by A. M. Potter
Of course we do. And more. “Ms. Bayeux, what’s your profession?”
“Artist and art agent.”
“Current profession, Ms. Bayeux.”
“Artist and art agent.”
“You reported zero income the last three years from art or art sales.”
She shrugged.
“How do you make a living?”
“I have property.”
“Where?”
“Russia. And payments from my ex-husband.”
“We’ll be verifying that.” Naslund eyed her. “Why didn’t you reassume your maiden name after you got divorced?”
“I like Bayeux.”
Naslund pulled her chair closer to the table. “Are you aware that Mr. Tyler was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you go to his funeral?”
“I wouldn’t have been welcome.”
“Why not?”
“His current woman is a harpy.” Bayeux spat the word out. “No, beyond a harpy. She’s a gold digger.”
Tit for tat, Naslund thought. One’s a gold digger; the other’s a slut. “Did you visit the Bruce Peninsula this past summer?”
“No.”
“No trip to Mallory Beach?”
“No. I wasn’t in the Bruce, as I said. In fact, I didn’t leave Toronto this summer.”
“Can someone verify that?”
Bayeux nodded. “My partner.”
“What kind? Business or romantic?”
“Romantic.”
“Name?”
“Max Carling.”
“Address and phone number?”
Naslund wrote them on a pad. “So, Ms. Bayeux, you weren’t in the Bruce recently. Nonetheless, we have a Bruce Peninsula map with your handwriting on it. Why would that be?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I used to go up there a lot.”
“Used to?”
“Yes. Until about five years ago.”
“Why did you stop?”
“The Harpy.”
“Her name?”
“MacLean. MacDirty, more like it.”
More bad-mouthing, Naslund reflected. Was there malicious jealousy at play? Possible murderous jealousy? “Have you seen Mr. Tyler in the last five years?”
Bayeux shook her head.
“You never met for a drink or a meal?”
“Never.”
“For a coffee?”
“Never.”
“Did you have any contact with Mr. Tyler? Phone? Email?”
Bayeux nodded. “I sent him a birthday card every year.”
“How?”
“By post.”
Naslund drew out a copy of the map. “Is this your handwriting?”
She glanced at the writing. “Yes. Where did you get that?” She reached for the map.
Naslund withdrew it.
“That’s a copy,” Bayeux said. “Where’s the original?”
“We’ll get to that later.”
“Where is it?”
“I assure you, the original is safe. It hasn’t been harmed.”
Bayeux seemed mollified.
“What does Four-One-Four MB mean?” Naslund asked.
“It refers to Four-One-Four Mallory Beach Road. Thom’s address.”
“And the X?”
“It marks the address.”
“The JY8 five-thirty?”
“Johan’s Year Eight. He--he’s my son.”
“The five-thirty?”
“His birthday. The thirtieth day of the fifth month. By the way, that’s his map. Where did you get the original?”
“From a friend.”
“Where? What friend?”
“Steady now, Ms. Bayeux. When did you write that information on the map?”
“Years ago. Johan was eight.”
“How old is he now?”
“Twenty-one.”
“What’s his birth date?”
“May thirtieth, 1996.”
No delay, Naslund saw. “Why did he have a Bruce Peninsula map?”
Bayeux hesitated, as if considering her whole future, and that of her son. “He used to go up there.”
“When?”
Bayeux stared at her hands. Naslund suspected she was deciding how much to tell her. Finally she looked up. “When I did. I wanted him to meet Thom.” She hesitated again. “To know Thom.”
Bingo, Naslund thought. To know Thom. There was more to Bayeux’s words than knowing Thom. Something about her eyes--defiant, yet wounded--reminded Naslund of Jenny Murphy. Had Elina Bayeux been pregnant--pregnant by Thom Tyler? Naslund sensed a common thread. Elina Bayeux, Jenny Murphy, Carrie MacLean. More than a thread, a workable connection. “Was Thom Tyler his father?”
Bayeux wavered then nodded. “How did you know?”
