by Peter Kirby
When Merchant finally arrived, forty-five minutes late, he didn’t apologize, just sat down heavily in the chair, and looked at Susskind. “Traffic.”
Susskind was about to say something, but the waiter beat him to it.
“What can I get you, sir?”
Merchant looked at Susskind’s glass. “Martini looks good.”
“Gin or vodka, sir?”
“Who the fuck puts vodka in a martini?”
“People like it, sir. It’s very popular.”
“Not me.”
The waiter turned to leave. Susskind said, “I’ll have another.” He wasn’t sure if the waiter heard him.
Susskind leaned towards Merchant. “We’re almost there.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“We had to do what’s necessary. You know that.”
“This is turning into a cluster fuck, and you’re getting me worried. Seriously worried.”
Susskind tried to look calm. He hated delivering bad news. “The cop, Vanier. He called Minister Showers. All hell has broken loose.”
“God almighty. What did he say?”
“Who, the Minister? Vanier?”
“Let’s start with Vanier.”
“Nothing. That’s the thing. He left a message for the Minister. He mentioned Essence, the compensation deal and Minister Hastings. He left a number, and Showers called him back.”
“Asshole. I hope he didn’t say anything.”
“He says no. But Vanier’s not stupid. He knows that Ministers of the Crown don’t return strange phone calls. Just calling back gave Vanier too much information. Vanier has become very dangerous.”
Susskind looked up at Merchant, hoping he would get the message without his having to say it directly.
“Don’t even go there,” Merchant said. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“There’s no way we’re going after a cop. A detective, no less. That’s just not going to happen.”
“Do you have any idea what’s at stake here?”
“Yeah. Maybe fifty million in payoffs. And if you ask me, we’re wasting a lot of effort paying off a bunch of crooked politicians.”
The waiter came back with the drinks, and they waited in silence until he left.
“Fifty million is nothing. Essence has a market cap of four billion dollars. If any of this leaks, the company goes down the toilet faster than you can flush. I don’t even want to contemplate that. Essence depends on public contracts, and we can lose them in a heartbeat with a corruption scandal. Even the rumour of an investigation would send the shares crashing. That’s real money coming straight out of our shareholders’ pockets. If we start losing contracts, we’re finished.”
“The cop’s fishing. He needs evidence and he doesn’t have any. Suspicions aren’t enough. If he knew anything, you’d be dealing with search warrants, not prank phone calls.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Susskind wasn’t convinced.
“Of course I’m fucking right.”
“A situation like this, you’ve got to control it. Minister Hastings was on the phone to me screaming that he’d have my skin. He could call anybody on our board, and I would be out of a job in the morning. But this is not about me. It’s about all of us.”
Merchant listened, waiting for the threat.
“You know how politicians are. If Showers thinks he’s in trouble, he’ll grab a lawyer and make a deal with the cops. Everyone knows the first guy to go to the cops will get an immunity deal. That’s what we have to avoid. We need to convince them, Hastings and Showers, that there is no problem.”
“That’s your job.”
“And I’m doing it. But I need help. I need to get Vanier to back off.”
“Killing him is off the table. It’s a stupid idea.” Merchant looked at Susskind for emphasis. Both knew it was Susskind’s best idea. His only idea.
“Joe, this is your jurisdiction. We need to get him out of the picture. I don’t know how to do these things. Give him money? You need to give me something. We’ll find the money. We need to stop him. Soon.”
“Let me think about it.”
“Overnight. Okay. Think overnight. I need to know first thing in the morning.”
Merchant finished his drink and stood up. “Yeah. First thing.”
Thirty
Alex was feeling good. He was tired, and his muscles hurt, but in the satisfying way that manual labour in the sun makes you feel.
His alert level was down to civilian—he was comfortable, almost blind to most of what was going on around him. It had taken time to get there, time and medication. He had been on red alert when he got back from Afghanistan, and couldn’t figure out how to switch down. Walking the streets of Montreal had been no different to him than Kandahar, every doorway, every window or rooftop concealing a threat; the slightest movement could mean a sniper preparing to pull off a shot. He had been primed, scanning people for bulges, checking where their hands were, checking their faces, their eyes, whether they were walking too slowly, or too fast. And there were always noises: trucks speeding up or slowing down, footsteps running towards him or away to escape an explosion. He would listen for the silences as carefully as he would for the noises, for the silence that preceded everything bad, because the world is never as quiet as when it’s holding its breath.
Being on red alert had kept him alive in Kandahar, and he had gotten used to it. His life depended on it. But it was crippling when he got home and found the switch was broken. For months, he had lived as though every moment was filled with the potential to be his last. But he was unarmed and defenceless, a civilian in a war zone.
It had taken months for him to dial down, and he could only do it slowly; five minutes of peace every now and then became fifteen, then the occasional hour. Now he could work in the garden without needing to process the meaning of footsteps on gravel, or a man emerging from the trees. Now he functioned for days as a near-civilian, ignoring the daily noise, like everyone else.
