Without Blood

by Martin Michaud

  “Hang on. Did you say Jamal Cherraf?”

  “Yes. Great trumpet player.”

  Miles’s neighbour!

  How could I have forgotten him?

  “Have you seen Jamal lately?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t know what became of him.”

  I thanked the man warmly and gave him back his handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry. It’s soiled now.”

  He put it back in his pocket, unconcerned.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  I considered calling Ariane to ask for help, but decided against it. She’d try to persuade me to go back to the hospital, which was out of the question. I now had two good leads, which, with a little luck, might help me find Miles.

  Those leads were named Jamal Cherraf and Tom Griffin.

  I walked back down Blueridge Crescent and turned right onto Côte-des-Neiges. The temperature was falling fast. I buttoned my coat and turned up my collar.

  As I walked, I kept an eye out.

  Was the man in the duffle coat still watching me? At one point, I thought I spotted him, but as I drew closer I saw that it was just a pimply teenager shooting the breeze with his friends.

  The red-brick building came into view. The ground-floor apartment, the one Miles had led me into, was entirely dark. I pressed my nose against a window, trying to see inside, but the curtains were drawn.

  Had the old lady gone out to run errands?

  A light was on in the apartment on the second floor. Slowly, I went up the stairs to Jamal’s apartment.

  A young olive-skinned woman opened the door. She was holding a plump baby in her arms. She reminded me of a friend I’d had in elementary school, who, after sneaking a peek into my diary, was hurt to discover that she wasn’t listed among my best friends — a list I updated regularly back then.

  Children can be so cruel.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Jamal Cherraf. He’s a jazz musician.”

  The young woman looked at me strangely.

  “If this is a joke, it’s in very poor taste.”

  She started to close the door, but I blocked it.

  “I apologize if I’ve said something to offend you. I certainly didn’t mean to. But I need to speak to Jamal. It’s a matter of great urgency. If you know where to reach him, please let him know that Simone Fortin is looking for him. He knows me,” I added with conviction.

  The young woman studied my face.

  “You seem sincere. Come in.”

  My hostess introduced herself as Raïcha and asked me to wait a few minutes while she put the child to bed.

  I sat down on the couch and looked around the room.

  I wasn’t surprised to note that the configuration and dimensions were the same, but the furnishings were entirely different from what I’d seen when Miles and I visited Jamal.

  The difference didn’t upset me. I was getting used to this.

  Raïcha emerged from the bedroom and put on a kettle. Without a word, she gave me a cup of tea and sat cross-legged in front of me.

  “So you’re looking for Jamal Cherraf?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know him?”

  “I met him for the first time yesterday. Here, in fact. He played the trumpet for me.”

  The young woman laughed out loud.

  “I’d be very surprised if that actually happened.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was just holding Jamal in my arms. He’s asleep.”

  “You mean your son —”

  “He’s the son of my roommate, Dalila. He’s ten months old. I babysit when his mother’s in class.”

  “And his name is Jamal?”

  “That’s right. Jamal Cherraf.”

  A child?

  Suddenly, the walls and ceiling began to spin.

  16

  Westmount

  Well-kept sidewalks, elegant homes, impeccable (but empty) parks, leafy green spaces, stylized streetlamps, spotless streets unmarred by potholes: the wealthy hilltop municipality of Westmount resembled Nice. Minus the sun, the sea, and the bikini-clad starlets.

  Well-ordered Westmount was bereft of pedestrians, unless they were Filipina housekeepers walking their employers’ purebred dogs. Prosperous Westmount was perfect and luminous, its skin-deep beauty worthy of magazine covers. But you couldn’t actually live there. Neighbouring Montreal, by comparison, with all its grime, squalor, and disorder, was Westmount’s poor relation.

  As Lessard parked his car in front of the imposing stone house on The Boulevard, it occurred to him that the division between the two sister cities couldn’t have been clearer if it had been marked with a bright red line.

  Going up the front walk, he counted the floors of the house. He stopped at four and rang the bell.

  A young man of about twenty opened up. His eyes were red. He was one of the victim’s sons.

  “My name is Victor Lessard. I’m a detective sergeant with the Montreal Police.”

  “I’m Sacha.”

  The cop wished he could have found comforting words, but he had to settle for ordinary condolences.

  The young man stood aside, and Lessard stepped into a large front hall dominated by an impressive crystal chandelier. Respectfully, he removed his shoes before advancing along the marble floor.

  Sasha led him into a luxurious living room, tastefully decorated in subdued tones, with dark leather furniture. A fire was crackling in the massive brick fireplace.

  Sirois was seated on a couch, talking to Hélène Lacoursière, the dead man’s wife. She stood up to greet the detective sergeant.

  She was wearing a dark outfit. Lessard guessed her to be in her early fifties, considerably younger than her husband. Feeling ill at ease, he couldn’t resist a glance in the direction of her bosom, which he’d been scrutinizing on the computer screen just a few minutes earlier. Only now did he realize what a beautiful woman she was, with her classic features and distinguished demeanour.

  Suddenly, he felt out of place in his socks and worn-out leather jacket.

