by John Farrow
“What else though,” he asked, “because I agree with you, sex is a symptom here, not a cause—what else pushed us off the rails?”
She had to think about it, or perhaps her delayed response sheltered what she would prefer not to say. Sensing her reluctance, Cinq-Mars grew worried, feeling a cloud, a larger issue he might neither have anticipated nor necessarily desired to spring from its hiding place.
When finally she spoke, he understood that his premonition was accurate. In a millennia he’d never have anticipated this response, not from her, and he wasn’t at all sure that, for once in his life, the truth was something he wanted to know. That the issue had nothing to do with him made it all the more perplexing.
Sandra said, “I think I’m done with horses.”
Whoosh. A wind blew through them both. Cinq-Mars felt a seismic lurch.
The silence lingered awhile, then she pressed, “You have to say something.”
“I can’t. I’m stunned.”
“I know. I know. It doesn’t seem possible.”
But there it was. He had quit policing, but time had brought that on. A difficult end to a career integral to his being. Nonetheless, in the realm of personal choices a necessary one given his age and physical condition. Retirement had always been an expectation, even a reward, and given the dangers inherent in what he did—and what he in particular had done had been dangerous, taking on the various mobs and the bikers and on occasion the police department itself—retirement had been a logical conclusion. But for Sandra, at forty-six, to relinquish her one abiding passion sounded an alarm. A condition of her marriage, of leaving New Hampshire to come and live in Quebec with Émile in a French milieu foreign to her had been this singular demand: they had to live on a farm and she had to have horses. Cinq-Mars knew now that he wasn’t dealing with a mere malaise or a common marriage slump. This was serious. Life changing. The whole of her foundation was in upheaval, and her inner psyche could only be disheveled as a result.
“Then I’m not the only one in the family,” he said, glad to be able to speak, to respond at all, “who’s holding up under a strain.”
Their talk dissolved into hunger, and with a renewed burst of energy the couple dressed for a night on the town. Émile paused at the concierge desk downstairs to ask how far it might be to the French Quarter. Did he require a cab? He was tempted to ask his questions in French, but resisted, and was both surprised and pleased to be informed that, “We’re located in the French Quarter, sir. It’s outside the door.” The warmth of the black woman’s smile allowed his humiliation to feel entirely worthwhile. So in the end the Hilton Garden Inn may have been somewhat safe and dull but not totally un-cool.
They hit the streets.
The hunger jag kept their initial jaunt short, but after a stop for gumbo—the first item on Sandra’s list, which proved delicious—they did a short walking tour of the area, spending time in Jackson Square at the St. Louis Cathedral. They strolled along St. Peter Street, and Royal, and came back down Bourbon. These narrow streets, with their muted colors and patina and old-world charm and balcony life, offering up an other-era sense of festivity, almost beckoned them to kick up their heels, though no band played. Cinq-Mars yearned to see a funeral march, for the music, and said so. “I hope somebody important dies.”
“Émile!”
“Come on. You know it would be cool.”
Palm fronds rattled as they walked. They liked that.
And the sudden warmth from their winter was amazing.
Reaching St. Peter and Bourbon, he noticed a man he had checked out earlier near the cathedral. A brown-skinned man with patches on one cheek where the pigment was blemished, easy to identify after spotting him twice. He believed he could distinguish tourists from locals, but this guy seemed out of place among either clan. For someone who had shown up in different locations, or perhaps had followed him around for several blocks, he seemed disinterested in his surroundings and rather preoccupied with doing absolutely nothing. Typical cop behavior, he noted.
“What’s wrong?” Sandra asked, detecting the change in his mood.
He shrugged. “I’m being paranoid, I guess.”
“Seriously? Nobody here knows you, Émile.”
“Maybe that’s it.” His laughter seemed coy. “The total lack of notoriety.”
At least he succeeded in getting her to take his mood lightly.
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“Drinks?”
