by Kathy Reichs
“Anne, the woman said she knew who was dead and why. If she’s legit, she can break this investigation wide open. Of course, she may not be legit. I’d like to talk to her before I set Claudel off on a false trail. You’re right, I need to make some more efforts to talk to her myself. She called me, not the police.”
“I do have one other question.”
I raised my hands in a go-ahead gesture.
“How do you plan to button your jacket?”
I yanked off both gloves and pegged them at her.
* * *
For the second time that week I pulled into a pay lot in the old quarter. The sky was gunmetal, the air heavy with unborn snow.
“Bundle up,” I told Anne, zipping my parka.
“Where are we going?”
“Hôtel de Ville.”
“We’re booking a room?” Muffled through angora scarving.
“City Hall. It’s a four-block walk.”
Perched atop place Jacques-Cartier, Montreal’s City Hall is a Victorian extravagance in copper and stone. Built between 1872 and 1878, the place looks as though its designer didn’t quite know when to call it a day. Mansard roof? Très parisien. Columns? Of course. Porticos? Bien sûr. Eaves, dormer windows, balconies, cupola, clock? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.
Though devastated by fire in 1922, Hôtel de Ville remained structurally sound, was rejuvenated, and today is a favorite with both natives and visitors, one of Montreal’s most charming landmarks.
“One would not confuse this with the Clover City Hall,” Anne said as we climbed the front steps.
I pointed to a balcony over the front door. “See that?”
Anne nodded.
“Charles de Gaulle made his famous or infamous Vive le Québec Libre speech from that balcony.”
“When?”
“Sixty-seven.”
“And?”
“The separatists liked it.”
Despite its modern status as a tourist attraction, Hôtel de Ville remains the city’s main administrative center. And the repository of the information I was seeking. I hoped.
Anne and I entered to the smell of radiator heat and wet wool. Across the lobby, a kiosk offered Renseignements. Information.
A woman looked up when I approached. She was about twenty, with towering blonde hair that added inches to her height.
The woman stifled a yawn as I explained what I wanted. Before I’d finished, she pointed to a wallboard listing offices and locations, her bony arm clattering with plastic bracelets.
“Accès Montréal,” she said.
“Merci,” I said.
“I think she could have been less interested,” Anne said, trailing me to the office directory. “But not without a heavy dose of Lithium.”
In the Access Montreal office we encountered an older, heavier, and decidedly friendlier version of Ms. Information. The woman greeted us in typical Montreal Franglais.
“Bonjour. Hi.”
I explained my objective in French.
The woman dropped chained glasses to her bosom and replied in English.
“If you have a civic address, I can look up the cadastral and lot numbers.”
I must have looked confused.
“The cadastral number describes the parcel of land. The important one is the lot number. With that you can research the history of the property at the Registre Foncier du Québec office in the Bureau d’Enregistrement.”
“Is that located here?”
“Palais de Justice. Second floor. Room 2.175.”
I jotted the address of the pizza parlor building and handed it across the counter.
“Shouldn’t be long.”
It wasn’t. In ten minutes the woman returned with the numbers. I thanked her, and Anne and I set off.
Montreal’s three courthouses lie just west of its City Hall. As we scurried along rue Notre-Dame, Anne’s eyes probed gallery, café, and boutique windows. She hung back to pat a horse, gushed over the beauty of the Château Ramezay, laughed at cars snowbanked in by plows.
Architecturally, City Hall and the modern courthouse have little in common aside from the fact that each is a building. Anne did not comment on the charm of the latter.
Before entering, I pulled out my cellular and tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s number.
Nope.
As on the day of my testimony, the courthouse was busy with lawyers, judges, journalists, security guards, and worried-looking people. The lobby was controlled confusion, each face looking like it would rather be elsewhere.
Anne and I rode an elevator to the second floor and went directly to room 2.175. When my turn came, I explained my mission, this time to a short, bald clerk shaped like a cookie jar.
“There’s a fee,” Cookie Jar said.
“How much?”
He told me.
I forked over the money. Cookie Jar handed me a receipt.
“That allows you to research all day.”
I presented my lot and cadastral numbers.
Cookie Jar studied the paper. Then he looked up, a pudgy finger jabbing black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“These numbers go pretty far back. Anything prior to 1974 can’t be researched online. Depending on how often the property changed hands, this could take time.”
“But I can find out who owned the building?”
Cookie Jar nodded. “Every deed transfer is recorded with the provincial government.” He held up the paper. “What’s at this location now?”
“The building has residential units upstairs, small businesses below. The address that interests me is a pizza-by-the-slice joint.”
Cookie Jar shook his head. “If the property is commercial, you won’t learn what businesses have occupied it unless the owner has included such information.”
“How could I find that out?”
“Tax records maybe. Or business permits.”
“But I can determine who the owners have been?”
Cookie Jar nodded. In some irrational way, looking at him made me think of Don Ho and tiny bubbles.
“That’s a start,” I said.
Cookie Jar pointed to the one unoccupied computer in the room. “If you need something prior to 1974, I’ll explain how to use the books.”
