“Yes, Nadja?”
“I just spoke to Mr. Gagnon, the witness. He’s at home, expecting your call. As for Simone Fortin, I haven’t been able to reach her. She’s already left the hospital —”
“I know,” he said, cutting her off. “Don’t ask how.”
He had no desire to tell Fernandez about his torrid night with Ariane.
“Did you leave a message?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Perfect. Tell the old guy we’ll be there to pick him up in fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
By the glare of the work light, Adams resumed his painstaking examination of the BMW, looking for fingerprints.
“Doug, call me if you —”
“Find anything. I know.”
Lessard left the garage. Had his luck finally turned? As he walked toward his car, he thought he glimpsed a ray of sunshine. Or was his imagination playing tricks on him?
As he was opening the car door, his phone hummed again. He recognized the number on the caller ID. Tanguay was trying to reach him. That was the last thing he needed. He knew he was taking a big risk, but he didn’t answer.
• • •
Lessard watched, humiliated, as Fernandez tried to clear the passenger seat so she could sit in it. The Corolla was as messy as his apartment and his life.
“Maybe we should take another car, Victor.”
He surveyed the car. He wished he could snap his fingers and get rid of the newspapers, the banana peel, the chocolate bar wrappers, the ancient pair of leather boots, and the umbrella that lay piled on the seat. Not to mention the turntable and the old vinyl Genesis albums that had been lying there since Marie threw him out. He needed to do a proper cleanup, but the mere thought of it made his heart sink.
“You’re right,” he said, and let out a deep sigh.
While Fernandez went back inside to get the keys to an unmarked service car, Lessard called his ex-wife’s number. He felt strange every time he did it, worried that a man might answer. That was a possibility he didn’t want to consider. She answered in a whisper on the first ring. He had to argue to get her to wake up Martin. What was the matter with her? Did she think everyone was taking it easy this morning?
“Hey, Dad,” Martin said in a sleepy voice.
“The photography equipment in the car — did you and your friend steal that, too?”
“What?”
“This is important, Martin. Don’t lie to me.”
“It wasn’t us. I swear.”
Lessard could tell from the boy’s tone that he was being truthful.
“And the slip of paper?”
“What slip of paper?”
“4100 CN.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Are you sure?”
Martin sighed. “Yes, Dad.”
“How about the joints and cigarettes in the ashtray?”
There was a silence. “Yeah, those are ours.”
“You and I are going to have a serious talk, son.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Lessard hung up without saying goodbye, then immediately regretted it. Fernandez opened the driver’s door at the same moment. He jumped like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I’ve got the keys. You coming?”
Had she heard his conversation?
“You bet,” he said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Any news?” she asked casually.
He flushed. “Nope.”
Fernandez insisted on taking the wheel. Lessard had a reputation for being a bad driver. More than one colleague had gotten carsick while he was at the wheel. As for Nadja, she drove fast, but smoothly.
“You okay, Victor? You seem preoccupied.”
“This goddamn case is wearing me out.”
While they were waiting at a red light, he almost made up his mind to tell her the truth about his son, but then he saw the elderly man waiting on the sidewalk.
Lessard helped the man get into the car along with his dog, which promptly started drooling on the seats. God, he hated dogs!
The man spent the entire drive complaining about his various medical problems, while Fernandez listened compassionately. Lessard preferred to stay silent. He had no sympathy for seniors. The idea of having to look after one disgusted him.
He began to daydream, imagining his vacation with the kids in Banff. He would buy a tent, sleeping bags, a camping stove. They’d swim in mountain lakes, go fishing, build campfires, look at the stars, and, above all, get to know one another again. They’d start fresh. With the kids’ help, he would become a model father.
Maybe Ariane could join them with little Mathilde.
Slow down, Lessard. How about you give your own kids some quality time before complicating matters?
Fernandez helped the old man out of the service car. They walked into the police garage. Adams and his assistant were off to one side, having sandwiches and coffee.
Lessard lifted his chin in the direction of the BMW.
“Take a good look, Mr. Gagnon. Is that the car you saw in the street?”
The man’s eyes narrowed behind his thick glasses. “Sure looks like it. What did I tell you? A Mercedes.”
Fernandez spoke up. “It’s a BMW, Mr. Gagnon.”
“Mercedes, BMW, they’re all the same. Believe me, young lady, I know a German car when I see one. When you fought over there, like me, you don’t forget. I even blew one up with a grenade, once. At Dunkirk, as I recall. For the life of me, I don’t know why they’re allowed to sell those things in this country. It’s an insult to our veterans.”
Lessard and Fernandez traded looks.
“Are you sure that’s the car?” the detective sergeant asked.
“Absolutely. Do I look like I’m not sure?”
Repressing the first answer that came into his head, Lessard simply said, “Thank you, sir. My colleague will drive you home.”
As he watched the two of them walk away, the detective sergeant wondered how much faith he could place in the old man’s answers.
