by John Farrow
Mathers moved quickly to change the subject. “Listen. There’s a car I’ve been trying to run down. I’ve got the make, no VIN, and the plate number. But we enter this into our computer system, we draw a false record. I’ll give you the plate number. Maybe you can work on it, on the side. Get down to Motor Vehicle Records, snoop around. You don’t have to. I’ll never mention it again unless you do. Report back to Cinq-Mars if you want, you know he’s not dirty. If you can help us, that’d be great. If not, I understand.”
Mathers wrote out the information, tore off the sheet from his notepad, and passed it across to Lajeunesse. The man regarded the number.
“At least it’s police work,” Mathers told him.
Lajeunesse concurred. “Thanks,” he said.
Outside, Mathers sidestepped puddles getting back to his car. He had work to do that afternoon. Police work. He had bad guys to chase down, perps to apprehend, victims to interview. He’d go through the motions, although his heart wouldn’t be in it. Today, the work he loved had been eclipsed. Forces were at play that scared the Jockeys off him. Now he knew why Cinq-Mars was always so damn secretive, so infernally cautious. Cinq-Mars knew that the enemy was everywhere.
The enemy thrived on the outside and, as he had been trying to get his new partner to appreciate, the enemy dwelled within.
15
Thursday, January 20, after midnight
As night descended upon his pastures of melting snow, Émile Cinq-Mars was consumed by an itchiness, a readiness. He remained calm, napped intermittently, and visited the horses. When Sandra went up to bed, he kissed her good night and sliced off a piece of pumpkin pie for the road. He needed to drive city streets by night. How could he chase down nocturnal prey by daylight? Getting up before the crack was a questionable virtue when criminals were hitting the sack at that hour. The time had come to move when they moved, to be awake and in the vicinity whenever they broke loose.
He needed, now, to be a cop like André LaPierre.
Water was everywhere, in puddles and pools. Intersections were lakes. The wipers were hard-pressed to keep up with the spray from other vehicles. Cinq-Mars drove on, preoccupied, intent.
In the city, he drove through downtown, neon lights reflecting off the wet black streets, and he turned up Jeanne Mance, then onto Park Avenue as it crossed the eastern slope of the mountain. On his left, facing east, the lighted cross hung above the city as if suspended in the darkness in midair. Cinq-Mars ascended the mountain and parked in the high lot on the eastern ridge, a man alone among lovers swarming over one another in their bucket seats.
From here one could ascend a path to the cross, not a pleasant walk in this rain or on the slippery footing precipitated by the thaw. In any case the cross was best viewed from a distance, when it was not seen as a disgruntled mesh of steel and lightbulbs. The mountain had always claimed the spiritual heart of the city, and the active spiritual forces of each era always claimed the mountain. The early Iroquois farmed the southern flank. When the leader of the first European settlement—who was aptly named de Maisonneuve, of the new house—prayed for the retreat of floodwaters, he prophesied that the community would be spared if a cross was erected upon the highest point of the mountain. De Maisonneuve shouldered a cross upon his back and lugged it up the hill, no easy task through the thick woods, and the waters obligingly receded. He did hold a strange notion of what constituted the highest peak, choosing instead a mere promontory, but vows made in crisis were usually compromised, even Cinq-Mars knew that.
Neither did the modern cross rest upon the highest mark, standing instead upon ground that provided the best sight lines to the eastern, and Catholic, district of Montreal. The cross sloughed off the business whirl of downtown, and the English suburbs to the west, the lightbulbs shining instead upon those who, for a time, had professed reverence for the Church.
The mountain attracted and divided, magnetized and sequestered. On one side, huddled against a sharp slope, the English-speaking university of McGill. On its opposite, gentler haunch, Université de Montréal, French-speaking. Off its satellite hill was the wealthy, largely English city of Westmount, while on the other flank lay Outremont, equally affluent but French. The mountain provided a sprawl of cemeteries, English and French and Jewish, as though the height shortened the journey upward to heaven and brought those who visited nearer the realm of their departed.
