Fear and Loathing

by Hilary Norman

  ‘Weirdest interview I’ve ever been in on,’ Martinez said before they restarted. ‘It’s like we’re using torture, except we’re not doing anything. All we got to do is wait, and his fucking diseased mouth makes him spill.’

  ‘We need him to spill more,’ Sam said. ‘Before he changes his mind about a lawyer.’

  ‘Or demands medication,’ Duval said.

  Sam took a moment. Torture not sitting well with him.

  And then he remembered the bodies in the cars.

  ‘Let’s go suck him dry,’ he said.

  It took less than ten minutes.

  ‘Thing is,’ Sam said, the machine back on, ‘we’re not sure we buy what you’ve been telling us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ López said.

  ‘He means why should we believe you?’ Duval said.

  ‘You think I’d lie about something like this?’ He looked incredulous.

  ‘You want us to believe you cut those people’s throats,’ Martinez said.

  López gaped. ‘I never – we never did that. We just tied them up and then the cars did the rest, and we had guns to make them do what we wanted – what she wanted – but we didn’t shoot anybody and we never cut anybody. We tied them up, and Leon did that thing with the noose, and … oh, Jesus, you have to believe I didn’t do that, oh, God …’

  ‘Go on,’ Duval said.

  ‘Do you believe me now?’ López begged.

  ‘Yes,’ Sam said, gentle as a priest at confession. ‘We believe you, Miguel.’

  ‘And if I tell you where to find them’ – López’s brown eyes were pleading – ‘will you help me?’

  Sam wondered if the victims had looked at Miguel López like that, felt no guilt for lying to him now.

  ‘We’ll do what we can,’ he said.

  López crossed himself, whispered a prayer.

  ‘Like that’s going to help you,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Hey,’ Duval said quietly.

  ‘Rosemont House,’ López said. ‘On Alton Road.’

  Duval was typing it into his iPhone.

  ‘I’ll give you the name we called the boss.’ López’s eyes were wet. ‘Which is not her real name, OK?’ He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘It’s Mrs Hood. Like Robin Hood.’ He shuddered again. ‘She called us her Crusaders.’

  ‘Got it,’ Duval said. ‘Rosemont House on Alton.’

  López laid his head on his arms on the table and wept.

  ‘Warrants,’ Sam said, ignoring him.

  ‘On it,’ Duval said.

  ‘How near my house?’ Martinez asked quietly.

  ‘Close enough,’ Duval said.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Interview suspended,’ Sam said, and turned off the machine again.

  Gripping Cathy’s arm firmly, Chauvin had pushed her into the passenger seat of his white Peugeot 307, tossed the pizza box onto the back seat, then leaned across to buckle her seatbelt. The car was parked a hundred meters along the rue de la Rampe – she might have passed it any number of times, oblivious – and as Chauvin walked around to his side Cathy had thought of bolting, but the threats against Gabe and Luc had held her there, and even if she’d yelled for help, the road had been deserted.

  On the move now, heading in evening traffic out of Cannes, La Bocca to their right, the almost empty beaches to their left, and Chauvin had enabled the childproof central locking, though he didn’t appear to be hurrying, seemed to be enjoying the ride, and to strangers, Cathy realized, they must look like any couple, perhaps on their way to dinner …

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

  ‘To give us a chance.’ They were on the Boulevard du Midi. ‘All I ask is one or two days and nights.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘In love. Not crazy.’

  Cathy remembered Sam calling this man a ‘dope’, a ‘jerk’.

  ‘I think you’re bluffing. I think Luc went out, and you’ve invented the rest.’

  ‘Believe what you like,’ Chauvin said. ‘It’ll be his funeral.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind.’

  ‘To get your attention for a while? I don’t think so.’ He checked the mirror. ‘They’ll be OK, you know, so long as you do as I ask and try to enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Enjoy?’

  ‘You haven’t asked what I’ve done to your waiter.’

