The Dead of Winter

PART TWO
SIX

DECEMBER 28

8 AM

Only five officers were at their desks when Vanier arrived: Laurent, St. Jacques, Roberge, Fletcher, and Janvier. Vanier stood in the middle of the room and had their attention.

“Listen up. It’s officially a murder investigation. All the victims were killed with potassium cyanide.” He spelled it out and they scribbled it down. “It’s a common industrial chemical and a lethal poison. Santa mixed it in rum and eggnog and sent them on their way.”

Laurent raised his big head. “Isn’t that what Goering used?”

“Goering?”

“In the Nuremberg trial. I saw the film. Somebody smuggled him a cyanide pill, and he killed himself.”

“Christ, you learn something every day. So we can take Goering off the list of suspects. We’re making progress. And I don’t think that we’re looking for pills. Our guy is serving it up in liquid, so we can start by assuming that he has a stock of powder. So here’s what I want. Start with the manufacturers and importers, anyone who makes the stuff, and anyone who has imported it in the last three years. Have them check to see if any is missing; any recent thefts; disgruntled employees; employees who’ve quit recently — you know the sort of thing, anything unusual. You find anything, let me know immediately. Once you’ve got the sources of this stuff, start working on the customers, all the way down to the last buyer. We have to check them all, and as quickly as possible. Any questions?”

“Any suggestions on customs, for the importers?” This from Fletcher.

“Good question.” In the last few years they’d had problems getting information quickly from customs. They weren’t keen on sharing unless there was some joint task force, and even then, they liked to hold back. Something about the privacy rights of importers. Vanier flipped open his phone and scrolled through his address book. “Call Danielle Sabbatini, she’s an investigator in Laval, and she owes me. 450-363-2082. If she gives you grief, tell her you’re cashing in a marker from me. If she still won’t help, call me.”

“Sir, what about the government agencies?” This from St. Jacques. “Maybe you need a licence to keep potassium cyanide. So maybe there’s a list somewhere.”

“I was told that it’s unlikely, but it’s worth a try. See what you can get. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. “We checked the parking tickets. They weren’t giving tickets Christmas Eve, they were towing cars away to make way for the snow clearing. Anything that was parked illegally, or that was in the way of the clearing, was towed. Thirty-six cars in all, and I’m working through the list. Nothing so far, but it could take another two days, sir.”

“Well, keep it up.”

“Are we getting extra help, sir?” asked St. Jacques.

“The Chief is considering my request for additional resources and will get back to me when he has time to think. So don’t hold your breath. In the meantime you’ll be glad to hear that you can all work as much overtime as you like. The Chief has generously agreed to open the purse on that one.”

That news was greeted with groans.

“Right. If you’ve all got work to do, let’s get to it. Laurent, you come with me, we’re going to church again, separate cars.”

As they were pulling on their overcoats, St. Jacques passed an envelope to Vanier. Laurent was watching but said nothing.

“My lottery winnings,” said Vanier.

“So where’s mine? I’m in the pool too,” said Laurent.

“You didn’t win.”

“Fuck.”

9.30 AM

Laurent ignored the clutch of men waiting with outstretched paper cups, and pulled open the steel and glass doors to the Cathedral. Vanier followed, watching Laurent dip his fingers in the holy water font, then bless himself before opening the second set of doors. Old habits, thought Vanier.

It was dark and cold inside, a sacrifice to the cost of lighting and heating the empty granite space. An attendant told them that Father Henri was conducting a service in St. Jude’s Crypt, and pointed the way. They approached to see the priest on his knees facing the altar and leading about twenty people in the Rosary. Vanier checked the beads being handled by the devout, and saw that they were almost halfway through the last decade. He knelt. Laurent blessed himself again and knelt beside him.

“Hail Mary, full of Grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus,” Drouin intoned.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen,” the devout replied.

Vanier joined in the response loudly enough to be heard, and Drouin, his back to the faithful, raised his head slightly as if trying to pick out the new voice.

When the Rosary ended, Drouin left a little time for silent prayer, then stood and turned to survey the group. His eyes fixed immediately on Vanier, who returned the look with the face of a cherub.

Drouin addressed the devout with difficulty. “That brings us to the end of our session. Let us give our problems and concerns to the Lord in prayer, and to the Blessed Virgin, and to our beloved St. Jude. Again, I invite any of you who need the Lord’s intercession to write your needs on one of the cards provided and drop it in the box.”

The crowd began to shuffle out, some stopping to whisper to Drouin, a few stopping to drop prayer cards into the box. While waiting for the shepherd to finish ministering to his flock, Vanier moved over to the table and picked up a blank card. Laurent followed, and Drouin eyed the two men with concern. The cards were only scraps of recycled paper. Vanier took out a pen and was still writing when Drouin approached.

“It’s curious, Inspector, but you didn’t strike me as a religious man. Do you have a need that you wish us to pray for?”

