The Last Witness

FIVE

One single incident now threatening so much. Practically everything he’d planned and worked towards these past five years. It hardly seemed believable. Jean-Paul Lacaille shook his head as her looked through the long French windows towards the courtyard. The windows were almost twice his height, in keeping with the spacious, high-ceilinged room: one of four sets along its thirty-eight foot length.

At the room’s centre was a long refractory table with fourteen Louis XIV chairs surrounding. The ‘power room’ where practically every key decision of the Lacaille family had been made over the past three decades.

When his father had bought the house in ‘65, the courtyard had been enclosed only on three sides, with views over a formal Italianate garden on the fourth. But with their growing family — three generations of Lacailles under one roof at the same time — increasing workload at home, and finally the addition of a stableblock and gym, his and Roman’s respective play areas — ten years ago they’d built on the fourth wing in the same style to enclose the courtyard. As Roman keenly pointed out, the addition had also done much to improve security: there was no longer open access to the ‘power room’, and at the time of their battles with the Cacchione’s six years ago, Jean-Paul had moved his bedroom to the back of the house. But none of their precautions were to help save Pascal; he’d been the last they’d thought Cacchione would target.

The house had originally been built in the 1920s by a timber and minerals baron, a small scale Versailles Palace to properly reflect his new-found wealth and status. His father’s route to its grand portals had started with cigarette and contraband smuggling during the 2^nd World War off the Tyrrhenian Coast of Corsica. A rival Union Corse member gained territorial advantage by paying heavier bribes to his local Bastia mayor, and his father felt it was time to move on. He arrived in Montreal in March, 1953. The city was wide open then, ripe for docks and construction union racketeering. Numbers, clubs, loan-sharking and prostitution followed. With hedged construction bids, his father had earned millions out of the ’64 Olympics alone. Then soon after came narcotics.

Like so many old-school Mafioso and Union Corse, his father initially tried to steer clear of narcotics, considering it a dirty, dishonourable enterprise; but in the end the profits were too large to ignore. By the early 70s, the Lacaille family were one of Canada’s largest drug suppliers, second only to the Toronto-based Cacchione family.

Relationships with old-man Arnaldo Cacchione were reasonable, at least not too strained: violence was minimal, usually metered out to those who broke the rules from within their respective camps, or the rising number of small outside gangs trying to muscle in on their territory. But when young Gianni Cacchione took over the reins, things changed: he was ambitious, territorially aggressive, and a showdown with the Cacchione’s became inevitable. A couple of minor soldiers were lost on each side, then a Cacchione family cousin, before finally the retaliatory hit on Pascal.

Quiet, unassuming Pascal. Always playing backgammon or playing jazz guitar, or with his nose in a book — if not the company’s accounts then anything from a Victor Hugo classic to the latest American hot seller — his tastes were wide and eclectic. If it weren’t for the family business, maybe he’d have had more time to establish his music career, his first and main passion. And of all of them, he’d had the least to do with the business, never got involved in the muscle or enforcement side, only its balance sheet. That was why probably Cacchione had targeted him: himself, Roman and his father — the most obvious targets — were guarded to the hilt. So they’d picked off Pascal on the side ‘as a message’.

The message worked. Nothing was ever the same from that day. His father lacked the stomach to fight on. Pascal had been his favourite, the baby of the family, and worse still he blamed Roman for the hit on the Cacchione cousin that had led to the retaliation with Pascal. Internal family wrangling was intense.

Watching his father’s clawing sorrow and increasing frailty over the following months was what finally steered Jean-Paul towards his momentous decision to try and move the family away from crime. In the lull, they’d lost the main advantage and the best territories to Cacchione in any case. They could make as much by being enterprising in other ways: the stock market, construction, more casinos and clubs. Roman was against the idea, but with still the shadow of a finger pointing at him over Pascal’s death, his protests weren’t forceful.

Jean-Paul gained the main support from family Consiglieri, Jon Larsen, who pointed out that to achieve their aim, they’d need a keen financial eye on board. Two months of head-hunting by Larsen, and the name Georges Donatiens was proposed: one of the youngest and hottest rising investment portfolio managers with Banque du Quebec. Donatiens had just turned in the best past year performance on pension fund portfolios: an impressive 34 %. But it took ten months of cat-and-mouse courting to finally get Donatiens aboard, by which time it was too late for his father.

