The Storm Murders (17 page)

“What’s the first question you ask when someone goes missing?”

Thinking about it, Dupree was also busily scratching the back of his right elbow. He sat with his thick thighs splayed outward. The indentation on the bed went deep. “I’d ask, what does the individual look like?”

“Except that in this case you know what she looks like. You met her. So the next question would normally be—and I admit, this is not a normal situation—
what was she wearing
?”

“Okay,” Dupree played along, remaining sceptical. “What was she wearing?”

“I went through her wardrobe. Blue jeans and a pale green top, a pullover type thing.”

“We’ll get that on the wire,” Dupree assured him.

“You’re not following me.”

“Why am I not surprised? Talk me through it, Cinq-Mars.”

É
mile took a breath, still putting it together in his head and trying to grasp the ramifications. “Sandra walked out of here on her own accord. She willingly left the building. She wasn’t abducted—initially—because she took the time to choose clothes buried in her suitcase. Nothing that was on top, easy to get at. If she was being abducted she’s not going to go carefully looking through her luggage to put something on for the occasion or to select clothes that match.”

Dupree remained confused. “Okay. I get it. But you’re telling me that—
initially
—she was not abducted?”

“I’m saying that she was lured outside. It’s the only explanation. Everardo gave me the idea. He came back here as soon as he was called. The
call
was important enough that he turned around and drove straight back. Sandra—she also must’ve received a call. Something that lured her into leaving the hotel, probably to meet me, maybe to meet you. Who knows? Since then, I’m guessing, she’s been kept away.”

Rising from the soft mattress was not easy for the large man, but Dupree heaved and puffed and made it up. “We still have a problem,” he noted.

“The blood smear. I know. I was thinking about that. It’s what gave us—gave me—the wrong thought. But it could have been after the fact, no? We didn’t know about Mr. Grant then. You said it was an hour old, the blood? First off, Mr. Flores here is tight with his security. It would not have been easy for someone to find out my new room number. Possible, but not easy. I’m not in the computer at the front desk, for instance. Instead, Sandra was telephoned. She doesn’t have a cell. The hotel switchboard would’ve found her and put the call through. So check on that. But that’s why I still think that she was grabbed. Because after she was grabbed, she gave up the room number. And her key card. That makes the blood smear in the room possible, probably from a sheared off finger—hopefully, Jefferson Grant’s, no one else’s—which all occurred after she left. They wanted to make it look as though she was abducted straight out of her room. Grant’s troubles might have started in my new room, he might have been killed there, but I consider that highly unlikely. More likely, the finger was brought back to the room after he was killed—so much easier than dragging his body around, don’t you think?—then the wall was smeared, both to alert us to an abduction—”

“Alert us?”

“Who kidnaps anybody in secret?”

“Okay. So what’s the other thing?” Dupree wasn’t smiling anymore, but looked both puzzled and attentive.

“They wanted to alert us to the abduction, to fool us about how it occurred. And they wanted to intimidate us, or maybe just me, with the sight of blood and of course, eventually, with the dead body. I bet that’s why we haven’t heard from them yet. They expect us to need a lot more time to find the corpse.”

Dupree nodded briefly and paced the floor a little. His size astonished Cinq-Mars in this intimate environment. “I’m not calling off the door-to-door,” he told him. “But I get you,
É
mile. I’m buying into your interpretation. We’ll follow both theories. Say, for now, that she walked out the front door, unaccompanied, all on her own.”

“Most likely unaccompanied. Somebody sold her a bill of goods.”

Pausing, Dupree stared directly into
É
mile’s eyes. “Just so we understand each other, this is a tough one. I’m looking for the same miracle you are, but until we hear from her abductors, assuming that she has abductors, this is a tough one.”

“I know what you’re saying, Sergeant.”

The detective nodded, touched his hand a moment to
É
mile’s biceps, and quietly said, “Call me Dupree.”

“Dupree, there’s one other theory to consider.”

For the briefest moment, the detective flashed that glittering smile again. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

“The dead man. He might have told my wife to leave. In that sense, in some kind of scenario like that, she wasn’t abducted. She put on some clothes. Things that she can move around in comfortably. Then she hurried out. She escaped.”

