Montreal has no lack of good restaurants and bars, but we ended up at one of our favourites from our days together at McGill: El Gitano on Avenue Parc, a resto we used to frequent when someone had made extra money gigging, or there was something special to celebrate. I made sure there was a lot of wine.
Lainey laughed (and cried) as she spoke about a man who had been pretty special. I could certainly see what had attracted her to him. I also wished more than ever that I’d resisted her suggestion to visit him that night.
It was close to five o’clock when we helped Lainey into a cab and took her back to her flat just off Chemin de la Côte-St-Luc. We wrestled her upstairs and put her to bed, even though it was barely six o’clock. I felt sort of guilty for encouraging her wine intake, but I’d had good reasons.
“Just like old times,” Chloe said with a smile as soon as our friend began to snore gently. “She’d been under a lot of stress before this mess happened. A few hours of forgetfulness will be good for her, despite the headache she’ll have in the morning.”
“Or whenever she wakes up.”
“I do believe she’s down for the count for today.”
Outside on the sidewalk again, we stopped, neither wanting to go our separate ways.
“Thanks for making the effort to be here, Chlo. I had the feeling Lainey was holding a lot in.”
The petite dark-haired woman smiled. “There’s always time for my friends.”
“If that’s a bit of a nudge, you’re right. Too often I’ve used the excuse that I’m too busy to get to Montreal, but that’s garbage. Even if I can’t get here, there’s always the phone or the Internet.”
“On our end, it’s the same. By the way, Lainey told me when you were visiting the ladies that you’ve finally bought yourself a laptop. Communicating is a snap with those. You can email whenever and from wherever you want.”
She stopped and looked me up and down.
“Why the visual exam?” I asked.
“Lainey also told me you have a guy,” she answered with a semi-lecherous grin.
“It’s hardly that. We’ve had a cup of coffee and he took me to dinner. That’s it. Truthfully, meeting Tony couldn’t have come at a worse time. My life is just too complicated at the moment. Maybe six months ago, maybe six months from now, but at the moment?” I shook my head. “It’s just one more distraction I don’t need.”
“Lainey told me you sort of floated into your condo after your date with him. If you keep waiting around for ‘the right time,’ you’re going to still be waiting when you’re eighty.”
“Between you and Lainey —”
“Listen to your friends.” Chloe smiled again. “And speaking of not waiting, I’ve given myself the perfect opportunity to ask you if you’re interested in reviving Chicks with Sticks for one last kick at the can. It would be a hoot to do some of those old pieces and routines again.”
“What the heck are you talking about?”
“Just an idea Lainey and I had. We could play a concert at the school, a fundraiser for the percussion department. With you playing, I’m sure we’d fill the recital hall.”
“Yeah, they’d come to see me fall flat on my bum.”
“You and I both know better than that. Come on! Even if you haven’t played in a dozen years, you’ll get it back plenty fast. Lainey told me you’ve still got your drum set, some congas, and your stick bag shoved in the back of the closet in your guest room.”
“That little sneak!”
The best stick handler of the three of us stood with her head cocked to the side, looking at me. “So are you in — or out?”
“Assuming I agreed, when would we do this concert?”
“Early next year? You could come into town for a week and we could rehearse our bums off. I can give you your parts tonight if you’d like. C’mon, say yes!”
“I’ll have to check with my manager. The bookings are starting to roll in again.”
“You’d get a lot of press out of doing something like this, I’ll bet.”
“You’re too much. I’ll talk to Alex and then let you know. Okay?”
“When are you going back to Toronto?”
“Not until eleven tonight. I’ve got a few things to take care of before I head out to the airport.”
“I’m not doing the concert tonight since I wasn’t at the rehearsal today. Need any help, or just a companion?”
Hmm. The last time I’d done something like what I had planned, two people had ended up dead. Still, I couldn’t deny that it would be nice to have moral support, not to mention an extra set of eyes.
“You don’t know any journalists, do you?” I asked as we watched for a cab to flag down.
It had all been set up the night before, right after Lainey and I had arrived back in Montreal.
With her Internet knowledge and some cash to an online search company, it didn’t take long to track down the families of the other two dead witnesses the Vancouver email had spoken about. I spent the ride back from Toronto thinking about how to approach them, and I thought I’d come up with a good — and safe — plan.
One of the families was in Rivière-du-Loup, too far from Montreal for a quick trip, so I took a pass on them for the moment. This was not the sort of thing to do over the phone. The second family was in Boucherville, across the river from Montreal, and that was the family I called.
Afraid I might be in for a joual-filled conversation, I was wondering if I was up to it. My French was learned in an immersion program in Ottawa, and many of my teachers had been from France. All but one looked down on the rough-and-ready aspects of Quebec French. My years in Montreal had made me more comfortable with the language spoken on the streets, but I’d never quite mastered the sort of drawl and very odd vocab. I needed to sound like one of them, certainly not like an Anglo opera singer.
“Relax,” Lainey said. “You’ll do fine.”
“They’re going to hang up if I sound like I’m fresh off the plane from Paris. That’s pretty off-putting.”
