Lady Jail

by John Farrow

  ‘Desperate, you mean.’

  ‘Like that, yeah.’

  ‘Never said it was likely. A last resort if your tank runs dry.’

  ‘I’m no snitch, Cinq-Mars. Only in your dreams, the wet ones.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking, Paul. That would be disrespectful.’

  They sipped in a convivial fashion. Cinq-Mars had downed several glasses and had lost count.

  ‘I’ve seen the other,’ Lagarde said. ‘The good cop who turns bad enough.’

  ‘Seen that, too,’ Cinq-Mars agreed. ‘But a sad day. How is it a good thing if you take the wind of hope out of the weather?’

  ‘Fancy words. Are you a poet or just drunk?’

  ‘We can always use a sea breeze,’ Cinq-Mars replied. Definitely tipsy. Lagarde saw that.

  ‘One man’s losing his hope can be another guy’s opportunity up in the air.’

  ‘I thought I was the philosopher,’ Cinq-Mars said. ‘Must be this porch. Or the whisky. Shall we drink to that?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Philosophy,’ Cinq-Mars suggested.

  ‘Philosophical horseshit!’ Lagarde toasted, raising his glass.

  They clinked and drank to that.

  iii

  ‘What’s your end?’ Lagarde asked him. ‘You warned me off Abigail. For no good reason, I say that. What’s your take?’

  ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Didn’t I ask first? Some rights in that.’

  ‘I’m the investigator. I got rights, too.’

  ‘We’re only drinking whisky. Seemed personal to you, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Cinq-Mars tapped his own nose with his thumb a moment. ‘You knew what I was talking about without my explanation.’

  ‘What’s your end, I’m asking? It’s not something I can go look up.’

  Cinq-Mars thought about it. He had to keep Lagarde aware that his threat to protect Abigail within or even outside the restraints of the law still held, notwithstanding the diversion of their evening. If the man couldn’t differentiate sincere threats from idle ones, that would work in his favor. Keep an adversary confused, and never let him think you’ll be hampered by the law. Basic alternative police procedure. Force the bad guys to resort to lawyers; better that way for everyone’s security.

  ‘My interest is in her protection. I don’t consider what she did to be worth a death sentence, I don’t care who the victims were. Besides, maybe it’s personal. I arrested her.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘That was me. And I compiled the evidence against her. She got more prison time than she deserved. Her punishment should end there. If she dies, I won’t tolerate it. And you, you’re another one after her money?’

  ‘You’re right. I have no shame. It’s always about the money, Cinq-Mars. Anyway, it’s crooked money. We got a right.’

  ‘Sorry? How’s that? Money from a trust company?’ Cinq-Mars knew better but did not want to reveal the depth of his understanding. Sometimes it helped to play the naive.

  ‘Who made the deposits?’

  ‘Not something I’m aware of.’

  ‘So you say.’ Lagarde checked the other man’s look. ‘Really? You don’t know? Good. Tells me we looked after our end. No fuckups. Until Abigail goes and sticks her fingers in the pie.’

  ‘Some pie.’

  ‘Say that. You heard about the hits on LeClair and Fournier, while back?’ Bikers both, although no one could guess it from their choice of apparel. Suits and ties, quality cloth. Italian leather for their shoes. They never spent time on Harleys, too difficult to pull themselves away from their ledgers and adding machines. ‘Both hits on account of Abigail. She should not feel safe on this planet earth. No matter your threats. I’m not speaking for myself. I’m only the messenger. You might want to watch out for your own threats though. Say it to the wrong guy next time, you can be like LeClair, like Fournier. Respected, but in the dirt. If somebody was willing to do in those guys, then somebody is ready to do in anybody, even an Émile Cinq-Mars.’

  ‘Point taken. Begs the question though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If Abigail is under so much threat, why is the inmate who is dead not her, but Florence? Did you know Florence, Paul?’

  ‘Not personally. She had a rep. Do you know who did it?’

  ‘Do you?’ Cinq-Mars pressed him in return.

  ‘If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. No point asking is there?’

  ‘Did you order the hit on Flo yourself?’

  ‘Whoa. No need for that. We’re having a friendly few drinks here. I’m not answering to shit like that.’

