Leduc’s blood was already congealing, sticky everywhere he touched, the stench from his body waste overpowering in the confined space. ‘No, no. I won’t betray you. I swear.’
‘Georges… Georges? Are you okay?’
The gun levelled at his face, a sardonic smile creasing one corner of Roman’s mouth as he started to pull the trigger. ‘One day… And I just can’t risk that…’ He could feel Roman’s hand on his shoulder, even though Roman’s free arm appeared to be at his side…
‘No, no… I promise, I…’
He jolted sharply upright a second before the bullet hit, bathed in sweat, Simone’s face above him blurring slowly into vision, her hand gently stroking his shoulder.
‘…You okay?’ She watched his eyes focus on her, and leant forward and kissed him lightly on one cheek. ‘You were shaking the bed a lot, calling out.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ He cradled his forehead for a second and then ruffled his hand through his hair, orientating. They were at his place and it was still dark outside. He glanced at the bedside clock: 5.12am. ‘Just a dream,’ he stated the obvious, as if that might brush it all quickly away.
‘Anything interesting? Terri Hatcher got your head trapped between her thighs? Or maybe Roseanne, if it was a nightmare?’
‘Nothing so exciting.’ He sniggered lightly, which subsided into a shiver that ran through his body. ‘That night with Leduc coming back to haunt me.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘And it’s not the first time.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Simone glanced down awkwardly. She looked up slowly after a second, met his eyes steadily. ‘You know, papa never really talks about business with me. But he’s mentioned that incident to me now twice. I know that he feels badly about it, feels that he should never have sent you along.’
‘I know.’ He nodded and gently clasped her hand. Now it was his turn to feel a stab of guilt: her father still shouldering the blame, and meanwhile he was continuing to shield the truth from him. It was Jean-Paul he was betraying, not Roman; a betrayal of the trust Jean-Paul had long placed in him. He owed Roman little or nothing.
He ran his hand up her arm and lightly stroked her shoulder. He bit at his bottom lip as he met her gaze. ‘Look. There was something that happened that night with Roman and Leduc. Something that I never…’ And then he was reminded of why he’d gone along with Roman and said nothing: the newcomer to the fold driving a wedge between two brothers who’d worked the family business together harmoniously for so many years. His allegiance to Jean-Paul balanced against the family code of silence and not ratting. He didn’t want to be the messenger of bad tidings, the reason for any rift. On the one occasion since that Roman had broached the subject, he’d commented, ‘I won’t tell Jean-Paul. But you should – you owe it to him.’ Simone was staring at his expectantly, and he stumbled into ‘…I never obviously have come to terms with. So maybe that’s why it keeps re-playing in my dreams. The gun firing, Leduc’s body tossed back like a rag dummy. His blood was everywhere… everywhere. I can still feel it sticky against my skin sometimes when I sweat at night.’
‘You poor thing.’ Simone lightly stroked his brow, then ran one finger lightly down one cheek and across his top lip. He closed his eyes and she leant forward and kissed where her fingers had been, her tongue gently probing. It became a long, deep, sensuous kiss that made his mind flee all else for a moment. And as she finally broke away, she said teasingly with a faint smile, ‘There’s only one thing you should feel sticky against your skin,’ and started planting butterfly kisses slowly down his body.
She pushed him back under the gentle but firm press of her fingertips after a second, and he surrendered to her soft kisses and caresses as he lay flat on his back, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dark and forming images in the faint city-streetlight that filtered up to play across his ceiling.
Savard had brusquely swung open the car door only seconds after he’d finally submitted to Roman, ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m with you.’
Leduc’s body slumped back with the opening door and was half supported by Savard’s thigh. Savard’s eyes shifted haphazardly, trying to extract some sense from the scene beyond the carnage.
‘He had a gun, a gun,’ Roman protested, waving his own weapon towards the offending object on the floor.
Savard had his own gun out, but it was held loosely, didn’t pose a threat. Savard’s eyes jumped between Roman and the gun on the floor. ‘I thought you searched him.’