  ‘His name is Gabe, and I don’t believe you’ve done anything to him.’

  ‘As I said, believe what you like,’ Chauvin said.

  Mrs Hood knew that CB had not come in to work this morning.

  She had a feeling. Not a good one.

  Something was going on.

  Going wrong, maybe.

  ‘Hold your nerve,’ she told herself.

  Not that she had any alternative, but she was made of strong stuff. Superior stuff. Part of her heritage.

  And maybe this feeling was nothing, maybe López had met with an accident – preferably fatal – or maybe he had the flu or food poisoning, and if that was the case, all she had to do was what she’d already decided on: pause the operation, consider ridding herself of this band of Crusaders and start again when Becket and his task force had disbanded or gone into hibernation mode …

  She poured herself a shot of vodka – early in the day for her, but to hell with that.

  She raised the glass.

  ‘To fatal accidents,’ she said.

  Though life, as she’d learned over the years, was rarely that convenient.

  They’d left the coast, turned right just past the Pullman Hotel into avenue de la Mer. Chauvin had stopped talking, and Cathy was trying to focus on their route.

  Golf course to the right, sign for a campsite, right again … Boulevard des Ecureuils … Left into a residential road: substantial houses, some hidden by high walls, but she’d missed the street sign …

  He slowed, and Cathy caught a glimpse of a rough stone wall and a small white house as they turned into its driveway, stopping close to the front door, and her stomach clenched as she looked around frantically, took in blue-shuttered windows, red bougainvillea, no neighbors visible …

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ Chauvin said softly.

  ‘Take me back and I won’t be.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ He smiled. ‘I hoped for Monaco, obviously, but I knew it was impossible. Beyond anyone’s wildest dreams – even yours, Catherine, with your newfound wealth.’

  She sat very still. ‘Have you been following me all this time?’

  ‘Keeping up with you. The way we do, when we love.’ He turned off the engine. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  She thought of escape again as he got out – pause, then kick him hard, scream and run – but his threats were still buzzing like hornets in her head, so she’d have to wait till she was certain he was bluffing. And anyway, he was too swift, pulled her out of the car and close to him again. She caught his scent, a soft, citrusy sandalwood fragrance which smelled like a cologne that Sam sometimes wore, and the thought that Chauvin might know that, the possible implications of that, were so repugnant that she thought, for an instant, that she might pass out …

  ‘You’re OK,’ he said, and opened the door. ‘Voilà.’

  Darkness inside. Cathy tried to pull back, but Chauvin drew her inside, turned on the light.

  She blinked, registered an open-plan sitting room and kitchen. Window shutters closed. Floors tiled, white with navy edging, bare fireplace, couch, low pine coffee table, small round dining table and chairs in one corner. A flat-screen TV on one wall, DVD player on a shelf beneath.

  Immaculate and tidy, probably a rental awaiting occupancy.

  ‘Is this yours?’ she asked.

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Legally?’

  ‘You think I broke in? That I’m what, a burglar, maybe a squatter?’ He held up the keys. ‘Mine – ours – for two weeks,’ he said.

  He locked the door, pocketed the keys, released her
arm.

  Cathy’s stomach felt hollow. ‘You said one or two nights.’

  Just the thought of this one evening – night – enough to freak her out.

  A known stalker. Her stalker.

  He moved into the kitchen area, and Cathy took another look around. Navy-and-white straw baskets with rope handles, one by the fireplace, another beside the sofa filled with magazines, a third filled with white pebbles and matchboxes. Cushions on the couch, a stack of cloths in the kitchen and two caddies, all blue and white. No signs of cooking, yet she smelled an aroma of something, and maybe, if she hadn’t felt sick – if she hadn’t been abducted – it might have given her an appetite.

  Her mind scrambled, but she thought of something, grabbed hold.

  He’d been arrested more than once, but had never been convicted. Which meant he’d never done anything seriously bad.

