching the room where they stuffed Jefferson Grant. It’s a possibility anyway.”
Simple nods of agreement confirmed the strategy, but Cinq-Mars had to warn Flores not to look over his shoulder at other buildings in the vicinity. “Don’t show them that we might think they’re watching us, Everardo. Tell me, that room faces what direction? Which buildings?”
Cinq-Mars had only to share a glance with the local detective before Dupree was on the phone. If suspicious people were hanging out in buildings across the street or a couple of blocks over, his uniforms would check them out. They all traveled down to the seventeenth floor and Flores reopened the door to the scene of the crime where Jefferson Grant’s life was taken. They turned on the lights to allow their presence to be known, but did not open the drapes. Assuming that they were finding a body, that they were entering that chaos for the first time, opening the drapes would not be a likely early response.
“Just in case,” Cinq-Mars whispered to Dupree, “put some uniforms in here. Ask them to have a party. Conversation. Give them something to drink. Just make sure they mingle, keep moving around. Shadows on the curtains. As if they’re investigating.”
“Consider it done.”
“If another call comes soon, that might tell us the bad guys are watching.”
“What do they get out of this?” Flores asked, and the question was humble for once. He accepted that his comprehension lagged behind theirs.
“They might want to believe that they’re softening me up,” Cinq-Mars told him. “Keeping me off my game. I may let them think that way.”
Flores pondered the suggestion, then as Sivak and Dupree moved off together to have their own intimate discussion, he asked tentatively, “But are you, for real?”
“Am I what?”
“Softening up?”
“Actually, Everardo,” Cinq-Mars determined, “I’m not. If you’re working for them—and I don’t believe you are—tell them that. See if I care.”
Flores manage
d to smile. He was more comfortable with being a suspect now, given that it meant he was in the same boat as everyone else. He placed a hand upon Émile’s back as encouragement, then waited as if for further instructions, his hands dutifully folded in front of himself as a faithful servant’s.
Noticing him, what occurred to Cinq-Mars was that the man had previously been on his way home at the end of a long shift. “You must be tired,” he said.
Flores shook his head. “No,” he stressed, as if this was important. “I’m not. Second wind.”
Just then, the phone in the Montreal detective’s pocket buzzed. Across the room, Agent Sivak and Detective Dupree also heard it, and came over. Before answering, Cinq-Mars told them all, “It’s too soon for them to guess that we’ve come in here and found Mr. Grant. This means they’re watching.”
Then he took the call.
This time, Bill Mathers was calling.
“My God, Émile, what the hell is going on?”
“They called you.”
“How do you know that? This is my home, Émile. My wife answered. I have kids asleep in their bedrooms. My home, Émile.”
“I didn’t give them your number. May I remind you, this is about Sandra right now. That’s what’s real right now.”
Mathers paused a moment. Cinq-Mars could hear him taking a breath.
“He wants you out of town, Émile. Out of New Orleans. He says that now you know what he’s capable of doing.”
“He?”
“He didn’t give me his name.”
“I’m not going without Sandra.”
“He said you’d say that. He’s calling back in four minutes after the first call to get your answer. If you agree to leave town, he’ll tell you where to find Sandra.”
Each man listened to the electrical buzz of the continent between them.
“Come on, Émile,” Mathers advised him. “This is a no-brainer.”
“Tell them yes. Okay, you’d better get off the line now.”
“I’m calling you on my cell. I’m keeping the landline free.”
“Actually, Bill, you should keep both lines free.”
The weight of that message sunk in. Mathers said goodbye and they both hung up.
Cinq-Mars conveyed the gist of the message.
“Hopeful,” Dupree told him.
“Very positive,” Sivak agreed.
“Let’s wait for their call first,” Cinq-Mars cautioned them both, but he, too, felt his spirits rising. His hands begin to shake and he sat down on the bed. He rubbed them together, surprised to find his palms damp. Agent Sivak brought a towel in from the washroom. He didn’t know what for. He looked up at her. Lightly, she tapped her brow. Cinq-Mars passed the towel across his forehead and was shocked that it was soon soaked. He touched his right temple, his hand quivering violently, and the fingertips felt stuck to the skin of his head as if he secreted a glue rather than sweat. He brought his hands down and tried to stop each hand from trembling with the other, but he only shook more. Flores ran for water and Sivak opened his shirt collar down another button. She asked him to bend his head between his knees. He tried, but couldn’t make it that far.
“Brown bag,” Sivak ordered, and Flores raced off again. Dupree held the glass of water he’d brought in and offered it to Cinq-Mars.
“Damn,” Émile said. “Damn.”
The water just spluttered on his lips. He couldn’t swallow.
“Head down,” Sivak said gently, and she assisted him to bend lower this time, to get blood to his brain. Flores was amazingly quick, and Cinq-Mars steadily breathed into the brown bag to keep himself from hyperventilating. He thought he should be embarrassed by this bad turn, but really didn’t care in the slightest. He was just happy to be recovering and getting his senses back. He had to take care of himself through this. Over and over again, that was the message. He had to watch it. Who knew what faced him yet?
His phone rang.
Everyone took a nervy breath.
He answered.
It wasn’t Mathers again.
This time his wife’s kidnapper was calling him directly.
He said, “Hello, Detective Cinq-Mars.”