“Escaped? You think your wife might have escaped? The Hilton Garden Inn?”

Cinq-Mars himself didn’t want to wave this flag with enthusiasm, only to be keenly disappointed further along. But it was possible. “I talked to my guy in the FBI, like you asked me to do. It turns out, he hired Grant to protect me.”

“Really? If that’s true, Jefferson Grant’s come up in the world. Not that it’s done him much good. So the FBI was protecting you. Okay, from what? From who?”

“That’s where we reach an impasse. They just won’t say.”

“Do they know?”

“They won’t say. I’m guessing they know.”

“Damn. Probably one of their asinine conspiracies. They’re the biggest conspiracy theorists on the planet.”

“Part of their job description, I suppose.”

Dupree folded his arms across his chest. “Anything else I need to know?”

Cinq-Mars took a deeper breath. “You won’t like this part, Dupree.”

“I don’t like any part of this,
É
mile.”

“They’re coming.”

“Great. The FBI? Great. You’re right. I don’t like it. This is New Orleans,
É
mile. Do you know what you get when you put a New Orleans cop in the same room with an agent from the FBI? Doesn’t matter who the individuals might be.”

“You tell me,” Cinq-Mars invited him.

“Disdain,” Dupree let him know, although he might have guessed. “Sheer disdain. It grows on you. Like mold. Anyway, thanks for the head’s up.”

“I’m told they’re sending in the cavalry. I suppose I insisted on it.”

The two men looked away from one another.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” Dupree said.

“Does that mean I have to go back to calling you Sergeant now?”

Someone in the hall was waving for Dupree. Without answering the question, he turned away and walked off to attend to that matter. Everardo Flores came up beside Cinq-Mars and the two men observed the activity in the corridor.

“How can I help?” Flores asked.

“Help?” Cinq-Mars absentmindedly repeated. He was feeling dizzy again and the front of his brain throbbed.

“You called me back here.”

“You were called back here, Everardo, because you’re a suspect. We don’t want our suspects out of sight. Don’t you get that yet?”

He didn’t and, being put out by the idea, scurried off in a huff to ease the distress of his other guests in the Hilton Garden Inn.

Over the next half hour, Cinq-Mars pinned his hopes on the arrival of Rand Dreher’s cavalry. As he expected, no further evidence was derived from the hotel searches and no news came in from the streets. Sandra had vanished. He didn’t know what another infusion of police could do, but he was having a difficult time maintaining his usual equilibrium, and since he could not rely upon himself he was relying upon numerical force. If he could he’d call out a multitude from the heavens, a legion from hell, mobs from their sodden lairs, and armies from their barracks. He’d like to summon the minions from every continent to search and destroy, to query every living soul on earth until answers were revealed. His weariness, perhaps, or his abrupt and free-ranging fears had taken over, and he no longer felt himself. The severe ache in his brain could be an impending stroke, not that he had any experience in such matters, but the sensation felt menacing and strange.
É
mile had to will himself to be calm and suspected that at any other time of his life he could manage even a crisis this severe with a higher degree of control and calm were it not for two aspects that impinged upon his usual strengths: he was out of his territory, therefore surprisingly incapable of action, and he just felt
older
, more tired. Whereas in another era he might have been running on adrenaline, postponing an eventual crash, now he felt as if he had already
crashed
, and was waiting for someone, or some event, or some
thing
, to pick him up.

Dupree moved his so-called command center a floor higher, and Cinq-Mars followed along. He was alone in that room when he heard a knock on the open door. Cinq-Mars looked up and saw a woman in conservative attire suitable for an office, and for the tiniest fraction of an instant a thought zipped through his head that she was Sandra. But no. Sandra did not have longish, dark brunette tresses or blue eyes. His wife was much younger than him, but nowhere near thirty, which was the approximate age of his visitor.

“Detective Cinq-Mars?” the woman asked.

He chose to dispense with denying he was a detective. “Yes?”

“Vira Sivak,” the woman replied. She strode forward and extended her hand. Cinq-Mars had seized upon a thought that terrified him—“oh no, the press!”—when she added, “Special Agent, FBI.”

In a fog, he shook the slender, soft hand. She sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. “I thought I called out the cavalry,” he told her.

