He flicks an ash toward the can, his legs splayed in the plastic chair. We can see our breath.
“Yeah, well I don’t like it, either,” he replies. “Fact is, it may be coincidence, Doc. But another fact is, the Chandonne family’s scary shit. What we don’t know is what the hell the fallout’s going to be now that their ugly duckling son’s locked up in the U.S. for murdernow that he’s managed to draw so much attention to his Godfather daddy and all the rest. These are bad people capable of anything, you ask me. Believe me, I’m just beginning to see how really, really bad they are,” he cryptically adds. “I don’t like the mob, Doc. No sir. When I was coming along, they ran everything.” His eyes get hard as he says this. “Fuck, they probably still do, only difference is, there ain’t any rules, any respect anymore. I don’t know what the hell this guy was doing out near Jamestown, but it wasn’t to sightsee, that’s for sure. And Chandonne’s just sixty miles
away in the hospital. Something’s going on.”
“Marino, let’s get Interpol on this immediately,” I say. It is up to the police to report individuals to Interpol, and to do this Marino will have to contact the liaison at State Police, who will pass on the case information to InterpoFs U.S. National Central Bureau in Washington. What we will be asking Interpol to do is to issue an international advisory notice for our case and to search their massive criminal intelligence database at their General Secretariat in Lyon. Notices are color-coded: Red is for immediate arrest with probable extradition; blue is for someone who is wanted but his identity isn’t absolutely clear; green is a warning about someone who is likely to commit crimes, such as habitual offenders like child molesters and pornographers; yellow is for missing people; and black is for unidentified dead bodies; those who most likely are fugitives are also coded red. My case will be my second black notice this year, following the first one just weeks ago when the badly decomposed body of Thomas Chandonne was discovered in a cargo container at the Richmond Port.
“Okay, we’ll get Interpol a mug shot, prints and your autopsy info,” Marino makes a mental note. “I’ll do that soon as I leave here. Just hope Stanfield don’t feel I’m stepping on his toes.” He says this as more of a warning. Marino doesn’t care if he steps on Stanfield’s toes but he doesn’t want a hassle.
“He’s clueless, Marino.”
“A shame, too, because James City County has real good cops,” Marino replies. “Problem is, Stanfield’s brother-in-law is Representative Matthew Dinwiddie, so Stanfield’s always gotten extra good treatment down there and has about as much business working homicides as Winnie-the-Pooh. But I guess he had that on his wish list and Dimwit, as I call him, must have sweet-talked the chief.”
“See what you can do,” I tell Marino.
He lights another cigarette, his eyes roving around the bay, thoughts palpable. I resist smoking. The craving is awful and I hate myself for ever resuming the habit. Somehow I always think I can have just one cigarette, and I am always wrong. Marino and I share an awkward silence. Finally, I bring up the subject of the Chandonne case and what Righter told me on Sunday.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I quietly say to Marino. “I assume he was released from the hospital early this morning, and I assume you were there. And I guess you’ve met Berger.”
He sucks on the cigarette, taking his time. “Yeah, Doc, I was there. Fucking zoo.” His words drift out on smoke. “They even had reporters from Europe.” He glances at me, and I sense there is much he isn’t going to tell me, and this depresses me deeply. “You ask me, they ought to stick assholes like him in the Bermuda Triangle and not let nobody talk to them or take their picture,” Marino goes on. “It ain’t right, except at least in this case, the guy’s so ugly, he probably gave everybody technical problems, broke a bunch of expensive cameras. They brought him out in enough chains to anchor a damn battleship, leading him along like he was stone-blind. He had bandages over his eyes, faking like he’s in pain, the whole nine yards.”