by John Farrow
“I was so shocked by the death, I just never gave it any thought. I assumed that it was unrelated to BioLogika,” the president admitted.
“Why would you do that? What else could it be related to?”
Honigwachs shifted around a little. “I don’t know. I assumed, I guess, that it was either a random act of violence, or maybe something personal. We have security concerns, yes, but never anything that’s attracted violence.”
“Do your security guards wear guns?”
“I suppose they do,” Honigwachs admitted.
“So you do allow for the possibility of violence, for a possible need to resort to physical force.”
“The guns are a deterrent, I suppose,” Honigwachs argued.
“A deterrent to whom, may I ask?”
“I don’t know. Mischief-makers.”
Cinq-Mars smiled. He was only too happy to take him up on that one. “Armed mischief-makers?” he asked.
“You know what I mean,” Honigwachs contended.
“I don’t.” Cinq-Mars took a deep breath, then said, “I have a better use for your grey, your second mount. He’d be superior on the hunt, able to pace himself, and yet still make good use of his speed on a dash. As it happens I believe I can put you next to a buyer. Then you’d need a replacement. But here’s a coincidence! I have an animal, a four-year-old filly, who’s not going to be sold to anyone less than a two-goal player.”
“So that’s what this is about,” Honigwachs caught on. “You’re selling me a horse. I’ve heard that horsemen have to keep their wits about them around you.”
“Everything in life is a horse trade, sir. Are you a scientist?”
“That’s how I was trained. My role has evolved over the years.”
“How so?”
“Early in my career I grew frustrated with the slow pace of research funding—and the precariousness of funding—so I became involved in that aspect of the work.” The lilt of his voice was rising, becoming more animated, as though talking about himself had launched him on a speech. “Years later, I still haven’t gotten back to my research.”
“I see.” Cinq-Mars stood and roved around the room, admiring in particular the sports trophies placed on high. “What sort of security matters would involve your Head of Security, sir?”
“We’re a biotech concern, Detective. We have a variety of issues.”
“Educate me.Your Head of Security has been murdered. Shot through the throat. Dumped in the lake. Not a pretty sight. I need to know who might have an interest in penetrating your security.”
“So you are here about Andrew. Yes, I can see where these matters might become your business.” The president shook his chin slightly, gazed upward and pulled his hands apart. “They’re numerous.” He brought his hands together again, knitting the fingers as though to diagram the complexity. “Any biotech firm must be wary of forced entry. We have drugs here, and the ingredients for drugs, desired by the illegal drug trade. We have dangerous materials. For instance, we wouldn’t want some dumb crook releasing a virus into the atmosphere. In addition, any biotech firm has to be vigilant about special interest groups. Specifically, animal-rights advocates can be a nuisance. But our primary concerns, Mr. Cinq-Mars, revolve around internal and external espionage.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that we are on the leading edge of biotechnology. We develop and hoard secrets. Our research into cancer and AIDS will be beneficial to mankind, and will also create wealth. That’s the nature of the beast. We have competitors, Mr. Cinq-Mars, who’d dearly love to learn what we are doing. They try to keep tabs on our progress. They’d like to have access to what we know. Our information, our research, our knowledge is an exceedingly valuable resource. Combating espionage is the number-one priority for anyone who heads up our security department. Now that we have a vacancy, maybe I can interest you in the job.”
His hands thrust into his pants pockets, Cinq-Mars rattled his keys. He did not acknowledge the offer, which he assumed to be in jest. “Is Hillier-Largent Global a competitor, Mr. Honigwachs?”
The man turned at the sound of the name as if Cinq-Mars had scraped chalk ona blackboard.‘‘Global. Hillier-Largent is about as global as my left buttock. Both those clowns worked here, Sergeant-Detective.”
“Who?”
