Ice Lake

by John Farrow

  Cinq-Mars shook his head. “Didn’t I just ask that question?”

  “All right then, how?”

  “Ah,” he acknowledged, “that’s a better question. Or at least as good.”

  The farmer drove back from the huts in his big four-wheeler and got out and walked through the loose snow to where the policemen were standing. “It’s open. When you’re done, I’ll snap on my own padlock.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  The two walked onto the ice-road and made their way to the scene of the crime. Inside, the hut was frigid. They shut the door to keep out the breeze. The windows were small, with individual designs etched on every pane by frost, but adequate light filtered through, and each man examined the room with care. They handled the objects they found—the toys, the tins of fruit and vegetables, the cooking utensils and the extra clothing—with a detached interest. The pantry had been emptied of perishables but was otherwise undisturbed.

  “She slept here, obviously,” Mathers stated.

  “That night?”

  “Who knows? This winter though, definitely, at least from time to time. The bedding’s not dirty, but it’s not exactly fresh from the wash either. Either someone slept here on occasion or—”

  “—other activities kept Miss Choquette warm.”

  While Mathers continued to examine the everyday objects, Cinq-Mars folded his arms across his chest and stood still, just trying to get a feel for the place.

  “Open the hatch,” he directed after a bit.

  Mathers did so. The black hole where Stettler had been found, and the cavity created to remove him, had frozen over while the cabin had been barricaded. The surface was depressed like a spoon’s where new ice had formed.

  “I imagine the original hole had been cut out with a chainsaw,” Cinq-Mars stated, “the same way they widened it to free the body.”

  “You can still see the outline of the old hole.”

  Cinq-Mars grunted, for no particular reason. “Painchaud and Choquette are lovers. On the day the body was discovered they kept that juicy tidbit to themselves. What else were they hiding? Did they know the victim? Camille works where Stettler got started in his new career.” He gazed at the ice while his partner, weary of that contemplation, looked up instead. After a few moments, Mathers stood on the grey wool blankets of the bed to examine the central roof beam.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What if?” Mathers mused. The beam was scraped, gently gouged in an area directly over the hatch.

  “Wrap a chain around the beam and hook it to a block. Use a five-part, or a seven-part block-and-tackle to handle the weight.”

  “What weight?” Cinq-Mars wondered. He put his hands on his hips.

  “Chain or cable,” Mathers continued, “wrapped around twice, maybe three times. I’d say chain. Then the upper block is hooked to the chain, and voilà! You have leverage.”

  Cinq-Mars was catching on. He crouched down, resting a forearm across a bent knee. “You’d need some kind of grapple hook to handle the ice.”

  Mathers jumped down beside him. “That’s not a problem, because they already have a hole in the ice. After a second block is cut out, you could lift it, put a body under, then freeze it back in place.”

  “Making it look like the death occurred elsewhere.” From his crouch, Cinq-Mars gazed up at the ceiling again.

  “It also means that the body was not meant to be hidden. The opposite. It was meant to be discovered.”

  “In a controlled environment. But they made mistakes.”

  “Such as?” Mathers was feeling animated again, gaining a sense that they were understanding what had been elusive. Like a jack-in-the-box, he bounded back onto his feet.

  “The minnows were swimming. The Investigating Officer and the so-called innocent witness are sleeping together.”

  Both men listened to the quiet. They heard their own breathing and the periodic creak of plywood and timbers in the cold.

  “We have something on Painchaud,” Cinq-Mars mentioned after awhile.

  “Yes,” Mathers concurred. He made a fist of his right gloved hand and covered it with his left, then shook them together in a gesture of determination.

  “It would be nice to go after him. But he doesn’t know what we know. We could play from that position. It’s the only advantage we have.” Cinq-Mars rose to his feet again.

  “Or, we could haul him in and see what he has to say.” Mathers still held his right fist in his left hand, as though eager to strike a blow.

  “Whose side is he on?”

  “Not ours.”

  Cinq-Mars returned his hands to his hips. “You’re sure?”

