APRIL 5TH, 2010
NAUSEA
Each day holds its share of pain. Fresh scandals arrive, one after another.
A corrupt construction sector. Collapsing infrastructure. Our collective desire for change mired in weariness. Brutal cuts to arts funding. Natural resources sold at fire-sale prices. Political parties financed by dirty money. Systematic apathy. A lack of accountability among our political elites.
The stinking society in which I live disgusts me. It fills me with nausea.
As a simple province, as a sovereign state within Canada or as an actual country, Quebec is free. It is the master of its fate. The only limits upon it are those it imposes on itself.
And while Quebec today continues to seek its identity, I have found mine.
THE MAN IN THE EXPOS CAP
84
I DIDN’T SHOOT ANYBODY, NO SIR!
Victor left the conference room and went directly to his desk. The procurement officer had dropped off Victor’s new cellphone, already configured for immediate use. But he still faced the drudgery of entering all his contacts. With a sigh, he opened a drawer, pulled out his noise-cancelling headphones, plugged them into his computer, opened iTunes, and chose a song at random.
“Breathe.” Pink Floyd.
Victor had to smile. That was exactly what he needed to do.
Breathe.
His fellow cops wanted to solve the case as much as he did, but they were going about it the wrong way. He had a profound sense of being unjustly treated. His trip to Dallas and his interview with Willis had provided helpful information to the team. He’d received a nasty black eye for his troubles. And now, by way of thanks, his colleagues had reacted skeptically to his legitimate concerns about the path of the investigation.
Two minutes and nine seconds into “The Great Gig in the Sky,” as he was drifting, eyes closed, on the ecstatic flow of the soloist’s voice, Taillon planted herself in front of him, holding a cardboard box under one arm.
Sensing her presence, Victor pulled off the headphones just enough for her to hear the music.
“Dark Side of the Moon?”
“Don’t start with me, Jacinthe, because I’m in no mood for —”
“Whoa, settle down there, big guy.” She took a deep breath. “I hate to say this, seeing as I thought we’d be able to close the case and enjoy at least part of the holidays, but you were right. I checked my notes and just got off the line with Burgers. Duca was a tall man, built like a brick shithouse. There’s no way he was the dude in the surveillance video.”
Victor stared at his partner, then indicated the box with his chin. “What’s that?”
“Duca’s personal effects from Baker Lawson Watkins. Loïc went and got them. I thought we should have a look.”
Victor was leafing through archery magazines while Jacinthe pored over a pile of business cards held together with a binder clip. The box contained a variety of odds and ends: an mug, movie theatre coupons, buttons, an AAA battery, a tape measure, a bottle of ibuprofen tablets, three unopened packs of sugar-free bubble gum, and two photographs of Duca holding his bow in shooting stance. Victor recognized the background in the photos: they had been taken at Duca’s house, probably with his webcam.
“I don’t know if you heard, but while you were on vacation in the Texas sunshine, we got Duca’s financial profile. Gilles and Loïc talked to his neighbours, and we went through his laptop with a fine-tooth comb.”
Victor gave Jacinthe an ironic smile and pointed to his bruised eye. “Oh, yeah, terrific vacation. Did wonders for my complexion, don’t you think?” He leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. “So, what did you find out?”
“Basically nothing. Duca was careful with his money and had no social life.”
With a sigh, the detective sergeant took out the bubble-gum packs to give to Loïc. “In other words, he had no life at all. Cellphone?”
“Prepaid. Forensics tried to access the call log, but the phone was crushed under the car during the accident. It’s in tiny pieces.”
The two cops continued to rummage in silence. Victor found a cardboard rectangle between the pages of a magazine and turned it over. It was a business card for a courier company. A name and phone number had been scrawled on it. Telling himself it made sense for such a card to be in the possession of a mail boy at a major law firm, Victor put the card on the desk and was about to resume his search when a thought crossed his mind. He picked up the card and turned it over in his hand, looking pensive.
Taillon watched in silence as he tapped on the keys of his computer, did a Google search, clicked on a web link, then sat back, hands clasped behind his head.
“Got something?” she asked, glancing at the card on the desk.
“I don’t know … It’s a bicycle courier service. I just looked at their website.”
“Nothing weird about that. Duca worked in a mailroom. Sending out letters and parcels was his job.”
The detective sergeant ran a hand through his hair. “We never figured out how the package containing Tousignant’s wallet got here, did we?”
“No. It didn’t come in the mail, and no one at reception signed for it.”
“If you wanted to send something like that, how would you go about it?”
Jacinthe shrugged. “I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“You’d give the package to a messenger who already had stuff to deliver here. You’d tell him to leave it discreetly on the counter, in the midst of all the other items, while the clerk was busy signing the delivery slip.”
“To pull that off, you’d have to deal directly with the messenger. Slip him a couple of twenties to make it worth his while. Trouble is, those guys all work for companies, with dispatchers keeping track of deliveries. Would your messenger really risk getting into trouble for forty bucks?”
“That’s where things get interesting. This service is for independent bike couriers. The site explains that customers are given a cell number for the courier who carries their items. And there’s a name and phone number scribbled on the card.”
