by Peter Kirby
Vanier pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, a copy of the statement he had given Showers, and read the part the minister hadn’t changed.
Saint Jacques was scribbling furiously. “He said that? And you heard him? What’s going on, boss? I don’t understand.”
“Sylvie, we had a lucky break.”
Next he phoned Anjili Segal.
“Luc, you said you’d call. I’ve been worried.”
“I’m sorry. Things got out of control. But I’m on my way home. I should be in Montreal by 6:30, but I have some stops to make before I go home.”
“I’m taking Alex out for supper. Why don’t you call us when you’re ready and you can join us. I have something special planned. Let’s say it’s a new direction.”
Vanier hesitated a second. “New directions are always good. And Anjili? Yes, I want to come home.”
“I love you, Luc.”
Vanier’s first stop was to David Reynolds’s group home, where he got the same frosty reception from the ladies on the balcony. He didn’t bother ringing the bell, just opened the door and walked in. Reynolds was in his office.
“How’s Katya? I have news for her.”
“She is in the kitchen.” Reynolds said. “She’s been through a lot, but she’s strong. She’s going to be okay.” Before leaving the desk, he reached for the black book.
“Can I see the book?” Vanier stretched his hand out. “I’ve been wondering what it is. I figured it’s too small for a bible.”
Reynolds hesitated. Then he handed the book to Vanier. Inside the cover, someone had written To David, on your First Holy Communion. Vanier flipped through the gossamer-thin pages, remembering his own First Communion prayer book, wishing he still had it. “Everyone needs prayers.”
Reynolds nodded. “I hope it’s not more bad news.”
“Sometimes prayers are answered. Come and see.”
Vanier led the way into the kitchen. Katya was sitting at the table with a large glass of iced tea. She looked up and smiled as the came in.
“Katya, I have something for you.”
“More clothes from Walmart?”
Vanier laughed “No. Read this.”
He passed the envelope across the table. Katya opened it tentatively and tipped the letter and passport onto the table. They both followed Katya’s eyes scrolling slowly over the text of Minister Showers’s letter. They could tell when she got to the end, studied the signature and started back at the top. After she had read it twice she looked up at Vanier.
“This means …?”
“Look at the passport.”
She did as he said, and stopped at the page stamped Permanent Resident.
“It means you can stay. It means that you can work towards citizenship. It means that you can bring your brother to Canada. Katya, it means you’re safe.”
“What?” Reynolds reached across the table, and Katya handed it to him. She walked around the table and threw her arms around Vanier in a hug.
“How in God’s good name did you manage this?” Reynolds was still reading the letter.
Vanier smiled, shrugged. He turned to Katya. “Listen I have to go, but I’ll come back and see you tomorrow. I just wanted you to have this. You’re safe.” Katya was laughing and crying at the same time, bouncing up and down.
Vanier’s next stop was the garage. Susskind was still in the chair. He looked like he had been sleeping. His face was bruised and crusted with blood. His hand was swollen to twice its normal size, the skin stretched and red.
“You should get to the hospital and have that looked at.”
Susskind said nothing.
Vanier bent down to undo the duct tape and his stomach heaved. Susskind smelled foul. Vanier had to make an effort not to retch.
“Vanier. I’ve been thinking about this. I really thought I was going to die. But when I didn’t, I spent hours going through all that’s happened. I want to make a statement.”
“No dice. No statement. Maybe if you go get yourself a lawyer and come back, we might take a statement from you. I don’t want any case against you getting thrown out on some harebrained allegation of police brutality. What we had here today didn’t happen. And if you say it did, I’ll come back for you.”
Susskind could hardly stand, and Vanier had to help him walk to the car. Susskind grabbed the passenger-side handle, and leaned on it for support, waiting for Vanier to open it.
“No. In the trunk,” said Vanier.
“Please. You’re not serious? I mean it’s finished. It’s over.”
“The trunk. Look at the coveralls.” Susskind looked down. The coveralls were wet and soiled below the waist, sticking to his legs.
“I don’t want that on my upholstery. You’re lucky I’m giving you a lift in the trunk.”
Susskind shuffled along the car to the end and climbed into the open trunk.
Vanier dropped Susskind at his Mercedes. When Susskind was inside, Vanier leaned in the window. “By the way. If you do want to make an allegation about police brutality—”
“I don’t. Let’s forget it.”
