by Peter Kirby
Vanier and St. Jacques sat in the steel-themed reception area on oversized chairs that looked like they were designed by a club-hopper whose idea of furniture was a place to perch for a few seconds before flitting to the next flower. The receptionist, a tall Haitian beauty, was dressed for a fashion shoot and thumbing through a magazine like they weren’t there. Chill-out music, the kind Vanier hated, played from expensive speakers hidden somewhere in the decor. St. Jacques shifted uncomfortably on her perch.
The thick carpeting masked the sound of the approaching men, and Vanier sensed movement only at the last minute. Two men stood in front of them in suits that looked like they had been sprayed on. The shorter of the two reached out his hand to Vanier, “Inspector Vanier, I am Vladimir, Vladimir Markov. Please call me Vladimir, everyone does. And this is Mr. Romanenko. He prefers to be called Mr. Romanenko.”
Vanier found himself being polite. “Gentlemen, this is Detective Sergeant St. Jacques.”
Markov’s eyes made a fairly obvious tour of St. Jacques’s body. “Detective Sergeant, I am charmed to meet you. Tell me, do you wear a gun? I would find that so exciting,” he said, turning on what might pass for charm in Eastern Europe.
“Gentlemen, we have a few questions we would like to ask,” said Vanier.
“Follow me, Inspector,” said Markov, turning to the boardroom. “Ayida,” he said to the receptionist, “could you whip up some coffee for our guests?”
“Au lait would be good, messieurs?” she asked.
“Au lait would be perfect.”
Markov led them into a boardroom dominated by a huge conference table of grey polished steel that contrasted with the white walls and black-framed prints. Not IKEA, thought Vanier. Markov made a show of pulling a chair out for St. Jacques, and she tried her best not to look surprised. While they waited for coffee, Markov gave the officers a capsule history of Blackrock’s achievements, its dedication to the revitalization of Montreal, its support for a litany of charitable works, its support for politicians of all parties, at all levels of government. The message was that Blackrock was an untouchable community asset, well beyond the reach of lowly police officers.
Eventually Ayida reappeared with a tray and four china cups.
“Ayida used to be a barista, and she cannot resist showing off her talent,” said Markov. “Isn’t that right, Ayida?”
Ayida acknowledged that he was right with a faint smile, and withdrew without a word.
“The coffee is roasted by 49th Parallel in Vancouver. Without a doubt, they are the best coffee roasters in North America, true artisans. Cheers!” Markov said, as he raised his cup.
Vanier reciprocated with a nod despite himself; he had to admit that the coffee was a huge step up from the machine at headquarters, even down to the palm tree pattern traced into the foamed milk. St. Jacques stared at the palm tree in her cup. Vanier pulled out a notebook and placed it on the table, a simple act of intimidation that seemed to be lost on Markov. Romanenko stared at the notebook.
“Now, Inspector,” said Markov, “how can we help you?”
“We’re looking into the deaths of five homeless people on Christmas Eve.”
“I heard about that,” said Markov. “It’s tragic. As a member of the community, I feel that we really must do more for the less fortunate in society. But how can we help you with this, Inspector?”
“We’re looking into Blackrock’s relationship with the Holy Land Shelter. You’re familiar with the Shelter, I assume?”
“Of course I am, Inspector. Isn’t every Montrealer? It’s a wonderful institution. In fact, I believe that we made a substantial donation to the Shelter last year. As I said earlier, we at Blackrock are very cognizant of our civic duty.”
“What is your involvement with the Shelter, apart from the donation, of course?”
Markov sat, perfectly composed. He didn’t look like he was forming an answer, and that was Romanenko’s cue.
“Could you be a little more specific Inspector? That’s a fairly vague question,” said Romanenko.
The gloves were coming off, and Vanier felt more at ease.
“Is Blackrock interested in acquiring the Holy Land Shelter land?”
“Inspector,” said Romanenko. “I can’t see how Blackrock’s investment plans have anything to do with your inquiries.”
