The Woman Who Lost Her Soul Hardcover (10 page)

You know him? asked Harrington, trying not to show his surprise. Without quite answering,
the DCM lifted his eyebrows in coy encouragement. Then you probably also know he’s
working a case, a homicide. An American, a woman.

Yes, he is, isn’t he? the DCM said with strange enthusiasm and sat forward again,
folding his large hands together on the desk. Which returns us to the interesting
question you yourself asked—Why are
you
here? Your legal and investigative skills are better applied to noble projects. Causes,
crusades. You’re quite a legend here in this building, an inspiration. The march you
led with the bishop of Gonaïves—my God, Tom, you’re lucky to be alive. And I want
you to know that we are doing everything within the limits of our power to restore
the rule of law here, and when that day comes, the work you’ve done will serve as
the foundation to round up all the people guilty of gross human rights violations
and other such crimes and prosecute them in a credible manner. The day is coming.
You have my word on that, Tom. But my point is this—What does the tragic murder of
this woman have to do with you?

Nothing, said Harrington, which was as true as if he had answered,
everything
. Dolan asked if I could help him out.

And you said yes. That’s very interesting, said the DCM absently, looking at his wristwatch
and then pressing a button on his intercom to tell his secretary if so-and-so had
arrived, send him in, and in he came, immediately recognizable to Harrington as an
abstract ideal packaged in human form and erected in a moral landscape of bold silhouettes.
Charcoal business suit, silver necktie, shoes like gleaming cubes of obsidian. The
fraternal Ivy League thuggishness of his sharply handsome face. Clean-shaven, youthful
despite graying temples, well-tended, and in his goading eyes the steel of fierce
discipline—Tom could imagine him in a Dartmouth sweatshirt, jogging during his lunch
hour on the mall in Washington. When a person was so dramatically successful at inhabiting
his own stereotype, it seemed to Tom that that person was in fact endowed by a pure
exoticism, an individuality like a Bengal tiger.

Let me guess, said Tom, rising to offer his hand. Department of Justice.

Albert Neff, he said, introducing himself with the thin smile of hubris and an unexpectedly
flaccid grip, as if he found such things as manners and etiquette to be a delay of
game. I have colleagues who speak well of you, Neff said as he lowered himself onto
a leather couch to the side of the DCM’s desk, the accordion file he had carried in
with him resting on his knees. Harrington acknowledged the compliment and recited
the names of several people he had coordinated with at Justice until Neff interrupted
him. And I have colleagues who think you’re a sanctimonious prick.

Fair enough, said Harrington, his face reddening, and sat back down warmed by the
splash of animosity into his veins. Men like Neff didn’t just represent the system
to him, they were the system, and in their proximity he could feel the inescapable
gravity of the state tugging at his viscera, and he instinctively tugged back. For
your own verification, Tom said, his riposte delivered with a frozen smile, would
you like to have a little suck? Just to be sure? You’re familiar with the taste of
sanctimony, I take it. We’re talking pricks here, right?

Fellas, said the DCM, uselessly.

Have you known Mr. Dolan very long, counselor? Albert Neff asked.

I want to know why you’re asking me that.

Neff retrieved a black-and-white photograph from the file and passed it to Harrington.
Do you know these two men?

Dolan, said Tom, looking at an image of the grandfatherly Irishman bellied up to a
bar, a bartender pouring a martini from a shaker. Who’s the other guy?

Mr. Dolan’s client.

Parmentier?

No comment, counselor.

All right, gentlemen, said Harrington. If it hasn’t yet dawned on you that I have
nothing to give you, it’s just become clear to me that the same would not be true
for you.

In confidence, said the DCM. Mr. Dolan has some very interesting friends.

Mr. Dolan’s client murdered his wife, said Neff.

Maybe so, said Tom, but how do you know that?

Mr. Dolan’s client killed his wife, Neff emphasized. What complicates that fact, and
troubles us, is that Mr. Dolan’s client was also Special Agent Dolan’s informant during
a sting operation the Bureau ran in Tampa before Dolan retired.

