money and power to make my mark. I remembered a sign I had seen over the Alvarez School.
Here was my education. Here was a way into a world I could only ever have dreamed about.
Here was my escape route, and with people such as these behind, beside and ahead of me I foresaw no repercussions, no consequences, no obstacles.
Here was the American Dream, its darker edges, yes, its blackened underbelly, but a dream all the same, and I wanted that dream so much I could taste it.
They left that night, Giancarlo Ceriano and his henchmen, and with them they took the broken remains of my blood-brother, Ruben Cienfuegos. Where they took him and what they did with his devastated body I do not know. I did not ask. I had learned already that with people such as this you answered, but you did not ask. They frightened me, but I found that I respected them as much as any people I had ever known. I recognized their brutality, their passion, their seeming ability to swiftly despatch both the living and the dead. Theirs was a different world, a greater world, a world of violence and love, of family and greater fortune.
As he left Don Ceriano said, ‘We shall tell Don Trafficante and Pietro Silvino’s family that he was murdered by a Cuban thief. We shall tell them also that you were the one to identify the thief and to kill him. You will earn yourself a name, a small name, my little Cuban friend, but a name nevertheless. We will call on you again, and we will talk of business together, you understand?’
‘I understand,’ I replied, and believed – perhaps for the first time in my life – that I had walked into something that
I did not sleep that night. I lay awake on my mattress, and out through the window I could see the stars punctuating the blackness of the night sky.
In my mind circles turned and within each circle a shadow, and behind each shadow the face of my mother. She said nothing; she merely looked back at me with a sense of wonder and of awe.
‘I have become someone,’ I whispered to her, and though she did not reply I knew – I just knew – that
TWELVE
‘The man does not exist,’ Schaeffer said matter-of-factly. ‘Right now we have used all the resources at our disposal, we have trawled through every database we have access to, and this Ernesto Cabrera Perez does not technically exist. There is no record of anyone by that name ever having entered, exited or resided in the mainland United States. There are no Social Security numbers, no passports, no work permits or visas… absolutely nothing.’
Woodroffe sat beside Schaeffer, silent and expressionless.
‘Silvino’s death, however, we can verify,’ Schaeffer said, as if this was some sort of consolation prize.
Hartmann leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. Back of his eyes a narrow pain threatened to become a migraine and he was using much of his concentration to make it disappear. He believed he would not succeed. It was late in the afternoon, and Perez had spoken almost continuously. They had stopped to eat around one o’clock and, in between the questions, Perez had commented on the quality of the food.
Later, when he was done talking, he was once again escorted to the Royal Sonesta with his two dozen bodyguards.
‘But I don’t get the Shakespeare connection,’ Schaeffer said.
Hartmann shrugged. ‘I believe he is merely showing us that he is not an ignorant man. Christ knows what it might mean, but sure as hell it will keep your Quantico guys busy for the rest of next week.’
Schaeffer smiled drily. Hartmann was surprised to see the man did indeed have a sense of humor.
‘So what now?’ Hartmann asked.
Schaeffer shrugged. ‘Hell, what the fuck do I know? We all take the rest of the day off, go see a movie or something? I got God knows how many people available to me and I don’t know where to send them. I got phone calls coming on the hour every hour from everyone in the Senate and half the fucking United States Congress. I tell ’em what we’re doing. I tell ’em we’re listening to the guy, we’re working through every word he says to see if we can’t get some kind of fix on where he might have put her. I’ve got agents going back through DMV records to try and find some record of this car and where it’s been all these years. Jesus, I’ve got people re-fingerprinting every callbox he used, going through his clothes for trace fibers and samples of dirt he might have picked up on his shoes. I’m doing every goddamned thing I can think of, and right now, as we speak, I have zip.’
Hartmann rose from his chair. ‘I gotta get outta here, get some fresh air or something. That okay with you?’
‘Sure,’ Schaeffer said. ‘Get a pager from Kubis so we can call you if we need you. Seems to me that there ain’t one helluva lot that you can do until tomorrow.’
Schaeffer stepped away from the doorway and let him pass. Hartmann went to see Lester Kubis. Kubis gave him a pager and checked that it was working.
Hartmann nodded at Ross as he left, and passing out through the front door onto Arsenault Street he was at once surprised by the clear blue of the sky, the warmth of the sunshine. There was a tangible difference between here and New York, a difference he had missed in some ways, but beneath that there was the awareness of all that New Orleans represented. He thought about Danny, and thoughts of Danny became thoughts of Jess which, in turn, became thoughts of Carol and what would happen come Saturday. Right now it was not a problem. This matter could conclude tomorrow, perhaps the day after, and he decided that he would not concern himself with it until the latter part of Friday. It was Sunday evening. He had five days to hear what Perez had to say.
Ray Hartmann walked for the sake of walking, no other reason. He took a left at the end of Arsenault and headed downtown. He looked at the facades of buildings he had not seen since early 1988, the better part of fifteen years before.
He kept on walking, trying to keep his mind absent of anything specific, and before he could take stock of where he was he found himself at Verlaine’s Precinct House. He went up the steps and passed through the double doors. It was quiet inside. Seemed as though nothing moved. The duty sergeant didn’t even look up from his paperwork, not until Hartmann reached the desk and cleared his throat to attract the man’s attention.
The sergeant, his brass-colored name-tag identifying him as one Walter Gerritty, looked up, peered over the rim of his horn-rimmed glasses and raised his eyebrows.
‘I was after John Verlaine,’ Hartmann said.
‘And I should imagine you are not the only one,’ Gerritty said. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Ray Hartmann… Special Investigator Ray Hartmann.’
Gerritty nodded sagely. ‘And would that mean you are a special person, or that you only investigate special things?’
Hartmann smiled; the guy was a wiseacre. ‘It would mean both, of course,’ Hartmann said.
‘Good enough for me,’ Gerritty said, and reached for the telephone at the edge of the high desk. He dialed a number, waited for a second, and then said, ‘Trouble awaits you in the foyer.’ He did not wait for a response and hung up. ‘He’ll be down in just a moment or so.’ Gerritty resumed his paperwork.
Hartmann nodded and took a step back from the desk.
Gerritty peered over the rim of his glasses again and scrutinized Hartmann. ‘Problem?’
Hartmann shook his head.
‘Good enough then,’ Gerritty said, and once more his head went down and he started writing on the sheet before him.
Verlaine appeared within a minute, perhaps less.
Gerritty watched him come down the stairs. ‘Figured it was a pissed-off husband, didn’t you?’ he asked Verlaine.
The cop smiled. ‘You are an asshole of the first order, Gerritty,’ he said.
Gerritty nodded. ‘We all have our chosen station in life,’ he replied, ‘and we do our best to keep up standards.’