  Cinq-Mars nodded in appreciation of the biker’s point-of-view. ‘Felons and that, killers, let’s say, never rush to confess. I’ve noticed that in my life. Just letting you know that my brain is on a merry-go-round and somebody in my vicinity is guilty. Somebody has to be. For now, everybody I meet, even the old guy who made my French fries last night, is a suspect.’

  ‘Speaking of – what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’ Cinq-Mars asked.

  ‘Fries, man. Poutine. I could kill a half-dozen dogs, too.’

  ‘You bad guys. You always want to tempt us normal folks.’

  ‘You game?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cinq-Mars decided. ‘Why not? Another night of fries and dogs. Then I’ll have to get back for a phone call.’

  ‘We’ll take my Harley. I don’t have an extra helmet but you’re a cop. You can shake the fine if we get caught.’

  ‘I’ll pay the fine. But I will also wear the helmet. You can be windblown for once.’

  ‘Just don’t fucking arrest me, Cinq-Mars.’

  ‘Not this once.’

  iv

  The sun had long set by the time Cinq-Mars telephoned the new lady in his life. Although he was lucid, she caught on pretty quickly that that glass of lucidity was augmented by a decanter’s worth of inebriation.

  He explained. ‘I got home. Felt weary. The room, too oppressive for a nap. I took a bottle of whisky out to the porch. Forgot myself. Mistook the whisky for soda. A couple of glasses went down way too quickly. Drinking slowly after that didn’t much help. Then this biker came by—’

  ‘Biker.’

  ‘Yeah. Hells Angels affiliate. Rap sheet maybe not as long as your arm but wrist to elbow, let’s say, and we had a couple of drinks—’

  Sandra Lowndes was heard to be enjoying herself at any rate.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Cinq-Mars inquired. He was not put out, but happy to pretend he was. Her laughter delighted him.

  ‘Nothing. Go on. You and the biker got drunk, you were saying?’

  ‘Not really. We went out for hot dogs and poutine.’

  ‘What’s poutine?’ The popularity of the dish had only recently taken hold across the Province of Quebec. Its fame had not spread to other lands as yet.

  ‘Cheese curds and gravy on French fries.’

  ‘Oh my God. What? You eat that?’

  ‘You remember your meal afterwards, let me tell you. Washed that down with a couple of beers.’

  ‘I hope you weren’t driving, Émile.’

  ‘I was on the back seat of a Harley.’

  In this conversation he was not conforming to the man she’d been talking to lately. She’d admitted an interest to herself, although any number of red flags had to be considered. Catholic, and practicing – where was that at? – a police detective of all things, older by far, French – good grief – from Canada, specifically the French Province of Quebec. His gargantuan nose she’d leave for others to mock. But she’d had to acknowledge a plus side, as well. She knew horses and she knew people who knew horses, and yet he was as knowledgeable as anyone. He had a better eye for foals than she did, and her eye was excellent. He was humble but damn smart. Gawd. And again, looking past the nose, he was good-looking in an aristocratic sort of way. Way tall. Superior build. Maybe softening up a bit. Ox-strong, she’d noticed it around the horses, although he handled th
em with an adroit tenderness she admired. Off the cuff, not her type, yet strangely and undeniably appealing. Anyway, whatever her type might be, no one in that indeterminate bracket had swept her off her feet in the last decade.

  Unless this one had.

  She admitted she felt herself lift above the floorboards on occasion when they talked. Damn he was smart. You ask a man to enumerate his hobbies and he comes back with quantum physics. Whoosh.

  Even a few so-called negative aspects – French, religious, living in another country – created a dash of exotic appeal. She had not thought it likely in the beginning, but had begun to discern a possibility.

  Still. She was thirty-one. He was fifty. Cripes.

  ‘How’s the work going?’ Sandra asked. That was another thing. Unlike accountants and lawyers, farmers, engineers and contractors, among other suitors she’d known over time, his job was an ever-changing topic of conversation.

  ‘In circles,’ Cinq-Mars replied. ‘The women had a brawl. A big one. If I call it a cat-fight, think lions, tigers, leopards. A few of my suspects have been tossed into solitary confinement.’

  Who arrived home from work with stories like that? Who?

  ‘Wow,’ she said.

  ‘As for how it’s going, I’m getting nowhere. Speaking of nowhere …’ He took a deliberate pause. Then explained, ‘I don’t want you to think I’m drunk.’