Up for that, she remembered a place she had read about that they passed earlier. Down a few doors on St. Peter Street they stepped into a tourist mecca called Pat O’Brien’s, or more commonly, Pat O’s. Cinq-Mars was skeptical. Five hundred beer steins hanging from the ceiling seemed too obvious an effort to make an impression, but the talk around them proved convivial and the house speciality, a rum concoction known as a Hurricane—“I guess living here you need to find ways to lessen your fear of the word”—hit the spot.
If he was being followed, the stalker did not tramp inside after him.
They enjoyed a second round, and these were not light drinks, but when Émile started scouring out a local’s politics, Sandra hauled him away. On the streets again, their weariness felt sublime. After the long flight, the round of sex, their talk, the good food and feeling awash in liquor, their mood was bright and sad and a trifle sassy even as they turned contentedly bone-tired. A stray, sultry voice lured them into another bar and Émile was into the Scotch now. They each had a shot, not planning to stay long. The female blues singer with the soulful sound caught their attention, but when the piano player dipped in for a quiet riff they fell in love with New Orleans. He paid homage to the tune but altered the song, transforming a narcotic sadness to a homily on love, and when the woman returned to the lyrics she conveyed a more poignant nuance on life’s travail. Simple and riveting in its way. Arm in arm, Sandra and Émile strolled back to the Hilton and given his mood Cinq-Mars might have forgiven himself had he missed the signs, but as it turned out he did not.
The man in the foyer who had tried to snatch his wallet earlier caught no more than a glimpse of him, then sent an elevator up empty. Seeing that he was identified, the fellow gave him a stern look, a virtual challenge, but Cinq-Mars didn’t fall for the bait. Rather than chase him out the door again he summoned the next elevator, which opened for him almost immediately, and they ascended.
“Stay behind me when we get out,” he warned his wife.
“Excuse me?”
“Well behind me.”
“I heard you. Émile!”
The doors opened. Out he jumped and she chose to do as he asked. Close to their room she saw the problem. The door stood ajar with a wastebasket jammed in the gap to keep it open. An intruder wanted the rightful guests to identify themselves before entering. Instead, Cinq-Mars pulled the basket out to the hall and shut the door quietly. “Go downstairs,” he whispered. “Get Hotel Security.”
She was on her way when the door pitched open. Out flew the man who had previously pilfered her purse. He drove into Cinq-Mars like a running back, a shoulder ramming his chest, knocking him to the opposite wall, where he regained his footing though many steps behind the fleeing intruder now. Sandra looked frozen and terrified as he appeared set to barrel right through her. But he tucked in a little feint to the left and burst to the right, racing past Sandra like an errant wind. Cinq-Mars was running after him and his wife tried to get in his way, to reason with him through gestures but managing only to slow him down a tad, giving the culprit time to stab the elevator buttons, then, when no door spontaneously opened, sprint to the stairway. Cinq-Mars chased him as far as the stairs, but at the top looked down. He heard the miscreant leaping down the stairs a half dozen at a time in an accelerated burst to freedom.
Cinq-Mars let him go. No use pretending that he could compete on the same athletic scale. Besides, he was supposed to be retired.
Sandra, in any case, was pleased to see that he discontin
ued his reckless pursuit. The elevator door called by the trespasser opened behind them. “Catch that,” he said. When she hesitated just a second, he added, “We’ll go see Security.”
He insisted that the hotel staff call the police. When the Latino Head of Security suggested that they keep this “in-house,” Cinq-Mars volunteered to call the cops himself.
“There’s no need, sir, really,” the man insisted. “We’ll file a report with the police ourselves.”
“This is not an in-house type of incident,” Cinq-Mars told him.
“How so?”
He’d rather not tell him. “I’m a retired cop myself,” he revealed.