“Religious, me? Not really. But it’s like the lottery, isn’t it? If you don’t play you don’t win.”

“Well, I never play the lottery, Inspector.”

“I suppose not. It wouldn’t do for a priest to collect twenty million from the 6-49 jackpot. People would think he had some divine help. But maybe prayers are the Church’s lottery. What do you think, Father Drouin?”

“Prayers are a much better investment than the lottery, Inspector. Prayers are answered every day.”

“So there’s hope for me?”

“And what is your prayer, Inspector?”

Vanier held up the card for Drouin to read: Help me catch the bastard who killed the innocents. “Oh, excuse me, Father,” he said, taking the pen to cross out bastard and scribble something else. “This should do it,” he said, handing the card back to Drouin.

Help me find the people who killed the innocents.

“I can’t help noticing you changed a singular for a plural.”

“Yes. Strange that, isn’t it? And I think we’re dealing with one killer. But in my job we’re always fighting several people, people who know something but don’t come forward. People protecting the killer or people who just can’t be bothered.”

“You really believe those poor people were killed?”

“They were killed, Father. Murdered. What do you think of that?”

“It’s beyond belief. Who would do such a thing? Who could possibly have a reason to kill them?

“That’s my job. Nobody kills without a reason. When I find out why, I’ll have the killer.”

“I can’t think of anyone who would have a reason to kill these people.”

“Well somebody did. Just because you can’t think of a reason doesn’t mean that the killer didn’t have one, does it? So, any ideas? Anyone come to mind?”

“It would have to be a maniac. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Do you know any maniacs?”

“I know a lot of people. But nobody who is capable of killing.”

“Yesterday you said these people didn’t have friends. Did they have enemies?”

“No, Inspector, just because you don’t have any friends doesn’t mean that you have enemies. The truth is, nobody cared about these people, and certainly nobody cared enough to kill them.”

“There was nothing that struck you as odd in the last few weeks?”

“No, nothing. The usual grumbling and complaining about their lot.” Drouin semed to have a flash of memory and Vanier waited.

“There is something. George Morissette was particularly troubled about money recently.”

“George?”

“Yes, George Morissette, he used to be a notary, very smart when he’s sober. He kept saying that the shelter was cheating him. Every time we talked, he would bring it up. I thought nothing of it. I know M. Nolet, and he is a dedicated man. I just thought George was confused.”

“We’re going to need a full statement from you, your dealings with the victims, the last time you saw each of them, who they knew, that sort of thing.”

“Of course, I am happy to tell you everything I know. I just don’t know that it will be of any help.”

“You never know, Father. Laurent here will drive you to the station.”

“I just need a few minutes to close up.”

Drouin began to close down the shop, extinguishing candles and folding the linen that lay across the altar.

“So what was the service? Benediction?” Vanier asked, remembering childhood Sundays, mass in the morning, and benediction in the afternoon.

“No. A simple prayer service. People who come together in faith to seek the intercession of the Saints, in this case, St. Jude. As I said, Inspector, prayer is a wonderful thing. Prayer works miracles.” Drouin touched the box of cards. “After every service I put a date on the new cards, and we pray for the request for ten days. We meet three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. That comes to about two-and-a-half weeks of prayer.”

“So if I put my card in the box, you’ll pray for me?”

“Yes, Inspector, but if you want the Circle to pray for you rather than your request, perhaps you should fill out another card.”

“The Circle?”

“The Circle of Christ. That’s the name of the group. People like to belong, Inspector. It helps if the group has a name. If you put your card in the box, it will be read and the Circle of Christ will pray for your intention, or for you, at our next meeting.”

“I feel better already, Father. Could I ask you a favour?”

“Of course.”

“Could I borrow this box for a day? See what people are praying for? I’ll have it back, with its contents, in time for the next meeting.” Vanier was already holding the box.

Drouin hesitated. “It’s private. It’s the prayers of sincere believers. I can’t see what possible relevance it can have to your investigation.”

“Father, it’s going to sit here untouched overnight. Indulge me.”

“Well, I suppose so,” said Drouin.

“Great,” said Vanier, putting the box under his arm.

As they took the step down out of the crypt, Vanier turned to Drouin.

“We’ll find him, Father. And when we do, we’ll find everyone who put obstacles in my path, or who failed to raise their hand and point him out. If there’s anything on your mind, Father, call me,” he said, handing him a business card and turning to leave. “Laurent will wait for you and take you to the station.”

11 AM

Vanier was running the engine to keep the car warm. He pulled St. Jacques’s note from the envelope and scanned the list of numbers, names and comments. One name stood out, Rene Gauthier, a journalist with the Journal de Montreal. Vanier recognized the name from the Journal’s coverage of the Christmas Eve murders. He punched in the numbers and it picked up after two rings.

“Oui?”

“M. Gauthier?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Detective Inspector Vanier.”

