by Mario Bolduc
She moved closer to the door.
“At a moment like this,” Patterson cut in, “the least you could do would be put aside your differences.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Béatrice!”
“I refuse, that’s all. I, too, have a reputation to think about.”
“No one knows anything about it,” replied the unknown woman.
“Exactly. I don’t want this business suddenly coming out in public.”
“Look, I’m sure there’s a way to work this out,” said Patterson, ever the diplomat.
Juliette gently pushed open the door: “Excuse me …”
All three stared at her, astonished. They’d stopped talking, so to relieve the tension, Juliette said, “If you’re discussing the funeral arrangements, I’d like to …”
“We weren’t expecting you this early, Juliette,” exclaimed Patterson, walking toward her. “But you did the right thing coming here.”
He turned to the unidentified woman. “Let me introduce Deborah Cournoyer.”
The woman, in a grey suit and with a red scarf knotted at her neck, approached, smiling, to shake Juliette’s hand.
“Are you with the funeral home?”
Patterson shook his head. “Deborah’s an old friend of Philippe and Béatrice.”
Béatrice stood to one side, watching and frowning. There was no reading her thoughts, but one might hazard a guess. Of the three, she was the only one still in a bad mood.
“If I’m in the way, I can come back later.”
“Your husband was an exceptional man,” said Deborah Cournoyer, “and his death is a great loss for us all.” She stared Juliette straight in the eye insistently in a way that made her uncomfortable.
Béatrice suddenly switched on again. “We’ll leave you two alone.” She took the unknown woman by the arm and guided her out.
On her way out, Cournoyer said again, “I’m delighted to meet you. It’s a shame it had to be under such sad circumstances.”
As the two women left, Juliette turned to Patterson, who was standing before her with a sheaf of telegrams in his hand: “Condolence messages from all over, especially embassies and High Commissions in New Delhi. Foreign Affairs, too.”
“What business?”
“Excuse me?”
“Béatrice said, ‘I don’t want this business suddenly coming out in public.”’
Patterson hesitated a moment, then said, “Nothing for you to worry about, Juliette, I promise.”
She looked at him, but said nothing. She’d talk to Béatrice about it tonight.
Patterson changed the subject. “The minister’s coming to the funeral.”
Killed in the line of duty, so the Canadian flag would be draped over the coffin. Gawkers would clap as they exited Notre Dame Basilica facing Place d’Armes where the calèche drivers hustled tourists. Juliette would have to stand erect, proud, looking elegant in a black suit, and next to Béatrice, of course. “I know what to do. I’ve been there before.”
Her head was spinning all at once … must be the heat.
“Then Mount Royal Cemetery for another very short ceremony.”
“Private, I hope.”
“The media and the public are allowed at the church — we can hardly refuse them — but at the cemetery …”
“And I’ll need to say something, I suppose.”
“At the basilica? Sure, if you want to. Normally, it would be …”
“Mr. Bernatchez?”
Patterson nodded. “Raymond gets here this afternoon. He’ll be at the funeral home and at the funeral itself: the usual tribute, and of course some mention of Philippe. The son joining the father … that sort of thing.”
Juliette was incredulous. Patterson gave her a comforting smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll write it.” He waited a moment, then added, “I can modify the program if you want to speak, too.”
“No, no, I have nothing to say, not to tourists visiting Place d’Armes, anyway.”
As she was getting out of the elevator a few minutes later, Max called. It was their first conversation since David’s death. She regretted not having told him about her decision to cut short her husband’s suffering. She was afraid that in apologizing she’d break down completely, and she was never going to cry again, ever.
“You going to get through this?”
“Oh yes, I’ve got an unlimited supply of chocolate,” she reassured him.
Max’s troubled laugh came over the line. He cleared his throat. He wanted to change the subject. Juliette was expecting some sort of revelation, but he had more questions than answers. He was clearly working hard at piecing together bits of the investigation that first seemed unrelated. He struck her as a labourer lumbering painfully through an overgrown field, moving ahead, but at a very slow pace.
“You knew about the strongbox under the stairs?”
She’d forgotten about it. “Oh yeah, that. David had it put in when we got there.”
“What for?”
“It was a gift from Béatrice.”
“What?”
“She started doing it in Rabat — a ‘secret’ vault was essential, she said, so when he was posted to Delhi, she gave it to him.”
“What exactly was in it?”
“Nothing all that important. A bit of money.”
“Yes?”
“Two thousand to three thousand U.S. dollars, just a precaution. But it would have been better in a bank.”
“Any Nepalese rupees?”
“Must’ve been some. He dipped into them for one trip or another. Why?”
“It was empty. The dollars and rupees were gone.”
Juliette was puzzled, but Max didn’t think the theft had any connection with the attack.
“I’m sure of only one thing: someone was in that house after you and the police had left.”
“Maybe the cops emptied it.”
“It’s hidden under the stairs. They’d have to know that. I think someone else was there.”
“A few thousand dollars …”
“Who else knew about it besides you two? Household staff?”
“No, of course not.”
“Vandana?”
“David may have mentioned it to her.”