  She made herself breathe. ‘OK if I sit down?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She sat at one end of the small couch, watched him open the fridge, used the moment to open her bag.

  ‘Do you need something?’ Chauvin closed the fridge.

  Cathy could see her phone, thought about keying in 112, for emergency, but the battery had been almost gone back at the restaurant, and the operator would ask questions, and Chauvin would hear, know what she’d done.

  ‘I’ll take that.’ He leaned over, plucked it out, opened it, took out the SIM card, put that in his back pocket and dropped the phone back in the bag. ‘I’ll return the SIM.’

  ‘I’d like to go home now,’ she said.

  ‘This is your home for tonight.’

  ‘Like hell it is,’ she said.

  ‘So would you like to see upstairs now, or would you prefer a glass of champagne?’

  She looked toward the small, narrow staircase, her stomach churning. ‘Neither.’

  ‘I’d like champagne,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t let me stop you.’ She thought he sighed. ‘Honestly, Thomas, what is supposed to be the point of this?’

  ‘Love,’ he said. ‘Destiny.’

  ‘God,’ she said. ‘You’re a walking cliché.’

  ‘Don’t be unkind, Catherine.’

  ‘My name isn’t Catherine.’

  ‘You decide, Catherine,’ he said. ‘Upstairs first, or champagne?’

  ‘Could we have a window open?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘I’d feel better with some air.’

  ‘A drink instead.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Cathy said. ‘One drink, then home.’

  Chauvin smiled. ‘Dinner first,’ he said.

  The task force had teeth, it seemed. Everyone cooperating, favors being pulled in where necessary, arrest and search warrants dropping into place, a major operation almost ready to roll.

  Their intel had it that Rosemont House was a licensed in-home elderly care service owned by Caesar Care, a company headed by one Constance Cezary. The building was four stories high with front and rear exits and fire escapes.

  Elderly care.

  Suddenly Hildy felt so close, Sam could almost smell her.

  No information yet on Cezary.

  No way of knowing if she was, or had any connection with, Hildegard Benedict.

  López had shut down.

  Time would tell.

  The waiting was driving them a little nuts.

  They wanted to hit the place during day shift hours – not that López had been specific about work hours, but neither had he mentioned night shifts, so the one most likely to slip the net was Copani, the fitness coach, aka Leon, who presumably gave old people stretching exercises part-time, and tortured and killed innocent victims for reward.

  No one knew for sure if Constance Cezary was their ‘boss’.

  Mrs Hood might, for all they knew, be a resident or even another employee of Caesar Care. But they all doubted that.

  ‘Your image of Hildy plotting from her wheelchair’s still ringing bells with me,’ Sam told Martinez in the squad room. ‘Though I’d imagined something glitzier for her.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Duval said. ‘Caesar Care sounds pretty megalomanic to me.’

  ‘Is there such a word?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Who gives a fuck?’ Martinez said.

  ‘Hildy or not,’ Sam said, ‘let’s just hope we end this.’

  They’d been talking dates. The first murders on June third. The Gomez killings just four days later on the seventh. Then a whole week until the Dickens Avenue homicides.

  Five days since then.

  One of the four in custody. Three more to come. Not forgetting the boss. Miguel López’s ‘Mrs Hood’.

  ‘Crusaders, my ass,’ Martinez said now.

  Duval’s cell phone rang.

  He answered, listened, responded with a curt affirmative, looked at the other two.

  ‘Ready or not,’ he said.

  At ten minutes past nine on Tuesday evening, the Ducati Monster growled to a halt on rue de la Rampe, and Gabe, pulling off his Shoei helmet, stomped up to the back door of Le Rêve, rang the bell and waited.

  No one came.

  It had been a very long day, during which Gabe had ridden more kilometers than he could remember, stopping several times for a drink, looking without interest at any number of views. Sulking, he guessed.

