“Thanks, Pearson. Doug?”
Tanguay got up to go. Before leaving, he caught Lessard’s eye and gave his watch a significant tap. The press conference would be starting shortly.
“Tactful as ever,” the detective sergeant growled.
“We isolated forty-nine distinct prints in the office,” Adams said, “in addition to those of the victim and his secretary. We’re running them through the database now. So far, no hits.”
Lessard poured a glass of water and drained it in one gulp.
“So that’s where things stand. We still don’t know much. Fernandez, keep looking into Mongeau’s past. There may be something we’ve missed. Sirois, follow up with Berger regarding toxicology results. And show him the knife, ask if it corresponds to the murder weapon. Pearson, tell the rest of the team about the kinky photos. Try to figure out where they were taken and what kind of camera was used. That may prove helpful. But don’t mention them to Tanguay.” Lessard paused for a moment to make sure everyone got the message. “Oh, and Pearson, call the wife. Tell her we’ll be coming by after the press conference. I want to ask her about those pictures.”
He ended the meeting and hurried out of the room in a state of excitement.
7:00 p.m.
The media room was full to bursting. All the major dailies had sent reporters. Five TV networks had dispatched camera crews.
Pearson and Sirois were observing from the back of the room. Fernandez had taken a seat among the journalists and was scribbling on a sheet of paper.
Everything was going according to plan. Tanguay hadn’t opened his mouth except to kick off the press conference with the usual formalities: a brief outline of the dead man’s life, a terse description of the crime, and the approximate time of death.
Lessard was masterfully tight-lipped, using a variety of phrases to convey the same message: he was unable to provide details, because doing so might compromise certain aspects of the investigation.
The press conference ended. Several journalists walked out, knowing from experience that the cop wouldn’t reveal anything else. Lessard was about to give a brief interview to a TV reporter when he overheard Tanguay telling another journalist that “Detective Sergeant Lessard had confirmed that he was working on a significant lead and would soon have important information to disclose.”
Seething, Lessard marched over to his superior officer. Tanguay ended his interview with a declaration of absolute confidence in Victor Lessard and his team. The detective sergeant pulled him aside. The two men’s faces were centimetres apart.
Lessard wanted to flatten the guy, but he forced himself to maintain a semblance of composure.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Buying you time, Lessard. The Major Crimes Unit is already breathing down my neck. If you still have nothing by this time tomorrow, you can kiss the case goodbye.”
Lessard turned around and walked into the changing room. In a fury, he punched a metal locker, which shuddered under the blow.
Tanguay was a gutless fool whose only concern was to cover his own ass. Lessard could already picture the next day’s headlines. A fresh onset of heartburn assailed him. Pulling the half-full bottle of Pepto-Bismol from his jacket pocket, he took a swig.
He headed toward Pearson’s desk. They needed to question Hélène Lacoursière about those photographs.
Why the hell was he still in this line of work?
19
Trois-Pistoles
Laurent had only one desire: to shed the battered remnants of his body and soul. His spirit had been broken over the course of this pitch-black night, and he understood, now, just how utterly he had wrecked the best years of his life.
Waldorf had returned three times. The first time had been to give him water and additional pills. The second had been to inject him again. The third had been to release him from the bed.
The two men were facing each other across the table. Laurent was handcuffed to his chair. The pistol lay on the table, as mutely threatening as ever. Pale and defeated, Laurent had reluctantly agreed to listen to what Waldorf had to say.
“Miles was a gardener at the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery. Your mother’s name was Catherine. She died of leukemia when you were five years old. Your family lived in a red-brick duplex across the street from the cemetery. You used to spend your summer vacations at a chalet in Trois-Pistoles that Miles had inherited after the death of his parents. You started sailing when you were four. When you were eight, your father bought you a baseball mitt — it was a brown Rawlings. You rubbed it with lemon oil and shaped it by putting a ball in the web and closing it with a big elastic band. Your first hockey coach was named Raymond Bolduc. You won several medals in cycling. The superhero you liked best was Batman. Your favourite colour was yellow. The name of your first dog was Pico. Every night at bedtime, Miles would walk around the house with you to show you that no one was hiding anywhere. One day, you and he camped out in a cornfield.”
A tear rolled down Laurent’s cheek.
“Shall I go on?” Waldorf asked.
Summer 1985
Laurent is nine years old. The heat is stifling. And the corn is impossibly high! Flies are buzzing in his ears. He should never have wandered away. Did he come from the left or from the right? Is he walking in circles? He feels panic rising. He’s not a baby, he doesn’t need help. He keeps walking. He hears a noise that makes him jump. It must be an animal. Or something else. Terrified, he cries out. Miles is there in thirty seconds. “You okay, buddy?”
“I got lost. I heard a weird noise.”
Despite himself, he starts bawling like a baby. His father kneels, takes him in his arms, and holds him tight. “Don’t worry. It’s okay to be scared.” Laurent feels better. Miles has always known just what to say to make him feel strong, to help him get past his limitations. He dries his tears, and they head back. He holds Miles’s hand as he walks. “Dad, will Mom come back someday?” Miles lifts him off the ground. “She’s always with you, wherever you go. She’s in your heart.”
