by John Farrow
“What?”
“Grow up. Anyway, being slightly too old can be overcome with the right reference and without no heavy envelope.”
“I was hoping so. To get this reference, I got to tell you what I know?”
Parked, Dupree thought about it, but only for a second. “That would be like bribery. I don’t want to start y’all on the wrong foot. Cinq-Mars calls you a volunteer. Says I can’t order you around. Y’all want to talk to Cinq-Mars? I’ll see what I can do. But if I can get you on the force, then from that point forward I’ll be free to ream your butt. I’ll enjoy that, too. Won’t be a thing y’all can do about it then. I might get you on the force purely for the pleasure of my own amusement.”
Flores liked all that. He opened his door and had a foot on the pavement when he changed his mind about a few things.
“Look, I’ll tell you what I found out, if you want,” he said.
“Shove it back up you know where and keep it warm. I’ll call Cinq-Mars.”
“Thanks, Dupree.”
“Fuck y’all.” The detective seasoned his pronouncement with a convivial tone.
Flores, happy now, climbed out of the car.
The weather proved mild, but from inside the house the look of the setting sun in the western sky, the light, the particular angle, evoked the season at its nadir, the promise of snow and cold yet to come. The thing that Cinq-Mars enjoyed least about winter was the scarcity of sunlight. So many long hours of darkness. Now that he was retired he was noticing light more, or its absence, perhaps because he rarely visited the bright lights of the city. He was thinking that he should suggest to Sandra that, since New Orleans had been a vacation bust, they take a few days and nights in Montreal, eat and sleep in an atmosphere of luxury. If he got to talk to a few cops during the day, well, what could be the harm in that? He was wondering how best to work up to the suggestion. Be blunt, straightforward? Or set up a romantic interlude to preface the notion? That gentle meditation was interrupted by a ringing telephone.
Sandra raised an eyebrow. The dog cocked an ear. Cinq-Mars glanced over at each of them, then chose to be the one to answer.
“Cinq-Mars.”
Sandra rolled her eyes. She didn’t understand why he couldn’t just say hello.
“Émile!” He recognized that voice.
“Agent Dreher,” he answered dryly, testily. “How are you?”
“The barbarians are at the gate, Émile.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Maybe not in droves. There’s only me. I’m down the road from your house, ETA in about, oh, less than three minutes—if you let me in the door, that is.”
Cinq-Mars hesitated. “How did you know I was here? I thought Sandra told you I was—”
“Out on the road. Heading home. I’m taking a chance and it’s worked out. So far, anyway. May I presume to drive up to your house? Will you admit me?”
“See you soon,” Cinq-Mars confirmed and hung up. He told Sandra, “We have an imminent guest.”
“I’ll put the coffee on,” she said. Then hesitated. “Will he want dinner?”
“I’m not inviting the FBI to dinner. Not after New Orleans.”
She compromised, of course, quickly preparing a veritable feast of hors d’oeuvres by the time the man from the FBI knocked on their front door. The agent had been optimistic with respect to his arrival time, as it took him a full twelve minutes. Time enough for Cinq-Mars to finish his Highland Park and put away the bottle. His hospitality in this instance labored under exacting limits, even if Sandra’s did not.
Her presence, and her preparations, gave Dreher an opportunity to insinuate himself within the household for a considerable time, at least another dozen minutes, before having to share a direct word with Émile. When they did sit down alone, the foodstuffs and coffee a proper buffer between them, Special Agent Rand Dreher came across as suitably contrite.
“The case was supposed to be as cold as ice. As frigid as a whore’s—I’ll spare you. Why would I ever assume otherwise, Émile? I had no idea that trouble would befall you in New Orleans. Except that, you know, you might find some on your own volition. A bodyguard in the background seemed prudent. That’s it, that’s all. Really, I figured you’d get a taste for the problems in all this, pick up the flavor of the case. If I thought for a moment that you or Sandra were at serious risk, I’d never have asked you to go. Just because you have a great reputation as an investigator in your professional life doesn’t make you anything more than a private citizen now. I don’t know what happened down there, or why. No one does.”
