There were moments when Victor wondered whether he ought to fear what he had become, or whether he had become what he ought to fear.
His gaze rested on the leaf in the palm of his hand. He turned his mind away from his thoughts and focused on the reality before him: nature, palpable, in all its simplicity and splendour. Nature, which, unlike human beings, never disappointed him.
Placing the pitcher and cloth on a metal trolley, he gave himself a shake and sat down at his desk. His mood was darkening, but he was refusing to surrender to it.
He glanced at his watch. He’d have to leave soon. Pulling a blank sheet from his printer, he placed it on the desk and penned a brief note:
Dear Baby Face,
If you ever come to Montreal, call me.
I owe you, brother.
Thanks,
Victor
Using the permit number posted in Baby Face’s taxi, the detective sergeant had found the address of the driver who’d saved him in Dallas. Folding the note, he slipped it into the envelope along with a pair of tickets that he’d bought online for a Texas Rangers game in May.
He was putting a stamp on the letter when Jacinthe came up.
“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty.”
Jacinthe’s period of unconsciousness in Charlie Couture’s house had made her the reluctant owner of a new nickname.
“Go fuck yourself, Lessard,” she said, smiling and raising a middle finger. “We’re going for lunch. Want to come?”
“No, thanks, I already have something.”
Victor patted the pockets of his jeans and searched his jacket. Where had he put the damn key to the service vehicle he’d reserved? Probably on the desk somewhere, under the piles of documents.
He lifted the interrogation report that Loïc had submitted to him. The young detective had gone back to see Nash, the homeless former maths Ph.D. student. At first, Nash had sworn that he’d never given anything to André Lortie. Under persistent questioning, however, he had finally admitted to accepting money from a man in return for hiding an envelope among Lortie’s possessions. Swearing that he didn’t know what was in the envelope, Nash had identified the man from a photo array laid out by Loïc. The man was Lucian Duca.
Victor’s search continued in a toxicology report. The report indicated that no trace of anaesthetic had been found in the bloodstreams of Judith Harper and Nathan Lawson. This came as no surprise. Going through Charlie Couture’s house, the investigation team had found vials containing a substance that was undetectable in the blood after a few hours. Using her access to the drug cabinet at Louis-H., Charlie had stolen everything she needed.
Shit. If Victor didn’t find the key soon, he’d be late. The detective sergeant pushed aside the thick pile of sheets containing a transcript of Tousignant’s confession. Victor had listened to every second of the recordings, but hadn’t learned much beyond what he already knew. The same was true of the indictment drawn up by Lawson, which investigators had found among Charlie’s possessions.
Next, Victor’s eyes fell on the autopsy report concerning Daniel Tousignant. The report confirmed that Tousignant had killed himself with the pistol that Charlie Couture had left in her house. The document didn’t mention that the senator had turned the weapon on himself seconds after Loïc had intervened to stop him from destroying the recordings of his confession.
All the materials gathered by investigators — specifically the Evergreen file, Tousignant’s confession, and Charlie’s diary — had been turned over to the FBI by the Montreal Police. Victor didn’t yet know what the consequences would be. Would U.S. authorities want to question him?
He patted his jeans again. What had he done with that fucking key?
Then an idea struck him. He put a hand in his back pocket, the one in which he ordinarily kept his wallet. The key was there. Sometimes things were where they should be. You just had to pay attention.
The wind was scouring the streets of Chinatown; the sun was concealed by clouds.
With his collar upturned, hands in his pockets, the bruise under his eye having turned an ugly shade of yellow, Victor was moving fast, his stride purposeful. Turning onto La Gauchetière Street, he stopped at a mailbox and inserted the letter addressed to Baby Face. After double-checking the slot to be sure the letter was gone, Victor walked another hundred metres and entered a nondescript building.
He went up the stairs, reached a hallway, and turned right. Coming to the third door, he knocked and, without waiting for an answer, stepped into the room.
At the end of the hallway, Jacinthe Taillon smiled in triumph. She advanced to the door that her partner had just closed behind him. No sign. No buzzer. Now, at last, she would learn what he was up to in Chinatown.
Expecting to walk into an opium den or an unregistered massage salon that specialized in happy endings, Jacinthe turned the door handle and marched inside. Lessard was stretched out on a massage table, shirtless.
Disturbed by Taillon’s sudden arrival, the elderly Chinese man stopped inserting needles into the detective sergeant’s skin, glared at the intruder, and began speaking to her in an angry tone.
Jacinthe didn’t understand the language the man was speaking, but she had a pretty clear sense that he wasn’t paying her any compliments. Victor, meanwhile, was returning her gaze with undisguised annoyance.
Lessard was getting acupuncture treatments!
“It’s to help me quit smoking,” he said, in response to his partner’s unasked question. “Close the door on your way out.”
Emerging from the treatment, Victor set out on foot for a dingy little place nearby whose dumplings and Tonkin soup he particularly enjoyed. As he was walking along, his phone vibrated. Putting a hand in the pocket of his leather jacket, he withdrew his cigarette pack before retrieving his phone.