Waldorf had known Laurent’s father; that much was undeniable. He’d listed too many specific facts about Miles’s life for there to be any doubt.
But the things Waldorf was saying were even crazier than the contents of his letters. There was something surreal about watching this man speak in such a calm, reasonable voice. How could he seem so stable while saying things that were so obviously delusional? Laurent didn’t know what to think. He was still hoping that there might turn out to be a rational explanation for all this.
But what was he supposed to do?
------------------------
I recovered my bag in the alley and checked its contents. Despite having fallen four floors, my cellphone seemed intact. The same wasn’t true of my bottle of cheap perfume, which had shattered on impact. Luckily, it had been almost empty. I tossed the shards in a nearby dumpster.
The men from the other world?
I didn’t know how much of the young man’s incoherent talk to believe. Was it possible that he had some kind of intellectual disability? Or was Gustave actually Miles’s accomplice? I shook my head. The whole thing was beyond me.
I got some cash from an ATM. After that, it took me a few minutes to hail a taxi. The car pulled up in front of a shabby building on Queen Mary Road. I checked the street number beside the door. The driver had taken me to the right location. This was the address that Tina had given me.
The place was a dump.
I stepped into an entrance area lit by a naked bulb. A row of mailboxes lined the yellowing wall. Below these, there was a buzzer for each apartment.
I had no trouble finding Tom Griffin, apartment 312.
Perhaps fortune was smiling on me, after all.
A few seconds after pressing the buzzer, I heard a click as the interior front door was remotely unlocked. I went up the stairs. On the first landing, I had to step over a dog turd and a few used condoms.
As I continued to
climb, I remembered Tina’s warning. Griffin had a violent streak. I hadn’t considered the matter until this moment, but now I couldn’t help wondering how he’d react if I told him I’d just spent some time with his brother, who was, well, dead. Best-case scenario, he’d shout insults. Worst case … I didn’t want to think about the worst case.
How should I approach him?
It all happened very fast. On impulse, as I was knocking at the apartment door, I decided to try a ruse.
A voice yelled through the closed door.
“If you’re another insurance salesman, go away and let me die in peace!”
This was it. Time to find out whether Griffin would fall for my ploy.
“Hello, sir,” I said loudly enough to be heard through the door. “My name is Simone Fortin. I work for the City of Montreal. May I have a word with you?”
“What do you want? Get the hell out of here!”
“I represent the elections office. We’re updating the voters’ list in this district.”
A filthy creature opened the door. His stained bathrobe was half-open, revealing a greasy, flaccid torso. His teeth were rotten, his fingernails were encrusted with grime, his breath was appalling, his hair was unwashed, and he stank of sweat.
“I don’t give a shit about your list. I never vote anyway. Every damn politician in this city is a scumbag!”
Tina hadn’t been kidding. Griffin was clearly volatile. He might slam the door in my face at any moment. I made my move.
“Are you Mr. Griffin? Mr. George Griffin?”
Instantly, he was yelling, advancing on me with a menacing glare.
“You people are complete fucking morons! I can’t believe the city actually pays you a salary!”
What he said next made my blood run cold.
“George has been in a coma since August 7th, 1979. So you can stick your list where the sun don’t shine, lady, ’cause George isn’t gonna be voting ever again.”
Feeling weak at the knees, I left the building.
Before I’d had time to process what I had just heard, my cellphone rang. Dalila Cherraf ’s name appeared on the caller ID.
“I’m warning you, if you come near my family again, I’ll call the police.”
The voice was harsh and aggressive.
“Wait, I …”
“I don’t know how you got our address, you sneaky bitch, but if you know what’s good for you, you won’t bother us again. Do you hear me? Leave my father alone!”
“Your father? There must be some mistake. I thought it was your son who …”
“Enough with the lies! I know how you reporters work. We have nothing to say to you.”
“But I’m not a reporter, I …”
“It was clever of you to come while I wasn’t home. And yes, Raïcha was taken in by your little fainting act. But you can’t fool me.”
I heard Raïcha protesting in the background. Dalila shut her up.
“Listen,” I said sharply, so she wouldn’t interrupt. “There’s been some mistake. This may be hard for you to believe, but like I said to Raïcha, I’m trying to find a man. His name is Jamal Cherraf. He plays the trumpet.”
“Stop trying to con me! You know I named my son after his grandfather. What’s the angle this time? A feature story for the twentieth anniversary of his attack? An interview with musicians from his band?”
Musicians from his band?
So I’d been right. I really had found Jamal.
“It’s not what you think, I …”
“I don’t know what newspaper you work for, but you’re not the first reporter to come around looking for a story. Only there’s nothing left to say. When are you people going to get that through your heads?”
“Dalila, wait, I …”
“Leave us alone! My father’s been in a coma since 1985, and he’s never going to wake up!”
