hear from you. How are things?” Her tone was a bit cold. Frosty even. Things had not been good between us lately.
“I love you, Jenny,” I said.
She had amazing eyes. The color of olives in an extra-dry martini. Right now, they looked surprised. “What brought that up?”
“I haven’t said it recently. I figured you needed to hear it.”
The edges of her mouth turned up. “Let me get myself a chair,” she said. “And we can talk.”
I turned off the computer about a half hour later. I felt better than I had in a long time. A big white moon was high in the sky. It was after ten. Time to go.
I drove to Hammond’s street. Only the security lights were on in most of the houses. A few people were out and about, but not many.
I parked in front of Hammond’s house. I honked my horn and got out of my car. The garage door opened. Tonight’s guard was a young guy. He had a twitch in one eye and a scar across his left cheek. He held the shotgun loosely. Wary, but not hostile.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Ray Robertson. I’m here to see Steve Hammond.”
“It’s late.”
“I know.”
The guard nodded. “You will wait here.” He picked up the phone on the desk and spoke briefly. He nodded toward the stairs. I ran up. Hammond was waiting at the gate. He held a cigarette in one hand and a glass in the other. About an inch of smoky liquid. No ice.
“What the hell do you want, Robertson?”
“To talk.”
He studied my face for a long time. Then he said, “What the hell?” He unlocked the gate.
I walked into the house. I glanced around. A pile of cardboard boxes was stacked in the living room. Pictures had been taken down and piled against the walls. Shelves were open and empty.
“Moving?” I said.
“Yes. Back to the States.”
“LeBlanc said you could leave?”
He took a long drag on the cigarette. “They’ve got the guy who killed my wife. No need for me to stay in his godforsaken place any longer.”
“What about your job?”
“I’ve been reassigned.”
“Convenient.”
“Say what you have to say and then get out, Robertson.”
I could think of nothing to say. I had no reason to be here. I guess I just wanted the son of a bitch to know I was watching him.
Something caught my eye. An open packing box. A pair of small pink running shoes on top. A teddy bear leaned up against the box.
“Jeanne-Marie and François are going with you?”
“She’s my daughter.”
He dropped the cigarette onto the terra-cotta floor and crushed it underfoot. He sipped his drink. “The boy will be staying here until the school year’s finished.”
“Is that so?” I said. “Here? With whom? Everyone tells me Marie had no family. François wasn’t at school today. Josephine said the children had been taken out of school.”
A muscle under his eye twitched. “I’m done talking to you. Get the hell out, Robertson.”
“You don’t want to take François. Is it because he’s older? Or because he’s a boy?”
“I don’t know what games you’re playing, but I’m calling the guard. I’ll have your job for this.”
“Papa?” A small, frightened voice. Jeanne-Marie peeped around the corner. Her eyes were full of sleep, her hair tousled. She clutched her doll. I sucked in a breath. Her lips and cheeks were painted red. The lipstick was smeared across her small mouth. She wore a transparent nightgown of peach satin and white lace. Not pajamas with cartoon characters and bright colors. I could see her sharp collarbones, flat chest, bony legs.
“Go back to bed!” Hammond shouted. The girl disappeared.
“You bastard,” I said.
Hammond put his glass on a side table. He walked to the stairs. He held the gate open. “Out,” he said.
“Is that why Marie had to die?” I said. “Because she found out you’d married her to get to her daughter? Was she planning to leave you? And take little Jeanne-Marie with her? You’re being protected by your embassy. I have to wonder about that
“I love you, Jenny,” I said.
She had amazing eyes. The color of olives in an extra-dry martini. Right now, they looked surprised. “What brought that up?”
“I haven’t said it recently. I figured you needed to hear it.”
The edges of her mouth turned up. “Let me get myself a chair,” she said. “And we can talk.”
I turned off the computer about a half hour later. I felt better than I had in a long time. A big white moon was high in the sky. It was after ten. Time to go.
I drove to Hammond’s street. Only the security lights were on in most of the houses. A few people were out and about, but not many.
I parked in front of Hammond’s house. I honked my horn and got out of my car. The garage door opened. Tonight’s guard was a young guy. He had a twitch in one eye and a scar across his left cheek. He held the shotgun loosely. Wary, but not hostile.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Ray Robertson. I’m here to see Steve Hammond.”
“It’s late.”
“I know.”
The guard nodded. “You will wait here.” He picked up the phone on the desk and spoke briefly. He nodded toward the stairs. I ran up. Hammond was waiting at the gate. He held a cigarette in one hand and a glass in the other. About an inch of smoky liquid. No ice.
“What the hell do you want, Robertson?”
“To talk.”
He studied my face for a long time. Then he said, “What the hell?” He unlocked the gate.
I walked into the house. I glanced around. A pile of cardboard boxes was stacked in the living room. Pictures had been taken down and piled against the walls. Shelves were open and empty.
“Moving?” I said.
“Yes. Back to the States.”
“LeBlanc said you could leave?”
He took a long drag on the cigarette. “They’ve got the guy who killed my wife. No need for me to stay in his godforsaken place any longer.”
“What about your job?”
“I’ve been reassigned.”
“Convenient.”
“Say what you have to say and then get out, Robertson.”
I could think of nothing to say. I had no reason to be here. I guess I just wanted the son of a bitch to know I was watching him.
Something caught my eye. An open packing box. A pair of small pink running shoes on top. A teddy bear leaned up against the box.
“Jeanne-Marie and François are going with you?”
“She’s my daughter.”
He dropped the cigarette onto the terra-cotta floor and crushed it underfoot. He sipped his drink. “The boy will be staying here until the school year’s finished.”
“Is that so?” I said. “Here? With whom? Everyone tells me Marie had no family. François wasn’t at school today. Josephine said the children had been taken out of school.”
A muscle under his eye twitched. “I’m done talking to you. Get the hell out, Robertson.”
“You don’t want to take François. Is it because he’s older? Or because he’s a boy?”
“I don’t know what games you’re playing, but I’m calling the guard. I’ll have your job for this.”
“Papa?” A small, frightened voice. Jeanne-Marie peeped around the corner. Her eyes were full of sleep, her hair tousled. She clutched her doll. I sucked in a breath. Her lips and cheeks were painted red. The lipstick was smeared across her small mouth. She wore a transparent nightgown of peach satin and white lace. Not pajamas with cartoon characters and bright colors. I could see her sharp collarbones, flat chest, bony legs.
“Go back to bed!” Hammond shouted. The girl disappeared.
“You bastard,” I said.
Hammond put his glass on a side table. He walked to the stairs. He held the gate open. “Out,” he said.
“Is that why Marie had to die?” I said. “Because she found out you’d married her to get to her daughter? Was she planning to leave you? And take little Jeanne-Marie with her? You’re being protected by your embassy. I have to wonder about that
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