“Hillier and Largent. They broke away and took scores of my employees with them. They stole secrets, people, data, information, and departed with a reputation they’d earned on my dime. They turned that reputation into research funds, contacts and contracts. Yes! They’re competitors. For certain kinds of minor issues. Murderers, no, if that’s what you’re thinking. They didn’t kill Andy. Nevertheless, they are Class-A scum-suckers.”
“If they didn’t kill him, who did?”
Rising also, Honigwachs was unsure whether to treat the question seriously. “If I knew, Detective, I’d tell you.”
“I see. This is not a secret the time warp is releasing at the moment.”
“I presume you’re pulling my leg.” He was coming around the broad curve of his desk. “Bear in my mind that science has put the kibosh on countless scoffers.”
“In my opinion,” Cinq-Mars stated flatly, as though this had been the only subject on his mind, “if your second horse had similar speed to the one you use in that position now, but more stamina, you could move to being a three-goal player. Without that advantage, you may have reached your threshold.”
Honigwachs laughed. “In other words, I must buy your horse. Do you always have half a dozen topics on your mind at once, Cinq-Mars?”
The detective was slowly shaking his head. “No, sir.” He held out his hand. “There’s only one matter on my mind. Thank you for your time, Mr. Honigwachs.”
The president shook the proffered hand, looking him in the eye as though to unravel meaning there. “Thanks for coming in. It’s a nasty business. I hope you’ll keep me informed concerning your progress. If there’s anything that we can do—”
“We?” Cinq-Mars inquired sharply. Honigwachs had used the word before.
“BioLogika,” Honigwachs explained.
Cinq-Mars nodded. “I could probably use an antacid.”
Opening the door to guide him out, Honigwachs enjoyed a laugh again. “There’s a pharmacy in the strip mall up the road, sir.”
“I see.” Cinq-Mars raised a finger, as though a light in his head had suddenly switched on. “Darkling Star.”
Honigwachs appeared to blanch as he took a step back. “What?”
“Darkling Star. That’s the name of your grey colt.” Regarding him curiously, the detective spoke slowly, for apparently his words possessed a power of which he was unaware. “It just came to me. Remember, I’ve got a buyer for that animal.”
“And the one matter on your mind is?”
Cinq-Mars’s response was a mild grunt and a slight wave goodbye. But he turned and stepped back into the doorway. Honigwachs hadn’t moved. “Tell me about Andrew Stettler. Was he married?”
“Andy played the field. He was a fine young man. Bright. Ambitious. Charming when that worked for him. Aggressive when he had to be. He performed his job well. I considered him a friend, at least within the limits imposed by our professional relationship.”
“He kept you protected?”
“I’d say so.”
“Perhaps he did his job too well. Have you thought of that? Stettler might have died for the sake of your company, sir.”
Honigwachs nodded with a certain gravity. “That hadn’t actually occurred to me, Detective. I can’t imagine that he came up against murderers. Conspirators, yes. People willing to accept a bribe in exchange for secrets, of course. But killers? I can’t imagine that our society has come to this.”
Cinq-Mars huffed, throwing up a hand. “It’s the old time warp thing again, isn’t it? We live in our primitive past. You, for instance.”
“What about me?”
“You called Stettler a friend.”
; “I considered myself his mentor, to a degree.”
“And yet, one day after he’s dead, you’re taking a shower in your office. You showered before I arrived, didn’t you?”
Honigwachs was growing impatient. “I usually do in the morning.”
“In your office, not at home?”
“I just came from playing squash, Detective.”
“I thought so. I noticed the trophies. In the building?”
“At my club. I prefer to towel off there, shower and change here. I’m not partial to men’s locker rooms.”
Cinq-Mars gave a little burp of laughter. “You needn’t explain yourself, sir. I’m not interrogating you.”
Honigwachs cocked his head with curiosity and some misgiving. “Then why the questions?”
“To make a point. One day after your friend dies—a man you consider to be your acolyte—you’re playing squash. You’re not experiencing such sustained grief or upset that you are willing to break with routine.”
