Open Season (Luc Vanier)

by Peter Kirby

  “Right. I’ll get started.”

  Lynn Gagnon met them at the elevators and led them through a maze of cubicles, heads popping up every now and then as the occupants checked out the visitors. Gagnon found two spare chairs and placed them in the passageway outside her own cubicle. The two detectives sat down, looking into the tiny box where the head translator of Essence spent her days, surrounded by padded walls covered with hand-drawn birthday cards and family photos printed on photocopy paper.

  On the phone, Gagnon had tried her best to dissuade them from coming; she thought they could do everything by phone. Whenever someone suggested something could be done on the phone, Vanier preferred eye contact.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the authority to book a meeting room at short notice. Everything has to be done forty-eight hours in advance. Only management can do last-minute.”

  “Not a problem,” said Saint Jacques.

  Saint Jacques had declined the offer of a coffee, and Vanier was wishing he’d done the same thing. He was nursing a cup of the cheap institutional stuff with clumps of powered creamer floating on the surface.

  “Like I said on the phone, Inspector, we do all kinds of translations. Some we do in house and some we subcontract. Antoine Lepage is one of our regular subcontractors. If he doesn’t do it himself, he’s got a list of people he uses.”

  “So who do I need to talk to if I’m interested in a particular contract?” said Vanier.

  “That would be me.”

  “What can you tell me about job number 14-0629. That’s what it said on the invoice.”

  “Let me look.”

  She rolled her chair back inside the cubicle and started punching keys. She looked at the screen and screwed up her face. She threw Vanier a quizzical look. She typed some more, and turned back to the detectives. “It’s not showing up. Are you sure it’s the right number?”

  “Certain,” said Saint Jacques, handing her a copy of ALT’s invoice. “14-0629.”

  Gagnon studied the invoice. “Let’s try something else.”

  They waited while Gagnon tried different permutations. She looked up from the screen. “The records show the number wasn’t used. It’s a cancelled number.”

  “What does that mean?” Saint Jacques asked.

  “Nothing. Just means it wasn’t used. 14 is for the year, and the 629 is the number in the queue. This would have been the six hundred twenty-ninth translation job in 2014. But it’s not unusual for numbers to be cancelled. When that happens, the cancellation is normally cross-referenced with another number. For instance, if the job changes, you might want to change the job number to make the charge to a different account. But just cancelling it altogether probably means someone screwed up. There’s no work associated with it.”

  The explanation was lost on Vanier, and Saint Jacques looked like she was having trouble keeping up.

  “So there was no work done on the file?” asked Saint Jacques.

  “The system wouldn’t allow any work to be done.”

  “And nobody got paid? Mr. Lepage said he got paid,” said Saint Jacques.

  “The system can’t generate a cheque on a cancelled job number.” She looked from Vanier to Saint Jacques like a schoolteacher.

  “What if the job number was cancelled after the work was done? After the payment?” said Vanier.

  “I don’t know how you would do that. Maybe the technical people could do it but it would be difficult.”

  Vanier scratched his head. He was losing patience. “Can you tell what department the number was associated with?”

  “You’re not understanding me. The number is in the system, but there’s nothing associated with it. It’s a mistake. It’s simply a dead number.”

  “This is the job you called Antoine Lepage about two months ago. First to get the work done and then to make sure he had destroyed the Essence document. You remember that?” he asked.

  Gagnon thought for a while. “Kind of. Vaguely.”

  “He said you were very insistent on destroying the documents and wanted confirmation that all copies had been erased. Doesn’t that ring a bell?”

  “That’s unfair. It’s company policy. I was just reminding him of that. I remember the call. Not the details, but I remember reading him the instructions over the phone. But it couldn’t have been the job number you’re asking about.”

  “Why not?”

  Now she was focused on Vanier like he was a kid needing special attention. “Because, as I told you, there’s nothing in the system associated with that job. If any work had been done before the number was cancelled it would show up in the system. Even if the job was cancelled, the various steps before cancellation would have been logged.”

  “Who asked you to call up Mr. Lepage?”

  “No idea. People don’t call me. Everything is automatic. If someone has a job, they go into the system and place the order, if you will. They write out what they need, attach the document and enter the job number. Then the job is cued for translation. Every day, I get messages cued up for action. Even if they only want to check on the progress of a particular job, they don’t call, they log a message into the system. If I have questions, I have to ask it through the system and wait for a response. It’s rare that I talk to the person who’s looking for the translation. Every morning, I get a list of job numbers that need action, I pull them up and I do whatever is necessary. That’s all.”

  “And do you know who went to his office to make sure all copies were destroyed?”

  “Somebody went to check?”

  “Yes. Any idea who?”

  “Not me. I called him, reminded him of the duty to destroy copies and that was it. I would have logged into the system to confirm that I had spoken to him and given him the instructions. Again, that’s the sort of thing that would be listed in the job log.”

  “If you did that, shouldn’t you be able to track down that note in the system?”