I see, said Harrington calmly, but then couldn’t stop himself from blurting out, No
shit?

No shit, counselor. Under the protection of Special Agent Dolan, Mr. Dolan’s client
was implicated in an extravagant variety of crimes, including homicide, for which
he was arrested but never indicted.

Tom Harrington tried to keep his head clear from the cloud he felt pressing in. What’s
Dolan doing in Haiti?

The same old, same old—trying to save his ass. Once you start protecting a fuckhead
like his client, you’re married for life.

And what was his client doing in Haiti?

The DCM chose to answer. Selling forged passports to some very interesting people.
That’s what interested us most, but he was also involved in a number of business deals
that the US government, unlike our Haitian friends, did not look upon with favor.

Okay, said Tom. Got it. And what about the girl, Renee Gardner?

Not her real name. Cokehead, bimbo, gold digger, said Albert Neff.

Are you telling me she wasn’t working for the government?

Are you suggesting she was? Neff asked, and he exchanged a sidelong glance with the
DCM, who returned his questioning look without a hint of evasion and shrugged.

Not to my knowledge, said the DCM, and Mr. Neff removed a notepad and fountain pen
from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and jotted a few words. Uh, hold on, the
DCM thought for a moment. I seem to recall someone mentioning she was on the DEA’s
rat list. He paused, looked down at the surface of his desk, looked up, less sure
of himself. No, actually, I think I’m confusing her with someone else.

If that’s true, said Harrington, why was her body shipped out within less than twelve
hours of her death, on a military flight? And why an embassy van to retrieve the corpse?

Right, said the DCM, looking nonplussed, these details are unusual, but the flight
was on the up-and-up, nothing irregular there, and the ambassador accepts responsibility
for any embarrassment that might possibly result from these details.

I’m not clear about what you’re saying.

Favoritism, taxpayer expense, that sort of thing.

I still don’t get it, said Harrington.

You wouldn’t, unless you knew who the victim’s father was, said the DCM. One of our
own at State, an undersecretary. A
gwos neg
, so to speak, he smiled, using the Kreyol phrase for Big Man.

Not exactly a family background that produces coked-out bimbos.

You know better than that, counselor, said Neff.

We cabled him the night of the murder, the DCM continued. He insisted her body be
returned to him ASAP, even if it meant we had to charter a plane. The army flight
was a happy coincidence, a scheduled exfiltration of troops.

What troops? The marine guard here at the embassy? I thought the Pentagon had cleared
out.

Advisors, trainers, small SF contingents—it’s not a secret, said the DCM. But the
point is, the father was distraught, the strings he pulled were readily available
to a man of his position. And just between you and me, he was furious that his daughter
had married this criminal, and he wanted him brought to justice.

Well, that’s a pretty irony, said Harrington.

I’m not following, said the DCM.

You spring him out of jail and put him on a plane to Miami before there was any chance
you might lose him here in the tar pit.

The alternative was extremely messy, as you well know.

A pretty irony, this justice.

Am I finished here? Neff, impatient with the conversation, asked the DCM.

I have a question, said Harrington. If you’re certain Dolan’s client arranged for
the murder of his wife, the motive is what? Dolan mentioned an insurance policy but
that seems rather tawdry for your suspect, who, from what you’ve implied, seems to
operate at a more artful level and I’d guess for much higher stakes.

Men like him, girls like her, said Neff with condescending distaste. You never go
wrong handicapping their colossal stupidity. My guess is she attempted to extort her
husband. Marital problems among crooks are often resolved with a double cross and
bloodshed. She had filed for a divorce. That might explain it.

Does Connie Dolan know that? asked Harrington.

I don’t know what Dolan knows, Tom, said Albert Neff. That’s why we’re talking. But
I can tell you this. Dolan’s days of protecting this dirtbag are over. That’s why
you’re here. In this room.

Well, that’s only partially true, added the DCM. Keeping you out of trouble strikes
me as a worthy goal.

Anything else you can tell us? asked Neff.

I knew her, you know. Back during the occupation. She was using a different name.

