by Peter Kirby
“Can we get a copy of the contract?”
“No. I don’t have one. The day after I got the call from the guy looking for Sophia, Lynn called. She was reminding me of our contract. I’m supposed to delete all Essence documents after the work is done and send an email confirming that it’s been done.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Not at all. Confidentiality. Lots of clients want me to destroy the documents after the work is finished. I guess they don’t want copies of their documents all over the place.”
“And did you do it for Essence?”
“Of course.”
“What was the contract about?” said Vanier.
“You think I read the stuff if I’m not paid? I did a word count for pricing. That’s how I price it. It’s twenty-five cents a word. That’s all I need to know.”
“You don’t remember anything about the contract?”
“The title. It was called something like MOU – Compensation. That’s how I saved the document in my system.”
“MOU?” said Vanier.
“Memorandum of Understanding, I suspect.”
“Memorandum of Understanding. That’s a contract?”
“A type of a contract, yes. But it was only a draft.”
“And you’re sure you don’t have a copy?”
“I told you, I sent them an email confirming that I destroyed all the copies.”
“Certain?”
Saint Jacques scanned the mess in the room and took a chance. “Including the one you attached to the email to Sophia?”
“The day after I sent the email to Lynn a tech guy from Essence showed up at the door. He said he was doing a spot check to make sure all Essence documents were deleted. What could I do? Essence is one of my biggest clients. So the guy spent half an hour playing with my computer and that’s the end of it.”
“So you have nothing related to the contract,” said Saint Jacques.
“I have the invoice. I sent them. I told you, they paid. The invoice would have the job number. Lynn would be able to track the contract through the job number. It’s on the invoice.”
“Could you print it out for me, sir?” said Saint Jacques.
“I don’t know. I should call the client first. For permission.”
“Remember what we said about being cooperative?” said Vanier, who was standing now, with his back against the window. He was bathed in light from behind.
Lepage squinted up at him. “You promise you’ll keep me out of this? Like I’m a source that needs to be protected.”
“We’ll do our best. Can we have a copy of the invoice?” asked Vanier.
Lepage typed on the computer and they heard the printer engage. When it stopped making noise, Lepage collected the single page and handed it to Saint Jacques.
“So. Is that it? Can I get back to work?”
“One last thing. You were going to tell us Lynn Gagnon’s coordinates and the address you gave them for Sophia.”
“Whatever I have in my address book. I can give you a printout.”
Lepage punched some keys on the laptop and the printer clicked into action again. Saint Jacques and Vanier were already heading for the door when Lepage handed over the page. The address for Sophia was Delaney’s house on Oxford.
Vanier’s phone rang as they were walking to the car. It was Laurent.
“We’ve got news from The Gazette. Luna’s cheques were all booked as source payment by Nick Angus. I think you know him, right?”
Nick Angus had been The Gazette’s crime reporter for over twenty years, and he and Vanier had a history. Angus’s contacts with the gangs were better than with the police, and he was always looking for a big conspiracy, preferably one involving crooked cops.
“I do indeed. I can’t miss a chance to ask that old bastard questions instead of the other way around.”
“There may be a problem with that, sir. He’s on leave of absence. He’s in rehab.”
“And a drunk can’t have visitors?”
“Not that kind of rehab. It’s physical. He got a really bad beating two weeks ago, in the stairwell of his apartment building.”
“Where is he? You have an address?”
“The Gazette wouldn’t say. Apparently it’s a big secret.”
“Shit. Okay. See if you can get us an address. I want to see him.” Vanier disconnected.
It didn’t take long for Laurent to track down Angus. He called a buddy of his who was involved in the police union, and the buddy called a union rep at The Gazette to compare medical plans. Apparently, The Gazette’s health plan was still rich enough to pay for private care for staffers like Angus who had been at the paper so long, it was cheaper to keep them employed than to buy them out. When there’s hardly any staff left to insure, you can be generous with insurance. The corporate strategy seemed to be that time would cure everything, and eventually the newspaper’s content would be generated by cut and paste from the wire services and underpaid freelancers.
Within an hour, Laurent had received a faxed list of the approved rehab centres in the Gazette plan. He kept the original for the next round of negotiations with the city, and gave a copy to Laurent.
Laurent worked his way through the list of phone numbers, asking for Nick Angus every time someone answered. On the seventh call, he was told to wait while he was connected. He hung up and called Vanier.
The black SUV had been double-parked outside the bank for five minutes. Sékou Camara had been watching it from a dépanneur across the street. He hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. Now he was sweating, and his stomach was acting up. He had been calming the ulcers with Pepto-Bismol lozenges and was almost finished his second package, but his stomach still felt like he’d been drinking vinegar. He put another lozenge on his tongue and sucked. His hands were shaking, and he felt like he was going to vomit. He took one last look at the clock above the cashier, took a couple of deep breaths and walked out into the street.
The SUV was parked with the arrogance of people who don’t have to abide by rules. Traffic had slowed down to one lane, with motorists in the blocked lane sounding their horns. The man standing beside the SUV ignored the noise. Camara knew authority when he saw it, and authority had never been good to him.
