FIVE

The accommodations here in Haiti are sweet. Not like the shipping container I had in the UN compound in South Sudan. I share a spacious, nicely furnished townhouse with another guy. He’s away a lot, so we don’t get on each other’s nerves. I like to cook, and it’s a treat to have my own kitchen again. The place comes with a beautiful shady garden and a big pool.

I dropped Pierre off and went straight home. I took off my uniform, locked my Smith & Wesson in the gun safe and pulled on my bathing suit. I got a jar of small but delicious Haitian peanuts out of the cupboard and a cold beer out of the fridge. I grabbed my book and carried my loot outside. It was dark now, but the heat of the day lingered. I settled into a lounge chair under a royal palm and read for a while. Then I hit the pool for a few laps.

Nice as this place is, I’m not allowed to bring my family here for a holiday. I went home to British Columbia last month on vacation. The visit did not go well. My girls are pretty much grown up now. They’re out of the house and making lives of their own. And that, I suspect, is part of the problem. Jenny, my wife, is lonely. She spent most of our time together sniping at me. And, I have to admit, I sniped back. I thought she was building to an ultimatum. I’d have to give up UN policing or our marriage would be finished.

But she didn’t say it. I’d been relieved to come back to Haiti and full of guilt at being relieved.

I thought of Steve Hammond. He was one cold fish. I knew better than to judge, but he didn’t seem all that upset at the death of his wife. One of the first emotions he’d shown had been when he remembered that Marie had asked him to fire the gardener. And he’d basically told her to suck it up.

I finished my beer and debated getting another. I heard the gate opening and two of my colleagues laughing. Footsteps on the stairs as they went to their own apartments, and then all was quiet again. I decided against another beer and went inside for the night.

“We’ll be right over,” I said. I put my phone into my pocket. “That was Hammond. The gardener’s arrived.”

Pierre slapped his hands together and jumped to his feet. He almost seemed eager. “I’ll let the judicial branch know.”

It was time to bring the big boys in. The detectives. I’d called them the night before and filled them in. Someone would be coming with us to talk to Alphonse.

We were in what passed for offices in the poky little police station. Dust and old computers and broken furniture. It was close to noon, and the temperature was in the high thirties. The single air conditioner in the window struggled to keep up. I’d been teaching my students about de-escalating a situation. I’d thrown in plenty of praise for their handling of the tap-tap accident the previous day.

I had no reason to continue to be involved in the Hammond case. At home, I’m not a detective. I wasn’t in Haiti to be one either. But I was interested. I wanted to see how they did things here.

“Let’s go then.” I got to my feet. “Just you and me, Pierre. The other guys can go on regular patrol this afternoon.”

Six cops coming to interview one old gardener might be overkill.

I dismissed the class, and Pierre and I drove to Hammond’s street. We’d been told to wait for the detective, and we did. I kept the truck running and the air-conditioning on. At midday the street was quiet. A few women walked past with shopping bags in hand or baskets on their heads. A group of men sat on cinder blocks in the shade. They eyed us but made no move to approach.

A sleek black Cadillac Escalade pulled up. The suv was polished to a high gloss. The driver gave us a nod. I put the car in gear and we followed. We parked our cars on the edge of the road and got out. Pierre introduced us in the dusty heat. The detective was named LeBlanc. He was a large man, muscle gone to fat, wearing a shiny suit and dark sunglasses. He told me his sister lived in Montreal. I was glad he didn’t ask if I knew her.

“You,” he said to Pierre, “can wait here.”

A nerve twitched in Pierre’s cheek. But he said nothing. Class and rank structures mattered in the Haitian police. I rapped on the garage door.

Nicholas opened it. The shotgun was slung over his shoulder. His eyes were wary. He said good morning but did not smile. “You’re here to talk to Alphonse?”

“Yes,” I said. “We have a few questions about Mrs. Hammond.”

Nicholas eyed LeBlanc. We didn’t make any introductions. Nicholas glanced behind him, at the stairs to the main house. He put the gun on the desk. The TV was on, turned to some sort of church program. A gospel choir belted out tunes.

“I have something I must tell you,” he said.

“What?” LeBlanc said.

“It’s about Alphonse. The gardener. I did not trust him around Mrs. Hammond.”

“Can you turn that TV off ?” I said.

He hurried to do so.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“We do not go into the house,” he said, “or the swimming pool area. But I do my rounds every hour. Around the house, to the kitchen door, to the fence on the hill above the pool. Mrs. Hammond liked to spend much of her time by the pool. She was”—he hesitated—“a good swimmer.”

I doubted Nicholas was interested in her breaststroke. But I said, “Go on.”

“On several occasions, I saw Alphonse. Watching her when he should have been working.”

“Watching?” LeBlanc asked.

