by Peter Kirby
Laurent came back with two bottles of water and handed one to Bélair. Bélair grabbed it with his good hand. “I’m supposed to unscrew it with my teeth?”
Laurent took it back, unscrewed the top and handed it back to him. He broke the seal on the other one and propped it by the wall where Bélair could reach it.
“Thanks.” Bélair pulled himself up and winced. He put the bottle to his mouth and finished the water in a single go. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You could die of thirst in here and nobody would notice.”
“But you knew her. You were going to dinner with her.”
“It’s the first time I had met her. She was late, I was hungry. So I suggested that we grab dinner and discuss whatever she wanted to talk about over dinner.”
“Did she tell you why she needed a lawyer?”
“Not really. We didn’t get a chance. Look, I was starving and she looked like she would be a good dinner companion. She said she was looking for a trustworthy lawyer, and Sarah Delaney had recommended me. I did some work for the Delaney woman a few years ago. I got lucky. I got a great result. Anyway, Madame Luna said she was looking for somebody trustworthy because she was trying to arrange an important trade and wanted someone to organize it.”
“A trade?”
“Yes, a trade, like an exchange. She didn’t say what kind of trade. I didn’t ask questions, I wanted to get something to eat. So I suggested we continue the meeting over dinner and she accepted. We left, and that was it until the truck hit me.”
“So you don’t know her?”
“Never met her before. I didn’t even get a chance to find out what the mandate was.”
“What address did she give?”
“I don’t remember. I remember her name, but that’s it. The address is on my desk, with a photograph of her passport. She’s Guatemalan.”
“Can you give us the keys to the office? We need to move fast on this.”
“I can’t. I would love to. But there are rules. I’m a lawyer and I can’t just hand over the keys to my office to the police. There’s lots of confidential stuff in there and I have to protect my clients’ interests.”
“Maître Bélair, Sophia Luna was kidnapped. Every minute counts. Why don’t we call the Barreau and have someone there when we go in. I need her address.”
Bélair thought for a moment. “Okay. The number’s on my membership card. It’s in my wallet. Give me that bag.” Bélair pointed at a stuffed plastic Abercrombie and Fitch bag lying at his feet at the end of the bed. Laurent handed it to him, and Bélair struggled with one hand to pull out a crumpled jacket. Then he reached into the inside pocket.
“Shit. They took my wallet.”
“Last night?”
“No. I had it when I came in. I had to show my health-care card. Somebody stole it while I was lying here.”
He was still checking the pockets. “And my phone’s gone too. Bastards.”
Vanier knew it was all part of the hospital experience.
Laurent pulled his own phone from his pocket and went online to get the number of the Barreau du Québec. He punched in the number and handed the phone to Bélair. “Can you leave a message to say to expect us in the morning, and that we can have access to your office?”
Bélair pressed the phone to his ear, and then pulled it away to punch numbers. He listened to instructions and took the phone away from his ear to punch in more numbers. He did it three times before handing the phone back to Laurent. “I can’t understand this phone system. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t accept a phone message to authorize you to go into my office. They’d want to talk to me. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”
Vanier grabbed Laurent’s phone and handed it back to Bélair. “We’ll go to the Barreau first thing in the morning and have them call you on Laurent’s phone. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” Bélair pulled his keys from the plastic bag and pointed out two keys on the ring. Laurent separated them from the ring.
“You bring back the keys and I’ll give back the phone,” Bélair said.
“Promise.” Vanier reached into his pocket and pulled out a notepad and pen. He handed them to Bélair. “Just in case, can you write something authorizing us to go in and look for the address of Madame Luna? In case we can’t get you on the phone. You never know, you may be getting tests or X-rays.”
“Sure.” Bélair started writing on the pad, signing his name with a flourish. He handed the pad back to Vanier. “Sorry I can’t be more help.”
“That’s okay,” Vanier said. “We’ll find her. You got a business card?”
“You need a lawyer?” A light flickered in Bélair’s eyes.
“For the address.”
“Oh, yeah.” Bélair reached into the top pocket of the crumpled jacket, pulled out a business card.
“Thanks. And if ever I do need a lawyer, I’ll think of you. Now get some rest, Maître.”
Vanier dropped Laurent in the police headquarters parking lot and watched as he climbed into his car and drove off. Home to his wife and kids.
It was half past midnight. Vanier knew if he went home it would be hours before he fell asleep. He pulled Bélair’s business card out of his pocket and checked the address. It wouldn’t hurt to figure out where the place was.
Bélair’s office was on Saint-Jean just north of Saint-Sacrement, in a nineteenth-century building of ashlar-cut limestone. It looked solid enough to outlast any modern building. Vanier climbed the steps and peered through the glass pane in the wooden door. The inside hallway was deserted. He fingered the keys in his pocket for a few seconds, and pulled them out. As he reached to push a key into the lock, the door slid open. He grabbed it to stop it swinging back against the wall, and stepped into the dark hallway.
