“Why has this happened to us?” I asked. “Are we the only ones?”
“Those are some of the questions I’ve been trying to find answers to. Simone, I don’t know whether you’ve come to any conclusions about all this, but you can rest assured that I understand what you’re going through.”
The waitress placed the bill on the table. Though I objected for form’s sake, Kurt handed her a credit card and she went away.
Now that my curiosity had been satisfied, I could tell from the intensity of his gaze that he was waiting for me to describe my own experience. It took me a little more than fifteen minutes to give him the details of my accident, my visit to the cemetery in Miles’s company, and my encounters with George and Jamal. I wrapped up with an account of how I had regained consciousness in the hospital and set off in an effort to track down Miles.
As I spoke, I saw an expression of surprise on Kurt’s face.
“Did Miles give you some kind of message for Laurent?” he asked.
“No. Did he give you one?”
“I … uhh … yes,” he said at last.
“Would you care to explain?”
Waldorf jumped to his feet. “Not now. Come on.”
------------------------
Laurent didn’t know what to think.
Waldorf had stayed with him through the night. The young man had come to find his presence reassuring, especially in the worst phase of withdrawal, when the longing for alcohol had been unbearable. The guy hadn’t said much, but there had been great empathy in his gaze.
Maybe Laurent had been wrong about him. Then a phone call had come in the middle of the night. Waldorf had stepped away to take it, so Laurent hadn’t heard the conversation.
When Waldorf had returned to the bedroom, he had freed Laurent from his restraints and helped him walk to the kitchen.
What he had done next was mystifying.
Waldorf had declared that he’d be gone for a few hours, and when he returned, he’d be able to offer corroboration for his claims.
“I’ll give you tangible evidence that I’m telling the truth,” he had said.
Then Waldorf had given him a choice. He could handcuff him to a chair or set him free to move around as he wished. After a few seconds’ hesitation, Laurent had asked for the handcuffs.
He was lucid enough to know he couldn’t trust himself.
------------------------
Waldorf was driving skillfully along a foggy road. The temperature was hovering near the freezing point, and wet snow was falling, making the road slippery.
“What was the message you were supposed to give Laurent?” I asked.
Waldorf paused, as though unsure whether he should answer.
“I don’t know why, but it seems like Miles didn’t want to use you as a messenger. Maybe he changed his mind.”
“Could you be a little more vague?” I asked sarcastically.
“Look, I’m honestly not sure how much I should be telling you.”
“About what?”
He took his eyes off the road for an instant.
“Miles didn’t discuss his condition with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“His feelings about being in a coma.”
“Of course not.”
Waldorf shook his head.
“I had assumed that he’d talk to others the way he talked to Gustave and me. I must admit, I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“That makes two of us. I have no idea what you’re getting at. What’s so important or so awful that you’re not sure whether you can talk to me about it?”
“I don’t want to hide anything from you. But I’m realizing that Miles may have had something special in mind for you.”
26
Lessard bought himself a cup of coffee and found an armchair in a quiet corner. He enjoyed the tranquil charm of the Westmount Municipal Library, where he sometimes came to clear his mind when he was in the midst of an investigation. This time, though, his primary objective was to avoid running into Tanguay at the station.
His brain was teeming. He needed to get his thoughts in order. The details of the case were so numerous and disjointed that he was having trouble keeping track of them.
What had he learned since this morning?
First, there was Adams’s examination of the BMW, which had yielded some interesting leads. Then there was the information supplied by Véronique Poirier and the pharmacist. What conclusions could Lessard draw from this motley assortment of facts?
He allowed his mind to stray, trying to fit the puzzle pieces into a coherent whole. But he had a nagging sense that he was neglecting significant details. There were moments when he felt like he was getting close to something important, only to have the insight slip out of his grasp.
He made a mental effort to get back on solid ground, focusing on the facts. He opened his notebook and began to write.
Friday, 10:30 a.m.: A BMW carrying the first victim’s body probably runs over Simone Fortin.
Noon: Martin steals the BMW. Shortly afterward, the killer asks the pharmacist about the missing car and tries to get barbiturates without a prescription.
3:30 p.m.: Jacques Mongeau is killed.
Question: What was the killer doing between 10:30 and Mongeau’s murder?
Lessard reread his notes. He scratched out the word probably and replaced it with possibly.
His instincts were telling him that the barbiturates didn’t fit with the rest of the pattern, but he couldn’t figure out why.
He got up and walked to the computer terminal that the library made available to users. After several unsuccessful attempts, he managed to get an internet connection. He typed Amytal into the Google search bar and skimmed through the various pages that came up. They largely confirmed what the pharmacist had told him. Lessard also read a technical summary of the barbiturate’s effects. At low doses, Amytal reduced the tension caused by anxiety or insomnia. Higher doses could cause visual problems, slurred speech, impaired perception of time and distance, and a slowing of reflexes and respiration.
An overdose could lead to coma and death.
He paused to consider this.
