SIX

When we got to the police station, LeBlanc wouldn’t let me come any farther. A murder investigation, he reminded me, was not part of my job here.

Once again he was right. But once again I didn’t like it.

I told myself to mind my own business. The Hammond murder had nothing to do with me.

I had the next day off, and I was determined to enjoy it. I slept in. When I got up, I thought about going for a run but figured it was already too hot. I did a hundred laps in the pool instead. Then I prepared myself a nice breakfast of omelet and fresh fruit. I put the food on a tray and carried it down to the garden. As I ate, my mind wandered to Marie Hammond and Alphonse. I speared a juicy slice of mango. When we’d first arrived, no one had so much as hinted that Alphonse was causing trouble with Marie. Later, Hammond “remembered.” As did Nicholas. Nicholas, I was pretty sure, had been primed on what to say before our return visit.

Still, that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Alphonse seemed like a timid old guy. But after all my years as a cop, I knew better than to judge anyone by appearance.

I was wiping up the last of the fruit juices with a slice of toast when my phone rang. Pierre.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Thought you’d want to know. We searched Alphonse’s home this morning.”

“And?”

“Found two hundred American dollars and a stack of gourdes. Hidden under a cooking pot.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Yeah. Wife and kids killed in the earthquake.”

“What’s he say about the money?”

“That he doesn’t know how it got there. I am thinking…” He hesitated.

“Go ahead,” I said. Thinking was good. I wanted cops to think.

“He did look very surprised when we showed him the money. Then again, he might be a good actor.”

“Thanks.” I hung up. Two hundred bucks. About a month’s salary for a gardener. A lot of money to have hanging around a house in Jalousie. Then again, it might be his savings. Maybe he didn’t trust banks. But he said the money wasn’t his. Was that the truth? Or what he thought he should say to the cops?

What did I know? Maybe he did kill Marie Hammond. Not because he was interested in her, but because he was stealing from her. Hammond did say money had been taken from her purse.

It’s gotta be hard for people like housemaids and gardeners. They work all day in big houses. Surrounded by all the luxuries money can buy. And then they go home to a refugee tent or a cardboard-and-tin shack.

I read for a while longer and enjoyed another swim. At noon I got dressed to meet a couple of friends for lunch. Guys who were in Haiti working on plans for a proper, modern police-training facility.

I’d brought a car with me from Canada. An old but reliable Toyota RAV4. I headed out in it to the Hotel Oloffson. The Oloffson’s a gorgeous old place. Long balconies, gingerbread trim, ironwork as delicate as lace, and ornate wooden fretwork. Turrets and white paint and a red roof. Mazes of nooks and crannies. Modern Vodou sculptures fill the rooms and the lush tropic gardens, popping up in the most unexpected places. The hotel was made famous in Graham Greene’s novel The Comedians. It still has the aura of a place that time left far behind.

My friends had arrived before me. They’d taken a table on the wide verandah, overlooking the main staircase and the gardens. I sat down and ordered a beer. They told me about the progress (or lack thereof ) on the new police college. I talked about my work, but I didn’t mention the Hammond case. I was still telling myself to forget about it. We shared the local police and government gossip.

“I hear the presidential-palace rebuild has been put up for bid,” I said.

“As if. There’s some idle talk going around. But everyone knows there’s no way of paying for it.”

“They have more important things to fix first. Where’d you hear that, Ray?”

I shrugged. “Just gossip.”

We stopped talking when our food arrived. The pretty waitress placed an overflowing plate of spicy shrimp, rice and beans in front of me. I watched as a taxi pulled up to the bottom of the steps. An elderly white couple got out. The man leaned heavily on a cane, while his wife fussed about. The driver brought their bags. They all went into reception. A minute later the driver came back out, shaking his head. He got into his cab and drove away.

We finished our lunch. I would have enjoyed staying longer, but my friends had to get back to work. We walked down the steps together, and they went to their car. I had a phone call to make. I stood in the shade of a white-painted brick alcove beside a statue of a tall-hatted Baron Samedi. Samedi is the chief spirit of the Haitian Vodou world. Religion here is a seamless blend of Vodou and Christianity.

Pierre told me he’d heard nothing more about the progress of the Hammond investigation.

The old couple passed me, heading toward the street. I hung up and hurried after them. “Are you needing some help?” I asked.

They turned and smiled at me. The man leaned on his cane. He was already wheezing in the heat. The woman was in her late seventies. She was well preserved, with expensively cut and colored ash-blond hair. She wore powder-blue summer-weight slacks and a blue-and-white-striped shirt. A long turquoise-and-silver necklace was around her neck, and matching earrings were in her ears. A gold band and a single hefty diamond were on her left hand. I figured they’d last about five minutes out on the street. If that.