  ‘But you are.’ That was another thing. For all his upright bearing, his moral and religious fortitude, he seemed willing to enjoy himself when the time was right. He wasn’t only a stick in the mud, although he was that, too.

  ‘Ahh … What I mean is …’ Another pregnant pause.

  ‘What do you mean, Émile?’

  She was both teasing him and goading him on.

  ‘I might be in my cups but it’s not the drunk in me who’s doing the talking. I mean what I’m about to say. The drunk part, maybe that helps me say it, that’s all.’

  Intrigued. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’m stuck in this godforsaken town eating hot dogs and poutine with a criminal biker when I’m not drinking whisky, but mostly I’m drinking whisky.’

  ‘I feel for you. To the Catholic in you, it must feel like purgatory.’

  ‘Join me.’

  Momentarily, dead air was returned. Then: ‘What? Oh, I like that, Émile. What girl has ever had a finer invitation?’ She switched to a deep, mock-male voice. “Hey, lady! I’m hanging out in a lower rung of hell. Come join me.” Who could refuse an invite like that?’

  He was breathing a bit easier thanks to her reaction. ‘I was hoping maybe you couldn’t. Look, I’m living in a crappy motel without air conditioning. It’s uninhabitable during the day when it’s hot out. But there’s a hotel in the center of town that looks half-decent. You could stay there. In town, you can find things to do during the day. Maybe. Not promising. Then at night we can have dinner, get to know each other better. Your folks can look after the horses for a bit, right?’

  ‘My mom can, yeah. So, you stay in the crappy motel while I’m squirreled away in something that’s half-decent, like an unwanted mistress in a rundown flophouse? This gets better by the minute.’

  ‘If you put it that way,’ he said.

  ‘That’s how I put it.’

  ‘It does sound tawdry.’

  A pregnant pause from both of them this time.

  Cinq-Mars felt that she was waiting for him to improve his offer. Or rescind it.

  ‘I suppose, if you were to come all this way …’

  ‘I’d drive. If I went there. It’s a long drive. A full day on the road.’

  Somewhat encouraging. ‘Right. It maybe would make more sense, you know, to just bite the bullet, and say, how about it, would you like to stay with me for a few days? See how that goes?’

  ‘In your crappy motel.’ More teasing. More goading him on.

  ‘I could take a room in the hotel downtown. The half-decent one.’

  This time the pause felt more serious, to both of them. A line to cross.

  ‘You won’t change your mind when you’re sober?’ she asked. He supposed that that was her way of saying yes.

  ‘Oh God,’ Cinq-Mars said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The biker’s banging on my door.’

  She ignored that faraway intrusion. ‘This hotel, is it right in the center of town?’

  ‘Exactly right there. Restaurant on the main floor.’

  ‘I’ll find it. Joliette. Almost like Romeo and Juliet. Émile, this is almost your lucky day.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘Book two rooms. Same hotel, though. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Two rooms.’ One part joy to one part frustration.

  ‘Good night, Émile. Say hello to your biker.’

  ‘Good night, San.’

  The man at the door was not a biker. An officer from the SQ, the provincial police, had arrived to pick him up.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘The Joliette Institution asked me to escort you to the scene of a crime. Do you know Corrections Officer Isaure Dabrezil?’

  ‘I’ve been working with her, yes.’

  ‘She was murdered this evening, sir.’

  ‘What? How? At the prison?’

  ‘No, sir. In her home.’

  ‘Take me there. I’ll be right behind you.’

  ‘No, sir. I can’t let you drive in your condition. I’ll drive you.’

  Cinq-Mars stared at him a few moments as though trying to comprehend what he could possibly mean. Inebriated, in love, in shock at the news that Isaure was dead, that Sandra was arriving tomorrow, a mix of emotions had him swirling. His brain, he was thinking to himself, being out of sync with himself, emulated the planet’s wobble on its axis, and why was he thinking that?

  ‘I’ll ride shotgun,’ he conceded.

  PART TWO

  PAQUET

  i

  ‘I’ve had a few but I can still walk a straight line. Won’t wobble much.’

  Émile Cinq-Mars silently rehearsed the comment to himself to preempt any colleague’s potential concerns. He had a buzz on, although not a pleasant one. He did not feel well.

  The constable from the SQ was driving him.

