Mr. Clarinet

He put another grillot in his mouth.

"She was with Charlie in the car when he was kidnapped," Allain said.

"Tell me what happened," Max said.

"It was just before the Americans invaded. Francesca took Charlie in to Port-au-Prince to see the dentist. On their way there the car was surrounded by a hostile mob. They smashed the car up and took Charlie."

"What happened to her?"

"She was knocked out. She came to in the middle of the road."

"Didn't you have security?" Max asked.

"Yes, the chauffeur."

"Just him?"

"He was very good."

"What happened to him?"

"He was killed," Allain said.

"Tell me," Max said to Allain. "Was your wife on TV here a lot? Or in the papers?"

"No—maybe just once, at a function for the U.S. ambassador a few years ago. Why?"

"What about your son? Was he in the press?"

"Never. What are you getting at, Max?"

"Your driver."

"What about him?"

"What was his name, anyway?" Max asked.

"Eddie. Eddie Faustin," Allain answered.

Faustin? Max's heart skipped a beat. Was this Faustin any relation to Salazar Faustin of The SNBC? He didn't want to start down that path just yet.

"Could he have planned Charlie's kidnapping?"

"Eddie Faustin didn't have the brains to tie his laces, let alone plan a kidnapping," Gustav said. "But he was a good man. Very very very loyal. He'd break his back for you and wouldn't even ask you for an aspirin to take away the pain. He took a bullet for me once, you know? Didn't complain. He was back at work a week later. He and his brother used to be Macoutes—you know, the militia? Not a lot of people liked them—because of things they did under the Duvaliers—but everyone feared them."

Yes: same guys. Max remembered. Salazar was ex–Haitian secret police. They'd trained him in viciousness. Those stories he'd told them in interrogation—initiation ceremonies where they'd had to fight pit bulls and beat people to death with their bare hands. Same people. One big happy family. Keep it to yourself.

"Maybe people were out to get him," Max said.

"We thought of that, but they could have come for him anytime. Everyone knew he worked for us. Everyone knows where to find us," Allain said.

"Including the kidnappers, right? Are you sure he couldn't have been behind it—or maybe involved?" Max said to Gustav.

"No, Eddie wasn't involved and I'd stake my life on it," the old man said. "No matter how clear-cut it appears."

Max trusted Gustav's judgment—to a point. There were many ingredients to a kidnapping—the safe house, the abduction planning, victim stakeout, abduction, getaway. You needed a calm, calculating, orderly, fairly rational brain to put them all together and make them work. You needed to be ruthless and cold-blooded, too. Gustav Carver wouldn't have had someone that intelligent so close to him. Most bodyguards were dumb lunks with great reflexes and nine lives. And Eddie Faustin must have been every bit as dumb as his former boss said, to have carried on working after taking a bullet.

If Eddie was involved in the kidnapping, he had been manipulated into it. The mob was possibly a distraction, deliberately organized to kill Eddie and get him out of the way, while the kidnappers quietly made off with the kid. Were they part of the mob, or did they drive up and take the kid?

Wait a minute—

"Where was Eddie's body in relation to Mrs. Carver?"

"There was no body," Allain said.

"No body?"

"Just a pool of blood near the car. We think it's his."

"All blood looks the same. It could've been anyone's," Max said.

"True."

"For now I'll treat Eddie as a missing person too," Max said. "What about witnesses? Your wife?"

"She only remembers up to the mob attacking the car."

"So if Eddie's alive, then he'd know who took Charlie."

"That's a big 'if,'" Gustav interrupted. "Eddie's dead. The mob killed him, I'm sure."

Maybe, thought Max, but maybes didn't solve cases.

"What was Eddie's brother called?"

"Salazar," said Allain, glancing over at his father.

"The same one you arrested," said Gustav, as if on cue.

"You're very well informed," Max said. "I guess you also know they all got deported back here?"

"Yes," said Gustav. "Does that bother you?"

"Only if they see me first," Max said.

There was a moment's silence. Gustav smiled at Max.

"You'll have a guide," Allain said. "Someone to show you around and act as your interpreter. In fact, you've met her. Chantale."

"Chantale?" Max said.

"She's going to be your assistant."

Gustav guffawed and winked at Max.

"I see," Max said. "She doesn't look like the sort who has a ghetto passkey."

"She knows her way around," Allain said.

"That she does!" Gustav laughed.

Max wondered which of the two she'd fucked. He guessed Allain, because Allain was blushing to the roots of his hair. Max felt stupidly jealous. Carver's money and status was an aphrodisiac. Max tried to picture Chantale and Allain together and couldn't. Something didn't fit. He chased her from his mind, told himself to focus, to think of her as a colleague—a partner, a life-support unit, same as when he was a cop. That was always a passion-killer.

He ate another grillot but the meat had gone cold and rock-hard. He was still hungry. He ate some tomatoes.

"My son hasn't had a lot of luck with assistants," Gustav said.

"Father!" Allain started.

"I think you should tell Max what he's up against, don't you? It's only fair to him, isn't it?" Gustav said.

"I met Clyde Beeson, if that's what you mean," Max said.

"I was thinking more about the unfortunate Mr. Medd," Gustav said.

Allain looked uncomfortable. He eyed his father angrily.

"When did he come into the picture?" Max asked.

"January, this year," Allain said. "Darwen Medd. Ex–Special Forces. He'd tracked drug cartel members in South America. He didn't get very far before he—"

Allain trailed off and looked away from Max.

"Medd disappeared without a trace," Gustav said. "The day before he vanished he told us he was going to Saut d'Eau—it's like a voodoo version of Lourdes—a waterfall you go to purify yourself in. Charlie had apparently been sighted there."