Never Forget

by Martin Michaud

  Victor had assumed that he’d have to deal with a succession of assistants, but the senator had answered his phone personally. He’d shown no unease when Victor identified himself as a police detective, and he’d made no inquiry as to why the police wanted to talk to him. He spoke with the calm assurance of a man whose conscience was clear.

  Despite the senator’s openness, Victor had been taken aback when Tousignant, whose schedule must surely be as busy as a prime minister’s, had agreed to talk to the detectives at his home right away. Though Victor wasn’t expecting to be greeted by a butler or a liveried footman, he was nonetheless surprised when Tousignant himself opened the front door.

  Straight-backed despite his seventy-nine years, with a ruddy complexion and silky white hair, Senator Tousignant had the natural charm of a good-looking man. His alert grey-eyed gaze was direct and disarming.

  It was hard not to like the man from the moment you met him.

  Even before he spoke, something about him inspired an eagerness to earn his approval. The effect became only more powerful when he opened his mouth. He had a warm, deep voice, with a subtle hint of vulnerability; a voice that could convince anyone of anything.

  Tousignant greeted the detectives with courtesy, offering them a cup of coffee so cordially that neither of them was able to refuse. As the senator prepared the beverages in the kitchen, Victor was tempted to pinch himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Taillon drink coffee in the afternoon.

  Carrying the tray, Tousignant led them through a succession of beautiful rooms. After the fifth crystal chandelier, Victor stopped counting. As they walked, the senator offered detailed accounts of how this eighteenth-century cabinet had been assembled, or how that painting showcased the artist’s genius for colour composition.

  And it was all done simply, without vanity or pretension, for the pure pleasure of sharing with his guests the depth of knowledge that he had acquired over the years.

  They stepped into his private study, the door of which was covered in red leather. The walls of the room were entirely taken up by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  On every shelf, leather-bound books stood in tight ranks. A solid oak desk faced the big bay window, offering a view of the river. A stream of light licked the hardwood floor at their feet.

  The senator set the tray down on a low table, handed cups to the detectives, then settled into a velvet armchair and gestured for the officers to sit down on the wide couch.

  “Well,” Victor said, a little intimidated, “your study certainly is an inspiring space.”

  He glanced sidelong at Jacinthe. She was sitting on the couch in a stiff posture that was at odds with her usual style.

  “You’re right, Detective Lessard. I never grow tired of looking at the river.”

  Victor’s eyes drifted downward. He and Jacinthe had removed their footwear at the door. He suddenly felt ridiculous asking questions in his socks. He coughed and cleared his throat.

  “I know you’re very busy, Senator, so we won’t take up too much of your time.”

  Tousignant waved a hand dismissively. “People think I’m busier than I really am. I still attend quarterly board meetings, but I’ve withdrawn from active management of my foundation. It’s true that I sit in the Senate. But we all know what critics say about the workload senators have to carry.” Tousignant winked and leaned forward in his chair, speaking in a confidential tone. “Between you and me, I sometimes think the critics are right.”

  His shoulders shook as he laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” the old man said, straightening up again. “I’m the one who should be careful not to take up your time. I imagine you’ve come to talk about Nathan.” He turned pensive. “When you reach my age, friends pass away more and more often, but I have to admit, the news of Nathan’s death, under those circumstances, came as a shock. What an awful way to go …” He cast his gaze downward for a moment, as though in prayer. “You’re aware that I’m the one who gave him his first job as a lawyer?”

  Victor confirmed their knowledge of that fact. The senator, no doubt feeling nostalgic, spoke of “shining, faraway youth,” of his generation’s idealism in an age when all of Quebec society was being redefined. But he wasn’t long winded or tediously sentimental. He spoke with the sincerity of a man sharing memories with good friends.

  A dialogue got underway between the detective sergeant and the senator, with Jacinthe looking on in silence. Tousignant asked many of the questions himself before answering them, while Victor nodded in encouragement or intervened to request further details.

