The Night, The Day (27 page)

“Do you really regard this as a time for sarcasm?”

Benoît’s face fell. “No, I do not.” He hesitated, then added, “I have no idea what this is a time for.”

“Frankness,” Martin said.

Benoît responded with a slight nod.

“Particularly about the reason you chose me,” Martin continued.

“I am sure you have come to understand that as well.”

Martin again looked at Benoît, waiting for a more direct response.

“I chose you… because of who you are,” Benoît said.

“You checked me out?”

“Yes.” Benoît searched Martin’s face for some expression – surprise, hurt, even rage – but all he got was a cold stare. “I know about your past, your parents, your wife.”

“And what did all that tell you?”

“That maybe you were the one who could help me.”

Martin noticed a tear escape from Benoît’s eye. “Help you? How?”

The tremor in Benoît’s hands spread through his body as he peered into space. Suddenly, he dropped his head and in a quivering voice said, “I have come to you in the hope that you… you might forgive me.”

Martin watched as Benoît began to sob, yet he still felt cold. “Forgive you?” he asked, his voice mild and even. “How is it my place to forgive you?”

Benoît seemed to disappear within himself. A few moments passed, then came the words: “You must!”

Martin didn’t respond.

“You must forgive me!” Benoît repeated.

Martin waited a few more moments before speaking. “The only things that are in my power to forgive you for are: one, intruding into my past, and two, deceiving me. For those things, I do forgive you. As for all the other things you’ve done, you didn’t do them to me.”

“But you know that I am a good man now. I have been for many years.”

Martin considered the point. “That, too, is not for me to decide.”

Benoît stood and walked over to Martin. He held his hands out, as if pleading. “But you,
you
know me better than anyone, even my own wife. You see the whole person, what I’ve become despite what I was.”

Martin remained still.

“As a man, as a Jew, you see all that.”

“It doesn’t matter what I see. You think that just because I am a Jew I can forgive you for the things you’ve done? I do not represent the Jewish people any more than you represent the French or the Nazis. I am one person, as you are, as was each of those children in the orphanage and the people who cared for them.” Martin reached into his pocket, removed the brooch and placed it in Benoît’s hand. “As was the woman who used to wear this. If it’s penitence you seek, find her and plead your case.” He dropped his tone. “Though I believe she is no longer alive.”

Benoît looked at the brooch, then let it fall from his hand as if it were burning hot.

Martin walked behind his desk and looked at his watch. “Our time is up. I think it is unwise for us to continue working together.”

Benoît simply nodded, then handed Martin a check.

“This one’s on me,” Martin said as he tore the check in two. He looked at the brooch on the floor and added, “Take it with you when you leave.”

Benoît bent down, reached for the brooch, then stood and looked once more at Martin. His eyes were watery and his face betrayed a shattered spirit. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to leave.

Martin stared him down, as if asking,
Why are you still here?

“Do you believe in God?” Benoît asked.

Martin was taken aback by the question. “Sometimes,” he responded.

“Do you think that God will consider the fact that I’ve been a good person since then?”

“I can’t speak for God any more than I can speak for your victims.”

Benoît looked once more at the brooch, then gave Martin a final glance. Seemingly convinced that there was no longer anything to be gained in this room, he turned and went on his way.

chapter 50

M
artha Benoît’s eyes opened to
a darkened room, her sleep interrupted by what she could have sworn was a loud noise. She reached for her husband on the other side of the bed, suddenly finding she was alone. She turned to the clock on the night table; it was 3 a.m.

She sat up, forcing a fuller state of wakefulness. Her heart racing, she tried to calm herself as she went to the closet for her bathrobe and slippers. Thinking that the noise had resembled thunder, she proceeded to the window. But all she saw was a clear, star-filled sky. She wondered where Jacques was, walked out to the hallway calling his name, and began descending the stairs.

“Jacques,” she called one last time from the foot of the stairway, acutely aware of the anxiety in her voice.

Still nothing.

She turned and saw a light emanating from a crack in the door to his study. Nervously, she pushed the door open.

Her first reaction to what she saw was a gasp. Then, a scream.

Her husband lay with his head on the desk, a river of blood flowing from his mouth. She approached the desk and saw the revolver beside his right hand, with his left hand closed into a fist. In front of him lay a piece of white paper, partly covered with blood, bearing two words:
I’m sorry.

Crying his name, she frantically shook him. Quickly realizing the futility of her efforts, the shaking turned into pounding, the hope into rage.

He had done this to himself,
to her
, and at that moment, she hated him for it.

Agent Richard Schwartz was awakened by the telephone. The FBI field agent on duty reported that a 911 call had been made from the Benoît residence regarding a suicide.

“
What?
” Schwartz hollered.

“That’s what we heard, sir.”

“Who made the call?”

“The wife.”

Schwartz pounded his fist on his knee. “Shit! Stay put, don’t do anything. I’ll get right over there.”

By the time Schwartz had arrived at the scene, there were four police cars and a coroner’s wagon in the mansion’s large circular driveway. Schwartz parked his car and proceeded to the front door, where he was stopped by a uniformed cop.

“Can I help you?” the uniform asked.

Schwartz flashed his badge and the uniform stepped aside with a curious stare.