Émile Cinq-Mars felt, at that moment, nearer the realm of the departed. A squall went through, and the windshield wipers thrashed time. He deeply wished he still smoked, would have crumbled at that moment if a cigarette had been offered. Before him the vast eastern stretch of the city glittered, winter white, all the way out to the oil refineries and the tip of the island. He felt the city’s thrum, the rain’s insistent throttle, the relentless rhythm of time. The mountain on which he stood was ancient, although what remained was merely the hole in the volcano, enduring for aeons, becoming the landmark that drew people to its slope, a city born. High up, quiet in his car, Cinq-Mars drew nurture from the beloved mountain, which had been his first view of the city. He was like the mountain himself. He was the plug. The section that did not wear down. The rock that remained after the lava shell was torn away. He would be the last, the very last, to erode. He remained.
Before him lay the glacial city and the night.
He started his engine again, and headed downhill. Cinq-Mars turned his thoughts to André LaPierre as he drove east, and soon he began to circle his colleague’s apartment, each time narrowing the diameter of the ring. He possessed insufficient knowledge. To overcome that deficiency he would seed a few lies, broker a few threats, to determine whom he could agitate the most.
Ready, Cinq-Mars parked his Taurus wagon and walked up a block in the South Central section of the city near the magnificent arching spans of the Jacques Cartier Bridge. He rang a doorbell and checked his watch. 1:02 A.M. He rang the bell again, at length.
If LaPierre was crooked, he wasn’t living in the lap of luxury as a result. If he was a clean cop, he had to be given marks for dedication. He dwelled among the working poor, where he could hang out with the rough boys. South Central was a back-door community. A working con out on weekend parole could rap on a window and fence what he’d swiped in Westmount, cross the alley to purchase what he needed to get high, choosing his poison, then sally up to the corner to arrange a sleep over. The danger here was in crossing the wrong path, for this was the heart of Rock Machine turf.
As in most of the island city, where land was scarce, homes were crammed tightly together here. The back alleys teemed with life in the summer. In the winter it seemed that everyone disappeared. Flats were small. The quality of construction of newer buildings was haphazard, the old buildings tumbledown. In summer, you could hear your neighbors snore, or listen to late night movies on their TVs. Winter was a time of hunkering down and of trying not to go crazy in the enclosed spaces. Balconies were mounded with snow. Streets here sloped down to the waterfront, and the air at all hours was boisterous with the sounds of traffic, of cars speeding on the bridge across the St. Lawrence.
The return buzzer finally sounded, and he went in.
Cinq-Mars climbed the inside stairs, his rubber overshoes quiet on the wood. LaPierre was waiting in his underwear. He didn’t appear particularly surprised that he was being disturbed in the middle of the night, only by whom.
“Émile?” The taller man’s hair was tousled, his eyes disturbed by the faint light of the foyer. “What the hell?”
“We need to talk, André.”
LaPierre let him in, and Cinq-Mars walked down a short hall to the living room where a young woman padded through in her bare feet and loose gown on her way to the refrigerator. Cinq-Mars offered his colleague a look of measured disapproval.
“Saint Émile, don’t lecture me.”
He was right. The woman was none of his business, although she could pass as a hooker. Probably LaPierre wasn’t paying, just enjoying another perk of hi
s profession, like getting a car fixed by auto thieves and protesting that that was his job, that he had to hang out with the desperate and what he called the brokenhearted, because that’s what they were whenever he busted them. He had to take advantage of his opportunities, which was why the hooker in his house was seventeen. If he hadn’t been on suspension maybe she’d’ve been twelve.
“Can I turn on a light at least?”
“Let me,” LaPierre told him. “I don’t want it bright.”
The floor lamp emitted a low beam. Even so, the young woman returning with a beer in one hand shielded her eyes. As her hand came up, the sash on her robe unwound, exposing small breasts and the patch of pubis. Young and worn, Cinq-Mars assessed. He had an urge to check her arm for marks.
“You on the clock, Émile? Like a beer?”
