by Ron Goulart
When Larkins came into work the next morning, he found an envelope on his desk. It had been sealed with red evidence tape, the kind the Crime Lab used to warn the handler that there was something potentially hazardous about the package’s contents. “Meet me tonight at the coffee shop,” read the note clipped to the outside. It was unsigned.
Inside the envelope was an arrest record. It was from two years ago. It indicated that Donna Cahill had been arrested for trespassing during the protests against the city’s new power plant. She had received a fine and cautioned that further offenses might lead to jail time. Other documents from the envelope indicated that that had been her only encounter with the law and that she had a remarkably clean driving record.
“If I could fly I wouldn’t have any speeding tickets either,” Larkins said out loud to no one in particular.
Without hesitation Larkins wrote his own report, one stating that the individual known as “Turquoise” had been identified through fingerprints as Donna Cahill. He purposely left Max’s name off the report. If asked, he would give the Colonel the details, but Larkins knew that his friend would prefer not to be linked to the unmasking.
His report complete, he called Bishop’s office and asked for the earliest appointment. He mentioned that he wanted to discuss closing out the mayor’s special detail. In fifteen minutes, he was presenting his report to Bishop. Thirty minutes after that, he was driving the colonel to the address listed on the arrest report. There, the colonel was to extend to Ms. Cahill the mayor’s personal invitation to a very private lunch.
When Larkins and Bishop arrived at the house, they found the front door open. The house was empty. As the two walked though the house, Larkins noted rings and squares in the dust that had settled on the furniture, indicating to him that various items had been recently removed. Nothing large appeared to missing. The stereo and television were both still there. Just small things seemed to be gone, the kind of personal items that people take with them from house to house, to make them homes. With this in mind, he checked the rest of the house.
“She’s gone,” Larkins said to the colonel.
“You mean she’s out, we’ll wait.”
“No sir, I mean she’s gone, as in not coming back. Look in her closets, there are gaps where clothes were hanging. Look in the bathroom, no toothbrush or other personal items. There are no photos or any mementos lying about. Everything here is just stuff. There’s nothing left that was of any value to her.”
Larkins walked into the kitchen. “Finally, there’s this.” He handed an envelope to Bishop. They had missed it during their first walk through. It was green, with the mayor’s name written on it in blue ink.
“One guess as to who it’s from.”
Bishop took the envelope from Larkins’s hand and started to tear it open.
“That’s addressed to the mayor, sir.”
“I have to check it out to make sure it’s not boobytrapped,” Bishop said with a smile.
“Very brave of you, sir.”
“Mr. Mayor,” Bishop read aloud, “I had thought my service to our city meant something to you. I was wrong. You have instead chosen to risk my leaving it. For the good of our city, I will overlook your actions this time. Any further attempts to hunt me down or expose me will cause me to relocate. Before I do, however, I will break my public silence. I will hold a press conference and name you as the cause of my departure.”
“It’s signed ‘Turquoise.’” Bishop held it out for Larkins to read, then folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
“Who did you say identified her prints?”
“I didn’t say, Colonel.”
“Who was it, then, Detective?”
Oh, Max, what have you done? Thought Larkins, as he tried to think of a way not to answer. Not finding any, he said in a whisper, “Hammond, sir.”
“When you see him, tell him I want to talk to him.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be giving that letter to the mayor, or do you want me to do it?”
“I think, Darryl, that I’ll make copies for the mayor and the Commissioner. This letter is too valuable, or rather, too important to the case. I’ll take it with me and keep it in a secure spot.”
“Like the vault in Evidence Control?”
“Someplace like that, yes,” Bishop said, thinking more of the safe in his office.
On the way back, Larkins wondered if Bishop realized just how valuable the letter was. The colonel no doubt saw it as a hold over the mayor. He now had proof that the mayor had risked losing the city’s hero in trying to advance a personal agenda. Larkins wondered if Bishop knew that with that letter he could retire several times over. It was the world’s rarest collectible, the only known sample of a superhero’s handwriting. It was worth millions, but Bishop no doubt saw it only as a tool to use in his power games.
That evening at the coffee shop, Larkins found Max waiting. The crime lab man was grinning broadly, as if he wasn’t going to be facing a host of trumped up departmental charges.
“Was it really her, or did you set the whole thing up?”
“It was really her, Kid, and a very nice lady she is.” Max held up a photo taken with an instant camera. He gave it to Larkins. “That one’s yours. I’ve got another.”
Max waited until Larkins had gotten his first clear look at Turquoise. “She’s not at all what I expected, Kid. She’s a little older than what I thought she’d be. And she doesn’t look a thing like what you’d expect from some of the comic books out today.”
“Why’d you do it, Max?”
“Kid, last night, when I had her future in my hand, holding a secret that only I knew, I was torn. I was going to betray somebody, either Turquoise or you. And there was no way I could avoid betraying myself. I had to choose between selling out a friend or a hero.”
“And so?”
