‘You’re in trouble now,’ Martinez said.
López’s eyes filled with tears.
‘It’s OK,’ Sam said. ‘Talk to us. You’ll feel better.’
‘I’ll never feel better,’ López said.
Miguel Ernesto López, aka – to Mrs Hood and the other three members of her kill team – CB, began talking anyway, feeling he had no real choice. He told them he was thirty-one and worked as a cleaner, was unmarried, without children, but that he had to earn money to send to his mother and younger brother in California, who would be in great trouble if he could not. He spoke freely for about a minute, then stopped abruptly, shut his eyes, muttered to himself.
‘We can’t hear you, Mr López,’ Sam said.
‘I said too much already,’ the man said.
‘Seems you just told us your name,’ Martinez said. ‘And that you’re a good son and a person who never had any trouble before.’
‘Where do you work, Mr López?’ Duval asked.
‘I don’t want to lose my job.’
‘OK,’ Sam said, easily. ‘So tell us about “the four” instead.’
‘I need the bathroom,’ Miguel López said.
‘Sure,’ Sam said. ‘But first, you need to tell us a little more.’ He looked into the other man’s dark eyes, held his gaze. ‘About what you’ve done, Miguel.’
‘I really need the toilet bad,’ López said.
And began to weep.
At five-twenty p.m. in Cannes, Chauvin was back in the ceiling space above the ground floor, waiting, listening.
He’d escaped for a while to exercise and check around for anything he might have forgotten, working through his strategy for the umpteenth time, mentally arranging the final touches. Back now, safe and sound, untouched by claustrophobia, which might have afflicted him before he’d learned to breathe efficiently.
It seemed to him a safe bet that Catherine would return at some point to see her buddy, Luc, though if she and Ryan had made up their quarrel and she did not come back or perhaps returned with the waiter, then he’d have to put everything on hold.
But Chauvin was an optimist, always had been.
His time – their time – was coming.
He knew it.
It was time, having found no record of the prisoner’s existence on every database the FBI had to offer, to get tougher. If he’d told the arresting officers the truth about being a part of these killings, then he’d been a participant in some of the worst crimes any of them had ever investigated. So they would not go through the Miranda again; they had it on record that he’d heard it, there was no question of deafness or language issues, and if the scumbag wanted pain relief more than a lawyer, that was fine with them.
What they wanted was the other three.
What they wanted was ‘Virginia’.
‘So, Miguel,’ Sam said, ‘are you going to talk to us or not?’
‘Because it’s going to go easier on you if you do talk,’ Duval said.
López’s eyes were still suffering. ‘I’m just scared, man.’
‘What are you scared of?’ Martinez asked.
‘Not for myself,’ López said. ‘There’s nothing you can do to me that’s going to be worse than …’
‘Worse than what?’ Duval asked.
‘Worse than who?’ Sam said.
López shook his head.
Sam gave him three seconds. ‘OK, Miguel, if you don’t want to help us, you can just go before the judge on the disorderly charge and you can walk – that’s if Homeland Security and Customs Enforcement – or maybe you know about ICE?’
‘Immigration,’ López said miserably.
‘That’s right. So if they do let you walk, I’m guessing your … What shall we call them? Your “colleagues”, your “killing buddies” – or maybe they’re the scum, not you, maybe they made you do those terrible things. Whichever, I’m betting they know you got yourself arrested, and I doubt they’ll believe you when you say you didn’t tell us anything.’
‘But if you help us now,’ Duval said, ‘we’ll help you all we can.’
‘You mean like a deal?’ López said.
‘We don’t do deals,’ Duval said.
‘Nine people dead,’ Sam reminded him. ‘Not counting an unborn child.’
They all stopped, watched him.
Miguel, aka CB, saw their eyes on him.
He didn’t know what to do.