‘I did, but it was in his ankle sock.’
Savard’s eyes rested finally on Georges, as if for confirmation. And after a second, Georges nodded numbly and cast his eyes down.
From that moment on, the dye was cast, immovable; and now that he’d kept up the same pretence, the same lie for so long, an extra impenetrable layer of concrete had been added.
Georges blinked heavily to shift the ceiling images, a slow tear welling in the corner of one eye as Simone started to make love to him. She trusted him, as did Jean-Paul. But Georges just couldn’t see any way out of it.
The tape operator, Carlo Funicelli, sat up as fresh sounds started the tape rolling again. A Calabrian Italian who ran an audio and electronics shop in St Leonard, his income was supplemented by fencing stolen goods and the occasional specialist bugging jobs like this. The tape was on sound activation, and as he glanced at the clock – 5.11am – he realized he must have dozed for over four hours.
‘… Georges. Are you okay?’
‘No, no… I promise, I…’
‘… You okay?’ Some faint rustling. ‘You were shaking the bed a lot, calling out.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ More rustling and movement. ‘Just a dream…’
Funicelli sat back, relaxing. Nothing exciting, no dramatics. He thought at first they might be shouting or arguing with each other, something of a first. Some chink in their relationship that Roman would have been happy to hear about.
Roman had told him what to listen out for: any tension or arguments, any sign of cracks on which he could build. And any calls from Donatiens to other girls which might be suspect. But Donatiens had made only three calls to women, all work related, no underlying sexual signals and, overall, his relationship with Simone Lacaille appeared rock solid. In fact all they seemed to do when Simone came over was cook, eat dinner and screw. Some inconsequential small talk interspersed before and during dinner, then within half-an-hour – you could almost set your watch buy it – the small talk would peter out and they’d head for the shower and bed.
That part had made it fun listening. Funicelli found himself unconsciously rubbing his crotch during their last heated session five hours ago. He wished now that they’d set up video as well; he might have been able to sell the tapes to some porn hack to put on the Internet along with Pamela and Tommy Lee.
Funicelli bristled, sitting up a bit sharper at Donatiens’ mention of a gun firing and Leduc’s blood being everywhere, then gradually settled back. Scuttlebutt was thick and fast with the increased RCMP heat, but Roman had given him the main bones of the incident: ‘Leduc got frisky, pulled a gun, so had to be taken out. And unfortunately Donatiens was there at the time. Too much for his delicate banker sensitivities.’
No fresh, startling revelations now that Funicelli could discern. Donatiens even paused at one point, as if undecided about talking about it at all. But still not the sort of tape to have fall into RCMP hands. He'd give it to Roman in the morning.
He reached out to the recorder, deciding to replay the section in case he’d missed something – then paused, his finger hovering over the STOP button as the next sounds came over: Simone Lacaille gently kissing down Donatiens’ body. Funicelli knew what was coming next. He pulled the hand back and braced it on his thigh. A faint film of perspiration glowed on his brow in the yellow light from a side-lamp. He’d wait out them finishing, then replay the section.
Michel hovered over the computer screen as the images came up: one face on, two side profiles, one full
length showing height against a calibrated measuring strip.
‘Not sure,’ Michel said. ‘Go back to Venegas. Let’s have another look.’
The same format of four shots scrolled down for Enrique Venegas. Yves Denault had phoned through finally just after 11 pm that he had a reasonable lift – but give him till early morning and it would be in far better shape. Michel got in at 6am and within an hour they’d raised five possible matches. Now they’d worked it down to just two: Steve Turcotte and Enrique Venegas.
Michel’s money was on Venegas. Turcotte’s hair colour and the shape of his eyes more or less matched, but there was a broadness to the bridge of Turcotte’s nose that didn’t quite fit with the CCTV frame lift. Unless Yves had somehow narrowed the nose in filling in the grain and shadow.
Michel held up the 10 x 8 CCTV frame enlargement next to Venegas’ computer mug shots, his eyes jumping rapidly between the two, comparing.
