by Peter Kirby
The Colonel took in Saint-Jacques. She was used to men ogling her. She lived in what was still a man’s world, and had learned to deal with it. For a second her eyes locked on Montpetit’s, and he got the non-verbal communication: Never in a million years, asshole.
He took a step back. “Perhaps we should go up to my office. Corporal Brasso will lead us.”
They followed Brasso up the stairs, with the Colonel bringing up the rear. He led them down a corridor into an open office space that faced onto the street. It was a contrast to the Spartan furnishings below; carpeted and well furnished, with a boardroom table at one end and a heavy wooden desk at the other. The long room was divided by a rectangle of two leather couches and two armchairs. The Colonel herded them to the long table, and Brasso sat down in one of the armchairs.
“So what can I do for you, Inspector?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Émile Legault.”
The Colonel furrowed his brow, as though he was trying to remember.
“Legault? The name doesn’t mean anything.” He turned to the other man. “Corporal Brasso, do you know this man Legault?”
“Never heard of him, sir.”
The Colonel turned back to Vanier. “Perhaps with some context. Does he work for us? I know almost everyone.”
“Not that I know of,” said Vanier. “He was running a crack house on Joliette. Your group was his landlord.”
“Can’t be, Inspector. We don’t have that many tenants, and I would recognize the name. And if he was selling drugs out of one of one of our apartments, I would have known about it and stopped it. We’re very strict. No illegal activity and certainly no drugs. We’re trying to improve this place, not continue its destruction.”
“We went to his apartment this morning. You had people cleaning it up for the next tenant.”
Montpetit thought for a second. “Oh, I think I understand.”
“What?”
“Your confusion, associating us with this Legault fellow. Absentee landlords are one of the big problems in this neighbourhood. Imagine, Inspector, people think they can own an apartment building and rent apartments to anyone they want without any responsibility. Well they can’t. If you own property in Hochelaga, you have a responsibility.”
He emphasized the point by pointing a finger down at the table. “We’ve been working hard to convince these absentee landlords that if they want to take money out of the community, they must take their community responsibilities seriously.” He stood up. “What’s the address?”
Vanier gave him the address on Joliette Street, and the Colonel walked over to a filing cabinet. He pulled out a thin folder, reading as he walked back to the table.
“That settles it. The owner is a Mr. Panagopoulos. He seems to have finally realized the harm he was doing. He’s agreed to allow the Patriotes to take over the apartment to show him how it can be managed properly.”
“When did this happen?”
“A few days ago. Of course, I didn’t speak to him myself. A leader needs to be disciplined. I have a method: Do, Delegate, Defer, or Drop, and this would have been delegation. We convinced him that allowing his property to be used as a crack house was a bad idea. So now we’re managing the place. We’ll be able to house a deserving family in there. Much better than a drug dealer, wouldn’t you agree?”
“So what happened to Legault?”
“You’ve just told me he was murdered.”
“With the apartment, I mean. Was he given notice?”
“Once again, not my department. I imagine it was the same as the others. Someone would have had a word with him and told him that he was no longer welcome, and he would have left.”
“And if he didn’t want to go?”
The Colonel smiled. “They always decide to leave. My people can be persuasive.”
“Someone kidnapped him two days ago, and he showed up dead ten hours later.” Vanier heard Brasso shifting in his seat. He was paying attention.
“You’re not suggesting that we were involved, are you, Inspector? That would be a very serious allegation.”
“You just said your people were very persuasive. Who went to see him?”
He looked through the papers in the folder. “Not clear from the file, Inspector. But I could find out for you.”
“Please do.”
Vanier sat back, waiting.
“Not just now.” The Colonel was getting irritated. “I need to make enquiries.”
“This is a murder investigation, sir. I would appreciate it if you could do whatever you need to do and get me the names. Right now.”
“I’m not sure anyone even visited him.”
“Why don’t you find out, one way or the other. We can wait.”
The Colonel sat back, closed the file and said, “Corporal Brasso. Can you make some calls and see if anyone went to see this Legault man to give him notice?”
Brasso got up. “Yes, sir.” He headed for the door.
“And Mr. Brasso,” said Vanier. Brasso stopped and turned. “Why don’t you do the same for Mr. Panagopoulos? The Colonel probably doesn’t have the names of whoever went to see him either.”
Brasso looked at the Colonel. The Colonel shrugged, said, “Do it.”
Then, as Brasso was at the door, Montpetit added, “But maybe Mr. Panagopoulos approached us. That’s a possibility.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Colonel turned to the two officers. “It could have been Mr. Panagopoulos that approached us. He signed a document allowing the Patriotes to manage the apartment. Maybe he wanted to make amends for renting it to scum.”
“Scum?”
“Scum, Inspector. We don’t need any Legaults in the neighbourhood. Life is hard enough here.”
“And the Patriotes care about that?”
“Unfortunately we may be the only ones who do.”
“So what do the Patriotes do?”
The Colonel was relieved to be back on familiar ground. “Everything the government doesn’t do. And believe me, Inspector, that’s plenty. We’re a charitable organization.”
