Fernandez was already striding toward the door.
“Pearson, I want you and Adams to go over every inch of this office. Lift any fingerprints you find. See what’s in the guy’s computer, look at his emails. I noticed an agenda in the right-hand drawer. Go through it. I also want to know what’s on that disc lying on the desk. And check the web address on the label.”
“You got it.”
“I’ll send over the secretary as soon as possible,” Lessard added. “She can let us know if any files or other items are missing. Have Nguyen draw up a list of hospital staffers whose offices are on this floor. He should start taking witness statements. We can’t rule out the possibility that the killer works here.”
Pearson was already leafing through the agenda.
“Sirois,” Lessard continued, “you’ll notify the family. Bring along the psychologist, if you want. I’ll join you as soon as I can. You know the drill. Get whatever information you can, but don’t press. Were there any recent changes in his behaviour? Money problems? Gambling? Drugs? Alcohol? And don’t forget the safe.”
“What do we do about the hit and run?” Sirois asked. “Did you get any information from Simone Fortin?”
Lessard swore. It had completely slipped his mind.
“No, nothing. Let’s put that on the back burner for now. The murder comes first.”
A small man in a police windbreaker entered.
“Hey, Doug,” Lessard said.
“Hello, Victor,” the man said, extending a bony hand.
“Pearson will bring you up to speed. I have to go, but give me a call as soon as you find something.”
Adams nodded and started unpacking his equipment. His assistant, whose name Lessard could never remember, walked in carrying two heavy cases.
The detective sergeant was on his way out the door when he stopped short. “Pearson, I almost forgot … what about the medical examiner?”
“It’s Berger. He’s on his way.”
Lessard made a face.
Condescending and capricious as a rock star, Berger embodied most of the traits that the detective sergeant liked least in a person. But his work was meticulous.
“I want his preliminary findings as soon as possible. Especially regarding the finger. We need to know whether the injury was inflicted before or after death.”
“Got it, Victor.”
“Oh, and Pearson …”
“Mmm?”
“Thanks for the coffee.”
A long, dreamless sleep.
Death might well be a deliverance. Lessard had thought about the matter a few months ago, when he’d considered ending his life.
His cellphone rang. It was Fernandez.
“The secretary’s name is Jeannine Daoust. She’s in intensive care. They’re expecting you.”
“What about the security guard? Did he touch anything?”
“No. He stayed in the doorway.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes. He was shaking like a leaf.”
Lessard shuddered.
He’d been physically present in the hospital when this terrible event had occurred, this catastrophe arising from nowhere, this act so senseless that, by rights, it should never have happened at all. And yet he knew there was no reason to be surprised. Human beings had been preying on one another since the dawn of time.
His phone rang again.
His superior officer, Commander Tanguay, had just heard the news. Lessard gave him a brief rundown.
“Do you think you can handle the situation, Lessard?”
Tanguay was clearly referring to the personal problems that had led to the collapse of the detective sergeant’s marriage the previous year.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know who Jacques Mongeau was?”
Once again, the name rang a bell, but Lessard couldn’t place it.
“Uh …”
“Until recently, he was a top fundraiser for the Liberal Party of Canada. A very influential man with close ties to the former prime minister. Do you understand the implications, Lessard?”
“The case will get a lot of media attention.”
“Exactly. Journalists will be watching your every move. I’ve called a press conference for seven o’clock this evening, and I’d like you to be there. We need to get out in front of this and establish clear guidelines for sharing information with the media.”
Lessard sighed. He had no problem facing the cameras, but he knew he’d have nothing useful to offer journalists at seven o’clock. What Tanguay was really saying, indirectly, was that he wanted results in a hurry.
“Another thing, Lessard. As you know, there’s still some debate at headquarters regarding the effectiveness of neighbourhood police stations. We don’t have much wiggle room. If your team doesn’t come up with a solid lead by tomorrow, there’s going to be significant pressure to transfer the investigation to the Major Crimes Unit. So let’s be clear. I’ll hold them off as long as I can, but you need to move fast.”
The detective sergeant swore silently. Tanguay’s message was unmistakable. He wasn’t about to stick his neck out on this. If he thought things were getting hot, he would step aside and let the heavy hitters from Major Crimes take over the investigation. Lessard had no desire to go through the humiliation of seeing his case handed over to his former colleagues. He hadn’t spoken to any of them since being transferred out of the Major Crimes Unit in the wake of a blunder that had cost two of his men their lives the previous year.
“Any questions, Lessard?”
“No.”
Tanguay hung up before he could add anything. Stepping into the elevator, Lessard realized that he still hadn’t done his laundry. Discouragement took hold of him. He was sure that he would screw up the investigation.
As he walked through the intensive care ward, he saw a woman who reminded him of his sister. He called her phone number but hung up after two rings.
Not now. He lacked the strength.
Lessard drew up a chair beside the bed.
Under her oxygen mask, Jeannine Daoust had a chalky complexion, but she was doing better. He introduced himself.