  Unfortunately, the senator said, he and Lawson had followed divergent paths. Little by little, they had lost touch over the years. But he had great admiration for Nathan, who had become one of Montreal’s most influential lawyers. Tousignant couldn’t remember the last time they had seen each other, but it was a few years ago, at least. He regretted that he hadn’t had the chance to see Lawson again before …

  In short, his death had been a great loss to the legal and business communities.

  “Do you know Louis-Charles Rivard? He’s a lawyer who worked closely with Mr. Lawson.”

  “I’d never heard of him until I saw him give that press conference after Nathan’s disappearance was made public. I called him at the office to offer my help, and to assure him that he could count on my financial support for the payment of a ransom, if the need arose. It was the least I could do. Even if we no longer spent time together, Nathan was an old friend.”

  “Did you speak to him again?”

  “To Rivard? No. Not after Nathan’s body was found. But talking to you, I realize that I should call him, if only to offer my condolences.” He lifted his cup and saucer with both hands and took a sip of coffee. “He’s a smart young man, that Rivard. A bit rigid, though. Tell me, has your investigation made any progress?”

  Without divulging sensitive information, Victor briefly summarized recent developments in the case. He watched Tousignant’s face for a reaction, but all he saw was surprise and sympathy when he mentioned the psychiatrist’s name. The detective sergeant didn’t generally talk to civilians about active investigations, but he made an exception to his own rule out of respect for the man and because he wanted to prepare the ground for his next question.

  “Listen, what I’m about to reveal to you is still confidential, but we have reason to believe Mr. Rivard has gone missing.” A look of astonishment appeared on the senator’s face. “We know he called you on the evening of the press conference.” Victor told him about the call log. “I was hoping maybe you could give us some insight, that you might have information which would help us find a lead.”

  Tousignant held Victor’s gaze. “You’re right, Detective. The communication you’re referring to did take place. It only lasted a couple of seconds. I could hear noises at the other end of the line. I tried to speak to him, but he didn’t answer … That kind of thing used to happen to my wife all the time. She’d be trying to find something in her purse. Her fingers would accidentally touch her phone keys, and she’d end up speed-dialing someone without realizing what she’d done. She even had a name for it,” Tousignant said, smiling. “Purse call.”

  “That’s strange,” Victor said, frowning. “The call was placed from Mr. Rivard’s home phone, not his cell.” Silence. “You didn’t call him back?”

  “I had guests at the time. I told myself Rivard would dial again if it was important. Afterward, to tell you the truth, I forgot all about it.”

  “Have you ever heard of a company called Northern Industrial Textiles?” Victor asked.

  Tousignant shook his head, putting a forefinger to his lips. “I don’t think so. Is it a corporate client of Rivard’s?”

  Victor continued with a series of questions about the links that the senator had formerly had with Nathan Lawson. Tousignant answered willingly, making an effort to remember, going into detail whenever Victor asked him to. The exchange continued for several long minutes
. The detective sergeant’s questions were so rapid and aggressive that at last Jacinthe cleared her throat pointedly. Victor turned toward her, and there was a moment of awkward silence before he grasped the unspoken message.

  “Senator,” he said, getting up, “we’ll stop annoying you with our questions. We’ve already taken up too much of your time.”

  Tousignant placed his cup and saucer on the desk and rose to his feet. “You haven’t annoyed me in the least, Detective. On the contrary. I hope you won’t hesitate to come back if there’s any way I can help. My door is always open.”

  The old man stepped aside to let the cops pass, then, with silent strides, guided them back through the labyrinth to the front hall. He fetched their coats while they were putting on their footwear. Jacinthe had to sit down on a little bench, panting, as she pulled her boots on.

  “One last question,” Victor said as he slipped into his jacket. “Have you ever heard of Project MK-ULTRA?”

