‘Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Which van? Whose moving in?’
‘I don’t want to use names on a mobile line. All I can say is the guy in the front passenger seat that night. They picked him up from a security camera and ID’d him. They’re moving in on him any minute.’
Venegas! An icy claw gripped Roman’s stomach. ‘Any minute? How long has he got exactly?’
‘They’re checking for his current address right now. They could be on his doorstep in anything from fifteen to twenty minutes. Less, if they trust it to a local squad car.’
Roman doubted that they would, but he’d still have to step lively. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ He picked up his napkin and threw it over his half-finished plate in disgust. It was also a signal that he’d finished. He waved and called out to the waitress. ‘Hey, hey. L’addition. Let’s settle here.’
The waitress came over and flicked back through her pad. Roman’s face became a study in battling muscle contortions as she summarised what they had. ‘...And did your friend have anything?’ She looked at Funicelli.
‘No, he didn’t.’ Roman slapped down a $20 note and stood up in the same motion. ‘Keep the change.’ Which raised only a meek smile from the waitress, unsure whether the $5 tip compensated for the attitude.
Massenat looked at the third of a stick roll in his hand, then decided finally to take it with him. Funicelli too lagged a few paces behind as Roman hustled quickly towards his BMW parked down the street, a sleek, black series 7. The air outside was fresh, but for one of the first times that year it was above zero. The first hint that Spring might not be far away. At eight paces from the car, Roman pressed the remote key and the BMW briefly beeped and flashed its accord.
The rush and panic of Roman’s departure reminded Funicelli that there was one thing he’d forgotten to mention. ‘About the tape. There’s one thing on it…’
Roman wheeled around on him impatiently. ‘What?’
‘…There’s one point where Donatiens mentions that night with Leduc.’
Roman looked agitated, his eyes darting uncomfortably; though Funicelli wasn’t sure how much of that was due to the call just past. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘I was about to… but then you had that call…’ Funicelli swallowed hard. Roman’s eyes burnt straight through him. He wished now he hadn’t mentioned anything, just let Roman hear it for himself. ‘But it was nothing… just a stupid dream from Donatiens and him mentioning how the incident still troubled him sometimes. But apart from that, nothing.’ Funicelli reached out to put a re-assuring hand on Roman’s shoulder, then decided against it. Roman’s powder-keg eyes warned that one touch might set him off. ‘There was nothing beyond what you already told me. Believe me. Nothing to worry about.’
Roman’s eyes continued to dart frantically and search his, and looked finally about to settle when another voice came from behind: ‘Got some change?’
Roman turned sharply. Confronting him was a tramp with wild hair and a Grizzly Adams beard; though it was difficult to tell if the beard was white streaked from frost and sun-bleaching, or from dried food and vomit. Roman sneered and leaned back from the tramp, catching the first mingled stench of cheap wine, stale body odour and vomit.
He felt suddenly as if his brains were frying, too many random signals hitting him at once. Maybe only minutes to save Venegas from the clutches of the police, Donatiens mentioning Leduc and Funicelli trying to tell him it was nothing, and now this bum in his face enveloping his best camel hair in street-stench and vomit breath. It was like some fucking conspiracy.
‘A dime or a dollar, it don’t matter. Whatever you can spare.’
Roman suddenly saw red, a fireburst burning through the back of his skull. ‘Get away from me, you fuckin’ bum.’ He swung out hard against the tramp’s left shoulder, a half-push, half rabbit punch.
The tramp flew back and hit the building wall behind solidly, his head flung back and connecting with a thud. He looked dazed, startled, and his knees started crumpling.
Roman moved in and cocked his right arm to hit him again. Massenat was quickly behind Roman, grappling one arm firmly around his chest.
‘Come on, Roman. Come on.’
An elderly couple who’d just come out of the Dépanneur across the street were looking over curiously at the commotion.