He got up and went back to his desk again, rummaging through a drawer. He returned with two flyers and handed one to each officer. Vanier looked at the pictures, hungry mothers, scared looking seniors, and kids playing sports.
“This describes our work: housing, pre-school programs, after-school programs, employment centres, a food bank, two kindergartens, a summer camp. You name it, we do it. If there’s one thing we have a lot of in Hochelaga, it’s need. We even have a program on the care and maintenance of Hochelaga taxis.”
“Hochelaga taxis?”
“Otherwise known as electric scooters. You’d be amazed how many people have mobility problems around here. We fill needs, Inspector. The government does less and less every year, and we keep picking up the slack. Do you want to make a donation? It’s tax deductible.”
“We’ll think about it,” said Vanier, answering for both of them before Saint-Jacques was tempted to put her hand in her pocket.
“We started five years ago. Back then, we were simply preparing ourselves to defend Quebec. The Federals didn’t give a shit, and the Provincial government is just a tool of the Feds. So we decided to be ready to protect Quebecers in any emergency. Back then, we thought the threat was in the future, but it didn’t take long to realize that Quebecers were under attack right now, every day, and none more so that the people in our own back yard, here in Hochelaga. So we decided to do something about it.
“Now, we employ eighty people, local people who care about this place. And we’re giving people hope. There’s talent in Hochelaga, Inspector, and we help people help themselves. Workers who can’t find jobs but can put in an afternoon to install a boiler in one of our apartments. Young people with good degrees from UQAM can’t break into the job market
downtown, but there’s all kinds of stuff that they can do right here. We have nurses, social workers, teachers, lawyers. There’s so much unused talent here, our biggest challenge is putting everyone to work. But we’re doing it.”
Vanier was getting tired of the pep talk, he almost believed it. But he had been staring at the pictures on the wall behind the Colonel, pictures of guys with guns. He got up to take a closer look. They were all pictures of men in uniform wearing berets, and the Colonel was in most of them. One showed a bunch of them marching in formation along a residential street, another had guys in combat fatigues posing with guns. Most of the photos with weapons were taken in the country, but there was one posed in a back alley.
“And you play at making war?”
The Colonel stood up. “Nobody’s playing, Inspector. We’re going to be ready, believe me. This community needs services, and if the government won’t provide them, we will. And the people need protection. We will protect them.”
Vanier tapped one of the pictures with his finger. “Nice costumes, Mr. Montpetit.
The Colonel moved closer to Vanier, and Saint-Jacques stood up.
“You should be careful. We’re not playing games, Mr. Vanier. And unless there are further questions, I think this interview is finished.”
“Playing is all you’d better be doing. But we’re not finished. Mr. Brasso, remember?” “Corporal Brasso will call you with the information you need.”
“Tell him not to forget. In the meantime, why don’t you give me Mr. Panagopoulos’s address. Maybe he remembers which of your persuasive people went to see him.”
The Colonel sat down and copied an address from the file folder onto a piece of paper he handed to Vanier. Vanier turned to Saint-Jacques.
“Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”
When the door closed behind them, the Colonel pulled out his cell phone. “Corporal Brasso. The next time Inspector Vanier pays us a visit, I’d like you to arrange something special for him. Nothing too serious, but a little surprise to help him realize that Hochelaga can be a difficult place. He needs to appreciate the work we’re doing.”
Before he got into his car, Vanier looked up at the second floor window and saw the Colonel watching. He wasn’t smiling.
Vanier and Saint-Jacques were in Park Extension, the first home for the wave of Greek immigrants that arrived in Montreal in the 1950s. Vestiges of the community still remain in cafés that sell thick, black coffee to old men who watch football from Greece on tired television sets, and in postage-stamp parks that draw people out from dark apartments in the spring to sit and talk in the only comfortable language.
Those who prospered have long since moved on to bigger homes in the suburbs, and the children of those who couldn’t escape have gone, leaving their parents behind. Succeeding waves of new immigrants from Pakistan and Bangladesh have set up their own outposts. As with most immigrant communities, eventually, all that’s left is a hollow shell for the permanently displaced who can’t go home because home has changed beyond recognition, and who never managed to become Canadian and move on.
Constantine Panagopoulos lived on Bloomfield Avenue, a street that sounds more up-market than it is. It was still lined with white plastic car shelters, the ugly but efficient way to keep driveways clear of snow during the winter. The driveways on Bloomfield slope down from the street to semi-basement garages, and without a shelter you’d have to shovel snow uphill all winter like a Canadian Sisyphus.
Panagopoulos led them into a living room that had the unused look of a museum display. Vanier guessed that the living was done in the kitchen. Three matching armchairs flanked a straight-backed sofa on pedestal legs. Saint-Jacques made a show of looking at the framed pictures on the wall: the Parthenon, whitewashed villas, islands in an azure sea. There was a collection of framed pictures of children at various ages on top of a glass-fronted cabinet that held the family china. Three of the kids were beaming smiles in graduation gowns.
Panagopoulos gestured for them to sit on the sofa and let himself down slowly onto one of the armchairs. “I never had police here. What I can do for you?”
Before they could answer, an older woman in a blue flour-stained apron came in with a tray of coffee and biscuits.