Jean-Paul’s quest had by then become a burning ambition, with the final seal, by default, of it being practically a death-bed promise to his father: ‘I’ll clean this business from top to bottom, you’ll see. What happened with Pascal will never be allowed to happen again.’

But it had come from the heart. All he could picture in that moment was himself, twenty years on, mourning the death of his own son, Raphael, then only eleven. They had all the money in the world. Yet so much of their lives was spent looking over their shoulders and worrying about the safety and welfare of family. It was no way to live.

His father had smiled indulgently. ‘A noble quest, and one that hasn’t been achieved before, as far as I know. But you seem determined — I’m sure you will succeed.’ Marked contrast to his father’s previously aired doubts and concerns that as much as you might wish to escape the past, ‘The past will never allow you that escape.’

His father had become increasingly morose and maudlin in his fading months, contemplating that a ‘Sins of the Father’ retribution had been visited on Pascal due to his own dark past. Jean-Paul couldn’t help reflecting on the messy chain of events with Leduc, now bouncing back solidly in their laps with Tony Savard’s murder.

Jean-Paul took a deep breath and looked up to where two pigeons tried to nestle into the roof gables. An early morning winter mist hung low, obscuring half of the green copper Versailles roof, vapoured body heat and breath rising up from the stables towards it. How much of this grand edifice had been built on spilled blood and shattered lives over the years? The room where Raphael had been born, or where they’d celebrated Simone’s Holy Communion and clinked glasses over numerous birthdays, weddings and anniversaries? Or the rooms where his father or Stephanie had been laid to rest, or Raphael’s bedroom, covered with pop and roller-blading posters like any other normal fifteen-year old’s? Or this room now where counsel had been held on lives to be spared or lost?

Perhaps his father had been right: however hard they tried, they never would be able to escape the past. And maybe they simply didn’t deserve to ever be able to.

‘So how would you read it, Georges?’ Jean-Paul asked.

They were sat at one end of the long dining table, Georges with Jon Larsen either side of Jean-Paul at the head, and the mood was tense.

‘I would go more or less with Jon’s view,’ Georges said.

‘More or less?’ Jean-Paul raised one hand as if whisking air. ‘Have we missed something? How might you differ?’

They’d spent the first twenty minutes of the meeting discussing business — his round trip to Mexico and Cuba, building schedules there, shares and investment portfolio performance, last quarter’s figures for the clubs and casinos — before turning to the subject of Tony Savard’s murder.

Georges chose his words carefully. The Lacaille family’s past battles with the Cacchione’s had made this a brittle subject. ‘I agree with Jon that most likely the Cacchione’s are behind it. But we shouldn’t overlook the possibility of a rising group of independents or bikers trying to play us and the Cacchione’s off against each other. Not only do they divert attention, meanwhile they take advantage of the resulting vacuum.’

Jean Paul nodded sagely for a second, then shrugged. ‘But we’re no longer involved in crime. We don’t pose a threat.’

‘No. But since the incident with Leduc, the police for one believe that we’re still heavily involved. And if that’s a clear advantage for the Cacchione’s, then it’s an advantage for others too.’

‘Except for one thing,’ Jon Larsen offered. ‘Gianni Cacchione would have to lay off blame in any case because of his situation with Medeiros. And this whole drama with the RCMP probably came about as a by-product of that. A happy accident.’

Around in circles. They’d tossed this same subject around probably more than any other at this table the past few years. Just when they were making good progress with their new direction, it would rise up again to drag them back.

The most likely scenario they’d hit upon was that Gianni Cacchione had put Leduc in the frame to divert suspicion from his own continued drugs dealing. With the Lacailles pulling back from drugs dealing and crime in general, Cacchione had eagerly filled the void. But fourteen months later he had a run-in with his supplier Carlos Medeiros, head of Colombia’s leading drugs cartel. Medeiros accused Cacchione of shafting him out of $11 million over the last seven shipments, and promptly cut off supplies. Cacchione tried other suppliers in Colombia, but Medeiros had either co-territorial or distribution arrangements with them, and word had already spread: Cacchione was widely blackballed. He found a supplier in Mexico for a few months, until Medeiros sent a message by killing two of his key men. After that, nobody would touch Cacchione.