“Spying on her. It was not right. I chased him off.”

“How did he react to that?” LeBlanc asked.

“He didn’t like it. He was very angry. But he knows he’s to do what I say.” Nicholas puffed himself up a bit.

“Why didn’t you tell us this the day Mrs. Hammond died?” I asked.

Nicholas glanced to one side. “I didn’t want to cause trouble. It isn’t right that he is still here. There is Jeanne-Marie. The girl.” He spoke to LeBlanc. “Mr. Hammond’s daughter. She is young and very innocent.”

“You are right to tell us,” LeBlanc said.

I had no reason not to like Nicholas. But I didn’t. I wondered if he’d decided to squeal on Alphonse all on his own or had been told to do so by Hammond. If the gardener was a Peeping Tom when it came to Marie Hammond, he’d have no interest in a girl as young as her daughter.

“We’ll see,” I said. I led the way upstairs. Hammond waited on the verandah. I made the introductions.

“I’ll send for Alphonse,” he said.

“Is there someplace,” I said, “we can talk in private?”

“If you think that’s necessary.”

“I do.”

“Josephine!” Hammond called.

The housekeeper came out of the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her apron. Her eyes slid over me and settled on LeBlanc. I could see fear in their depths.

“Tell Alphonse to go to the laundry room,” Hammond said. “These men want to talk to him.”

She nodded and slipped away on silent feet.

“Children at school?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Paulette not here today?”

“Who?”

“The housekeeper.”

“Oh. She quit.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “You know how superstitious these people are. Bloody Vodou. She thought Marie’s ghost was haunting the place or something. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have calls to make. The laundry room’s through the kitchen. Across the courtyard.”

We found our way easily enough. The room was large, with a modern washing machine and dryer. A row of laundry detergents was neatly placed on a high shelf. An ironing board was propped in a corner beside the iron. School uniforms, clean and folded, were stacked on a table. Alphonse stood against the far wall. He rubbed his hands together, and his eyes darted between us.

The interview did not begin well.

“Why did you kill Mrs. Hammond?” LeBlanc asked.

Alphonse’s skin was very dark. But I swear he almost turned pale. “I…I…,” he stuttered.

“Did she reject your advances? Did she threaten to tell her husband?”

“Hold on here,” I said.

“Don’t interfere,” LeBlanc snapped at me.

I ignored him. “Alphonse, did you get on well with Mrs. Hammond?”

“Yes,” he said. “She was very nice. She was a kind woman.”

“Kind,” LeBlanc snapped. “How kind?”

There was nothing I could do to turn this into a fair interview. I’d written up a report the previous night on what Hammond had said and sent it to the judicial branch. My report had been a recitation of the facts as Hammond told them to me. Clearly, LeBlanc had taken it as gospel. His assumptions had then been reinforced by Nicholas.

By the time the interview was over, Alphonse was trembling. His dark eyes filled with tears. “Please,” he said. “I would never hurt her. She was a good woman.”

“That’s what you say,” LeBlanc said. “You are under arrest.”

“Can I have a word, agent?” I asked.

LeBlanc looked like he was about to say no. But he nodded. We walked into the courtyard. The floor was cement. It was surrounded by concrete walls. Heat rose in visible waves.

“You can’t arrest a man on rumor and hearsay,” I said.

“If I let him go,” LeBlanc said, “he will disappear into the countryside. Perhaps over the border. We do not have the resources to find him. This is not like Canada.”

He was right. But I didn’t like it.

“If he is innocent,” LeBlanc said, “then he has nothing to fear.”

That I doubted very much.

We returned to the laundry room. The gardener hugged his arms. His head was down.

“You will come with us,” LeBlanc said. He turned and walked out, leaving me to bring the prisoner. I took Al’s arm and led him into the house. I could feel him tremble.

We found Gail Warkness sitting at the kitchen table, tapping on her phone. A tall glass of iced tea was at her elbow.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Protecting the interests of an American citizen,” she said. “Hammond called my office. He said you were here, asking questions.” She stood up and thrust her hand toward LeBlanc. “Gail Warkness. United States Embassy.”

LeBlanc shook.

Warkness glanced at Alphonse. “Did he do it?”

“Being brought in for questioning,” I said.

LeBlanc marched out of the kitchen. Warkness followed. I was left to bring Alphonse.

Hammond did not appear. Nicholas smirked as he opened the garage door to let us out. Alphonse kept his eyes fixed on the ground. His shoulders were slumped. He looked like he’d given up already.

Pierre stuffed the gardener into the back of our truck. LeBlanc said he’d meet us at the police station. Warkness shook his hand again. She smiled and said she’d fill Hammond in. She didn’t give me another glance.

“Did he confess?” Pierre asked when we pulled into the street.

“Nowhere near it,” I said.