Perez followed him, sat facing him, and but for the music they could have been seated once more in the FBI Field Office.
‘Perhaps we should conduct our interviews here from now on,’ Perez said. ‘It would save all the trouble of ferrying me back and forth surrounded by all these federal people, none of whom, I can assure you, have the slightest shred of humor, and it would be so much more comfortable, no?’
Hartmann nodded. ‘It would. I’ll suggest it to Schaeffer and Woodroffe.’
Perez smiled and reached for his cigarettes. He offered one to Hartmann. Hartmann took it, retrieved his lighter from his jacket pocket and lit them both.
‘How are they bearing up?’ Perez asked.
‘Who?’
‘Mr Schaeffer and Mr Woodroffe.’
Hartmann frowned. ‘Bearing up?’
‘Sure. They must be feeling the stress of the situation, yes? They have found themselves in perhaps the most uncomfortable set of circumstances of their collective careers. They must be feeling a tremendous amount of pressure, with the girl gone and all manner of high and mighty people breathing down their necks demanding results, results, results. I can only begin to imagine how they must feel.’
‘Stressed,’ Hartmann said, ‘like the Brooklyn Bridge.’
Perez laughed. ‘You are good, Mr Hartmann. I knew very little of you before we met, very little indeed, but since we have been spending this time together I have grown to like you.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘And so you should be… there are very few people I can say that I honestly like in this world. I have seen too many crazy things in my time, things people have done for no apparent reason at all, to make me believe that human beings are all as equally lost as one another.’
‘Why me?’ Hartmann asked.
Perez leaned back and looked at Hartmann. ‘This question intrigues you. I have seen it playing amongst your thoughts from the first day. You want to know why it was that I asked you to come down here and listen to me when I could have asked any number of people and any one of them would have come?’
Hartmann nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why did you choose me?’
‘Three reasons,’ Perez stated matter-of-factly. ‘First and foremost, because you are from New Orleans. You are a Louisianan, just like me. I am of Cuban descent, granted, but irrespective of that I was born here in New Orleans. New Orleans, like it or not, has always been my original home, my place of origin. And there is something about this place that only those who were born here, only those who have spent their formative years here, can truly understand. It has a voice and a color and an atmosphere all its own. It is like no other place on earth. There is such a blend of people here, faiths and beliefs, languages and ethnic strains, that makes it truly unique. In a way it possesses no singular identifying characteristic, and thus it cannot be easily identified. It is a paradox, a puzzle, and people who visit can never really grasp what makes it so different. It is a place you either love or hate, and once you have decided your feelings for it there is nothing that can change them.’
‘And you?’ Hartmann asked. ‘Do you love it or hate it?’
Perez laughed. ‘I am an anomaly and an anachronism. I am the exception that proves the rule. I have no feeling for it at all. I cannot love it and I cannot hate it. Now, having seen all I have seen, there is almost nothing to love or to hate in this world.’
‘And the second reason?’
‘Family,’ Perez said, and he spoke quietly, but there was such intention and emphasis behind this single word that it hit Hartmann forcibly.
‘Family?’ he asked.
Perez nodded. He reached forward and flicked his cigarette ash in the tray.
Hartmann shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You do,’ Perez said, ‘perhaps better than anyone who’s involved in this. You understand the strength and power of family.’
‘How so?’
‘Come on, Mr Hartmann, you cannot deny what you know is true. What about your mother and father? What about Danny?’
Hartmann’s eyes opened wide. ‘Danny?’ he asked. ‘How the fuck d’you know about Danny?’
‘The same way I know about Carol and Jessica.’
Hartmann was speechless. He looked at Perez with an expression of abject incredulity.
‘Come, come, Mr Hartmann, don’t act so surprised. I am not a stupid man. You do not live the life I have lived and survive by being stupid. I may have done some things that you find difficult to comprehend, but that does not make me crazy or ignorant or unprepared. I am a methodical and systematic man. I am a planner, a thinker. I may have worked with my hands, but the work I have done has been for the greater part cerebral in its execution.’
‘A suitable turn of phrase,’ Hartmann said.
‘Execution? No pun intended,’ Perez said. ‘There are some people who are born for particular things, Mr Hartmann, things such as politics and art, even Shostakovich who managed to combine the two and have something of worth to say, and then there are some who fall into a path which is somehow not of their own choosing.’
‘And where would you place yourself?’
‘The latter, of course,’ Perez replied. He ground his cigarette out and lit another. ‘Events conspired perhaps, I am not sure. Perhaps when I die it will all become plain and evident and I will understand everything. Possibly events conspire to make us who we are, but then again I sometimes think that subconsciously we possess the power to influence events and circumstances around us, and in this way we actually determine, for the greater part, exactly what happens to us.’
‘I can’t say I have that philosophic a viewpoint about it,’ Hartmann said.
‘Well, consider it from this perspective.’ Perez leaned back in his chair. He seemed as relaxed as he could be. ‘Your own situation is a perfect example. Your father’s death, the death of your younger brother, the work you have done for most of your adult life. Are these things the factors that contributed to your difficulty, or was the difficulty there all along merely waiting for the necessary
‘My difficulty?’
‘The drinking,’ Perez stated.
‘The drinking?’ Hartmann asked, once again unsettled by the degree to which Perez knew the details of his life.
‘The drinking, yes. The difficulty that you have struggled with for so many years, and the thing that finally prompted the departure of your wife and daughter.’
Hartmann felt disturbed and tense. ‘What about my wife and daughter? What do you know about them?’
Perez shook his head and smiled. ‘Do not worry yourself, Mr Hartmann. Your wife and daughter have absolutely nothing to do with this matter. I understand the sense of responsibility you feel towards them-’
‘Like your own wife and child, Mr Perez?’ Hartmann interjected, realizing that here was an appropriate opportunity to pursue this line of inquiry.
‘My wife and child?’ Perez asked. ‘We were not talking about my wife and child, Mr Hartmann, we were talking about yours.’
Hartmann nodded. ‘I know, but considering we are discussing this area I find the fact that you have a wife and child tremendously fascinating.’
Perez frowned.
‘Your line of work, the things that you did… how could you go home and look your wife in the face knowing that only hours before you had murdered someone?’
‘I imagine much the same way you managed it,’ Perez said.
‘Me? What do you mean? I never murdered anyone.’
‘But you lied and you deceived her, and you pretended to be something you were not. You made promises and then you broke them, I am sure. It is the same with anyone who carries a shadow, Mr Hartmann, whether it be