The pharmacist had said that the killer seemed calm. Was he using the drug to control his anxiety or insomnia?
Lessard printed the page and stuffed it in his leather jacket pocket. Then he sent a message to Berger. Had he found traces of Amytal or other barbiturates in his autopsies of the two victims?
Returning to his armchair, the detective sergeant opened his notebook and drew up a list of unanswered questions.
Q1: Who was the first victim?
Q2: Why did the killer modify his modus operandi (severed finger, CD)?
Q3: Did Mongeau hide his photographs in a safe protected by biometrics?
Q4: Who might have wanted to kill him?
Q5: What was the significance of the number printed on the disc? And 4100 CN?
Lessard couldn’t help thinking about the commander, who was doing everything he could to keep Lessard from investigating the kinky photographs.
Was Tanguay protecting someone?
As he reread everything he’d just written down, an idea struck him. Adams had said that the photography equipment found in the BMW was professional grade. Had the pictures in Mongeau’s computer been taken with that camera?
The question was a good one. He sent a message to Adams.
The signs of impact on the car body, along with Hilaire Gagnon’s confirmation, seemed to suggest that Simone Fortin had been struck by the BMW, which was carrying a corpse at the time. Was it a simple accident, or had she been targeted? If she’d been targeted, was there any link between her and Mongeau’s erotic soirées?
Lessard slammed a fist onto the armrest of his chair. He was getting nowhere. And he still hadn’t found a motive. He needed an opening. The detective sergeant looked out the window. A smiling mother was leading three small children along the sidewalk. The father was foll
owing behind, pushing a stroller. They seemed happy. He missed his family. What were his wife and kids doing while he was here, struggling to unravel the twisted actions of a killer? Was it too late? Could he still hope to have a positive influence on the lives of Martin and Charlotte?
After this investigation was over, he’d have to do some thinking. He needed to decide whether he wanted to stay on in this stress-filled job.
He descended to the ground floor and tried to buy a fresh cup of coffee from the vending machine, which swallowed his coins but failed to supply the desired nectar. Frustrated, Lessard kicked the machine violently. An elderly lady gave him a frightened look as she went by. He needed to get a grip on himself. As a police officer, he was supposed to be helping people feel safe, not scaring them.
He thought about calling his mentor, Ted Rutherford. But Rutherford hadn’t been the same man since his devastating stroke five years ago. Whenever Lessard visited him these days, he came away badly shaken.
Ted, what would you do in a case like this?
The truth was, he knew very well what Ted would do. Using the available facts, he’d try to work out a plausible hypothesis. He would then confirm or rule out his theory as the investigation progressed.
Lessard pondered. What was the most logical hypothesis at this point? Someone had murdered Mongeau because he was in possession of compromising photographs. Maybe Mongeau had blackmailed this person, or applied pressure to extract benefits.
A nebulous image began to take shape in Lessard’s mind.
In a way, this person is running his own investigation. He must have considerable resources at his disposal. He sends a fake reporter to obtain information from Véronique Poirier. Mongeau gets wind of it, but the person still learns about the existence of the safe.
Where did the first victim fit into this theory?
Was he an associate of Mongeau’s who had to be eliminated?
In any case, a hitman is hired. He kills the first victim, then Mongeau. He cuts off his index finger to get into the safe.
Did it all make sense?
Suddenly, Lessard had an idea.
He left Sirois a phone message asking him to look and see whether the first victim appeared in any of the photographs found in Mongeau’s computer. As he ended the call, he saw that Fernandez had tried to reach him. He returned her call, but got her voice mail. He checked his messages and saw that she had just left one. Tanguay was on the warpath. And she still hadn’t heard back from Simone Fortin.
Through the window, the detective sergeant saw snowflakes falling from a colourless sky. He loved the first flakes of November, all white and innocent, giving you faith in a better tomorrow. But he hated the flakes that fell in April, desecrating the springtime before it had even shown its face.
Goddamn winter …
Lessard was neglecting important elements. He was sure of it. He thought back to his conversation with Fernandez at Shäika Café. She had said something that now seemed enormously significant. But what?
He tried to reach her, but his call went to voice mail once again. He didn’t leave a message. As he pocketed the phone, he knocked over the cup containing the cold remains of his coffee.
Emitting a stream of profanities, he wiped up the mess with sheets torn from his notebook. His memory was on overload. He yawned.
He woke up and looked at his watch. He had slept eleven minutes. He shook himself to get rid of the lingering cobwebs. There was a sharp pain in his back.
He decided to go back to the beginning, but this time from the killer’s point of view. He needed to establish a chronological order for the murderer’s actions. He grabbed his notebook.
Thursday: The killer steals the BMW at the airport and murders his first victim.
Friday, 10:30 a.m.: The killer runs over Simone Fortin. The first victim is in the trunk. The killer parks the car two blocks away.
Friday, noon: Martin steals the BMW.