I crossed to the terminal, took off my jacket, and hung it on the chair back. Anne followed.
Slinging my purse strap over the jacket, I turned to her.
“There’s no reason for you to sit and watch me punch a keyboard and dig through old books.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Right. The diversions for which you flew twelve hundred miles are not found in this registry.”
“Beats cooking and freezing casseroles for surgeries and funerals.”
“Wouldn’t you rather shop?”
“Fuck shopping.”
Anne was in the Mariana Trench of doldrums. Sitting here watching me was not going to cheer her.
“Go to the basilica. Scout out a place to eat. When I’ve finished, I’ll phone your cell.”
“You won’t get frustrated and throw another hissy?”
I put a hand on her shoulder.
“Go forth and shop with the mighty. Your work here is done.”
* * *
Three hours later, I was still at it.
The online research had taken forty minutes, thirty-seven figuring out what I was doing, three printing out information on the building’s current owner.
Digging backward through the tomes of bound deeds had taken somewhere in the vicinity of an eon.
Cookie Jar had been polite and helpful, patiently taking my money and photocopying the record of each transaction as I found it.
In the course of my research, I discovered several things.
Claudel was correct about the building’s age. Prior to construction, the land had been part of the CN train yards. Since then, the property had changed hands several times.
I was studying my collection of ph
otocopies when one name leaped out.
I knew that name.
Why?
A local politician? A singer?
I stared at the name, willing a synapse.
A television personality? A case I’d worked? Someone I knew?
The date of transfer was before my time in Montreal. So why the subliminal ring-a-ding?
Then, recognition.
“Sweet mother of Mary!”
Jamming the printouts and photocopies into my purse, I grabbed my jacket and bolted.
13
OUTSIDE, SNOW WAS POWDERING THE STAIRS AND handrails and adding to mounds lining the sidewalks and streets. I didn’t care. As soon as I cleared the doors I phoned Claudel.
The CUM operator told me Claudel was out. I asked for Charbonneau. Out.
“This is Dr. Brennan from medicolegal. Do you know when either will be back?”
“No.” Distracted. “Tried their beepers?”
“Numbers, please?”
She gave them to me. I dialed and left my cellular as a numeric page for each detective. But I had little hope of an immediate response. Claudel, in particular, was not likely to be diverted from a major operation to call me back on a case in which he had almost no interest.
Next I tried Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent.
No answer.
Working hard to calm myself, I phoned Anne. She was buying ornaments at a Christmas shop.
Anne suggested Le Jardin Nelson for lunch and started to give directions.
“I know where it is,” I cut her off.
A metered silence, then, “Did we have a bad search?”
“I think I’ve found something. See you in ten.”
Hunching against the snow, I hurried toward place Jacques-Cartier, a pedestrian playground stretching from rue Notre-Dame riverward to rue de la Commune. Lined with restaurants, cafés, and kitschy T-shirt and souvenir shops, la place teems with life during mild weather. Today I shared the square with a handful of tourists, one street artist, and a scraggy yellow terrier pissing on a lamppost.
Flakes were obliterating the cobblestones, the street signs, the pillar memorializing Admiral Nelson, the Englishman who spanked the French at the battle of Trafalgar. Never a favorite with the separatists. Beyond the square, I could see the gauzy blur of the silver-domed Bonsecours Market, City Hall until mothballed by the mansarded Parisian at my back.
Quebec. The Twin Solitudes. One French and Catholic, the other English and Calvinist. The two languages and cultures have butted heads in the province since the Brits seized Montreal in 1760. Place Jacques-Cartier is a microcosm in stone of the linguistic tribalism.
Le Jardin Nelson is located halfway down the east side of the square. The restaurant is squat and solid, with plaza-side terraces under bright blue awnings. A parasoled courtyard with infrared heaters keeps the eatery Montréal chic many months of the year.
This was not one of them. When I entered, Anne looked up over her menu and tracked me across the room.
“It’s really coming down,” I said, removing my parka, then shaking flakes.
“Will it stick?”
“Snow always sticks in Montreal.”
“Excellent.”
“Hm.” I placed my cellular on the tabletop.
A young woman filled water glasses. Anne ordered Crêpes Forestiers and a glass of chardonnay. I went for Crêpes Argenteuil and a Diet Coke.
“Find any treasures?” I asked when the waitress had gone.
Even in a state of apathy, Anne is a commando shopper. She showed me her purchases.
Tangerine wool sweater. Hand-painted provençal bowl. Six pewter frogs on red satin ribbons.
“Odd choice for the unfettered life,” I said, gesturing at the ornaments.
“I can use them as gifts,” Anne said, rewrapping the tissue.
The waitress delivered drinks. I sipped my Coke, unwound my napkin, positioned my utensils. Adjusted the fork. Aligned the spoon and knife. Repositioned the fork. Checked my cell phone to be sure it was on.
More Coke.
Then I flattened the edges of my place mat with both palms. Straightened the fringe. Picked up the phone. Laid it back down.
Anne raised one analytical brow.
“Expecting a call?”
“I left messages for Claudel and his partner.”
“Are you going to tell me what you discovered?”