A number of independents sprung up, some of them no doubt legitimate; but Medeiros began to suspect that Cacchione was still behind the biggest new player, and supplies were threatened again. At that point, magically, Eric Leduc — a Lacaille family Lieutenant who helped Roman out with security for their local clubs and casinos — came into the frame as linked with this rising lead drugs network. Worse still, they heard on the grapevine that Leduc had become the subject of an RCMP investigation. The police believed that the Lacaille’s new ‘legitimate business only’ direction was just a front; that secretly they were still heavily involved in crime and running drugs. With Leduc now as the link to prove that theory.

Jean-Paul was horrified. He was certain that Cacchione was behind setting up Leduc primarily to throw Medeiros off the scent; but now it had also resulted in putting the Lacailles under the spotlight with the RCMP. Cacchione must have been laughing up his sleeve.

They decided to get to Leduc’s bank accounts before the RCMP. The accounts’ movements were complex, and so purely through necessity — their original set-in-stone ground rules were that Georges would never be involved in anything linked to their past criminal activity — Georges was called on to quiz Leduc. Roman rode shotgun purely to provide psychological pressure with the silent threat of muscle should Leduc decide not to be co-operative, and Leduc was allowed to nominate one batsman of his own: he chose Tony Savard. The only other person present that fateful night was the driver, Steve Tremblay, a doorman from one of their downtown clubs, who was outside the car smoking and swapping stories with Tony Savard when Leduc was shot. The police saw Leduc’s death as confirmation of their involvement in drugs, that it was a result of their desperation to bury the traces. Now with Savard, further confirmation: the spotlight would be on them stronger.

‘We’ve invested so much time thinking Gianni Cacchione is behind it all,’ Georges commented. ‘And while that’s still the most likely option, we shouldn’t shut out all other options. We could find ourselves blindsided if something else suddenly comes up.’

‘I know. I know.’ Jean-Paul rubbed his forehead. ‘Truth to tell, I should never have sent you along to confront Leduc in the first place.’ Their ten month cat and mouse game to finally get Georges aboard had been mainly laying strong re-assurance that he’d only be involved in ‘clean’ business. Georges even stipulated that he would never get involved in any laundering; ‘The money has to be cleaned before I get to it. If I’m meant to be a clean trader, then let’s start how we mean to continue.’ Yet despite all their determination that Georges should never get roped into the past crime side of their business, by default it had now become the topic du jour at every other meeting.

‘You weren’t to know it would end so badly,’ Georges said. ‘And besides, who else could you have trusted to pick through Leduc’s accounts?’

‘I suppose so.’ Jean-Paul smiled tightly. The re-assurance offered little consolation. Hearing Georges even talk about it was a sour reminder of just how far they’d been dragged off course. Dragged back to the past. Jean-Paul turned to Jon Larsen. ‘What are the police saying?’

‘Three shots, the final one to the head. Professional hit, probably connected with Savard’s criminal activities. And that he was under investigation — no doubt part of their purge against us, though that part I’m assuming.’ Larsen glanced at the notepad before him. ‘Oh, and they’re looking for a black van — a Chevy Venture that they suspect might be connected. Apart from that, nothing. I’ll do some digging, but we might not get much more than that.’

Jean-Paul nodded. They’d pushed hard the last six months to get a stronger inside track at the RCMP. But their only contact was in Vice, and Chenouda’s group handling the investigation against them was tight-knit and secretive. Little of any value leaked out.

‘And what’s Roman’s view?’ Larsen asked.

‘I only spoke to him briefly on the phone, but he’s pretty sure Cacchione’s behind it.’ Jean-Paul tilted his head and shrugged. ‘Apparently, after the mess with Leduc, Savard confided in him that he was concerned that as a friend of Leduc’s, Cacchione might worry that Savard had been privy to secrets about Cacchione’s drugs network. That wasn’t the case, but Savard feared that Cacchione might believe it to be so.’

Larsen asked: ‘Do you think Cacchione might have been also responsible for Steve Tremblay’s death?’

‘Maybe,’ Jean-Paul conceded. Until now, they’d had no reason to believe that the death of the car driver that night was anything other than what it appeared: a boating accident. Now he was beginning to wonder.

Georges looked down for a second. Was it just family allegiances and respect for Jean-Paul that stopped anyone airing the other possible option: that with the increasing RCMP investigation, Roman might be keen to bury all traces to that fateful night. Or was it simply because of what he knew about that night that nobody else at this table knew? He could hardly scorn those allegiances, when it was exactly that which had made him shy away from telling all to Jean-Paul in the first place. Yet now that one lie — or at least not telling all the truth — was becoming dangerously compounded.