“Ms. Daoust, I know you’ve just been through a terrible ordeal, but I need your help.”
The woman began to sob. He spoke in the gentlest voice he could manage.
“In murder cases, the actions taken during the first few hours after the body is discovered often determine whether the investigation succeeds or fails.”
Jeannine thought of the dead man’s widow and two sons. How would they react if she was unable to help the police?
She took a deep breath and dabbed her forehead with a crumpled tissue. Her eyeshadow had run, creating ghoulish Alice Cooper smudges under her eyes.
She sat up straighter and pulled down the oxygen mask. For the first time since Lessard had walked into the room, she looked at him.
“You’re right,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. I gather you saw the murderer. Tell me what happened.”
“A man named Pierre Tremblay called this morning, asking for a meeting. There was no room in the schedule, but he insisted. He said he wanted to make a large donation.”
“Do you get a lot of calls like that?”
“No, but they’re not unheard of.”
“Do you know the name of the organization he represented?”
“He didn’t mention it.”
“Go on.”
“The boss got on the line personally and gave the man an appointment at two-thirty. He told me to cancel a meeting that he’d scheduled for that time, so I did.”
“This Pierre Tremblay … what did you know about him?”
“Nothing. He had never called before.”
“Did he arrive on time?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“I offered him a cup of coffee. He said no. I left him in the anteroom and went to tell the boss that he’
d arrived.”
“Did the man seem nervous or excited?”
“No,” she said after a few seconds of thought.
“What did you do next?”
“I opened the door and announced the visitor. He went in.”
“Did he sit in one of the chairs facing the desk?”
“I assume he did.”
“And then?”
“Mr. Mongeau said I could go home. I turned off my computer and left, closing the door behind me.”
“Did you overhear their conversation?”
“No.”
“Why did you come back?”
“My daughter’s on vacation in Provence. Earlier in the day, she’d sent me an email with pictures of the Pont du Gard.” Her eyes lit up a little guiltily. “For years, I’ve been trying to convince my husband to book a trip to the south of France. I had printed the pictures using the boss’s colour printer. As I was standing at the bus stop, I realized I’d forgotten them. So I went back.” She wiped her eyes and stifled a sob. “When I walked back in, the office door was still shut. I thought the boss must still be in his meeting, but I wondered why I wasn’t hearing anything. The door is padded, but over the years, I’ve learned how to pick up the vibrations that come through the frame. Before leaving again, I thought I should check to make sure he didn’t need anything, and that’s when …”
She started crying again. She needed to take a long pause before continuing. Lessard made an effort to be understanding, but he was burning with impatience.
“Describe the man.”
“Not very tall, I’d say five foot five. Trim. He was wearing a dark pinstripe suit, nicely cut. His hair was very black. And he had glasses, I think.”
Lessard was scribbling some of her answers in his notebook.
“What about his face? His eyes? Was there anything noticeable about him? Did he have a beard?”
Jeannine Daoust frowned, concentrating. “I think he had brown eyes. His face was … ordinary. Clean-shaven. He might have had a moustache, I’m not sure.”
“And his voice?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he sound educated? Any accent?”
“Courteous. Polite. No accent.”
“How old was he?”
“Hmm … hard to say.”
“What would you guess?”
“In his fifties. Late forties, maybe. I don’t know.”
A fresh crying fit struck Jeannine Daoust. Lessard doubted that he’d get anything useful from her today.
He was constantly having to deal with this kind of situation. Some people had difficulty recalling anything on the spot, but if you gave them a few days, they’d offer up a flood of details. This time, unfortunately, Lessard didn’t have the luxury of being able to wait.
“Would you recognize the man if you saw him?”
“I think so, yes.”
“A police officer will come by later and show you some pictures. We’ll also ask you to help create a composite sketch. Later on, you’ll go back to the office with one of my colleagues and check to see if anything’s missing.”
A look of distress contorted the woman’s face.
“The body will have been taken away by then,” Lessard added. That seemed to reassure her.
“Is there anything else you remember? Even the tiniest details could turn out to be useful.”
Unconsciously, the secretary smacked her tongue twice as she pondered. “He was carrying a briefcase.”
“Soft or rigid?”
“Rigid. Dark leather. Black. Yes, it was black.”
Lessard scribbled.
“One last question. To your knowledge, did your boss have a safe with a fingerprint-recognition device?”
She was visibly taken aback.
“You mean like in spy movies?”
Lessard suddenly felt ridiculous.
“I guess you could put it that way …”
“No, I don’t think so. There’s no safe in his office. Not even a file cabinet with a lock on it. Actually, I used to scold him about that.”
“Here’s my card. If anything comes back to you, give me a call.”
There were too many possibilities. A short man in his forties or fifties with brown eyes and black hair, carrying a leather briefcase, wearing a dark suit and glasses. Maybe.
