by Peter Kirby
Vanier and Saint Jacques were doing their best to lighten the mood, but Prince was intense. She had spent over thirty years fighting for the rights of sex workers. More often than not, that meant fighting the police. Now two of the enemy were sitting across from her, wanting her help.
“So what is it? Not enough homegrown girls to abuse, now you want to go after the weakest of them all? Is that it? A new efficiency measure, two arrests for the price of one? Whores and illegals?”
Vanier was trying to look non-threatening, facing away from her with his legs tightly crossed, both his arms hanging down by his side. He looked like a simple guy who had been waiting for a bus for hours and was resigned to waiting a few hours more. It wasn’t working on Prince. The cop presence was still there. Even Saint Jacques was a cop first, and a woman when she got a chance. Their training focused on being imposing, on projecting an intimidating image. Nobody got trained on how to put people at ease. They were both improvising, though Saint Jacques was better at it than Vanier.
“We’re investigating a woman’s kidnapping and we think it involves people trafficking from Eastern Europe,” Vanier said. “The woman who was kidnapped was a journalist. She was working on a story about the issue.”
“Why should I help you? It’s always the same. You go after the women, and the organizers are left alone. It’s the women who always get shafted. It’s what you guys do, harass the women and say you’re fighting prostitution. That’s bullshit.”
“They say prostitution is a victimless crime,” Vanier said. “You believe that?”
She glared at him. “Do I look stupid? It’s never a victimless crime. The victims are the girls, or the boys for that matter, the commodity. The johns sure aren’t victims. It’s the way the system works. It’s like banning pork and punishing pigs when someone eats a sausage.”
“Good one,” said Vanier, smiling. “But I’m after the butcher.”
Prince thought for a moment. “Ask some questions and we’ll see what happens. No guarantees.”
“Are there many Eastern European prostitutes in Montreal?” said Vanier.
“Define many.” She almost cracked a smile.
“Come on. Give me a break.” He turned to face her.
“One hundred, maybe two. It’s hard to tell. All I’ve got to go on is what I hear. Very few of them come to me for help.”
“Some have? Can you give me names?”
She leaned forward in her chair. “Put that aside for the moment. I may be able to ask someone to call you. It depends.”
“On what?”
“The rest of the interview. Don’t worry. You’re doing all right up to now.”
“Thanks.” Vanier said. He didn’t feel it. “What’s the pipeline for getting these girls into the country?”
“No idea. I doubt even the girls know. The girls get moved. They don’t know where, when, or by whom.”
“Who runs the trade?”
“It used to be the Hells. Now it’s the Russians.”
“Names?”
“Jesus Christ. Don’t you guys know anything?” She leaned back in her chair, looked at Saint Jacques. “You see the problem? You guys bust massage parlours, arrest six girls and maybe the guy who mops the floor. Maybe even a john if he talks back, or doesn’t get his pants on fast enough. Then you go on TV and say what a great job you’re doing fighting prostitution. The parlour’s back in business the next week with six new girls and a new broom. Or maybe one of the girls has to mop the floor when she’s not jerking a john. A policy like that can only be stupid, or deliberate. It would be nice to believe it’s just stupidity.”
Vanier said nothing, accepting the whipping.
Prince took a deep breath, leaned forward. “To answer your question, I don’t know. Only suspicions. Got it? I think the biggest pimp is a bitch called Kedrov.”
Saint Jacques was writing. “How do you spell that?”
Prince’s shoulders sagged. “I can’t believe you don’t know this.” She spelled out the name, Oksana Kedrov. “She’s a very dangerous and violent woman. Worse than a lot of men, and that’s saying a lot.”
“These girls. Where do they work?” Vanier asked.
“Some are in the massage parlours. Some are escorts. They get delivered to your door by some heavy. You fuck her, give her a hundred dollars, and the heavy picks her up when you’re finished. He takes the hundred dollars and delivers her to the next job. Those are the lucky ones, the ones that can speak some English or French.”
“The others are on the street?”
She rolled her eyes at the question. “Girls on the street have to hustle, they have to negotiate. You need language skills for that. No, the ones who don’t speak the language get the rough trade, where talking isn’t required.”
“And this is what Kedrov does?”
“From what I hear, she has a thriving business catering to the rough trade, and nobody messes with her.”
Saint Jacques was still writing. Prince looked Vanier in the eye. “Wouldn’t it be good if I didn’t have to tell you who the bad guys are? If you knew that yourselves?”
Vanier treated the question as rhetorical. “Where could we find Madame Kedrov?
“No idea. I hear her name from time to time, but she has nothing to do with me.”
They got up to leave. “If you can convince someone to talk to me, or to my partner, have them call.”
They both dropped their cards on the table. Prince didn’t move.
“She’s angry,” Saint Jacques said when they were in the parking lot.
Vanier thought back to the conversation. “She has good reason to be. See if you can get an address for Kedrov.”
Fourteen
Laurent was sitting across the desk from Vanier, shuffling papers. “So, boss, we started with driver’s licences. In the whole of Montreal there are only three Kedrovs. All of them guys. First one’s an eighty-two-year-old living in a seniors’ residence in Longueuil.”
