The Evil That Men Do

by Michael Blair

  “That’s bullshit,” Terry said, letting the man’s smug arrogance get the better of her. “And you fucking know it.”

  “Ce type de langage n’est pas nécessaire, Madame

  Jardine,” he said, trying to sound offended, but not quite

  managing it.

  Terry took a breath, controlling herself with an effort.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I apologize. But your private investigator’s licence doesn’t give you the right to frighten my daughter.”

  “Would you mind showing me your private investigator’s permit?” I said.

  “Who’s this loser?” Lefebvre said, having used up his quota of good manners. “Your new boyfriend?”

  “My name’s Riley. I work for the law firm representing Ms. Jardine. Your investigator’s permit, please.”

  “Piss off,” Lefebvre said.

  “Do you have an investigator’s permit?”

  “Sure I got one. Why should I show it to you?”

  “Well, for one thing,” I said, “just to prove to me that you really are a private investigator. You sure as hell don’t look—or smell—like one.”

  Lefebvre’s already florid face flushed a deeper red, and his fists clenched. Was he stupid enough to take a swing at me? Whether he had a private investigator’s permit or not, he was not breaking any laws by parking on Terry’s street. However, if he took a swing at me he could be charged with attempted assault—attempted because I had no intention of letting him actually land a punch. But he managed to control himself.

  Lawrence Thomason’s dark blue BMW went past and stopped in front of Terry’s house, blocking the driveway. It was getting better and better, I thought, as Thomason got out of the car and came over to where Terry and I stood with Marc Lefebvre.

  “What’s going on here?” he said, looking from Lefebvre to me and back.

  “Ew,” Lefebvre said, feigning a shudder of fear. “Backup.”

  “I don’t care if you are a private investigator,” Terry said to Lefebvre. “If I see you around here again, I will have my lawyer get a restraining order against you.”

  Lefebvre smiled, showing his bad teeth. “Good luck with that,” he said. He tipped an imaginary hat. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Ms. Jardine. Enjoy your threesome,” he added, laughing.

  He was still laughing as he climbed into his truck. He started the engine—it didn’t start easily—and drove away, oil smoke trailing from the tailpipe.

  “Fuck,” Terry said, with feeling.

  “What did he want?” Thomason said.

  “What does he ever want?” Terry said. “To make my life miserable.” She looked at me. “You’re working for Louise Desjardins?”

  “I was stretching the truth a little,” I said. “But, yes, as of yesterday I’m technically employed as an investigator.”

  She looked at me for a moment, something going on behind her eyes, as if she was struggling with a decision. She glanced at Thomason, then back to me, and said, “Can I get a restraining order?” As if I would know. “I don’t care for myself, but he scares Rebecca.”

  “Is he a licensed PI?”

  “I don’t know,” Terry said. “Probably.”

  “It doesn’t take much to get an investigator’s permit from the SQ,” I said. The Sûreté du Québec was Quebec’s provincial police force. “I imagine it’s even easier for an ex-cop. I’ll speak to Louise about a restraining order, though. Do you know who he’s working for?” I asked, wondering if it was Frank Gendron.

  “There are a number of lawyers representing Chaz’s victims,” Terry said. “It could be any of them.” She looked at Thomason. “Is there something you wanted, Lawrence?”

  “I need to talk with you,” he said, speaking to Terry but looking at me.

  “Can it wait?” Terry said. “I’ve got a lot on my plate today.”

  “It’s rather urgent,” he said, still looking at me.

  I can take a hint, I thought. “Terry, thanks again for the referral.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  I turned and walked to the Volvo as Terry went into her house, and Lawrence Thomason got into his car to move it from in front of her driveway. I was curious about what he wanted so urgently to talk to Terry about, but figured it was just Larry being Larry. It never occurred to me that it had anything to do with our conversation the day before. Chalk it up to a lack of imagination on my part.

  I got home too late to have lunch with my mother, but Rocky offered to make me a sandwich. “Turkey okay?”

  “Perfect,” I said. She was dressed in snug black jeans and a peasant-style blouse, rather than her usual sweatpants and paint-stained shirt, and was wearing makeup. She looked good.

  “Are you going to be around this afternoon?” she asked, as she assembled the sandwich. When I said yes, she said, “Normally I get Mrs. Sorenson next door or Lucinda to watch Gracie when I have to go out, but seeing as you’re here, would you mind watching her for a couple of hours?”

  “No, of course not,” I said.

  “She’s still tired from yesterday’s outing so she’ll probably sleep a good part of the afternoon. If she needs anything, she has a buzzer that rings in the kitchen and my studio. And just in case there’s a problem you don’t think you can handle, call Mrs. Sorenson or Lucinda. Or me. Okay? All the numbers are on the fridge.” She placed the sandwich in front of me.

  “Don’t worry, Rocky,” I said. “I think I can manage.”

  “Anyway, it’s just for an hour or two.”

  “No problem,” I said, around a mouthful of sandwich. “Who’s Lucinda?”