Cinq-Mars wasn’t sure if he was working officially or not but decided it was irrelevant. “Thanks.”
LaPierre uncapped a couple of St. Ambroises, brought the bottles in from the kitchenette, and sat across from Cinq-Mars. “Sorry, Émile—you want a glass?”
“The bottle’s fine, André.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve been going over your situation.”
“Yeah? It’s a fox-trot, Émile.”
“There’s something you could help us with. It wouldn’t look bad if I get to report that you gave us a hand up, even with your ass in a sling.” He wished the guy would put his pants on, not sit there in his briefs. He was strictly lowlife.
LaPierre spread his arms wide to welcome any positive suggestion. “That’s all I’m asking for, Émile. A fair shake.”
“Around four months ago, André, you covered a hit. A Hell’s Angels’ banker got blown in a 4Runner. Remember that one?”
“Turgeon? No. An English guy.”
“Turner.”
“That’s it.”
“You were the IO.”
LaPierre shrugged, took a swig of beer. “Biker hit, Émile. The Wolverines snatched it up.”
“They always do. They were on the scene and I happened to be with them. But you were the IO until they took it over.”
“My privilege to supervise the mess. Shit River. Body parts every which way. We scraped him off buildings. Scraped, Émile. With putty knives. Those damn Wolverines’ll do anything for a clue.”
“The way the body blew—was that so unique?”
LaPierre shrugged again. “Somebody gets blown, he gets blown. But, yeah, I can’t say I’ve seen a body shoot like that before. The blast came up under him.”
“Interesting,” Cinq-Mars mused.
“How so?”
“The Wolverines reached the obvious conclusion. The Rock Machine blew up a guy working for the Hell’s Angels.”
“They’re not dumb, Émile.”
“I made the same assumption. But something’s come up. It’s possible the hit was only made to look like a biker hit. It’s possible a third party got involved and copied the Rock Machine MO.”
“This is news, Émile.”
“I can’t say much. What I want is access to your memory. Go over the bump. Write down any discrepancy between a regular Rock hit and that one. Begin with the body parts.”
“Émile, this is prime stuff. Who’re you thinking for this?”
“I’m close but I’m not there yet. I’ll think about cutting you in later.”
“Come on, Émile, I’m dying here.”
“I’m not there yet. Sweep the floor for me now, I’ll mop it for you later. I’m not forgetting that so far you haven’t played much tape for me.”
“I don’t believe I’m impeding.”
“It’s a discourtesy.” Cinq-Mars stood, walked to the window at LaPierre’s back, looked down upon the dormant street below. “It also doesn’t help your case much.”
“Everything is timing. I want to see how things fall.”
“You know some boys down at SQ, don’t you? You’ve doubled up on enough cases with Wolverines by now.”
“We get along.” He took a swig from his beer.
“I bet you could go down there and ask for the Turner file. If a pretty girl knows you’re suspended, talk her through it. Chances are, the SQ doesn’t give a hoot about that anyway. Take a look at the file. See what that brings you.”
“Now you’re starting to ask a lot, Émile.”
“I’m worried sick about your retirement, André. Keeps me awake at night. Why should a new muffler sink you for life? It was partly business, like you said. Some cops get to live in the muck. That’s a verity. Hey! Since I’m here, how about showing me your tape room, André? I’d be keen to see that.”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Are you offering or refusing?”
“That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it?”
LaPierre looked like a beaten fighter on his corner stool, humiliated, dejected, dazed, too weary to pull up his shorts, too whipped to stand.
“Don’t think that way. I’m dead serious about the Turner investigation. Now, come on. I bet you showed that hooker your gadgets.”
“I don’t pay for it, Émile.”
“Watch it, André. Be careful. Don’t put your pride as a man before your pride as a cop. That won’t work in front of any panel I can think of.”
LaPierre hung his head, then managed to stand. In an apartment with low ceilings he looked particularly tall. Cinq-Mars followed him into the bedroom, where the girl lay naked swigging beer, leafing through a fashion magazine. The apartment was subtropical. Her robe was bunched up around her feet, and she did nothing to cover herself, but looked up, wondering if something was about to unfold that would involve her and would she have a choice.