There was a brief pause, then, “Detective Inspector, I’m honoured. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your coverage of the homeless deaths. You must be working very hard on the story.”

“Very kind of you, Inspector. I do what I can.”

“You seem to be in front of the pack on this one. You always know more that your competitors.”

“I work harder than them. Simple as that.”

“Tell me, do you know my colleague, Detective Sergeant Fletcher?”

Another pause. “Of course I do. He’s my brother-in-law.”

Vanier looked at St. Jacques’ list again. Fletcher had been calling two Gauthiers, the list said: the other was Marie-Chantal Gauthier, Wife. “Marie-Chantal is your sister?”

“Correct.”

“And what are you going to tell Marie-Chantal when her husband gets his ass kicked off the force?”

“What?”

“Simple question.”

“Listen, Inspector, if you think that David is my source, you’ve got it dead wrong. In fact, he’s been pissed at me for the last few days. Every time I do a story that’s a bit too accurate he’s on my case wanting to know where I’m getting my information. He was worried. He knew someone would make the connection soon enough.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“What I told you; that I work harder than the others.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you like, Inspector. I have a job to do, and just because my brother-in-law is on the investigation doesn’t mean I stop working. But don’t think that he’s feeding me information. He’s not.”

“Just so we’re clear, M. Gauthier. If you have a source in my division, he or she is finished. Understand?”

“Good day, Inspector.”

3 PM

Vanier was sitting with his back to a wall in Magnan’s Tavern, his attention divided between watching the door and watching highlights of last night’s hockey game on the big screen. Magnan’s was almost empty, the lunch crowd long gone and the evening crowd not yet arrived. Only the serious drinkers were bridging the gap. Beaudoin walked in and quickly spotted Vanier. As he sat down, a waitress close to retirement age appeared behind Vanier with a tray in one hand, the other resting on Vanier’s shoulder. Beaudoin ordered a beer and Vanier a refill.

“I wanted to follow up on our conversation. We were interrupted,” said Beaudoin.

“Yes, I noticed. It must be hard.”

“What?”

“Becoming a professional, and then finding that you’re not in charge. You’re still taking orders.”

“Are you in charge, Inspector?”

“Ha,” Vanier’s eyes brightened. “Good question. Can we ever be independent?”

“Win the lottery, I suppose.”

“No. Not even then. So what else is there?”

“What?”

“The Shelter. What should I know?”

The waitress put two frosted drafts on the table and walked off, and Beaudoin started talking. There was a company, Blackrock Investments, and they were interested in acquiring the Holy Land property. Not acquiring exactly, because acquiring implied buying it, it implied a cost. They were interested in having the Shelter’s land and a lot less interested in paying for it. Henderson got wind of it somehow and, all of a sudden, Blackrock became a client. Henderson concocted a plan. It was a land swap. Blackrock owned land on the fringe of the fringe of the lower island under the expressway, a worthless patch of land good for nothing but low-rent warehouses and chop-shops. It was known as The Stables, because people had once kept horses there, maybe a hundred years ago, but it was now one of those useless, polluted urban islands, rendered inaccessible by highways and train tracks. The plan was to swap the Holy Land property for The Stables, along with a promise to build a state-of-the-art refuge for the homeless. Because promises and plans are cheap, no expense was spared. It would be a comfortable home for the destitute, designed for rehabilitation, retraining and reintegration; an ambitious plan to bring the homeless back into society instead of just warehousing them for a night.

Beaudoin explained that he didn’t grasp the swindle immediately. He thought it was a great idea to upgrade the shelter. But within weeks, he realized it was all bullshit. The Stables was owned by a shell company, an empty shell that was ready to fold as soon as the swap was done. Everything was planned, even the excuses: the land was polluted, they couldn’t get planning permission, financing didn’t come through, it wasn’t the ideal place to house the vulnerable. Nothing mattered, not even the excuses. There would be no new building, no new shelter. Blackrock would get the Holy Land property and make a fortune. The homeless would lose what little they had and end up, well, homeless. It would be tragic, hands would be wrung, but in the end, nobody would care. It was a brilliant plan.

But to get the swap accepted, they didn’t just need the approval of the Board of Directors of the Shelter; they had to get the Holy Land Foundation to approve it. The Board ran the Shelter’s day-to-day operations, but the Foundation owned the Shelter and the land underneath. It was run by a group of solid citizens whose job was to look after the Holy Land’s core assets.

“The Foundation’s members are all getting on in years, the average age must be 85,” said Beaudoin. “It’s easy to flood the Board of Directors with hand-picked yes men, but you can’t do that with the Foundation. The way it’s set up, the members of the Foundation choose their own members. To serve on the Foundation, you have to be asked by the current members of the Foundation. So that was a major problem. The current members of the Foundation would never agree to the deal without the kinds of guarantees Blackrock was not prepared to offer.

“So, brilliant as it was, the plan had a major problem: the Foundation. That’s where I came in. After years on the Board, I knew the members of the Foundation, and they trusted me.”