“You know the guy who owns the garage?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, he was working there all day. He’s a good friend from way back. He even promised to clean up for me.”
Vanier stepped back from the window. Susskind put the key in the ignition and gunned his engine. Vanier’s phone gave a short beep—a text from Anjili, with the address of where she and Alex were heading to dinner. Vanier didn’t recognize the restaurant.
A normal person would have gone to the hospital, but Susskind went home. He had things to do. First, he spent an hour in the shower, under scalding water. Now he was standing in his living room with a thick white towel around his waist. He had a plan, and Vanier was going to pay for what he had done. Susskind liked to think of himself a survivor. He was resilient, and it would take more than a crazy detective to shut him down.
His lawyer had promised to be there in an hour or so. The lawyer would negotiate the best deal he could get in exchange for Susskind’s testimony. There might be some jail time, but nothing serious, a couple of months, with time off for good behaviour. The best thing was that Susskind would see Vanier charged with kidnapping and assault, maybe even attempted murder. Vanier was finished.
Susskind had also booked himself into a private medical clinic on Sherbrooke Street to get his nose and his hand fixed up. He poured himself a half-tumbler of gin and a dash of tonic, and threw open his wardrobe, wall-to-wall dark suits and crisp blue shirts.
Everything was going to turn out just fine. Of course, he would have to quit Essence, but he had enough money hidden away; he wouldn’t have to work. In a year or so, after all the legal proceedings were finished, he would be living like a king in a tropical paradise.
The intercom buzzer rang. He looked at his watch. The lawyer was early. He went into the living room to check the closed-circuit image of the lobby on the television screen, and froze. Joe Merchant was outside the front door, pulling at the handle, waiting to be let in.
Susskind had no time to get dressed and leave. He watched helplessly as Merchant pulled something from his pocket and began working on the lock. Seconds later, Merchant pulled the door open. Susskind grabbed the television remote, changed the view to the lobby camera. He watched Merchant push the elevator button and step inside. Susskind clicked the remote to change the view again, and brought up a four-screen shot, one for each of the elevators. Merchant was in one, staring up at the camera. The elevator doors slid open and Merchant disappeared from the screen.
Susskind grabbed his phone. He didn’t have the lawyer on speed-dial yet, and had to scroll one-handed through the call log. He found the number and pressed. While he was waiting for the lawyer to pick up, he heard a rasping metallic sound from his front door. The ph
one went to voice mail. Susskind babbled, “Susskind here. Please come as quickly as possible. Merchant is here. I’m in grave danger. Please hurry.”
“Mr. Susskind.” The voice boomed across the room. Merchant was standing by the door with his hands in his pockets. “You need to get better locks. A place like this, I would have thought they’d have better locks.”
“What do you want? It’s all over. It’s finished.”
“No. You’re finished, Mr. Susskind. Me? I’m on my way to the airport. I thought I’d stop by to say goodbye.”
Susskind reached down to put his cellphone on the table and reached for a baseball-sized Inuit sculpture, small but heavy. Merchant approached. When he was close enough, Susskind launched himself, aiming the sculpture at Merchant’s head. Merchant easily stepped out of the way. Susskind recovered, turned to face Merchant, and saw the gun.
“Sit down. And drop the toy.”
Susskind collapsed into the armchair.
“Just so you know,” Merchant said, looking at his watch. “I will be on a flight in about ninety minutes. You, however, are a loose end.”
Merchant pulled a silencer out of his pocket and attached it to the pistol.
Susskind watched in horror. Merchant approached the armchair and leaned forward, touched the barrel to the side of Susskind’s head, and gently squeezed the trigger. Blood spurted onto Merchant’s hand. He pulled back, watched as it continued to gush for a few seconds then slow to a steady flow. He grabbed a towel from the kitchen counter and wiped his hand. Then he wiped the pistol, and unscrewed the silencer. He pocketed the silencer and put the pistol back in his underarm holster. He was walking to the door when he heard someone pounding.
“Police. Mr. Susskind, this is the police. We have a warrant to search the premises. Open the door.”
Merchant froze. “Two seconds. Let me put my pants on.”
He ran over to the balcony and looked down. It was too high for jumping. He climbed over the railing and lowered himself down. Hanging from the bottom of the railing, he was about ten feet above the balcony on the floor below. He swung his legs and propelled himself inwards, landing with a thud on the balcony below. The sliding doors were locked shut, and there was no outside lock to pick. He kicked the glass a few times but it didn’t break. So he pulled out the gun and shot, the tempered glass exploded out of the frame and he walked through into the apartment.
