The Dead of Winter

ELEVEN

JANUARY 2

7 AM

The kidnapping had changed things. What had been a minor nuisance, in which Vanier could play at influencing the outcome — but wouldn’t lose sleep if he didn’t — had now become a street fight. He decided to draw on his deposits of favours owed for past services. His first call was to an old friend in the RCMP. Detective Sergeant Ian Peterson was a drug investigator with the Mounties who had worked undercover for years before slowly moving up the ranks. Years ago Vanier had learned that Peterson was being set up for a frame by Rolf Cracken, a mid-sized dealer with ambition and an oversized grudge against Peterson. It came out in a conversation with an informant who was trying to impress Vanier with his connections and knowledge, and it didn’t amount to much at first, only that Cracken was getting ready to stitch up a cop. Vanier could have ignored it as someone else’s problem, but he didn’t. He spent four days putting it all together and convincing himself Peterson was clean. When he was sure, it was simple enough to deal with. Craken’s plan was to dump a brick of cocaine and a couple of thousand dollars in Peterson’s apartment, start a small sofa fire to get some smoke going, and call the firemen to put out the fire. They wouldn’t be able to ignore the pile of cocaine and cash, and Peterson would be finished in the force.

One morning in July, Peterson let Vanier into the apartment and left for work as usual. Just in case anyone missed him leaving, he stopped as he drove out of the parking garage and got out of the car to check his tires before driving off. Fifteen minutes later, he walked back into the apartment building in a baseball cap and a different coat. Vanier and Peterson waited 40 minutes until the lock in the apartment door was picked and the planter walked in with the drugs and money. Vanier still laughs at the pitiful I’m fucked expression on the planter’s face when he saw the two cops waiting for him.

In Vanier’s world, inter-agency cooperation was officially practiced by bureaucrats on committees who carefully channelled the flow of information backed up by strict rules to prevent any unofficial exchanges. All requests to other forces were supposed to flow through the committees and, because information is currency, the committees became farmers’ markets of swaps and promises where none of the farmers trusted each other. Vanier preferred the direct approach, granting and receiving favours with officers he knew, or who were recommended, and always keeping the ledger balanced.

Peterson picked up the phone on the third ring.

“I hope I didn’t wake you from your beauty sleep. You, of all people, need it.”

“Vanier, you bastard. What the fuck do you want?”

“You recognize me? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. Wait a minute, I’ve got it. You’re calling me to wish me a Happy New Year.”

“You guessed. That and something else.”

“I might have known, you don’t do Happy anything. So what can I do for you?”

“Got a pen?”

“Course I do, I sleep with a fucking pen in my hand. Wait a second.”

Vanier heard the phone drop onto a hard surface, some shuffling and cursing, a woman’s voice, and then Peterson picked it up again.

“OK, so what is it?”

“Blackrock Investments, a property developer on Chabanel. Vladimir Markov, the President, or something like that, and Ivan Romanenko, the in-house lawyer.”

“And?”

“As much background as you can give me. I think they’re putting a little too much muscle into the development business, and I want to know if you guys have anything on them. They seem like slime.”

“That’s it? I thought slimy was a prerequisite for being a property developer. You have anything else?”

“It’s just that I had them down as simple businessmen, sleazy as all hell but no more than that. But I may have underestimated them.”

“It’s urgent, I suppose?”

“You read my mind.”

“OK, Luc, I’ll see what I can do and get back to you. Now, can I put on my pants?”

“Thanks, Ian.”

10 AM

Vanier and Laurent spent the morning looking for Marcel Audet. He wasn’t at the Holy Land Shelter, and Nolet didn’t seem to miss him. Nolet told them that Audet hadn’t been seen at the Shelter since before the New Year and hadn’t called to say when he would be back. He also said it wasn’t unusual for Audet to disappear without telling anyone, sometimes for a week at a time. Then he would show up as though everything was perfectly normal. He wasn’t the type to excuse himself.

It took them hours to track down Degrange, the rue St. Denis drug dealer, but they eventually found him in a rooming house near the bus station. He was still in bed when they knocked on his door.

“Who is it?” he asked through the door, protecting the only privacy he had.

“Vanier. Open the door, Louis.”

“Inspector. Give me a few minutes and I’ll meet you. Why don’t you go to the coffee shop in the bus station? I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

“Louis, open the fucking door or I’ll lean on it.” That’s all it would have taken, and asking him to open it was a polite formality. The lock clicked, and Degrange’s scrawny body stood before them in a dirty white wife-beater T-shirt, black Y-fronts and black socks. He was surprised to see Laurent standing next to Vanier and attempted a smile, showing a mouthful of rotting teeth.