Friday, between 12:00 and 1:00 p.m.: The killer stops outside the pharmacy. He asks the pharmacist about the missing BMW. He tries to get barbiturates without a prescription.
3:30 p.m.: Jacques Mongeau is killed.
As Lessard mulled over these facts, he kept coming back to the same two questions.
Why does the killer park the car in the first place?
What is he up to between 10:30 a.m. and 12:00 noon?
He tried to come up with a credible hypothesis.
Maybe Pearson was right: the killer was supposed to meet someone. Or maybe he was supposed to deliver the car to an accomplice, who would then get rid of the body. But if that were the case, the rendezvous would have been planned ahead of time. The accomplice would have been waiting, and stealing the car would have been practically impossible.
It didn’t make sense. Something didn’t fit. Furiously, Lessard scratched out what he’d just written. The killer had taken the risk of parking the BMW two blocks from the scene of the accident, leaving the car and its contents unattended. There was no way he could have expected the vehicle to get stolen, but he had to know that someone who had witnessed the hit and run might recognize the BMW and call the police. Even so, he had walked away. With a corpse in the trunk, that surely wasn’t a risk he’d taken lightly. Unless he was totally oblivious, he had to have a serious reason for doing what he did. The bags of ice were further proof that he wanted to preserve the body as long as possible.
Another hypothesis suddenly occurred to him.
Could the killer have returned to the scene to finish off Simone Fortin? He leaned back in his chair and pondered for several seconds. He wasn’t convinced.
Was the idea too simple or too absurd?
He tried to replay the scene in his head. The killer waited until Simone Fortin came out of her office building, then gunned the engine and ran her over. Afterward, he walked back to the scene to be sure she was dead. He saw that she wasn’t, but the crowd of onlookers prevented him from finishing the job.
Lessard frowned. Conceivable, yes. But was it likely?
He rubbed his neck. His thinking was clearer now. This theory had the advantage of providing a logical explanation for the killer’s actions. On the other hand, it raised new questions, and it had weaknesses of its own.
For instance, the killer had stabbed two of his victims to death, yet he had tried to kill Simone Fortin by running her over.
Why? What was his motive for killing her? Had she participated in Mongeau’s soirées? Did someone want to silence her, too?
Lessard stood up and put on his leather jacket. Was he on the right track? Should he have the investigation team follow up and see where this led?
As he walked to his car, he shivered.
What kind of dehumanized world were we living in? For most people, violence was simply part of everyday life. Two men stabbed, a woman run over — it was the kind of thing we all saw every day on the news, in the papers, and at the movies. How could anyone be upset by such things when genocide, war, and bombings were routinely included in the continuous flow of barbarism coming from our TV screens?
Atrocity leaves us desensitized.
Even so, Victor Lessard shivered.
Not from cold, but from disquiet. He shivered because, in his efforts to navigate this ocean of violence, he couldn’t remain indifferent to the fates of the two murdered men.
As he got behind the wheel of his Corolla, he realized that he was crying. He was crying for those two dead strangers.
He was crying for everyone who stops caring.
He was crying for everyone who turns off the nightly news, gets into bed, and forgets.
He wished he could forget, too.
27
Lessard drove west on Côte-Saint-Antoine, turned right on Marcil, and rolled through Monkland Village, the trendiest neigbourhood in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce. Spotting a gas station, he pulled in to fill his tank.
After some small talk with the attendant, he took a few steps to stretch his legs. The gas station was clo
se to an Italian restaurant where Lessard regularly bought fresh pasta and homemade sauce. He waved to the owner, who was cleaning the four digits of his address plaque with a sponge and a bucket of water.
As he watched the man, an idea came to him.
4100 CN.
Was it too simple to think it was a street address?
4100 Côte-des-Neiges.
He sped away from the gas station and went straight back to the office. If he wasn’t mistaken, that address was very near the spot where the young woman had been struck. Where had she said she worked? An advertising agency.
He patted his pockets, found his notebook, and leafed through it. Damn! He knew he had scribbled it down somewhere. He promised himself to write more legibly from now on.
He was about to give up when he found what he was looking for.
Simone Fortin (33)
Dinar Communications
Lessard typed dinarcommunications.com into his search engine. The website opened with an animated sequence, but he skipped the introduction and went straight to the home page. After searching for a few seconds, he saw Contact Us and clicked on the tab. A new page appeared.
Dinar Communications
4100 Côte-des-Neiges Road, Montreal, QC
This isn’t just a coincidence.
A slip of paper with Simone Fortin’s office address on it had been found in the BMW. Lessard’s intuition was telling him the situation was urgent. He had to assemble the team immediately. The killer had returned to finish off his victim.
But what if he was wrong? What if he was steering the investigation up a blind alley?
He dialed Fernandez’s number.
Simone Fortin was in danger. He could feel it.
Lessard started off the meeting by summarizing the situation for his fellow investigators. Then he outlined his hypothesis. It was simple. Simone Fortin had been the victim of a murder attempt that linked her to the two dead men.
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