Open Season (Luc Vanier)

by Peter Kirby

  The truck’s first stop was behind the Plaza Côte-des-Neiges shopping centre. After that it stopped at every block up the hill and every block on the way back down. The dump truck had made sixty pickups on the way up and thirty more on the way down, ending at a large supermarket.

  Vanier and Saint Jacques were drinking iced coffees on a terrace at the top end of the street.

  “We can’t do a door-to-door,” Vanier said. “It would take years. And we’d need twenty translators.”

  “But we could do a public appeal. Look at how many people go by. Look at the bus.”

  Vanier looked. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, but the bus was packed.

  “If we got two posts,” Saint Jacques continued. “One near the bottom, one up here, with a blow-up picture of Camara and a poster: Do You Know This Man? It would take manpower, but it’s our best shot at finding out where he was living.”

  Vanier was watching the street. “Or,” Saint Jacques continued, “we could just wait until the landlord reports it.”

  “Around here? The place will be rented out in a heartbeat if he’s not around to pay the rent. We need to get to it before anyone else does. Let’s go with the public appeal.”

  Saint Jacques pulled out her cellphone and started making the calls.

  It took two days to set up the command posts. The uniforms started at eight o’clock, and by nine-thirty they had a positive identification. At ten-thirty, Vanier and Saint Jacques were standing outside a building on Berkeley.

  Vanier leaned on the buzzer marked Janitor, and a small South-Asian man in slippers and a dressing gown came shuffling out of the darkened hallway. He opened the glass door cautiously.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  Vanier held up a photograph of Camara. “Police. Do you recognize this man?”

  The janitor pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and put his foot against the door to stop it from closing. He squinted at the photograph.

  “Yes. Yes. Mr. Condé, he lives in 103, at the back.” He gestured down the hallway behind him.. “But I don’t think he’s home. I haven’t seen him for a few days. Very quiet fellow.”

  Vanier pushed open the door and walked in. Saint Jacques followed.

  “You have the keys?”

  “I don’t think …”

  “It’s urgent. A murder inquiry.” The janitor looked at Saint Jacques for confirmation and then back to Vanier.

  “I’ll get the keys.” He came back in two minutes with a large bunch of keys. He held a toasted sandwich in the other hand. “I was just going to have breakfast when you rang the buzzer.”

  Vanier stood behind him while he played with a key in the lock. It clicked into place and he pushed the door. Vanier took him by the shoulders and moved him aside. “Stay here.”

  The apartment was one room with a small bathroom. A tiny alcove housed a sink and hot plate. A thick length of steel was lying by the side of the door, a security doorstop that would have been propped under the door handle. The door wouldn’t open with the bar in place. There was only one window in the place, a double-hung that gave onto the alley in the back. The bottom frame was pushed all the way up.

  The room had been searched. What little Camara owned had been strewn over the floor. Vanier moved around the apartment slowly.

  “Reminds me of Luna’s place and Bélair’s office,” Saint Jacques said. “They’re still looking for something.”

  “Maybe they found it this time.” Vanier pointed to the bed. The mattress was still on the bed. “They had sliced the mattress open when they searched Luna’s place.”

  Vanier went over to the window. There was a single bullet hole through the glass in each frame, but the holes didn’t match. He turned to look back at the door, and took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket before turning back to the window. He pulled on the lower frame. When it was about six inches from the windowsill, the bullet holes matched, at a height that was level with Vanier’s shoulder, and that would have been level with Camara’s head.

  He turned back to Saint Jacques. “Someone comes to the door and Camara decides to leave in a hurry. He goes to the window, opens it, and he’s shot, falls back onto the carpet.”

  He pointed to a faint line of accumulated dirt outlining a rectangle.

  “After he shoots Camara, the shooter pulls the window up, climbs in and opens the door.”

  “So there were two of them?”

  “Camara was always ready to run. If there had only been one, it would’ve taken him time to realize the door wasn’t going to open. With the security bar, Camara would have had plenty of time to disappear out the window. Call the SOC guys and get them here. We’ve got our crime scene.”

  While Saint Jacques was on the phone, Vanier wandered around looking for anything out of the ordinary. There was hardly anything personal in the place. Camara travelled light, and he didn’t seem to have accumulated much since he had found his own place. Vanier pulled the mattress up off the bed, but there was nothing underneath, and no rips or tears. He got down on his hands and knees to look under the bed. Nothing. He walked around the edges of the fitted carpet, bending to pull at it every few feet but it was tight as a drum. Then he moved into the kitchen alcove and pulled out a drawer, bending look under it. He straightened up and removed the plastic cutlery tray. Then he pulled the drawer all the way out and held it up for Saint Jacques to see. She gave him the thumbs up while she continued talking. A brown envelope was taped under the drawer. Peeling away the tape that was holding the envelope to the drawer, Vanier released it. The brown envelope wasn’t sealed, and there was a smaller white envelope inside it. He pulled it out. The printing said it was from the Office of the Minister of Citizenship and Immigration, and it was addressed simply to Mr. Sékou Camara. Vanier pulled out the letter. The letter was signed by the Minister himself. Saint Jacques was still on the phone, trying to read the letter over Vanier’s shoulder. Vanier started reading out loud:

  “Pursuant to section 25 of the Canadian Citizenship Immigration and Refugee Protection Act, I hereby grant permanent resident status to you, Sékou Camara, on humanitarian and compassionate grounds.”

