by Peter Kirby
“Pascal, I’m sorry, but that’s the procedure. Your wife and Sergeant St. Jacques can go with her. You follow the ambulance, and I’ll follow you.”
Beaudoin went over to his wife, knowing he wouldn’t be able to pry Stephanie from her arms.
“Papa.”
“Yes, my love?”
“The man told me to give this to you.” She pulled a crumpled pink telephone message slip from her pocket and handed it to him. There was a scrawled message on it: Hey lawyer man, chill.
Beaudoin turned to Vanier.
“Can I have it? It’s evidence”
Vanier took the pink slip and put it in a plastic sandwich bag he had in his pocket.
Two men from Urgences-sante pulled up a stretcher on wheels, and Stephanie’s mother laid her gently onto it. One of the ambulance men covered her with a blanket and pulled the belts close around her. Caroline walked beside the stretcher, holding Stephanie by the hand. She seemed in a daze as they went to the ambulance, not even looking at Beaudoin.
In the parking lot, Vanier turned to Beaudoin.
“Pascal, this was a warning. This isn’t your fight. What’s happening at the Shelter shouldn’t involve your family. Leave it alone. You can just walk away.”
“Inspector, I wish I could. I’ll do what I need to do. But we need to talk about how to protect my family.”
As Stephanie was raised into the ambulance, Caroline turned to watch the two men, as though seeing them for the first time. She walked over to them and reached down to pick up her son, who was still holding his dad’s hand. With the boy in her arms, she looked at Vanier.
“Inspector, I need to protect my children. We’re going away for a few weeks. I want the children to be safe. But make no mistake,” she said, turning back to face Beaudoin, “I support Pascal in what he is doing. If I could stay with him I would, but my job is to look after the children. Please look after him for me.”
She turned and left before Vanier could respond. Pascal looked at Vanier with a bemused expression.
“She’s something, isn’t she?”
“You’re a lucky man, Maitre Beaudoin. Let’s see what we can do together.”
“I’ll call you,” Beaudoin said as he moved to his car.
“I’ll be pissed if you don’t,” said Vanier.
For a few moments Vanier was happy, but he was already moving past happy into clenched-fist anger. He remembered what Markov had said to him back in Blackrock’s office. Hey, policeman, chill.
ELEVEN
JANUARY 2
7 AM
The kidnapping had changed things. What had been a minor nuisance, in which Vanier could play at influencing the outcome — but wouldn’t lose sleep if he didn’t — had now become a street fight. He decided to draw on his deposits of favours owed for past services. His first call was to an old friend in the RCMP. Detective Sergeant Ian Peterson was a drug investigator with the Mounties who had worked undercover for years before slowly moving up the ranks. Years ago Vanier had learned that Peterson was being set up for a frame by Rolf Cracken, a mid-sized dealer with ambition and an oversized grudge against Peterson. It came out in a conversation with an informant who was trying to impress Vanier with his connections and knowledge, and it didn’t amount to much at first, only that Cracken was getting ready to stitch up a cop. Vanier could have ignored it as someone else’s problem, but he didn’t. He spent four days putting it all together and convincing himself Peterson was clean. When he was sure, it was simple enough to deal with. Craken’s plan was to dump a brick of cocaine and a couple of thousand dollars in Peterson’s apartment, start a small sofa fire to get some smoke going, and call the firemen to put out the fire. They wouldn’t be able to ignore the pile of cocaine and cash, and Peterson would be finished in the force.
One morning in July, Peterson let Vanier into the apartment and left for work as usual. Just in case anyone missed him leaving, he stopped as he drove out of the parking garage and got out of the car to check his tires before driving off. Fifteen minutes later, he walked back into the apartment building in a baseball cap and a different coat. Vanier and Peterson waited 40 minutes until the lock in the apartment door was picked and the planter walked in with the drugs and money. Vanier still laughs at the pitiful I’m fucked expression on the planter’s face when he saw the two cops waiting for him.
In Vanier’s world, inter-agency cooperation was officially practiced by bureaucrats on committees who carefully channelled the flow of information backed up by strict rules to prevent any unofficial exchanges. All requests to other forces were supposed to flow through the committees and, because information is currency, the committees became farmers’ markets of swaps and promises where none of the farmers trusted each other. Vanier preferred the direct approach, granting and receiving favours with officers he knew, or who were recommended, and always keeping the ledger balanced.
Peterson picked up the phone on the third ring.
“I hope I didn’t wake you from your beauty sleep. You, of all people, need it.”
“Vanier, you bastard. What the fuck do you want?”
“You recognize me? I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. Wait a minute, I’ve got it. You’re calling me to wish me a Happy New Year.”
“You guessed. That and something else.”
“I might have known, you don’t do Happy anything. So what can I do for you?”
“Got a pen?”
“Course I do, I sleep with a fucking pen in my hand. Wait a second.”
Vanier heard the phone drop onto a hard surface, some shuffling and cursing, a woman’s voice, and then Peterson picked it up again.
“OK, so what is it?”