  “Of course. That’s what I did earlier. When I was looking for a record of the job. I searched all my entries. There was nothing.”

  Vanier felt like banging his head on the cubicle wall but was afraid it would topple over.

  Saint Jacques stood up. “Let’s try something else. If I asked you who in the company might need Spanish translation services, who would come to mind?”

  “It could be anyone. We operate in several countries in Central and South America, and we’ve got four groups—transportation, infrastructure, resource development and power generation. There must be more than a thousand employees who could need Spanish work on a regular basis.”

  “So you’re saying there’s no way to identify the documents that were sent to Lepage?” said Vanier.

  “If he doesn’t have them, and he shouldn’t, and there is nothing in the system log, it’s impossible.”

  “So who are the people in charge of Central and South America? Can we get those names?” said Vanier.

  “Latin America, that’s Richard Susskind. He’s vice-president for Latin America. But he wouldn’t be involved in this sort of thing.”

  “Can you get us a meeting with Mr. Susskind now?”

  Gagnon looked surprised. “Really? Mr. Susskind is responsible for all of Latin America. I doubt he can help you with this.”

  Vanier stood up. “We would like to meet him. Now.”

  It took half an hour, but Vanier and Saint Jacques were eventually put in a small, windowless conference room lined with whiteboards. The plastic table was too large for the room. The receptionist pointed them to seats at the far end of the table, farthest from the door, but to get to them, they would have had to walk sideways along the side of the table, so Vanier chose for himself, taking the chair nearest the door and pulling another chair out for Saint Jacques. Whoever came in after would have to squeeze along the table.

  It w
as another ten minutes before Richard Susskind showed up. He was short and heavy, well on the way from fat to obese, his jacket cut like a tent to hide the bulges. He was not happy about having to shuffle sideways up the table to squeeze into a small plastic chair. Two women followed him and sat down to his right. He introduced them as Adriana Menendez, his personal assistant, and Sylvie Nadeau, one of Essence’s lawyers.

  “Always need a lawyer when you talk to the police,” Susskind said with a grin. The two women pulled out business cards and pushed them up the table to the two officers.

  “Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Susskind,” said Vanier. “We’re investigating the kidnapping of Sophia Luna. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  A grimace passed across Susskind’s face, but Vanier couldn’t tell if it was because of the name or Susskind simply trying to get comfortable with his belly squeezed under the table. He made a show of giving the question serious thought. “No. Of course, I cannot be certain. I meet hundreds of people every year. But no, the name doesn’t mean anything to me. Should I know her?”

  “She did some work for Essence.”

  Both women were scribbling notes, trying to get everything verbatim.

  “It’s possible. But I don’t know her. We could do a search of the human resource records if you want.” He turned to his Menendez. She nodded and wrote something on her pad.

  “No,” Vanier said. She wasn’t an employee. She did some translation for Essence, freelance, English to Spanish. That would be your group wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m responsible for Latin America, if that’s what you mean. But that doesn’t mean she was working for my group. It could have been the Europeans. They speak Spanish in Spain, don’t they?” He gave Vanier a salesman’s laugh.

  “Does Essence have work in Spain?”

  “It’s possible. There’s no major contract that I’m aware of, but maybe we bid on work from time to time. If there was a bid, they would need translation.”

  “Who should we speak to?”

  “George Lautaud is VP Europe. He works out of the London office. Adriana can give you the number.”

  “Is it likely that he’d be using a Montreal translator for an English to Spanish job if he’s in Europe?”

  “Now that you mention it, I suppose not.”

  Vanier sat forward in his chair. “We’re investigating an abduction, Mr. Susskind. Madame Luna was a journalist from Guatemala and she did freelance translation work for Essence. But it seems all traces of what she translated have disappeared. We just want to make sure that her work for Essence had nothing to do with her disappearance.”

  “Well, I know nothing about her or any work she did for us.”

  “Whatever work she did, it seems to have disappeared from the system. Any ideas about that?”

  “Officer, just because I’m in charge doesn’t mean I know everything that’s going on. I don’t micromanage.”

  “Is Essence doing any work in Guatemala?”

  “None for the moment. We have a mine there, in Chajul, but there was an incident about a year ago ago. The mine’s been closed since then.”

  “An incident?”

  “Yes, Mr., ah …” Susskind picked up the business card. “Mr. Vanier. There was a mudslide. Unfortunate accident.”

  He was getting to Vanier. First officer, then mister. Now Susskind was looking down at his lap, staring at his BlackBerry. Vanier said nothing, letting the silence hang. Susskind was absorbed with his BlackBerry, and the other four were looking at him.

  He looked up from the BlackBerry. “What? Oh, I’m sorry. What was your question?

  “Am I boring you, Mr. Susskind?”

  “Just not sure how much help I can be, that’s all.”

  “Tell me about the unfortunate accident.”

  Susskind slipped his BlackBerry into his pocket. “There’s nothing to tell. There was an accident about a year ago, and people were killed. But we made things right. We put together a compensation fund for the victims and survivors.”

  “How many people died?”