I pulled the photocopies and printouts from my purse and stacked them on the side of my mat.
“I’ll spare you a Michener saga on the land. The building went up in 1901 and was owned by a man named Yves Sauriol. At that time it was all residential. Sauriol’s son, Jacques, inherited in twenty-eight, then his son, Yves, got the place in thirty-nine.
“In 1947, Yves Sauriol, Jr., sold the property to Éric-Emmanuel Gratton. That’s when the first floor went commercial. A small printing company occupied the space until 1970.
“Éric-Emmanuel Gratton died in 1958, and his wife, Marie, inherited. Marie went to her reward in sixty-three, and the place transferred to their son, Gille. Gille Gratton sold the property in 1970.”
“Is this going to have a punch line?”
“To Nicolò Cataneo.”
Anne’s expression indicated the name meant nothing.
“Nick ‘the Knife’ Cataneo.”
The green eyes went wide. “Mafia?”
I nodded.
“The Knife?”
I nodded again.
“That explains the manic moves with your flatware.”
“I don’t know much about the mob, but Nicolò Cataneo is a name I’ve heard over the years.”
“The Mafia operates here?”
“Since the turn of the century.”
“I thought you had bikers.”
“We do. And right now they’re the biggest game in town. But the biker boys are just one element in the wonderful world of organized crime in Montreal. The Mafia, the West End Gang, and the Hells Angels make up what’s known as the ‘Consortium.’”
“Like New York’s ‘Commission’?”
“Exactly.”
“Do the sunny peninsula folk here get along with the sunny peninsula folk south of the border? Or are they island folk?”
“As in Italy versus Sicily? I’m not privy to the details of ancestral geography. I do know that at one time Montreal was virtually a branch office for New York City.”
“The Bonanno family? I read a book on that.”
I nodded. “The Montreal organization was led by a fellow named Vic ‘the Egg’ Cotroni. I think Cotroni died in the mid-eighties.”
I checked my cell. Still on. Still no messages.
“What’s the West End Gang?” Anne asked.
“Predominantly Irish.”
“Your people.”
“We Irish are but foot soldiers in the Army of the Lord.”
“More like poets and barflies, in reverse order of diligence.”
“Careful.”
“What’s this Consortium into?”
“Prostitution. Gambling. Illegal substances. The Consortium determines things like drug prices, quantities to be imported, the names of lucky buyers. Cotroni’s network is thought to have smuggled millions of dollars’ worth of narcotics into the American market over the years. The profits from illicit activities are then laundered through legitimate businesses.”
“Typical pattern, from what I read.”
“Same one the biker gangs have adopted. They must teach it in the business schools.”
At that moment the waitress arrived with our food. Another phone check. Still humming. Still no messages.
“Getting back to the building,” I said, after a few crepe moments. “Nick the Knife bought the place in 1970, and held on to it for ten years.”
“How is all this relevant to your skeletons?”
“I’m talking wiseguys, not choirboys, Anne. Anyone could have been buried in that basement.”
“Aren’t we being a bit melo
dramatic?”
“People were whacked left and right in those days.”
“Teenaged girls?”
“Strip clubs? Prostitution? Life’s pretty cheap to these thugs.”
Especially female life, I thought, flashing on the gutted hooker now at the Notre-Dame Hospital.
Anne focused on her crepes until their completion. Then, “What was on the ground floor when this Knife guy owned the building?”
“That information wasn’t available.”
“Who bought the property?”
I checked my printout.
“In 1980 the building was purchased by Richard Cyr. According to records, Cyr still owns it.”
“What does Cyr have on the ground floor?”
“There are four separate businesses.”
“Including a pizza parlor.”
“Yes.”
“Where does Monsieur Cyr live?”
Back to the printout.
“Notre-Dame-de-Grâce.”
“How far is that from Montreal?”
“It’s a neighborhood just west of centre-ville.”
Anne’s wineglass froze in midair. As in my kitchen that morning, the other hand came up, palm skyward.
“There you go.”
“That’s three, Annie.”
Exasperated look.
“Your next step. Give Cyr a call. Better yet. If he’s that close, how ’bout a surprise drop-in? The Cagney and Lacey thing’s been kind of a bust for me so far. Let’s solve this case.”
My eyes swung to the phone by my plate. The little screen offered nothing but my name and the time.
It was obvious neither Claudel nor Charbonneau was answering my page.
I raised my Coke. Anne raised her wine.
“Archaeological research,” I said, clinking my glass to hers.
“With one slight modification.” Anne drained her chardonnay. “We’re digging for dirt instead of in it.”
* * *
Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, or NDG, is a quiet residential neighborhood two circles out from Centre-ville. Not the Westmount of the well-heeled English, or the Outremont of their hotsy-totsy French counterparts, but nice. Middle-class. A good place to raise kids and collies.
Richard Cyr lived in a redbrick duplex on Coronation, within spitting distance of the Loyola Campus of Concordia University. It took twenty minutes to get there, another five to size the place up.
Faded metal awning over a small front porch. Postage-stamp yards in front and back. Driveway leading nowhere. Blue Ford Falcon.