She laughed at me. “Using words like ‘off-putting’ is pretty off-putting, I’d say. Sometimes you sound just like a university professor.”
“That’s ’cause both my parents were.”
“Just do your best. I’m sure it will be fine. I can be listening in, and if you don’t understand something, I’ll whisper it in your ear. Okay?”
So I got on the phone and tried my best.
It didn’t turn out to be as scary as I’d imagined. The father answered, and it was obvious from the beginning that he didn’t want to talk to me. I told him I was a journalist writing about biker gang murders and I’d gotten a tip that led me to him. He didn’t bite, and was about to hang up after soundly cursing me out, when someone else picked up the line — someone who sounded younger.
“Why are you hassling my father?” he demanded. “He is not a well man!”
“I’m not hassling him! Can’t someone help me out here? All I want is a little background.”
“On what?”
“On someone named Daniel Dubois.”
Silence. “He was my brother. What do you want?”
I explained everything again and at least this guy stayed on the phone. “I’d like to talk to you about him if I might.”
“What about? He’s dead.”
“About why he died.”
I set my hook and hoped this fish would bite.
His voice was low, but it didn’t sound so angry. “Who are you?”
It was time to level with the guy. I had the feeling that if he caught me in a lie that would be it. Like Inspector Parker of the RCMP, I was beginning to trust in hunches.
“If you will agree to meet with me, I will tell you.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
“Where?”
“Someplace safe, public. Would you be willing to come to downtown Montreal?”
“Depends on who you are.” Monsieur Dubois sounded amused. “Tell me.
”
“One more question first. You do know why your brother died, yes?”
“His testimony was going to put away some very bad men. The Mounties promised he would be safe. They lied. Now tell me who you really are, or I will hang up.”
“My husband was another of the witnesses. They got to him, too.”
“So what’s there to talk about? They’re both dead.”
“Monsieur Dubois, there is a lot to talk about, but it is not something I wish to do over the phone. I promise if you meet with me, I will tell you something you will find most interesting.”
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth, that you’re not just a journalist looking for a story?”
“Two things: your brother died in British Columbia, right?”
“Yes, but what does that have to —”
“I’m sure you’ve heard the reports about the two journalists who’ve been murdered, one in B.C. and one in Montreal. Both specialized in biker gangs. Don’t you find that curious?”
Dubois spoke as if to himself. “I thought something might be up.”
“So you’ll meet with me?”
“What are you hoping it will accomplish? Like I said, my brother is dead.”
“Just meet with me and listen to what I have to say. We may be able to help each other.”
“Okay. I’m in.” Then his voice dropped down very low and it was filled with menace. “But do not play with me, I warn you. You will regret it.”
My bravado shrank to the size of a pinhead as I began to think I might have made another big mistake.
Twenty-four hours later, standing on a Montreal street, I whistled and Chloe shouted, and this time a cabbie driving by deigned to notice us.
As we were piling in, he turned and asked, “Where to, ladies?”
“Place Alexis Nihon. Let us off at the corner of Sainte Catherine and Atwater.”
Chapter Fourteen
“So let me get this straight,” Chloe said as we sat in the back seat of a cab bound for Place Alexis Nihon, the location I’d set up for my meeting. “I’m supposed to be the lookout? What are you planning on doing, robbing the coffee shop?”
I needed my friend’s help, but I’d decided that I would try to keep her directly out of what I had in mind. As far as the guy I was meeting was concerned, I would be there alone.
“Chlo, quite frankly, you’re my insurance policy.”
Her eyes got big. “This sounds like something out of a cheap spy novel. Just what have you gotten yourself involved in?”
It was not part of my plan to tell her one iota more than I needed to, considering what happened last time. Chloe had a husband and two young kids, and I couldn’t bear it if I was the cause of anything happening to them. She would just remain in the background, unknown. I’d make certain of that.
But I had thought this through very carefully, ever since I read the email Lainey found on her computer. I really needed to speak to someone who was involved in this whole mess, even if peripherally, and who wasn’t a cop. It was something I owed to Sébastien in Montreal and Peter in Vancouver — and their familes. Also to my husband, if I’d guessed wrongly that he was still alive.
As the cab pulled up at the southeast corner of Place Alexis Nihon, Chloe got out, but then stuck her head in the door. “Right. Now I’m supposed to go into the coffee shop, find a spot where I can see everyone going in and out, then watch for the next hour to see who arrives.”
I nodded. “And if you spot anything that stinks, someone who shouldn’t be there hanging around, anything that doesn’t feel right, you give me a call. The guy I’m supposed to meet will be wearing a Montreal Expos baseball cap, has a beard, and there’s a scar on his left cheek. If it doesn’t look like he’s alone, I want to know.”
“And if I can’t reach you on the phone, I stop you on the way in.” She shook her head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Marta.”
“So do I,” I mumbled to myself as the taxi drove off again.
I made the cabbie stop again two blocks later, earning raised eyebrows as I paid the tab. Walking one block north, then two blocks back west, I found myself diagonally across the street from my objective.
