by Ann Lambert
After a bizarrely polite exchange about the bad weather and how cool this café was, Gennifer decided to get down to business. She made sure to discreetly push the record button on her iPad.
“So. What is it you want?”
Brittany returned the stare with the same dispassionate gaze. She had eyelash extensions that were so long she looked like a cartoon cat. Her nose was too big for her small face, and her parents should’ve seen to those teeth.
“I want justice for my friend.”
Gennifer stirred the foamy milk in her second cappuccino, and let it drop slowly from her spoon. “Justice! Justice for what, exactly?”
Brittany glanced around the café for a moment, and leaned closer. “For the sexual assault on my friend.”
“Your friend is mistaken. Nothing happened to her.”
Brittany pushed her coffee aside. “I want you to draw up a contract for her. The one you promised her? Remember? On Nasty Women. Now I see who it’s named after.”
Gennifer smiled. “Ooh, ouch. That hurt. And what’s in this for you?”
Brittany closed those long, silly eyelashes and opened them again. “I would like fifteen thousand dollars.”
Gennifer tried very hard not to laugh out loud. Was this a shakedown? This idiot had watched one too many lousy movies. She put her hand on Brittany’s for a moment, then withdrew it. “Do you know how many little slut girls we see like you in just one week?”
“We’ll go to the police.”
“We understand that…you all want to make it. It’s not easy here in Montreal—especially in the English market. You are all fighting for little crumbs from a little pie that we get to share as we see fit. I understand your…frustration. I understand the attraction of going after a man like Jean Luc. He has an extraordinary charm, and power can be intoxicating—”
“He’s a disgusting, pathetic old man who likes to rape girls. I know my friend wasn’t his first. Maybe she’ll be his last, though.”
Gennifer started looking through her bag for her wallet.
“Listen. I was in the room with the two of them the entire time. We interviewed her for a few minutes and realized that she just was not the right person for the role. She stormed out of the room, and that is the last we saw of her. That’s it, that’s all.”
“That is NOT what happened!”
Gennifer summoned the waiter. “Why isn’t your friend here now with you?”
“Are you kidding? She doesn’t want to see you. She’ll wait to see you in court if she has to. She asked me to come and…represent her.”
Gennifer leaned her elbows on the little table and laced her fingers together like she was about to pray. She smiled at Brittany. “She doesn’t even know you’re here, does she?”
Brittany puffed herself up as large as she could. She straightened her back and looked evenly at Gennifer, but before she could respond Gennifer stood up from the table, closed her iPad, tucked it in her bag, and shrugged her coat onto her shoulders. “It’s girls like you—who make false accusations—who give all of us a bad name. Do you understand? Contact me again, and we will have your ass in court so fast your friend will really feel like she’s been assaulted.”
Gennifer tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and walked out. She waited until she had turned onto Ste. Catherine street and stepped into the entrance to Forever 21 before she made the call. “Hi. Yes. I just had the meeting. There should be no more trouble.” She waited for him to respond. “Yup. We’re all good….” She hesitated. “Wait—Jean Luc? I wanted to tell you—”
But the voice at the other end had already left the conversation.
Thirty-Five
ROMÉO AND STEVE POULIOT made their way through the endless stream of students flowing by, in all shapes, colors, sizes, and languages. They passed mothers dragging tired children by the hand, passed idling window shoppers, elderly walker-pushers, bustling businesspeople who always looked like they were talking to themselves, but in fact were talking into their ear buds. Roméo was always impressed by the eclectic parade of human experience in such a concentrated space—the metro level of Alexis Nihon mall. What did Marie call it? Anthrodiversity. He could see why Marie loved her job so much—there was an endless supply of people to watch, and Marie was a people-watcher and a self-described professional eavesdropper. He often joked that she would’ve made a good detective, if only she wasn’t squeamish about blood and didn’t find guns abhorrent. Roméo had noted the beggars just outside the metro turnstile, but none had asked for money. All but one was passed out on pieces of cardboard, their faces turned away from the uninquisitive crowds. Only one was awake and held out a filthy hand, but she seemed half-hearted in her appeal for change. She looked to be about sixty years old, but Roméo knew she might be half that age. Living on the street took a merciless toll, sometimes aging people shockingly beyond their years. He wondered if Steve Pouliot was thinking the same thing: could one of these poor souls be the next to die?
As they entered the Canadian Tire, Roméo was struck by the sheer immensity of it. He hadn’t been to one of these stores in quite some time, and the onslaught of choice made him a bit queasy. Before they’d been in the place a minute, a cheerful young man had tried to sell him a credit card, then backed off when Steve Pouliot asked him where they could find the floor manager. Another clerk was summoned, and she disappeared to the back of the store. Roméo wondered if she’d ever return again. Steve Pouliot was picking up and putting back several items in the discount bin. Something called Sham-Wow, three-for-a dollar gloves, and oddly, a flashing red heart attached to a windshield scraper. Roméo suddenly remembered Valentine’s Day was looming. He noticed that the store was already moving the winter stuff out and preparing for spring. That seemed terribly hopeful, given that it was early February and twenty-two degrees below zero outside. He idly picked up a scraper and wondered if Marie would find it funny. When he looked up again, a very tall and burly middle-
aged man was standing before them with a gold nametag that read ISAAC pinned to his left breast. He had a full head of unruly, graying hair and a face with regular, even features except for a rather prominent cleft chin. As the two policemen introduced themselves, he looked from one man to the other impassively, but what Roméo saw was clear distrust, perhaps even fear.
