Having exhausted his questions, Lessard stood up and handed her his card.
“If anything comes back to you, even a small detail, don’t hesitate to call me.”
Véronique Poirier accompanied him to the front door. He couldn’t resist admiring her as she advanced with a light gait, as though walking on air. She turned to him with a grave expression.
“Did he suffer?”
The question caught him by surprise. He lowered his gaze.
“I don’t think so.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
As he was closing the door, he saw tears on her cheeks.
Outside, the wind had risen.
Still a little dazed by what he had just learned, Lessard walked back to the Corolla. Had Mongeau stepped on the toes of some powerful individual who didn’t take kindly to being provoked? If so, had the provocation been sufficient to get him killed? In any case, it was unlikely that the victim of Mongeau’s blackmail attempt, if such an attempt had occurred, would have risked doing the job personally.
People like that don’t get their hands dirty.
What about the man whose body had been found in the trunk of the BMW? Where did he fit in? What role did Simone Fortin have in the whole affair, if indeed she was involved at all? Had she been a participant in Jacques Mongeau’s erotic soirées?
Véronique Poirier’s revelations shed a new light on the killer’s possible motives. If Mongeau was in possession of compromising photographs and videos, then he had clearly taken the necessary steps to keep them secure. Suddenly, the idea of a safe with fingerprint recognition didn’t seem so outlandish. Lessard and his colleagues would need to locate that safe and its contents in a hurry.
And what part did Tanguay play in all this?
Lessard would have to keep an eye on the son of a bitch. Tanguay was intent on interfering with the investigation. Was he covering for someone? If what Véronique Poirier had said was correct, the detective sergeant was stepping into a minefield. There might even be people on the police force who wanted to bury the case. If so, he’d be stymied.
As he started the car, he had a nagging sense of having neglected a vital detail. With one hand on the steering wheel, he called his sister’s number, but hung up when the call went to voice mail. As he was slipping the phone into his pocket, it rang. He looked at the caller ID. Tanguay was getting impatient.
Making a face, he decided not to answer.
------------------------
He woke up soaked with sweat. His sleep had been uneasy.
Was it the omelette he’d eaten the previous evening?
Very uncharacteristically, he’d been dreaming.
In fact, the dream had been about Simone Fortin. It was the first time he’d dreamed about one of his victims. In the dream, she was stretched out on a hospital bed. He pushed open the door and entered the room noiselessly. The young woman’s eyes opened just as he was about to plunge the knife into her chest.
His thrust was stopped cold.
Try as he might, he couldn’t move the knife, which remained suspended in the air.
He was a superstitious man, but he made an effort not to interpret the dream as a bad omen.
He ate a breakfast of fresh fruit juice, an orange, and two slices of toast with jam.
Armed with a Thermos full of coffee, he took up his surveillance position near Ariane Bélanger’s house. Through the clouds, the sun was shining over Mount Royal.
------------------------
Lessard opened the door for Fernandez and they stepped into the Shäika Café.
The place was eclectically decorated with eighties-style furniture and kitschy accessories. Fernandez ordered a fresh fruit juice while Lessard opted for a sandwich and a café au lait. He sank into a chair covered in orange vinyl. He had given his fellow cop a summary of his conversation with Véronique Poirier. They had also discussed the clues discovered by Doug Adams.
“Do we have the composite sketch?” he asked.
“Langevin’s still working on it. He says it won’t be ready until the end of the day, at the earliest.”
Lessard sighed. Artists! It was like they lived on another planet.
“As soon as you get the sketch, fax copies to Véronique Poirier and all the stations on the island.”
“Aye-aye, sir!”
He hadn’t realized how peremptory he was being.
“I’m sorry, Nadja. I really appreciate your help.”
The young cop couldn’t help smiling. Lessard was an outwardly grumpy guy with the heart of a Mother Teresa.
“By the way,” he asked, “did you get back in touch with the owner of the BMW?”
“Éric Leclerc? No. I thought you were taking care of it. He won’t be too happy. I asked him not to leave his room until he heard from us.”
“It completely slipped my mind. Do you have his number?”
Fernandez leafed through her notebook. The call was answered on the first ring.
“Is Éric Leclerc there, please?”
“Speaking,” a gruff voice answered.
“This is Victor Lessard of the Montreal Police.”
“You certainly took your time getting back to me.”
Lessard resisted the temptation to tell the guy to go to hell.
“Just a few questions, and you can get on with your day. When did you park your car at the airport?”
“When? The day my flight left!”
“What date was that?”
“March 12th.”
“At what time?”
“Seven in the morning.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“My wife. And another couple. I really don’t see why —”
The detective sergeant was wasting his time. This idiot wasn’t going to give him anything useful.
“Mr. Leclerc,” Lessard said sharply, “we’re investigating a murder. Just answer my questions.”
Leclerc fell silent.
“Was your car locked?”
“Of course.”
“Did anyone have a duplicate key?”