Jean-Paul misread his look of concern. ‘If it’s Cacchione’s intention to target others from that night, you and Roman will have to be extra vigilant. I’ll talk to Roman about stepping up security.’

Great, thought Georges. So now his future health would rest in Roman’s hands, yet he’d cut himself off from being able to tell anyone why he didn’t feel entirely comfortable about that. ‘Okay,’ he said meekly.

‘This whole affair with Leduc has been messy, and unfortunately could get messier still,’ Jean-Paul said with resignation. ‘But I’m determined that it not be allowed to drag us back or in any way affect our new direction. I think the two of you appreciate more than most how important that is to me.’

As Jean-Paul came onto discussing with Jon Larsen their most recent problem of fresh licensing pressure with two clubs — which they feared was all part of the general RCMP Lacaille-family purge — Georges suddenly felt strangely remote, cut-off from their conversation; the stranger perhaps he’d always been. The weight and grandeur of the room pressed in as it had done at that first meeting with Jean-Paul and Jon Larsen: the rococo-edged ceilings and pillars, the rich red drapes tied with gold brocade, the high-backed Louis XIV chairs, the collection of family photos on a long side table with priceless ormolu clocks interspersed — an altar to time-family continuum; the ornate cherub ‘Houdon’ statue at the far end, who apparently had also made statues of Voltaire and George Washington. Struck as he’d first walked in the room with the feeling that Jean-Paul might see himself as a modern-day Napoleon.

But over those first few meetings, Georges started to see the other side of Jean-Paul: a warm, caring family man with noble — if venturesome and foolish — hopes and aims. An image that was keenly massaged by Jon Larsen in heart-to-hearts straight after those meetings: ‘No doubt you’ve read and heard all the dark stories — rumoured or otherwise. But don’t worry — I’ll be first to make sure that Jean-Paul keeps to his promise that all that side of the Lacaille family is now history. Jean-Paul’s one of the fairest men I’ve worked for, and I’ve worked for a few in my time. Otherwise I just wouldn’t have stayed around this long.’

A hard-bitten corporate lawyer for thirteen years before joining Jean-Paul, Jon Larsen perhaps saw in Georges a kindred spirit: a fellow exile from the business world. But whether through that or not, he did find himself bonding closer with Larsen than anyone else in the extended Lacaille family. Now late-fifties with a strong resemblance to Mr Magoo — except that what little ring of hair Larsen had left was kept brush-cut short — all too often Georges found they shared the same thoughts and views. Over the past three years, they’d swapped many truths and confidences. Except one.

But it wasn’t Larsen’s pep talks that had finally convinced him to join the fold; nor Jean-Paul’s firm compliance with his request that all the money be cleaned before he started work with it; nor their offer of almost double his existing $280,000 p.a. earnings with Banque du Quebec, with additional share bonuses in the Lacaille’s many businesses.

What finally decided him was that Jean-Paul’s quest touched his heart. After their fifth or sixth meeting, Georges didn’t remember now, Jean-Paul sat him down with a large brandy and told him the family background that had finally forged in his heart and soul this new direction: of how Pascal’s death had destroyed their father; of him and Pascal playing together as children and Pascal in his teenage years talking about becoming a musician or writer; of how Jean-Paul himself had strongly related to that, because secretly he’d dreamed of becoming an architect or designer before the family business sucked him in. Jean-Paul had then pointed to the picture of his son Raphael on the side table. ‘He’s only twelve now, and perhaps his dreams aren’t fully formed yet and he’s still talking about being a train driver or an astronaut — but I don’t want him to end up the same as Pascal.’

In that moment, Georges hadn’t seen a crime don, but the frightened teenager who’d buried his dreams, then later his younger brother, both in the name of familial duty — yet now was frantically grappling with whether he’d be able to turn back the tide before it claimed another generation.

Georges phoned back within the week to tell Jean-Paul that he’d join him. And from that point the quest rapidly became a crusade: not just for Jean-Paul to prove to himself that it could be done, nor the challenge to Georges as a money-man to be able to match the sort of high returns previously notched up from crime — but because their aims had started to attract keen outside interest. Four other leading crime families — most notable among them Jean-Paul’s close friends and past crime allies, the Giacomelli family of Chicago — were eager to see Jean-Paul fair well: after all, if he succeeded it could provide a useful blueprint for them to follow. Others were more sceptical, saying that it had never been done before simply because it couldn’t be done. Lacaille was trying for the impossible.

