“He was not paying attention,” she said, “which I found later was him in a nutshell, and someone opened a car door and knocked him over. He wasn’t hurt too badly, mostly scrapes and bruises, but I was walking past, also on my way home, and I stopped to check on him, make sure he was okay. He said he was in a lot of pain and could I help him around the corner to his flat. Later on, he admitted he was faking it a bit because he wanted to get my phone number and ask me out.”
“And you said yes.”
“Of course not. I told him nurses cannot go out with patients. He said he was not my patient. He told me his name and asked me mine. Again, I said no. What did I know about this man? So then he said this was all frustrating to him because he had actually paid a friend to open the car door at that exact moment so he could get knocked down and meet me, which made me laugh so hard. Which I needed very bad at the time, because I had split up with my guy of a long time, and finally I was charmed enough, or flattered, and I gave him my number.”
“How long until you got married?”
“Two years. I was already pregnant with Sophie. I had not planned on getting married ever—most Québécois don’t bother with that anymore. But he said he was old-fashioned and wanted a wedding—plus we would get nice gifts from his family and their friends. So we went ahead. Had the big wedding, my God, almost two hundred persons. For all the good it did.”
“What happened?”
She didn’t answer right away. Kept an eye on her daughter as she came laughing down one of the chutes—a small girl with light brown hair held back with a bright yellow clip—picking herself up and running back to the ladder that would take her up again.
“When you first meet someone who is different from you, different from all the guys you have been with, you think how fresh it is. Here is someone who is not full of anger, resentments, who isn’t wasting his life being a student forever, or plotting the next revolution on Rue St-Denis. Here is someone who is funny and real and free of all the history we carry in Québec.”
“But …”
“At the same time, he was a little too different. Sam didn’t have family here or many friends when we met. They were all back in Toronto. So he was absorbed into my circles and didn’t always fit. My parents, my sister, my brothers, most of my friends, they support sovereignty. They voted yes in both referendums. They want Québec to be its own country. It is already its own nation, the distinct society, I think it’s called in English. Sam was sympathetic to that, as much as any English-Canadian could be, but in the end he could not support it. His attitude was—Christ, c’est quoi le mot en anglais? Condescending? Patronizing?”
“Either one.”
“Okay. In his view, Québec should stay in Canada because of what separation would do to the rest of the country. He didn’t see what it would do for us, make us maîtres chez nous—masters of our own fate, you would say. So there were arguments. Not between me and him, I am not so political. But between him and everyone else. And it wasn’t really his fault. He would ask honest questions and expect to get honest answers but instead he got emotion. Grievances. Two hundred years’ worth. As if he were the occupying power and we were still so downtrodden.”
“Did anyone ever get really angry?”
“To kill him over, you mean? Christ, no. Arguing about federalism, sovereignty, is a bit like hockey here. People are passionate about it, but no one would murder him for his opinion. Besides, we were separated more than a year before he died.”
“Is that what ended your marriage? Political differences?”
Camille smiled. “No, of course not. That’s just where the cracks first showed. What it really came down to? Sam was an observer of life. And a good one. He could be at the most fantastic party in the world, the greatest concert, the biggest gathering—like a Woodstock—and he’d be off to the side making notes, taking down the details, planning how he would write it in his magazine. Me, I’m a doer. I go right to the centre of things. Like I did the day I met him. I saw someone fall, I went over to help. That’s me. If I’m at a party, I’m dancing. At a concert, I’m singing along. Painting my face blue and white for the Fête Nationale, lighting a lighter, hugging strangers. I am nowhere else but where I am. Sam was always somewhere else. Always in his head. His perfect night would be to eat dinner at home and watch a movie, or hockey. Even before we had Sophie. After she was born, to get him out for something besides work, forget it. To be honest, I got very bored in our marriage. I started going out with my sister, sometimes dancing, sometimes to a show. I have to experience life by doing, not watching.”
She looked at her watch, then her eyes trailed Sophie as she moved around the playground.
“The first summer we were together,” she said, “I took him camping in the Gaspésie. Me, I love camping. I went every summer with my family because we had no money to stay in hotels or resorts. I took him to a park where I’d been a dozen times, and I couldn’t wait to show him everything. The river where my dad taught me fishing, the trails you could walk and see the tracks of wolves. And all he did was complain. Too many bugs. Too much he’s allergic to. Too much work cooking and cleaning. No electricity for his computer. Too hard to understand the local accent. We were supposed to stay a week but he was so miserable, I broke down after three days and we drove to Quebec City and stayed in a bed and breakfast. I should have seen then how different we were, but his complaining was funny in a way. Like his big hero, Woody Allen. He wrote a great column about it. One of his best, I think. But life isn’t a column. Or the movies. After two hours, you’re still there and the complaining isn’t funny anymore. Sophie!” she called. “Fais attention!”