They sat on white plastic chairs at a white plastic table in one of the cheaper coffee-pastry eateries in the open mall. Although Steve Pouliot fit neatly and comfortably into his seat, Roméo and the tall man sitting across from them spilled out of theirs and had to tuck their legs in sideways so as not to trip every customer passing by. The two policemen drank their coffee black, but Isaac Blum shook three sugar packets into his and stirred nervously. He glanced at his watch twice, but said nothing. Steve Pouliot opened a black file on the table. Isaac Blum pointedly did not try to see what was in it.
“Monsieur Blum, we understand that you deliver tea and sandwiches to indigent people every Monday and Thursday morning. Is that correct?”
Isaac nodded and said “Yes, that is correct.”
“We know that your area of…interest is in and around Cabot Square, Shaughnessy Village, and sometimes Little Burgundy.”
Isaac confirmed that as well. Steve Pouliot pulled a photograph from the file and turned it to face the man.
“Do you know this woman? Her name is Rosie Nukilik.”
Isaac picked up the photo and examined it for a respectable amount of time. There was a slight hesitation and a quick dry swallow before he replied, “No. I don’t know her.”
Roméo knew right away that Blum was not telling the truth.
“Are you certain you have never seen this woman?”
Isaac repeated his denial of ever having known or seen Rosie Nukilik.
Isaac Blum sipped at his sweet coffee and glanced at his watch again. Roméo noted that he was someone who was acutely aware of
the time. Steve Pouliot closed the first file and reached for another. He perused it for a minute before returning his attention to Blum. He slowly pulled out a second photograph.
“Do you know this man?” Isaac glanced at the photo and averted his eyes immediately. “We apologize for the…graphic nature of the picture. It’s the only one we have.”
Blum cleared his throat twice and said, “I do know this man. Well, I don’t know him, but I have met him.”
“Where did you meet him?”
Blum dry swallowed again. “From…around. I knew him and his girlfriend. We never talked much. Those two kept to themselves, mostly.”
Steve Pouliot nodded and replied casually, “He was murdered last Thursday night.”
Isaac Blum dropped his head into his hands. “Oh my god.”
Steve Pouliot waited for him to say something else, but nothing else was offered. He continued, “The man’s name is Christian Bourque, and his girlfriend identified you as the man who led her to the body of Mr. Bourque.”
“I didn’t know there was a…a body there!” It was the first time he had raised his voice. “I just told her that this guy—I don’t know his name—I saw him and…Christian…heading off in the direction of this church—I heard that church was a good place to bed down. A safe place.”
“What did this guy look like? Did you know him? Did you ever see him before?”
Isaac shook his head. “He was white, very tall, clean-shaven—or, no beard. And wearing a blue parka.”
“You may as well be describing yourself. What else can you remember about him?”
“Nothing. It was nighttime. In winter. He…looked like everyone else. Except he was taller than average. He and…Christian just walked out of the square heading west. The dog was with them, of course—”
“Did the man seem afraid of the dog? Or the dog afraid of the man?” Roméo asked abruptly.
“I don’t know. No, it didn’t seem that way. Why do you ask that?”
Pouliot shifted in his little chair and redirected the questioning. “You said you knew Christian Bourque and his girlfriend, Nia Fellows. You spent time with them, and…followed Christian that night, right?”
“No! I just happened to be there—”
“But that wasn’t your usual schedule. Why were you in Cabot Square that night?”
Isaac checked his watch again. “You said fifteen minutes of my time. I have to get back to work—”
“Why were you in Cabot Square that night?”
“I worked a late shift and decided to wander over and see that everyone was okay. It was very cold. I was worried about…some of the people I…know there. That’s all.”
Roméo was starting to feel quite annoyed by this man.
“Tell us again about your relationship with Christian and Nia. Why would a man of some…fifty-odd years hang around with—”
“I don’t hang around with them!”
“Why were you so interested in them?”
“They’re just kids. Just good kids who got unlucky with who their parents are. And the…dead boy suffers from mental illness. Many homeless people do, you know.”
Steve Pouliot took over from Roméo and looked at Blum directly and evenly. “According to your record, it seems that you really like kids.”
Isaac Blum’s entire body changed its language. It had been talking cautious cooperation, but now it was speaking fearful defiance.
“What are you talking about?”
“You were charged with sexually interfering with a nine-year-old child in your school when you were a teacher—in…two thousand and seven.”
Isaac Blum inhaled deeply, trying to control his anger.
“Those charges were later proven to be false. The child was very angry because I had separated her from her best friend in the class, so she…made up a story that could hurt me. I was completely exonerated.”
Steve Pouliot only pretended to read the notes in front of him, because he already had them all memorized.