“My wife. Nobody else.”
“Do you have all the keys with you now?”
“Yes, they’re both here.”
“Did you hide a key anywhere on the vehicle?”
There was an embarrassed silence.
Jackass.
“I kept one hidden in a magnetized pouch near the exhaust pipe. But I was the only person who knew —”
“Thieves are familiar with that trick,” Lessard said, cutting him off. “Were there any valuable items in the car?”
“No.”
“Photography equipment?”
“No.”
“A hockey bag?”
Leclerc sighed disdainfully.
“Definitely not.”
“A slip of paper was found in the car with ‘4100 CN’ written on it. Does that hold any significance for you?”
“None that I can think of.”
“Okay. We’re done. Thanks for your time, Mr. Leclerc. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Florida.”
“Hang on a second. What about my car? I’ll send my daughter to pick it up today.”
“The vehicle is still being analyzed as part of an ongoing investigation. You can call our office when you get back.”
“I demand that the car be handed over to my daughter as soon as she arrives. Do you know who you’re dealing with? My brother-inlaw is a deputy minister!”
“I’m very happy for you,” Lessard couldn’t help answering. “But you’re still going to have to wait for your car.”
“I intend to lodge a complaint. Your attitude is unacceptable. I want my car back, and I have friends in high places.”
Lessard’s ears began to ring. He lost his temper.
“I don’t care if you’re on a first-name basis with God. You’ll get your car when we’re done with it!”
He hung up. He lacked the restraint to put up with the man any longer. He was in the midst
of one of the hardest cases of his career, an investigation that might cause problems for some very influential people. He had just learned that his son was a car thief. And this blowhard was threatening him with a complaint?
Fernandez put a hand on his forearm.
“You okay, Victor? Maybe you should get some rest …”
“No, no. The guy was just pissing me off.”
“We’re all under stress. It’s natural.”
“We need to catch a break today, Nadja.”
“I have trouble buying into this whole blackmail-photograph theory.”
“People have killed for less. And who knows, there may be other explosive material in the safe.”
“Maybe so, but in a milieu where appearances matter so much, the killer’s methods seem pretty incongruous.”
Lessard’s phone started dancing on the table.
“Sorry. It’s Pearson. Yeah?”
“You’d better get over here. I have a witness. He says he talked to a man who was searching for a BMW at noon on Friday.”
“Where are you?”
“A pharmacy at the corner of Côte-des-Neiges and Forest Hill.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He turned to Fernandez.
“I’ve got to go. Tell Langevin we need the composite sketch now.”
He was putting on his leather jacket when he remembered that Tanguay had tried to reach him three times that morning. He pulled his phone back out.
You have three messages.
First message.
“Lessard, it’s Tanguay. Call me back. I want a complete rundown in the next hour.”
The detective sergeant took a bite of his sandwich and felt a twinge in his stomach. He’d have to buy a fresh bottle of Pepto-Bismol when he got to the pharmacy.
Second message.
“Don’t play games with me, Lessard, or I’ll have you on traffic duty at the corner of Berri and Sherbrooke.”
Tanguay’s tone was harsh and uncompromising.
Third message.
“Lessard, you … hole, if I don’t hear from … next ten min … I’ll transfer the case … Maj … Crimes Unit.”
Judging from the breakups, Tanguay’s last message had come from his cellphone. Lessard called the commander back on his office line. As he had hoped, the call went to voice mail after five rings.
“Commander Tanguay, it’s Lessard. I just tried your cellphone, but it wasn’t working. I’m out of town at the moment. I think we have a serious lead. My battery’s almost dead, but I’ll call you back as soon as …”
He ended the call. Fernandez looked worried.
“Is it bad?”
“Very. I’m going to see Pearson. He may have a witness. Call Tanguay for me. Tell him I’ve been trying to reach him all morning. And tell him to get his cellphone checked, because it’s not receiving calls.”
“He’s never going to fall for that.”
“I don’t give a shit. I just need you to buy me some time.”
“Where are you if Tanguay asks?”
“Didn’t you hear me just now? I’m out of town, following up on a major lead. I’ll get back to him as soon as I can.”
Fernandez sighed. Lessard gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“I love you, Nadja. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, right.”
As he drove, Lessard thought about the slip of paper Adams had discovered.
4100 CN.
Pearson hadn’t found any error messages bearing that number. Fernandez had gone over all of CN’s train schedules. No luck.
------------------------
Ariane got up early.
The first order of business was making breakfast for Mathilde, who’d been awake since dawn. Then Ariane had to get the child ready for ballet class.
She laid out Mathilde’s leotard and tutu on the couch.
“Get dressed!” she called from the kitchen, where she was making coffee.
Hypnotized by the TV, the little girl didn’t react.
“Am I going to have to give you a time out, sweetie?”
“I’m getting dressed,” Mathilde said, hurriedly pulling on the tights.
Ariane came into the living room, cup in hand.
“Are you drinking coffee, Mom?”