  It was signed by Michael Showers, Minister of Citizenship and Immigration. Signed four days before Camara’s body had shown up at the dump.

  “The Minister makes him a legal resident and then he’s killed. What’s going on, boss?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Saint Jacques went to the car for the yellow tape. By the time she got back, a patrol car had arrived, and they let the uniforms seal up the place.

  On the way back to the office, Vanier and Saint Jacques decided to visit Henri Cabana, hoping that he could explain Camara’s letter. The immigration lawyer read it carefully, thought for a second, polished his glasses, and read it again. He looked up at the detectives. “It looks genuine. It’s signed by the Minister. But that’s amazing.”

  “Why amazing?”

  “This guy doesn’t do humanitarian and compassionate.”

  “Showers?”

  “Michael Showers. Canada’s Minister for Citizenship and Immigration.” Cabana leaned back in his chair. “He has the authority to grant permanent resident status to anyone on humanitarian and compassionate grounds. That power was used in the past. Rarely, but it was used. Mostly for the really tragic cases that get into the newspapers. You know, some family failed in the refugee claim, but there is something special that pulls at the heartstrings. I had a client years ago where the father had saved some kid in a swimming pool. He was a hero, and Canada was going to deport him and his family. No politician likes that kind of bad publicity. So the Minister at the time issued a permit on humanitarian and compassionate grounds. But not Showers. He doesn’t do that.”

  “Could Sophia Luna have applied for one of those?” said Vanier.

  “We discussed it. I told
her it was as likely as getting a pardon for a pedophile axe murderer.”

  “She didn’t qualify?”

  “Under Showers, nobody qualifies. This guy doesn’t even approve of immigration. At best, it’s a necessary evil. His philosophy is, if Canada needs more people, women should make more babies.”

  “So Sophia Luna would not have received a Minister’s permit?” said Vanier.

  “A leftist, lesbian journalist? Not a chance in hell. Among immigration lawyers, the word was that the Minister hadn’t issued a single permit. I guess we were wrong. He issued this one.” Cabana tapped the plastic sleeve with his finger. “Who is the lucky recipient?”

  “A failed refugee claimant. A guy from Guinea.”

  “He must’ve had a great story.”

  “You mean his claim?” Vanier asked.

  “Not his claim. The humanitarian and compassionate grounds. His claim must have been rejected. Otherwise, he wouldn’t need a permit. No, the Minister would only grant a permit if there were compelling humanitarian grounds.”

  “You mean like family reasons, heartstrings kinds of stuff?” said Saint Jacques.

  “Exactly. But it would need to be a damn good story. So what was it? A Muslim extremist who became a born-again Christian?”

  “He was a thirty-five-year-old African with bad eyesight. No family in Canada that we know of. Nice guy, but that’s all.”

  “Then I don’t understand,” said Cabana.

  “I’m beginning to.” Vanier was on his feet, picking up the letter. “You’ve been a great help.”

  “Can I have a copy of the letter?”

  “Afraid not. Maybe when this is over.”

  “It’s a head scratcher,” said Cabana.

  “It is that,” said Vanier.

  Twenty-nine

  The squad room was hushed, and the atmosphere was tense. Saint Jacques was bounding back and forth on her crutches as though to sit down would be to give up. Vanier had his feet up on the desk and hadn’t said a word in half an hour. Everyone was trying to put the pieces together in their heads.

  “As theories go, it’s a good one. It holds together. But it just doesn’t make sense,” said Laurent.

  “We have a draft, unsigned contract that seems to show several people, including a Canadian minister, skimming millions off the compensation fund. We know that Luna saw the draft and would have been familiar with the Guatemalan players. But that was two months ago.”

  Saint Jacques spoke up. “We know that someone at Essence went to great pains to get the document back. Luna was looking for someone to help her with some transaction, and she was kidnapped and killed. So maybe she had a copy and was blackmailing them?”

  “Why kidnap her?” said Laurent. “Why not just kill her?”

  “Because she had put the copies in a safe place and had a backup plan to release the documents if they didn’t cooperate,” said Vanier.

  “Camara?”

  “Exactly.

  “So they kidnapped her to force her to give up her copy,” said Saint Jacques.

  “But the contract was circulated for translation months ago. Why did they wait to grab her?” Laurent asked.

  “Maybe they didn’t wait.” Vanier said. “Maybe she waited. The deal was only done a few weeks ago. So she waited, and then she contacted them. There’s no way anyone would sign the contract in draft form, with the names. Maybe the names were just placeholders.”

  “The draft showed who would be getting the money, but the final contract would have covered all that up,” Saint Jacques said. “They would have dressed it up to look legitimate. So Luna waited until the money had been paid. Maybe she had proof of who was getting paid.”