Roman’s chest rose and fell heavily against Massenat’s restraining arm, his eyes still glaring at the tramp. ‘You fuckin’ asshole. Didn’t nobody tell you it’s still winter.’ In summer they were out in force along Rue St Catherine. They seemed to be hitting the streets earlier each year; perhaps this one had even staked out his car, smelling money. ‘Go back to your fucking cave for another month. It’s too fuckin’ early to be out begging, yer hear.’
Massenat clutched his arm firmer around him. ‘Come on. Come on.’
Roman finally, reluctantly shifted his eyes from the tramp and Massenat lifted his arm free. Massenat was right: the tramp wasn’t the problem, it was the situation now with Donatiens and Venegas. A sense of everything, at the click of a finger, fast closing in on him. Jesus. He probably wouldn’t even have time now to get to Venegas before the RCMP. He’d pull up in his Beamer only to find a police welcoming committee ready to pull him in as well.
Roman glanced towards his car, then at Funicelli. ‘What you driving these days?’
Funicelli shrugged. What was this? Not content with working out his frustrations on the tramp, now it was time for unsubtle put-downs? ‘Chevy Cavalier. Why?’
‘It’s okay, nothing.’ Roman shook his head. ‘Just a thought.’ He just couldn’t risk driving out to Venegas’s house now, regardless. His only hope was to phone Venegas to warn him.
He took his address book from his inside pocket and started looking through. His hands trembled as he turned the pages: aftermath of the run-in with the tramp, or the fact that within minutes his fate could be sealed? If they had Venegas on camera, they had enough to put Venegas away for life; the temptation to do a deal would be intense.
Roman leafed through the pages more frantically, starting to wonder now if he’d ever put Venegas’s number in his book.
EIGHT
‘811 to 839… Just crossing du Parc. We should be on St Denis any minute.’
‘Read you 811. We’re on St Denis already, heading south towards the St Joseph junction… only about nine or ten blocks away. We’re to wait at the St Joseph junction, is that correct?’
‘Yeah, copy. Don’t proceed into St Joseph until we’re there.’
Michel listened to the 800 waveband progress of the cars heading towards Enrique Venegas. He was in his RCMP standard issue Ford Taurus with Maury Legault as they waited on Georges Donatiens arriving at his Côte du Beaver Hall office.
Maury was busy making the point that his own divorce was worse than Michel’s, or indeed anyone else’s in the squad room, that the knives still out for him from his wife were longer and sharper. ‘You know what she told the children last week? That I used to beat her. I never hit her even once. Once when she threw a saucepan at me, I grabbed her arm to stop her throwing another, but that was it. I never hit her.’ Maury shook his head morosely.
Michel nodded and sympathised at the right moments, but along with most male members of his squad, he’d heard it all from Maury before and, by extension, it struck him as a sad reflection on the high failure rate of department marriages, if this was all it now came down to: bittersweet trumping. My divorce was worse than yours. And so hearing some movement at last over the 800 network came as a welcome relief.
‘Where is he?’ Michel looked at his watch: 8.16 am., when normally Donatiens was in sharply at 8.00 am. He’d found himself becoming increasingly agitated as Maury spoke, not sure if it was the worn topic, the wait for things to start happening over the radio, or Donatiens not showing yet. Surely he hadn’t gone out again to the Cartier-Ville mansion; he’d been there for a morning meeting only two days ago. Maybe he had a breakfast meeting somewhere else.
‘Maury!’ Michel held one hand up sharply. He was about to add, ‘I need to concentrate a while,’ but at that moment the radio came alive again – so he just made a chopping motion with his raised hand.
‘… 811. We’re at junction of St Joseph now, and waiting. As instructed.’
‘Copy. We’re just crossing the Rue Rachel junction. Should be with you in under two minutes.’
The voices over the radio reminded Michel of the night chasing Savard. He closed his eyes for a second. Please God, let us keep safe grip on this one. He knew he’d been lucky to even get this second chance; there wouldn’t be another.
‘There he is,’ Maury commented, and Michel opened his eyes to see Donatiens’ Lexus swing into the underground car park.