“We’ve just arrived,” she said. “I suggested a short walk. Have a look around. Perhaps find an ATM.” Her accent was Canadian. Manitoba I guessed.

“That’s not advisable,” I said. Until recently, the area around the Oloffson had been part of the red zone. Meaning our embassy staff wasn’t even allowed to go there without a bodyguard. Never mind on foot, lost and swinging expensive jewelry.

“I couldn’t understand anything the receptionist at the desk told me,” the woman said. “You’d think they’d speak English, wouldn’t you, if they want tourists. She tried to tell us not to go for a walk, but I didn’t think that was what she meant.”

“It was exactly what she meant,” I said. “Look, if you need a bank, I can take you. You won’t find an ATM on the street.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. We introduced ourselves. They were Harold and Laura Anderson. They were from Winnipeg and happy to meet a fellow Canadian.

I loaded them into my car, and we set off. Mrs. Anderson told me they’d never been to Haiti before. I refrained from saying, “I know.” Since her husband retired, they liked to travel. To Europe mostly, some Caribbean cruises. This year they thought they’d do something different. She did almost all of the talking. The old man said he didn’t like Rome. It was too crowded.

I parked half on the sidewalk in front of the bank. She told me I could wait in the car. I went in with them anyway. They were perfectly safe going into the bank. It was leaving that might present a problem. Not long ago a Canadian priest had been murdered on his way out of the bank. The killers got away with the money he’d withdrawn.

I watched as the couple stood in line and were served. Mrs. Anderson smiled politely at everyone. They were as innocent as babies. The streets of Port-au-Prince weren’t unsafe. Not if you were a fit, six-foot-three cop and kept your wits about you and your hand firmly on your wallet.

But these two?

Not a chance.

Once we were back in the car, I told them so. “Do not leave the hotel grounds on your own. If you want to see the sights, hire a driver.”

“Would you show us what there is to see?” she asked.

“I don’t…”

“How about today? Right now. We don’t have to go far. Just around here.” She gave me a smile. I thought not of my mother, but of my daughters. They were making noises about traveling the world. If they were lost and innocent, I hoped someone would help them out.

“Sure,” I said. “And then I’ll give you a number you can call.” There was a driver I used when I intended to drink more than I should on a night out.

We drove through the streets and I pointed out the sights. The center of Portau-Prince had been flattened by the earthquake. The cathedral was a pink ruin. Mrs. Anderson said it reminded her of Rome. The beautiful national museum was underground, so it survived. I told them to be sure their driver took them there, as it was well worth seeing. As I drove, I pointed out the so-called gingerbread houses. They’d been built of wood back in the twenties and fared much better in the earthquake than modern structures did.

“Harold. Look at that,” Mrs. Anderson squealed as we drove past the cemetery. All cemeteries in Haiti are above ground. Elaborately decorated tombs. Bright paint. Lots of statues. “Can we go in?” she asked me.

“Sure. It’s worth seeing.” I parked the car close to the entrance. Women were selling vegetables, and men were offering trinkets. We passed by a creek bed with more garbage than water. Inside the cemetery, people clustered in the few patches of welcome shade. Chickens pecked in the dirt and crumbling stone paving. The concrete and stone tombs are packed tightly together. They’re mostly painted cream, yellow, turquoise or pale blue. Many are faced with blue and yellow tile. Some feature sculptures of winged angels. Most are topped with crosses. They’re laid out in rows and sections. Like streets. With signposts. A few are protected by iron grills. To keep grave robbers out or the inhabitants in? I wasn’t sure. Almost all of the tombs were damaged. Whether from the earthquake or just the passage of time, I couldn’t tell.

In death as in life, the richer families have big tombs. Some are three stories tall, with windows. The poorer ones are not much larger than a single coffin. They all have the name of the family or individual carved on them. We walked slowly down the rows. I like it here. I’ve never found it a solemn place. People gather to visit their loved ones, both departed and otherwise. The sun shines hot overhead. The sky’s a brilliant blue. Leaves stir in the breeze.

“It’s wonderful,” Mrs. Anderson said.

“That it is.” I turned, looking for Mr. Anderson. He’d stopped to rest. He leaned against a large tomb. White brick, green with age, crumbling into the ground.

He waved at us. “You carry on. I’ll rest here.” His breath came in short gasps.

“No, no. I’ve seen enough. We’ll go back.” She hurried to him. She took his arm and helped him stand upright.

We walked back through the street of the dead. A chicken followed us.

I took them back to the hotel. I helped Mr. Anderson, visibly tired, out of the car. Mrs. Anderson thanked me for my kindness. They walked very slowly up the stairs and into the hotel.