He was no expert, but he had been in the city long enough to call that a New Orleans accent. Somewhat Brooklyn-like, some what New Jersey–like. “Yes?” At least he didn’t have to fake being upset, weary, distraught, defeated. His voice carried that spectrum across the phone lines.
“So what’s your answer? Only a yes or a no will do.”
“I’ll leave town. Where’s my wife?”
“She’s not been harmed. She will be—you will both be harmed—if you hang around or if you come back. We’re giving y’all a break here. Let’s call it southern hospitality. But don’t press your luck. Just so we’re clear as a bell on that.”
He wanted to scream at him. Swear at him. Threaten him. He wanted to reach through the phone lines and strangle the bastard, watch the life eke out of him. Instead, he said, “We’re clear. Where’s Sandra?”
The man told him and Cinq-Mars shouted back, “Where?” because he wasn’t in his right mind and he didn’t know where the place was, but the kidnapper replied, “You heard me,” and hung up.
Cinq-Mars, pale, wavering, but breathing more evenly, clicked off his phone.
Dupree asked the question he had last asked. “Where is she?”
Cinq-Mars told him.
“Danziger Bridge.”
SEVENTEEN
They ran. Émile ended up in Agent Vira Sivak’s car and Everardo Flores—in their haste, the New Orleans detective was the only one to notice that Flores came along—wound up in the backseat of Dupree’s vehicle. Other squad cars raced away from the Hilton Garden Inn with them, both ahead and behind.
They sped through the streets, Sivak and Cinq-Mars in the fourth car in line. He pumped her for information on the bridge, about its infamous history. “What does this have to do with me? Was the shooting as bad as Dupree said?”
“None worse, Mr. Cinq-Mars. Inexplicable. Incomprehensible. White on black, we’re used to that sort of thing, even with respect to unarmed civilians. But this was sick. Depraved, in a way. So unnecessary. What’s worse, one of the dead men was mentally challenged. He was the one who got kicked while he lay dying. Added misery for his last breaths. At the scene, all he did was run from trouble on his brother’s command.”
“What was going on? What started it?”
“The hurricane.” She shrugged. “The misery. The Superdome. The lot of it. The shame. Some people, and I mean cops here, maybe they reached their limit. That’s a justification. I don’t buy into it myself, but it’s the only one around anybody can latch onto, you know? The shooting started on one side of the bridge, went up over it, and continued down the other side. Cops ran. In a panic. In fright. Later they said they were being shot at. Not true, but maybe they thought it was, but when a cop issued an order to stop firing and let them know the civilians were unarmed, some cops didn’t stop. They kept firing. Shotgun blasts. Close range, too. Later they tried to cover up their mess. That was real bad. If it wasn’t for being in the aftermath of Katrina the city would have rioted beyond anything we’ve seen in this country. I don’t doubt that. I mean, because of the storm, an NBC camera was in the area. Fuel for that fire. But folks were too distressed with their own problems. The demonstrations got angry but stayed civil, as these things go. As if it was one horror too many.”
Émile let all that settle. Nothing stood out for him to weigh, nothing to evaluate or compare, no terms of reference that were meant to include him. “I don’t know what this has to do with me. Or with Sandra.”
“Probably nothing,” Sivak noted. Cinq-Mars shot a glance at her. “I mean,” she backtracked, “I can’t think of any connection myself.”
“But it has something to do with you,” he pointed out, for he needed something to go on here. He finally had a glimmer. “And with Dupree.”
“We’re the good guys,” she
declared. “The bad cops are in jail.”
They raced on through the night, the lights of the squad cars flashing and the sirens wailing in and out. Cinq-Mars went quiet awhile. His mind raced. He recalled Dupree mentioning that not enough officers had been put away to satisfy him. And he wished he’d brought that brown paper bag, then just by thinking about it located the bag in his jacket pocket. He was unsure if he should take it out, but a moment later he had no choice and breathed into it. Then he sat back in the seat, his arms splayed out beside him, his eyes closed, being jostled and bumped about, his seatbelt banging undone at his shoulder.
“You all right?”
“Right as rain. How far is it?” he asked. Time seemed to float by before she answered, her eyes and hands intent on the high-speed drive.
“It’s a hike,” Agent Vira Sivak told him, then ordered, “Hang on!”
They cut a corner that made the tires squeal and threw Cinq-Mars against his door.
Prior to that infamous night, Danziger Bridge was known principally as the widest lift bridge in the world, although in the down position it accommodates most marine traffic on the Industrial Canal. An expressway leads onto and off the bridge and also sharply veers away from it, spawning circular ramps so that drivers may negotiate their choice of direction. Like other waterways in and around New Orleans, the canal overflowed its banks at the time of the hurricane that lay siege to the city. Cinq-Mars thought that he saw his wife on the hump of the bridge, but he was wrong, an optical illusion of the night or a nasty trick of the mind. Moments later he verified that she was indeed near the crest, but on the opposite side from where he’d been looking. Squad cars were with her now, having been dispatched from nearby through Dupree’s initiative. When he spotted Sandra, still at a distance, and knew for sure that it was her, he felt the whole of his body slump and gyrate. He might nearly have lost control of his bodily functions, when a glee for which he was totally unprepared overtook him and virtually snatched him out of his skin.