“A guess, Ms. Bayeux.” Naslund’s head started roaring. The case was cracking open. She ordered herself to calm down. “Did Johan know that?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your son’s full name?”
“Johan Ivanovich Bayeux.”
“Where is he?”
“Laval. I haven’t seen him for three years. He’s been living near my ex since he was eighteen.”
“What’s your ex’s full name?”
“Jean Claude Bayeux.”
“Those three public disturbances at Fourteen Iris Road, were they Johan’s?”
Bayeux hesitated. “Yes.” She bowed her head and stared at her hands again. Eventually she looked up. “He was a handful as a boy. Alternately depressed then fuming with rage. Always in trouble at school. He went off the rails when he was fourteen.”
“The charges are on your sheet, not your son’s. Were you trying to protect him?”
“Yes.” Her eyes misted over. “I tried, Sergeant. I tried. I really did.”
Naslund stood, turned toward the door, and then stopped. “Where were you on Monday July eighth?”
“Toronto. I told you, I was in Toronto all summer.”
Naslund said nothing. She left the POI and walked directly to the shadow room, wondering if Elina Bayeux had told her the whole truth.
Inspector Moore looked antsy. “I set the wheels in motion on Johan Bayeux,” he said. “The Surete du Quebec is on the case, as well as the Laval police. His mother may have set him up to murder Tyler. Then MacKenzie and MacLean.”
“Exactly.”
“I got prelims on him. He works as a bartender at a nightclub near the Port de Montreal. He’s got a hefty sheet for a twenty-one-year-old: two counts of cocaine possession, one of assault, one of aggravated assault.”
Naslund nodded.
“I asked Shiffman to check out the Max Carling alibi.” Moore rolled on. “We should go after the son ASAP.”
“Right.”
“I booked us a twenty-three-hundred flight to Montreal. Billy Bishop to Pierre Trudeau. First, I want to question the mother.” He glanced at his watch. “We have two hours, enough time. Normally, I’d let her hang for a bit, but not this time. Are you okay with that?”
“Absolutely.”
He smiled. “How did you know Tyler was the father?”
“Intuition,” she said, “and luck.”
He shook his head. “Women’s intuition.” He grinned. “We need more of it.”
***
Sitting in the shadow room, Naslund watched Bayeux stand and shake Moore’s hand. “Detective Inspector Moore, OPP. Homicide,” he added. “Have a seat, Miss Bayeux.”
“Ms.”
“A seat, Miss Bayeux. I’m going to ask you a few more questions.”
She shrugged then sat. In the space of a few minutes, she looked dejected.
Moore remained standing. “You said you met Thom Tyler twenty-three years ago. Where?”
“Toronto.”
“Elaborate, Miss Bayeux. Exactly where.”
Bayeux rolled her eyes.
Moore stared at her. Sh
e stared back.
Naslund glanced at her watch.
Eventually Bayeux looked down. From the slump of her shoulders, it appeared she couldn’t be bothered to resist Moore anymore. “At an art gallery opening,” she said, “at Calhoun’s, to be exact, on Queen West. It’s gone now.”
“Miss Bayeux, where were you on the night of July seventh from nine p.m. onward?”
“As I told the other officer, I was at home. That’s Twelve Iris Road, Etobicoke. Max Carling can confirm that. He was there.”
Moore sat. “How did you contact your son in July?”
“I didn’t.”
“Throwaway cellphone? Letter? Private courier?”
“I didn’t contact him.”
“Where were you yesterday, September thirtieth?”
“Home, in Toronto.”
“All day?”
“Yes, other than a walk I took with Max.”
“Can someone prove that, other than Max?”
“Yes, his mother. She was with us all day. Her friend as well, Eleanor Crawley.”
Moore shuffled through a pile of papers and pulled out a copy of the Bruce map. “Is this your handwriting?”
“You know it is.”
“Why is it on this map?”