“So you went along?” asked Vanier.

Beaudoin looked down at the table and continued, trying to leave himself with some excuses. He couldn’t.

“More than that, I became the key to the whole plan. Henderson told me to start courting the members of the Foundation and to start collecting proxies, the right to vote on behalf of the Foundation members. So I did. I took them out to dinner, to the hockey game, and then things started to happen. At first, it was only proxies for easy decisions at single meetings. But gradually I built up trust. I would call the members before meetings to get their instructions on how to vote on specific issues. After a while, they started asking me how they should vote. Eventually, some members were offering me general proxies. Like I said, they trusted me. They thought I was doing them a personal favour. To make matters worse, the proxies were always in the name of Henderson, my boss. I told them, well, I told them what I was told to tell them, that it was to preserve independence. So now Henderson’s holding general proxies for more than two-thirds of the votes of the Foundation, and he intends to use them to approve the swap. And his ass is covered because the Board will recommend the swap. It’s loaded with Blackrock appointees.”

Beaudoin finished his beer, and Vanier gestured for two more.

“So how much do they stand to make?”

“Hard to tell. I’ve seen studies that value the condo project at $400 million. The land alone, free and ready to develop, is worth about $80 million. It’s three city blocks, about ten minutes walking distance from downtown.”

“When’s the vote?”

“That’s what I haven’t been able to figure out. Even though Henderson is sitting on enough proxies to carry the vote, he still has to do things by the book. He needs to give notice to all the Foundation members and tell them what business is being considered. I’ve drafted and redrafted the notice a dozen times, and Henderson keeps giving it back to me. He says it’s too clear, that I should make it obscure. I’ve drafted fine print that would make you go blind. That notice will go out soon, and then it’s fifteen days to the meeting.”

The beer arrived, and Beaudoin took a deep gulp. Vanier looked at him, trying to make up his mind, thinking that maybe a late conversion was better than none.

“How do you feel?”

“How the hell do you think I feel? I feel like shit. I’m betraying the one good thing I’ve done in the last five years. I try to justify it. I didn’t really have a choice, I have to support my family.”

“That justifies it?”

“No, that’s not it. But I’ve got responsibilities. I’ve got two beautiful children and a wife who still loves me. Somebody has to put bread on the table.”

“If only life were that easy, Pascal. The reason why you screw people doesn’t matter, you’re still screwing people. And who says you’re entitled to use your family like that, to justify something they wouldn’t agree with anyway.”

“You’re right. It’s just bullshit self-justification. It’s just me. I’m responsible. My family’s not involved.”

“Oh, they’re involved. If you’re involved, so are they. It’s just not their fault. But you didn’t call me for forgiveness or for a blessing. What is bothering you?”

Beaudoin stared into his beer and said nothing.

Vanier tried again. “What does your wife think of all this?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“You sure?”

“No. Maybe that’s why I called you. Something’s got to give. Letting this happen is a betrayal of who I am, of who I see myself as. I won’t be the person she married, and she’ll know. If she accepts it, we’ll both be different people. And I don’t think I would like either of us.”

“People change all the time,” Vanier said.

“No, they grow, they mature. But what’s at the core stays the same.”

Vanier thought about what he had said about Marcel Audet never changing. “Maybe you’re right.”

“So, what should I do?”

“I’m the last person to ask for advice. It’s your decision. You have to make it.”

“But I’m not alone.”

“Then talk to your wife. They tell me that communication is good; it’s a healthy part of every marriage.” Vanier sounded like he believed it.

Beaudoin was silent.

“So, what’s Marcel Audet doing at the shelter?”

“I’ve thought about that. Blackrock has something on Nolet. He used to be a solid guy, but he’s shut down for the last six months. He knows what’s going on, but says nothing, like he’s scared. I think Audet is there to keep an eye on him, to keep the pressure on. From what I’ve heard, Audet seems to have started a personal business, kind of a pay-day loan scheme. If you’re homeless, you can use the Shelter’s address to receive social security checks. I think Audet cashes them, for a price, and pockets a percentage. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

“I know. So why did you call me? What can I do?”

“Nothing, I guess. It’s just, when you showed up at the office, I was hoping that the deal would be sidetracked. It wasn’t. Henderson’s still pushing.”

He looked at Vanier, his hands opening up on the table. “This isn’t police business, is it?”

“Not that I can see. Just another deal where good people get screwed over and everything is perfectly legitimate.”

“This isn’t where I wanted to be. You start by making small concessions, and before you know it, you’ve sold out. Your visit shook me. It made me think.” He took a long slug of beer and looked at Vanier. “Maybe I just wanted a sounding board. No, it’s more than that. I wanted you to know what’s going on.”

“Like I said, I don’t normally give advice,” said Vanier. “You lawyers have that all sewn up. But I’ll make an exception in your case, Maitre. Things can get ugly when there’s a lot of money involved. Be careful.”