He stood for a few moments, pulled out his gun and strained to listen for any sound. The building was silent; the only noise came from the occasional car passing in the street. Bélair’s office was on the second floor. Vanier moved slowly along the carpeted hallway towards the staircase, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He put his foot on the first step of the staircase. It didn’t creak under his weight and seemed solid enough for him to risk walking up on the carpet runner rather than sticking to the edges. He hesitated for a second at each step, but heard nothing except the faint sounds of the street.
On the second floor, the darkness was cut by a slice of light from under one of the doors. Vanier moved towards it, transferring his gun from one hand to the other, wiping sweat from his palms. He stopped short of the door and checked the number. It was Bélair’s office. He listened again until he had almost convinced himself that the office was deserted. He spun across the doorway, launching a kick at the lock as he went, and ending with his back against the wall on the other side. The door swung open and he listened again. Nothing. He leaned forward, holding his gun in both hands, and could see at least half of the office through the open door. There was no one there. He swung back across the doorway, and could see the rest of the office, except the corner next to the hallway. He went in quickly, aiming for the corner, and breathed a sigh of relief when it was empty. He holstered his gun and looked around.
The office was a mess. The desk drawers had been pulled out and emptied onto the floor. Two filing cabinets stood against one wall, their drawers open, but the files apparently still in place. Vanier took a quick look through the papers scattered on top of the desk, but he couldn’t find anything with Sophia Luna’s name on it. He sat in Bélair’s chair and leaned down to rifle through the papers on the floor. Bélair had said he’d left the photocopy with Luna’s passport details in plain view on top of the desk. Whoever had searched the office must have taken it. He thought of Bélair lying on his metal bed in the hospital hallway.
Vanier pulled out his phone, dialled central dispatch, and asked to be put through to the supervisor
on duty at Station 20. Station 20 handled most of downtown. Its jurisdiction stretched halfway up the mountain and included the Montreal General. He had to argue, but eventually the supervisor promised to send a car to the emergency room to check on Bélair. Vanier went over to the filing cabinets and flicked through the folders until he found a file marked Delaney, the name of the woman Bélair said had recommended him to Luna. He copied down the address and phone number. He looked around one last time and backed out of the office, using his shirttail to pull the door closed.
It took him fifteen minutes to drive back up to the hospital. No sign of a patrol car. Vanier cursed under his breath. He parked his car quickly in an empty taxi spot and made for the door. He was still swearing to himself as he ran through the emergency room and up the hallway to Bélair’s bed.
“You came back?” Bélair looked up at him with a half-smile. He looked groggy and exhausted.
“I had second thoughts. You should have some security. You’re an important witness.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Vanier was already on the phone with the supervisor of Station 20.
“I didn’t promise. I said I’ll try.”
“It sounded like a promise to me. Anyway, I need someone up here for the night. I have a witness in a bed and he needs security.”
“For the night? You must be kidding. Do you know how busy we are? A beautiful night like this, every stoner in town is out walking the streets, or getting fuelled up for trouble in the bars. We’re going to be busy all night, and I need everyone.”
“Maybe someone needs overtime.”
There were a couple of seconds of silence at the other end. “Maybe. Can you wait until two? I’ve got a shift change at two. I know someone who wants the hours.”
“It’s a promise this time? You can have someone here by two-thirty?”
“Yeah. I promise. Might even be earlier.”
Vanier had an hour and a half to kill. He turned back to the bed. “You want a coffee?”
Bélair was asleep, snoring. Vanier pulled out his phone and punched Anjili’s number. It rang, four times, went to voice mail. “It’s me. Sorry. It’s late. I got distracted. Talk tomorrow.”
He dialled Laurent. A cellphone started ringing under Bélair’s sheet, and he remembered Laurent had loaned him the phone. He cancelled the call and punched in Laurent’s home number, got a groggy oui?”
“Change of plans for tomorrow morning. You go to the Barreau and get someone to go with you to Bélair’s office. I’ll leave his keys on your desk in the morning. I’m going to take Saint Jacques up to the hospital. Maybe in the morning Bélair’s memory will be better.”
Laurent didn’t sound like he was in any shape to ask questions. “Sure, sir.”
“Call me when you get to Bélair’s office, okay?”
“Okay.”
The uniform turned up at two-fifteen. Roberge, the name badge said. He was already yawning as Vanier briefed him.
“You stay with him, and nobody goes near him except doctors and nurses. Got it?”
“Yeah, sure.” Roberge was looking around. “Is there anywhere to sit?”
Vanier had been standing, leaning against the wall. “I’ll ask. Maybe someone can find a chair.”
Vanier turned and left. Near the door he grabbed an unused chair and walked it back up the hallway.
Roberge smiled. “That’s what I call service.”
“Don’t push it.” Vanier dumped the chair seat next to Bélair’s bed. “And don’t fall asleep.”
Roberge sat down. “Good night, Inspector.”
Back at his apartment, Vanier poured himself a Jameson and let the water from the tap run, testing the temperature with his fingertips. Hoping for cold, he settled for lukewarm, held the glass against the flow and added a splash to the whiskey. Then he sat down heavily on the sofa, listening to the sound of traffic floating up from the street below.
