“I don’t know,” grinned her partner, Eric St-Clair. “Nobody dresses like that at the parties I go to.”
“That’s probably because nobody gets paid a thousand bucks to attend the parties you go to,” Bossy smirked.
Manon D’Astous’ attire for the evening was a tight, black strapless mini-dress consisting of two panels of fabric, probably spandex, front and back attached at both sides with narrow horizontal strips at every three or so inches. It left little to the imagination of the woman’s body underneath and made clear that any undergarments were nonexistent. Black high heels made D’Astous’ long, shapely legs seem even longer.
“Let’s roll,” said Irene as she watched the shiny, gun-metal blue BMW turn the corner and roll out of sight.
Eric executed a quick u-turn and reached the corner in time to see the roadster head eastbound on Notre-Dame. They followed and a couple of intersections further, turned left on Peel heading for the downtown core. They continued north until de Maisonneuve where D’Astous turned left again. She crossed Stanley and pulled up in front of the entrance of Le 1200 Ouest de Maisonneuve condominium towers.
Immediately, the doorman hurried over to open the car door for her then hurried back to grant her access to the building. He produced a cell phone and made a brief call and a moment later, another staff member appeared to whisk her automobile to the visitors’ parking area.
“Excellent service for a visitor,” St-Clair commented from where they watched at the corner of Stanley.
“She must be visiting someone important,” replied Bossy as she put away the digital camera, “Which could mean anyone in a place like this.”
“True,” Eric agreed, “But the way she was greeted by the doorman, he knows her. Maybe we should go ask him who she’s visiting.”
“Yeah, Eric,” Irene snorted, “And I’m sure he’s going to tell you.”
“Guess you’re right,” he agreed as he merged back into the traffic. “Our work is done for now.”
Chapter 21 – Monday, July 24, 2006
“Dammit,” muttered Dave McCall as he stared at the front page headline in the Gazette. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
DEPUTY-MAYOR LÉVESQUE SUCCOMBS TO INJURIES
It was 6:30 a.m., he had just picked up the paper on the doorstep and he already knew that the day would be much too long. He and his team were doing everything possible to solve this case, now officially a murder case, but the lack of concrete results to date would certainly boil over into a political tempest with this latest development, with him in the eye of the storm.
As if reading his mind, the phone rang.
“Ah fuck,” he growled as he saw Director Savard’s name on the call display before answering. “Hi Alain… Yes, I just saw the headline…. We’re working on some leads but….. I understand but….. We already had a meeting scheduled…. Yes sir, I’ll call you to give you an update as soon as we’re done.”
“Fuck,” he hissed as he slammed the receiver back on its base.
He looked at the range clock. 6:34.
This day was going to be much too long.
~ ~ ~ ~
The telephone was ringing as Dave McCall entered his office.
‘What now?’ he thought, hanging his jacket behind the door then reaching for the receiver.
“McCall, homicide,” he answered as he went around his desk and dropped into his chair.
“Captain, I’m happy you’re in,” said William Enright.
“Hi William,” replied McCall courteously. “What can I do for you?”
“There’s not much really,” admitted Enright. “I was more calling to simply express my concern about these killings. I saw the reports on the news and in the papers about those three poor souls who were shot on Saturday. Thank God, at least one of them survived.”
“Yes, William. He was lucky,” said the captain. “I wish that the two others had been as lucky.”
“Indeed,” agreed William. “But do you have any leads? Are you getting closer to catching this madman?”
“We’re doing the best we can,” McCall answered. “And we’re following up on what little information we have.”
“Yes, but Saturday at Cabot Square,” continued Enright. “There must have been some people around? Weren’t there any witnesses? You must at least have a description?”
“William, I understand your concern with this issue,” Dave started.
“Of course I’m concerned, Captain,” Enright interrupted. “These victims are exactly the people that our foundation is striving to protect. However, this, this assassin is just going around killing more and more of them and you don’t seem to be getting any closer.”
“William, with all due respect,” McCall said firmly, growing annoyed. “I repeat that we are doing everything we can. If someone had been out there with a camera and had snapped a photo of the guy, we’d have something. If someone had jumped the guy and held him until we got there, we’d have him. We had about as many descriptions as we had witnesses. Don’t you think we questioned these people? Of course we did.”
“Captain, Dave,” said Enright in a more subdued tone. “I apologize for my ranting and, yes, of course you and your detectives are doing what you can with what little you have. I’m certainly not in a position to tell you how to do your job which is probably what it sounds like I’m doing. The whole thing is just frustrating to me. Please understand.”
“I understand, William,” replied the captain, his tone less aggressive but still firm. “But just imagine how frustrating it is from this chair.”
“Touché,” Enright acknowledged. “I apologize once again for my attitude, Dave, but I really meant no harm. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.”
“I will,” Dave sighed. “Have a good day, William.”
~ ~ ~ ~
“Happy Day, Everybody,” McCall said sarcastically as he entered the conference room. “I trust you all saw this morning’s headlines?”
The five detectives seated around the table grunted or nodded their assent.
“Excellent,” Dave went on as he had a seat. “That combined with two more dead homeless people on Saturday explains my cheerful demeanour this morning.”