The day had cooled into evening, and he was looking forward to preparing supper. He had a bag in each hand, filled with fresh vegetables, cold cuts, and cheese. Katya’s appetite had surprised him, even inspiring him to cook—a rare event. He half expected Domino’s pizza to send someone over to see if he was okay. He was enjoying having someone to look after.
He was thinking of nothing except supper as he climbed the staircase. He pulled his keys from his pocket and reached for the door. It was open. In a second, Alex was back on red alert, and time slowed down. He put the bags on the floor and walked slowly into the apartment. The first thing he saw was the scrawled message on the wall:
DON’T PLAY WITH MORE LIVES!
Two chairs were lying on the floor, but nothing else seemed out of place. From the bathroom he heard the sound of running water. He walked down the hallway, sweat beading on his forehead. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, pushed the door, and walked in. The shower was going full blast, but there was no steam. Katya was lying still and white on the floor of the tub, naked under the cold spray. A bead of blood ran from her nose and was washed down her face by the pounding water. A thin, faint line of blood followed the water between her legs to the drain.
Alex bent forward to feel for a pulse, but everything went black. He fell to his knees and pitched forward, ending up half in the shower with his legs splayed on the floor, his arm inches from Katya’s neck, his shirt soaking up the spray. Katya stirred, lifted her hand and reached out to cradle his head. Alex didn’t open his eyes. Five minutes passed, and Katya moved again. She stood shakily and stepped out of the tub. She lifted Alex’s arm and placed it behind her neck, then grabbed his waist and half pulled him, half convinced him, to his feet. She led him down the hallway to his bedroom and let him drop onto the bed. She lay beside him, and pull
ed the blanket over both of them.
Vanier was stroking his son’s forehead, watching him sleep. The sedatives had finally taken hold, and Alex looked like he would sleep for hours in the hospital bed. Anjili Segal occasionally reached out a finger to touch Vanier’s free hand, as if to remind him that she was there.
Katya had eventually called Vanier, who had driven them both to the hospital. David Reynolds had met them there and had taken charge of Katya while she went through the trauma of the tests at the sexual assault centre. He said he would look after her when it was all finished.
“We are all in danger, Luc. That’s what this means, doesn’t it?” Anjili asked.
The question went unanswered for a few seconds. She moved towards Vanier and held onto his arm.
“The people who did this were sending me a message,” Vanier replied. “They’ll wait to see if I get it.”
“And are you going to do what they want? Are you going to walk away?”
Vanier didn’t say anything.
“A girl was beaten and raped in your son’s apartment, Luc. That’s too close to home.”
Vanier looked at her.
“You’re not, are you?”
Vanier fished his phone from his pocket and started punching numbers. “I have to call the Chief.”
It was eleven o’clock at night. Bédard sounded like he was already in bed. “Luc?”
“Chief. Sorry to wake you.”
“You didn’t wake me.” Bédard was defensive. “I wasn’t in bed. It’s only eleven o’clock.”
Vanier had a vision of Bédard sleeping like a baby every night. “Something’s come up. I need to take a few days’ leave. Starting now.”
“Personal?”
“Personal.”
“Of course, Luc. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. Thanks, but no. It’s something I need to do.”
“The murder case, Luna. It’s going nowhere, right? A couple of days won’t matter, I suppose.”
“We’ve hit a wall. We’ve got theories, but no evidence. You’re right, it’s going nowhere.”
“So we can put it on hold till you get back?”
“Maybe it’s best. Unless we get something new, we’re stuck.”
“Okay, Luc. Do what you need to do. I’ll get someone to cover for you. Nobody will even notice you’re not there.”
“No. Make sure everyone knows. It’s important. If there are calls for me, tell them I’ve taken leave, you don’t know for how long.”
“If that’s what you want.” There was a pause. “Luc, what’s this about? Is there something I should know?”
“Like I said. It’s personal.”
There was silence for a moment at the other end of the phone. “Okay, Luc. Keep in touch.”
Vanier disconnected and looked down at his son.
“We could go away for a few days. The three of us,” Anjili said. “Tomorrow if you want. We could go to Maine.” She tried to force a smile, and only half succeeded.
“I’ve always liked Maine,” he said. “I like the sea.”
“I know. So why not? I can call in to the office, make an excuse. We could leave in the morning.”
Vanier put his phone back in his pocket. “Twenty-four hours. I need twenty-four hours.”
She knew there was no point in arguing. She followed him to the door.
“Alex will sleep for at least six hours. I’ll take him back to my place. Be careful.”
“Take care of Alex. And yourself. I’ll call you.” Vanier leaned down and kissed her. He straightened up, looked her in the eyes and leaned in again. This time he hugged her closely, breathed in her scent. He wondered why he couldn’t stay like that forever.
“I’ll be okay.”
Thirty-one
The first thing Richard Susskind did every morning was check his email. He wanted everyone to know that he was up and working when most people were still in bed. If he could respond to an email at five a.m. it was a good thing. Four-thirty, even better. That was how reputations were made. After a flurry of electronic activity, he would shower, have breakfast, and get dressed. Always the BlackBerry was within reach.