“Can we come in?”

“Inspector, I’m not set up for visitors,” he said, backing away from the door as they walked through. He sat down on the edge of the bed and they stood over him. There wasn’t room to stand anywhere else. The window was covered by a thick brown blanket that was nailed into place, and the room was dark as a cave. Vanier pulled the chain on a bedside lamp and filled the room with a yellowish glow. It did little to dispel the gloom but illuminated the overflowing ashtray on the table and the empty screw-top wine bottle on the floor next to the bed. The air was close and heavy with the smell of stale tobacco mixed with the disturbingly unpleasant aroma of Degrange. Vanier knew that if he looked around, he would probably find a full jug of last night’s urine.

“It isn’t much, I know.” He tried to regain some humanity. “So, Inspector, what can I do for you?”

“You didn’t call me.”

“I was meaning to. But I didn’t want to disturb your holidays.” He gave Vanier an ingratiating smile.

“So what do you have on Audet?”

“Audet. Yeah, Marcel Audet. I have an address, Inspector. It’s here,” he said, reaching for his pants on the floor next to the bed. He dragged scraps of paper out of the pocket and handed one to Vanier, who checked it to make sure that it was legible.

“Anything else?”

“No. He’s not working with anyone that I know. Maybe he’s gone clean. It happens, Inspector.”

“You’re right. How much?”

“You said fifty.”

“And I gave you twenty. So here’s thirty. We’ll close the door on the way out.”

The address was downtown in one of those big anonymous towers that caters to people passing through on their way to somewhere else; twenty identical apartments on each of thirty identical floors. There was no answer when they knocked on the door to his apartment. They tried the neighbouring apartments, and nobody knew anything. The building lobby was as busy as a railway station with strangers passing strangers. The building allowed people to live alone, really alone.

As they were driving back to headquarters, Vanier got a text message to call Peterson when he got a chance. He had a chance half an hour later.

“Ian, it’s Luc.”

“Luc, where the fuck do you find these people? It’s time you started moving in better circles.”

Vanier smiled, “Nobody else will have me. Blackrock?”

“Yes, and their wonderful officers Markov and Romanenko.”

“So you lads on horses know them?”

“Know them? We’d be galloping up Chabanel on the fucking horses if we could get something on them. Grab a pen, Mr. V.”

Vanier began to take notes.

“Markov came to Montreal from St. Petersburg, that’s in Russia.”

“How do you spell it?”

“Russia or St. Petersburg?”

“Fuck off.”

“He came to Canada 12 years ago as an immigrant investor. Basically that’s an $800,000 ticket to Canada, but you get to keep the money. You just have to invest it in a Canadian business. We’ve been watching him ever since. Romanenko came a year later. And let me say for the record, Detective Inspector-”

“In case anyone is listening,” said Vanier.

“-for the record, they have never been accused of the slightest wrongdoing. Upstanding citizens, both of them.”

“But?”

“Ah, but, that’s the thing, there are suspicions. And some would say, though I’m not saying it, that those suspicions are very well founded.”

“And what are those unfounded suspicions?”

“That the gentlemen specialize in corruption. No job too small or too large. Let’s say that you’re a businessman and you want to show your appreciation to someone for giving you some business, or permits. There are a lot of people who would frown on that sort of thing, in fact it’s illegal just about everywhere. Well, Blackrock can put together a plan for you, and they take a small commission.”

“And then they have the goods on the donor and the crooked politician.”

“So you’re following me. It’s a growth business. Every transaction pays off in money and in influence for the future. The more they do, the more people they have in their pocket. That allows them to pursue their other interests, like property development, much more efficiently.”

“Are they are serious players?”

“Luc, they are as serious as it gets. Make no mistake, these are very dangerous people to mess with. They have connections you can’t even imagine, and they have muscle they’re not afraid to use.”

“Muscle?”

“They have three guys on retainer that we know of, all Russian, and we think they have just picked up a local asset, Marcel Audet.”

“I know him.”

“Thought you might. The three Russians are the same type, very violent. Luc, I advise you to be extremely careful. Do not underestimate these people.”

Vanier knew that it was too late for that. “Thanks for the heads up, Ian. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Please do.”

Before Vanier could get lost in paperwork, the phone rang.

“Vanier.”