“I talked Agent Dreher out of it, sir. We agreed upon a limited presence. Me.”

He looked at her as if she spoke a foreign language.

“You,” he said—and he wanted to register a complaint, “are not the cavalry,” but instead he caught himself and spoke to the more surprising revelation—“talked him out of it?”

Seated for no more than six seconds She now popped back up, returned to the door, and shut it. Cinq-Mars noticed that before returning she scanned the washroom to make sure they were alone.

“Detective Cinq-Mars—”

“Do you mind calling me mister? I’m supposed to be retired.”

“Mr. Cinq-Mars. Are you all right? You don’t look well.”

“I’m stressed, Agent Sivak. I’m used to stress, but not like this. I’m unaccustomed to being helpless. It’s a new experience, so no, I’m not well. But nothing to be concerned about. Now, please tell me that you didn’t come alone.”

She sat again. A handsome woman, with little makeup. Despite the solidity of her facial features her look was not severe, and despite the businesslike aspect to her attire—a pants suit, sturdy shoes—she moved with a subtle grace. The long hair helped. She reminded him of his wife that way, although Sandra was prettier and more overtly and confidently feminine, even in her barn clothes.

“I’m here alone,” she told him. “It’s very possible, Detective—Mr. Cinq-Mars, that your wife was taken precisely to see who might show up. If it’s just me, her abductors may relax some. No one needs to know that our mutual friend sent me. This might play out in our favor down the line.”

“I keep asking Agent Dreher to tell me what I don’t know.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I do. I’m not going to tell you what you don’t know either. Imagine if you did know too much, and imagine if you had told your wife. I understand that you’ve been confiding in her.” She raised her eyebrows to gently chide him.

“What are you saying?”

“Things might be far worse for her right now.”

“Is it not possible, Agent Sivak, that things could not be any worse?”

“Let’s hope that that’s not true.” She leaned in closer to him. “Let’s proceed on that premise, okay?”

Although he really didn’t know what he was agreeing to, for this felt more weighted than a mere wish for his wife to be safe, Cinq-Mars agreed. “Okay.”

She leaned in still more closely and spoke more quietly, so that Cinq-Mars knew that she wanted something from him. “Have you gathered from our talk so far that I’m somewhat aware, somewhat
au courant
, of this file? For instance, that I know why you’re here in New Orleans?”

“I’ve gathered that, yes.”

“So can we proceed”—Cinq-Mars noted that this seemed to be a favorite phrase—“on the premise that this is true, but that such an opinion need not travel to anyone around us at any time?”

Cinq-Mars studied her eyes. She certainly carried an intensity there.

“You want to be presented to the world as ignorant?”

“Let’s just say,” she demurred and continued with her eyes on his, permitting no diversion, “that it’s in our best interests, and particularly your wife’s, that we don’t scare anybody.”

“So no cavalry.”

“Just me. And I’m ignorant of most things pertinent to you and your presence here, as far as anybody else who’s here needs to be concerned.”

Cinq-Mars held on a moment, but proceeded to nod. “Now I understand how,” he ceded.

She waited with a curious expression for him to explain himself.

“How you convinced Agent Dreher. You’re convincing.”

She still did not break her penetrating gaze. “Mr. Cinq-Mars, it’s not that I’m convincing. If I am it’s irrelevant. What counts here is that this is important.”

“All right,” he said. “I believe you.”

He didn’t know any of the people around him, everyone in a flurry and working in a blur, but for once he felt better. That growing ache on his brain seemed to diminish, and he had some confidence now that he might make it through the night. He realized that that had been weighing on him. Relief from the fret of being incapacitated right when he was needed most released his mind to think more astutely about the matter at hand, about saving Sandra.

“So,” Agent Vira Sivak inquired, “do you want to introduce me to the investigating officer?”

“Sure. He’s on this floor somewhere.”

He wasn’t hard to find. As it turned out, an introduction was not necessary. “Pascal,” she said, extending her hand to him, which told Cinq-Mars that although they had met, they weren’t bosom buddies. The notion was reinforced when Dupree referred to her as Agent Sivak. Not buddies at all. Although he shook her hand.