Camara recognized the man standing beside the SUV as one of the pair that had searched Sophia’s apartment. He looked like a banker, in a dark suit that contrasted sharply with the white shirt and red tie. A tough banker, but more banker than gangster. Camara fingered the safe deposit key in his pocket like a good-luck charm, waited for a break in traffic, and stepped out into the street. The banker made him out immediately, giving him a long appraising look. Camara tried to look confident. It was a farce, and he knew it. When you’ve spent too much time running, you can only look hunted. When Camara was halfway across the street, protective muscle got out of the back of the SUV. He was about twice the size of Camara, wearing a loose windbreaker. It was the second man from the search. The driver stayed in the SUV.
“You have the key?” the guy in the suit asked.
Camara swallowed, looked him in the eye. “You have Sophia?”
The way it came out, it sounded like he was asking a favour, like he should have said Mister and please. The suit nodded to the guy in the windbreaker, who opened the back door of the SUV. The suit pointed to the opened door.
“Look for yourself.”
Camara moved past the suit and leaned into the dark interior. Sophia was sitting in the far corner. Her eyes were shut and her face was puffy. In the shadowy light he couldn’t tell if she had been crying or beaten.
“Sophia,” he said. Then, louder, “Sophia, it’s me, Sékou.”
The woman struggled to open her eyes.
“Sékou?” she asked, turning towards his voice, unable to focus on his face. He could see she had be
en drugged. She was barely focusing.
“Yes, Sophia, it’s Sékou.”
“Sékou. Don’t do it. It won’t work.”
The guy in the windbreaker grabbed Camara by the collar and hauled him back out of the slamming the door closed. Camara looked back to the suit.
“She’s not well.”
“So let’s get this done and you can take her home.”
Camara knew he was lying. They were not going to let either of them go. They just wanted him to have enough hope to go into the bank, open the box and deliver the contents. But there wasn’t going to be any exchange. He’d experienced enough betrayal, and he knew the futility of false hope. The hope that made people give themselves up because they were promised safe passage, or sign false confessions in return for promised immunity or protection. The key in his pocket and his ability to get access to the box were the only leverage he had. They needed him to cooperate. But if he gave them what they wanted, they would both be dead.
“Okay. The box. I can sign for access. Then you give me Sophia, right?”
“That’s the deal. You go in with Carlos here”—he gestured to the muscle—“you open the box, and you give the contents to Carlos. You both come back. Then you get to take Sophia home and screw her.”
Carlos laughed at the joke. The suit didn’t laugh. He reached out and grabbed Camara’s ears and pulled his face close.
“But don’t try anything clever. Two, three minutes and it’s all over. And you and your girlfriend can go home. But if you try to fuck with me, you’re both dead.”
The suit let go of Camara, nodded to Carlos. “Move it.”
Camara went in the revolving doors first, his shoulders drooping. Carlos followed.
Inside the bank it was quiet as a temple, with deep carpets muffling all sound except the background click of keyboards. There were high-definition screens on every wall flashing the mantra to waiting clients: all your problems would be solved if only you borrow more money.
Banks had changed since the days of cheap pens chained to countertops and high-glass barriers to keep out thieves. Now the pens have disappeared, and the thieves are in charge of the banks.
They turned right. A security guard sat behind a cheap desk reading a newspaper. Camara spoke. His voice was shaking. “I need access to my box.”
The guard put down the newspaper without folding it closed, and tapped the space bar on the keyboard to wake the computer. “Sure. I need the number of the box and some identification.”
Camara put the key and his passport on the desk. The guard looked at the passport and then at Camara. He typed the box number into the computer and squinted at the screen. Then he pushed a clipboard across to Camara. “Sign here.”
The guard looked at the signature, then back to the computer. Camara willed him to find a problem, to deny access.
“Thank you, sir. You’re good to go.” He waved his hand in the direction of the safety deposit room.
Camara took one step forward, then his legs folded underneath him and he was lying on the carpet. Carlos leaned down, grabbed his collar and pulled, whispering in his ear. “Get the fuck up and open the box, or your friend is dead.”
Camara turned his head to face Carlos. “You tell your boss. He calls me again on the same number and we arrange a safe transfer. Not like this. You deliver Sophia somewhere safe, and then I can open the box. You call me. I will tell you where to deliver Sophia.”
Carlos pulled again at Camara’s collar. “Get up, asshole.”
“No. This is not safe. You call and we arrange something else.”
The security guard was on his feet. “Is he all right? I’ll call an ambulance.”
Carlos was already on his way to the exit, leaving Camara on the ground. The guard pulled out a cellphone and dialled 911. Camara counted off four minutes on the floor and pulled himself to his knees. He looked at the guard, smiling. “I feel better.”
“No, sir. Stay where you are. The ambulance is on its way.”
A small crowd had already gathered. They parted as Camara walked slowly towards the exit. Outside, the black SUV was nowhere to be seen. Camara heard the ambulance siren and began to run.