“So, you’re having a good day so far?” asked Frank with a slight smile.
“You betcha,” Dave shot back. “Savard was on the phone to me at 6:30 this morning, his sole purpose being to sear my butt about the Lévesque case. Next, William Enright just called to let me know what a sorry job we’re doing at catching this homeless killer. I’m sure that the day will get even better when my friend, Borough Mayor Laforge, issues a statement or holds a press conference sometime today and rakes me over the coals.”
“Sorry I asked,” Bakes shrugged, drawing muffled laughs from the others.
“Alright,” McCall smiled. “Let’s get started with the Lévesque case. Give me something new, somebody.”
“We got the results back on Manon D’Astous’ prints,” Tim announced. “They didn’t exist on file anywhere and they don’t match the prints on Joy Chang’s spare key.”
“Wonderful,” Dave said caustically. “What else?”
“We kept tabs on her all day Friday,” said Irene Bossy. “Nothing particularly out of the ordinary. She jogged, went to the bank and for a haircut. Then she had lunch with another woman after which she shopped at Ogilvy’s alone for a couple of hours before going home.
“We don’t know who her lunch companion was,” Eric St-Clair stepped in. “I followed up with the restaurant at the end of the day. They were cooperative but didn’t know either of the women. The bill was paid cash. However we did get photos of them as they left.”
He slid a number of 8 x 10 prints across the table which showed D’Astous with an attractive woman in her mid to late thirties. Unfortunately, nobody had a clue who she was.
“Moving along,” said McCall.
“Considering her comfortable lifestyle and complete lack of legitimate employment,”
Joanne offered, “We’re pretty sure she’s a hooker. We tracked down the owner of the house she visited on Friday in Westmount. It belongs to James Conrad.”
The captain raised an eyebrow. “As in Conrad & Feenie?”
“As in,” Nelson nodded. “Tim and I are going to drop in on him later today and see what we can find out about the lady.”
“Best of luck,” Dave snorted. “Goddamned lawyers. Next.”
“Nothing of note on Saturday until around seven when she left,” said Eric. “Dressed up sexy-chic once again…”
“More like sleazy,” Irene interrupted.
“I stand corrected, sleazy,” St-Clair smiled and continued. “We followed her downtown to the fancy condo towers at 1200 de Maisonneuve,”“1200 de Maisonneuve?” McCall repeated, raising both eyebrows this time.”
“Coincidence?” mused Bakes.
“It could be,” admitted Dave. “Those towers are what twenty, twenty-five storeys? That’s a lot of units.”
“I could always go have a chat with the people I met there,” Frank suggested.
“Try, by all means,” Dave agreed. “But I’ll wish you as much luck as I do to Jo and Tim when they go meet Conrad.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Joanne and Tim stepped off the elevator on the thirty-fourth floor at 1 Place Ville Marie, Montreal’s famous cross-shaped office tower, and walked to the huge pane glass doors beyond which were the offices of Conrad & Feenie.
“Here goes nothing,” muttered Joanne as they entered the expansive reception area.
“You’re probably right,” Tim agreed as they crossed the twenty-five or so feet of oak flooring which separated the gigantic modular reception desk from the entrance.
“Good Afternoon. How may I help you?” the attractive, thirty-something receptionist asked pleasantly enough.
“Senior Detectives Tim Harris and Joanne Nelson,” Tim replied formally. “We have an appointment with James Conrad.”
“Oh yes,” the receptionist acknowledged, becoming appropriately serious. “Mr. Conrad’s schedule is quite busy but he did inform me that he would try to squeeze you in for a few minutes when you arrived. Please have a seat. It shouldn’t be too long.”
“So much for appointments,” Nelson whispered as they sauntered away from the woman.
“At least we have lots of room to sit,” said Tim, referring to the various sitting areas scattered around the vast room. “This could be a hotel lobby.”
They chose an unoccupied spot, four over-stuffed leather chairs surrounding a low centre table offering a selection of financial and legal periodicals, and settled down to wait. Nearly forty minutes later, a grey haired, trim man in his fifties came down a hallway into the reception area. Without breaking his stride, he eyed the receptionist who gestured towards Nelson and Harris with a glance.
“That’s him,” Joanne murmured, recognizing the man from the Westmount house the previous Friday.
“Detectives,” said Conrad in a warm, cultured tone. “So sorry to keep you waiting. It never stops around here. Let’s see if we can find somewhere to talk.”
On that note, he turned on his heel and headed back the way he had come. Halfway down the hallway, he stopped at a door, opened it and walked into a large empty conference room. A fine china coffee service with three cups sat on the close end of the large conference table.
“We’ll be fine in here,” Conrad informed them. “Please sit. Coffee?”
They accepted and Conrad did the honours before settling into his own large leather chair.
“There we go,” he said after taking a sip of coffee. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating possible leads in the hit and run which resulted in the death of Pierre Lévesque,” Nelson informed him.
“I see. Tragic affair,” replied the attorney as his eyes narrowed slightly. “And how do you think I can be of assistance in your investigation?”
“We were wondering what you could tell us about Manon D’Astous.” Tim replied.