  Not his finest day, and even if he’d been justified in losing his cool with Jeanne, none of that had been Cathy’s fault; and maybe, in an ideal universe, she might have walked out with him, but loyalty, he guessed, cut more than one way, and Nic had given her an amazing opportunity. Le Rêve had been targeted repeatedly by someone, and Sunday night had pushed Jones and Jeanne to the brink.

  Of course Cathy hadn’t wanted to storm out.

  Gabe had begun feeling ashamed of himself hours ago at a brasserie near Grasse, after downing a good bowl of onion soup, a large bottle of Vittel and two espressos, then looking at his phone and seeing all the missed calls. He’d listened to Cathy’s generous apology and pleas for him to call, then the final message just after seven, telling him her battery was running low and that he should try Luc if he couldn’t get her.

  ‘Just please, please call me.’

  So he had, repeatedly, and he didn’t have Luc’s number, so he’d called the restaurant several times, but no one picked up, just a message apologizing for their brief closure and assuring them of the speediest possible reopening.

  He’d come to Le Rêve earlier on reaching Cannes, had given up when no one had answered the door and tried Cathy’s apartment instead; then, calling Rafi – just back from visiting friends in Antibes – he learned that he, too, had received multiple messages from Cathy, all looking for him.

  Now, back outside the restaurant, frustration was setting in.

  Even if Cathy wasn’t here, Meyer was surely upstairs – the guy seldom went anywhere, was almost a monk – so either they’d shared the pizza and a bottle of wine, and maybe they were both asleep, or Luc had guzzled down the whole thing himself, in which case he was almost definitely in bed.

  Or maybe something was wrong.

  The security shutters hadn’t been lowered – one of Luc’s last tasks every night. And if he had gone out and left the place empty, he’d certainly have closed them.

  What if Sunday’s poisoner had done something even worse?

  What if something had happened to Cathy?

  He glared at the entry system, useless without the altered code. He didn’t have Nic’s private number, and though he could call Jeanne, she patently had no faith in him, so to hell with that …

  All his instincts were suddenly clamoring, telling him he had to get inside.

  He’d broken rules before, a few laws. He’d smoked weed, done some coke, and he did grow cannabis alongside herbs and wild flowers on his lopin de terre, the dope meant for his uncle’s arthritis (though Yves used it regularly recreationally, when he wasn’t drinking himself into oblivion); and he broke the speed limit all the time, and he�
��d gotten into a jam with loan sharks back in his Boston college days …

  He’d never broken in anywhere.

  But if Cathy was in danger …

  He tried to think what an opportunistic thief might do. No shutters down, so maybe no alarm system set either – so all he had to do was smash the glass in the rear door …

  He opened his toolbox, found his tire iron set, chose the one that looked toughest, pulled off his T-shirt and wrapped it around his right hand and arm. Looked up and down the road. Saw no one. Thought about what he was about to do, about the possible ramifications. Dismissed them.

  Took a swing with the tire iron.

  Nothing.

  Serious force needed.

  He took a breath, got himself into batting stance, readied himself – and swung …

  Loud enough to wake the dead – but the toughened glass shattered into thousands of tiny fragments, and nobody yelled or came outside and no alarm sounded, and maybe Nic’s alarm was silent, through to the cops, or maybe some neighbor was calling them even now …

  Gabe stopped thinking, punched his wrapped fist and arm through the glass, cleared a gap big enough for him to climb through, and it was a squeeze, fragments flying, and he felt small cuts on his chest and leg, but his adrenalin was pumping, and then he was inside.

  ‘Cathy!’ He ran through the kitchen, out through the bar area to the staircase, taking the steps three at a time. ‘Luc?’

  The door on the top floor was open. No one inside.

  And then he heard it.

  A voice – male – calling from somewhere below.

  ‘Luc?’ Gabe called again. ‘Where are you?’

  He walked back down to the upper floor of the restaurant, looked around, unwrapped the T-shirt from his arm, shook it out, pulled it back over his head.

  ‘Luc?’ he called again. ‘It’s Gabe.’