She stepped forward to kiss his cheek. He leaned toward her at the same instant, and their foreheads collided.
She laughed.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’m a klutz.”
“No, no, my fault. Come in.”
He stepped into a large white-walled hallway. To his left, a small chapel-like space caught his attention. At the foot of an altar draped in red silk, two candles stood beside a photograph of a middle-aged couple. On the adjacent wall was a photo enlargement of Ground Zero. Ariane noticed his surprised expression.
“Those are my parents. They died in the World Trade Center attack. They were diplomats. They’d been scheduled to attend a conference on development aid for African countries. Their floor of the north tower took a direct hit from the first plane. They never had a chance.”
“I’m sorry,” Lessard murmured. “That’s awful.”
“It is and it isn’t. My parents led a richer existence than most people can ever hope for. They were happy every day of their lives. They turned their dreams into reality. And they died together, without suffering.”
Lessard didn’t know what to say.
“I know I sound like an incurable optimist. But it’s a lesson I learned from them. Never lose heart.”
This woman intimidated him. He suddenly felt overdressed in his jacket and tie. He put his hands behind his back to give himself some semblance of composure.
“Your house is … very nice.”
“It was theirs. I haven’t been able to bring myself to sell it. I grew up here. I’d love to see my daughter grow up here, too, but the place is way too big for the two of us.”
Despite his newfound interest in cooking, Lessard was in the habit of preparing simple meals in keeping with his solitary lifestyle. Eating Ariane’s sumptuous dinner was consequently a delight.
But he swore to himself that he’d resume his diet tomorrow.
He hesitated briefly when she offered him wine, but eventually declined on the pretext that he had to be at work very early the next day. For a moment, he wondered whether it wouldn’t be better to tell the truth. But on further consideration, he decided to wait. Happy young women didn’t generally take an interest in recovering alcoholics.
Over dinner, Ariane described what she’d gone through to adopt Mathilde, who was asleep upstairs.
During her parents’ postings, Ariane had lived in South Africa and Poland before coming back to Canada.
At the age of nineteen, after a turbulent adolescence, she’d gone backpacking in Central America and had become particularly attached to the residents of one Guatemalan community. She had gone back at twenty-four under the auspices of a Canadian NGO.
With some help from her father’s diplomatic contacts, she had adopted a baby from a local orphanage and brought her back to Canada.
That was in 1999, when the child was six months old. Ariane’s parents had helped her care for the little girl until their deaths.
Lessard talked about his ex-wife and his children, but he didn’t get into the specific reasons for the separation.
When Ariane asked how he’d gotten into police work, he felt comfortable enough to tell her about the tragic events of his youth, but he didn’t mention the deep depression that those events had caused.
They also briefly discussed Simone and the hit-and-run investigation. Lessard repeated to Ariane that she had nothing to worry about. They ate dessert in the living room — chocolate profiteroles accompanied by strong espresso. At Ariane’s request, Lessard lit a fire in the fireplace.
She shivered and pressed herself against him.
“Warm me up,” she said languorously.
Lessard almost choked as he hastily swallowed the piece of profiterole in his mouth. She put a hand on his thigh and raised her face to kiss him.
He barely had time to worry about his coffee breath before her tongue was pressing into his mouth.
He hadn’t kissed a woman in a very long time. Ariane tasted of chocolate, and her tongue was sliding over his with the melting softness of a ripe peach.
She pressed herself closer. The young woman’s hand moved up his thigh to his zipper, and he felt himself redden.
If she kept going, she would discover his erection.
And why not?
Lessard bent his head over Ariane’s throat. He saw a pale blue vein and kissed it. The young woman shuddered with pleasure. Encouraged, he pulled off her camisole while she was frantically unzipping his pants. He cupped her ample breasts in his hands and pressed his tongue against her hard nipples.
An instant later they were naked, flesh against flesh, white-hot.
Mouths and hands moving eagerly in a silent ballet.
Ariane got up to fetch a blanket. She came back and covered Lessard, who had fallen asleep like a baby after checking his phone messages. She liked this man. He was humble, serious, sensitive. He was a good lover, precisely because of his visceral fear of disappointing her. She lay down beside him on the couch and fell asleep. Everything felt right.
------------------------
He had spent the evening in a dark corner of Mathilde’s bedroom, content to watch the child sleep.
He liked her pretty olive complexion.
Latin Americans, Asians, and Haitians have done a good job of integrating into Quebec society. The same can’t be said of Islamic fundamentalists. Those terrorists have no trouble slipping through the porous screen of Canada’s immigration system. Montreal has become a powder keg. They come here, they keep their culture, and under the protection of our Charter of Rights, they bring hijabs, turbans, and daggers into our schools and institutions. Luckily, in Quebec City, at least, classrooms are still safe.