“And so I decided to betray everybody, Turquoise by giving her up, you and the department by warning her, myself by trashing my career. It was the best choice out of a bad lot, and I’ll be able to sleep nights.” Max gave Larkins another wide grin. “And so will you, now that you’re off the hook.”
The waitress had brought his coffee. Larkins raised it to Max. “Saved my butt again, buddy.”
Max nodded his “your welcome” as Larkins asked, “The note, was that your idea?”
“No, that was hers. I brought her the warning and suggested that she clear out. As you might imagine, she packed very fast, taking with her some clothing, personal items and my gift.”
“Your gift?”
“I stopped at the mall and picked up a pair of gloves. Got the style, color and size just right.”
“Bishop wants to see you first thing tomorrow.”
“Tell the colonel to take a flying… No, don’t tell him anything. He’ll find out soon enough.”
“What have you done now, Max?”
“While you and Bishop were trespassing on private property, I paid the Personnel Division a visit. As of today, I’m a real civilian.”
“You retired?”
Max nodded. “I once told you that I’d quit as soon as I couldn’t do the job anymore. After this week, I just can’t do it, not for this department. What they asked us to do was the ultimate betrayal. I don’t have to work for them, and I won’t.”
“For the record, Max, where is she?”
“For the record, Kid, go to hell. She’s somewhere you’ll never find her, even if you were fool enough to look.”
* * * *
Sister Mary Fatima led the newcomer to one of the larger cells. She was a bit puzzled. Not that she wasn’t glad that the cloister had a new member, but it was odd of Mother Superior to show a novice such special treatment. She was getting a cell that was normally assigned to an older nun, one that looked toward the distant city lights. She had been allowed to bring in a radio and a bag of what were probably personal items. In addition, Fatima had distinctly heard Mother tell the novice to attend services “when she could
.” Oh well, Fatima had long ago chosen to obey and not question.
“Will there be anything else, Sister…?”
“Please, call me Donna.”
JEAN MONETTE, by Eugene Francois Vidocq
At the time when I first became commissary of police, my arrondissement was in that part of Paris which includes the Rue St. Antoine—a street which has a great number of courts, alleys, and culs-de-sac issuing from it in all directions. The houses in these alleys and courts are, for the most part, inhabited by wretches wavering betwixt the last shade of poverty and actual starvation, ready to take part in any disturbance, or assist in any act of rapine or violence.
In one of these alleys, there lived at that time a man named Jean Monette, who was tolerably well stricken in years, but still a hearty man. He was a widower, and, with an only daughter, occupied a floor, au quatrième, in one of the courts; people said he had been in business and grown rich, but that he had not the heart to spend his money, which year after year accumulated, and would make a splendid fortune for his daughter at his death. With this advantage, Emma, who was really a handsome girl, did not want for suitors, and thought that, being an heiress, she might wait till she really felt a reciprocal passion for some one, and not throw herself away upon the first tolerable match that presented itself. It was on a Sunday, the first in the month of June, that Emma had, as an especial treat, obtained sufficient money from her father for an excursion with some friends to see the fountains of Versailles.
It was a beautiful day, and the basin was thronged around with thousands and thousands of persons, looking, from the variety of their dresses, more like the colors of a splendid rainbow than aught besides; and when, at four o’clock, Triton and his satellites threw up their immense volumes of water, all was wonder, astonishment, and delight; but none were more delighted than Emma, to whom the scene was quite new.
And, then, it was so pleasant to have found a gentleman who could explain everything and everybody; point out the duke of this, and the count that, and the other lions of Paris; besides, such an agreeable and well-dressed man; it was really quite condescending in him to notice them! And then, toward evening, he would insist they should all go home together in a fiacre, and that he alone should pay all the expenses, and when, with a gentle pressure of the hand and a low whisper, he begged her to say where he might come and throw himself at her feet, she thought her feelings were different to what they had ever been before. But how could she give her address—tell so dashing a man that she lived in such a place? No, she could not do that, but she would meet him at the Jardin d’Eté next Sunday evening, and dance with no one else all night.
She met him on the Sunday, and again and again, until her father began to suspect, from her frequent absence of an evening—which was formerly an unusual circumstance with her—that something must be wrong. The old man loved his money, but he loved his daughter more. She was the only link in life that kept together the chain of his affections. He had been passionately fond of his wife, and when she died, Emma had filled up the void in his heart. They were all, save his money, that he had ever loved. The world had cried out against him as a hard-hearted, rapacious man, and he, in return, despised the world.
He was, therefore, much grieved at her conduct, and questioned Emma as to where her frequent visits led her, but could only obtain for answer that she was not aware she had been absent so much as to give him uneasiness. This was unsatisfactory, and so confirmed the old man in his suspicions that he determined to have his daughter watched.
This he effected through the means of an ancien ami, then in the profession of what he called an “inspector,” though his enemies (and all men have such) called him a mouchard, or spy. However, by whatever name he called himself, or others called him, he understood his business, and so effectually watched the young lady that he discovered her frequent absences to be for the purpose of meeting a man who, after walking some distance with her, managed, despite the inspector’s boasted abilities, to give him the slip.