“Which means what exactly?” The hotel man was small and lean and in a way his body-type was remarkably similar to that of the two men who had now accosted Cinq-Mars twice. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t trust him. But he realized that the man was only following an appropriate procedure. As a cop, he never appreciated hearing from hotels about every little break-in. They could afford their own security so they should use it. He only wanted to be let in on the big stuff and the repetitive crimes, otherwise, just submit a report. He saw that the man had his dander up. He knew what this looked like: an old cop looking down on a much younger security staffer because he represented the minor leagues of law enforcement, without ever considering the difficulties and responsibilities of his position. The hotel employee felt irritated.
Of course he did. Cinq-Mars lightened up.
“I’m sorry. I apologize. Look. A couple of guys attempted to rob us in the lobby. They tried to pick my pocket and her purse. They were good at it, too. Professional. Now those same two men—one downstairs to keep a lookout—break into my room. That’s not coincidence. It’s impossible for that to be coincidence. Pickpockets aren’t burglars and vice versa. I just arrived in this city today. I’m being targeted. I’ve come to you first, of course, you need to be informed. But I also want to talk to the police on this because it is not simply a random incident.”
Clearly, the man appreciated his manners.
“I’ll call,” he said. “They come in half the time than if you call yourself.”
Cinq-Mars had no trouble believing that that was true.
Together, the Head of Security, Sandra and Émile Cinq-Mars went upstairs to see what might have occurred in their room. The men formally introduced themselves on the ride up, and Everardo Flores offered an apology on behalf of the hotel for the incident.
“Do you think,” Cinq-Mars asked him, “I could get another room and have it booked under another name? Given what’s occurred?”
“I’ll see to it, sir,” Flores said. “I won’t say half, but, this time of year, with Mardi Gras coming up, maybe twelve or fifteen percent of our clientele are here under assumed names anyhow, so what’s the difference?”
“Why are they…?” Sandra started to inquire, then changed her mind. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
“Mardi Gras,” Everardo Flores explained anyway. “Strange things happen.”
They disembarked on the seventeenth floor once again.
This time, no one was in their room.
As far as they could tell, nothing was stolen, which only deepened their concern. The thief, if that was his proper designation—and Cinq-Mars had his doubts about that—had proven himself to be considerate and tidy. Émile’s clothes remained unpacked, and it was obvious that the intruder had searched through his gear without unduly disturbing anything. The edges of his shirts had been lifted. The smaller pockets in his suitcase unzipped. Drawers had been opened and Sandra’s things mildly rearranged. One tidy crook, then, who had probably intended to leave the premises as he had found them, as if he had never been there at all.
“But if he stole something,” Flores pointed out, “then sooner or later you’d know that you’d been robbed.”
“Not if he was looking for information,” Cinq-Mars contradicted him. “If that’s what he came for, and found it, we might never have known he was here.”
“What sort of information?” Flores’s query was not skeptical, and Cinq-Mars gave him a glance. A lesser mind might have assumed by now that these hotel guests had panicked, perhaps mistaken room service for the mob. That they were bumpkins. But Everardo Flores apparently took Cinq-Mars at his word and was not treating the event lightly. Nothing stolen, no one hurt, and yet the intrusion felt serious. Even, perhaps, ominous.
Cinq-Mars was examining his suitcase again, trying to remember what he might have had in it. In the washroom, items had been removed from his toiletries bag and set aside, most likely to facilitate a more thorough examination of the contents, but what, indeed, could the man have been searching for?
“That I don’t know,” Cinq-Mars admitted. “Maybe whoever invaded my room didn’t know either.”
“I know what’s missing,” Sandra piped up.
Seated on the bed, she now stood to show them. She pointed to the front of Émile’s suitcase, but he couldn’t see what was gone.
“Your name tag’s been torn off. And your baggage tag from the airline! My baggage tags are still on my luggage, and I know that you never take your tags off for months—not until your next trip.”
Cinq-Mars concurred. He had a leather name-and-address tag attached to the handle, and a baggage tag from the airline, and both were now gone.