“He’s still got a licence?”
“Seem so. Some eighty-year-olds still have it.”
Vanier briefly wondered what he’d be like at eighty, and quickly put it out of his mind. “The others?”
“A guy living in a condo tower downtown, twenty-nine, and a fifty-year-old guy in Rosemont. The fifty-year-old in Rosemont is Oscar, a human resources manager in an insurance company. Been there for 25 years. He owns his own house and pays his taxes on time. Looks clean.”
“And the other guy?”
“That’s where things get interesting. His name’s Pavlov, and he’s living in a condo that’s registered to a numbered company. He’s one of the directors, and an Oksana Kedrov is the other. The numbered company is owned by a company called Golden K. So I searched the corporate database for all Quebec and Canadian companies owned by Golden K, and there are a dozen or so. They all have the same registered office, an accountant’s office on Décarie Boulevard. He’s probably just keeping the books for them.”
“So, apart from the condo, there’s no location?”
“Wait for it, chief. One of the companies is called Whole Earth Productions. Whole Earth Productions got a city grant last year to convert some space in Saint-Henri into a film production studio. We’ve got an address for the studio.”
“I always said you were a genius, Laurent.”
Whole Earth’s office was in an old industrial building on Lacasse, its off-white paint peeling in large curls except where the walls were covered in graffiti tags. A sign hung over the main door announcing lofts and studio space for artists. The ground floor was unoccupied, but the listing at the door showed Whole Earth Productions on the fourth and fifth floors. The door was locked, so Vanier pushed the buzzer and waited.
The box squawked. “Yeah?”
Vanier leaned closer. “We’re here to see Oksana. Oksana Ke
drov.”
“She ain’t here. You have to come back.” The box went dead.
Vanier pushed the button again
The box squawked again. “I said she ain’t here. No visitors without an appointment. So call back and make an appointment.”
“Excuse me.”
Vanier and Saint Jacques turned around. The voice came from a hipster wheeling an old bicycle. Saint Jacques stood back to give him room and watched as he punched numbers into the panel, waited for the click and pulled the door open. He went through with his bike, and Vanier held the door for Saint Jacques and followed her in. All three got into the elevator. The hipster pushed for the second floor. The sign in the elevator showed Whole Earth Productions on the fourth and fifth floors, but a small sign said Card Access Only for the fifth floor. Vanier pushed the button anyway and a tiny light on the panel glowed red. He pushed four.
Two men were waiting for them when they stepped out of the elevator. The first guy would have stood out in any crowd, with a shaved head the size of a pumpkin. He dwarfed the guy next to him, who looked like a skinny kid dressed up for visiting relatives, in a blue checked shirt, cardigan and tight jeans. They were standing in front of a door with a small Whole Earth sign.
Vanier flashed his badge. Before he could say anything the kid spoke. “Like I said, officers. Mrs. Kedrov’s not here.”
“So who’s in charge?”
“Mrs. Kedrov.”
“We’ll go in and wait for her.”
“You’ve got a warrant?”
“No warrant. Just a social call.”
While Vanier was talking to the kid, Saint Jacques wandered off towards the fire exit. The muscle watched her, torn between staying next to the kid and following Saint Jacques. He decided to follow Saint Jacques. Vanier advanced on the kid, backing him against the wall. He reached down, grabbed his crotch and squeezed. The kid yelled and his face screwed up in pain. Pumpkin-head turned and started back down the corridor.
“Tell your friend to stay where he is,” Vanier said.
There was a split second hesitation and Vanier squeezed again, harder. The kid squealed. “Olag. Don’t move.”
With his free hand, Vanier reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. He folded it and stuck it into the kid’s open mouth, sliding it into the gap between his front teeth.
“You tell Mrs. Kedrov to call me, and soon. You understand?”
The kid nodded and Vanier let go. He turned to Saint Jacques. “Let’s go.”
Olag walked back down the hallway, put his hand on the kid’s shoulder. The kid shrugged it away. They both watched the doors close on Vanier and Saint Jacques.
“There was a bolt on the fire exit door,” Saint Jacques said when they were in the elevator. “It was locked. You’d need a key to open the door. That’s a fire code violation, isn’t it?”
“A serious one. Someone should report it.”
Vanier and Anjili were sitting on the grass in the Parc Maisonneuve. They had walked about twenty minutes from the entrance into the park. Vanier had brought Portuguese grilled chicken, goat cheese, and an ice-cold bottle of Vino Verde. Anjili had brought the best baguettes Vanier had tasted in years, three kinds of salad, and a Tupperware of strawberries and sliced peaches.
It was one of those warm summer evenings made for evening picnics. While they were eating, scattered groups of families and couples gradually left, leaving them alone, sprawled out on their blanket under a tree, overlooking a gentle slope down to an open green space.
Anjili was wearing a white cotton dress tapered at the waist, contrasting sharply with her tan. Vanier had done his best to dress the part too, with a pair of khaki pants he hadn’t worn in years and a casual shirt over a vintage T-shirt.