“Yes, sweetie.”
“It tastes bad.”
“How would you know?” Ariane asked, smiling.
“Axelle told me. She tried it.”
“I think you’ll learn to love coffee when you’re a big girl.”
“Yuck! And I’m already a big girl.”
“Good point. Okay, let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
------------------------
Pearson was standing in front of the pharmacy, sipping coffee.
Lessard had to slam the Corolla’s rusty door twice to get it to stay closed. The car squeaked like the box spring on which he’d lost his virginity.
“What have you got?”
“Let’s go inside,” Pearson said.
The place looked more like an overstuffed general store than a pharmacy. The range of available items was startlingly vast.
Lessard made his way down an aisle jammed with cleaning products, a freezer full of prepared meals, and a bin overflowing with brightly coloured balls. He tried without success to spot a prescription counter. Pearson headed toward the cash register, which stood behind a neon-lit Plexiglas display case full of cigars.
Lessard looked over the cigars, which were wrapped in cellophane. They must really have thought their customers were fools. In the old days, he’d been in the habit of stopping off at the Casa del Habano to enjoy an occasional smoke with the manager. He’d sink into one of the leather armchairs and puff on his Cuban cigar while, all around him, businessmen in sharp suits discussed money matters.
On such occasions, the manager would serve him a strong cup of coffee, to which Lessard would add a shot of cognac when the manager’s back was turned. And his back was turned a lot. Lessard would also drink straight from the flask on his (too) frequent trips to the men’s room.
He hadn’t been back for a cigar since starting AA.
The cigar-alcohol association was so deeply rooted in him that the mere act of lighting up would have knocked him off the wagon.
Pearson walked up to an Asian man in a lab coat. This was clearly the pharmacist.
“You talked to an unusual customer yesterday, didn’t you?” Pearson asked him.
“Yes,” the pharmacist said, “quite unusual.”
“Would you please tell my colleague what you told me a few minutes ago?”
“I step outside every so often for a cigarette. I saw a man walk past the pharmacy a few times. He seemed to be searching for something.”
“What made you think that?” Lessard asked.
“I couldn’t say, exactly. It was an impression I got. The guy was weird.”
The detective sergeant tried to get the pharmacist to be more precise, but he remained vague.
“What happened next?”
“I asked if he needed help. He hesitated, then said he thought his car had been stolen.”
“Did he describe the car?”
“He said it was a black BMW, and he’d parked it across the street from the pharmacy.”
Pearson looked pleased with himself.
“And then?”
“He asked if I’d seen a tow truck on the street.”
“And had you noticed anything?”
“Unless I’m on a cigarette break, I’m much too busy to pay attention to what goes on outside.”
Lessard remembered the hypothesis that Fernandez had thrown out earlier, that the killer had parked the BMW with the intention of coming back for it. The pharmacist was now confirming that Fernandez had been right.
“What time did this happen?”
“Between noon and one o’clock. I know because I cover for the cashier during the lunch hour, and she was on her break when it happened.�
��
Lessard frowned.
“Who fills prescriptions if you’re at the register?”
“I do. But over the past few years, more and more of my revenue has come from merchandise sales. The truth is, I spend most of my time restocking shelves. The cashier starts work at ten-thirty every morning, and I have a stock clerk who comes in early on Saturdays.”
“What do you remember about the man?”
“He was wearing a hat and sunglasses.”
“Was he white, black, Asian?”
“White.”
“Did he speak with an accent?”
“No.”
“Tall? Short?”
“On the short side. I’d say he was about five foot seven.”
“Was he wearing a jacket?”
“Yes, black or navy blue. Anyway, it was dark.”
Lessard was scribbling in his notebook. “Did you notice anything else?”
“He was carrying a knapsack.”
“How old was he?”
“Hard to say, because of the hat and glasses. Fifty, maybe.”
The pharmacist’s description was roughly consistent with the one given by Mongeau’s secretary regarding height, ethnicity, and age. Unfortunately, the pharmacist couldn’t confirm the man’s hair or eye colour. Lessard knew from experience that those were the two details that were easiest to alter. Hair could be dyed. Eyes could be changed with contact lenses. Or they could simply be hidden, as in this case, under a hat and sunglasses. The composite sketch would be a useful aid in cross-checking each witness’s description.
Damn Langevin! Why couldn’t he work faster?
“What did he say to you, specifically? Can you remember his exact words?”
“It was something like ‘I think my car’s been stolen.’”
“How was he? Upset? Angry?”
“No, he seemed calm.”
“What happened next?”
“I offered to call the police. He said he already had.”
“That’s all?”
“He said his antidepressants were in the car. He asked if I could replace them. He didn’t have a prescription.”
“Did he mention the name of the medication?”
“Amytal.”
Lessard frowned. “What’s that?”
“It’s a barbiturate used to treat insomnia and anxiety.”
“What did you do?”
“I offered to look him up in the system, but he said he lived in Ontario.”
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