Suddenly their quest had become a cause celebre. Bets were being taken each side on whether they won or lost. And it hit Georges then just how monumental the stakes were: succeed, and he not only provided the salvation Jean-Paul so badly craved, but they also might show the path for countless crime families to follow; fail, and it was back to the dark ages.

And now Roman’s rash action that one night compounded by his own lie could bring down the whole deck of cards. The crushing weight of it all was almost too much to bear.

Georges laid his right hand flat and firm on the refractory table to stop it from trembling. His attention was pulled sharply back by the mention of Roman.

‘…We could go around in circles speculating how this whole mess might have been avoided if Roman had just grappled Leduc’s gun away or pushed his gun arm to one side. But it could just as easily have backfired.’ Jean-Paul turned one palm towards Georges, his eyes softening. ‘Either yourself or Roman could have been shot. Regardless of the unfortunate repercussions now, it was self-defence. So we have to stick together on this.’

‘Yes, we do,’ Jon Larsen agreed; a tone of resigned compliance.

But Georges noted that Jon Larsen’s eyes stayed fixed mostly on him, perhaps picking up on his consternation or his slight flinch at the mention of ‘self-defence’. Georges wondered how much longer he could hold out alone bearing the burden of his knowledge; or whether simply too much had flowed beneath the bridge for him now to be able to tell anyone.

Michel Chenouda knew that he shouldn’t have risked the lie practically as soon as the words were out.

‘How long before they have firm identification?’ Chief Inspector Pelletier asked.

‘Nine or ten hours is their best estimate. But it could take as long as twenty-four hours.’ Michel fought to keep any hesitancy out of his voice. ‘The quality on CCTV photos is low, so there’s a lot of gaps for them to fill in. I’ll check with them as soon as we’re finished.’

‘And they’re pretty confident of being able to lift something positive?’ Maitland confirmed.

‘Yes, yes.’ Michel doodled absently on a pad. ‘So they told me at last count.’ The truth was far removed: the department dealing with photo enhancement, T104, adjoining forensics, had told him the shadows looked too heavy for a decent identity lift. They’d do their best, ‘But don’t hold your breath.’ But with every other lead dead and Pelletier and Maitland not in the least enlivened by his hopes of getting Georges Donatiens to testify, despite his efforts to play up the option — he felt as if everything was rapidly closing in on him. That Pelletier and Maitland had practically decided beforehand that they’d be presiding over the case’s funeral, and Michel’s explanations and defences were treated merely as eulogies. There was much head shaking from Pelletier about the manpower and cost of the case so far, with Maitland throwing in his bit about the difficulty of resurrecting any workable legal structure: ‘Even if Donatiens might be as hopeful an option as you make out, don’t forget he’s your last possible witness. There’s no possibility of his testimony being corroborated. With Savard, at least there was the hope that Donatiens — facing a likely heavy sentence for being an accomplice to murder — might well have turned Crown evidence and corroborated Savard’s story.’

Michel sensed that if he didn’t come up with something dramatic, fast, they might close the file there and then. Although late last night he’d come up with the idea of checking CCTV cameras on likely routes from the dockside, they hadn’t hit on any possible matches until just an hour before the meeting. Michel painted it as brightly as he could and threw it into the impatient jaws of Pelletier and Maitland to hopefully stop them in their tracks. It appeared to be working. So far.

‘Which camera did you catch them on?’ Pelletier asked.

‘Heading south over Jaques Cartier Bridge. They’d fooled us that they’d headed downtown, in which case we might have caught them on some of the larger building cameras. But we suspected they’d headed straight over Jaques Cartier. The camera picks up them practically flat on when they’re about fifty yards away.’

‘Any possibles that spring to mind from what you can see now on the photo?’ Pelletier asked.

‘No, nothing yet. The shadows are too heavy, but hopefully when they’re lifted features will become clearer.’

The room fell silent again. Michel felt the same tension return as when he’d first realized everything was fast slipping away and Pelletier was ready to close the case. But everything was still hanging by a thread; Pelletier looked only partially swayed.