“Let me decide that. It’s a simple question, yes or no?”
“Simple, I agree,” said Romanenko. “But you are asking a question relating to the confidential business plans of a private corporation. A question, I might add, that has no apparent bearing on your investigation. If people knew what we plan to do, anyone — even a policeman — could make a fortune. Confidentiality is a critical part of our business. I am sure you understand, Inspector.” He turned to face Markov. “I am advising my client not to answer any questions relating to the business plans of the company.”
“He’s strict, Inspector,” said Markov. “Perhaps that’s why he’s so good. But I must follow my lawyer’s instructions. Is there anything else you wanted to know? Perhaps something related to your investigation?”
Vanier was outgunned but tried again. “I’ve noticed that many of the current Board members of the Shelter have ties either to Blackrock, or to you. Why would that be?”
“Inspector,” said Romanenko, “I believe that the usual objection to your question is that it assumes facts that have not been proven. And, again, that it does not appear to have any connection with your investigation.”
“He is good, isn’t he?” said Markov, smiling like an insurance salesman.
“So you won’t help us with our investigation,” Vanier said, looking at Markov.
Markov moved forward in his chair and looked Vanier in the eye, dropping the all-good-friends pretences.
“Inspector, if you come to me with a question relating to your investigation, any question at all, you will have my full cooperation. But don’t think for one moment that you have a licence to come wandering in here with your wonderful assistant just because there is something about the modern world that you don’t understand. Catch the madman who committed these murders, and I will have a word with the Mayor about a commendation. But I recommend that you stay with the job at hand, Inspector.”
“Tell me, Mr. Markov, do you know a Michel Audet? He works at the Holy Land Shelter.”
“Who?”
“Michel Audet. Name ring a bell?”
“Honestly, I can’t say that it does. But you know how it is, Inspector. I meet so many people, sometimes names escape me.”
“Even though your Board members hired someone with a criminal record for security?”
Markov said nothing. “Inspector, the Board does what it thinks is best for the shelter. Who am I to second-guess their decisions? Anyway, all I can say is that I don’t recall this Mr. Audet. Perhaps I met him, perhaps not.”
“Thank you, sir. I think that is all then,” said Vanier, standing to leave. He waited for St. Jacques to join him, standing next to a perfect scale model of Blackrock’s latest project, perfect, even down to the tiny people and shrubbery. As St. Jacques approached, he took a step back towards the maquette, and St. Jacques saw that a collision was inevitable.
Markov yelled, “Stop,” but Vanier continued, colliding with the table, and sending the maquette crashing to the floor where it broke into pieces. Vanier looked up from the pile of rubble.
“So sorry. Accident.”
Markov was angry and doing his best to contain it. He walked over to Vanier and said quietly, “Hey, policeman, chill. I’ll have Ayida show you out.”
“No need, we know the way.”
St. Jacques joined Vanier as he walked to the exit. Vanier wondered how long it would be before the complaint reached Bedard.
8 PM
The city was half way through the job of clearing the snow from the last storm when another rolled in, promising to drop 25 to 39 centimetres. It had started around 5.30 p.m., and the snow was inches deep. De
spite the storm, rue St. Denis was still crowded with bar-hoppers. At every corner, teenagers, refugees from small towns in the country and crap neighbourhoods in Montreal mumbled to anyone who would listen, “Hash, coke, Ex?” The market was open, and business was brisk.
Vanier was walking north, amusing himself by swerving into the pushers and their customers while he scanned the perimeter of the crowd. The pushers and their clients always scattered, looking at him like he was drunk, but not sure enough to do anything about it. He spotted Degrange standing in the entrance to a rooming house five steps up from the street, keeping an eye on his vendors. After years of loyal service, Degrange had been promoted. It wasn’t much of a promotion, but enough so that he didn’t touch the drugs or the money anymore. His job was to make sure that the pipeline kept flowing in both directions, drugs to the street and money to his boss, with no leaks in either direction. He was wearing a red lumberjack coat with a Montreal Canadiens toque pulled tight over his ears. When he spotted Vanier bumping his way up the street, he pulled back into the shadow of the doorway. He had nowhere to go when Vanier climbed the steps.