  “The facts, Emile. What else can I do with the facts?” Mathers finally unclenched his hands and stuffed them in his coat pockets.

  “What facts? That he’s in love? That he wants to keep it a secret?”

  “Why? He’s not married, Emile. Neither is she.”

  “True, but still, facts are in short supply.” Cinq-Mars turned partway around and sat down on the bed. He bounced on it slightly, as though testing the foam. All right. We’ll ask him nicely to meet us downtown, then put his nuts in a vice, see if he hollers. If he squirms, if he can’t explain his lover, we’ll arrest him. I don’t see him wiggling free, do you?”

  “I can’t see it. Sleeping with a witness, that’s one thing. Pretending she’s a stranger, that’s something else.”

  Cinq-Mars stared up at the beam where chain had been looped to support a block-and-tackle system to lift a wedge of ice. The ice had contained the black hole where Andrew Stettler would be deposited, inert, dead, shot, frozen. Who, he wondered, would want to raise a hole? Why? Why did someone go to the trouble to slip the body under the ice, only to have it discovered? Had the killer hoped for dramatic effect upon discovery? Or did Painchaud and Camille Choquette need to get rid of the body in their hut, and the only way they could do it was to put it under the ice? Then Painchaud put himself in charge of the investigation, and the two of them waltzed home. No other scenario made sense.

  “Emile? You coming?” Mathers asked him.

  Suddenly, Cinq-Mars jumped up, still looking at the ceiling. He thrust out his arm and gripped his partner by the lapel.

  “Emile? What? Do you see something?”

  Cinq-Mars glared at him. “Remember this! That was a big fishing night. The night of the full moon. No way did anybody come out here after dark and cut the hole bigger with a chainsaw. Every fisherman in the village would be banging on the door telling him to shut up. The ice was cut out ahead of time.”

  Mathers nodded, agreeing, as he gently pried his partner’s fingers free of his overcoat. “Emile?”

  “Sorry.” Cinq-Mars let him go.

  “As soon as they cut the ice earlier it would start refreezing,” the younger man pointed out. “It was cold out.” His objection was not intended to dispute his partner’s logic, only to see if it could be expanded.

  “They’d be aware of that. But once the cut was made, it could then be broken loose again later if it refroze. It would be a fault line, weak. After that it could be patched with water and snow. All they had to do was lift it a little. Slip the body under. Drop the ice back down. Clean the surface of blood and tissue and use water to make a new surface. The perfect way to clean up a crime scene, and we’re left playing guessing games for the rest of our lives.”

  “Is that what they wanted?”

  Cinq-Mars shrugged. “When they came back at night the blocks had refrozen, to a degree—they’d have to pry them apart again, but it would be doable. Do we have Stettler’s time of death?”

  “It came across my desk: 10:30 p.m., if I recall.”

  “According to Painchaud. But it’s from his department so he probably didn’t lie. It explains the body freezing in the cold air, before being in the water. It could’ve taken some time to float him. Bill, this was a thoughtful murder. The grave was prepared before the killing. Remember that, and don’t
let me forget it either. The killer, or killers, prepared their method of body disposal before they disposed of the body. Anybody wants to argue that this was not premeditated, hang him by his toes until that lie spills out of his maw.”

  They stepped from the cabin into the bright sunlight again, and Cinq-Mars observed the sparkling windows of the monolith at the head of the bay, the BioLogika Corporation. “Let’s go see Honigwachs,” he said. “I’ve got a bone to pick with that man.”

  “Émile—”

  “Damn it, Bül! Follow me!”

  Camille Choquette noticed the white stretch Cadillac fall in behind her Mazda 626 on her way to work. She thought nothing of it for a while, in the maze of the morning rush hour, until she made a favourite turn to cut through suburban streets to Hillier-Largent Global. The Cadillac followed, and her breath caught in her throat. She felt her fear, the tightness in her buttocks and stomach, but told herself to handle it, to get a grip.

  Near the end of a block, the car surged past her, then stopped in her path, and Camille had to jam on the brakes. Two men jumped from the car, running up to her. She gave out a little cry and held her hands to her mouth. They were on her before she could think how to react.