Vanier wrote his cell phone number on his card and handed it to Beaudoin. “Call me. If you’re worried. If something comes up. Call me.”

Beaudoin put the card in his pocket, and Vanier stood up.

“So, when I go to see Blackrock Investments, who should I ask for?” said Vanier.

Beaudoin looked up at the policeman, surprised, and told him.

4.30 PM

Blackrock Investments had its offices on the top floor of a building on Chabanel, the centre of Montreal’s garment district until the industry abandoned Montreal for the sweatshops of China, Vietnam and Bangladesh. With the industry gone, Chabanel became a honeycomb of empty spaces. That’s where Blackrock came in. Backed by generous subsidies of other people’s money, subsidies from all levels of government, they began buying the empty shells and reinventing the area as the creative and artistic centre of Montreal. Even with the subsidies, it was hard going, but eventually the neighbourhood started to fill up with designers, artists and software producers. Rents were cheap, because everyone was subsidized.

Vanier and St. Jacques sat in the steel-themed reception area on oversized chairs that looked like they were designed by a club-hopper whose idea of furniture was a place to perch for a few seconds before flitting to the next flower. The receptionist, a tall Haitian beauty, was dressed for a fashion shoot and thumbing through a magazine like they weren’t there. Chill-out music, the kind Vanier hated, played from expensive speakers hidden somewhere in the decor. St. Jacques shifted uncomfortably on her perch.

The thick carpeting masked the sound of the approaching men, and Vanier sensed movement only at the last minute. Two men stood in front of them in suits that looked like they had been sprayed on. The shorter of the two reached out his hand to Vanier, “Inspector Vanier, I am Vladimir, Vladimir Markov. Please call me Vladimir, everyone does. And this is Mr. Romanenko. He prefers to be called Mr. Romanenko.”

Vanier found himself being polite. “Gentlemen, this is Detective Sergeant St. Jacques.”

Markov’s eyes made a fairly obvious tour of St. Jacques’s body. “Detective Sergeant, I am charmed to meet you. Tell me, do you wear a gun? I would find that so exciting,” he said, turning on what might pass for charm in Eastern Europe.

“Gentlemen, we have a few questions we would like to ask,” said Vanier.

“Follow me, Inspector,” said Markov, turning to the boardroom. “Ayida,” he said to the receptionist, “could you whip up some coffee for our guests?”

“Au lait would be good, messieurs?” she asked.

“Au lait would be perfect.”

Markov led them into a boardroom dominated by a huge conference table of grey polished steel that contrasted with the white walls and black-framed prints. Not IKEA, thought Vanier. Markov made a show of pulling a chair out for St. Jacques, and she tried her best not to look surprised. While they waited for coffee, Markov gave the officers a capsule history of Blackrock’s achievements, its dedication to the revitalization of Montreal, its support for a litany of charitable works, its support for politicians of all parties, at all levels of government. The message was that Blackrock was an untouchable community asset, well beyond the reach of lowly police officers.

Eventually Ayida reappeared with a tray and four china cups.

“Ayida used to be a barista, and she cannot resist showing off her talent,” said Markov. “Isn’t that right, Ayida?”

Ayida acknowledged that he was right with a faint smile, and withdrew without a word.

“The coffee is roasted by 49th Parallel in Vancouver. Without a doubt, they are the best coffee roasters in North America, true artisans. Cheers!” Markov said, as he raised his cup.

Vanier reciprocated with a nod despite himself; he had to admit that the coffee was a huge step up from the machine at headquarters, even down to the palm tree pattern traced into the foamed milk. St. Jacques stared at the palm tree in her cup. Vanier pulled out a notebook and placed it on the table, a simple act of intimidation that seemed to be lost on Markov. Romanenko stared at the notebook.

“Now, Inspector,” said Markov, “how can we help you?”

“We’re looking into the deaths of five homeless people on Christmas Eve.”

“I heard about that,” said Markov. “It’s tragic. As a member of the community, I feel that we really must do more for the less fortunate in society. But how can we help you with this, Inspector?”

“We’re looking into Blackrock’s relationship with the Holy Land Shelter. You’re familiar with the Shelter, I assume?”

“Of course I am, Inspector. Isn’t every Montrealer? It’s a wonderful institution. In fact, I believe that we made a substantial donation to the Shelter last year. As I said earlier, we at Blackrock are very cognizant of our civic duty.”

“What is your involvement with the Shelter, apart from the donation, of course?”

Markov sat, perfectly composed. He didn’t look like he was forming an answer, and that was Romanenko’s cue.

“Could you be a little more specific Inspector? That’s a fairly vague question,” said Romanenko.

The gloves were coming off, and Vanier felt more at ease.

“Is Blackrock interested in acquiring the Holy Land Shelter land?”

“Inspector,” said Romanenko. “I can’t see how Blackrock’s investment plans have anything to do with your inquiries.”