“Inspector Vanier, great to see you again,” he lied. “What can I do for you?”
“Let’s take a walk”
“I can’t, Inspector. I can’t be seen walking down the street with someone like you. You understand”.
“Shut up shop. Right now. I’ll be in Harvey’s, up the street. You better be there. Ten minutes.”
Vanier walked down the steps and turned in the direction of Harvey’s, continuing to weave through the pedestrian traffic, bumping into the vendors and disturbing the market.
He ordered two coffees at the counter and found a quiet table, glaring at anyone who approached to keep the surrounding tables remaining empty. Some customers recognized him and left without ordering. The coffee was getting cold when Degrange sat down and reached for the paper cup. He pulled four sachets of sugar out of his pocket and tore them open, two at a time, before tipping them into the coffee.
“You shouldn’t do that, Inspector, scaring away the customers. It’s bad for business.”
In the heat of the restaurant, Degrange stank of mildew, sweat and cigarette smoke.
“You owe me, Michel. Don’t forget.”
“Did I say no? I’m just saying, I have to keep my credibility. I won’t be any use to you if I lose my credibility, will I?”
“I want to know about Marcel Audet. He used to be with the Rock Machine. What do you hear about him now?”
Degrange’s eyes lit up. “Audet? I remember him. Bad fucker, like all of them Rock Machine bastards. Don’t know why they wanted to go up against the Hell. Never made sense. I don’t hear of him these days. Wasn’t he sent up for assault?”
“He’s been out for four months. Did three years.”
“He’s not a player. I didn’t even know he was around. Know what I mean?”
“Well, there’s $50 for good information, not bullshit. Who’s he working for? What’s he doing? And an address. An address would be very useful.”
“Well, Inspector, I can ask around. See what I can find out. But $50, that’s minimum wage.”
A couple was about to sit down, and Vanier gave them a look that sent them looking elsewhere.
“I want to know who he’s working for. See what you can find out.” Vanier dropped a twenty on the table and left. Degrange reached for it quickly, like it might disappear.
9 PM
Beaudoin clicked the lights off in the children’s rooms, slowly closing the doors, one after the other, and walked down the carpeted stairs. Caroline was sitting on the couch watching the hockey game on a muted television. Beaudoin sat on the chair opposite the couch. She didn’t look up, feigning interest in the game while she used the remote to raise the volume just enough to discourage conversation without disturbing the children. She didn’t react when the phone rang. Beaudoin got up.
“Hello.”
…
“Yes, sir, I know.”
…
“Mr. Henderson, the regulations say that the notice has to give a clear explanation of the business to be conducted at the meeting. If it’s not clear, anything done at the meeting can be challenged later on the basis of an invalid notice.” Beaudoin walked into the kitchen with the cordless phone pressed to his ear.
“I know that, sir. It’s a delicate balance. But you have to protect yourself from future challenges. There’s no point of winning a vote if it’s overturned by the courts.”
…
“Yes, sir. I’ll do what I can. Obtuse, I’ll aim for obtuse, as you say.”
…
“Tomorrow. I’ll have a redraft ready for you tomorrow.”
He walked back into the living room, dropped the phone into its cradle, and sat down heavily on the chair.
“Caroline. We need to talk.”
The most feared words of any relationship. She didn’t say anything.
“This is not where I wanted to be. I thought I could do something, achieve something.”
She continued watching the screen.
“I’m ashamed of who I am, Caroline. I don’t like me. I don’t like what I’ve become.”
She pushed the mute button. “And you think it’s my fault?” she replied, looking at him for the first time.
“No, I don’t think it’s your fault. But you’ve noticed?”