  “Detective Lessard? I’m Hélène Lacoursière. Your colleague let me know you’d be coming.”

  She seemed to be bearing up well. He took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry we have to meet under such difficult circumstances, ma’am. Allow me to extend my condolences to you and your family.”

  “Thank you. Commander Tanguay called earlier to offer his support.”

  Lessard was taken aback, but he maintained his outward composure. By what right was Tanguay sticking his nose into his investigation?

  “Believe me, ma’am, we’ll do everything in our power to apprehend the culprit as soon as possible.”

  She looked at him with a determined expression.

  “The commander said the same thing. I’m entirely at your disposal, Detective. I want the person who did this caught. And punished.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she kept her composure. Now that the initial shock had passed, she was making an effort to be strong.

  “It’s my sons who are suffering most. Sacha is coping, but Louis has shut himself up in his bedroom.”

  Lessard spoke gently.

  “These things take time, ma’am.”

  He led the woman back to the couch, where she sat down beside Sirois, who hadn’t moved. Lessard pulled up a Louis XIV chair.

  “With your permission, I’d like to ask you some questions. A few may touch on subjects that Detective Sirois has already asked you about. Others may embarrass or even shock you. I apologize in advance, but the first few hours after a crime is committed are crucial.”

  “I understand, Detective. Go ahead.”

  “I’d also like your permission to have Detective Sirois look through your husband’s things. Did he have an office in the house?”

  “Yes. Sacha, would you please take Mr. Sirois to your father’s office?”

  When the two had left, Lessard pulled out his notebook and sat up straighter in his
chair. “First of all, when was the last time you saw or spoke to your husband?”

  “This morning, around ten-thirty. I called to let him know I’d bought a new painting. Jacques is …” She wiped away a tear. “I’m sorry. Jacques was an art lover.”

  “Did he seem changed in any way? Unlike his usual self?”

  “No. We were planning to spend the weekend in the country. He was going to pick me up at the end of the day.”

  “Did you get the impression, lately, that he was more preoccupied than usual? More anxious? Different?”

  “My husband was deeply involved in politics. Jacques was a very active person, full of energy. He played tennis three or four times a week. He was highly skilled at managing stress. In thirty years of marriage, I rarely saw him upset, despite the heavy responsibilities he had to deal with every day. I didn’t notice any change in his behaviour during the last few weeks.”

  “Did he have money troubles?”

  Her laugh caught Lessard by surprise.

  “Let’s put it this way, Detective. If Jacques ever did have money troubles, they ended the day he married me.”

  Now Lessard remembered the woman. Hélène Lacoursière was the daughter of Charles Lacoursière, the telecom magnate.

  “I’m sorry if my questions seem strange, but we don’t want to overlook any possible angle. Was your husband a gambler?”

  “No. We did travel to Las Vegas occasionally to catch Cirque du Soleil or Céline Dion, but I had to use every trick in the book to get Jacques to join me at the blackjack table.”

  “Did he drink? Use drugs?”

  The woman gave Lessard an offended look. “Jacques was always careful about his health. He drank sparingly, just a glass of wine with meals now and then. And he certainly didn’t use drugs.”

  “Tell me about his career …”

  The woman gave Lessard an account very similar to what he’d heard from Fernandez earlier, mentioning nothing that even hinted at a lead. Jacques Mongeau had risen fast in the world, thanks partly to his political connections and partly to the influence of his wife’s family.

  “Did he have any enemies that you knew of?”

  She chuckled drily. “He was a politician, Mr. Lessard. In politics, enemies come with the job. Jacques used to tell me that he couldn’t trust anyone, not even the people he was close to, not even his own party allies.”

  “Do you have anyone in mind? Can you think of someone in particular who might have had a reason to —”

  “To kill him? Honestly, nobody comes to mind. It’s been a long time since D’Arcy McGee.”

  Lessard didn’t get the reference. History had never been his favourite subject in school. By now, he only had a few questions left, and he was no closer to a solid lead.

  “Ms. Lacoursière, do you know anything about biometrics?”

  “A little. Isn’t that the technology behind retinal scans, things like that?

  “Exactly. Did your husband have a safe or a lock that made use of fingerprint recognition?”

  Hélène Lacoursière was clearly taken aback.

  “We have a safe deposit box at the bank that requires two keys. That’s it.”

  “Could there be some other item you’re not thinking of, like, say, a computer or a cellphone?”

  She frowned. “No. If Jacques had bought a gadget like that, I’d have known about it. Technology wasn’t really his thing. Why do you ask?”

  Lessard hesitated. He didn’t want to be insensitive. On the other hand, this was the dead man’s wife. She had a right to know.

  “The murderer cut off one of his fingers, and we’re trying to figure out why.”

  She put a hand to her mouth in horror. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  “Good God, how awful! Did he suffer? Was he tortured?”

  “The medical examiner believes death occurred in a few seconds,” Lessard said with empathy. “He was already dead when the killer removed his index finger.”

  That did it. The floodgates opened. Hélène Lacoursière could no longer contain herself.