At first, he had thought the detective’s visit was related to the hit and run. When it became clear that that wasn’t the case, he had stopped paying much heed to the conversation. Clearly, the young woman and the cop were powerfully drawn to each other.
After they fell asleep, he slipped out through the same basement window that he had forced to get in.
Simone Fortin hadn’t shown her face, but there was no point in hanging around. Nothing was likely to happen tonight. He would go to the motel and get a few hours’ rest. Then he’d come back and be in position by 6:30 a.m.
He walked to the Buick. The engine started without a hitch.
Good old American know-how.
------------------------
Snake had promised to wait a few hours before making the call, giving Jimbo time to get out of town. It was now almost midnight. He still wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. But there was no one else who could help him, and he wasn’t about to let a murderer get away.
He called his father’s cell number.
------------------------
Lessard woke up with a start, jumped off the couch, got his legs tangled in the blanket, and fell headlong to the floor. He glanced nervously at Ariane. She hadn’t woken up.
He picked up his phone on the third ring.
“Lessard.”
At the other end of the line, Snake hesitated.
“Dad, it’s Martin.”
Lessard hadn’t spoken to his son in at least two weeks. And the young man wasn’t in the habit of calling at this hour.
“Martin? What’s wrong? Is there some kind of trouble with your mother?”
“No, listen to me! I’m in deep shit. I need your help.”
APRIL 2ND, 2005
21
Did he have any illusions left?
If so, Victor Lessard lost them that night. Afterward, as he reflected on everything that had happened, he would wonder where he had gone wrong. How could he have lost touch with his son so completely?
Not long after the arduous case was finally closed and Lessard’s report had been filed, Fernandez would come into his office and find him drinking at his desk, his face grey, his service weapon lying on the blotter. She would sit down without a word and listen while he spilled his guts.
“I thought I knew my kids, Nadja. I watched Martin grow up. I watched him go from one phase where he needed me in his life to another phase where all his efforts were focused on a single objective: to be as little like me as possible. Then, in a moment of distress, he reached out, needing my help. I felt useful again. We were close, just like in the old days. If you only knew how much I regret all the times he wanted to play and I said no, because I was too busy or too tired. And in the end, what does it matter? It’s all just water under the bridge.”
That evening, Fernandez would drive him back to his apartment and put him to bed. The next day, when they saw each other at the station, he would lay a hand on her shoulder for a few seconds to express his gratitude. They would never mention the episode again. But they would both know that she had saved his life.
• • •
When he arrived, Lessard didn’t know what to expect. He walked into the filthy garage and stepped over several cardboard boxes full of electronics: music players, game consoles, MP3 players, etc.
He saw a BMW sedan, its trunk half-open.
Looking frail in his oversized sweatshirt, Martin hadn’t heard him come in. During the drive, Lessard had promised himself not to be aggressive. But his temper got the better of him.
“For Christ’s sake, Martin, what are you doing here? And at this hour?”
Martin turned around. He was wearing a dust mask over his nose and mouth.
“Look in the trunk.”
No. It couldn’t be.
Lessard was motionless for a moment, then, unable to control himself, he threw up beside the car.
There was a body in the trunk, in a hockey bag.
A corpse.
Memories of key moments in Martin’s childhood unspooled in his head like an old Super 8 home movie. Outlandish scenarios tumbled through his mind.
Lessard felt a knot of panic growing in his stomach. He had a sudden impulse to turn around and leave, to flee from a situation he couldn’t handle.
Had Martin …?
His own son? A murderer?
He felt unequal to the challenge. How could he cope with the idea that his own flesh and blood had committed the worst crime imaginable?
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Martin said. “I just stole the car.”
Relieved, Lessard let the air out of his lungs. Without a word, he sat down on a wooden crate beside the boy. To his surprise, his voice was calm.
“What happened?”
Martin raised his chin in the direction of the BMW. “I stole it this morning, off the street.”
“What street?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Make an effort, it’s important.”
“Forest Hill, I think,” the young man whispered. “Yes. I’m sure. The corner of Forest Hill and Côte-des-Neiges.”
Lessard wrote the street names in his notebook.
“And then?”
“I was supposed to deliver it to a buyer tonight.”
“A car-theft ring?”
Martin’s voice was a murmur. His lower lip was quivering. “Yes. I’d noticed the smell, but it was only when I opened the trunk to put in some packages that I …”
The boy burst into tears. Lessard held him awkwardly until he had calmed down. He wished he could have taken his time, but he had to act fast.
“Martin, I’m going to ask you a very, very important question. Take your time before answering, and tell me the truth.”
The boy looked at his father.
“Did you touch the body?”
The answer was swift and unequivocal.
“No.”
Lessard looked searchingly at his son. He was being truthful.
“Does anyone else know about this?”
Martin hesitated for a fraction of a second. His father knew instantly that he was about to lie.