Jacinthe didn’t want to get into an argument, but she was clearly unconvinced. “Go ahead and call, but you’re wasting your time. Your theory’s full of holes. Bike couriers stay in the downtown core. They don’t come way out here.”
“Can’t hurt to try,” Victor said, as the ringback tone sounded in his ear. “Hello? Is this Annika? … My name’s Vict— … Are you on your bike? … On break? Great. My name’s Victor Lessard … No, it’s not for a pickup. I’m a detective with the Montreal Police … Yes, the police … What? … No, I’m not calling about that … Who cut you off? … Listen, Annika, I don’t care what you did to the guy’s rear-view mirror. That’s not why I’m calling … No, relax, you didn’t do anything wrong … I’d rather talk about it in person. Where are you right now? … Great. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Victor turned to Jacinthe. “She’s on her lunch break. Corner of Cathcart and University.”
“Yeah, well, I’m on lunch break, too. I’m not wasting my time on this.”
“We can make it there in fifteen minutes if you drive. And afterward, lunch at Boccacinos is on me. Bring the pictures.”
Jacinthe’s eyes lit up. “You’re a bastard, Lessard,” she said, grabbing her coat.
They found Annika on Cathcart Street, sitting on a bench across from Tim Hortons. She was smoking a cigarette, laughing with other couriers. For the first time in days, the sun was out and the temperature was mild.
Victor introduced himself and stepped away from the group with the young woman. Taillon, who had stayed in the car so as not to spook her, now approached. The girl had black lips and fingernails. She didn’t seem bothered when Victor introduced his partner.
He stopped counting the piercings in her nose and ears at eight.
“Chilly work,” Jacinthe observed, putting a hand on the bicycle seat, getting the conversation started.
�
�The only way to make money at this job is to work in the winter. You can clear eighty, a hundred bucks a day. When the weather gets nicer, there are more couriers on the road.”
Victor showed Annika a photo of Duca. “Recognize this man?”
“Never seen him before,” the young woman said, taking a cigarette from the pack Victor held out. “Who is he?”
Victor cupped a palm around the flame of his lighter. Leaning toward him, the courier rested tattooed fingers on his hand as she lit her smoke.
“You sure? We think he knew you. We found your number among his things.”
Annika shrugged, at a loss. Taillon rolled her eyes: what a waste of time.
“Have you ever delivered a parcel to Place Versailles?”
“Nah. Too far. We stay downtown. Since we’re on bikes, we don’t get slowed down by traffic and parking. But for parcels and boxes, customers usually want a car.”
Victor pulled out pictures of Duca’s victims. He took the top two off the stack — Lawson and Harper — and handed them to Annika.
“Do you recognize either of these people?”
Jacinthe got up with an ostentatious sigh. “I’ll wait in the car. I’m hungry. Make it snappy, Lessard.”
“I recognize the woman,” Annika said without hesitation. “I was hired to go up to her on the street and say something.”
Jacinthe stopped and turned. “Say what?”
“A single sentence — ‘I didn’t shoot anybody, no sir!’ Weird, huh?”
The two detectives looked at each other with undisguised interest.
“Tell us what happened,” Victor said encouragingly.
“It was all done by phone. I was told it was a joke for a friend’s birthday. The person gave me directions to a hiding place in a park. I went there and found an envelope wrapped in a plastic bag. Inside the envelope, there was money and a picture of the woman. There was also a note saying I’d get a call in advance, giving me a time and location to approach the woman.”
“That didn’t strike you as strange?” Jacinthe interrupted, wearing a suggestive expression.
Victor looked at his partner with a glare that said, Shut up and let her talk.
“Kind of. But for five hundred bucks, I had no problem with strange,” the young woman said calmly. “Anyway, it’s not like I was being asked to do anything illegal, right?”
“Right.” Victor nodded. “What happened next?”
“The person called one morning to say the woman would be on McGill College Avenue around seven a.m. I had a little trouble spotting her because of the snow. Then I said the sentence and left.”
“Do you remember what day it was?”
“Can’t say exactly. It was a little before Christmas.”
“The fifteenth?” Victor suggested.
Annika frowned, reminding him of his daughter, Charlotte. If you took away the piercings, there was a definite resemblance between the two. Barely out of adolescence, they were playing at womanhood. “Could be.”
“How did she react?” Victor asked.
“I don’t know. I think she was surprised. I didn’t stick around to find out. I got on my bike and left.”
“Do you still have the note? And the envelope?”
“No. I threw them away.”
“Describe the man’s voice over the phone. Did you hear an accent? Any particular details?”
“It wasn’t a man. It was a woman.”
MAY 16TH, 1980
IF I’VE UNDERSTOOD CORRECTLY
She’s worked for the Parti Québécois since 1979. For a little over three months now, she’s been on the advance team, which handles scouting and preparations for events at which the premier will be present. Her specific responsibility is drawing up detailed event plans, as well as documentation and photocopies.
Stretched out on the white sheets, completely naked, she watches as he tucks his shirt into his pants and awkwardly knots his tie. He approaches the bed and sits down beside her. Accepting the cigarette that she offers him, he takes a deep drag before handing it back. He kisses her tenderly on the forehead, then stands up.