  “She was a registered nurse in El Salvador. She can’t get her licence here because she doesn’t speak enough French. She comes by a couple of times a week to help me give Gracie a bath and wash her hair, or if I have an appointment. Like today.” She looked at the clock on the stove. “Which I’m going to be late for if I don’t get a move on.”

  After Rocky left, I went upstairs to check on Grace. She was asleep. Returning to the kitchen, I called Frank Gendron’s office and left a message with his answering service to call me back as soon as possible. I wanted to ask him if the scruffy private investigator, Marc Lefebvre, worked for him. I then tried calling Nina about getting a restraining order against Lefebvre, but she wasn’t in the office. Although I remembered that Louise Desjardins was supposed to be in court that afternoon, I asked to speak to her. She wasn’t in, either.

  I went upstairs and sat by Grace’s bed reading a John Grisham thriller I’d found in the living room. I was just getting into it when she spoke my name.

  “Atticus?”

  I looked up. “Yes, Mum.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “A couple of days ago,” I said. I rearranged the pillows behind her shoulders, helped her sit up.

  “Have you seen Nina? She has a new album, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said, surprised.

  “Rocky says it’s quite good.”

  “I think so, too.”

  I sat with her for another hour, chatting with her until Rocky got home. She seemed almost back to normal, not only remembering Nina’s album, but that I had been in Scotland. Even her short-term memory seemed better; she rarely repeated herself. I didn’t want to ruin the mood by talking to her about moving her into a seniors’ residence.

  “Even though she seems better,” Rocky said later, over coffee and sticky buns she’d picked up on her way home, “she probably won’t remember anything you talked about.” She reached across the kitchen table and put her hand on my arm. “Sorry, Ace. It’s nice to have her back, even if it is just for a couple of hours, but it only makes it hurt more to see her slip away again.”

  Later in the afternoon, I walked to a pharmacy on Monkland and had my photo taken for my passport r
enewal: it was due to expire in less than six months. On my way back to the house, the iPhone began to buzz. It was the real estate agent. I made an appointment to meet with her in a coffee shop at eight that evening: I wasn’t quite ready to meet with her at the house. After disconnecting from the agent, I called Nina.

  “Hey,” she said. “Your name shows up on the call display.”

  “Gil programmed it, I guess.”

  “How are you doing? Any luck finding a place for Gracie?”

  “There’s one that looks promising. Out in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue. Terry recommended it. There’s a waiting list, but it’s only six months.”

  “Only,” Nina said.

  “A little less, actually. I’m going to keep trying to find something closer to home, though. Are you busy later? Not working tonight, are you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’m meeting with a real estate agent at eight this evening. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind coming along.”

  “Moral support?”

  “Some, I suppose. Plus you’ve had more experience than I have buying and selling real estate.”

  “Not much,” she said. “But sure, I’ll come along. Are you meeting her at the house?”

  “No,” I said. “At a coffee shop on Monkland. How’d you know it was a woman?”

  “They all seem to be women these days,” Nina said. “You want to get something to eat first?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Before going to eat, Nina and I visited with my mother for a few minutes. Although she was still fairly lucid, she nevertheless asked Nina how her piano lessons were going. “At least she knew who I was,” Nina said as we left the house to walk up to Monkland.

  We ate in a pizza joint across from the coffee shop where we were to meet the agent. Nina was uncharacteristically quiet, something on her mind that she was having trouble getting around to. I left her to work it out. When she finished her pizza, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her paper napkin, folded it, placed it next to her plate, and said:

  “I need some advice.”

  “Not from me, I hope.” She scowled at my quip. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

  “It’s about Rebecca.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s sent me a million text messages in the last few days about how much her life sucks, how much she hates school, her mother, and especially Lawrence Thomason.”

  “She’s a teenager,” I said. “Teenagers’ lives suck. Mine did. Yours did. How many texts has she really sent you?”

  “I dunno. Thirty, forty. It’s driving me nuts. Not to mention it’s disruptive. I had to turn off sound notifications. But I don’t want to block her.”

  “Have you asked her to tone it down, limit it to once or twice a day? Outside of business or school hours?”

  “Yeah, but it hasn’t done any good.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to tell her you’ll block her calls if she doesn’t stop.”

  “I tried that,” Nina said, eyes shining with incipient tears. “She cried on the phone. It broke my heart. The poor kid is so fucking unhappy.”

  “There’s not much you can do about that,” I said. “Nothing, really. Except put up with it. Be there for her. She’s had a rough time of it.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I’m not sure what you expect from me,” I said.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. But I’m at my wit’s end. I love her, want to be there for her, but I don’t really know what to do. I feel so helpless.”

  “Have you spoken to Terry?”

  “Not yet. You said she kinda blames me for her problems with Rebecca. I don’t want Rebecca to feel I’m just another grownup who doesn’t understand her.”

  “Except that you are,” I said. “A grownup, anyway.” I looked at my watch. “Can we continue this later? There’s something I need to talk to you about and I don’t want to keep the lady waiting.”