At six-thirty, he took the elevator down to the parking garage where he kept his Mercedes. Closed-circuit cameras tracked every movement; in the hallway, inside the elevator, as he walked to the parking level, as he pointed at the car and clicked the door open, as he sank into the rich leather. There was even a camera at the exit ramp as he drove out.
He turned right out of the garage and pointed the car downtown. The street was deserted, and he pushed on the gas, feeling the quiet power of acceleration. He made a Montreal stop at the corner, briefly taking his foot off the gas before turning right. It was a fifty zone and he was cruising at eighty. At first, he didn’t react when Vanier stepped out from between two parked cars into the path of the Mercedes. His foot stayed on the gas until he saw Vanier raise both his arms and point a gun. Susskind slammed on the brakes, and the Mercedes screeched to a halt in front of Vanier, with inches to spare. Susskind reached for the gear shift and swivelled in his seat to reverse. He heard a loud crack of metal on glass, and turned back to see Vanier at the driver’s window aiming the gun directly at Susskind’s head. Susskind brought both his hands up in the air.
“Open the door,” Vanier said.
Susskind lowered the window and Vanier reached in and pushed the gun barrel to the side of Susskind’s skull.
“Keys. Now.”
Susskind pushed the gear stick into park, removed the keys and handed them to Vanier.
“Open the passenger side.”
Vanier went around the front of the car without taking his eyes off Susskind, and got in. He handed the keys back to Susskind. “Drive. Slowly.”
“You’re crazy, Vanier. You’ll never get away with this.”
“Shut up and drive.” At the end of the street, Vanier said, “Turn right here.”
Vanier gave directions, and Susskind followed them, occasionally stealing glances at the detective. Vanier was wearing a pair of latex gloves and held the gun loosely in his lap. After ten minutes, Vanier had him turn onto a deserted industrial street.
“Pull up behind the Volvo,” he said, pointing.
Susskind pulled the Mercedes up to the curb as he was told, and Vanier reached over, shut the engine off and pulled out the keys.
“You’re finished, Vanier. You’ll be sweeping floors after this. ”
The street was deserted, a bleak park on one side and a windowless factory wall on the other.
“Out.”
Susskind got out of the car, and Vanier followed. He leaned Susskind against the Mercedes and searched him, taking two cellphones. He left everything else. Vanier led Susskind to the Volvo and popped the trunk. Inside was a spare tire, some spanners, a hammer, and a pile of greasy rags. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since leaving the showroom fifteen years ago. Vanier pointed the gun at Susskind. “Inside.”
Susskind turned, a panicked look on his face. “It’s not necessary. We can work this out. Whatever it takes. Just tell me.”
Vanier holstered his gun. “Okay.”
Then he wheeled toward Susskind and punched him in the stomach, feeling his fist go deep into the fat. Susskind’s legs buckled and Vanier tipped him into the trunk with a blow to his back. He lifted Susskind’s legs after him and closed the trunk.
It wasn’t a long drive. Within minutes, Vanier parked the car outside a small auto-repair shop. He got out, unlocked the roll-up door, and drove inside. He got out of the car and went back to pull the door down and lock it. They were in a long, narrow space, with a single car lift at one end. Tools and spare parts hung above the wooden workbenches that ran along the wall. Vanier went to the Volvo and opened the trunk. “Get out.”
For a fat
guy, Susskind got out of the trunk fast, huffing and sweating from the effort. He bent down, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Then he exploded up, launched his full weight at Vanier. Vanier stepped aside and stuck his foot out, tripping Susskind as he passed. Susskind fell to his knees, but was back up in seconds. Vanier stepped back and pointed the gun. Susskind froze. Vanier motioned to the space in front of the car lift. “Go over there and put on the overalls. Then sit down on the chair. We need to talk.”
Susskind looked to where Vanier was pointing. A table and two chairs were arranged on a large blue tarpaulin. A folded pair of yellow, one-piece coveralls, the kind you would use for the dirtiest jobs, was lying on the table. Susskind was rattled, still trying to talk his way out. “All right. Money. One million. That’s more money than you’ll ever see, Vanier. Just let me go and it’s yours.”
“Put the suit on and sit on the chair.”
Susskind straightened up, stood with his feet apart. “No. I refuse. You’re not a killer, Vanier. You don’t scare me.” He moved towards Vanier. “Go ahead, shoot me.”
They both knew Vanier wasn’t going to shoot him. Vanier holstered the pistol. He walked over to the blue tarpaulin and sat on one of the chairs. Susskind walked to the door.
“Tell me. Who killed Sophia Luna?”
“None of your fucking business, asshole.” Susskind was at the door, trying to find a way to open it.
“And who killed Sékou Camara, Mr. Susskind?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He reached down, grabbed the handle and pulled. It didn’t move.
“It’s locked,” said Vanier.
“Then open it. Right now.”
“Can’t do that, Mr. Susskind. Who went to my son’s apartment yesterday and raped the girl who was there? Is that the kind of shit you’re involved with, Mr. Susskind?”
Susskind wheeled around to face Vanier. “You’re crazy, Vanier. I’m a businessman. I don’t get mixed up in that sort of thing.”