Even if the killer had given his real name, which Lessard very much doubted, he and his fellow cops wouldn’t be that much further along in their hunt. The Montreal phone directory probably contained three hundred entries for Pierre Tremblay.
Lessard suddenly felt weary and a little discouraged in the face of the immense task before him. This investigation was going to be difficult. What could he tell the commander and the media? He and his colleagues knew nothing.
And at the moment, he really needed a cup of coffee.
12
I am schizophrenic, and so am I.
— What About Bob
In hindsight, it’s clear to me that the sensible thing to do at that point would have been to give up and go home. Not only was I needlessly putting my health on the line, but my visit to Miles’s apartment hadn’t brought me any closer to finding him. And I had no additional clues to help track him down. If I had abandoned the search then and there, might it have been possible to prevent everything that happened afterward?
From the cemetery, I walked south on Côte-des-Neiges. Lacking any other clues, I decided to go back to the scene of that morning’s near-fatal accident. After all, wasn’t that where I had met Miles? Wasn’t that where the whole thing had started?
As I advanced slowly along the sidewalk that borders Mount Royal, I stepped aside to let two joggers in form-fitting outfits go by. Though the ground rose quite steeply on this stretch of Côte-des-Neiges, the two men were talking as they ran, seemingly without difficulty.
I wasn’t finding the climb so easy. By the time I passed the 2nd Field Artillery armoury, I was out of breath and my throat was dry.
I went into the first convenience store I saw. With the change that remained in my wallet, I bought a chocolate bar and a bottle of water, which I drank right there on the sidewalk.
I tossed the empty bottle in a trash can and slipped the chocolate bar in the back pocket of my jeans before continuing on my way.
Something was eluding me in this business.
If Miles was behind the whole thing, how had he managed to transform the apartment so quickly? The change had been striking. Had Miles received outside help?
And what about the old lady I’d spoken to? Had he manipulated her without her knowledge? Another crucial question: Had this entire affair been staged for my benefit?
Though my thoughts were still confused, an idea was taking shape in my head. I had never met Miles before, yet he seemed to know about the little boy’s death. Perhaps someone had decided that it was time I paid for my mistakes. Perhaps Miles had been given the task of punishing me. But then, he had seemed sincere when he said no one had sent him to find me.
I patted the pockets of my jeans and coat, trying to find the chocolate bar. It had probably fallen out as I was walking. I turned around to retrace my steps.
The movement was barely perceptible, but I could have sworn that as I turned, a man in a duffle coat ducked behind a phone booth at the street corner.
The man had moved fast, as though not wanting to be seen.
Without thinking, I hurried toward him.
“Miles?”
My voice was strangely high-pitched and louder than I had expected it to be. A passing pedestrian turned his head reflexively. I went by him without a glance. My gaze was fixed on the phone booth.
“Miles?”
Other passersby looked at me curiously. The sight of a young woman shouting in near hysteria was bound to attract attention.
“Miles?”
Without letting me see his face, the man in the duffle coat came out of the phone booth and hurried around the corner.
“No, wait! Mile
s! Wait!”
My nerves had been a mess since my visit to the old lady’s apartment. Something broke inside me when I saw that the man had disappeared. Without thinking, I started to run. My ankle was hurting terribly. Tears were running down my cheeks.
The world was whirling by, faster and faster. Trees, cars, and buildings were blending into an undifferentiated blur on my retinas.
Gasping for breath, I kept running until my legs gave out and I collapsed to the ground. I was weeping by now, yelling at the top of my lungs.
“I’m not crazy!”
How long did the fit last? A few seconds? Several minutes?
I don’t know. When I came to my senses, I was in the cemetery, lying beside the grave of Étienne Beauregard-Delorme.
Are we haunted all our lives by the wrongs we’ve committed?
If so, I was condemned. There would be no redemption.
Deciding to cut across the cemetery to reach the street, I set off along a sodden path, my feet sinking into mud up to my ankles. Instantly I felt water seeping into my socks. Within a few seconds, my feet were soaked.
I could see the street beyond a row of evergreens. Trying to make my way between two fir trees, I tripped and fell into the mud. I swore and got back on my feet.
Finally, I succeeded in escaping from the cemetery. When I was safely on the sidewalk, I looked down at my clothes. My jeans and coat were covered in mud. I sighed. I had stopped caring.
I tried to get a grip on myself, to empty my mind of negative thoughts. I did my best to focus on my surroundings: shop windows, people’s clothes, the colours of passing cars.
This was my method for reconnecting with reality and overcoming the anxiety that afflicted me. Little by little, it began to take effect. After a few minutes, I was calm again.
• • •
As I walked toward the spot where the accident had occurred, I was mentally replaying the events of the day, trying to make sense of them. One: I had been struck by a car and had lain unconscious for several hours. Two: An old lady was living in the apartment where I had spent time with Miles. Three: The apartment had been dramatically transformed. Four: A man resembling Miles had asked to visit the place a year ago. Five: Miles had disappeared.
Without Blood Page 11