“Good afternoon, Luc, or should I call you Inspector.”

“Anjili. Hello will do fine. How are you?”

“I’ve got news.”

“I need good news.”

“It’s not all good.”

“Well, give me the good news first.”

“The body in the truck — M. Latulippe — there was no trace of poison. So we’re putting it down as natural causes. His blood alcohol level was through the roof. He probably passed out in the snow and that was it. It’s likely he was dead before he went into the snow blower.”

“That’s the good news?”

“Everything’s relative, Luc.”

“So what’s the bad news?”

“The body from the fire is not John Collins. We don’t know who it is yet, but it’s not Collins.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. Mme. Collins was in this morning to identify the body.”

“That can’t have been pleasant.”

“It wasn’t. She took one long look at the body and said that it wasn’t her son. I was half-expecting her to say that. The body’s in awful shape, and any mother would want to deny it’s her son. But she insisted. She was very calm. When we were arranging the visit, I had asked her to bring down any medical records she had of him. The blood type is different. She even stopped by her dentist to get John’s file, and the teeth are different. The clincher is the broken arm.”

“His arm was broken?”

“No, that’s the point. She says that he broke his left arm when he was ten, and it didn’t set properly. Our victim shows no sign of a healed fracture. Based on all of that, we’re certain the fire victim is not John Collins.”

“Shit.”

“So we have an unidentified corpse, and your suspect is still wandering the streets.”

“Anjili, can you fax me a preliminary report?”

“It’s on its way, Luc.”

“I need to talk to Mme. Collins. When did she leave?” he said, trying to calculate how long it would be before she was back home.

“She’s on her way over. She said that she needed to talk to you. She should be there in about half an hour.”

“She’s coming here?”

“Unless she knows where you live. I only gave her the office address.”

“And for that I thank you. Listen, I have to go.” Vanier thought for a second of suggesting dinner but let the thought pass; he wasn’t sure what time he would be finished.

“Let me know what happens. Luc, you’ll find him. I know you will.”

Vanier put the phone back in his pocket.

The front desk called twenty minutes later to say that Mme. Collins was asking for him. He told them to put her in the family room. It was still an interview room, but a little softer, with a couch and two armchairs squeezed into the impossibly small space. She was standing up when he arrived. He started to reach his hand out to shake hers but realized that she wasn’t offering.

“Please, Mme. Collins, sit down,” he gestured to one of the armchairs. She sat stiffly on the armchair and put her bag on the floor, leaning it against her leg.

“I have just come from the Coroner’s office. It’s good news,” she said. “It’s not him. It’s not my son.”

“Dr. Segal called me.”

“I thought I had lost him forever.”

Vanier watched her carefully, wondering if she would, or even could, be any help in finding him. He doubted it. Mothers couldn’t be trusted to turn in their sons. There was always a sub-plot, a faint hope that they could do something to make things turn out right. They would help you just as much as was absolutely necessary, always hoping that along the way they could save him.

“That doesn’t help us find him, and we need to find him. Mme. Collins, it’s time for you to help us. And we can help you. You couldn’t do it on your own but maybe we can do it together.” He decided to fight dirty. “Who is the father, Madame Collins?”

The blow was obvious, and she took it like a boxer past his prime.

“What does it matter? It has never mattered.”

“If John is alive, and it seems that he is, then someone may be hiding him. And right now, he may be in danger.”

“That’s rich, Inspector. You don’t care about him. You think he’s a mass murderer.”

“He’s a suspect, and I want to talk to him, but this is a messy business. Someone else might think that one way to clean it up is to get rid of him.”

She looked at him. He imagined she was calculating, but her eyes gave no clue.

“Mme. Collins, I’ve seen too many bodies this week, and I want it to stop. If someone is helping him, they are both are in danger. Don’t get me wrong, I want your son in custody. I think he’s killed several people and could kill more. He needs help. And I need your help.”

There are moments when people make decisions and change directions in a heartbeat. The tipping point is unpredictable, but we all have one, when the old arguments finally lose their potency, and we clutch at whatever lifeline is thrown. She slumped forward, and then looked him in the eyes.