20
Hélène Lacoursière offered the detectives a cup of coffee. Lessard declined politely. They sat down in the living room, and the detective sergeant decided not to beat around the bush.
“We found some photographs in your husband’s computer at the office.”
For a fraction of a second, she seemed shaken. He saw her jaw clench. Then she recovered her composure.
“Is that unusual, Detective?” she asked in an emotionless voice.
“No, but these photographs are, well …” He paused, groping for the right word. “They’re somewhat particular.”
“And how are they connected with his death?”
“We think he may have been the victim of a blackmail attempt.”
“What’s your question, exactly, Detective?”
Pearson handed her a file folder in which he had placed a few copies of the pictures that had been found in the dead man’s computer. She looked at the images of her nude self.
Lessard was expecting her to blow up.
Instead, she lifted her chin slightly. Her lower lip trembled.
“You’re nothing but an ill-mannered boor. Please leave.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we need your help. We’re trying to find the person who killed your husband.”
She stood up and walked toward the front door.
“Get out, Detective. And don’t come back. You’re no longer welcome here.”
• • •
Unable to concentrate anymore, Lessard left the office around a quarter to nine. Pearson had gone home five minutes earlier. The detective sergeant needed a good meal and a shower. He wouldn’t be able to sleep right away, but at least he’d be able to relax while screening the documentary on Muhammad Ali that he never grew tired of watching. He’d enjoy seeing Ali take on Joe Frazier once again. As he walked unhurriedly to his car, his cellphone rang. Tanguay’s name appeared on the caller ID.
Would he never be allowed a moment’s rest?
“Lessard.”
“You’re way out of line, Detective, sticking your nose into matters that don’t concern you.”
“I’m sorry, Commander, I don’t know what you’re —”
“Don’t play dumb. Leave the widow alone.”
Lessard was stunned.
How could Tanguay have found out so fast? Had Pearson talked to him? Surely not. That left only one possibility. Hélène Lacoursière had called the commander herself.
Why had Tanguay agreed to intercede for her?
“We don’t want to make her life difficult, Commander, but this is a promising lead we’re talking about.”
“Drop that lead immediately, Lessard, do you hear me? If you don’t, you may regret it!”
Lessard couldn’t believe his ears.
“Is that a threat?”
“Let’s just call it a friendly warning.”
Tanguay hung up.
Lessard was shaken. He didn’t know what was going on in the shadows, but it was clearly something significant enough to prompt this crude intervention from Tanguay.
He walked to the car and stood there for several seconds in a state of shock.
• • •
He was driving along Somerled Avenue when the ring of his cellphone roused him from his thoughts. He looked at the caller ID. It was a number he didn’t recognize. He almost didn’t pick up, but he couldn’t resist.
“Uhh … hi, Victor. It’s Ariane Bélanger. We met this morning. After the hit and run …”
Of course he remembered her.
He suddenly felt as nervous as a schoolboy at his first dance.
“H-hello, Ariane,” he stammered.
“I’m sorry to bother you. It’s about my friend Simone …”
It made sense for her to be calling about the investigation. Still, he felt a twinge of disappointment.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“When I went to the hospital to visit her this evening, I was told that Simone left shortly after talking to you. She signed a refusal of treatment form. I’ve tried to reach her, but she’s not answering her phone. I was wondering i
f she mentioned where she was planning to go.”
Lessard was taken aback.
How had the young woman managed to get discharged from the hospital so fast? In any case, at the moment, he had bigger fish to fry.
“No, she didn’t say anything to me. But I’m sure there’s no cause for concern. The doctor wouldn’t have let her go if he’d had any doubts. You have nothing to worry about.”
“That’s what I told myself. Sorry for bothering you.”
“No problem.” He was about to hang up.
“Victor? I saw you on TV earlier. Tough day?”
“The joys of being a cop,” he said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Listen, you’re probably exhausted, but I’ve just made osso buco, and there’s enough to feed an army. So, uh … if you have no plans, would you like to come over for dinner?”
Lessard hesitated. He’d been intending to put in a call about that sexual harassment complaint. But it could wait until tomorrow.
• • •
Looking up at the palatial home on Doctor Penfield Avenue, he rechecked his notebook. Yes, he had the right address.
At the sight of the mansion, he almost lost his nerve. But he forced himself to go up the stairs and press the doorbell.
Ariane opened up almost instantly, as though she’d been waiting for him to arrive. She was simply dressed, in jeans and a tight-fitting camisole. Her hair hung loosely around her shoulders.
A tingle went through Lessard. She was a lot sexier than she’d been this morning. Here was a real woman with real curves, not one of those Photoshopped stick figures you see glorified in fashion magazines.
“Hi,” she said.
He gave her the flowers he’d bought at a convenience store after stopping off at his apartment to shower. He had removed the plastic wrapping that would have betrayed their provenance. Normally, etiquette would have dictated that he also bring a bottle of wine, but he had promised himself not to fall off the wagon. This was the first time he’d accepted a dinner invitation since he’d stopped drinking. He wasn’t sure how he would deal with the issue during the meal with Ariane.
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