  “With that information, she could try to get a Minister’s permit,” Vanier continued. “Camara got one.”

  “But how do you tie in the Immigration Minister? He’s the one who signed the permit,” said Saint Jacques.

  “True, but these are politicians. They trade favours. You don’t get to be a Cabinet Minister without help. Maybe he owed Hastings a favour,” Vanier said.

  “So Lindon Hastings was getting squeezed by Luna. He tells Essence what’s happening, and they pick her up,” Saint Jacques concluded.

  “The security firm GSC does. They do the dirty work for Essence,” said Laurent.

  “Camara told me he made a copy of whatever was in the safety deposit box. He figured it out for himself. After they killed Luna, he tried to make the same deal. Give up the papers in return for permanent residency. But he was more successful,” said Vanier.

  “He knew what he was up against. He was a careful guy, Maybe he had a better plan,” said Saint Jacques.

  “So this time they actually issued the permit. Then, once they get the documents back, Camara’s the only one outside the circle who knows what went down. So they kill him,” said Vanier.

  “What about us? We have the draft, and we’re outside the circle,” said Saint Jacques.

  “We’re still a problem for them, but what have we got? We’ve got an undated draft. Their lawyers will be all over that. It’s nothing. Essence probably assumes we can’t go anywhere with that,” Vanier said.

  “So we’ve got a theory. But there’s no good evidence, nothing concrete. You can’t get a search warrant on speculation,” said Laurent.

  “So what do we do?” said Saint Jacques.

  The squad room fell silent again. Vanier pulled his feet off the desk and leaned forward. “Let’s shake the cage.”

  He pulled the keyboard of the computer into place and looked up the Minister of Immigration. The first result was the Minister’s Ottawa office. Vanier used an internal phone, the kind that blocks caller ID. He dialled the number and put the phone on speaker. In seconds, someone answered.

  “Minister Showers’s office.” A woman’s voice.

  “I’d like to speak to the Minister.”

  “Hold on. I’ll put you through to a member of his staff.”

  He was put on hold and then reconnected. “Minister’s office.” A man’s voice this time.

  “The Minister, please.”

  “Could you tell me what it’s about?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Then you should call him on his personal phone.”

  “I’m not a friend. I don’t have the number.”

  “Then you need to tell me what it’s about and I can direct you to the right person.”

  “Okay. Got a pen?”

  “Yes. Go ahead.”

  “Tell the minister to call me back. Tell him it’s urgent. I want to talk to him about Essence, the Chajul compensation fund, and his good friend Minister Hastings. Got that?”

  “I think so, yes. You want to talk to Minister Showers about Essence, the Chajul compensation fund and Minister Hastings.”

  “His good friend, Minister Hastings. Write that down.”

  “Yes. Right, his good friend Minister Hastings.” Vanier left his cell number.

  “And your name, sir.”

  “No name,” said Vanier, and clicked disconnect. He looked up. “If he calls back, there’s a connection and we’re not crazy.”

  Vanier pulled open his desk drawer and began searching through the clutter. Things went into the drawers, but rarely left, an accumulation of junk that might come in useful someday: staples, paper clips, pens, batteries, notepads, loose sachets of Alka-Seltzer, Tylenol, over-the-counter remedies for intemperance. Finally, he pulled out a small cube with a cable connector and attached it to his cellphone.

  “A cell-phone speaker. Alex gave it to me.”

  “Impressive,” said Saint Jacques.

  The call came in fifteen minutes later, from an Ottawa number. Vanier hit connect. “Mr. Minister. Thanks for calling back.”

  “What the hell is this about?”


  “My name is Detective Inspector Vanier, I’m with the Major Crimes Squad in Montreal. I wanted to …”

  “A policeman?” He was yelling. “You want to speak to a Minister of the Crown, you go through normal protocol. You understand me? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Minister …”

  The line had already disconnected. Vanier looked across to Saint Jacques. “He knows. Jesus. We’re not crazy,” Vanier said.

  “Yes, and now he knows that we know,” Saint Jacques said. “Things could start getting rough.”

  The bar at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel was as close to a businessman’s club as you could get without investing your retirement fund in a membership fee. All dark wood and muted fabrics, it was the kind of place where even changing the carpets would get the historical society picketing the front door. Even the waiters were old. They wore black and never spoke louder than a church whisper. The doors of the coolers behind the bar closed with the sound of velvet on velvet. It was an oasis where the only background noise was ice clinking on crystal, and where murmured conversations were not meant to be overheard.

  Susskind was on his second martini, and he felt like he was drinking water. Despite the air conditioning, he could feel the sweat soaking his shirt under his suit jacket. He resisted the urge to loosen his tie. Appearances count, and he needed to look in control.

  Joe Merchant was already half an hour late. Susskind’s phone was sitting in his breast pocket. He’d switched it to vibrate, as the sign at the entrance instructed. Now, the stream of incoming emails vibrated over his heart every few seconds. He took another slug of the martini and examined the backs of his hands. They were covered in an ugly red rash, the skin brittle and peeling.