“Mr. Cinq-Mars—”
“I neither condoned nor judged you, Mr. Honigwachs,” the detective stressed, briefly throwing up his hands. “I’m just pointing out that our society has come to this, and it’s rather silly to express surprise. We live in a world—don’t we?—where people die and their friends play squash. We live in a world where a company dedicated to alleviating the suffering of the sick and the dying is in it for the money. As you said— your words—it’s the nature of the beast. You cannot imagine that Andrew Stettler came up against murderers. Perhaps we don’t move in the same circles, you and me, despite what you said earlier, because I can’t imagine that he didn’t. In any case, he did. I saw the body. That proves it. So, I have to imagine what for you is unimaginable, Mr. Honigwachs, that’s my job. I have to imagine that killers were involved in the life, not to mention the death, of Andrew Stettler, not just white-collar thieves trading secrets. But listen to me, are you playing this winter?”
“Playing?” As if punched on the chin, the president’s head jerked back with the surprise of the question.
“Polo.”
“Have you looked outside, Detective?”
The detective smiled and nodded. “Not here, sir. Boca Raton. Florida.”
Honigwachs jogged his head from side to side a little. “Depends. The demands of work, Cinq-Mars. They can never be predicted. Why do you ask?”
“Because, sir, if you are going down there this year, we should talk. You might want to borrow my filly. See the difference for yourself. I warn you, though. Try her and you’ll want her, and the price—now that I’ve seen your professional digs—has gone up. Good day, sir.”
“Have a good one, Detective.”
The building was populated with office staff now, noisy with activity and conversation, the buzz of telephones and fax machines. The detective waited for the elevator to rise, contemplating the dynamics of time warps and murder in the dead of winter, and what was it about this man that he remembered, on the pitch, his grey colt thundering, eyes wild, losing ground to a horse he often beat, the grey gasping for air at the end of the chukker, the rider’s mallet swung high. And there, then, seeing the rider’s eyes, pleasant enough, common enough, but galvanized that day on the ball and on driving the other horse off, despite his own animal’s obvious fatigue, and swinging, the mallet exquisitely controlled, and patient despite the rampage of the moment, the click upon the ball, the herd swinging right to chase it down, then—yes, that was it—the rider not bothering to join the new pursuit, knowing his animal was winded, but holding his colt back to observe what commotion his play had created. That’s how he remembered Honigwachs on the polo field, observant, cunning, a player who put things into motion and waited for others to beat themselves into the dust before he took the offensive again. Not a great player, but slyly effective, and tough when he had to be.
Nevertheless, the man would definitely have to change his second mount if he expected to improve his game.
In the lobby of the BioLogika Corporation, Bill Mathers was waiting for his partner. He was expecting flak from him, and promptly received it when he showed up.
“You’ve covered this place from stem to stern?” Cinq-Mars brayed. “That was fast. Take your shirt off.”
“Excuse me?”
“Show me the bright red S on your chest.”
“Emile, settle down. Take a peek. I picked up an escort.” He nodded toward two gentlemen in trench coats. The one sporting a crewcut struck a sullen, threatening pose. The other was bearded, with a full growth of curly hair. Both stood with their hands in their pockets, watching the policemen. The bearded guy was the older of the two, around forty. The glasses he wore could not overcome his drained, sallow, slack-jawed appearance to make him look intelligent. He did not look particularly ornery. The other guy, if mistaken for intelligent, would probably take offence, and his crewcut cast him as mean.
“Who wears a trench coat in winter?” Cinq-Mars wanted to know.
“Sometimes they walk outside between buildings. Beats wearing a warm coat inside all day. I know because I asked.”
“I see. So they attached themselves early?”
“Swarmed. Get off on floors three through five and you better know what password to punch or the Green Berets come running.”
“You got nothing?”
“Approximately. You?”