“Pascal, I love you, but you weren’t made for this. You weren’t made for compromise. And that seems to be all you do these days. And the compromises are killing you. You used to believe in things, and now it’s just about earning money.”
“I don’t have the luxury to be an idealist, Caroline. We have two kids. They need a good home.”
“They need a father more. They need a father they can look up to. I married you because of what you were, a caring person with principles. Pascal, look at you. Any time Henderson calls, you jump. You’d do anything he asks.”
“That’s what I mean, Caroline. I think I’ve reached the end.”
Beaudoin explained the whole story. And his wife listened to the boy she had married years ago and hadn’t seen in years. Was the person she married really coming back? She didn’t know what to think, but she knew that if he was, she didn’t want to lose him again. They made plans. How life would be. How life didn’t have to be a series of compromises. She told him she didn’t need the big house, didn’t need the chalet up north, she needed him. And the kids needed him.
9.30 PM
Vanier poured the amber liquid over two ice cubes and swirled it around before sitting down in front of the pile of Prayer Cards that weren’t even cards, but recycled scraps cut from sheets that had been used to print the Cathedral’s newsletter, a sign of Mother Church’s schizophrenia. The Church wallows in opulence one moment and is as parsimonious as a Scottish pauper the next. No expense is spared on costumes and props for the theatrics, and the trust funds are nurtured with a mother’s concern, but messages to the saints must be scribbled on used scraps of paper, and the pious must pay for the candles burned in offerings.
Each rectangle of paper was dated in the top left-hand corner and had a hand-written note on one side. Printed scraps of unintelligible information from the newsletter filled the other. Most started with a variant of Dear St. Jude, and were signed, some with full names and others with abbreviated signatures: Mme. H, JP, or M. D. Each card was a postcard monument to the human spirit’s inability to accept the brutal unfairness of life.
Vanier sipped on his Jameson and began to read:
Dear St. Jude,
Our daughter Caroline has disappeared. Please give us a sign that she is alive. Help her understand that we love her. Help her find her way and, the Lord permitting, to find her way back to us.
G.H.
He counted them. There were 131 in all. He arranged them in chronological order. The earliest prayer was nine months ago, looking for a miracle to conquer inoperable cancer. The most recent was signed December
23. It read:
To St. Jude,
My husband is the only man I have loved for 35 years, and he left me two weeks ago. Please restore him to me.
Mme. G.
He grouped them by subject: financial, matrimonial, medical, and a single rectangle praying for scholastic achievement. He tried to order them by the colour of the ink, and quickly realized that Drouin had probably supplied a cheap blue Biro along with the papers. Sometimes a prayer would set him back.
S.J.
Michael has started hitting me again. Please put love back in his heart. Help him to stop drinking. Let him know that I love him.
It was signed with two crosses, symbols of sacrifice. Vanier knew where that prayer had come from. He had often prayed something similar for his mother while pretending to be asleep when his father came home drunk and angry. He had prayed it in army bases across Canada, and his prayers were answered a couple of times when his father was shipped overseas. But no sooner were they answered than his mother would lead an assault on the saints pleading for his safe return.
He refilled his glass and started again. This time he laid them all out on the table and stood up for a bird’s eye view. In a moment he saw it. He sat down and began selecting the squares that had names on them. Ten of them had first and second names, and each one was signed with an A. Each was a plea for a peaceful death, for an end to pain. They formed a single prayer mosaic. Five of the slips of paper had names he knew:
That the tormented suffering of Joe Yeoman be soon over and that he join his Holy Father in everlasting life.
A
For Edith Latendresse, that her inhuman suffering may end peacefully.
A
That the Lord welcome Celine Plante into His arms. A spirit too beautiful for this world.
A
Dear St. Jude.
Your servant George Morissette has suffered enough. Give him release. Allow him to escape his suffering and join you in everlasting life.
A
For Pierre Brun, during his last days on earth. May his pain be short and the joy of everlasting life be his.