  ‘How bad, tell me, how bad do I look?’ he asked the junior cop. ‘Be honest.’

  ‘You kinda get by, sir. Just don’t talk too loud. Don’t drive. Don’t sing, you know? Try to sit still.’

  Excellent advice. He made a note to himself to take down the officer’s name. He might want to know him someday, when sober.

  ‘Gum in the glove box,’ the younger man let him know.

  Cinq-Mars helped himself to a stick of Juicy Fruit.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ the SQ cop thought to tack on.

  ‘I have no opinion on the subject. Lots of reasons to keep gum in your glove box.’

  ‘Number one, my partner’s bad breath.’

  ‘Works for me,’ Cinq-Mars quipped.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I.’ He could get along with this guy if ever they worked together. Which he supposed they were doing right now. ‘I won’t bother to tell you I’m not usually this far gone. But I’m not. Not usually. This intox—’ he burped ‘—icated. Sorry, what’s your name again?’

  ‘Dubroc, sir.’

  ‘Émile,’ Cinq-Mars stated, either a deliberate choice to be familiar or the whisky was working his tongue.

  ‘Yann,’ the cop responded in kind.

  ‘Well, Constable Yann Dubroc, what the hell is going on? Why has a prison guard been murdered? What’s up with that? The timing, I got to tell you, is inconvenient. Although I guess someone might argue that it’s not the dead woman’s fault.’

  ‘I know exactly zippo about it, sir. Will it be up to you to find out?’

  ‘Can’t say. Don’t know. Jurisdiction – that’ll be a bloody mess.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Figure it out. The SQ loses one of thei
r own, what happens? Your guys insist on full control. Can’t blame your side for that.’

  ‘One of our own?’

  ‘You haven’t heard? The guard, a fly-in. In her regular job she’s SQ. I’m already looking into things, so I have a stake. The Mounties will say she’s a guard in a federal lock-up – the pen will make the same claim – therefore it’s their case. Municipal police in Joliette will want a kick at the can, too, but they’ll get the boot. They don’t have a prayer. Like I said. Messy.’

  ‘Maybe we can all work together. Cooperate.’

  ‘Ah, excuse me? Were you born a month ago? You look older to me.’

  The officer possessed sufficient whimsy to laugh at himself. He wasn’t that naive.

  They turned into a community of small cottages surrounded by manicured lawns and tidy gardens. Out-of-the-way Quebec towns, Cinq-Mars had noticed, occasionally went overboard in their zeal to imitate suburbia. Two more turns down side streets landed them on a crescent inundated with police vehicles, cherries flashing, and a burgeoning horde of neighbors and curiosity seekers. Five-year-olds who ought to have been in bed hours ago, and perhaps were, raced around. So many older folks were out with walkers, canes and wheelchairs that Cinq-Mars presumed the existence of an old age home in the vicinity. The elderly were ducking out at night to absorb a glimmer of excitement. He’d have to be careful making his way through the crowd not to knock anyone off their pins. That would be easily done, given that his own balance was imprecise.

  Cinq-Mars tested himself along the edge of the cement walkway up to the house. Not too bad. Not quite a straight line. He passed muster, although he’d still flunk a breathalyzer.

  The cottage was both small and sparsely furnished. Isaure Dabrezil had rented, he guessed, given the temporary status of her job description. She had furniture better suited to fit an even smaller apartment, which was probably what she’d left behind in her previous posting.

  The large woman lay on the living room floor. Her final minutes had not all taken place there. To Cinq-Mars’s eye, she’d been engaged in a battle which had gone from the kitchen by an open back door, through the dining area and into the living room. A table was bumped aside. A couple of chairs upended and plates smashed. Knick-knacks were scattered across the floors. A sofa chair, on its side, spilled cushions. Gripped in the victim’s hand, a fireplace poker had been seized as a desperate measure, a valiant failed attempt at self-defense. Blood across all three rooms. Most of it on the carpet where she died. She’d bled out from several wounds, any one of which may have been fatal. Knife wounds, obviously, or from another sharp object. She’d fought, the mess caused by the fury of her response. A loud, raucous fight. Knowing how robust and muscular a woman she had been, she’d been met by an overpowering counterforce. Cinq-Mars computed a minimum of two attackers against her. Men, he presumed, but no matter the gender they were probably huge themselves and strong to have taken her on and survived.