The coffee shop was near the northeast corner of the big mall with access either from the mall or from the street. With all the evening traffic, it would be a busy place and that was comforting. Dubois had suggested a few bars where we might meet, but that was something I was not prepared to do.
That’s why I’d gotten Lainey good and looped during our lunch after the funeral. The previous evening, she’d insisted on coming. Now she was at home, safely asleep. Chloe being available had been a bonus. I could have done the recon and waiting by myself, but this worked out much better. Having her on watch as I was talking to Dubois seemed to me to be a much safer option.
Problem was, I had about an hour to kill before Dubois was set to show. Crossing the street, I went into the mall to look around. When I’d been a poor music student, I’d actually worked here in the big pet store, mostly as a cashier, but also cleaning fish tanks and puppy cages. Delightful job.
Fifteen minutes before the eight o’clock meeting time, I couldn’t stand wandering around anymore and dialled Chloe. “What’s up?
“Being an undercover operative is pretty boring,” she said, “except for this young man, quite handsome in fact, who just tried to pick me up. Damned flattering, actually.”
“You are paying attention to things, aren’t you?”
“I’m all business, believe me, girlfriend.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re behaving just like Lainey.”
“Well, I am sitting in for her.”
“So who’s in the place now?”
“Five student-types, two couples, three older people, hardly dangerous-looking, any of ’em. Oh, now wait a minute. I think your boy just arrived.”
“Is he with anyone?”
“Not that I can see. He’s standing at the front ordering coffee.” There was a five-second pause. “I don’t believe it!”
“What’s wrong?”
“He just ordered the grande espresso macchiato. Damn fool’s going to be up all night if he drinks that.”
“Chloe!” I barked. “Don’t play around! My poor heart just can’t take it.”
“Sorry,” she answered, but didn’t sound it in the slightest.
“Is it safe for me to come in?”
Silence for a moment. “I think so. He just took a seat. He’s opening up his paper. Oh my goodness, he can read!”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll know when you see him.”
“I’ll be there in three minutes. Don’t take your eyes off us, but try to look as if you’re not staring.”
“How do you expect me to accomplish that little feat?”
“You’re a mother. You must have learned how to watch without appearing to watch. If you see something you don’t like, give me a call if there’s time — or scream your bloody head off if there isn’t.”
“Relax, Marta. I’ve got everything under control.”
“Why do I start getting nervous when you say that?”
By that time I was nearing the mall entrance to the coffee shop, so I put my cellphone away, crossed myself, and went in.
You couldn’t miss Dubois. He was easily the largest man in the place and mean-looking to boot. I swallowed my fear and walked forward. Going to the counter, I ordered an orange juice and walked over to his table.
“This seat taken?” I asked in French.
“Are you the woman I spoke with on the phone last night?”
I’d noticed the previous evening on the phone that his French had a real South Shore twang. In person it was even more noticeable.
“I am.” Leaning across the table, I stuck out my hand and we shook. Then I sat. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”
Dubois had a full beard, dark eyes, and long wiry hair pulled into a pony tail. He looked to be in his mid-
thirties, but it was hard to be certain with all the facial hair. The leather jacket he wore made him look like a biker, except that his hair was clean and neat. Any biker I’d ever seen had filthy hair. Maybe that’s a requirement or something.
“You could almost pass as a biker.” I meant to say it only in my head, but it came out of my mouth.
Dubois shrugged. “I build choppers, custom-made. It helps a bit to look like your clients.”
“They’re bikers?”
He shrugged again. “Some. Most are weekend warriors, living out a fantasy.”
“Can you tell me something about your brother, Daniel?”
“Sure, but everyone called him Danny or P.A.”
“Huh?”
“Short for Petit André. My name is André. Some of my customers enjoyed teasing him. Used to drive him crazy.” Dubois smiled, but it didn’t make him look any happier. “What about your husband?”
“His name was Jean-Claude Lachance. Did you ever meet him?”
Dubois shrugged. “Once or twice. Talked a lot.”
“You don’t sound as if you liked him.”
“I didn’t like the company he kept.”
“Such as?”
“Two of the meanest bastards in the Province du Québec. Animals! They were the ones who were behind the butchering of my little brother. I am sure of it!” With a scowl, he lifted his cup and drained it, making a face as it scalded its way down. “So what is it you will tell me that I will find so interesting, eh?”
“I mentioned the two murdered journalists last night. They were looking into the deaths of those three witnesses. One was your brother, another was my husband —”
“And the third was Jacques Filion. I knew him, too, pimply faced little weasel. I wouldn’t have trusted him as far as I could throw him.”
I ignored the interruption. “The journalists, I don’t know what they found out, but within a matter of hours, they were both dead.”
“Bikers don’t like people who get curious about their affairs.”
“I don’t believe it was bikers who killed them.”
His expression darkened. “What do you mean?”
I leaned forward so I could speak softly. It felt quite unbelievable, suddenly, that I was doing something like this. “I think their deaths were arranged by a cop, quite possibly a Mountie.”
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