All this pleading. What did he really want from him? Cinq-Mars was quite certain that the man felt no need for forgiveness. With men such as Rand Dreher—not unlike himself—every discussion in life was strategic.
“The kidnappers know who,” Cinq-Mars reminded him, “and what, and why. Apparently their only objective was to run me out of town. Why would that be?”
“I’m stumped, Émile. We all are. Everything that occurred was unforeseen.”
Cinq-Mars nibbled coffee cake. Laying out the spread, Sandra had warned him not to spoil his supper. Fat chance. Smiling then at his silent pun. “We can’t always anticipate trouble,” he admitted.
“That’s the truth. We cannot.”
“But in this instance, trouble seems to have been alerted. For God’s sake, the NOPD threw some kind of a hissy fit over my arrival. How’d they even know? I had felons waiting in the lobby of my hotel to pick my pocket. How the hell did they even know who I was? Let alone that I was there. That’s all on your doorstep, Rand.”
“Some of it might be. Good intentions, all around. You know how that goes. How the bad guys got wind, well, I myself, I look to the NOPD. If they knew you were coming, maybe one of them baked a cake. Between you and me, and I got nothing to go on, I’m not saying he’s in any way involved, but Pascal Dupree? I can throw him farther than I can trust him, and I imagine he’s a difficult man to shot put.”
Some thought … some fleeting memory or reminder … crossed Cinq-Mars’s face, and Dreher took an interest in whatever had just traipsed through his head.
“Émile? What did that thought provoke? I know you’re thinking something.”
He wasn’t sure at first. Sometimes one thought connects to another yet the recipient of both ideas remains in the dark. Cinq-Mars had to concede that a light had gone on, probably down in the murky depths of his subconscious, and he had to wait a moment for the impulse to float up and acquire some articulation.
“Dreher,” he began, taking it slowly, “there’s no love lost between the NOPD and the FBI. That doesn’t surprise me. Also, frankly, I find it quite boring. If you got along, oh, I don’t know, like mature colleagues should, then I might get excited. But no. It’s the same old pissing contest between rival cop gangs. But in this case there are specifics to the animosity. Specifics that reference this case. When Dupree investigated the murders of Gifford and Dorsey Lanos, after Katrina, why did the FBI charge along to investigate? How was it any of your business? Those were the first in your series, so at that point you possessed no prior interest. You had no series of murders. That’s question one. Other people might propose their own answer but I want to hear your take in particular. A horse’s mouth type thing. Answer that and I’ll give you another question that’s bugging me also.”
The man patted down one of his excessively bushy eyebrows before replying. He seemed unperturbed by the query. “Émile, that whole zone was a nightmare’s nightmare. Chaos times ten after Katrina. Do you know how many NOPD officers were dismissed for being derelict in their duty around that time?”
Cinq-Mars indicated that he had no clue.
“Guess. Take a wild stab.”
Since he was asking, he figured there had to be a lot. “I don’t know. Ten?”
“More.”
“Twenty?”
“Two hundred.”
“What? How many?”
“Sacked. Dism
issed. Kicked out. For running away when the levies broke and for other offenses infinitely more vile than that. Two hundred. Every officer had to account for where he was and what he was doing during Katrina, and the runaways were chased off the force for good. So imagine being a cop in New Orleans at the time and you get called in on major crimes, murders included, about every half hour. Meanwhile, your department is in total chaos. Cops are missing. The few who are left are either disorganized or exhausted, usually both. Morale? Forget about it. Some are in shock. Some, as we would find out at Danziger Bridge, are prone to shoot the innocent. So you get called in to a bunch of cases and in the chaos you botch a few investigations. Who’re you going to call? Not ghost busters. Even though it might rot your socks, you drop a dime for the FBI. See if they’re willing to pitch in. Pull their weight for a change.”
“All right,” Cinq-Mars conceded. He was wishing now that he hadn’t put away his Scotch. “I’ve heard this argument before but I’m beginning to understand the context. I can accept that it’s valid. But here’s my next question.”