‘I think it’s Venegas,’ he said on the back of an exhalation that carried finality. ‘The nose, the hairline, the eyes. Only the mouth and part of the jaw-line, where it starts losing definition, we can’t be sure of.’
Yves nodded. ‘I would concur. I myself thought it was Venegas, and we took a quick poll between us and forensics: five out of six thought it was Venegas too. The other reserved judgement, didn’t want to swear between the two.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ Michel lightly shook the 10 x 8 and flicked its top corner with the back of one finger. ‘Enrique Venegas it is.’
He thanked Yves and went back up to his office. He accessed the full file for Venegas from his computer and checked the date of last update: almost two years. He buzzed through to Christine Hébert, gave her Venegas’s file reference and Social Security number, and asked her to come back to him pronto with Venegas’s current address.
He drummed his fingers lightly on his desk top as he hung up, as if trying to catch the flow and rhythm with which everything should happen. Timing would be essential. They’d have to pull in Donatiens at practically the same time as Venegas for the plan to work. He picked up the phone again and buzzed Chac to prime him that they’d come up with an ID match. ‘Enrique Venegas.’
‘When do we roll?’
‘Soon. I’m waiting on current address confirmation for Venegas, then we’re all set.’ Michel checked his watch. ‘As long as Venegas hasn’t moved too far out of town, we should be on his doorstep not long after eight.’
‘What’s the team split?’ Chac enquired.
‘You take Phil Reeves and three armed Constables for back-up for Venegas. He could be armed, and we’ll need reasonable show. I’ll just go with Maury for Donatiens. We don’t expect any resistance or trouble there.’
‘Will you go to Donatiens’ apartment?’
‘No, we’ll head to the Lacaille offices on Côte du Beaver Hall, flash our badges as he approaches the door. He might already be there – a lot of mornings he makes an early start.’ Through his glass screen, Christine was deep into a phone conversation with one finger pointed towards her computer screen, as if checking a specific detail. She didn’t look towards him or acknowledge. ‘I’ll let you know the second we’ve got a green light on Venegas’s current address.’
In the lull after hanging up, Michel felt the tension of expectancy grip him again, so decided to kill time by scrolling down through the rest of Venegas’s file while keeping half an eye on Christine in the back-field of his vision.
One truck hi-jacking eleven years ago, Crown failed to prosecute. Attempted murder eight years ago, five years served by Venegas in Orsainville Prison. At least two other hits attributed to Venegas, neither of them pursued due to lack of evidence.
Michel scrolled down through the attempted murder case and double-clicked on the hyper-text heading: Trial Transcript. Eighty-four pages of it between the English and the French; Michel found himself rolling rapidly through the pages, skimming sentences, only half paying attention – until one paragraph caught his eye: ‘Four months before the alleged final shooting in which you attempted to take Gerard Fortin’s life, Mr Fortin claims that you and another man, Michael Trapani, abducted him. That you pulled up in a van with blacked-out windows, put a sack over his head, and drove off.’
‘That’s baloney.’
‘You deny it?’
‘Certainly.’
‘… A conversation then ensued between yourself and Mr Trapani as to which high building you intended to throw Mr Fortin from, clearly designed to frighten Mr Fortin in the extreme. Except that in the end, after you swung him several times and Mr Fortin was convinced he was about to die, you dropped him unharmed in a farmer’s field.’
‘Don’t recall it. Sorry.’
‘… Mr Fortin was then told – “That was a practice run. If Mr Cacchione doesn’t have his money by the end of the month, we do it for real.”’
‘Sorry, sorry. Still don’t strike no chord.’
‘And this apparently is a popular method used by the Cacchione’s – and others – to enforce payment from those who might have welched on drug or other debts. It leaves absolutely no marks on the body, no sign that they’ve been threatened or intimidated.’
‘Sounds good to me, and I’ll try to remember it for future reference. But you got the wrong man.’
The transcript simply related what was said, and Michel had to imagine the rest: the muted chuckle from the jury and gallery at Venegas’s jibes and protests, and the Crown Attorney holding firm to his ground as he steam-rollered over them.