“Perhaps you’re right. I have not told the story to anyone. It was 30 years ago. If it all happened today, things would be different. I can see that. There would have been counseling, some support. Perhaps it would have helped to talk to someone about it. But life was different back then. I was alone. I have loved three things in my life, Inspector, and each has taken that love and then rejected me. I joined the Church when I was 17 years old to escape my family. It was the only escape. I gave my life to the Church, and then the Church destroyed me. John’s father is Monsignor Michael Forlini. Back then, he was just an ambitious young priest following a calling that he thought he had. He’s been very successful. I loved him as much as I loved the Church, and I thought he loved me. He didn’t. He used me and then rejected me like I was nothing. As soon as our relationship was discovered, I was sacrificed, and he was protected. His sin was to have given in to the temptations of the flesh, an understandable sin that could be forgiven. My sin was the treachery of a woman, the devil’s handmaiden. I was left with nothing except my child, and I raised him with no help from his father. Then, 18 years later, he left without saying goodbye. But I still love him. John needs my help and I need him.”

She reached for the box of Kleenex on the floor but it was empty. Vanier pulled a Second Cup napkin from his pocket and gave it to her.

“I won’t give you the sordid details of how it happened. But, believe me, the holy Monsignor Forlini does not know where John is. He never even acknowledged that he was John’s father. He has never had anything to do with either of us. He even arranged to have me banned from the Cathedral. Not officially, of course, but any time that I go in, I am quickly asked to leave. When John first disappeared, I was convinced that his father might have something to do with it. Even though I couldn’t enter the Cathedral, I spent months walking around it, hoping to catch sight of John. I would wait outside all the Masses. I watched the doors for hours, more than I care to think of, winter and summer, but I never saw him.”

“But that was years ago, Mme. Collins. Have you stopped watching the Cathedral?”

“I came to the conclusion that I was wasting my time, so I stopped.”

“If Monsignor Forlini decided to help John, is there any place he might hide him?”

“I have no idea. His life is the Cathedral, and you can’t hide someone in the Cathedral.”

“I suppose not. Thank you, Mme. Collins, this has been very helpful, and I promise that I will do everything in my power to find your son. Let me have someone drive you home.”

“Thank you, Inspector. That would be kind, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble. You just sit here and take it easy while I get a ride organized.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“I’m sure it has. I will be in touch.”

Vanier arranged for Mme. Collins to get a blue-and-white taxi home. The uniform reported back that she had asked to be dropped off two blocks away. She didn’t want the neighbours talking.

2 PM

Vanier and Janvier followed a young priest down a carpeted hallway lined with fading drawings and photographs of the Church’s real heroes: not the saints on public display, but the men — and they were all men — who spent their lives in the back corridors and closed rooms nurturing the growth and power of the institution that gave their life importance. The dictators, bureaucrats, fixers and politicians of Mother Church. The priest stopped and knocked on one of the closed doors, then waited for some inaudible sign before ushering them into the presence of Monsignor Forlini. Walking on the plush ivory-coloured carpet was like walking on sponge. A wall of photographs of the Monsignor with famous people dominated the room. Vanier had seen these walls of self-celebration before, an invitation to an ice-breaking conversational opener for any meeting. He declined to break the ice.

The Monsignor was all smiles and offered coffee. They declined, and the young priest left them alone. Vanier placed the sketch of Collins on the dark mahogany desk in front of the Monsignor.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Vanier and Janvier watched closely as he studied the drawing. There was nothing but a calm interest.

“Of course I do. This is the sketch of the suspect in the homeless deaths, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Do you recognize him?”

“From the news, and the newspapers, yes. But apart from that, I’m afraid not. Should I?”

“We’re told he’s your son, John Collins.”

If that had an impact on him it didn’t show. He looked up and gave a short laugh. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, Inspector, but I don’t have a son. There was a malicious accusation many years ago but it was totally unfounded. I do not have a son.”

There are several kinds of liars. The good ones actually believe they are telling the truth. Others are arrogant enough to think the rest of the world is too stupid to know the difference. Still others work from a rule book only they know, strategizing like poker players, mixing it up: truth, lies, truth that sounds like a falsehood, and invention that sounds like fact. Vanier couldn’t make up his mind about the Monsignor, but he didn’t have to, just yet.

“Just for the record, sir, I am going to ask you a series of simple questions, and Sergeant Janvier here will record your answers. Will that be OK?”

“Perfectly.”

“So, once again, you do not know the person in the photograph.”

“Just for the record, Inspector, it is not ‘once again.’ You did not ask me if I knew this person, you asked if I recognized him. But the answer is the same in both cases. No.”