“Go on.” Dreher sipped coffee, then placed an elbow on the arm of his chair and covered his mouth slightly with his hand, waiting.
“Especially given that environment, why would the FBI out the NOPD?”
“What do you mean, out?”
“The NOPD investigates the murders, but misses the killer in the attic. Why alert the press to that, if not to just kick a department, and I think some good cops, at least one good cop, when they’re down? That strikes me as unprofessional.”
This time, Dreher was objecting, waving the sentiment off. “Yes, yes, Émile, that was the result. But nobody’s intention. The story went to the press because word on the street went around that cops had gone in and had a cup of tea with the killers. As if they were in cahoots. We had to get the word out that the killers hid in the attic. We let people know because it was the truth, but also—my God, those times were messy, Émile—people thought Dupree and other cops were in on it. Everybody found out that the killers were in the house. So what were the cops up to? Having a chat with them? Doing the tango? Cooking up a barbecue? We thought—it wasn’t me but that’s not the issue—we thought that if people knew what really happened, that the cops were merely outsmarted by a weird murderer who didn’t want to leave the scene of the crime—who could ever anticipate a thing like that?—and so the cops were outwitted by someone who very cleverly hid in the attic—that he was prepared to piss up there in his hiding spot and shit and eat and sleep, everything—then the people would get it. And get off the cops’ back. The whole thing got twisted thanks to the press, and the NOPD was made to look foolish. Dupree in particular, I suppose. That was an unfortunate development, an accident no one intended.”
A bureaucratic screwup, in other words. A public relations fiasco. He’d been through his share of those and been liable for missteps himself in a couple of instances. Shit happens sometimes.
“Do you see?” Dreher pressed him.
“I do,” Cinq-Mars admitted. He didn’t really expect Dreher to convince him of anything, and now felt oddly dissatisfied. Dreher was a smart guy, politically astute, obviously, when it came to meeting everyone’s concerns yet still pressing forward. A good guy to have in your corner, he believed. Still, he didn’t like coming up on the short end of any discussion. “What, ah, what are you doing here anyway?”
“Here in Quebec, you mean?”
Cinq-Mars nodded.
“The SQ called me in,” Dreher said, then quickly modified the statement. “They want to fill me in on recent developments. We might have done that over the phone, but frankly, I thought I should come up. To see you, as well as them. Two birds, as they say.”
“Have you had that talk yet?”
“I did. With Gabriel Borde. I believe that you’re in close contact with him. We discussed your high adventure in New Orleans, of course. It still bugs him that he was one of the people those bastards telephoned.”
“Makes you wonder,” Cinq-Mars interrupted, “how anybody knew that he and I stay in close contact.”
“Leaks,” Dreher summed up. “The world’s a sieve now, Émile. You can probably ask the question on the Internet, ‘Name an SQ officer in close contact with Émile Cinq-Mars.’ Lo and behold, you’ll get back an answer. The right one, too.”
“It’s a brave new world,” Cinq-Mars mused, as if speaking only to himself. He was wondering though, if Dreher didn’t eschew a telephone call with Borde in order to pick his brain in person about the secret caller from New Orleans. Yet he no sooner mulled it over than he realized that he was wrong to underestimate Captain Borde. Dreher was back in Canada because Borde insisted on him showing up for questioning. Dreher’s response was all smokescreen.
“The principal point of our discussion,” Dreher interjected, “has to do with the Quebec murders. Not much has been uncovered, I’m afraid. Noteworthy is this: the dead couple, they have no background. We don’t know where they came from. We don’t know who they are. As far as the official record goes, they don’t exist. They’ve paid no taxes. They’ve made virtually no money, except from renting out their farm. It’s like they’re aliens. They’re invisible to the world, and unlike you and Captain Borde, they’re invisible even to the World Wide Web. Except in death. All they’ve done in life is to die badly and leave behind inexplicable wills.”
“You’ve talked to the hospital in St. Louis?”