Schwartz entered the house and noticed the eyes of five other uniformed cops on him. Again, he showed his badge and walked through the procession toward the room in the back from which he heard voices and a woman weeping. He stepped into the study and saw three detectives and a medical examiner. The medical examiner was taking pictures of the corpse, two male detectives were checking out the room, while a female detective was sitting with the widow. No one even acknowledged Schwartz’ presence until he approached the widow.

“Mrs. Benoît,” he said before any of the others could stop him, “I’m Special Agent Richard Schwartz of the FBI.” He held his badge in clear view for the others to see. “I’m here because we picked up a transmission on the police radio scanner about this situation. With something like this, involving an international figure like your husband, the bureau feels it ought to get involved.”

The female detective was a looker, Schwartz noted. Young, black, shapely, dreadlocks, and a serious mien on an otherwise pleasant face. Schwartz acknowledged her as he spoke to the widow, noting the what-kind-of-bullshit-is-this
expression she wore when he explained his presence. He knew he would have to do better with her and her colleagues afterward, and was grateful for their smarts not to press the matter just yet.

Suddenly, one of the male detectives asked, “What do we have here?”

The others turned in his direction as he pried something from Benoît’s left hand. He held up a piece of jewelry for all to see. Schwartz walked over and examined it.

“It’s a brooch,” Schwartz said. He held the ornament up as he looked at the widow. “Mrs. Benoît, do you know why your husband had this in his hand when he died?”

“Let me see,” she said as she got up and walked over to Schwartz. She examined the brooch with interest, particularly the inscription. “I don’t know. I have never seen this piece before.” She looked at it more closely. “It’s an antique, quite beautiful.” She translated the inscription for the benefit of the others, and then muttered, “I don’t know anyone named Leila or Philip,” as if she were talking to herself.

“Might be some kind of family heirloom,” Schwartz said.

Martha Benoît put the brooch on the desk and stared off into space. Schwartz picked it up and slipped it to the medical examiner, who then bagged it as evidence. He figured the widow was still too much in shock to think deeply about it. In time, it would come back to her and she would wonder. But for now, the explanation he had offered was as good as any.

Schwartz then checked out the body. Trails of blood flowed from both the mouth and the back of the head. Benoît had apparently eaten the gun and fired. Schwartz turned and saw the bullet lodged in the wall behind the desk.

He swallowed hard. It was an ugly scene, regardless of who the victim was. There was no rejoicing, no victory to be had in an ending like this. It wasn’t that he felt sorry for Benoît; it was more that he felt sorry for the world. He had seen too much in his time, he had lost too much, and had been in this miserable business far too long. This was it for him, as close to a last hurrah as he would get. And, paradoxically, he somehow found it fitting.

chapter 51

D
an Gifford opened the front
door, stepped out, and reached for the newspaper on the stoop. He looked at his surroundings and took a deep breath. His old neighborhood, his own home, sleeping with his wife in their bed, his son in the next room. It was all he had ever wanted, yet there was a time, not too long ago, when he had just about destroyed it. He had to remember that. He couldn’t allow himself to forget for even a second; his memories were his strongest deterrent against slipping back to that destructive place.

He stepped back into the house and smelled the coffee brewing in the kitchen. Stephanie smiled at him as he entered the kitchen, and handed him a cup of black, just the way he liked it.

They sat down together at the round oak table, as they used to every morning before he took the job heading up the major crimes unit; before the late nights, the breakdown in communication, the arguments, the weeks of not seeing each other; before the drinking had taken over. He looked at her – she always looked great in the morning – and simply smiled back. He felt good for the first time in a long time and he was determined not to let any of it change.

He unfolded the paper and was jolted by a picture of Jacques Benoît on the front page beneath the headline:
Billionaire Dies In Apparent Suicide
.

“Everything okay?” Stephanie asked.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, containing his reaction. “Just this story here about this guy who killed himself.”

She leaned over and glanced at the article. “I’ve heard of him.” She examined the picture and added, “So that’s what he looks like.”

“Yes, that’s what he looks like,” Gifford muttered.

Stephanie didn’t seem to catch on, or if she did, she knew better than to ask. It was a small concession to allow him to shield her from certain aspects of his work. And in the end, she trusted his judgment; if she needed to know something, he would tell her.

Gifford proceeded to read the story, which cited Benoît’s business achievements, the names of surviving family members, a few accolades from associates, and even the billionaire’s “record” as a freedom fighter for his native France during World War II. Gifford imagined how many people were reading this article and actually believed its contents, a thought which nauseated him.

As he read on, everything seemed to fall into place. First, he kicked himself for not recognizing the billionaire in Rosen’s waiting room. Despite the number of times their paths had crossed, and Gifford’s gnawing sense of Benoît’s familiarity, he simply hadn’t made the connection. And, though he knew that Benoît’s face had always been scant in the media, and his own preoccupations were enough to make any man slip, he still wasn’t inclined to let himself off easy.

After berating himself, however, it occurred to Gifford that this suicide was an awfully convenient solution to Martin Rosen’s conundrum. Convenient, and somehow just. Gifford felt jealous, thinking of the countless times he’d fantasized similar misfortunes befalling some of the people he’d faced off with. Pondering this, he lifted his eyes from the paper.

Convenient, and somehow just.