“I wrote that thirteen years ago, as I already said. The map was for Johan. A memory of his father. Biological father, that is. Thom Tyler abandoned him at birth. Thirteen years ago, the two of them went for a hike on the Bruce Trail. A short one. Very short.” Bayeux shook her head in disgust. “Thom Tyler. The famous Thom Tyler.”
Naslund evaluated Bayeux’s eyes. I gave Thom everything, they seemed to say, everything, and he gave nothing back.
Bayeux shook her head again. “Johan was cheated, short-changed, abandoned--call it what you want. His real father may be a prick but at least he was there for Johan.”
“Is that why your son killed Thom Tyler?” Moore asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Johan killed Mr. Tyler because he was abandoned.”
“Johan didn’t know he was abandoned.”
“We think he did. He knew he was adopted.”
“Pardon?”
“Johan knew he was adopted. Jean Bayeux told him.”
“You’re lying!”
Exactly, Naslund thought.
“No, Miss Bayeux. I’m not.”
“You’re lying.”
Moore quietly shook his head. “We just spoke to your ex,” he softly said.
Bayeux seemed to believe him. “I told Jean to bury that. Forever! Fool! The boy has a mean streak, a vengeful mean streak.”
“Vengeful enough to kill?”
Bayeux didn’t reply.
“Miss Bayeux, I’m going to leave you with Detectives Shiffman and Tilley. You’ll remain at the station until we find your son. You’ll be kept isolated. No visitors, no cellphone, no electronics. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Her eyes welled with tears.
Chapter 34
Laval, Quebec. October 2nd:
Naslund and Moore exited the Arrivals Hall of Pierre Elliott Trudeau airport at 0030. In a matter of seconds, a tall young man in a black leather jacket strode up to them. Introductions over and IDs verified, the young Surete detective hustled next to Naslund.
“Aucun bagage?” he asked.
She shook her head. He was a good-looking guy.
“Rien?”
“Rien. Nothing, thank you.”
Moore stepped up and started rattling off questions in rapid-fire French. To Naslund’s ear, he sounded like a real Quebecer, not a Parisian. Quelle surprise.
As Detective “Leather” answered Moore, his eyes strayed to Naslund, checking her out on the way to his car. With a flourish, he opened the front passenger door for her. She ducked in the back, looking him in the eye and pointing to her ring finger. She’d worked in Quebec before. If you didn’t want to play, it was best to let the boys know right away. On the plane, she’d pulled on her old wedding band. It had its uses.
Leaving the airport, Leather angled his rear mirror to put her in view. She shook her head. He winked. The ring didn’t seem to deter him. She slid to the far right so that he couldn’t see her. On the way to the Laval Police HQ, she opened her window. The breeze was sharp and clean. She felt invigorated.
Leather dropped them at Laval HQ in short order, winking again at Naslund as he drove off. I’ll try you later, his grin said.
In the HQ foyer, she and Moore were greeted by two Laval homicide detectives, who, thankfully, paid little attention to her. They immediately began debriefing Moore in Quebecois. Naslund picked up the gist of the conversation. Johan Bayeux was in a holding cell on a phony charge, suspected possession of cocaine for trafficking. He hadn’t been in the local drug game for months. Apparently, he’d gone straight. The detectives figured he was preparing to move on to something bigger, maybe something international. Naslund agreed. She’d seen it before. The underworld career ladder beckoned. Bayeux had come in willingly, seemingly without a care. However, they’d cuffed his hands behind his back. He’d snapped once in the past. Playing it safe, the older detective said in Joual.
Moore turned to her. “Why don’t you start Bayeux? He speaks English. I’ll sit in the backroom.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll likely jump in.”
She nodded.
“You know, good cop, bad cop. Got any suggestions for me?”
She smiled quizzically.
“Seriously,” he said.
“Can’t think of any.”
He shrugged. “Next time. See, I can ask for directions.”
“Heard and noted.”