  “The CIA experiments that were done at McGill? Of course. Everyone in my generation remembers MK-ULTRA. It was a huge scandal when it came out decades ago. Why do you ask?”

  “We think there may be a connection between that program and some of our victims, including Nathan Lawson. Did you know that his firm was engaged to defend the university against certain civil suits?”

  The senator scratched his head, looking like he was trying to remember. “That could very well be, but honestly, I don’t remember. I can look in my archives, if you’d like …”

  Victor waved a hand.

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary. Thank you for your hospitality, Senator. And for your time.”

  The two men shook hands while Jacinthe, still struggling to zip up a boot, swore under her breath. Victor gave the senator an embarrassed smile.

  The old man responded with a wink. “The pleasure was all mine, Detective.”

  Descending the driveway, they stepped out onto LaSalle Boulevard. Victor looked at the Crown Victoria and noticed that it was badly corroded by salt.

  “Super-nice guy, eh?” Taillon said, visibly charmed by the old man.

  Victor didn’t answer.

  Although he shared his partner’s instinctive liking for Tousignant, a little voice in his head was counselling caution. The senator had answered all his questions without hesitation, clearly and coherently. The problem, Victor realized, lay with the abortive phone call: the purse call. Rivard hadn’t dialed the number by mistake. Why had he made the call?

  Victor reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

  A gust of wind swept through his hair, and he shivered. The humidity was chilling him to the bone.

  Why had the senator shown so much concern over a former colleague with whom he was no longer in touch?

  For that matter, what was the real reason behind the fact that the two men hadn’t seen each other in years? Was it just happenstance, or had some ancient conflict driven them apart?

  Victor made an effort to focus on the primary question: why would Rivard have contacted a man like the senator, if it wasn’t to give him the Northern file?

  Another possibility presented itself. An obvious one: was Rivard blackmailing Tousignant?

  Taillon unlocked the doors of the Crown Vic.

  Exhaling a final billow of smoke before getting into the car, Victor turned abruptly toward the house and thought he saw a curtain move on the upper floor.

  56

  LAST-MINUTE GIFTS

  The entire world seemed to be conspiring to prevent their forward progress. Jacinthe growled and brought a fist down on the dashboard. Activating the siren and emergency lights, she got the car’s two left wheels up onto the median.

  After passing the traffic jam, she floored the accelerator. The Crown Vic shuddered, reared back, and leaped ahead in a clashing of gears. Gripping his seat as he was thrown left and right like a pinball, Victor fought off motion sickness by drawing hangmen in the frost on the window. Looking at her watch, Jacinthe had realized what a monumental bind they were in.

  “Two hours left before the stores close,” she declared amid a stream of profanity.

  “Fuck,” Victor said, clenching his jaw.

  Their return to the office was a death-defying ride that would remain forever engraved on Victor’s memory. More than once, he imagined himself embalmed, his waxen features at rest in a polished black coffin, hands folded across his chest. They entered the Place Versailles parking lot in a controlled skid, and Jacinthe left the car in an area reserved for emergency vehicles.

  During the drive, Victor had called Lemaire to have him obtain call logs for the cellphones of Rivard and Tousignant. The detective sergeant wanted to know whether, despite the senator’s claims, they had spoken more than once.

  After that, Jacinthe and Victor had done their best to suggest gift ideas to each other, but neither of them had any inspirations that generated enthusiasm or sparked delight. They had both failed to do their Christmas shopping despite working above a shopping mall. Did that reveal a morbid appetite for risk, or was it just sheer negligence? Whatever the cause, the desperate state in which they rushed through the retail aisles was a sight to behold.

  To hell with Christmas money for the kids. Victor decided to swing for the fences. With his credit card still sizzling in his back pocket and an electronics store bag under his arm, he couldn’t resist imagining the surprise and joy that Martin and Charlotte would experience as they unwrapped their iPads.

  Nadja was a thornier problem.