  One man opened her door and pulled her out. The other jumped in behind the wheel and began backing her car up. She was pulled by the hair and she squealed, and the man rammed a towel into her open mouth, and she remained on her feet until she was thrown onto one of the facing back seats of the Cadillac. The towel fell onto the floor. Another man was inside, smiling, and the man who had hustled her into the car grabbed her shoulders and propped her upright. The big car was already moving.

  “Good morning,” the man who was smiling said.

  “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing!”

  The man nodded to his assistant and suddenly a knife appeared at Camille’s throat. “Speak with respect, or don’t talk at all. You understand, Miss Choquette?”

  She nodded and managed to gasp, “What do you want?”

  “That’s better. Tell me why Andrew Stettler’s body floated up under your hut.”

  Breathing heavily, she just looked at him with incomprehension.

  “Didn’t you know him?”

  She tried to twist away but the big man beside her pushed her back hard against the seat and showed her the knife again, right in front of her eyes. She was facing forward, her inquisitor directly opposite in the plush leather interior.

  “The body was just there,” she whined. “I don’t know how it got there.”

  He smiled again. “Miss Choquette, let me introduce myself. My name is Jacques. I give you permission to call me by my name. Now, my friend is going to cut out pieces of your tongue, bit by bit—”

  She cried out.

  “—for every lie you tell me,” he said, raising his voice to drown her out. “Soon you will never be able to lie to me or anybody else again. Now, start over, and this time get it right. Did you know Andy?”

  She did not speak, but nodded.

  “That’s all right. You don’t have to open your mouth as long as you answer with the truth. Did you kill him?”

  “No. Of course not. No!”

  “Who did?”

  She panted, and struggled on the seat.

  “My friend will now cut out a piece of your tongue.”

  “Nooooo!” she screamed. “Noooo, please! Noooooo!”

  “Do you want another chance? Is that what I’m hearing?” Jacques demanded.

  Camille nodded.

  “All right then. Tell me. Who killed Andy?”

  She was breathing heavily, shoved down into a corner of the seat. Her skirt had risen almost to her waist, and her immodest disarray infuriated her. She tried to push her hemline down. Camille spoke the name, but no one could hear her.

  “What?”

  “Charlie,” she whispered.

  “Who the hell’s Charlie? Why did he kill a friend of mine who was like a brother to me?”

  The big man beside her yanked her up to a proper sitting position and she arranged her skirt.

  Camille Choquette was panting and her voice was very quiet. Her eyes flooded with tears and fright and her lips and chin trembled. “Charlie’s my boyfriend. Me and Andy, we had a thing going, you know? And Charlie, Charlie, he got jealous.”

  “What’s his full name?” Jacques asked. Reaching behind himself, he tapped his driver’s shoulder.

  “Sergeant Charles Painchaud.”

  “Sergeant?”

  Camille nodded. “He’s SQ. Charlie’s the Investigating Officer on this case.”

  The men in the car regarded one another. Then Jacques clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “A cop killed Andy?”

  Camille whispered, “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.”

  “And he’s the Investigating?” Although he was asking a question, it was clear that he had already accepted her reply as valid. The car was slowing down. After it stopped, everybody waited for Jacques to speak again. Finally, he addressed Camille. “Don’t tell nobody about this. Especially, don’t tell this Charlie guy. Forget about him. He’s a dead man anyways. He’s a whack-job. If he hears about our conversation, I’ll assume you decided you got no further use for your tongue, or for your ears, or for your fingers, or for your little girl. That’s right. I know all about her. If this Charlie gets wind, I’ll deduce you were the one who told him. You understand me on this?”

  She hated playing the role of a frightened ninny, but Camille Choquette said, “I understand you,” and her voice was breathless, faint, afraid.

  “Get out.”

  Wobbly, Camille Choquette stepped onto the street. Parked alongside the curb, her Mazda was waiting. She walked to it and got in, and the man who had backed it up returned to the Cadillac. She crawled in behind the wheel, too nervous to drive, and she watched the white stretch Caddy speed away, scarcely slowing down at the stop sign.