Cinq-Mars moved toward the main doors. “I don’t waste my time, Bill. I learned we’re living in a time warp. I got offered a job. The Big Boss will let me take Stettler’s position, with benefits. I’m sure I can wangle an increase in pay and a longer vacation. If I get that job, and people like you show up? I’ll have your ass hauled off the premises.” Cinq-Mars suddenly stopped walking. “How old was he?”
“Who?”
“Stettler.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked.”
Cinq-Mars grunted as they went through the doors and were struck by the cold outside. “Twenty-eight. He was young. Long hair. Something of a ladies’ man, I hear. Let me in on this one, Bill. How does a twenty-eight-year-old long-haired stud get to be in charge of security in a place like this? What’s his background? How did he acquire his expertise so young? Why him and not either of those two goons, for instance, apart from the fact that they look mentally deficient?”
“Quality questions,” Mathers surmised.
“I’m interested in quality answers.”
Walking to the car, they bumped into each other when they both headed for the driver’s side. Cinq-Mars corrected himself, remembering that he had lent out his vehicle, and went around and waited for his partner to get in and lift the lock, then climbed into the passenger seat.
“Where to?” Mathers asked.
“Hillier-Largent Global,” Cinq-Mars told him. “You can stick with me this time. Make yourself useful for a change.”
They were driving off the grounds when Mathers’s cellphone twittered. He fished it out of his overcoat and answered, one hand on the wheel. Saying little, he listened to the message and, when he’d signed off, told Cinq-Mars, “Hillier-Largent will have to wait. We’re going to Old Montreal.”
“What for?”
“The SWAT has cordoned off a block. We found the rug, Emile.”
“The girl’s carpet? Already?”
“Blood-stained,” Mathers confirmed, “ditched in an alley. A blood trail leads away from it.”
“Bill, damn it! Don’t you carry a cherry in here?”
Mathers sighed, for he’d been through this a million times before. “Private vehicle, Emile. This is not department issue. A private vehicle does not require a flasher any more than it needs a siren.”
“You don’t have a men? Damn it, Bill, are you or are you not a cop? Make up your mind. Now step on it. Go! Just don’t get us killed. We’ve got a blood trail, partner. Who can ask for more than that?”
11
A BLOOD TRAIL
A shor
t time later, Monday, February 14, 1999
Nine years before the Mayflower landed on Plymouth Rock, the future city of Montreal existed as a fur-trading post founded by the French explorer Samuel de Champlain. He wanted to make the island a centre of commerce, to exploit the trade in beaver pelts with Huron tribes to the west while driving the Iroquois far enough south that they could neither disrupt his trade routes nor sabotage his flank. Unwittingly, he was interacting with the geography and the natives in a way that would inscribe the nascent border between Canada and the United States.
Champlain would propose to the Huron that they intermarry with the French to form a new race, an idea considered, and eventually discarded, by the Indians, although unions between individuals of the two races were common and accepted. That original settlement on the island failed, but about thirty years later, in 1642, the next wave from France arrived with motives other than commerce, and this second adventure succeeded, never to be vanquished.
Greed, business, and beaver pelts did not constitute the backbone of the second fledgling settlement, not immediately. The newcomersrepresentedamore tenacious force. As in Plymouth to the south, where the Pilgrims persevered, the basis of their rigor was piety. From the dawn of its conception, then, commerce and religion were the quarrelling progenitors of the unborn city.
Old Montreal traces its origins back to that second French settlement, on a flood plain by the riverside adjacent to the current harbour. The adventure to create a community in the New World had been undertaken by a secret Catholic sect known as the Order of Saint Sacrement, distinguished by the wealth and privilege of its members. A particular obsession of the Order focused on the conversion of heathens and heretics—for them, the stunning opportunity to convert an entire continent was too enticing to resist. An agency was formed in France called The Association of Gentlemen for the Conversion of the Savages in New France on the Island of Montreal, which recruited men and women for the cause. Subsequently, a company of warriors and saints, labourers and misfits, crossed the Atlantic to bide among the Iroquois on the island of Montreal.