“They don’t understand it. But they’ll take the money.”
Dreher, in his way, was inviting Cinq-Mars to marvel with him over this development, but that was not going to happen. Instead, he was met by his host’s steady gaze and came under the influence of a silent accusation.
Finally, he asked, “What is it, Émile? What’s on your mind?”
“It’s time for the FBI to be straight with me. Bear in mind that I’ve seen my wife kidnapped for your cause, so I’m in no mood for any deflections, Agent Dreher.”
“I really wish that you’d call me Rand all the time, rather than occasionally.”
“Let’s hear what you have to say first.”
The special agent took a breath, issued a brief series of nods, pursed his lips, and permitted his expression to convey consent. “All right, Émile. It’s true. Our victims are people living under secret identities. Within the FBI, it’s a major calamity. It would seem that our security systems have been compromised somehow and those in witness protection are vulnerable. A few have been killed. We’ve got to find out what’s going on and stop it or who knows how many will die. The consequences to all this, Émile, to say the least, are dire.”
Cinq-Mars was first to break off their mutual stare. He stood and did a short pace in his living room. “So who were they really, the Lumens, Morris and Adele?”
Dreher separated his hands to indicate that he’d like to answer but could not.
“I presume this is really why Captain Borde had you up here. Not to share information but to have you on the carpet. To demand to know what you know. You’re right that we keep in touch. So you can answer the question, but if you choose not to, I’ll ask him to tell me whatever he got out of you.”
The special agent acknowledged the likelihood of that, yet he did not seem chagrined or in any way concerned. “You’re right, Émile. Of course. What I told him is the truth. I don’t know anything about the Lumens—about the New Orleans couple, I know more—but perhaps, now that that cat is out of the bag, I can come up with something regarding the Lumens. Let me explain. Witness protection is a closed track even inside the FBI. Random officers can’t just summon information. So I needed you, and you in particular, to get to the heart of the matter to force my hand, so that I could force the hand of my superiors. If other officers in other forces can find out that the victims are in our files, part of our calamity, as you’ve done, then perhaps myself and other agents can get a peek at the secret documents for ourselves. Without that push from the outside, you see, my hands are t
ied. I couldn’t tip you off at all. If I did, I’d lose my badge. So thank you, Émile, you have already helped immeasurably on this case. Now, perhaps, we can get somewhere.”
Still standing, pacing intermittently, Cinq-Mars considered this confession, of sorts, and pointed out to him, “You realize that I have succeeded at doing what I said I’d do, namely, demonstrate that the FBI was holding back secrets from me. This triggers a bonus for my services rendered. Just so we understand one another.”
Dreher may have been surprised by the mercenary emphasis, but offered no resistance. “Of course, Émile. I’ll see that that is executed. You have received your first payment then? Good. You see, I was rooting for you all along. In a way, you could say that I counted on you succeeding.”
Just then, a cell phone jangled and both men checked their own. Cinq-Mars was the recipient of the call. “Excuse me a moment, Rand. I need to take this.”
“Take your time,” Dreher said. “I’m comfortable enough right here.”
Cinq-Mars went through to the TV room to take the call from Sergeant Dupree. He was debriefed on what Everardo Flores had revealed, that the Lanos family in New Orleans hailed from Nebraska, and that he had uncovered more but wanted to say it directly to Cinq-Mars. “All part of his insecurity. The man has character flaws coming out the wazoo,” Dupree touted. “I don’t mind the guy though. He’s growing on me.”
Cinq-Mars told him what Agent Sivak found out, about Flores not going home the night of the kidnapping.
Dupree swore a blue streak. Then asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Let me talk to him first, hear what he wants to say. Then we’ll decide on a course of action. Sivak wants a piece of him, but she’s lying low on that for now. I’m asking if you might do the same.”
“Yeah, for now. God, this guy, I can’t figure him.”
“You don’t have to, of course.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m asking you to lie low, just like I asked Agent Sivak to lie low, and I explained to you why, but I understand perfectly well that you don’t have to. I’m not in charge of anything here.”