Max cleared his throat. “Does the name Tourigny mean anything to you?”
“Who’s that?”
“It was scribbled on the envelope of David’s airline ticket in the vault.”
On his way back to the hotel, Max had tried that number in Delhi, then Montreal, then Toronto, even Paris. Nothing.
“You ought to ask Vandana.”
16
Luc Roberge had asked Juliette and Patterson to come to his office on Parthenais, but then called later asking them to meet him at the courthouse, where he was testifying in an embezzlement case. He was waiting for them at the entrance, minus Morel, his usual sidekick. He shook hands with Patterson and made the appropriate condolences to Juliette. Then his usual joviality came right back — second nature. Life goes on.
“How about a bite to eat?” he asked, taking them in tow. “There’s a good little restaurant around the corner.”
Patterson tried to duck out, but finally went along when Roberge insisted. The two men talked as though they’d known each other for ages, which surprised Juliette.
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“Just to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”
The policeman would have grabbed her arm if she’d let him. He whispered a lame joke in her ear to put her at ease. Roberge was the type who couldn’t help imposing his good-naturedness on everyone, even at a time like this.
“Very interesting case. A model employee beyond reproach; always knew what he was doing. Well, he put three, maybe three-and-a
-half million, dollars in his pocket over eleven years, a little at a time. Seems like nothing, just a discreet fiddling of the company books.”
When they came to a red light, Roberge paid no attention and dragged his companions across anyway, ignoring the car horns. A show-off in the spotlight. This is a setup, thought Juliette, but what for?
“You know what did him in? The flu. Yeah, yeah, a week in bed, says the doctor. Well, it gets worse: two weeks, three, and he had to be replaced in accounting. Some whiz kid with a calculator suddenly smells a rat. At first, no one would believe it, and then …”
Fortunately, the restaurant was nothing like Roberge. It was simple, discreet, settled at the bottom of a quiet street; a romantic sort of place for couples in the evening. The owner had done his best to attract a local lunchtime clientele, even adding a “Judge’s Special,” but the message hadn’t got across, as the place was empty.
“Anyway, the moral of the story is ‘beware of conscientious people.’ You know, the ones who never take vacations or call in sick. The ones who never give up.”
“You mean like you?” ventured Patterson.
Roberge smiled as he slid into a booth. “People think thieves are lazy. Not true. Stealing is a full-time job. You’re always on. No let-up. Take Max O’Brien, for instance, he’s our regular man-in-the-wind.”
Juliette looked up, but Roberge was staring at Patterson. “So, one day he shows up in Montreal and the next he’s in New York. He spends his entire life on the road, in hiding.”
“Is this going somewhere?” Patterson asked.
Roberge turned to Juliette, then Patterson again. He wasn’t so jolly anymore. He was through with the song and dance. “Why have you two been lying to me? Why are you protecting that crook?”
Patterson was about to protest his innocence when Roberge held up his hand for silence: “You had lunch together like old buddies.”
He stared at Juliette. “And he came to see you at the hospital. You talked to him. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Juliette was mute, and Roberge lost patience. “A nurse identified him. He saw the two of you together.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“We’re not in court here, Mrs. O’Brien. I’m not out to ‘prove’ anything. All I’m saying is, I know you three have been in contact.”
“Hey, leave her out of this.”
“Look, Dennis, it’s nice of you to play the tough guy, but …”
“You shut up!” yelled Juliette.
She was startled by her own anger. She’d spoken too loudly, and the owner behind the counter was staring at them. She wished she hadn’t accepted this stupid invitation. She stood up. “I won’t have anything to do with your garbage. My husband’s just died.”
“I’m sorry. Please sit down.” He took her by the arm.
“Leave … her … alone,” emphasized Patterson firmly, but Roberge wasn’t budging. He fixed his gaze on Juliette.
He said, “I don’t wish you any harm, Dennis, either. All I want is your co-operation.”
“I don’t have to answer to you.”
“I know, and normally I wouldn’t bother you, but I need your help.”
“You’re not getting anything from me, ever.”
“Please sit down.”
She pulled her arm out of his grasp but sat down. Patterson, to her right, was staying silent, almost as though he knew what was coming next.
“Max O’Brien’s in India,” Roberge continued as he thumbed through the menu. “How do I know? As a matter of fact, I don’t know that yet, though David’s mother is convinced that’s where he is. I could ask Josh Walkins, the RCMP man over there, to get a list of newly arrived Canadians and Americans in New Delhi, say, in the last forty-eight hours. There won’t be a ton of them, given the political situation.”
He’d made his choice and closed his menu. “But it would be pointless,” he said to Patterson. “I can get that information here myself and quite easily, can’t I, Dennis?”
Juliette turned to Patterson as he played nervously with his knife. His anger had given way to resignation, though Juliette didn’t know why. She looked to Roberge, but the policeman was no longer interested in her. He added, “I’m sure Mrs. O’Brien would be thrilled to hear what you have to say about him.”
“Shut up. This is none of your business.”