“No.”
“Who?”
“Nobody, Dad …”
“Don’t fuck with me! Who?”
“Jimbo.”
“Who’s Jimbo? Does he steal cars with you?”
“Yeah. He’s a friend.”
“Where is he?”
“His father’s house. It’s out of town, I don’t know where, exactly. I really don’t.”
The boy was calmer now.
“Did he touch the body?”
“No. I swear to you, Dad, we didn’t …”
“And this friend of yours, Jimbo — can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?”
Surprised, Martin took a few seconds to consider the question.
“I think so.”
“How long have you been stealing cars?”
“About six months.”
The detective sergeant thought of the car-theft ring he’d been trying to dismantle.
“Do you work in the Côte-des-Neiges area?”
Martin hung his head. “Yes.”
Lessard made an effort to think calmly.
It was obvious that his son wasn’t guilty of murder. But he was guilty of stealing automobiles. By rights, he should be held responsible for his actions in a court of law. He had committed a serious offence.
Still, Lessard hesitated. On the one hand, a crime had been committed. Morally, he had a duty to do his job.
On the other hand, it was in his power to save Martin from interrogations, legal proceedings, incarceration, a criminal record, and, above all, the inevitable social stigma arising from a conviction.
Lessard’s own feelings of guilt tipped the scales. Martin was angry at him. It was no coincidence that the boy had been stealing cars in his district.
Was it as simple as that? And really, what difference did it make?
“Why didn’t you just make an anonymous 911 call?”
“My fingerprints are all over the car. Sooner or later, they’d have found me.”
“Not if your prints aren’t in the system.”
“I know.”
“So why?”
“We’re talking about a murder, Dad. It got me thinking.”
“You wanted to be free of all this.”
Martin held his father so tightly that Lessard almost lost his balance. For a moment, his son was a little boy again.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
Lessard had to fight back his tears.
“I’m glad you called me, Martin.”
As the young man wept in his arms, the cop would have given anything to be able to go back in time and give his son the attention that he himself had never received.
Lessard thought about his own father and the monstrous act he had committed that fateful day. Lessard would have met the same violent end as his mother and brothers if he had come home from school at the usual time instead of walking Marie to her house — the same Marie who would later become his wife.
The newspapers had dubbed it a “domestic incident.”
After that, there’d been several years of bouncing from one foster home to another, until he had finally been adopted at age sixteen by a happy family. And yet, with his recent drunken antics, he had been an embarrassment to his adoptive sister, whom he loved more than anything. He thought of his adoptive parents. If they’d been alive, his behaviour would have mortified them. He resolved to call Valérie later in the day.
He had become a police officer in part to prove to himself that his paternal genes had no hold over him. Marie had reminded him of that fact after he pushed her.
“Are you going to do like your dad and kill me now?”
If it had been possible to go back and start over, he would have followed his instincts and become a carpenter. That had been the dream of his teenage years.
Life is a series of choices. Once you’re on the wrong path, there’s no turning back.
“Marie, it’s me … yes, I know what time it is.… No … don’t hang up!… Listen, Martin’s with me. Yes, that’s right. I’ll explain later. I need you to come an
d pick him up.” He gave her the address. “Yes, now. I’m aware of what time it … don’t hang …”
He sighed. She had hung up.
Martin hadn’t expected his father to handle the case this way. Knowing his principles, the young man had assumed that he’d be arrested and questioned.
They waited in the Corolla, across the street from the garage.
Without giving the kid a sermon, Lessard wanted him to know the matter wouldn’t end here.
“Do you understand what I’m doing right now, Martin?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. When my investigation is over, you and I are going to have a serious talk.”
“I know.”
“I want your word that you’ll do what I tell you.”
“Yes.”
“That’s going to include seeing a psychologist.”
“I’m not crazy!” the boy protested.
“Martin, you need to understand how you ended up here. Believe me, a psychologist will help. I saw one myself, and it did me a world of good.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Also, I’m going to break up that car-theft ring. And you’re going to give me the information I need to do it.”
The young man reacted instantly.
“I’m not a snitch!”
“Or I can just turn you in. Your call.”
“If they know I gave information to the police, they’ll kill me.”
“Don’t worry about that. There are ways to prevent them from finding out. Do I have your word?”
Martin groaned. “Yes.”
“One last thing. You’re going back to school.”
The boy exploded.
“No fucking way!”
“Whoa. Keep your shirt on. If you get your high school diploma, I’ll pay for that sound-engineering course you want to take.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very. Think it over.”
When his ex-wife arrived, Lessard took her aside and explained the situation. She kept her composure, despite having to wipe away a few tears.
“Thank you, Victor. I know what this means for you.”
“I’m doing it for Martin.” He paused. “And also because I’m to blame for all of this.”
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