‘Okay, showtime.’ Michel put on a headset with a small receiver and earpiece one side, so that he could still monitor progress with Donatiens. A mouthpiece snaked around, and he could patch in and speak by pressing a button on the receiver. But the arrangement was that he’d just listen in, unless something pressing called for his input. He’d be too busy with Donatiens.
They flashed their badges at the foyer reception guard and Michel announced, ‘We’ll be going up to the sixteenth floor. Santoine International.’ It was a statement, not a request.
The guard held up his hands, the normal signing-in procedure immediately waived. ‘Sure, sure.’ He swivelled one palm towards the elevator and forced a smile beyond his concern.
They grabbed one within seconds; no others had passed them meanwhile, so they’d wait on Donatiens coming out at the 16th floor.
‘839… We see you now. We’ll turn here into St Joseph and wait for you to pull behind before proceeding.’
‘Copy.’ Brief static pause, then: ‘Just one perp, huh?’
‘Yeah. But he’ll be armed, and he knows how to use it. So due caution and follow my lead to the letter.’
Michel closed his eyes and let out a slow breath as the elevator rose, trying to ease the tension. Always the way: hours with nothing happening, then too much happening all at once. But there had been no choice but to move on both of them at the same time: once Venegas was in custody, news would travel fast and the Lacaille ranks close tight.
Chac’s voice was on 811 with Phil Reeves driving. They’d have had to wait twenty minutes to assemble an armed back-up squad at Dorchester Boulevard, the quickest option had been to pull a patrol in from Mount Royal and them meet up at the St Joseph junction.
Turning in to St Joseph, they were only three hundred yards from Venegas’s front door. Michel felt his pulse racing with anticipation.
The elevator doors opened. The corridor was quiet as they stepped out: only faint strains of activity from an office at the far end. They both looked back expectantly at the elevator light indicators.
‘…Here we are, Rue Messier. As I say, follow my lead… should be about a hundred yards down, apartment block on the left. We’ll stop about thirty yards short so your car’s not visible.’
‘Copy… okay.’
Chac’s car was unmarked, the back up a blue and white: no point in forewarning Venegas.
The elevator to their far right pinged. Two women in their thirties conversing got off first, followed by Donatiens. The women gave Michel and Maury a brief glance, no doubt in response to their acute attention to the elevator’s occupants – then headed swiftly and primly in the opposite direction from Santoine International.
Donatiens paused after two paces, looking them over, assessing. But Michel waited another second for the women to have faded from earshot. ‘Monsieur Donatiens, Georges Donatiens. Staff-Sergeant Michel Chenouda, RCMP Criminal Intelligence.’ He flashed his badge. ‘There are some matters we’d like to discuss with you concerning the Lacailles.’
A slight flinch from Donatiens, then his eyes darted past them to his office and quickly back again.
Through Michel’s earpiece, the sound of car doors opening, closing. Footsteps picking up pace on concrete, quickly joined by two or three more sets. Michel pulled his attention sharply back. ‘Ah… I don’t think this is something we could do here. Some of it’s quite sensitive information that I don’t think you’d like your staff overhearing. And it also involves me playing a tape for you – which is all set up back at the station.’ Michel held one arm out towards the elevators.
Donatiens’ eyebrows knitted. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No, no. Not at all,’ Michel assured. The hum of an elevator rising, faint shuffling. Chac’s voice: “I’ll knock, and me and Phil will stand to one side, our guns with safety’s off but still holstered. You three stand a yard behind but face-on with guns drawn and pointed with a clear bead on the opening door.” ‘It’s just some information that we need to pass on, but we believe it could be vitally important.’ Michel paused, looking down for a second as if to add suitable gravity to his next words. ‘We’re concerned about your future welfare and safety. We believe you could be in danger.’
‘Concerned about my safety?’ Donatiens shook his head and smiled crookedly; but Michel picked up the underlying strain in Donatiens’ voice, the tone slightly higher. He’d hit a nerve. ‘That’s very gratifying, Inspect–’
‘–Staff-Sergeant.’