“Let me decide that. It’s a simple question, yes or no?”

“Simple, I agree,” said Romanenko. “But you are asking a question relating to the confidential business plans of a private corporation. A question, I might add, that has no apparent bearing on your investigation. If people knew what we plan to do, anyone — even a policeman — could make a fortune. Confidentiality is a critical part of our business. I am sure you understand, Inspector.” He turned to face Markov. “I am advising my client not to answer any questions relating to the business plans of the company.”

“He’s strict, Inspector,” said Markov. “Perhaps that’s why he’s so good. But I must follow my lawyer’s instructions. Is there anything else you wanted to know? Perhaps something related to your investigation?”

Vanier was outgunned but tried again. “I’ve noticed that many of the current Board members of the Shelter have ties either to Blackrock, or to you. Why would that be?”

“Inspector,” said Romanenko, “I believe that the usual objection to your question is that it assumes facts that have not been proven. And, again, that it does not appear to have any connection with your investigation.”

“He is good, isn’t he?” said Markov, smiling like an insurance salesman.

“So you won’t help us with our investigation,” Vanier said, looking at Markov.

Markov moved forward in his chair and looked Vanier in the eye, dropping the all-good-friends pretences.

“Inspector, if you come to me with a question relating to your investigation, any question at all, you will have my full cooperation. But don’t think for one moment that you have a licence to come wandering in here with your wonderful assistant just because there is something about the modern world that you don’t understand. Catch the madman who committed these murders, and I will have a word with the Mayor about a commendation. But I recommend that you stay with the job at hand, Inspector.”

“Tell me, Mr. Markov, do you know a Michel Audet? He works at the Holy Land Shelter.”

“Who?”

“Michel Audet. Name ring a bell?”

“Honestly, I can’t say that it does. But you know how it is, Inspector. I meet so many people, sometimes names escape me.”

“Even though your Board members hired someone with a criminal record for security?”

Markov said nothing. “Inspector, the Board does what it thinks is best for the shelter. Who am I to second-guess their decisions? Anyway, all I can say is that I don’t recall this Mr. Audet. Perhaps I met him, perhaps not.”

“Thank you, sir. I think that is all then,” said Vanier, standing to leave. He waited for St. Jacques to join him, standing next to a perfect scale model of Blackrock’s latest project, perfect, even down to the tiny people and shrubbery. As St. Jacques approached, he took a step back towards the maquette, and St. Jacques saw that a collision was inevitable.

Markov yelled, “Stop,” but Vanier continued, colliding with the table, and sending the maquette crashing to the floor where it broke into pieces. Vanier looked up from the pile of rubble.

“So sorry. Accident.”

Markov was angry and doing his best to contain it. He walked over to Vanier and said quietly, “Hey, policeman, chill. I’ll have Ayida show you out.”

“No need, we know the way.”

St. Jacques joined Vanier as he walked to the exit. Vanier wondered how long it would be before the complaint reached Bedard.

8 PM

The city was half way through the job of clearing the snow from the last storm when another rolled in, promising to drop 25 to 39 centimetres. It had started around 5.30 p.m., and the snow was inches deep. Despite the storm, rue St. Denis was still crowded with bar-hoppers. At every corner, teenagers, refugees from small towns in the country and crap neighbourhoods in Montreal mumbled to anyone who would listen, “Hash, coke, Ex?” The market was open, and business was brisk.

Vanier was walking north, amusing himself by swerving into the pushers and their customers while he scanned the perimeter of the crowd. The pushers and their clients always scattered, looking at him like he was drunk, but not sure enough to do anything about it. He spotted Degrange standing in the entrance to a rooming house five steps up from the street, keeping an eye on his vendors. After years of loyal service, Degrange had been promoted. It wasn’t much of a promotion, but enough so that he didn’t touch the drugs or the money anymore. His job was to make sure that the pipeline kept flowing in both directions, drugs to the street and money to his boss, with no leaks in either direction. He was wearing a red lumberjack coat with a Montreal Canadiens toque pulled tight over his ears. When he spotted Vanier bumping his way up the street, he pulled back into the shadow of the doorway. He had nowhere to go when Vanier climbed the steps.

“Inspector Vanier, great to see you again,” he lied. “What can I do for you?”

“Let’s take a walk”

“I can’t, Inspector. I can’t be seen walking down the street with someone like you. You understand”.

“Shut up shop. Right now. I’ll be in Harvey’s, up the street. You better be there. Ten minutes.”

Vanier walked down the steps and turned in the direction of Harvey’s, continuing to weave through the pedestrian traffic, bumping into the vendors and disturbing the market.

He ordered two coffees at the counter and found a quiet table, glaring at anyone who approached to keep the surrounding tables remaining empty. Some customers recognized him and left without ordering. The coffee was getting cold when Degrange sat down and reached for the paper cup. He pulled four sachets of sugar out of his pocket and tore them open, two at a time, before tipping them into the coffee.