Yes, we know, said Neff. I’m told you had an adventure together up north.

Right. That’s what people here like to say. An adventure up north.

Anything to that?

No. I don’t know.

I’ve heard a bit of the story, offered the DCM. Sounds harrowing.

You want my opinion, said Neff, face-to-face with Harrington. What happened up north
in those mountains with you and this little bitch has nothing to do with this case.
Dolan’s boy murdered her and the only issue unresolved in my mind is what it’s going
to take to get retired Special Agent Conrad Dolan to back off. He’s complicating a
very straightforward affair. In my book, that’s called obstruction. Tell him to step
away.

I don’t know about Dolan, said Tom, but I think you’re right about the north.

Then let’s leave it at that, Tom, the DCM said magnanimously. No sense dragging yourself
up there to stir up old grievances. Am I right?

So you’re aware of what happened up there?

The unpleasantness, yes. We heard some things.

The girl made enemies.

As did you, correct? But those enemies vanished into thin air, is what I understand.
You can’t connect dots that don’t exist.

You just said you didn’t want me stirring up old grievances. What’s going on in Cap?

I’m simply trying to save you from a very strenuous, risky journey that would be a
complete waste of your time. You’ve already agreed with us. The north is not part
of this investigation. We’re certain of it. Believe me, we know what happened up there.

The hell you do,
thought Tom, and yet he didn’t understand why he was pushing back against them when
they were intent on giving him a pass, giving him what he most wanted, a reason, any
reason, to stay out of the mountainous north.

And we’re confident we know what happened down here. The two events aren’t related,
unless there’s something you’re not telling us.

Harrington shook his head without saying anything, feeling the blood drain from his
face. On the intercom, the DCM told his secretary to call downstairs for Mr. Dolan
to come up. Neff collected the photograph from Tom and slid it back into his file
and, without their original animus, they rose to their feet and shook hands again.

Tell me this if you can—why did she use so many aliases? That bothers me.

She was a nutcase, said Albert Neff. According to her father. Lived in a world of
fantasy. You knew her, you know the type. Am I wrong? He turned to leave the room
but then turned back, feigning afterthought, a business card in his fingers. I have
another theory, he said. It’s probably way off base, but if it ever starts to make
you tingle, get in touch.

Yeah?

Maybe she was working for Dolan. You know, keeping tabs on Dolan’s boy. Wild, huh?

Suppose that were true?

You’ve already made the point yourself. Dolan’s boy didn’t kill anybody for insurance
money, counselor. I can tell you that.

See you around, said Tom, but the man from Justice grabbed his elbow as he moved toward
the door.

I want this prick, Harrington. He’s been running loose way past his expiration date.
The problem is what the problem was—I have to go through Dolan to get him.

Yeah? Well, good luck.

And when I do that, counselor, I need you to do one thing for me.

Let me guess. Step out of the way.

That’s right, step out of the way.

The thing is, I’m not in your way.

Best news I’ve heard all day, he said, tugging at his sleeve to check the time. I
have a plane to catch back to Miami. Are you on the flight?

No.

You should be on the flight.

Neff disappeared and the DCM’s secretary marched Tom out of the office and down the
hall to an elevator, its door opened and held by a muscular man dressed almost identically
to Tom in chinos and a polo shirt and running shoes, smiling warmly at Harrington
as if they were old friends. Got a minute? he asked, and Tom looked at him blankly
and said, Just tell me what’s going on so I can get out of here.

Here’s what you need to know, said the guy. Parmentier did not kill his wife.

Why do you say that?

I know Jack Parmentier. He’s solid.

Solid?

He was doing important work down here. You know what I’m saying.

You’re saying he was an agency asset.

I don’t believe I said all that.

Excuse me, you said that he was so devoted to his lovely wife that under no circumstance
would he cause her harm.

I’m saying under no circumstance would he ever jeopardize the project he was working
on.

The project?

The project.

So then, who killed her? And why?

Maybe you might have some idea about that.

What the fuck is this? Everybody seems to think I’ve been appointed independent counsel
on the Jackie Scott case.