The table they sat around accommodated eight and had been carved from one single piece of teak, according to Pelletier. The ‘chopping board’ as it was known in the squad room. Casual day to day progress meetings took place in Pelletier’s adjoining office. But if you were asked into the meeting room annexe, inevitably it was for something serious: a reprimand, an internal enquiry, a suspension and a badge that had to be handed over, a case file to be closed. The conference table became necessary because Pelletier was never alone for such meetings: he would always have a witness or supporter to his executions, sometimes two, depending on its nature. As Crown Attorney, Maitland was usually present when a final nod was needed on the legal guillotine, and the two made a strange contrast: Pelletier was heavy set and bullish with a ruddy complexion, as if his blood pressure was threatening to erupt. Maitland was slim, tall and angular, and with his long nose and thinning hair had a hawkish air, with the final dash of contrast from his pale, wan complexion. Combined with his reputation for killing cases on often annoyingly small points of law, this had given him the nickname ‘the undertaker’.

Pelletier was at the head of the table with Maitland in the next place down, with then a seat gap between him and Michel. Suitable distance. The muted drone of traffic from twelve floors down on Boulevard Dorchester strained to rise through the thick plate windows and be heard above the faint swish from the air vents and the flicking of papers, the only sounds at that moment.

Pelletier was distracted for a moment by Maitland looking back through his file for something. ‘So either late tonight or at the latest by midday tomorrow before we know for sure if we’ve got something that will give us a positive ID?’ Pelletier confirmed, glancing towards Maitland as if his approval was also needed for any delay. But Maitland was still head down in his file.

‘Yes,’ Michel said, looking expectantly between the two of them. He tapped one finger lightly on the table to ease tension as Maitland continued flicking through, until he realized the tapping was almost in time with his pulse, and stopped.

Maitland kept one finger in place as a marker in the file as he finally looked up. Pronounced freckles or the early onset of liver spots showed on the back of Maitland’s hands. ‘I see from your notes that Donatiens’ marriage to Simone Lacaille is planned for early July.’

‘Yes. The weekend after Canada Day.’

‘Three and a half months.’ Maitland glanced at his file again and pouted thoughtfully. ‘So. If we get an ID, what happens to your plans with Donatiens?’

Michel was thrown. He thought his suggestions about Donatiens had been killed. He held one hand out towards Maitland. ‘I didn’t think you saw Donatiens as a possibility.’

‘Before, no. But if we can get a positive ID on the van passenger and, as you suspect, this in turn leads back to Roman Lacaille — we’ve got the same situation we had before with Savard. Corroborated testimony.’

‘You don’t think Donatien’s testimony would be good enough on its own?’ Michel realized he might be hinting at his doubts about getting an ID match, and added, ‘…or the van passenger?’

‘They’re mutually exclusive.’ Maitland forced a tired expression, as if he was explaining to an errant child. ‘With Donatiens we get Lacaille on murdering Leduc. With the van passenger, we get Lacaille on arranging Savard’s murder. It’s just that from what you’ve said, I don’t see much hope of us getting Donatiens forward to testify. He’s already practically family, and about to become even more so with his impending marriage. Unless we can somehow bring extra pressure to bear. The possibility of something else against Roman Lacaille which might bring out the whole business with Leduc could be what we need to tip the balance on Donatiens testifying.’

‘I see.’ Michel nodded thoughtfully. Except with hopes of ID slimmer than he’d made out, it would likely all fold back in on him, and he’d lose the possibility of Donatiens at the same time. At most he might have earned himself a day’s grace on them closing the file.

Pelletier, sensing that Michel seemed more morose than he should, offered: ‘Sounds like something of a plan at least. If we get an ID.’

‘Yes,’ Michel agreed hastily, snapping himself out of it. ‘It does.’ Be thankful, he told himself: when he’d walked he’d been fighting for minutes, now he had a full day. He’d come out of the execution room still alive: practically a first. Something in what Maitland had said played at the back of his mind, but any clear focus was out of reach; all his thoughts were on how he might turn his one day reprieve into two or even three days.

Michel’s nerves rose to panic level within minutes of leaving the conference room. A fleeting look in Maitland’s eye as Pelletier wrapped up the proceedings that warned him that Maitland might have picked up on his own uncertainty and discomfort. Perhaps he should have come across as bolder and more enthusiastic when he’d confirmed with Pelletier that, indeed, he’d let them know the minute there was news from T104 on the image enhancement. And the reminder of T104 quickened his step now as he made his way along the corridor. He punched the elevator call button brusquely, then twice more after a few seconds.