  The encounter had gone well, Camille believed. The bad guys had their name. The cops would discover one of their own dead, and they’d probably correctly link the murder to organized crime. That would put the blame for the Stettler killing onto thugs, so it could go into the books as a settling of accounts between gangs. No big deal. Soon to be forgotten. Nobody would know any better, and after that they’d be more interested in the cop-killing. Nobody would bother her or Werner again.

  Camille took a deep breath. She smiled. Turning the key in the ignition of her Mazda, she drove on.

  Werner Honigwachs had to leave a meeting of middle managers to receive Sergeant-Detective Emile Cinq-Mars in his office. He had left his jacket slung over the back of his swivel chair and he put it on before sitting, to govern the conversation with formality. Having waited for him for three minutes, the two cops were already seated.

  “Sir, this is Detective Bill Mathers.”

  “Pleased to meet you, etcetera.” The man leaned forward in his chair, tapped his right middle finger three times upon the edge of his desk, and offered a thin smile. He gave Mathers nothing more than a glance. “Any progress?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Since speaking to you yesterday, matters have become distinctly more complicated.”

  A man accustomed to having his questions answered, Honigwachs freely exhibited impatience. He did not quite rock in his chair, rather, he set up a slight side-to-side motion. His moon face was impassive, grim, as though he expected others to speak up for themselves while he revealed nothing. His tightened eyebrows, the scrunched lines of his forehead, indicated both his tension and his contempt for the men in the room. “What can I do for you, Cinq-Mars?”

  “Mmmm,” the detective murmured. His attention seemed momentarily lost to the maze governed by the astronomical clock on the president’s desk, where the planets and the earth’s moon continued to revolve in exact formation to their actual orbits. “When we talked yesterday, sir, I hadn’t had much sleep.”

  “You looked rough. I remember.”


  “The reason for my lack of sleep had to do with a kidnapping—a shooting and a kidnapping both—that had occurred overnight. Perhaps you know the victim. Her name is Lucy Gabriel. She works for Hillier-Largent.”

  Honigwachs shook his head slightly, dismissively. “Doesn’t sound familiar,” he said. “In my business, I meet a lot of people.”

  “I’m curious about something,” Cinq-Mars stated.

  “So am I,” Honigwachs interrupted. He leaned back in his chair. “What right do you have to be here?”

  “Excuse me?” the policeman asked.

  “I understand that the SQ is investigating Andy’s death. I’ve been led to believe that Montreal detectives have no jurisdiction with regard to this matter. Therefore you have no reason, not to mention no authority, to be talking to me.”

  Cinq-Mars loved it when the bad guys chose to be smug. No one ever taught them that pride shows up before a fall. Nor did they understand that their attitude gave away a range of inner emotions and proved they were not in control. Smiling, he brushed imaginary flecks off a trouser leg, a gesture that told the person he was questioning who was in charge, who knew where he was going and exactly how he was going to get there, and who was enjoying the experience so much that he intended to take his time.

  “This is a friendly visit, sir. That’s allowed.”

  Honigwachs snorted slightly. “That’s all very nice, Detective, but I was in a meeting. I happen to be a busy man. So if you’ll excuse me—”

  “We could call it a business visit, if you’d prefer. Let’s pretend that I’m here to sell you a horse.”

  “I don’t have time for your games, Cinq-Mars. I’d like you and your partner” he spat the word out as though referring to a diseased rat, “to go now.”

  “I could arrange to have my questions asked at a stockholder’s meeting, if you’d prefer that, sir.”

  Although he knew that it was a desperate ploy, that he was being baited, Honigwachs found the tease difficult to resist. “What questions are those?”

  “Why it is that your Head of Security, Andrew Stettler, was closely connected to organized crime? He was friendly with the Hell’s Angels, sir, the most notorious and violent gang around. Stockholders might take an interest in your reasons for hiring a convicted felon to look after security, without first checking if he had a criminal record. If you did check, and knew that he’d been convicted, why did you hire him?”