He was thinking of Anjili, and his fears. Was this what he wanted, what he didn’t want to give up? The right to come home whenever he wanted and sit alone in the dark, to sleep on the couch if he chose to, not to have to explain anything to anyone, not to have to talk if he didn’t feel like it, to listen to whatever the hell music he wanted to hear at whatever the hell time he wanted to?
Vanier poured himself another drink, pulled Beyond the Missouri Sky out of its place and loaded Pat Metheny and Charlie Haden onto the player. A long, slow walk through pastoral landscapes was just what he needed. He sat back on the couch and thought about the message he had left Anjili. He had apologized for not calling her, apologized for doing his job. Whoever said love means never having to say you’re sorry knows shit about love, Vanier thought. Love means saying sorry as often as necessary, even when you’re not. It was pretty much necessary all the time. Vanier sipped the Jameson and listened to the pristine guitar and Haden’s double bass fill a space as wide as the prairies. He pulled his feet up onto the sofa and closed his eyes, picturing himself walking alone across the grasslands. Only solitude means never having to say you’re sorry.
Five
Saint Jacques was sitting at her desk reading emails when Vanier arrived. It was seven o’clock.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Vanier asked.
“Slept like a baby. You?” She looked up at him.
He didn’t answer, didn’t need to. “Change of plans. Laurent is going to the Barreau. We’re going back up to see Bélair. He was groggy last night. Maybe there’s something else he remembers. You spoke to the witnesses, so maybe you can jog his memory.”
“Sure.” Saint Jacques got up, reaching for her protein shake.
Vanier was writing a note to Laurent. “I told him last night to go to the Barreau and then over to Bélair’s office. Did anything else turn up last night?”
“Nothing. Black SUV. Three men. Vague descriptions from the witnesses. One of the guys that got out of the SUV was in a dark suit. The other was wearing an Adidas tracksuit. Nobody got a look at the driver. That’s about it.”
“If it had been a cop beating some citizen, somebody would have taken a video, it would be all over YouTube by now.”
“True. But this happened fast. Cops take longer to give the beating. It gives people a chance to focus.”
Laurent was pacing the carpet at the Quebec bar association. He was waiting to see Cyril Plante, who was apparently the guy to talk to if you wanted access to a lawyer’s office. After a few minutes, the receptionist led him down a hallway and stopped outside an open door, waving him in. Laurent hesitated for a second. The office looked more like a showcase, like its only purpose was to show delinquent lawyers what a well-organized office should look like. There was hardly anything in it, a filing cabinet with a printer-scanner sitting on top, two small glass-fronted bookcases holding books meant only for display, and two straight-backed chairs facing the desk.
The desk and chairs sat on a dark red Persian carpet as if it were a raft. Plante stared at his visitor from behind his desk, sitting as stiff as a military judge. The glass-topped desk was empty except for a yellow legal pad, a pen, and a closed laptop. The lawyer didn’t get up, just gestured Laurent to one of the chairs. He winced slightly when the detective moved it out of position.
Plante was a small man, lost in his black faux-leather chair like a prematurely aged twelve-year-old. His shiny black hair was plastered to his scalp. He might have been the last man on earth to use Brylcreem. He skipped the usual pleasantries and got straight to business, asking Laurent for identification. Laurent fished in his wallet. Plante made a show of studying the card before transcribing the information onto the yellow notepad. He stood up and walked to a scanner and made a copy. He handed the card back to Laurent and sat down.
“If I understand correctly, you are looking for someone to accompany you while you search the offices of Maître Roger Bélair, a membe
r of the Barreau du Québec. Am I right?”
“It’s not exactly a search, sir,” said Laurent. “I’m looking for two specific pieces of paper that Maître Bélair told us were lying on top of his desk. That’s all.”
“And you have a warrant, I presume?”
“Permission. I have his permission. He’s in the hospital.”
“How can I ascertain that?”
“That he’s in the hospital? I was with him last night. You want to call him?”
“And how would I know he was who he said he was. You said you had permission.”
Laurent put Bélair’s note on the table and pushed it forward. Plante leaned forward and read it without touching it.
“Why is he in the hospital?”
“This is urgent, Mr. Plante. You can call him if you like, but he’s suffering. A woman has been abducted and one of your lawyers was seriously hurt. Are you going to help us or not?”
Plante looked up. “It is precisely in times of crisis that rules are broken and mistakes are made.”
Laurent leaned forward. “Let’s put it this way, sir. If I’m not out of here in five minutes with someone to accompany me to Maître Bélair’s office, you may be charged with obstruction of justice.”
“That’s preposterous.” Plante said, placing the palms of his hands on the glass desktop. When he lifted them, Laurent saw sweat marks. He leaned forward and read Bélair’s note again, then stood up, all five foot two of him.
“All right, let’s go. You have the keys I suppose?”
It took them ten minutes to walk to Bélair’s office building. The front door was open, and they went up to the second floor. Laurent took out the keys before seeing the damage to the lock. He reached out and turned the handle. The door swung open.