She had kicked off her sandals as soon as they arrived, and Vanier followed suit, taking off his shoes and socks. Now they were lying at right angles to each other, Anjili’s head resting on Vanier’s stomach. It had been hot all day, and the warmth from the ground seemed to rise up and envelop them.
“There isn’t a cloud in the sky,” said Vanier. “Reminds me of when I was a kid. You know what it was like back then, when days lasted forever? Remember when summer was a lifetime? You grow up and you don’t feel that anymore. Every day is short as a heartbeat.”
“Hmmn.”
“I’m glad we came.”
Vanier reached down and ran his fingers through her hair. “My dad was stationed at Trenton one summer. I had a buddy on the base. We must’ve been nine or ten years old. Before girls, that was, well before girls.” Vanier drifted off into memory. “Those were the days.”
She lifted her head and let it drop back on his stomach.
He grunted. “Outside the base there was a small forest with a gully running through it. There was this huge tree, maybe an oak.”
“Like you would know, Luc.”
“I know some trees. And I think this one was an oak. It was huge. You know how the branches on the best climbing trees always start too high up for kids?”
“Maybe. I think.”
“It’s impossible to start climbing them. You can’t reach the first branch. But you can see that if you could just get to the first branch, the rest would be easy. But you can only stand at the bottom and imagine what it would be like to climb to the highest branches. Well, this tree was growing on the side of the gully, so you could get onto the first branch with a short jump. Every day, Frank—that was my buddy’s name—Frank and I used to go there. We spent hours in the tree. You could get really high up and see for miles.”
He traced his fingers through her hair in long slow strokes.
“When I think of Trenton, that tree is the first thing that comes to mind. And it’s the sense of time that I remember. We would go off in the morning and spend forever just messing around, making up stories. Sometimes the tree was a fort, sometimes a ship, sometimes a spaceship. And when we finished, we’d walk back to the base and it was eleven o’clock, a lifetime to lunchtime. Is there a name for that? That different sense of time?”
“I don’t know. But I think it happens to all kids. Sometimes to adults too, like when I’m with you, Luc, sometimes ten minutes feels like a couple of hours.” She laughed.
“Hey.”
“No, seriously,” she said. “There are moments when my awareness seems to be at a different level. Like everything is slow. I can hear everything. Colours are brighter. Like now.”
He shifted a little to get a better view of her face. Her eyes were closed, and a small smile played on her lips. He traced the outline of her jaw with his finger, drew his finger across her lips. She opened her lips slightly to touch his finger with her tongue, and when it lingered on her lips, she parted them, until her teeth could reach up and gently bite.
His hand moved slowly down and slid under the light cotton, tracing the outline of her bra, floating over her breasts, cupping them through the sheer fabric and feeling them in his hand, squeezing gently, feeling the rising shape of her nipples under the rasp of lace beneath his palm.
She made low sounds of approval, letting his hand roam. After a while she sat up and reached behind her back to pull the zipper of her dress. “Can you help me?
He said nothing. Undid the clasp. She pulled her arms through the straps to remove her bra without removing her dress.
“That’s better,” she said, resting her head back on his stomach. Vanier moistened his fingers and slipped his hand in again, caressing each of her naked breasts, drawing circles around her nipples, making sweeping touches until the nipples rose to meet his fingertips.
Anjili reached down under her dress. He watched as her hand traced the outline of her panties and then squeezed her mound through the fabric. She slipped her hand inside and played her fingers up and down. She spread her legs slightly, bending her knee and bringing one foot up cl
oser to her body. He watched her fingers explore, spreading moisture over her lips, stopping every now and then to sink in and then pull out. She brought her hand up to Vanier’s mouth, put two fingers inside and felt his tongue. Vanier sucked on her fingers until she pulled them back.
He brought his own fingers up to his mouth and moistened them, rubbing the wetness on her hard nipples, taking one nipple between his fingers and gently squeezing, pulling and releasing. When his fingers got dry, he wet them again, and resumed playing with her nipples.
Anjili was groaning now, a deeply felt groan of pleasure. They were alone and there was no hurry. She had all the time in the world. Her breathing was deeper and louder, mixed with moans and half-words. Vanier helped her on the way, rubbing wet fingers over her nipples, pulling gently at them, squeezing and releasing them as she climbed. He could tell when she was near, but he couldn’t tell how close, so he followed her, each peak a stepping stone to the next, until finally she lost control, her fingers moving frantically in her panties and then the explosion deep within her, and the release of air, of tension and mumbled words all mixed up.
She lay still on the blanket.
He had almost fallen asleep when he felt her stir, rolling onto her side, her head still resting on his stomach. She reached for his belt and had it open in seconds. She needed two hands for the button on his pants, and slid the zipper down. She had him raise his hips slightly so she could pull his pants out of the way, just a few inches down from his waist. Then she reached and guided him into her mouth. Now it was Vanier’s turn to groan. She held him and turned to smile up at him, another one of those moments when time stood still.