The sun came out from between two clouds for a breath of fresh air, but the brighter shine was on Victor’s face. The text message that had just arrived was from Nadja:
i miss you …
Pocketing the phone, Victor wondered: where was she? What was she doing? Had she finally made it to the cottage that they’d rented for the holidays? The thought broke through his armour and made his heart swell with hope.
Perhaps, after all, she would give him a second chance. Perhaps life would go back to the way it had been before.
Perhaps, this time, he would figure it out.
Standing there on the sidewalk, he was about to toss his cigarette pack into a trash can when he saw a young homeless man at the corner, begging.
Victor stopped in front of the young man and handed him the cigarettes. Then he set off toward the end of the street.
“Thank you, sir! Thank you! Keep smiling!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Every crime novel is rooted in the reality of the society it describes, bearing witness, in some measure, to a given era or series of events, past or present. This novel, however, doesn’t convey historical or political reality. The novelist’s task is to imagine what could have happened. And since this world is not a real but a fictional one, the characters’ thoughts, in context, are intended to serve the story and to be true to their own logic.
In a novel, details must be rendered with precision on subjects as varied as medical prescriptions and archival policy. A significant number of people helped me clarify these details. I’ve named them in my acknowledgements.
Now and then, reality needs a helping hand. I’ve added two floors to the Stock Exchange Tower. In 2008, penthouses were built atop the New York Life Building, from the roof of which one of my characters commits suicide. I’ve reconfigured certain locations in the city of Montreal, and I’ve taken some liberties with historical facts and persons.
Behind each of these departures from factual accuracy, there are precise reasons too complicated to go into here. One common principle unites them all: they serve the story.
Everything, always, must serve the story.
Martin Michaud
M
ATERIALS
I’ve always enjoyed reading the acknowledgements in rock bands’ liner notes, where each musician lists the instruments used in the making of an album. Obviously, a writer’s toolkit is more modest. If you ever come across me writing in a café, you’ll see me wearing my reliable Audio-Technica ATH-M50 headphones. I know, I know, I look like a Martian with those things on my head. (Incidentally, I highly recommend them to parents who need a break from their children’s yelling.) Permanently installed beside my desk, there’s an old Gibson acoustic lent to me by my good friend Marc Bernard. (And which will never be returned — there, I’ve said it.) That guitar is essential to maintaining some semblance of sanity when I’m working on a project. What else? Too many litres of espresso. An iMac, a MacBook, a printer that works when it’s in the mood, a yellow highlighter, and a knapsack. Wow. Totally glamorous, eh?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing this novel has been a long, solitary journey to the end of myself, and it’s been an enterprise in which a great many individuals have contributed significantly to the creation of the story. I am indebted to every one of them. I extend my warmest thanks:
To the friendly, collaborative, and enthusiastic team at Dundurn. It is an honor for me to be part of the family.
To Arthur Holden for understanding and respecting my characters and style in a very subtle way. When I read my book in English, I hear my voice. And that is because of your talent and sensitivity, my friend! You are the artist.
To my dear agent, Abigail Koons, for putting in the hard work and her faith in me at the start of this new journey, and for her ongoing guidance, passionate support, and ability to make me laugh. You are a gift.
To Catherine McKenzie for being a thoughtful friend and a facilitator in opening new horizons.
To the whole team at les Éditions Goélette for their support.
To Ingrid Remazeilles, who was the first editor to believe in me and in my ability to tell stories.
To Benoît Bouthillette, winner of the 2005 Saint-Pacôme Prize (best Quebec crime novel of the year), for helping me refine the style and effectiveness of this book. It was an honour to have you in my corner, Mickey.
To Patricia Juste and Fleur Neesham, for applying their fine proofreading talents to my text.
To Constable Geneviève Gonthier of the Montreal Police, who, in telling me about a personal experience, was the origin of an element of the novel’s plot, and who, thereafter, generously offered her insights on questions relating to police matters.
To Jacques Fillipi, who devoted countless hours to reading and commenting on my manuscript with sympathy and attention to detail. Best wishes to your boys, Jacques. (Here’s hoping that next time, the weather will be warm enough to take advantage of the pool!)
To Marie “Mémé Attaque Haïti” Larocque for reading my manuscript and offering comments, live from Jacmel, with enthusiasm, humour, and talent.
To Dr. Robert Brunet, psychiatrist, who generously invited me into his house, patiently taught me about bipolar disorder and its pharmacology, and helped me create a psychiatric profile for André Lortie.
To Jean-François Lisée, for receiving me in his home days after the birth of his youngest child, for answering my questions about the role played by U.S. intelligence services in Quebec during the 1960s, and for helping me give a past to Cleveland Willis.
To Michel Boislard, for explaining the practical aspects of archival policies in major law firms.