  Failing to come up with a flash of brilliance, he finally decided to give her a getaway package at a spa in the Eastern Townships, which he would book online later. But having waited until the last minute, and knowing the certificate wouldn’t arrive in the mail for a few days, he felt he should buy her something else, so as not to be empty handed.

  Time was short and no other ideas were coming to him. So, feeling slightly intimidated, he entered the La Senza lingerie boutique. Checking the time on his phone, he was gripped by panic. With the shops due to close in thirty minutes, he still had to go to the liquor store to pick up a bottle for Ted, and he had to visit the flower shop for Albert, who loved roses. It was the very least he could do, considering that Ted and Albert were hosting dinner that evening. With a little luck, Victor would also have time to get his presents wrapped by the grey-haired ladies at the central kiosk.

  “Can I help you?”

  He must have seemed in distress, because, despite the fact that the store was full of women, a youthful salesgirl had come to his aid. Awkwardly, he said he was looking for something for his girlfriend. When he was unable to be more specific, the salesgirl smiled and led him away among the displays.

  Fortunately, she clearly had experience with customers like him. The operation went smoothly. A few minutes later, he was at the cash register, where the salesgirl rang up a black tulle baby-doll with pink cups and matching panties, a nightgown, and a pair of slippers.

  Victor had paid for the purchase and was about to leave when he heard an all-too-familiar voice: “What did you buy, Lessard?”

  Victor turned, reddening. Jacinthe was dawdling in the corset section.

  Judging from the dimensions of the bustier in her hands, she was clearly shopping for Lucie. Even so, a mental image came to him of his partner wearing the lacy undergarment, flesh spilling out on all sides. He chased away the image and muttered something vague, then agreed to meet her upstairs after the shopping was done.

  While he was waiting in the flower shop, he saw a reflection in the window.

  The little boy, whose mother was behind Victor in line, must have been six years old. A zebra over one of the boy’s hands was talking to a frog over the other hand. The child was entertaining himself with a pair of cloth puppets. The frog spoke:

  “Mom says you’re a cheater, Zo-Zo.”

  “No! Stop lying, Ping-Pong.”

  “Cheater, cheater, cheater!” the amphibian chanted.

  The zebra
opened its mouth and, with a roar, chomped the frog on the head.

  “I’m not a zebra, Ping-Pong. I’m a wolf.”

  Emerging from the elevator with his arms full, Victor zigzagged among his fellow cops along the corridor. Some of his gifts had been encased in shining metallic paper. Others were in a creamcoloured wrapping adorned with red and green patterns.

  Arriving at his desk, the detective sergeant put down his packages.

  “Jesus, Lessard,” a voice behind him exclaimed, “you sure didn’t hold back, did you?”

  “How about you?” he answered. “Find everything you wanted?”

  Jacinthe said she had. Turning, Victor saw that she wasn’t alone.

  “Ah. Hello, Ms. Vézina,” he said, greeting the documents expert.

  Her presence in the office surprised him. She wouldn’t have come if she hadn’t found something important.

  Jacinthe took a handful of cashews from a can and shoved them in her mouth. She always had a stash of snacks in her lower drawer. “We’ve been waiting for you,” she said. She turned to the expert. “Show him what you showed me earlier, Mona.”

  On the desk, the documents expert laid a copy of the drawing Victor had sent her a few hours earlier. Three elements of the hanged man had been circled. Those three elements formed initials that no one had noticed in earlier examinations of the drawing, but that were now glaringly obvious:

  57

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  Nadja was holding the steering wheel with one hand. With the other, she was squeezing his hand. At the red light, she gave him a languorous look that brought the world to a standstill. Time stopped in its tracks. Victor sighed and closed his eyes, then reopened them, as though to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

  He lowered the volume on Nat King Cole and turned with a loving expression to admire his children in the back seat: Martin and Charlotte were already young adults. They were arguing, as usual, but in a friendly, joking way.