If it really was the BMW that had struck Simone Fortin, had she simply become mixed up in the case by accident or had she been deliberately targeted?
Though the latter possibility struck him as highly unlikely, he couldn’t rule anything out.
------------------------
A ray of sunshine caressed my face. I stretched lazily under the covers. It had been such a long time since I’d slept late! What was I going to do today? For starters, I’d make myself a cup of coffee.
And then?
And then, we’d see.
I reached out to my left. Was the cat curled up in his favourite spot beside the pillow? Still half-asleep, I realized that I wasn’t in my apartment. I opened my eyes.
The room was bathed in the harsh light of a neon lamp. I sat up on the bed and looked around.
I remembered that I was in a motel room. The ratty bed, grimy carpet, cheap chest of drawers, melamine table, and two folding chairs all testified to that fact. In a corner, asleep in an armchair, was the man who had introduced himself as Kurt Waldorf.
------------------------
Between gulps of Pepto-Bismol, Lessard remembered that he was supposed to look into the sexual harassment complaint that Fernandez had discovered. He reread the document dated September 25th, 1978. The yellowing form had been filled in with a typewriter. The complaint alleged that Mongeau had made statements and insinuations of a sexual nature to the complainant in their workplace. The alleged harassment had occurred on several occasions over a period of three weeks. Lessard put the document down on the desk, wondering whether he really needed to look into this. The incident had happened more than twenty-five years ago. It wasn’t the sort of crime that might leave the victim craving deadly vengeance so many years later. Even so, after some hesitation, the detective sergeant called the complainant’s number, which Fernandez had tracked down.
“Hello, I’m looking
for Véronique Poirier.”
“Speaking.”
The woman had a refined voice. Lessard introduced himself.
“I’m calling about Jacques Mongeau …”
“Uh-oh, what has naughty Jacques done this time?” she asked teasingly.
The last thing Lessard had been expecting was to hear her refer to the man who had harassed her with such cheerful familiarity, as though he were an old friend.
“In the wake of his murder, I have a few questions about your comp—”
He heard a muffled cry at the other end of the line.
Véronique Poirier spoke in a trembling voice.
“Jacques? Murdered … it can’t be.”
“Haven’t you seen today’s papers? It’s a front-page story.”
“I’m sorry, I just got back from the country. I had no idea. Poor Hélène … and the boys. My God, it’s a nightmare!”
Lessard’s astonishment went up another notch.
Far from the embittered woman he’d been expecting, Véronique Poirier seemed to be close to the family. His investigative instincts told him he needed to follow up on this lead without delay.
“I’d like to talk to you in person, ma’am. I can be at your place in twenty minutes.”
24
After ringing Véronique Poirier’s doorbell, Lessard froze on the threshold. For considerably longer than good manners would dictate, he simply stared at the breathtaking woman who had opened the door.
She had dark hair and dazzling green eyes. Lessard guessed she was between thirty-five and forty. Given the date of the complaint, he’d been expecting a much older woman.
She invited him in and gestured toward the couch.
“I made coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“Please.”
She excused herself and walked gracefully to the kitchen as the detective sergeant admired the sway of her hips.
“How do you take it?” she asked, coming back with a tray.
“Black,” Lessard answered nervously. He straightened up on the couch and took the cup from her hands.
She sat down facing him. She’d been emotional over the phone, but now she seemed to have recovered her composure. Her expression was warm and friendly. The detective sergeant had to force himself not to look at her legs.
“So you just got back from the country?” he began.
“Yes, I was in Lanaudière. I have a hideaway in the mountains, where I go to paint.”
Lessard’s phone hummed. He checked the caller ID. Tanguay was calling again.
“You paint for a living?”
“That’s one way of putting it. I paint full-time. But it doesn’t pay the bills. In case you’re wondering, I inherited this house and the place in Lanaudière when my parents died. Let’s just say I’ve never needed to earn a living wage.”
“When did you get back to town?”
“Yesterday, around midnight. If you’re thinking I might have killed Jacques, I was with friends all week long. They can confirm my whereabouts.” She took a sip of coffee.
Véronique Poirier was clearly a woman of spirit and intelligence. Lessard was doing his best to seem poised, but he felt like an oaf in her presence.
“When did you first meet Jacques Mongeau?”
“May 24th, 1978.”
“You remember the precise date?”
“That was the day I received my master’s degree in social work. We were introduced by a mutual friend, Flavio Dinar. Jacques subsequently hired me to work with sick children in his practice.”
How could she have gotten a postgraduate degree in 1978? She would have been in her early teens.
“Forgive my indiscretion, but how old are you?”
Véronique’s laugh spilled out in a crystalline cascade.
“You should know better than to ask a woman’s age. I’ll be fifty-four next month.”
He couldn’t believe his ears.
“Seriously,” he said, “I’d have put you in your thirties.”
“You’re very kind. I look after myself.”
“So it was while you were employed by Mongeau that you filed the complaint?”