The sound of gunshot was unmistakable, even to Flood and Descartes in the hallway upstairs. Flood backed up and launched a kick at Susskind’s door. It gave easily. The first thing they saw was Susskind’s body in the armchair, a bloody hole right above his ear. Everything around him was splattered with blood. Flood checked for a pulse. “Shit. He killed himself.”
Descartes scanned the room. “Where’s the gun?”
In seconds Flood realized his mistake. “The balcony?”
The balcony door was open. From the balcony, they could see the broken glass strewn on the balcony below. Flood grabbed his phone and speed-dialled Saint Jacques. “Susskind’s dead. Shot. It just happened. The shooter may be headed in your direction. Call for backup. We’re coming down.”
Saint Jacques was sitting in an unmarked police car in the parking lot below, a precaution, given that she was still limping. When Merchant emerged from the front door, she slid down in her seat. He crossed the driveway and made for a white car that was backed in, against the wall. Saint Jacques turned the ignition and gunned her car across the lot, slamming it to a halt in front of the white car just as Merchant closed his door.
Merchant leaned on the horn. A second later, he recognized Saint Jacques, and noticed the gun she was pointing at him. He put both hands in the air.
Vanier was parked outside a single-family home on Tonty Street just behind the Botanical Gardens. He checked the address Anjili had texted. He called her. “Anjili, the address is wrong.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m parked outside the address you gave me. It’s a home. There isn’t a restaurant in sight.”
“No mistake. We’re around the back. Come in.”
Then he noticed the For Sale sign planted in the lawn. He leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel. Of all the things he wanted to do, house hunting was not one of them. His grip tightened on the wheel. With his head still resting on the steering wheel, he reached for the key and turned it. The engine burst to life.
“Luc.”
He didn’t move.
“Luc,” she repeated. She was at the open car window.
He raised his head and looked up. She started. He must have looked like someone pulled from a car wreck, splattered with blood and smelling faintly of fecal matter.
“Luc. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. The agent gave me the key and suggested we order chicken, wait for you in the garden. She told me to lock up when we were finished. I wasn’t thinking, Luc. Give me a few minutes, and we’ll go home.”
Vanier reached up. Touched her hand. “Chicken?”
“And wine. I bought a bottle.”
“Anything stronger?”
“I noticed some whiskey in the bar. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
He looked up at her. “I could do with a whiskey.”
Vanier turned the engine off, and followed Anjili up the paved stone path and around to the garden. The garden looked peaceful. It was enclosed by six-foot hedges on all sides, and a small path wound through shrubs, flowers, and large moss-covered rocks.
Alex was sitting at the table on the patio, staring out into the garden. He turned to look up at his father and almost managed a smile. He pushed a take-out box across the table. “Chicken, Dad.”
“Hey, Alex.”
Anjili pointed to a room off the patio. “In the bar. Inside. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you helped yourself.”
Vanier stepped inside. He found a bottle of Chivas in the bar and poured himself a stiff one, then went looking for ice. He took a sip and felt the glow. He began to wander.
He had been inside hundreds of homes. He knew this one had been cleaned up and uncluttered for sale. Even so, it felt like it was built for comfort, not to impress. And it had room, lots of it. After his first walk-through, he refilled his glass, and did another walkabout. This time he paid attention, looking for problems, searching for the deal breaker. He didn’t find one. He began to imagine the two of them negotiating the spaces, finding a way to occupy the same house without killing each other. There was room to be alone as well as space to live together. There was even a small room with a bathroom in the basement if Alex ever decided to stay over, or Elise came to visit.
He made one last trip to the bar and carried his drink out onto the patio. The garden had changed in the twilight with the fading sun reflecting bright green off the mossy rocks. He heard bees. Vanier had never imagined himself a gardener, but the garden soothed him.
“I hadn’t thought about a garden. Must be a lot of work,” he said. The words fell like stones.
Alex pulled himself up in his chair and leaned forward. “I could help with the garden, Dad. If you want. I could help.”
Vanier took a sip of the whiskey. Smiled. He turned to Anjili. “I feel good here.”
The three of them sat in silence watching the shadows change as the light faded.