Nine
Nick Angus’s rehabilitation facility was actually a wing in a retirement home. Vanier and Saint Jacques waited for him next to a small fountain in a glass-domed atrium. When Angus eventually appeared, shuffling towards them behind a walker, he looked old and tired, more like a retirement home resident than a rehab patient.
Saint Jacques pushed her chair back to stand, but Vanier motioned for her to stay sitting. They sat and watched Angus shuffle up the hallway to their table, a pained expression on his face.
“He can’t be more than fifty-five,” said Vanier.
“He looks older.”
He was dressed for bed, in pyjamas too big for him. His face was pale and he had an unkempt Yasser Arafat stubble that would never become a full beard. Vanier pushed a chair out with his foot and gestured for the journalist to sit down. As Angus shuffled in a small circle to line himself up with the chair, Saint Jacques stood up again.
“Leave it. I can look after myself.”
“At least you haven’t lost your charm, Angus,” said Vanier.
Angus said nothing, other than maybe the fuck you glance he gave Vanier as he dropped into his seat.
“Thanks for agreeing to see us, Mr. Angus,” said Saint Jacques.
Angus didn’t acknowledge her. He turned to Vanier. “Like I said to your guy when it happened, Inspector. I’ve got nothing to say. It was a mugging. That’s all.”
“Mugging, my ass, Angus. I read the report. It must have taken a good ten minutes to do that much damage without killing you. Brutal, but careful. That’s what I would say.”
“I should be grateful they didn’t kill me?”
“The report says they didn’t even take your wallet.”
“They were doing a Clockwork Orange. It was a bit of fun for them. And before you ask, I have no idea why they picked me.”
“Did they say anything?”
Angus’s eyes shifted off Vanier. He seemed to be studying the fountain. “No. Not a word.”
“Sophia Luna was kidnapped. Snatched off the street. You think there’s a connection?” The news shook Angus. Whatever he was doing in the care facility, he wasn’t keeping up with the news. “You knew her, right?”
“Of course I knew her. She used to come to the Press Club.”
“More than that. We got her phone records. She called you regularly. Right up to the day you were beaten. For two weeks, you were exchanging calls all the time. What was that about?”
Angus looked away. “She was looking for help. You know, with the refugee problem. She was looking for some freelance work too. She’s used to be a journalist in Guatemala. A good one.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, that’s all.”
Vanier leaned forward. “Nothing about human trafficking?”
“She was working on a story, something to do with trafficking, something to do with prostitutes from Eastern Europe, that sort of thing.”
“She didn’t talk to you about that?”
“No. I told you. She just mentioned it offhand. She didn’t want my help.”
“Did you help her? Did you step on some toes?”
“The trafficking story, if there really was one, was hers. I know nothing about it.”
“So why were you sending her cheques?”
“I felt sorry for her. She needed money. The Gazette can afford it.”
“Over the years, Angus, you’ve given me lots of reasons to want to beat the shit out of you. But I’ve always restrained myself. Because I’m a good guy. Maybe the people who are into trafficking and prostitution aren’t so restrained. Maybe they don’t appreciate journalist
s asking questions. Maybe that’s it, the connection to your beating.”
This time Angus looked Vanier in the eyes. “I told you. I never worked with her on that.”
“You see, what I don’t understand is why would they kidnap her, but only beat the shit out of you.”
“Exactly. Doesn’t make sense. That’s because there’s no connection between the two.”
“You sure?”
Angus just rolled his eyes.
“You know what I don’t understand?”
“Enlighten me, Inspector.”
“Here you are, the best-connected crime reporter in the city, and you’re so scared you won’t even help the police find a fellow journalist who just might still be alive. Who are you scared of, Angus?”
The reporter said nothing, just sat and fumed, staring at the fountain.
“We can protect you, sir,” Saint Jacques said. “But if you’ve got information that could help us, that could help Sophia Luna, we need it. There’s a chance she’s still alive. If you have any information, anything that can help us find her, we need to know that. We can make sure no harm comes to you.”
Angus looked at Saint Jacques like he had just noticed she was there. “If you believe that, you’re naive. And I doubt very much that you’re naive.” He sat back in his chair. “Off the top of my head, I can think of three guys who were promised protection. They were killed while waiting to testify.”
A man in a suit walked by, and Angus jerked his head up to look at him before turning back to Vanier. “Leave me alone, Inspector.” He clutched the handles of the walker and rose painfully. “Do me a favour. Leave and don’t come back.”
Angus didn’t wait for a response. He turned slowly with the walker and shuffled off towards the elevator. Saint Jacques stared after him. Vanier got up. He caught up with Angus and started walking backwards in front of the journalist.
“I never liked you, Angus. You’re a self-righteous prick, like you’re the only one with right on your side. But chew on this. If you do nothing, if you crawl back to your room and close the door, you’re already dead. Sure, the body will still be here, but Nick Angus, crime reporter, will be dead and buried.” Then he pulled out his card and slipped it into the pocket of Angus’s pyjamas, behind a filthy handkerchief.