“You’d think, if he broke into the hotel room of people he previously tried to rob, he might already know your names,” Flores remarked.
“Proof of the visit, maybe. Something to show a boss. Or he’s a collector.”
“Of name tags?” Sandra asked.
“Souvenirs.”
“Or he failed to rob you the first time. So he came back.”
The police knocked and announced themselves. Cinq-Mars opened the door and the two uniforms entered and shook hands with Flores first, whom they seemed to recognize. Cinq-Mars didn’t bother to mention that he was a retired detective as the introductions were being made, but he noted that the officers were efficient, if somewhat disinterested. They obviously had no clue as to why they’d been called to this scene, and with some urgency, when nothing more than a couple of tags had been swiped. At least they were not being outwardly sarcastic, although they did give each other looks, as if to ask, “What’s next? Do we get called if a guest farts?”
They showed more interest when Flores told them about the first incident, but again they came back to the relevant information. “So, nobody actually pinched your wallet?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor your purse?” the other officer inquired of Sandra.
“No, but he had my wallet in his hand.”
“Which he picked up off the floor, is that right?”
“He made it look that way. Before that it was in my purse.”
“This is before they accidentally bumped into you.”
“That was no accident,” Sandra let him know, her temper flaring. “That’s the point. The wallet may never have been on the floor.”
“I see,” the first officer said. He had an Italian name which Cinq-Mars had instantly forgotten. D’Amato or D’Amico. Simple enough, but it slipped his mind.
“He was on the job,” Flores said quietly, obviously feeling the need to defend the hotel’s guest.
“Who? Him?” the Italian asked.
“Neither here nor there,” Cinq-Mars told him.
“That true? You were a cop somewhere, sir?”
Conceding the point with a nod, Cinq-Mars admitted, “Detective. Montreal.” Then he added, in case that was not enough information, “Canada.”
The officer surprised him, this D’Amato or D’Amico. “You know what they say. New Orleans. San Francisco. Montreal. Those are the three most lively cities in North America.”
Cinq-Mars knew that, but he was surprised that this man did, too. Then he remembered that the Internet filled people’s heads with an abundance of useless information, particularly when it came to lists and to ranking place
s and products. “That is what they say.”
“And your description of the intruders again?”
A hopeless cycle, so he indicated Flores with a jerk of his thumb. “Both of them, they looked like him.”
“So two small Mexicans.”
The hotel guy gave him a look.
“Fit,” the officer added. “A couple of small-build, fit Mexicans. About his age, too?”
“I’d say so.”
“All right. Not much we can do here, sir. The guy stole nothing—”
“My husband’s name tags,” Sandra interjected, and Émile wished that she hadn’t brought them up again.
“Yeah. Well, let’s be grateful he didn’t grab the entire suitcase. Of course, then we’d have an actual crime.”
“Hey, Aldo.” The quieter of the two cops spoke up to get his partner’s attention. He indicated the door, and Cinq-Mars recognized the instant change in the young officer’s demeanor. He’d seen that look before, when a subordinate’s unwarranted confidence yielded to dismay in the presence of a superior officer.
In the doorway stood a man of some heft, emboldened by a stomach that overlapped his belt, who dangled a gold shield from a packet stuck in his suit’s chest pocket. The man had short, tightly curled hair, but his features and skin tone suggested a racial mix that was relatively rare. African and Asian DNA predominated a blend that might include Caucasian and American Indian, making identification of his ethnic origins a challenge. Half a dozen disparate peoples might be willing to claim him as their own. What struck Cinq-Mars though was that the atmosphere in the room had been transformed, in part because their non-crime inexplicably warranted a detective, and in part because the two officers in the room were obviously wary of this man. Possibly—likely, he gauged—they feared him.
“Sir,” the one called Aldo sputtered. He damn nearly saluted.
“Big case?” the new arrival inquired. His presence was further amplified by an impressive baritone voice.