“Does the name John Collins mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does. If I recall the news correctly, Collins is the suspect in these recent deaths. But just in case you fell that I am not being entirely forthright, there is another reason for me to recognize the name John Collins. It’s a little delicate, but I can tell you. There is nothing to hide. Many years ago, a certain Yvette Collins, Sister Agnes as she was then, accused me of fathering her son. Absolutely preposterous of course, but she maintained that I had seduced her and caused her to become pregnant. She had a son, and I believe he was called John. She carried on a campaign against me and against the church for several years. I’m sure you understand Inspector, women can be, how shall we say, irrational at times, and the sisterhood seems to attract more than its fair share. It’s likely that her sin pushed her over the top, so to speak, and she became convinced that I was the child’s father.”

“Have you had any contact with John Collins in the last few years?”

“None at all. I wouldn’t know him if he were to walk in here.”

“So, just for the record, you deny ever having contact with this man, John Collins.”

“Correct, Inspector. Now, was there something else?”

“I don’t think so. Sergeant Janvier, did you get everything.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Vanier stood up, “Well, I think that will be all for the moment.”

The Monsignor came around the desk, hand out for a shake.

“Well, I don’t think that I have been of much help, but anytime you want to talk, feel free to set something up with my secretary. I’ll have him show you gentlemen out.”

As they walked to the car Vanier looked up at the clear blue sky and nodded at Janvier, “It’s a change from the darkness in there.”

“Yeah,” replied Janvier. “Did you notice the smell?”

“I think it was the absence of women,” said Vanier.

4.30 PM

The investigation had been shut down prematurely, and it was proving difficult to get the extra people back. Everyone was involved somewhere else. Vanier and St. Jacques were the only ones in the Squad Room. Roberge, Janvier, and Laurent were out interviewing workers from Xeon Pesticides and from the homeless shelters, trying to find anyone who might have been close to John Collins.

Vanier turned to St. Jacques. “Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir? Just a second.” She was typing at a screen.

“Where did Audet do his time?”

“He got eight years, so he must have been at a Federal facility. I’ll check.” She started typing searches and pulled up what they had on Audet. It didn’t take long. “Donnacona, sir.”

“That will do. Give them a call and get his medical records as quickly as you can. Then get them over to Dr. Segal.”

“You think Audet might be the guy in the van?”

“Not really. It’s a bit of a stretch, but it’s worth a try. Nobody’s seen him since the day of the fire, and we have an unidentified corpse. Who knows? It’s worth a shot.”

St. Jacques was on the phone immediately, sweet-talking her way through the bureaucracy of Donnacona penitentiary. Fifteen minutes later she walked over to Vanier’s desk. “Denis said that if he could put his hands on it he would fax it to me, otherwise it would have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Denis?”

“Yes, Denis. He sounded like a nice guy, not at all like a prison guard.”

Sergeant St. Jacques must have made an impression on Donnacona Denis, because a bundle of pages came through the fax 90 minutes later. St. Jacques faxed them on to Dr. Segal and then called Denis to thank him. Vanier heard them on the phone for twenty minutes, and St. Jacques was laughing. He hadn’t heard that in a long while.

8 PM

Knowledge is power. And in the Church the humble confessional box has always been fertile black soil for harvesting knowledge. Monsignor Michael Forlini knew that, and he loved the sacrament of confession, as long as he was doing the listening. The anonymity of the confessional box was a farce. Its dark boxes separated only by a grille, covered and uncovered for each new penitent, served only to lull the unsuspecting into believing in a protected spiritual conversation with the Almighty. But a priest could identify the most of the penitents by their voices, and was familiar with their weaknesses and unimaginative appetites for the forbidden. But you can build dependence by instilling guilt and then releasing it with divine forgiveness. Priests carry the secrets of the confessional with them, and when they look into the eyes of a sinner leaving Sunday mass with his wife and children, when they greet the wife with a beaming smile and tousle the heads of the children, the sinner knows how much is owed. It isn’t blackmail, it’s a sacrament. A tool that Jesus gave his priests to help them build and protect the Mother Church, the first and most important goal of every member of the clergy, all the way up to the Papacy.

To influence secular life for good, you need power, and the confessional was the place where power shifted. That’s why the decline of the sacrament is seen as such a threat to the Church. While the Protestants might accept that people can confess their sins in a vaguely worded public acknowledgement of weakness, that idea is vigorously resisted by the hard core Catholic clerics. The Church wants to know the sinners and it wants to know the details of their transgressions.