He’d never been real sharp – smarter than his baby brother, for sure, but Mateo had not been right from the start. Alicia, their older sister, had been the smart one, had married a rich American, a tight-fisted bastard who laid down rules. If Miguel didn’t send money every month for his mother and Mateo, they’d go the same way as their father, who’d been deported when Miguel was still a kid. And Mamá had worked so hard and worried so much that she’d gotten sick, and if Miguel stopped paying or got in trouble, she and Mateo would be sent back to Mexico, with no health insurance and no pension …
Mrs Hood had persuaded him to spill his worries, had seemed to care, had made him believe she had the answer to all his troubles. Enough money to take care of his family for keeps, and to hell with his brother-in-law. Money and rewards on top, and she knew he had bad teeth, said she’d pay for dental treatments into the bargain, and so long as he ‘kept it zipped’ and was loyal to her, she’d always look after him.
All he had to do was kill innocent people.
At the start he’d told her no.
‘Think about it,’ she’d said. ‘That’s all I ask. Just don’t talk about it.’
He’d sworn he’d never tell.
‘Because if you do,’ Mrs Hood had said, ‘I won’t be able to help you, and your mother and brother will be finished in America.’
She’d told him about her reasons, her motivations, had sat him down, explained her beliefs. She’d quoted the Bible, told him about the great and good people who felt the same way, said that everyone had a duty to make things right, which was what she was trying to do now, only she needed men like him to help.
Miguel had known it was racist bullshit, had seen that she was wicked, maybe crazy. The most dangerous person he’d ever encountered.
But he had supped from her spoon, done as she’d ordered, taken her money and dental treatment. And then everything had overwhelmed him, he’d mixed pills and alcohol and here he was.
Struggling just to think. On one hand, he badly needed help, and they’d said that if he couldn’t afford a lawyer they’d provide him with one. He had his blood money now, but they wouldn’t let him spend it on his defense – and anyway, having his own lawyer didn’t mean that his mother and brother would be any better off.
There was no defense for what he’d done.
And the pain was blocking everything out like a massive boiling thunderhead.
‘OK,’ he said.
Catherine was back!
Though things might not be going entirely his way, because having taken until after six to return, she’d gone straight up to see Meyer on the top floor, and before long – tomorrow at the latest – the restaurant would be teeming with activity, cleaners moving in, maybe more pest control, maybe even the cops …
Still, if necessary he’d fix it, get to her another way, probably at her apartment, and her building was easy and he knew her routines and the waiter’s too, though with the restaurant closed until—
Voices.
Cathy and Meyer coming downstairs.
He heard her lovely voice say she was going out to get pizza.
Perfect.
Life changing on the spin of a pin, on the joys of fast food.
Time to get ready.
No, not yet.
Not a sound.
He commanded himself to do his mind exercises, to be calm.
He waited till she’d been gone for five whole minutes. Counted them through silently.
Breathed.
Needing to be certain where Meyer was. Remembering exactly where
everything was.
He had all he needed – most of it wrapped up in himself, his body strong these days.
And the meat tenderizer mallet he’d stolen from the kitchen earlier.
Along with the small knife.
Just in case.
He’d finished counting.
Meyer was back upstairs, and now Chauvin needed to get him out again – but on his terms.
Now.
Soigneusement. Carefully.
He tucked the mallet into his waistband, eased himself into a low crouch – no room for more up here – found the trapdoor, raised it silently, got a grip, lowered himself, sprang down quietly onto the floor, moved to the stairs, up to the first floor, stopped just behind the dumb waiter, focusing on a chair in easy reach.
He turned, breathed, kicked the chair over – hard and loud.
Retreated again into position. Heard the door two floors up open.
‘Cathy?’
Meyer.
Coming down.
‘I can give you their names,’ Miguel Ernesto López said. ‘And I can tell you where they work – not all of them all of the time. One only comes in a few times a week, and not always, and I don’t know where any of them live. She’s the only one who knows that.’
‘She?’ Sam’s tone was light.
Miguel shook his head. ‘I won’t tell you her name. I’m afraid of her. You have to guarantee you’ll keep me safe from her, otherwise I won’t tell you anything at all.’