  Susskind switched to concerned executive. “Too many. One death is too many. And my sympathies go out to the families. But Essence did what was needed to be done to help those poor people.”

  “How many people died, Mr. Susskind. Simple question.”

  “I don’t have the exact number. I don’t know if anyone does. But it was in the region of a hundred. Like I said, too many.” Susskind looked at his watch. “I am not sure what this has to do with the woman who has disappeared.”

  “Sophia Luna.”

  “Listen, I would love to help, but I don’t think there is anything I can do for you.”

  Vanier stood up. “Thanks for your time.”

  Susskind didn’t move. It looked like he was going to have to shove the table away before he could stand up. “If there’s anything else, just give Adriana a call.”

  Sixteen

  As soon as the TV stations and newspapers began running the hospital images of the guy in the tracksuit, the calls started coming in. There were over eighty, and every lead had to be checked. One by one the leads were verified. It took time. But eventually there were only two left, and they both led to the same place. A ticket-taker at the Crémazie metro station had called in, and swore he used to see the same guy taking the metro most mornings around seven o’clock. The second call was from a woman who said she recognized the guy as her neighbour. The address was close to the metro station.

  Uniforms had gone to the address a few times, but the suspect was never home. Eventually they talked to the landlord, who confirmed the resemblance. A door-to-door canvass of the building got another three positive identifications. Finally, they called it in to Saint Jacques.

  Now Vanier and Saint Jacques were standing down the hallway from the apartment. Five SWAT officers were lined up against the wall, two on either side of the door, dressed for shock and awe in black bulletproof jackets and military-style helmets, and carrying Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns.

  From the end of the hallway, they watched the lead officer put his boot to the lock of the flimsy door. The door cracked under the force and five officers streamed into the apartment, yelling “Police! Par terre! On the ground.”

  In seconds, the team leader was back, walking up the hallway to Vanier and Saint Jacques.

  “Clear. The place is empty.”

  Vanier nodded and headed for the broken door, followed by Saint Jacques. The apartment looked like a by-the-month hotel room. Whoever had lived there had cleared out, leaving nothing personal. A quick tour confirmed there were no clothes, papers—any of the hundreds of things that people own. In the fridge there was a carton of milk, some eggs and a loaf of bread, two pizzas in the freezer.

  “We’ll have someone dust the place for fingerprints, sir,” said Saint Jacques.

  Vanier nodded. “We might have the guy. If only we knew who he was.”

  They both turned at a noise in the doorway. One of the SWAT team was leading a man in jeans and T-shirt past the broken door. He looked like he had been painting, his hair, skin and clothes flecked with small white spots.

  “Mr. Chabot, sir. He’s the landlord.”

  “Who lived here?” Vanier asked.

  “Carlos. I don’t know his last name. But Carlos. He’s been here for four months. It’s a month-to-month rental. All furnished.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Quiet, no trouble. He paid the rent. What else is to know?” Chabot shrugged his shoulders.

  “Is he from here? From Quebec? How old? Where does he work?”

  “He paid cash every month. Like I said, he was quiet, no trouble. Didn’t have parties, didn’t destroy the place. What else do I need to know?”

  Vanier walked over and put his face within inches of the landlord’s face
. “Listen. When I ask you a question, you listen, then you think, then you answer. Got it? Now, was he a Quebecer? Speak French or English? Height, weight, colour of hair and eyes? Any scars? Everything you know about him. Got it?”

  The landlord took a step back. “Hey, don’t get mad. The guy was dark-looking, you know, South American. He spoke Spanish. Tall and built like a shithouse, one of them gym freaks with arms the size of your leg. Always polite but never smiled. Curly dark hair, maybe close to black, and dark brown eyes. But a quiet guy, you know. Never heard nothing from his place.”

  “And his name was Carlos?”

  “He said, ‘Call me Carlos’.”

  “He had a job?”

  “Most of the time he came back it was, like, four o’clock in the afternoon. So maybe he had a job, maybe the early shift. He always had a bag with him, like maybe he was carrying work clothes or something. But I never saw a uniform.”

  “Did he give references when he rented?”

  “I don’t ask for references. You pay, you stay.”

  “And he paid?”

  “Like I said, every month.”

  “Cash?”

  Chabot looked at Vanier like it was a stupid question. “I don’t take cheques.”

  “So no last name. He never asked for a receipt?”

  Vanier got the look again. “A guy like that doesn’t need a receipt. This was the kind of guy you don’t fuck with.” He looked to Saint Jacques. “Excuse me, screw with. He was serious. So he pays me and I keep out of his life.”

  Vanier looked to the SWAT officer that had brought him in. “Get him out of here.”

  As Chabot was leaving, he turned around. “Who’s going to pay for the door?”

  “Put in a claim,” Vanier said.

  Vanier wandered into the kitchen. The window gave out onto an alley. It was wide open, but there was hardly a breeze. Vanier reached for the window and pushed it up slightly. As he did, a piece of cardboard that had been jammed in to keep the window up fell onto the sill.