“You were not in fact exonerated. The charges were dropped because they ended up taking your word over the little girl’s. In those days, that happened much more often than it does now.”
Isaac Blum suddenly seemed completely deflated. “They dropped the charges in the end, but it didn’t matter. I was ruined.”
“And that’s why you don’t work for any of the official organizations that help the homeless. You can’t. You have a record.”
There was a long, silent pause. Roméo leaned in, and asked gently, “Why are you so…driven to help others? Especially people who can be very, very difficult. People who often don’t have the…wherewithal to show any gratitude. Or often, the…ability to turn their lives around.” Roméo took the last sip of his tepid coffee.
“I lost everything. I lost my wife. My kids. My house. My life. I was drawn to people who’d lost everything, too.”
Roméo cracked a small, sympathetic smile. “It must be exhausting, discouraging work. Trying not to burn out must be a constant challenge.”
“I witness such need every day…I can’t not do anything.” He looked at both policemen squarely. “Just because you can’t save them all doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”
Steve Pouliot then pulled a third folder and opened it on the table. He showed Isaac a new photograph. It was of Shannon Amittuk, the Inuit woman who the police claimed had hanged herself, but whom Steve and Roméo suspected had been murdered. “Do you know this woman?”
Roméo watched as Isaac Blum’s eyes softened for an instant. He knew her.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Roméo watched him carefully. “Look again.”
Isaac closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, as though recalling or perhaps erasing her memory. He reopened them and looked at the picture.
“I first met her just outside Cabot Square after a shift one day. She tried to bum a cigarette off me, but I don’t smoke. She told me she’d come down from Nunavik to visit her sick mother.” He sighed deeply. “She was…she was an outgoing, friendly girl, who was living with a friend in Lachine. She was, a very naïve person, though, you know?” The policemen nodded. This was a very different man sitting before them. “Then a few weeks later, or maybe a month or two, I see her with this guy. He’s been hanging around Cabot Square for years, and he preys on young, vulnerable Inuit and First Nations women, getting them hooked on crack and then into the sex trade. I see it all the time—he’s a predator.” He pointed a finger at Steve Pouliot.
“You all know about him and have for years. Why don’t you guys do something about him? Why aren’t you interviewing him?”
“What’s his name?”
Isaac Blum dismissed the question with a contemptuous snort. “Jim. Bob. Pierre. Bozo the Clown. It doesn’t matter. There’s more where he came from.”
Roméo looked carefully at Isaac Blum.
“So what happened with Shannon?”
“A few weeks after…that…she approached me again. She was much thinner, so…diminished…like there was no light in her eyes left. Like there was no one home. But she still smiled at me and…she offered to give me a blow job for ten bucks.”
“Did you take her up on the offer?” Steve asked with no trace of sarcasm.
Isaac looked at his watch. “I have to get back to work. We’re short two people on the floor and a shift change is coming up.”
Roméo nodded and Isaac Blum bent himself out of his chair and stood up. He was at least as tall as Roméo.
“Mr. Blum, if you have not told the truth here today, we will find out. Expect to be questioned again soon.”
Isaac smiled grimly. “I have told the truth. Every word of it.”
Roméo and Steve Pouliot watched him walk off and then get swallowed by the throngs of shoppers hustling to stores before heading hom
e for supper. They returned to their notes and began to compare their impressions of the Good Samaritan. Isaac Blum hastened back to Canadian Tire and made a beeline for the cavernous stockroom in back where his closet-sized office was. He closed the door and locked it. Then he took out his phone and methodically deleted every single photo he’d taken.
Thirty-Six
“PEPPA PIG! PEPPA PIG! PEPPA PIG!” Nicole LaFramboise actually covered her ears as her two-year-old son, Léo, marched around her and demanded she let him watch yet another episode of his favorite cartoon. She loved her son. He was the beating heart of her life, and for the last two years and nine months, her raison d’être. But sometimes she really wished she could send him to his daycare when he was running a low-grade fever. Like today. But almost as soon as she wished it, she felt guilty. What kind of a mother wanted her kid away from her when he was too sick for garderie? Sometimes, she also wished the daycare was open on the weekends. What kind of mother wanted her child gone on the only two days they had all to themselves? A bad mother, that’s who. A mother who didn’t really want to be a mother. A mother who didn’t deserve to have such a beautiful, healthy baby. But maybe a mother who’d had no days off. None. For the last three weeks. She had also been fighting a flu bug all week, and today she actually felt okay—but she was behind on her work, both at her job and her house chores. It always seemed to Nicole that single motherhood was one long race. Just as she was about to drag her exhausted but triumphant body across the finish line, someone moved it a bit further.
That morning she had woken up with Léo at 5:30, made him warm milk, tried and failed to get him to sit to read him a book, let him bat his Nerf ball at her head for about an hour, fed him breakfast and a dose of Tylenol, and did two loads of laundry with him hanging off her hip. She washed a week of dishes, took three more Tylenol for herself, and then played another hour of Ride Mommy. This was also after she had patiently answered his hundredth “Pourquoi, maman?” about everything she did.