“They?”
“I told you. Government agents. FBI, Interpol. So they can get to my family.”
“If your family has been so careful to hide you from the world, then how do these peopleFBI, Interpol, whatever know you are a Chandonne?”
“They must have seen me come out of the house at times, followed me. Or maybe someone told them.”
“And you think it’s been at least two years since you were in your family home?” She tries again.
“At least.”
“How long do you believe you have been followed?”
“Many years. Maybe five years. It’s hard to know. They’re very clever.”
“And how might you help these people, quote, get to your family?” Berger asks him.
“If they can frame me as if I’m a terrible killer, then the police might get into my family’s house. They would find nothing. My family is innocent. It’s all politics. My father is very powerful politically. Beyond that, I don’t know. I only can say what has been happening to me, to my life, and it’s all a conspiracy to get me into this country and be arrested and then put to death. Because you Americans kill people even when they are innocent. It is well known.” His claim seems to make him weary, as if he is tired of pointing it out.
“Sir, where did you learn to speak English?” Berger then asks.
“I picked it up myself. And when I was younger, my father would give me books when I would show up at the house. I read a lot of books.”
“In English?”
“Yes. I wanted to learn English very well. My father speaks many languages because he is in international shipping and deals with many foreign countries.”
“Including this country? The United States?”
“Yes.”
Talley’s arm enters the picture again as he sets down another Pepsi. Chandonne greedily plunges the straw between his lips and makes loud sucking sounds.
“What kind of books did you read?” Berger continues.
“A lot of histories and other books to educate myself, because I had to teach myself, you see. I never went to school.”
“Where are these books now?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know. Gone. Because I am homeless sometimes or move around a lot. Always on the move, looking over my shoulder because of these people after me.”
“Do you know any other languages besides French and English?” Berger asks.
“Italian. A little German.” He belches quietly.
“And you picked those up yourself, too?”
“I find newspapers in many languages in Paris and have learned that way, also. Sometimes I have slept on newspapers, you see. When I have no shelter.”
“He’s breaking my heart.” Marino can’t restrain himself as Berger says to Chandonne on tape, “Let’s get back to Susan, to her death on December fifth, two years ago in New York. Tell me about that night, the night you say you met her in Lumi. What exactly happened?”
Chandonne sighs as if he is getting more tired by the second. He touches his bandages frequently and I notice that his hands tremble. “I need something to eat,” he says. “I’m feeling faint, very weak.”
Berger points the remote control and the picture freezes and blurs. “We broke for about an hour,” she tells me. “Long enough for him to eat something and rest.”
“Yeah, the guy sure as hell knows the system,” Marino tells me, as if I haven’t yet figured that out. “And the stuff about this couple who raised him is bullshit. He’s just protecting his Mafia family.”
Berger says to me, “I’m wondering if you’re familiar with the restaurant Lumi?”
“Not off the top of my head,” I reply.
“Well, it’s interesting. When we began investigating Susan Pless’s murder two years ago, we knew then that she had eaten at Lumi the night she was killed because the person who waited on her called the police the minute he heard the news. The medical examiner even found traces of the meal in her stomach contents, indicating she had probably eaten several hours, at most, before death.”
“Was she alone at the restaurant?” I inquire.
“Came in alone and joined a man who was also alone, only he wasn’t a freaknot hardly. Was described as tall, broad-Shouldered, well dressed, good-looking. Clearly someone for whom money wasn’t a problem, or at least he gave that impression.”