‘… Staff-Sergeant Chenouda. But I think you know the rules. Before I can even think of speaking to you, I’d have to have my lawyer present.’
Elevator door opening. Muted, rapid footsteps along a carpeted corridor. Chac’s breathing heavier, expectant. But the only thing Michel had control over now was Donatiens, and it was fast slipping away. His mouth was suddenly dry; he moistened his lips with his tongue.
‘That’s your prerogative, sir. But I only have clearance to play the tape concerned to you. It’s considered privileged information, and we’d have to seriously review how playing it to a lawyer – particularly an organization lawyer – might later effect our case.’ Doorbell ringing, then three sharp raps. Michel’s palms were sweating, his nerves as taut as piano wire. Handling the two at the same time was a nightmare. ‘You might also consider how letting an organization lawyer overhear the tape might effect your own position. And safety.'
It was all there between the lines, thought Georges. ‘And this tape concerns Roman Lacaille, you say?’
‘Yes… that’s correct.’ Brief pause and then another buzz and sharp rapping. Michel bit at his bottom lip. But at least Donatiens was starting to sway.
Georges weighed his options: if he called Perreault, the Lacaille family lawyer, Roman would know about it in seconds flat. If he called an independent lawyer, that in itself would look suspicious, as if he had something to hide. The Lacaille family tentacles reached too far for comfort with city law firms; he couldn’t be sure of using one that would go undiscovered. He could just say no to Chenouda, but then he’d never find out about the tape or the supposed danger he was in. Chenouda had played him well; he had his interest piqued about both, and knew it. The only thing that struck a strange chord was Chenouda’s radio headset complete with earpiece. It was obvious from Chenouda’s eye contact flickering away at moments and his split-second delay with some responses, that he was at the same time listening in to something.
Georges chuckled lightly, partly a release of tension. ‘What is this?’ He pointed to the headset. ‘You auditioning as one of Madonna’s backing singers?’
Michel forced a wry smile. ‘Something like that.’ He had Donatiens hooked, and they both knew it. He didn’t feel inclined to ease off the pressure by slipping into weak banter.
Door opening. Chac announcing himself and asking for Enrique Venegas. ‘I have a warrant here for his arrest.’
‘He’s not here.’ A woman’s voic
e. ‘You just missed him.’
‘How long ago did he leave?’
‘Ten or twelve minutes ago.’
Georges watched Chenouda’s eyes flicker as he listened in. What was it? Was somebody at HQ instructing him? If he mentions a lawyer, say this. If he’s obstructive, say that. He noticed Chenouda’s eyes cloud after a moment, look worried.
‘I don’t know,’ Georges said. ‘I think if I’m going to come in with you, it’s something I’ve got to think over for a while.’
Michel was gripped with panic. His stomach had sunk upon hearing that they’d missed Venegas, and now it was sky-diving again. Shit. Now he could lose Donatiens as well. But he knew that pressing harder would be the wrong play. Nothing left but to ease off, take a step back.
Michel shrugged. ‘That’s up to you. Our information has it that Roman wants to move fast on this. But if you want to delay and run the risk, fine. You probably know Roman better than me.’ Michel turned to look at the elevator lights.
Maury, who had stayed silent throughout, forced an apologetic smile and shrugged as Donatiens’ eyes fell on him.
‘… We still have to check and see, you understand…’
‘Yeah… okay… okay.’ The woman sounded hesitant, uncertain for a second. Then the jostling and rustling of them moving around the apartment. Michel’s heart pounded hard. Please God, find Venegas hidden in a back room! And now he was playing Russian roulette with Donatiens as well. His legs felt weak, unsteady. He could feel Donatiens’ eyes on him, almost feel his mind frantically hammering: Savard dead, but just how far was Roman prepared to go? And what exactly was on that tape?
‘… What’s that sound from behind the door at the end?’
‘That’s nothing… nothing…’
But the woman sounded nervous, her voice tremulous, and Michel’s heart pounded almost in time with Chac’s laboured breathing as Chac moved towards the door, opening it…
The Last Witness Page 12