  “Sure, shoot.”

  I told her about Terry’s confrontation with the private investigator, Marc Lefebvre, and asked her how likely it was that Terry could get a restraining order against him.

  “I’ll talk to Louise about it,” she said. “But if he works for a lawyer representing Brandt’s victims, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  I paid the tab and we left the restaurant.

  “You know what Rebecca thinks she wants,” Nina said, as we crossed Monkland.

  “What?”

  “She wants you and her mother to get back together again.”

  “Really?” I said. “Well, that’s not going to happen.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m not sure. But it’s pretty unlikely. Anyway, she doesn’t know anything about me, or what kind of relationship her mother and I had.”

  “I don’t think that matters to her,” Nina said, as we went into the coffee shop. “Anything to get Larry the Lizard out of her mother’s life. And hers.”

  The real estate lady waved from a far corner. She had enough kinky blonde hair for a complete Broadway chorus line.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning my mother was still in a lucid phase, animated, almost chatty, during breakfast, but she had peaked the day before and was on the down side of the bell curve, occasionally forgetting where she was and losing the thread of the conversation. Afterward, when Rocky had returned Grace to her bedroom for her morning nap, I asked her how much notice she needed to get someone in to keep an eye on Grace.

  “Half an hour or so. Why?”

  “Terry Jardine referred me to a care facility that looks pretty good,” I said, “and I want to put down a deposit before the waiting list gets any longer. I’d like you to see it first. There’s a catch, though.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “It’s in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue.” I braced myself for the explosion.

  “Sainte-Anne? Why so goddamned far away?”

  “It’s the best place I’ve found so far, clean and reasonably priced, with a shorter waiting list than others in its price range.”

  “Come on,” Rocky said. “Do you expect me to drive out to Sainte-Anne every day to see her? I know you don’t think of what I do as a real job, but whether you think so or not, Ace, it is. I work every day. And if I don’t work, I don’t get paid.”

  “I know that,” I said. “But I was thinking, maybe you could move out that way. It’s a nice area, especially on the water, and I’d help you find a suitable place.”

  With that in mind I had driven around Sainte-Anne, which had an almost Old World seaside atmosphere, as well as Île-Perrot, a more rural community across the channel from Sainte-Anne. We probably couldn’t afford to buy, unless my investment with Gil Maxwell paid off big time or we got a lot more for the house than I expected—a mortgage was out of the question: neither Rocky nor I had a credit rating worth a damn. There were plenty of rental opportunities, though. I’d even found a couple of reasonably priced places that had space for a studio.

  “I’m not interested in moving out to the goddamned boonies, for Chrissake.”

  “It’s hardly the boonies,” I said. “It’s only thirty minutes away. I’ll keep looking for a place that’s closer, but it would be easier if you’d help.”

  “Screw that,” she said. “This is your idea, not mine.”

  I guess she’d forgotten what Grace’s doctor had said.

  “With all due respect,” Nina said, sounding on the phone too much like the lawyers she worked for, “I agree with Rocky. Can’t you find anything closer?”

  I’d called Nina from the parking lot of the

  Sainte-Anne facility, after signing the deposit agreement, writing a cheque that all but wiped out my Canadian chequing account, and receiving a more comprehensive guided tour, which had
included the secure floor for Alzheimer’s patients. It hadn’t been an uplifting experience.

  “I’ve tried,” I said. “But I haven’t been able to find anything decent that we can afford.”

  “Maybe I can help out,” Nina said.

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

  “And I appreciate it, believe me. But I’m going to have to decline.”

  “Why? I want to help.”

  “I know you do,” I said, my heart swelling. “But I can’t let you do it.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But if you change your mind, the offer stands.”

  “Thanks,” I said, my voice gruff.

  “Where are you now?” she asked. I told her. “Look, could you do something for us? Could you drop by Terry’s, see if she’s okay?”

  “Sure. But why wouldn’t she be okay?”

  “No reason,” Nina said, a little evasively, I thought. “Louise would just like you to check on her.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on,” Nina said, still dodging the question. “Will you do it or not?”

  “Of course I’ll do it,” I said. “Have you talked to Louise about the restraining order against Marc Lefebvre?”

  “She’s going to file an application, but she’s not hopeful. Nor is she sure it’ll do much good to order him to stay a hundred metres or whatever away from Terry or her house. He’ll just park farther down the street.”

  “It’s a start,” I said. “Is he legit?”

  “He’s licensed, if that’s what you mean, but we couldn’t get a line on who he’s working for.”

  “Riley,” Terry said, when she opened the door to the garage office. My stomach clenched: I’d never heard my name spoken with such icy contempt. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

  I was mystified by her coldness, and hurt by the anger in her eyes. I pressed on, anyway. “Louise wanted me to drop by to make sure everything was okay.”

  “Everything’s fine,” she said, her expression as sharp as her words. “I told her I’d call as soon as I heard anything.” She started to shut the door.