The girl had come down the slide and landed on the feet of a boy her age who was still picking himself up out of the dirt. She looked at her mother, took me in and called out, “C’est qui, lui?”
“Un ami de Maman, Sophie. Ça va.”
That satisfied her and off she went to continue the ups and downs of her four-year-old life.
“How is she doing?” I asked.
Camille shrugged. “She’s four. She doesn’t quite understand what has happened. She knows her father is gone but … whether she understands he is not coming back, who knows? She asked last week if she could still sleep at his apartment and she cried when I said no. But I don’t know honestly what she was crying about. The change in the routine, or the things of hers I haven’t yet collected from there.”
“What about you?”
“It’s a loss for me too. I’m not grieving as if he was still my husband but we had good years together. We parted as friends, I think. I will have to raise Sophie alone and when she is old enough to know how he died, that will be hard, I think.”
“At least she’ll know why he died, and who killed him.”
“It’s you who will find this out?”
“It’s me.”
It had to be. You don’t take someone like Sammy out of the world, take him away from a four-year-old girl, rob his city of a unique voice, without having to answer for it. And if Paquette were making progress, he was keeping it well hidden.
“Do you know if he was seeing anyone?” I asked.
She cocked her head slightly and smiled for the first time. “Sam?”
“Why did you say it like that?”
“He wasn’t exactly a, um, un homme à femmes?”
“A ladies’ man.”
“Yes.”
“But he got you.”
The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Yes, he did. He did. So I suppose it’s possible. But he said nothing to me about that. We always told each other that if we met someone serious—if someone was going to be part of Sophie’s life—then we would talk about it. And we didn’t, so that is as much as I know.”
“Did he ever talk about enemies?” I asked. “People threatening him?”
“Not to me, never.”
“Money problems?”
“Everyone in Montreal has money proble
ms. Or at least everyone I know. But his grandfather has so much and he won’t live to spend it. I’m sure if Sam had troubles that way, Arthur would have helped.”
“Did he ever talk about adoption issues?”
She frowned. “No. Why would he?”
“He recently contacted a woman who works on adoption reunification. I was supposed to meet her today but she didn’t show up.”
“It must have been for his work, then. He never talked about anything like that when we were married.”
“Did he usually tell you what he was working on?”
“When we were together, sure. All the time.”
“Nothing lately?”
Camille looked away and up to the right as if searching her memory: “There was something about an Arab family. I know that because he asked me to keep Sophie one Saturday night when she was supposed to be with him. He had to go out to Ville St-Laurent.”
“To a carpet store?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Was it near where he was killed?”
“All he said was Ville St-Laurent.”
“Anything about Laurent or Lucienne Lortie?”
“The ones running for election?”
“Yes.”
“He was writing about them?”
“Apparently.”
She laughed. “Mon Dieu, that would be funny. They are so, so out there on the right. He would have made hamburger of them.”
“His editor told me he was usually fair to his subjects.”
“Yes, but the Lorties—Sam was very liberal, very left on most things. Christ, I would love to see what he would have written about them.”
A raindrop hit the bridge of my nose. One must have hit Camille as well because she looked up and took one in the centre of her forehead.
“Merde,” she said. “I think I’m going to have to go.”
“Can I give you a lift?”
She thought about it as more raindrops started to fall, spattering against the dirt of the playground, leaving dark pock-marks. “You know, that would be good, because there is something I have of Sam’s at my place. A box of things I took from the flat by mistake when I moved out. I was meaning to give it back to him.”
“Do you know what’s in it?”
“Memorabilia Arthur wanted him to have. Old photographs, mostly. Images of Montreal the way it was in Arthur’s day. When the English ruled and all was well and the east end was the place you escaped from.”
CHAPTER 10
I stopped at the Holiday Inn to see if Detective Paquette had sent Sam’s phone records and bank statements as promised. The concierge said no, nothing had arrived. I was wondering if it was going to take another twenty to jog his memory when someone behind me said, “Mr. Geller?”
I turned to see Paquette, holding a thick manila envelope, which he handed to me. “The material you asked for. Hand delivered, no less.” He didn’t look as fresh as he had earlier that morning. His tie was loosened, the collar unbuttoned. His eyes were bloodshot. Only his hair had escaped the rigours of another day in Homicide, still neatly parted with nothing amiss.
I said, “Thanks. You have a minute to talk?”
He made a show of looking at his watch and said, “I suppose.”
I pointed to a seating area where club chairs were arranged around a glass-topped coffee table. We sat at diagonal corners. He hiked up his slacks and crossed his legs. I kept both feet on the floor and leaned forward. “Did you get my message?”
“Something about Mr. Adler’s body?”
“Yes. He was found barefoot, wasn’t he?”
“I believe he was, yes.”
“Which suggests he was abducted from his home, shortly after the phony call to the police.”