“What complaint?”
“The one in which you alleged that he was sexually harassing you.”
She laughed again, more heartily than ever. Lessard’s nervousness was intensifying. He wiped his forehead.
“It’s been so long,” she said, “I’d forgotten all about it. Is that why you’re here?”
Lessard nodded.
“He never harassed me, sexually or otherwise. I filed the complaint as a pressure tactic.”
“Would you mind explaining?”
“Not at all. I’d been sleeping with him for a few months when I discovered that he was secretly videotaping our sexual encounters. I demanded that he give me the tapes. He was slow to comply, so I filed the complaint.”
“And?”
“He handed over the tapes three days later. I withdrew the complaint. Problem solved.”
“Did the episode create bad blood between you?”
“Not at all. Jacques was devious. He appreciated that quality in others.”
“Did you go on being his mistress?” Lessard asked.
“What an old-fashioned word. We both liked sex, that’s all. Now and then, I’d participate in what he liked to call his ‘intimate soirées.’”
“Intimate soirées?”
“You never heard about them? My God, you must be one of the few people on the island of Montreal.”
Lessard felt ridiculous. This woman intimidated him.
“Jacques used to organize sexual get-togethers,” she said, “for his political friends.”
An image of Jacques Mongeau was starting to take shape in Lessard’s mind, fed by the pictures in the computer and these details about Mongeau’s private life.
“You’re talking about swingers’ nights?”
“Having been to a few of them, I think ‘orgies’ might be closer to the mark, but you can call them whatever you like.”
“He used to take pictures at these events?”
“And sometimes videos.”
“Were his guests aware of this?”
“Never. Jacques was a little sneak. He referred to the photos and videos as his insurance policy. They were his way of keeping people honest.”
“Who used to come to these soirées?”
Véronique Poirier uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. She was wearing white lace panties. Lessard swallowed with difficulty.
“Local celebrities, Ottawa policy-makers, advertising executives working on the sponsorship program, doctors, lawyers, judges, bankers, businessmen, high-class call girls … I even met a few senior police officers.”
Lessard thought of Tanguay. He’d always suspected the man of being a bootlicker. Tanguay was obviously covering for someone. A superior officer? Himself?
“Could you give me some names?”
“I could, but I won’t.”
“What if I got a warrant to force you?”
“You won’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a gentleman.”
The detective sergeant reddened like a teenager. He was under the woman’s spell.
“What about the prime … I mean …”
“The prime minister?”
He nodded.
“You’d like to know if he was involved in these little events? Some of his top ministers were on the guest list, but to my knowledge, neither the prime minister nor his wife ever took part in the festivities.”
“Was Jacques Mongeau’s wife … uh … in the loop?”
“I spent some very agreeable evenings in Hélène’s company,” Véronique Poirier purred.
“Actually, I was referring to the photographs. Did she know what was going on?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Jacques was a discreet man.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“About a month ago. Febru
ary 17th, to be exact. It was a gallery opening, and some of my recent paintings were featured. Jacques came with Hélène. So did Flavio Dinar and his wife. We had a glass of wine and … anyway, it was very nice.”
She looked at him with a sexy flutter of the eyelids. Lessard gulped.
Mongeau had invited influential business and political figures to his orgies and videotaped them in action, gathering material that he could use to obtain subsequent favours. The whiff of extortion was unmistakable.
Had Mongeau misjudged the reaction of one of his “intimate” guests? There were powerful men out there who would do anything to protect their reputations.
Lessard was discovering a world that made his head spin, though so far he’d only glimpsed the tip of the iceberg. Unless he was very much mistaken, he’d just gotten his hands on a compelling motive for murder.
“In your opinion, was Mongeau using these videotapes or photographs to put the squeeze on people?”
“Jacques was a very good lover. I was very attentive to his private parts, but less so to the rest of him. I always avoided getting mixed up in his activities. He used to say that he was playing a dangerous game. He often told me that his ‘collection’ was stored in a safe place.”
“Do you know where?”
“He’d never have revealed that to me. He didn’t trust anyone. Not even Hélène or his sons.”
“Did he ever mention having a safe equipped with fingerprint recognition?”
“No.”
Lessard decided to explore another avenue. Véronique Poirier might have met the killer without realizing it. Perhaps the encounter was hidden in some half-forgotten recollection.
For thirty minutes, he urged her to scour her memory. He questioned her about the soirées in which she had participated, as well as her personal contacts with Jacques Mongeau. He left no stone unturned, going back over the same ground several times.
Had she observed someone trying to avoid being noticed? Someone who was always there, yet never seen? She did her best to be helpful, but they uncovered nothing remotely resembling a lead. Lessard was convinced that she wasn’t hiding anything.
He promised to bring her a composite sketch of the suspect that afternoon. But he wasn’t optimistic about how helpful she’d be in that regard. If the murder had been committed for political reasons, a professional assassin had probably been hired.
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