***
The interview room looked like any other Naslund had used. Same worn paint, same metal table, same glaring lights. She tested the Slider. It went the other way, tilting POIs backward. Not bad, she thought. Although it didn’t force POIs into the hands of a questioner, it would force them to sit up straight more often. Less hiding of facial tells. Always a bonus.
As she arranged a sham accordion file on the table--stuffed with bogus reports--two big Laval officers led Johan Bayeux in, sat him in the Slider, and arranged his cuffs behind the chair-back. The POI looked unruffled. He was far bigger than the officers, close to two meters tall, muscular, with a cleanly-shaven face, and thick wavy black hair. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt and sleek black track pants. His biceps were huge. Definitely strong enough to attack Tyler and MacKenzie, she saw, not to mention MacLean. And tall enough to hammer MacKenzie on the top of the head. Incongruously, his face said bon vivant, not raging muscleman.
“Good morning, Mr. Bayeux,” she began. “I’m Detective Sergeant Naslund, OPP.”
“Morning, Detective,” he replied pleasantly.
With his size, hair, and urbane demeanor, he reminded her of Mario Lemieux, one of her favorite hockey players. “You were brought in on a suspected drug offense, but it seems there was a mistake.”
“Ah. I thought so. Well,” he said forgivingly, “mistakes happen.”
“So, I expect you’re wondering why you’re still here.”
He grinned. “Exactly.”
“As I mentioned, I’m an OPP officer. That means I’m from Ontario. But I’m sure you know that.”
“I do. It’s my home province,” he said with apparent fondness.
Bayeux might be young, Naslund thought, but he knew how to dissemble. Well-spoken. No hint of a temper. Not what she expected, given the shackles and his sheet. Regardless, they had some seemingly damning intel on him. Back at Div 22, Moore had contacted Central to request a rush three-month Ontario trace of Bayeux’s license number. The results had come in as they’d landed in Montreal. Bayeux’s plate was photographed three times on Highway 401, the main corridor between Ontario and Quebec, on July seventh and fifteenth, and then on September thirtieth. The plate was also photographed on July eighth at 0724 on Highway 6, just south of Wiarton. Moore had already requested a soil an
alysis of the car. July seventh, eighth, fourteenth, and fifteenth were the windows for the Tyler and MacKenzie murders; September thirtieth, for the MacLean murder. The Laval detectives had determined that Bayeux was off work on all five days. Even if he could prove he hadn’t been in his car, he had some questions to answer.
Naslund smiled disarmingly. “I hope you can help us. We have evidence that a Quebec car registered to your name was in Ontario on four different days recently. Specifically, July seventh and eighth as well as July fifteenth. And then September thirtieth.”
A barely perceptible cloud passed over Bayeux’s face.
“Were you in your car in Ontario on those days?” She gave him another friendly smile. “Take your time. Think about it.”
He held her gaze. However, she couldn’t help seeing his shoulders rolling. Intimidating shoulders. “Yes,” he agreeably said, “I was there the first week in July. I’m sorry, I don’t remember the exact dates. Possibly the seventh and eighth. Then a week later. I don’t remember exactly.”
“What about two days ago, September thirtieth?”
“No.” He rolled his shoulders again. “I had the flu. I was stuck at home.”
A lie, Naslund thought. If she knew Moore, he was already asking for local help to check that alibi. “Did you enjoy your Ontario trips?” she asked.
“Very much.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was on holiday.”
“That’s a lot of coming and going, Mr. Bayeux. Anything to do with drugs?”
“Oh, no. Nothing.”
Likely correct, given that he was currently out of the game. But she was after something else. “You’re sure?” she asked.
“Yes, Sergeant. Absolutely.”
“Good.” Enough of the fake drug line. She now had a read on Bayeux. Moore probably had one too. Whenever Bayeux told the truth, the corners of his lips curled up a fraction of an inch. It’d now be easier to catch him at a lie. “Did you happen to visit the Bruce Peninsula in July?”
“No.”
Another lie, she suspected. His car had been there. However, someone else could have been driving it. “Are you sure?”
“Why are you asking?”