“My wife, Yelani,” Panagopoulos said.
She smiled at Vanier and began pouring out the coffee. Vanier and Saint-Jacques took theirs, and Vanier reached for a biscuit and bit into it.
“Very good” he said, holding it up.
“Efharistó. I make.”
“My wife. She no talk good English.”
Vanier turned back to Panagopoulos. “We’re here because you’re the owner of the building where Émile Legault lived.”
Panagopoulos’s face clouded, and his wife sat down on the edge of one of the chairs. “Legault. Don’t talk to me about this bastard. Only trouble since he move in. He no pay rent for months, and now I lose the apartment. So, you going to help me?”
“We’re here to understand what happened. Legault was murdered, and we are investigating that.”
Panagopoulos sat back, his arms out with his palms facing the officers. “Is not me. You think I could kill someone?” His wife looked worried, trying to follow the conversation.
“No. That’s not it,” said Vanier. “But you were the landlord. And we heard that you gave the apartment to the Patriotes to manage.”
“Give? I no give the apartment to no one. They steal it. For ten months I try to kick Legault out. I make application to Régie du logement. You need Régie to give the okay to kick someone out of apartment. So I fill out the forms. It takes six months, then we have a hearing. But Legault, he get a lawyer to say he’s sick and need more delay. So, another three months. Now I have a date for May.”
He got up and went over to a sideboard cabinet against one wall, opening it with one hand, and using the other to stop the pile of papers and file folders inside from sliding to the floor. It looked like everything had just been thrown inside. He grabbed a manila folder from the pile and pushed everything else back behind the door. He handed Vanier a letter from the Régie du logement advising of a hearing in Panagopoulos v. Legault.
“So I get this. I think maybe now I get okay to kick him out. But I have to wait. And he no pay rent. I no rich. I drive taxi. But I buy this house,” he raised his arms to indicate what he was talking about. “And then the building on Joliette. For thirty years I work, collect rent, pay mortgage. I keep the building good. I think someday I have something to leave my kids, you know? But these bastards, they come and make me sign document. Say it’s only temporary.”
He pulled another paper from the folder and handed it to Vanier. Vanier scanned it. It was a one-page contract, Panagopoulos hands over the management and administration of the apartment to the Société des Patriotes de Montréal. In return, the Patriotes keep the rent. The contract said the arrangement would continue until both parties agreed to end it. That’s the kicker, Vanier thought, temporary is until the Patriotes decide to end it. He handed it to Saint-Jacques.
“When did you sign?”
“It says there. March 23,” Panagopoulos stood up to show Saint-Jacques the date.
“Morning? Afternoon?” asked Vanier.
“Morning. Early. Maybe eight o’clock. Two guys come and say they want to talk to me. And they come in. Big guys, you know? They fill this room. They start to talk about I’m a bad guy, letting my building be used for drugs. Maybe the police get involved, they say. One of them picks up pictures of the kids. Says I look after my kids but let other kids get ruined by drugs.”
Vanier reached for another biscuit.
“I tell them it’s nothing for me. I tell them about the Régie and all that, how I try to kick Legault out, but they don’t care. Like it’s my fault. And Yelani, she’s crying.”
Yelani nodded.
“So they give me
document and say why wait for the Régie? Say the Patriotes help me, that it’s only temporary. The keep saying this, temporary, like maybe fifty times. And I sign.”
“Can I take this?” Saint-Jacques asked. “I’ll make a copy and send it back to you.”
“You want copy? I make. I have scanner.”
He stood up and took the contract from Saint-Jacques and handed it to his wife, saying something in Greek. She disappeared out the door.
Vanier thought about the fact that if these guys had come in and stolen one of the pictures off the wall, it would be a crime. But paper up theft with a contract and it’s legal, not a police matter. And this one was small potatoes. He had seen family businesses stolen with lawyers’ letters and bullshit legal procedures. With enough money and the right lawyer, you don’t need to throw a brick through a window, you just hired a bailiff and deliver a writ.
“You know the names of the two men?” asked Vanier
“No. One time they say their names but that’s all. They don’t sign paper. Say it needs to be approved first. They say they send me signed copy after.”
“You have signed copy?” Vanier noticed he was dropping articles.
“No. They supposed to send to me. No have yet.”
Vanier handed Panagopoulos the brochure the Colonel had given him. “Are the men in any of these pictures?”
Panagopoulos studied the photo. “Yeah. That’s one of them,” he said, pointing.
Yelani came back in and handed a copy of the contract to each of the officers. Panagopoulos said something in Greek and pointed at the photograph in the brochure. “Ναί,” she said.
“No?” asked Vanier.
“That’s Greek for yes,” said Saint-Jacques.
“Yeah. This is one of the guys,” said Panagopoulos. He was pointing to a guy holding a soccer ball beside a team of eleven year olds.
“You’re sure?” asked Vanier.
“Ναί.”
Vanier looked at Saint-Jacques as if to say, I get it.
They got up to leave, mouthing thanks to Panagopoulos and promising to keep him up to date if they heard anything. Yelani reached into the deep pocket of her apron and took out two Ziploc bags of cookies. She gave one each to the officers.