Monsignor Forlini had a sermon that he liked to give to stiffen the spines of believers. Jesus had told His apostles that those whose sins they forgave were forgiven and those whose sins were retained, were retained. This meant that God had given the apostles — and only the apostles — and through them the priests — and only the priests — the divine authority to forgive sin or to refuse to do so. So Jesus Himself had decreed that sin could not be forgiven directly. He put the apostles between the people and Himself, and the priests were the heirs of the apostles. The only way to have your sins forgiven was by confessing them to a priest in the sacrament of confession. And you had to gain forgiveness in this lifetime, because it would be too late after. So the faithful kept confessing their sins.

That was how Monsignor Forlini knew exactly where to go to solve his problem.

He was sitting in Moishe’s Steak House, a legend on boulevard St. Laurent, the historic fault line between Montreal’s English and French communities that had served Montreal’s powerful for over 50 years. Antonio DiPadova, one of Montreal’s better known criminal defence lawyers, sat opposite Forlini, nervously scanning the room for clients and potential clients. Being seen dining with a senior member of the Church could be bad for business.

They talked easily of politics and sport, of DiPadova’s charitable work, and his substantial donations to the Church. DiPadova was going to Rome in the summer, and an audience had to be arranged and, Monsignor Forlini hinted, a possible Papal acknowledgment of his contribution to the works of Mother Church. Forlini opened at dessert.

“Antonio, I have a problem.”

Well fed, and relaxed under the effects of a pound of marbled sirloin and a bottle of a 1998 Barolo that cost as much as the two steaks, DiPadova answered: “And I hope it’s something that I can help you with, Monsignor.”

“Perhaps you can. But it’s somewhat delicate.”

“In my experience, between friends it’s always better to put everything on the table.”

“Perhaps you are right, Antonio. You have been such a good friend. I should put my trust in you.” The Monsignor hated being humble but thought it might be effective.

“So, how I can I help?”

“Antonio, there is a child, a child who has reached a dead end and needs a second chance. I can vouch for him, nothing serious, just a second chance.”

“And? How can I help?”

“The second chance involves a change of identity. I assume that means a new passport, a driver’s licence, social insurance card, the whole thing. A deluxe package if you will. He needs a new life. I am willing to pay whatever it takes.”

“Monsignor, I think I can help. Don’t worry. My line of work brings me into contact with all kinds of people. I know who can arrange this. But these things aren’t cheap. You need to give me details. You know, since 9/11, this whole identity business has come under close scrutiny. Things are not what they were. Perhaps you could write out some details.” DiPadova took out a pen and a scrap of paper, handing it to the Monsignor. “Some simple information, the name that you would like, the height, weight, place of birth. Basic information.”

The Monsignor began writing, knowing he was putting himself into the debtor column with every word. DiPadova took the paper when he had finished and read through it quickly.

“Let me see what I can do. I’m sure I can help you.”

“Anything that you can do would be appreciated. I really didn’t know where to turn. What else do you need? You mentioned the cost.”

“You will need to give me ten photographs. Let’s wait for the rest. I’ll let you know.”

“I can imagine that things have become strict, even with passport photographs, I heard you need identification even to have a photograph taken.”

“Have your friend go to one of those photo machines and take a bunch of head shots. These people will turn them into passport photographs.”

“Your service to the Church will not go unrewarded, Michael.”

“It’s the least I can do, Monsignor,” he said, putting the hand-written note into his pocket.

The delicate business was finished, and Monsignor Forlini ordered brandies and relaxed into the habitual friendly role of the clergy. He asked about DiPadova’s family, and about how the children were doing at school. He talked about how difficult it was to love and serve God in the modern world.

DiPadova didn’t rush to pick up the cheque. Forlini looked at the leather folder that the waiter had put on the table, and eventually reached for it, already feeling the change in their relationship.

DiPadova had no trouble convincing the Monsignor to accept a lift back to the Cathedral, and watched the priest relish the soft leather seats of the Mercedes, stroking it unconsciously as the radio played piano jazz through BOSE speakers. As he left the car outside the Cathedral, the Monsignor made eye contact with DiPadova.

“What I asked is very important, Antonio. Your assistance in this will be greatly appreciated. Good night in the grace of God.”

DiPadova pulled away, resisting the urge to pump his fist in the air in celebration at something as simple as having Monsignor Forlini in his debt over a new identity. New identities were sold on the streets of Montreal every day. A first class, deluxe package that would withstand scrutiny by U.S. Customs was $10,000 at the most. But to have a future Archbishop, or even a Cardinal, in your pocket for $10,000, well that was priceless.