This naturally puzzled him, and so it would any man in his situation. Fancy the feelings of one of the government’s employees in the argus line of business, a man renowned for his success in almost all the arduous and intricate affairs that had been committed to his care, to find himself baffled in a paltry private intrigue, and one which he had merely undertaken for the sake of friendship!
For a second time, he tried the plan of fancying himself to be well paid, thinking this would stimulate his dormant energies, knowing well that a thing done for friendship’s sake is always badly done; but even here he failed. He watched them to a certain corner, but, before he could get around it, they were nowhere to be seen. This was not to be borne. It was setting him at defiance. Should he call in the assistance of a brother in the line? No, that would be to acknowledge himself beaten, and the disgrace he could not bear—his honor was concerned, and he would achieve it single handed; but, then, it was very perplexing.
The man, to his experienced eye, seemed not, as he had done to Emma, a dashing gentleman, but more like a foul bird in fine feathers. Something must be wrong, and he must find it out—but, then, again came that confounded question, how?
He would go and consult old Monette—he could, perhaps, suggest something; and, musing on the strangeness of the adventure, he walked slowly toward the house of the old man to hold a council with him on the situation.
On the road, his attention was attracted by a disturbance in the street, and mingling with the crowd, in hope of seizing some of his enemies exercising their illegal functions on whom the whole weight of his official vengeance might fall, he for the time forgot his adventure. The crowd had been drawn together by a difference of opinion between two gentlemen of the vehicular profession, respecting some right of way, and, after all the usual expressions of esteem common on such occasions had been exhausted, one of them drove off, leaving the other at least master of the field, if he had not got the expected job.
The crowd began to disperse, and with them also was going our friend, the detective, when, on turning round, he came in contact with Mlle. Monette, leaning on the arm of her mysterious lover. The light from a lamp above his head shone immediately on the face of Emma and her admirer, showing them both as clear as noonday, so that when his glance turned from the lady to the gentleman, and he obtained a full view of his face, he expressed his joy at the discovery by a loud “Whew!” which, though a short sound and soon pronounced, meant a great deal.
For first, it meant that he had made a great discovery; secondly, that he was not now astonished because he had not succeeded before in his watchfulness; thirdly—but perhaps the two mentioned may be sufficient; for, turning sharply round, he made the greatest haste to reach Monette and inform him, this time, of the result of his espionage.
After a long prelude, stating how fortunate Monette was to have such a friend as himself, a man who knew everybody and everything, he proceeded to inform him of the pleasing intelligence that his daughter was in the habit of meeting, and going to some place (he forgot to say where) with the most desperate and abandoned character in Paris—one who was so extremely dexterous in all his schemes that the police, though perfectly aware of his intentions, had not been able to fix upon him the commission of any one of his criminal acts, for he changed his appearance so often as to set at naught all the assiduous exertions of the Corps des Espions.
The unhappy father received from his friend at parting the assurance that they would catch him yet, and give him an invitation to pass the rest of his days in the seclusion of a prison.
On Emma’s return, he told her the information he had received, wisely withholding the means from which his knowledge came, saying that he knew she had that moment parted from a man who would lead her to the brink of destruction, and then cast her off like a child’s broken play-thing. He begged, nay, he besought her, with tears in his eyes, to promise she would never again see him. Emma was thunderstruck, not only at the accuracy of her father’s
information, but at hearing such a character of one whom she had painted as perfection’s self; and, calling to her aid those never-failing woman’s arguments, a copious flood of tears, fell on her father’s neck and promised never again to see her admirer and, if possible, to banish all thoughts of him from her mind.
“My child,” said the old man, “I believe you from my heart—I believe you. I love you, but the world says I am rich—why, I know not. You know I live in a dangerous neighborhood, and all my care will be necessary to prevent my losing either my child or my reputed wealth; therefore, to avoid all accidents, I will take care you do not leave this house for the next six months to come, and in that time your lover will have forgotten you, or what will amount to the same thing, you will have forgotten him; but I am much mistaken if the man’s intentions are not to rob me of my money, rather than my child.”
The old man kept his word, and Emma was not allowed for several days to leave the rooms on the fourth floor.
She tried, during the time, if it were possible to forget the object of her affections, and thought if she could but see him once more, to bid him a long and last farewell, she might in time wear out his remembrance from her heart; but in order to do that, she must see him once more; and having made up her mind that this interview would be an essential requisite to the desired end, she took counsel with herself how it was to be accomplished. There was only one great obstacle presenting itself to her view, which was that “she couldn’t get out.”
Now women’s invention never fails them, when they have set their hearts upon any desired object; and it occurred to her, that although she could not get out, yet it was not quite so apparent that he could not get in; and this point being settled, it was no very difficult matter to persuade the old woman who occasionally assisted her in the household arrangements, to be the bearer of a short note, purporting to say that her father having been unwell for the last few days, usually retired early to rest, and that if her dear Despreau would come about eleven o’clock on the following evening, her father would be asleep, and she would be on the watch for a signal, which was to be three gentle taps on the door.