‘Can’t guarantee you anything,’ Duval said.
‘Certainly not unless you tell us,’ Martinez said.
López fell silent, until the pain flared again. So intense, they saw it in his eyes.
‘You tell us’ – Sam was gentle – ‘you’ll feel better.’
Miguel gave a sharp, bitter laugh, and then he spoke the names quickly, one after the other, like a schoolboy reciting history dates.
Antony Copani.
Frank Blazek.
Jimmy Bodine.
‘They print them on our name tags,’ López said. ‘We leave our IDs in our lockers before we go home.’
‘So you all work in the same place?’ Martinez asked.
‘We all had different names for when we did the jobs.’
‘The “jobs” being what?’ Sam asked evenly.
‘The boss said our names were after people she admired. Copani’s called Leon. Blazek is Jerry. Bodine is Andy. I was CB.’ López shook his head. ‘I don’t know what that was about. She didn’t explain and I didn’t ask.’
‘You want to quit stalling?’ Martinez said.
López cradled his face again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Where do you work, Mr López?’ Sam asked.
‘If I tell you that you’ll go straight there, and then they’ll know I sent you. And I know I have to tell you, I know it, only I’m scared, so please let me tell you the rest first, like what I know about the others.’
‘Sure,’ Duval said.
‘So long as he isn’t jerking us around,’ Martinez said.
‘I don’t think he is,’ Sam said. ‘Are you, Mr López?’
‘I’m too sick to do that,’ López said.
‘You’re not sick,’ Martinez said. ‘You got a toothache.’
‘I got the king of all toothaches,’ López said, ‘which is what I deserve.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Martinez said.
‘Hey,’ Sam said. ‘Even I’m getting impatient here, and I’m the calm one.’
‘So tell us about the others,’ Duval said.
He told them that Copani – aka Leon – was some kind of fitness coach, the one who came to work a couple of days a week. That Blazek – Jerry – was a nurse. That Bodine – the one called Andy – was an orderly.
‘That’s all I know about them,’ he said. ‘Except Leon – Copani – thinks he’s something special, like our leader.’ Another pause. ‘I think he enjoyed doing it.’ He stopped again, buried his head in his hands.
‘Come on, López,’ Martinez said. ‘Don’t quit now.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Sure you can,’ Duval said.
‘How about you take a look at this?’ From a folder on the table, Sam produced a copy of one of the images of the four men walking back to their boat, set it down in front of López. ‘Take it easy for a moment, and tell us who’s who.’
His head was still in his hands.
‘Hey,’ Martinez said. ‘Get your head up and take a look.’
López’s eyes were wet again. ‘I can’t.’
‘Do it,’ Sam told him.
López dropped his hands, looked at the photograph and shuddered. And then he pointed at one of the men. ‘That was me,’ he said.
And then he identified the others, while Duval made notes, for the record.
‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ Sam said.
López said nothing.
‘I’m guessing,’ Sam continued, ‘from what you’ve said, that you all work in a hospital. Or maybe a nursing home.’
‘I need the bathroom again,’ López said.
‘Jesus,’ Martinez said. ‘You just went.’
‘I need to go,’ the other man said. ‘Just let me go and then I’ll tell you.’
‘Interview suspended,’ Sam said, ‘at one thirty-seven p.m.’
At ten past seven, Cathy was back with the pizza.
‘Hey,’ she yelled from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Coming right up.’
She’d tried Gabe three times in the last hour, tried once more now.
Still voicemail.
‘Gabe, I’m back at the restaurant, taking a pizza up to Luc. My battery’s running low, and I don’t have my charger with me, so if you can’t get me, try Luc’s number. Just please, please call me.’
She started up the staircase, paused at the first floor.
Something not feeling quite right.
‘Luc?’
No answer.
She continued up, found his door closed.
‘Luc?’
She knocked, then opened the door.
He wasn’t there, had probably gone out for wine.
She set the box on the worktop beside the microwave, looked at her phone again.