  She began to weep.

  Lessard wished he could have taken her in his arms and comforted her, but he sat frozen in his chair, looking at his notebook, unable to move.

  He decided not to bring up the kinky photographs.

  Not now.

  ------------------------

  Snake parked the car in the disused garage on Hochelaga Street. Jimbo insisted on verifying the truth of his friend’s claim. He put on work gloves and partially unzipped the hockey bag. He fell to his knees.

  “Fuck!”

  “What do we do now?” Snake asked.

  “Dump the body, then deliver the car to Tool, like we planned.”

  “Forget it. First of all, Tool will never take the car. The cops have probably already put out a search alert. And second, if we dump the body, we could end up getting charged with murder ourselves. We stole a car. Lots of cars. But we never killed anyone.”

  “Fine,” Jimbo said. “Let’s just park it somewhere and walk away.”

  “Our prints are all over it.”

  “We’ll wipe it down first.”

  “And risk erasing the killer’s prints, too?” Snake asked.

  “So what? Not our problem.”

  “We’re talking about a murder, Jimbo.”

  “Like I said, not our problem.”

  “We can’t just sit on our asses and do nothing while there’s a murderer on the loose. That body in the trunk could have been somebody you cared about. What if weeks go by before the cops even notice?”

  “If it makes you feel any better, we’ll call 911. Anonymously.”

  “Have you forgotten that our prints are all over the car?”

  “I keep telling you, man, this isn’t our problem. We don’t give a shit.”

  “I do, Jimbo.”

  “You do what?”

  “Give a shit. I’m not walking away from this.”

  Jimbo lost his temper and shoved his friend hard.

  “So now you’re a good citizen, all of a sudden? What do you want to do?”

  “Notify the police.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?! They’ll throw us in the can! I’m not going back inside, you hear me?”

  Snake was silent for a few seconds.

  “There may be another way …”

  17

  This time, I’m the one driving the black sedan. I’m advancing at high speed through a brick tunnel that has gaps in its walls. Menacing eyes glare at me from behind each opening. A man is lying on the road ahead. At the last instant, he turns, screaming. The car squashes him with a noise like a watermelon bursting on the ground. Miles! The car stops. A group of men comes toward me. I’m led into a dark building with barred windows. A mental asylum.

  I opened my eyes.

  Without moving, I looked out the window. Through the glass, I saw the naked, twisted branches of a tree.

  I lifted my head. It took me a few seconds to recognize the room.

  I was stretched out on the couch, and Raïcha was dabbing my forehead with a damp washcloth. There was a worried expression on her face.

  “Are you okay? You seem to have had some kind of shock.”

  I didn’t deny it.

  At this point, the sensible course of action would have been to go back to the hospital. I was feeling confused, and the fact that I had passed out was a bad sign.

  “You may not be aware of it, but you were talking while you were unconscious.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You kept repeating two names. George and Miles. Also some words. I didn’t catch them all, but I heard ‘run,’ ‘late,’ and ‘lid.’”

  My thoughts were tumbling over one another. I felt like a prisoner in a world where reality and delusion were locked in a struggle, with my sanity as the battlefield.

  “Will Jamal’s mother be coming home soon?” I finally asked.

  “Dalila? Not for another couple
of hours. Would you like to wait for her?”

  I accepted Raïcha’s offer.

  All of this had been so unexpected, so incredible, that I needed time to gather my wits. I also wanted to talk to Dalila and question her about Jamal.

  But half an hour later, I couldn’t sit still anymore. For one thing, the baby had woken up crying three times. For another, I was getting more and more obsessed with the idea that Tom Griffin might be able to help me track down Miles.

  “Do you have a phone book?” I asked Raïcha.

  Just then, the baby started to cry again. The stridency of his wails made me wince. Raïcha stood up with a sigh.

  “He has an ear infection. I don’t think the antibiotics are doing any good.” She walked away in the direction of the bedroom. “The phone book is in the cupboard above the sink.”

  I had no difficulty finding a number for the Old Orchard Pub. I wanted to ask Raïcha for permission to use the phone, but she’d disappeared into the bedroom and clearly had her hands full with the baby. After a moment of hesitation, I pulled out my cellphone and keyed in the number.

  “Old Orchard Pub,” a woman answered in a nasal voice.

  “Hello. May I speak to Tom Griffin?”

  “Who?”

  “Tom Griffin.”

  “Just a minute, please,” the voice said.

  A chorus of conversations was audible in the background. Among them I could hear the woman who had answered. She was speaking loudly to another woman.

  “Someone’s calling for Tom Griffin.”

  “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  I heard the handset being picked up.

  “Hi, this is Tina. You’re looking for Tom Griffin?”

  The voice was warm and friendly.

  “Yes. I was told he owned the pub.”

  “He sold it last year.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?” I asked.

  “Hold on. I think I have his number somewhere.”

  She put down the handset.

  I heard her talking to a man, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. A full minute went by before she picked up the handset again.

  “This is your lucky day. The bartender gave me an address and phone number. I can’t promise that they’re still good.”

  I scribbled down the information in a hurry.