Roberge couldn’t help smiling once again. Juliette felt bad for the former diplomat. She now understood the cop’s tactic. He’d included her just as bait and pressure for Patterson’s confession. She didn’t know Patterson well, but she was aware that David’s confidence in him was unshakeable. By attacking Patterson, Roberge was also attacking David.
“So what’ll it be, Dennis? Shall I tell all to David O’Brien’s wife, or will you work with us?”
“Why are you being such a creep?” Juliette said in disgust.
Now she had his attention once more.
“You should be glad. You’re this piece of crap’s latest victim. I’m only trying to protect you.”
“Yeah, well, your methods stink.”
“Max O’Brien’s are even worse. Ask Béatrice about it. I’m sure she’d be glad to tell what she knows.”
Turning back to Patterson, he said, “The minute I learned he was headed for India, I alerted Josh Walkins. I even sent him photos on the Internet — Photoshopped. Amazing piece of software, isn’t it? Do you know it? Yup, I knew Max O’Brien was a master of the disappearing act, and figured he was sure to see his old ‘friend’ Patterson for some specific purpose, like, say, getting himself into the High Commission. A letter from a former diplomat, or better yet, a personal call to Raymond Bernatchez would do the job. That meant revealing the assumed name he was travelling under, and you’re going to tell me what that is right now without a fuss.”
Patterson went on playing with his fork, while Juliette begged him not to give in to this blackmail, but he wasn’t listening. “Peter Brokowich.”
Roberge then turned to Juliette with a smile. “Terrific, and now, how about we order?”
Juliette was already up and heading for the exit. Patterson caught up with her in the street. “Look, let me explain.”
She was in no mood to listen to him humiliate himself any further. She hailed a taxi and got in. She felt like throwing up, and leaned her head against the window.
Most diplomats die in their beds, surrounded, at best, by their grieving families, and at worst by their souvenirs from another world — exotic trinkets dried out by electric heating and cracked into a thousand veins, not really something worthy of a state funeral. On the website for retired Foreign Affairs people, there would be the inevitable short blurb on the great loss resulting from this death, not just for the family, but for all of society, due to the “selfless devotion to duty and his beloved country.” Juliette recalled seeing David turn to the death notices looking for colleagues of his father, who, unlike him, hadn’t been “fortunate” enough to die tragically.
Death in the line of duty, however — violent death especially — received the fullest recognition. This was a first-class send-off with all the pomp of Foreign Affairs behind it. Ministers got the wrinkles out of their best suits and shined their shoes. The grieving widow was obviously the heroine of the day, a role Juliette had absolutely no desire to play. She’d have much preferred a more discreet burial, but since David’s death she’d let herself be swept along by events. She had some vague perception of everything being arranged around her, as though she had no connection to the whirlwind of energy that strangers were expending on her husband’s remains. Patterson had coaxed her to the funeral home on Laurier, shown her the coffin, which she had approved, along with the text of the card. Unquestioning, she said yes to everything. She kept thinking, I’m not going to cry. I’m going to be dignified, like those widows of politicians, whose strength of
character the media praised to the skies: “She remained erect, not shedding a tear, despite the unbearable grief.”
David, in a suit he’d had made to measure by a tailor in the Santushti Shopping Complex, lay in his coffin at the far end of the room. Béatrice fussed over the floral arrangements for the hundredth time. Juliette charged up to her.
“What’s wrong? What do you want?” Béatrice cried out.
“The truth.” Juliette had had her fill of things left in the shadows, little mysteries, and things implied but left unsaid. The previous evening, she’d asked Béatrice about Deborah Cournoyer and the story that should not be brought out into the light of day, but Béatrice had brushed her off. This time Juliette was looking for answers about Max and why Béatrice always bad-mouthed him. Why was that? She’d turned Max in to Roberge without a moment’s hesitation. She stayed as far away from him as possible, as though he were a leper who might infect her. What was the reason?
Béatrice had adopted the pose that David called “her statue pose.” “She makes me laugh,” he’d said. “She’s like a rabbit in the forest when it hears a noise — it freezes completely.” Pose or no pose, Juliette was not letting her off the hook till she explained.
Juliette quoted Roberge: “Max O’Brien’s methods are even worse. Ask Béatrice about it.”
Béatrice didn’t budge. This rabbit was unmoved by Juliette’s torrent of words.
She moved in again. “What did Max ever do to make you hate him so much?”
Béatrice sighed. “He could have prevented Philippe’s death, and he refused. It’s as simple as that.”
17
The small diplomatic world of India stuck together in their mourning and wanted to prove to the Indians that the terrorist threat wasn’t going to intimidate them. On the contrary, this was an act of will, of bravery, and even of heroism. Obviously, the military Jeeps and police cars that Max saw in front of the Spanish ambassador’s residence lent courage to the guests. Yet, despite the precautions, Max had no trouble getting past these obstacles. In the immense salon, he faced an Osborne bull in a tapestry hung on the wall above a Gaudiesque bureau. Photos of Toledo and a reproduction of seventeenth-century Madrid were also on show. The Spanish did nothing by halves. The grated door, which separated the servants’ quarters from the ambassador’s family could be locked in the event of an uprising and was typically decorated with Castilian flourishes.