Down to one bar.
‘Call me, Gabe,’ she said, softly, willing him.
‘He won’t,’ a voice said from behind her.
Cathy froze.
Turned.
Saw him.
‘Surpri-ise,’ Thomas Chauvin said, singsong.
‘How the hell did you get in here?’ Cathy said.
‘I’ve been here a while,’ he said. ‘Came in with the lunch crowd on Sunday.’
She felt sick, remembered getting suddenly creeped out a few days ago in case he was one of the visiting photographers …
Don’t get scared, she told herself now. Take charge.
Best way to deal with this creep.
‘Get out,’ she said.
‘We’re both going out,’ Chauvin said.
Cathy laughed, because weird as this was – as he was – she was not scared.
‘I love the sound of your laughter,’ he said. ‘Though not so much when you’re laughing at me. You shouldn’t do that.’
‘You need to leave,’ Cathy said. ‘While you still can.’
‘Why’s that?’ Chauvin mocked. ‘Because someone’s coming here any minute?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They are.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘They’re not.’
She stared at him, realized that he’d changed since she’d last seen him. He was thinner, leaner, he looked stronger, and – no glasses anymore, contacts, presumably – there was a look in his blue eyes that was sending warning signals.
‘What have you done?’ she said. ‘Where’s Luc?’
‘Out of harm’s way,’ Chauvin said.
‘Where is he?’
Her mind planned her escape. She’d ask him again, get upset, then push past him and run, and she had the advan
tage, knew every inch of Le Rêve, and hell, she was even wearing khaki cargo pants – combat gear, as if she’d known …
‘Don’t,’ Chauvin said. ‘Don’t do anything foolish. If you value Luc Meyer’s life,’ he added, ‘you’ll do what I tell you.’
Cathy suddenly felt ice cold but she shook her head, made herself laugh again. ‘You sound like a shitty movie.’
‘I don’t like it when you swear,’ Chauvin said.
‘I don’t give a fuck what you like,’ Cathy said.
‘If you make me mad,’ he said, ‘Meyer could die.’
‘Where is he?’ Her sham calm was gone. ‘What have you done to him?’
‘That’s for me to know,’ he said.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘That’s easy. You.’
‘You can’t have me.’
‘I can,’ he said. ‘I will.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Cathy kept her tone hard. ‘And I suggest you stop this and leave right now, before my boyfriend gets here.’
‘Ryan’s not going anywhere right now,’ Chauvin said.
It felt like having her circulation cut off with an axe. The strength drained out of her. ‘What have you done?’
‘Come with me now,’ Chauvin said, ‘and I’ll explain it to you.’
‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’
His eyes were definitely bluer – tinted contacts, then – and his brown hair, which had been wavy, was almost buzz cut now, and this man was different now. She needed to take him seriously.
‘I don’t want to hurt you, Catherine,’ he said.
‘So tell me what you’ve done, and we can put it right.’
‘Later,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you everything. But right now, you’re coming with me so that I don’t have to hurt you, and so that both your friends may survive until tomorrow.’ He looked at the pizza box. ‘We have good food where we’re going, but if you’re in the mood for that, you can bring it along.’
‘It’s for Luc,’ Cathy said.
‘Luc won’t be eating anything,’ Chauvin said.
She looked into his eyes, knew that she was going with him.
That she had no choice.
In the interview break, they’d run the three names López had given them and sent out for enough Markie’s roast beef sandwiches to keep them going.
None of the four – if those names were legit – had a prison history or warrants outstanding, which was pretty much all they could have hoped to find at this stage, in the absence of drivers licenses, Social Security numbers or dates of birth. And they might have surmised that the lack of rap sheets indicated skillful criminals, but López appeared such a loser that seemed improbable. In which case, perhaps ‘Virginia’ had chosen her team partly because if they screwed up, left prints or DNA, she’d have the security of knowing there’d be no DNA matches in CODIS or NDIS or print matches in the AFIS.
Fear and Loathing Page 18