“You shouldn’t do that, Inspector, scaring away the customers. It’s bad for business.”

In the heat of the restaurant, Degrange stank of mildew, sweat and cigarette smoke.

“You owe me, Michel. Don’t forget.”

“Did I say no? I’m just saying, I have to keep my credibility. I won’t be any use to you if I lose my credibility, will I?”

“I want to know about Marcel Audet. He used to be with the Rock Machine. What do you hear about him now?”

Degrange’s eyes lit up. “Audet? I remember him. Bad fucker, like all of them Rock Machine bastards. Don’t know why they wanted to go up against the Hell. Never made sense. I don’t hear of him these days. Wasn’t he sent up for assault?”

“He’s been out for four months. Did three years.”

“He’s not a player. I didn’t even know he was around. Know what I mean?”

“Well, there’s $50 for good information, not bullshit. Who’s he working for? What’s he doing? And an address. An address would be very useful.”

“Well, Inspector, I can ask around. See what I can find out. But $50, that’s minimum wage.”

A couple was about to sit down, and Vanier gave them a look that sent them looking elsewhere.

“I want to know who he’s working for. See what you can find out.” Vanier dropped a twenty on the table and left. Degrange reached for it quickly, like it might disappear.

9 PM

Beaudoin clicked the lights off in the children’s rooms, slowly closing the doors, one after the other, and walked down the carpeted stairs. Caroline was sitting on the couch watching the hockey game on a muted television. Beaudoin sat on the chair opposite the couch. She didn’t look up, feigning interest in the game while she used the remote to raise the volume just enough to discourage conversation without disturbing the children. She didn’t react when the phone rang. Beaudoin got up.

“Hello.”

…

“Yes, sir, I know.”

…

“Mr. Henderson, the regulations say that the notice has to give a clear explanation of the business to be conducted at the meeting. If it’s not clear, anything done at the meeting can be challenged later on the basis of an invalid notice.” Beaudoin walked into the kitchen with the cordless phone pressed to his ear.

“I know that, sir. It’s a delicate balance. But you have to protect yourself from future challenges. There’s no point of winning a vote if it’s overturned by the courts.”

…

“Yes, sir. I’ll do what I can. Obtuse, I’ll aim for obtuse, as you say.”

…

“Tomorrow. I’ll have a redraft ready for you tomorrow.”

He walked back into the living room, dropped the phone into its cradle, and sat down heavily on the chair.

“Caroline. We need to talk.”

The most feared words of any relationship. She didn’t say anything.

“This is not where I wanted to be. I thought I could do something, achieve something.”

She continued watching the screen.

“I’m ashamed of who I am, Caroline. I don’t like me. I don’t like what I’ve become.”

She pushed the mute button. “And you think it’s my fault?” she replied, looking at him for the first time.

“No, I don’t think it’s your fault. But you’ve noticed?”

“Pascal, I love you, but you weren’t made for this. You weren’t made for compromise. And that seems to be all you do these days. And the compromises are killing you. You used to believe in things, and now it’s just about earning money.”

“I don’t have the luxury to be an idealist, Caroline. We have two kids. They need a good home.”

“They need a father more. They need a father they can look up to. I married you because of what you were, a caring person with principles. Pascal, look at you. Any time Henderson calls, you jump. You’d do anything he asks.”

“That’s what I mean, Caroline. I think I’ve reached the end.”

Beaudoin explained the whole story. And his wife listened to the boy she had married years ago and hadn’t seen in years. Was the person she married really coming back? She didn’t know what to think, but she knew that if he was, she didn’t want to lose him again. They made plans. How life would be. How life didn’t have to be a series of compromises. She told him she didn’t need the big house, didn’t need the chalet up north, she needed him. And the kids needed him.

9.30 PM

Vanier poured the amber liquid over two ice cubes and swirled it around before sitting down in front of the pile of Prayer Cards that weren’t even cards, but recycled scraps cut from sheets that had been used to print the Cathedral’s newsletter, a sign of Mother Church’s schizophrenia. The Church wallows in opulence one moment and is as parsimonious as a Scottish pauper the next. No expense is spared on costumes and props for the theatrics, and the trust funds are nurtured with a mother’s concern, but messages to the saints must be scribbled on used scraps of paper, and the pious must pay for the candles burned in offerings.

Each rectangle of paper was dated in the top left-hand corner and had a hand-written note on one side. Printed scraps of unintelligible information from the newsletter filled the other. Most started with a variant of Dear St. Jude, and were signed, some with full names and others with abbreviated signatures: Mme. H, JP, or M. D. Each card was a postcard monument to the human spirit’s inability to accept the brutal unfairness of life.

Vanier sipped on his Jameson and began to read:

Dear St. Jude,

Our daughter Caroline has disappeared. Please give us a sign that she is alive. Help her understand that we love her. Help her find her way and, the Lord permitting, to find her way back to us.