“Blackrock Investments, a property developer on Chabanel. Vladimir Markov, the President, or something like that, and Ivan Romanenko, the in-house lawyer.”
“And?”
“As much background as you can give me. I think they’re putting a little too much muscle into the development business, and I want to know if you guys have anything on them. They seem like slime.”
“That’s it? I thought slimy was a prerequisite for being a property developer. You have anything else?”
“It’s just that I had them down as simple businessmen, sleazy as all hell but no more than that. But I may have underestimated them.”
“It’s urgent, I suppose?”
“You read my mind.”
“OK, Luc, I’ll see what I can do and get back to you. Now, can I put on my pants?”
“Thanks, Ian.”
10 AM
Vanier and Laurent spent the morning looking for Marcel Audet. He wasn’t at the Holy Land Shelter, and Nolet didn’t seem to miss him. Nolet told them that Audet hadn’t been seen at the Shelter since before the New Year and hadn’t called to say when he would be back. He also said it wasn’t unusual for Audet to disappear without telling anyone, sometimes for a week at a time. Then he would show up as though everything was perfectly normal. He wasn’t the type to excuse himself.
It took them hours to track down Degrange, the rue St. Denis drug dealer, but they eventually found him in a rooming house near the bus station. He was still in bed when they knocked on his door.
“Who is it?” he asked through the door, protecting the only privacy he had.
“Vanier. Open the door, Louis.”
“Inspector. Give me a few minutes and I’ll meet you. Why don’t you go to the coffee shop in the bus station? I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
“Louis, open the fucking door or I’ll lean on it.” That’s all it would have taken, and asking him to open it was a polite formality. The lock clicked, and Degrange’s scrawny body stood before them in a dirty white wife-beater T-shirt, black Y-fronts and black socks. He was surprised to see Laurent standing next to Vanier and attempted a smile, showing a mouthful of rotting teeth.
“Can we come in?”
“Inspector, I’m not set up for visitors,” he said, backing away
from the door as they walked through. He sat down on the edge of the bed and they stood over him. There wasn’t room to stand anywhere else. The window was covered by a thick brown blanket that was nailed into place, and the room was dark as a cave. Vanier pulled the chain on a bedside lamp and filled the room with a yellowish glow. It did little to dispel the gloom but illuminated the overflowing ashtray on the table and the empty screw-top wine bottle on the floor next to the bed. The air was close and heavy with the smell of stale tobacco mixed with the disturbingly unpleasant aroma of Degrange. Vanier knew that if he looked around, he would probably find a full jug of last night’s urine.
“It isn’t much, I know.” He tried to regain some humanity. “So, Inspector, what can I do for you?”
“You didn’t call me.”
“I was meaning to. But I didn’t want to disturb your holidays.” He gave Vanier an ingratiating smile.
“So what do you have on Audet?”
“Audet. Yeah, Marcel Audet. I have an address, Inspector. It’s here,” he said, reaching for his pants on the floor next to the bed. He dragged scraps of paper out of the pocket and handed one to Vanier, who checked it to make sure that it was legible.
“Anything else?”
“No. He’s not working with anyone that I know. Maybe he’s gone clean. It happens, Inspector.”
“You’re right. How much?”
“You said fifty.”
“And I gave you twenty. So here’s thirty. We’ll close the door on the way out.”
The address was downtown in one of those big anonymous towers that caters to people passing through on their way to somewhere else; twenty identical apartments on each of thirty identical floors. There was no answer when they knocked on the door to his apartment. They tried the neighbouring apartments, and nobody knew anything. The building lobby was as busy as a railway station with strangers passing strangers. The building allowed people to live alone, really alone.
As they were driving back to headquarters, Vanier got a text message to call Peterson when he got a chance. He had a chance half an hour later.
“Ian, it’s Luc.”
“Luc, where the fuck do you find these people? It’s time you started moving in better circles.”
Vanier smiled, “Nobody else will have me. Blackrock?”
“Yes, and their wonderful officers Markov and Romanenko.”
“So you lads on horses know them?”
“Know them? We’d be galloping up Chabanel on the fucking horses if we could get something on them. Grab a pen, Mr. V.”
Vanier began to take notes.
“Markov came to Montreal from St. Petersburg, that’s in Russia.”
“How do you spell it?”
“Russia or St. Petersburg?”
“Fuck off.”
“He came to Canada 12 years ago as an immigrant investor. Basically that’s an $800,000 ticket to Canada, but you get to keep the money. You just have to invest it in a Canadian business. We’ve been watching him ever since. Romanenko came a year later. And let me say for the record, Detective Inspector-”
“In case anyone is listening,” said Vanier.
“-for the record, they have never been accused of the slightest wrongdoing. Upstanding citizens, both of them.”
“But?”
“Ah, but, that’s the thing, there are suspicions. And some would say, though I’m not saying it, that those suspicions are very well founded.”
“And what are those unfounded suspicions?”
“That the gentlemen specialize in corruption. No job too small or too large. Let’s say that you’re a businessman and you want to show your appreciation to someone for giving you some business, or permits. There are a lot of people who would frown on that sort of thing, in fact it’s illegal just about everywhere. Well, Blackrock can put together a plan for you, and they take a small commission.”