‘And because Fortin was finally unable to pay, that is why you returned four months later with another accomplice, Anthony Orozco, to complete what you had previously threatened to carry out…’
Michel’s blood ran cold. The method was well known to him, popular four or five years back more than now – but seeing Venegas’s name linked directly to such an abduction completed the circle. If there was any remaining doubt that Venegas was involved with Savard, now it had gone.
Two minutes later Christine came through with Venegas’s current address, and Michel noted it down – ‘…Rue Messier, one block south of St Joseph’ – while still scanning through the final salient details of the Fortin case: two shots to the chest, one to the head. But the head shot had deflected off Fortin’s cheekbone and through the front of his face just below his right eye. Fortin had been lucky. He lasted six years before another bullet, probably summoned by Cacchione, succeeded where the other had failed and removed half of his skull. This time, case unproven.
Roman was with Frank Massenat at Santoriello’s, his favourite café just off of Rue St Catherine. For his money they served the best espresso in town, and had fourteen choices of pancake toppings.
He was diving into a stack of five with maple syrup, crushed walnuts and cream with a sprinkling of nutmeg for his breakfast when Carlo Funicelli walked in. A half-drunk cup of espresso was at his right hand in a cup almost large enough to be a soup bowl, his second refill. Massenat was making good progress of demolishing a large French stick sandwich of pastrami and brie.
All these two seemed to do was eat, thought Funicelli; or was it just that their meeting places were inevitably café’s and restaurants.
Funicelli passed the cassette tape across. ‘Last night’s offering.’
Roman dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘No. She came over again last night, but it was pretty much as usual. Cook. Eat. Talk. Screw.’
‘So, no signs of trouble between them? No complaints from him that his goody-two shoes suburban family might not be too keen on him marrying into a high-profile crime family. Or from her that his dick’s too small and she’s concerned about them having a long-lasting satisfying relationship.’ Roman smiled and nudged Massenat. It was like Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon, except that Massenat was a beat slow in responding with a laugh.
Roman’s style of humour was brash and gauche, but sometimes it hit the mark because in part it became s
elf-parody and also a welcome relief from the other side of his character: the stormy mood swings and violent temper.
Funicelli risked only a tentative smile – you never knew when that mood might change – as he shook his head. ‘No such luck.’
Roman’s smile slowly subsided to a quizzical frown. ‘And no calls to or from any other girls?’
‘No.’
Roman looked between Funicelli and Massenat. ‘You know, this guy ain’t human.’ He thought of his own hectic love-life: Marie, his main girlfriend, a thirty-two year old from the right side of Outremont whose husband had died in a car smash four years ago, he dated primarily to keep up appearances and please his mother. Marie was classy, well-bred and, most importantly for his mother, her family were deeply religious and hailed from the Corsican village only thirty miles from that of his mother’s family. Marie he took to all family engagements and high-profile functions. But for sex, excitement and wild nights, he had two club girls in tow, one of them, Viana, from their Rue Sherbrooke club partly due to him feeding her increasingly expensive cocaine habit. And then there was that beautiful Malaysian girl with a body like a fourteen-year old Russian gymnast at a Lavalle massage parlour he visited now and then.
‘Not of this world, not of this world.’ Roman took a scoop of pancakes and washed it down with a slurp of coffee. ‘He’s got tossed salad instead of testosterone. I don’t believe in all this perfect nineties-man shit. He’s gotta have a dark secret somewhere.’ The words were slightly muffled and slurred with his mouthful of food. He dabbed again with his napkin and pointed at Funicelli. ‘You’ll see, you’ll see. Mark my words. It’s just…’
His mobile started ringing in his inside pocket. He took it out, looking down at some invisible object just beyond his plate, as if Funicelli and Massenat had suddenly ceased to be present. ‘… a matter of time. Yeah?’
Roman recognized the voice at the other end straightaway, but he caught only brief bursts from the garbled, breathless sentences: ‘…in the van that night… they’re moving in now… you should warn him…’
The Last Witness Page 11