“I’m not familiar with that name,” Conrad said evenly. “Who is she?”
“You don’t know Manon D’Astous? Joanne said, failing to completely hide her sarcasm.
“I believe that’s what I just said,” Conrad responded coolly. “What is this about?”
“Who were you with Friday evening?” Joanne asked abruptly.
Conrad gazed at her for a moment then smiled before saying, “Excuse me for a moment.”
He walked to the far end of the room, picked up the receiver from a telephone console and hit a key. His call connected and he spoke quietly for minute then hung up.
“We’ll just be a moment,” he said as he returned to his seat, remaining silent.
Joanne and Tim glanced at each other and returned their attention to Conrad in silence as they waited. A minute or so later, the door opened, a man entered and had a seat next to Conrad.
“May I introduce Martin Feldman,” Conrad addressed the detectives. “Martin is one of my colleagues and I asked him to attend our little meeting as an advisor. Now, Detective Nelson, what was your last question?”
“Who were you with Friday evening?” Joanne repeated, glaring at Conrad.
“Is Mr. Conrad under investigation?” Feldman asked calmly.
“We’re investigating a murder, Mr. Feldman,” Joanne retorted.
Feldman gazed at her for several seconds without expression then repeated, “Is Mr. Conrad under investigation?”
“No, he is not,” Tim quietly responded.
“From what I understand,” said Feldman, “You asked Mr. Conrad if he knew a Manon…?”
“D’Astous, Manon D’Astous,” Harris replied, taking over as his partner quietly fumed.
Feldman turned to Conrad. “James, do you know anyone by that name, Manon D’Astous?”
“As I already told the detectives,” Conrad replied smoothly, “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“I am assuming that you are currently investigating this Manon D’Astous?” Feldman asked of Harris.
“That’s correct,” Tim replied.
“Well then, I’m afraid that Mr. Conrad can’t help you,” said Feldman as he rose to his feet, “As he doesn’t know anyone by that name. I’m sorry, Detectives, but this meeting is over.”
As Nelson and Harris stood, Feldman offered his card across the table to them.
“Should you need to speak to Mr. Conrad again, please contact me to make an appointment. Good Day, Detectives.”
Chapter 22 – Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Frank Bakes glanced at the photo taken by Irene Bossy and looked up at the doorman across de Maisonneuve. Yes, it was the same guy; clean-cut, apparently in shape, late forties, formal stance, polite and responsive to everyone who approached; probably capable of handling the occasional troublemaker who happened by. Everything rich people would want in a doorman. Frank just hoped he wasn’t discreet as well.
He walked to the light at Drummond, waited for the green and crossed over to the south side then strolled along back and headed for the entrance of Le 1200 Ouest de Maisonneuve. As he approached, the doorman smiled at him and reached for the door but Frank shook his head and stopped in front of him.
“Just wanted to talk to you for a minute,” he told the man.
“Yessir,” replied the doorman. “If I can help you.”
“I’m with the police,” Frank informed him as he showed his identification. “I’d have a couple of questions.”
“Sure,” nodded the doorman. “Like I said, if I can help you.”
“Great,” said Frank, not certain how much help the man would actually be ready to give.
He pulled a photo of Manon D’Astous out of his pocket and showed it to the man. “Do you know this woman?”
“Oh Missy,” the man exclaimed with a grin as he looked at the print. “I’ve seen her many times but unfortunately I don’t know her.”
“What did you say her name was?” Frank asked, c
ontrolling his excitement.
“I don’t know what her real name is. I just started calling her Missy along the way,” the doorman explained. “She was coming here regularly enough, still does, and complained one day that it was a hassle having to go park the car in the visitors lot and walk back around.
“Uh, huh,” Bakes nodded with interest. “Go on.”
“Well, all the guys working here are kind of gaga over her,” the man winked. “You understand, with the way she looks and all.”
“Oh, I definitely understand,” Frank agreed.
“So, anyhow,” the doorman continued, “When she complained, I asked the parking guys if they minded doing valet service for her and they were all keen so now she just drives up and they run to park her car.”
“I understand all that but why did you call her Missy?” Frank asked, a little confused.
“That’s just me rambling,” the doorman laughed. “They don’t call me Ramblin Robby for nothing. Point is, to answer your question, I was calling her Miss every time she showed up and I opened the door for her and, after a while, I just started calling her Missy. She didn’t seem to mind because she never corrected me on it and never told me her real name.”
“Do you think anyone else knows her name?” Frank asked.
“If they do, nobody’s ever mentioned it,” replied Ramblin Robby. “We all call her Missy now. Maybe some know but kept it to themselves because everyone would like to get under her skirt but I really doubt it.”
“I see,” said Frank with disappointment. “Would you happen to know who she visits when she’s here?”
“Sorry, Detective,” said Robby. “Not a clue on that one. You can always ask Rich, the guard in the lobby. He might know. I just open the doors.”
“Alright,” said Bakes. “I’ll do that.”
Robby started to open the door for him but stopped suddenly, his look one of concern.
“She’s not in any trouble or anything, is she?” he asked.
The Homeless Killer Page 14