G.H.

He counted them. There were 131 in all. He arranged them in chronological order. The earliest prayer was nine months ago, looking for a miracle to conquer inoperable cancer. The most recent was signed December 23. It read:

To St. Jude,

My husband is the only man I have loved for 35 years, and he left me two weeks ago. Please restore him to me.

Mme. G.

He grouped them by subject: financial, matrimonial, medical, and a single rectangle praying for scholastic achievement. He tried to order them by the colour of the ink, and quickly realized that Drouin had probably supplied a cheap blue Biro along with the papers. Sometimes a prayer would set him back.

S.J.

Michael has started hitting me again. Please put love back in his heart. Help him to stop drinking. Let him know that I love him.

It was signed with two crosses, symbols of sacrifice. Vanier knew where that prayer had come from. He had often prayed something similar for his mother while pretending to be asleep when his father came home drunk and angry. He had prayed it in army bases across Canada, and his prayers were answered a couple of times when his father was shipped overseas. But no sooner were they answered than his mother would lead an assault on the saints pleading for his safe return.

He refilled his glass and started again. This time he laid them all out on the table and stood up for a bird’s eye view. In a moment he saw it. He sat down and began selecting the squares that had names on them. Ten of them had first and second names, and each one was signed with an A. Each was a plea for a peaceful death, for an end to pain. They formed a single prayer mosaic. Five of the slips of paper had names he knew:

That the tormented suffering of Joe Yeoman be soon over and that he join his Holy Father in everlasting life.

A

For Edith Latendresse, that her inhuman suffering may end peacefully.

A

That the Lord welcome Celine Plante into His arms. A spirit too beautiful for this world.

A

Dear St. Jude.

Your servant George Morissette has suffered enough. Give him release. Allow him to escape his suffering and join you in everlasting life.

A

For Pierre Brun, during his last days on earth. May his pain be short and the joy of everlasting life be his.

A

That left five cards in the pile with names. Vanier read the remaining cards.

For Antonio Di Pasquale, ease his suffering and make his transition peaceful.

A

Mary Gallagher’s time is coming soon. Accept her into your arms Lord, and test her no more.

A

Duane Thatcher, a young man who will never know middle age deserves your intervention to ease his pain. Let him not suffer any more. Settle his mind and give him peace.

A

For Denis Latulippe, may fate — and this world — be kind to him in his last days.

A

My fellow man, Gaetan Paquin, deserves better. He has been sorely tried by life’s hardships and continues to struggle to overcome them. May his final days be free of pain. And may he finally realize your love.

A

He stared at the five new names, wondering who they were, or even if they were still alive. He picked up the phone and punched the speed-dial. It picked up on the third ring.

“St. Jacques.”

“Sylvie, it’s me.” He could hear ABBA playing in the background. “ABBA?”

“It’s a documentary on TV, sir. I was surfing the channels.”

“I wouldn’t have put you down as an ABBA fan.”

“I’m not. Like I said, I was surfing. But I’m sure you didn’t call to discuss my musical tastes.”

“You’re right. But we’ll pick up on this later. You were looking into the typical number of homeless deaths in a year, right?”

“Right. But nobody keeps numbers. All we have are estimates and they vary like crazy.”

“And?”

“Well, the Coroner’s office says there are about ten to fifteen a year. But GimmeShelter, a group that lobbies for the homeless, says the number’s closer to 40. Seems to be a question of definition.”

“So that’s not going anywhere. Could you check some specific names with your contacts? I need to know if they’re alive or dead. They could be on Santa’s list.” Vanier explained about the prayer cards and gave her the five names. “And I think we should go and see the priest first thing in the morning.”

“The priest? Drouin?”

“Yeah. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Ok, sir. I’ll see you then.”

“Oh, and by the way.”

“Sir?”

“I love ABBA. Enjoy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Vanier flipped through the channels looking for the ABBA documentary but there wasn’t one. Maybe she has satellite, he thought, and pulled out their Greatest Hits CD and put it on. Then he started sorting through the piles of newspapers and magazines that lay in the hallway waiting for recycling. They had been waiting for months. He pulled an old copy of the Journal de Montreal from the pile and went to the table; he only bought the newspaper when there was something of interest in it — which was rarely. The front page carried a large photograph of Vanier walking into police headquarters, guiding a handcuffed piece of shit with his hooded jacket pulled over his head. There was also a small photograph of Carole Thibodeau that the piece of shit had raped and strangled two days before. Vanier turned to the classified ads in the back pages and found what he was looking for: two columns of small ads thanking St. Jude for his intervention, often with a small photo of the man himself. The deal was, if St. Jude answered your prayers, you had to publish your thanks, and the Journal de Montreal gave them a special place every day. St. Jude had been busy, Vanier counted fifteen separate ads. All were more or less the same, no details of the answered prayers, just a standard thanks for intervention.