“We all arrive at conclusions in our own way and at our own speed. I must remind myself you are not as experienced at this as we are.”
“ ‘We’ being you and Detective Chênevert.”
“And our investigative team. So you think he was assaulted near the rear door, is that it? And then spirited away from there?”
“That’s what I think.”
“And your friend, does he agree?”
“My friend?” Wondering if he knew about Ryan. There was no reason for him to, unless he was the one having us followed.
“Monsieur Ducharme.”
Ah. Bobby. “I haven’t discussed it with him.”
“I see. Well, since I wish not to have lawyers from Geniele et al. receiving complaints that I’m being uncooperative, I will disclose the following: having looked through the reports filed by the scene of crime experts, I can say there was indeed a small amount of blood in a crack between two floorboards near the rear of the flat. I repeat, a small amount. We are not prepared to make any firm conclusions from this.”
“But it’s likely he was first assaulted there and taken elsewhere.”
“Between you and me, yes. That’s what is likely. Anything else? My workday is not over by any means.”
I waited until Paquette stood up and had turned to leave before saying, “Are you having me followed?”
He turned back, an amused look on his face. “Why on earth would I do that? Are you so significant as to warrant surveillance?”
“You tell me.”
“No, Mr. Geller.”
“No, you’re not having me followed?”
“No, I don’t think I will tell you.”
——
Holly Napier called my cellphone as I was pulling into the entrance of the Delta. I parked off to one side and flipped it open.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“How do you say dead end in French?”
“Impasse.”
“That’s how it’s going.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Did you by any chance tell anyone about our meeting yesterday?”
There was a brief pause before she said, “Just the people in the office. I told you yesterday, we’re a very close bunch. I thought they’d want to know someone was trying to find out what happened to Sammy. Plus I thought it was cool—private detectives in my office. Or one anyway, plus your friend Ryan. Why do you ask?”
“The police seemed to know where we were staying before I even met them.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t tell them.”
“What about your employees?”
“I don’t think any of them knew where you were staying. That isn’t something I shared.”
“Did you tell them about Marie-Josée Boily?”
“The social worker? No.”
“She was supposed to meet me this afternoon but she never showed up.”
“You think there’s something sinister about that?”
“It’s how my brain works. Like hearing that Sammy missed a meeting with Laurent Lortie.”
“You need a drink?”
“I probably do.”
“I’m hoping to get out of here around eight tonight. You want to grab one together?”
I thought of her clear green eyes and the mass of red curls that swirled around her head and said yes before I could think of any reason to say no.
A moment after I ended the call, it rang again. I thought Holly had probably discovered a reason why she couldn’t meet after all, but it wasn’t her.
It was Mehri Aziz, speaking in a whisper.
“I’m sorry about what happened at the store today,” she said. “My brother has a bad humour some times. No, not humour. Temper.”
“We might have provoked him a little.”
“He thinks you are looking to blame him for what happened to Mr. Adler.”
Mr. Adler—keeping up the pretense that she didn’t know him better than that.
“The only people I want to blame are the ones who beat him to death.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“If you still want to talk to me,” she said, still in a low voice, “I can meet you about five-forty-five. I’ve told my brothe
r I have errands to run.”
“Where?”
“Do you know where is the Marché Jean-Talon? The big market?”
“No.”
“Where are you staying?”
At least she didn’t know that. And I decided to leave it that way. “At the Holiday Inn on Sherbrooke near St-Laurent.”
“Then you take St-Laurent north to Jean-Talon and turn right for a few blocks. It’s just before St-Denis. I’ll be inside the entrance on the south side, buying flowers. At five-forty-five, but please, no later. The market closes at six and if I am much later than that coming home, there will be questions.”
“I thought your family was more liberated than that.”
“Not on every subject,” she said.
Ryan was on the bed when I got in, watching something on my laptop. In a perfect partnership, he would have been doing research, scouring Sammy’s files on the Lortie family, the Kabul carpet trade or something else connected to the case. That’s what Jenn would have been doing if she’d been here. Instead, Ryan was watching a compilation of Manny Pacquiao’s greatest knockouts.
“Unbelievable fighter,” he said. “He’s held eight titles in six different weight classes. Ninety-eight pounds his first fight, worked his way up to a hundred and forty-four as a welterweight. You’re what, one-eighty-five?”
“Give or take a pound.”
“He’d still kick your ass, I don’t care how many black belts you got.”
“In the ring, maybe.”
“Not in the street?”
“No.”
“He hits fucking hard for a little guy.”
“But he’s never been kicked in the throat.”
“True. And what’s that you got?” I was carrying the box of memorabilia Camille Fortin had given me, along with Paquette’s manila folder.
“Sammy’s phone records and bank statements. And some things his ex-wife had.”
“You look at it yet?”
Miss Montreal Page 10