This isn’t the first time he’s come to her hotel room.
“If I’ve understood correctly, René, what you’re saying is, ‘Until next time …’”
Facing the bed, he bows his head slightly and shrugs, closing his eyes for half a second while a little smile plays on his lips. The expression that makes him so lovable …
He picks up an object from the chest of drawers, turning it over in his hands as he looks at her. “I’m very fond of you, Charlie. I may stray from time to time, but my marriage to Corinne is for life. You understand that, don’t you?”
They exchange smiles. They both realize he’s putting an end to something.
“Good luck next week. We deserve to win. I’ll be thinking of you.”
“Now we’ll see whether Trudeau was more convincing on the campaign trail than I was.”
With a laugh, René Lévesque tosses the object he was holding onto the bed. “It’s definitely a little boyish,” he says as he heads to the door, “but the funny thing is, you look good when you put it on.”
The young woman smiles again, but this time her expression is tinged with melancholy. She stubs out her cigarette.
Long after he’s gone, she gathers her blond hair in a rough braid and, coiling it, tucks it under the Expos cap.
85
I’VE NEVER DONE ANYTHING LIKE THIS BEFORE
The streets were spooling across his retinas. The blood was roaring in his ears. Victor bit his lip. Everything was compressing, accelerating through his synapses. He’d gotten it right. Duca hadn’t acted alone. He’d had an accomplice. Or maybe it was worse than that: maybe there were two independent killers, two monsters, one of whom was still at large, free to continue taking lives at will.
Even if the detective sergeant hadn’t entirely dismissed the possibility that the murderers were a couple, the likelihood seemed small to him. For one thing, the murders weren’t sexual in nature. For another, serial-killing couples were uncommon. Even so, he couldn’t help thinking of Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka, perhaps because they were the most recent serial-killing couple to make the headlines.
There had also been the Gallego case in the United States in the 1980s.
The Crown Victoria came to rest in a muddy parking area, and Victor looked up at the sign: METALCORP.
He had a feeling of emptiness, of annihilation, of all things vanishing. Then, from a great distance, a voice drew him out of his thoughts, dragging him back to the surface like the bloated corpse of a drowned man.
“We’re here, Lessard. Move your ass.”
Once the initial shock had passed, they’d questioned Annika. But apart from informing them that the woman on the phone spoke without an accent and sounded like she knew Montreal, the young bike courier had been unable to give them any other information. She hadn’t seen the woman’s face; she didn’t know her name. They’d left Annika with her piercings and her bike in the middle of the sidewalk on Cathcart Street, and they’d climbed back into the Crown Vic.
Victor was near catatonic, while Jacinthe kept repeating the same words over and over, mantra-like, as she gunned the engine. “Horowitz. We’ve got to talk to Horowitz!”
A fleeting image of a face had come into his memory: it had taken Victor a moment to recall Horowitz, the warehouse owner who’d had a heart scare when he found Judith Harper’s body.
“I knew it all along! Never trust a man. He lied to us about that key. He must have given it to the bitch he was fucking.”
Slightly dazed, with a kettle-like whistling noise ringing in his ears, Victor felt like he was walking beside himself, in someone else’s body. A surreal feeling. It wasn’t painful, just strange, as though he were trapped in a dream from which he couldn’t wake up.
In the dream, hand puppets were arguing with each other.
A zebra that wasn’t a zebra, but a wolf. Then he was inside
Le Confessionnal, rushing to the washroom to catch the man in the baseball cap.
A man who wasn’t a man, but a woman …
It was no surprise that he hadn’t found anyone. There had never been a man in a baseball cap. He should have been looking for a woman in a cap. He’d been searching in the wrong place.
The knowledge that Duca’s accomplice had been hiding in the women’s washroom, a few steps away from him, possibly even watching him, filled him with rage. It made his head spin and raised goosebumps on his flesh.
Charging into the warehouse, Jacinthe addressed the man who came forward to greet her. Voices were raised. Gradually returning to reality, Victor began to make sense of the stray phrases that penetrated his mind, eventually understanding that the man was Horowitz’s brother, co-manager of the firm, and that Horowitz himself had gone to a sunshine destination with his wife to get some rest.
The whistling in Victor’s ears ceased. He became aware that a heated argument had broken out: Jacinthe was insisting that the man place a call to Horowitz. The man was refusing to disturb his poor brother, who’d recently been through a heart scare. The man’s objections evaporated instantaneously, however, when Jacinthe declared that in that case, she’d have to call in the forensics team to do another thorough examination of the premises.
It was, of course, a shameless lie. But the fear of seeing his warehouse invaded once again by the police scientific unit prompted him to pick up his office phone and key in the number as they watched. When a voice answered at the other end of the line, Jacinthe put the call on hold, ordered the man out of his own office, and closed the door.
“Wake up, Lessard!” she barked before putting the call on speakerphone.
To prove that his head was back in the game, Victor met his partner’s eye, winked, and gave her a thumbs-up.
Thinking the call was from his brother, Horowitz hadn’t been on his guard.
Never Forget Page 42