“And then they have the goods on the donor and the crooked politician.”
“So you’re following me. It’s a growth business. Every transaction pays off in money and in influence for the future. The more they do, the more people they have in their pocket. That allows them to pursue their other interests, like property development, much more efficiently.”
“Are they are serious players?”
“Luc, they are as serious as it gets. Make no mistake, these are very dangerous people to mess with. They have connections you can’t even imagine, and they have muscle they’re not afraid to use.”
“Muscle?”
“They have three guys on retainer that we know of, all Russian, and we think they have just picked up a local asset, Marcel Audet.”
“I know him.”
“Thought you might. The three Russians are the same type, very violent. Luc, I advise you to be extremely careful. Do not underestimate these people.”
Vanier knew that it was too late for that. “Thanks for the heads up, Ian. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Please do.”
Before Vanier could get lost in paperwork, the phone rang.
“Vanier.”
“Good afternoon, Luc, or should I call you Inspector.”
“Anjili. Hello will do fine. How are you?”
“I’ve got news.”
“I need good news.”
“It’s not all good.”
“Well, give me the good news first.”
“The body in the truck — M. Latulippe — there was no trace of poison. So we’re putting it down as natural causes. His blood alcohol level was through the roof. He probably passed out in the snow and that was it. It’s likely he was dead before he went into the snow blower.”
“That’s the good news?”
“Everything’s relative, Luc.”
“So what’s the bad news?”
“The body from the fire is not John Collins. We don’t know who it is yet, but it’s not Collins.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. Mme. Collins was in this morning to identify the body.”
“That can’t have been pleasant.”
“It wasn’t. She took one long look at the body and said that it wasn’t her son. I was half-expecting her to say that. The body’s in awful shape, and any mother would want to deny it’s her son. But she insisted. She was very calm. When we were arranging the visit, I had asked her to bring down any medical records she had of him. The blood type is different. She even stopped by her dentist to get John’s file, and the teeth are different. The clincher is the broken arm.”
“His arm was broken?”
“No, that’s the point. She says that he broke his left arm when he was ten, and it didn’t set properly. Our victim shows no sign of a healed fracture. Based on all of that, we’re certain the fire victim is not John Collins.”
“Shit.”
“So we have an unidentified corpse, and your suspect is still wandering the streets.”
“Anjili, can you fax me a preliminary report?”
“It’s on its way, Luc.”
“I need to talk to Mme. Collins. When did she leave?” he said, trying to calculate how long it would be before she was back home.
“She’s on her way over. She said that she needed to talk to you. She should be there in about half an hour.”
“She’s coming here?”
“Unless she knows where you live. I only gave her the office address.”
“And for that I thank you. Listen, I have to go.” Vanier thought for a second of suggesting dinner but let the thought pass; he wasn’t sure what time he would be finished.
“Let me know what happens. Luc, you’ll find him. I know you will.”
Vanier put the phone back in his pocket.
The front desk called twenty minutes later to say that Mme. Collins was asking for him. He told them to put her in the family room. It was still an interview room, but a little softer, with a couch and two armchairs squeezed into the impossibly small space. She was standing up when he arrived. He started to reach his hand out
to shake hers but realized that she wasn’t offering.
“Please, Mme. Collins, sit down,” he gestured to one of the armchairs. She sat stiffly on the armchair and put her bag on the floor, leaning it against her leg.
“I have just come from the Coroner’s office. It’s good news,” she said. “It’s not him. It’s not my son.”
“Dr. Segal called me.”
“I thought I had lost him forever.”
Vanier watched her carefully, wondering if she would, or even could, be any help in finding him. He doubted it. Mothers couldn’t be trusted to turn in their sons. There was always a sub-plot, a faint hope that they could do something to make things turn out right. They would help you just as much as was absolutely necessary, always hoping that along the way they could save him.
“That doesn’t help us find him, and we need to find him. Mme. Collins, it’s time for you to help us. And we can help you. You couldn’t do it on your own but maybe we can do it together.” He decided to fight dirty. “Who is the father, Madame Collins?”
The blow was obvious, and she took it like a boxer past his prime.
“What does it matter? It has never mattered.”
“If John is alive, and it seems that he is, then someone may be hiding him. And right now, he may be in danger.”
“That’s rich, Inspector. You don’t care about him. You think he’s a mass murderer.”
“He’s a suspect, and I want to talk to him, but this is a messy business. Someone else might think that one way to clean it up is to get rid of him.”
She looked at him. He imagined she was calculating, but her eyes gave no clue.
“Mme. Collins, I’ve seen too many bodies this week, and I want it to stop. If someone is helping him, they are both are in danger. Don’t get me wrong, I want your son in custody. I think he’s killed several people and could kill more. He needs help. And I need your help.”
There are moments when people make decisions and change directions in a heartbeat. The tipping point is unpredictable, but we all have one, when the old arguments finally lose their potency, and we clutch at whatever lifeline is thrown. She slumped forward, and then looked him in the eyes.