“In here,” LaPierre directed. He kept his gear in a large walk-in closet. Stepping inside, Cinq-Mars pulled the cord on the overhead. One end of the closet was reserved for clothing—suits, trousers, shirts on hangers, laundry in a corner lump on the floor—the other had been developed as a miniature workshop. LaPierre did his own repairs. The gutted remains of old mobile units sat wrecked upon a shelf, gleaned for their parts. He’d stored tape recorders and headphones and a series of old microphones along the shelves. For Cinq-Mars it brought to mind the old days, when they’d felt free to tap anybody anytime anywhere. He stayed in the closet awhile, drinking his beer.
“So?” the giraffelike man in his underwear asked him when he came out.
“Relax, André. I wanted to know if you were state-of-the-art. If you were state-of-the-art I’d want to know the name of your bankroll.”
“I’m primitive, Émile. It’s a hobby, all right? Nothing more. A hobby that gives me an edge.”
“You rebuild them?”
“I rework the relics to use those new watch batteries.”
“You’re a genius. I didn’t know. Keep in touch about the Turner case.”
“Will do.”
“Take it easy now.”
“All right. Hey, that Coates boy show up?”
“Hide nor hair. Does that worry you?”
LaPierre made a face. “Maybe he got in deeper than love. I hope he shows up someday.”
“That would be good.”
“Thanks for this, Émile. I think.”
“Hey, buddy, you don’t have to worry about me. I might stuff another cop in the can, but I won’t flush.”
With that final bit of stroking, Émile Cinq-Mars left and walked back to his car, confident that he had put serious matters into motion. It had stopped raining. No plan made sense unless it accomplished a variety of functions. That way, it never looked like a plan, it didn’t take on the appearance of a ploy. In providing LaPierre with intriguing information, he was increasing the man’s worth to the Hell’s Angels—if he was their cop. They’d want to know what the eminent Cinq-Mars was doing, where the thread might lead, what mysterious third party had attacked pretending to be the Rock Machine. If LaPierre was a conduit for that sort of news—and was the cop designated for a hit—the
turn might keep him alive. Cinq-Mars also hoped that the news traveling into the core of the Hell’s Angels might keep himself alive if he was their intended target. The Angels might prefer to keep him breathing once they learned that he was scoping something out for them.
News of an unknown, murderous third party would excite the wolf pack. They’d never figure a college girl—or the CIA—as involved, so the lie could relieve pressure there. With luck, the word traveling back through the skin of the Angels to his source might exhort that individual to establish a more equitable dialogue. That man—especially if he was CIA—would want to know what Cinq-Mars had up his sleeve. Or, that person might use a contact—Ray Rieser, perhaps—to investigate.
If the information did travel through the Hell’s Angels, get picked up by the conduit that Steeplechase Arch was running inside the gang, then return to him through Arch, that would pretty much confirm LaPierre as dirty, since he was giving this news only to him. Cinq-Mars dearly hoped this leak would resolve the matter.
He climbed into his car, held his breath, and started the engine. He breathed out. No bomb. He sat behind the wheel, nagged by suspicions and doubts. He had to mull through conversations with André in the past, cross-reference those with what he’d gleaned in the man’s communications room. André had told him one time that his equipment was mobile, which Cinq-Mars had confirmed in the closet. No long-range equipment, no antennae on the roof or in the house, no cables leading outside, no phone jacks in the cupboard. But hadn’t André also told him that he had recorded Garage Sampson from his home, while he was busy getting ill with the flu? He did not appear to have that capability, and in any case that contradicted his previous mention of being strictly mobile. At the time, Cinq-Mars had picked up on the contradiction and considered it significant. He loved contradictions, they were the cracks in concrete through which his mind traveled. At the time he could not process the information, he hadn’t known enough, his suspicions had not matured. Times were changing now. He had one more jig in the saw of the puzzle, and he had to wonder exactly where it fit.