To Isabelle Reinhardt for her insight on questions relating to the Enterprise Register.
To Ariane Hurtubise, for sharing her experiences as a worker in the field of mental health.
To Carole Lambert and her sister for information regarding finance.
To Billy Robinson, Morgane Marvier, Johanne Vadeboncœur, and other booksellers across Quebec, whose passion and love of books make all the difference, helping novels like mine to find a readership.
To my friend Marc Bernard, with whom I’ve developed the habit of discussing the broad strokes of my novels.
To my parents, for the lessons they taught me; to my father, for the sentence I heard ceaselessly when I was small: “When you do something, do it well, or else don’t do it at all.”
To my children, Antoine and Gabrielle, for your support and your love, and for all the hours you let me steal from you so that I could bring this project to fruition.
To Geneviève, my love, my muse, my proofreader, my rereader, my keyboard artist, who’s there in the good times and the less-good times, who picks up what I let fall, who offers me mad quantities of time and who too often neglects herself for my benefit. Your name deserves to be on the cover of this book as much as my own.
To all of you, I offer my thanks. And I promise you: I remember.
Responsibility for any errors that may subsist in this novel is, of course, entirely my own.
Read on for the first chapter of Martin Michaud’s next Victor Lessard Thriller
Coming October 2020
MARCH 31ST, 2005
QUEBEC CITY
Darkness.
Behind his eyelids, he tried to recreate a mental image of the face, but the vision kept slipping away.
For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw the outline of the eyebrows, then everything went blurry. However hard he tried, he couldn’t visualize the eyes.
When the eyes absorb death, they reflect only emptiness. I can’t find a way to picture that void.
He shook his head. All that remained of his life was a dream, buried in another dream.
Waiting.
Tapping steadily on the tiles.
The rain ended a little before 8:00 p.m.
Crouched in the darkness behind the kitchen counter, he re-inspected the arsenal arrayed in front of him: a hockey bag on wheels, a metal suitcase, a pile of towels, and a bottle of all-purpose cleaner. He was invisible from the entrance. All he would have to do was charge forward to get the man.
Two hours ago, he had parked the car on the street and neutralized the alarm system. Before leaving the vehicle, he had slipped his laptop into a knapsack and stowed it under the back seat.
He had proceeded methodically. Everything was in its place.
He stroked the handle of the knife strapped to his ankle.
Soon, he would extract death from death.
He knew the well-regulated life of the man he was about to kill, down to the slightest detail. This being Thursday, the man would leave work at 8:30 p.m. He’d stop off at the supermarket for a frozen dinner. When he got home, he’d microwave his meal and eat it in front of the TV, sprawled in an easy chair.
He had slipped into the house several times while the man was out.
He had looked over the row of DVDs on the man’s bookshelf and noted with disdain that they consisted entirely of American TV shows.
People dull their minds with crude, derivative entertainment.
He had also remarked that the immense, luxurious house was at odds with the frugal habits of its owner. He had noticed a marble chess set in the living room,. He had observed the detailed ornamentation on the finely carved pieces.
A house like this should have been home to a family with children, not one person living alone. People were losing touch with real values. The cult of the individual, of every man for himself, disgusted him.
People don’t take responsibility for their actions anymore. They think they can let themselves off the hook by pointing fingers at others whose actions are worse than their own.
This man would pay for his mistakes. He would see to it.
He heard the car’s engine outside, then a key sliding into the lock. The door opened softly and a hand groped in the darkness, searching for the switch.
A final doubt assailed him. He brushed it aside.
His plan had no obvious flaws, apart from the possibility that a third person might be present. The man lived alone and didn’t seem to have any relationships outside his work. The fact that the house was iso
lated provided a degree of extra protection in case a problem should arise. It would be unfortunate to have to eliminate an innocent victim, but sometimes collateral damage was unavoidable.
He held his breath, tensing his muscles, ready to burst out of the shadows.
He’d been waiting a long time for this moment.
As soon as he’d spotted the photograph of the young woman, as soon as she had resurfaced, he’d done his utmost to avoid attracting attention.
He had forced himself not to buy more than a few items in each store, seeking out the anonymity of large retail outlets. He’d been compelled to visit a dozen different establishments, all located outside a two-hundred-kilometre radius from his home. He had never asked a store clerk for assistance.
Once his purchases were made, he had removed the labels and eliminated all markings that made it possible to trace the items.
These precautions had struck him as elementary.
On March 20th, his birthday, he had loaded up his old truck and set out for the hunting lodge at Mont-Laurier, north of Montreal.
Since the lodge was inaccessible by road, he had transported his materials using the snowmobile and utility sled that he kept in the town’s storage warehouse. The warehouse had a separate access door. No one had noticed him coming or going. In any case, it wouldn’t have been unusual to encounter him in the area at this time of year.
He had decided to transport his victims by night, to minimize the risk of being seen. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, he had made this advance trip to the lodge in darkness. There would be no room for error when he had actual bodies to deal with.
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