It was vital he got down to T104 before Maitland decided to put in a progress call. Otherwise the game was up straightaway. The elevator to his right finally pinged. He tapped his fingers impatiently against its side wall as he rode the four floors down, and by the time he hit the first floor corridor he was practically breaking into a run, the rapid clip of his step echoing on the tiled floor.

He deflected a couple of greetings with brief nods and ‘hi’s’ before reaching T104 two doors from the end of the corridor. He spotted Yves Denault, head of T104, a few desks down leaning over a computer with one of his assistants.

On a wall-chart behind Denault’s desk were computer-printed insignias of every known Hell’s Angel and Rock Machine chapter in the Province. Drugs distribution in Quebec invariably followed the same set pattern. The Colombians made the main shipment deals with the local Mafia, who then organized distribution with the bikers: from there it hit Quebec’s bars, clubs and cafes. The Lacailles were the only Union Corse based family operating in Canada; their counterparts invariably had Sicilian or Neapolitan Mafia roots.

Michel explained the dilemma to Denault that he’d played things up a bit with Pelletier and Maitland. ‘So if they call, either be non-committal or, if you can, play it up the same. We can always let them down later.’ Michel shook his head and gave his best harried look at Denault’s raised eyebrow. ‘Sorry, Yves. I just need that extra time right now.’

‘It’s okay, no problem.’ A slow blink of acceptance. ‘I understand. It might come up better than I thought anyway. It’s too early to tell.’

Michel gently patted Yves shoulder in thanks and made his way back up to his office.

The Lacailles’ photos stared down defiantly at him as he sat at his desk and eased out his breath, and he yanked his attention to his family’s photos. Young Benjamin had looked over and smiled radiantly at him from the basketball court within a minute of him arriving. He wondered if the boy noticed how late he was, or whether Sandra would make sure to let him know that his father had almost forgotten, that if it wasn’t for her call he might not have shown at all. It still seemed important for her to score points off of him with the kids. Perhaps because she’d been the one to push for the split, and so she seized on every opportunity to support why: See. You father shows either late or never. No time left for us after his work. Same as always.

On the only occasion Benjamin had asked how he felt now about his mother, at Christmas a few months back, he’d been caught off guard and answered, ‘I loved her, of course.’

‘And now?’

He’d only had time to think about it for a minute. ‘I still do.’ And the spontaneous rush of feeling that flooded back brought a lump to his throat. If he’d had more time to think about it he might have answered more diplomatically: ‘I’m still very fond of her, of course.’ And suddenly seeing young Benjamin’s eyes grappling to comprehend, he’d added hastily, ‘But I made some silly mistakes. Maybe she’ll forgive me, one day.’

Benjamin’s awkward turn away to stare vacantly at the floor told him that she probably wouldn’t. She was still too busy using his back as a dart board, while all he could do was make a chump of himself by saying he still loved her.

Michel’s desk light blinked. He picked it up, and within minutes was immersed back in the hectic cycle of the other cases du jour demanding his attention — a leading drug distribution biker up for his preliminary hearing on attempted murder the next day, a truck-load of smuggled Winstons pulled up going through the Kahnawake Indian reservation — but none of it really sparked his interest. Only one thing he wanted to know now. He checked through computer files and fended the calls numbly, mechanically, until Yves’ call forty minutes later. He felt a momentary lift at the sound of Yves’ voice. Maybe something had broken. ‘How goes it?’

‘Nothing yet. We’ve filled in two strong areas of shadow, but working at these sizes it’s going to take a while. It’s still too early to tell.’

Michel knew the process well from numerous previous photo lifts. They worked at fifteen to twenty times magnification, filled in the dots and patches, then pulled it back down to see how much definition had improved.

Fresh breath from Yves. ‘But I thought I’d let you know that you were right about Maitland checking up. Or rather it was that asshole Campion who phoned through, keen to know how close we were. I said that we were hopeful, but would know more by late morning, early afternoon tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Yves.’ So his twenty-four hour reprieve was secure. For now. Assistant Crown Attorney Campion’s eagerness to step into Maitland’s shoes, sooner rather than later, had made him something of a departmental joke: pathetically fawning with Maitland, and trying to adopt an air of ruthless efficiency and pontification with everyone else, and failing miserably, he was known either as ‘asskiss’ or ‘le petite Napoleon’. At just over five foot and with Maitland towering over a foot above, the popular jibe was that Campion didn’t have to stoop that low to hit his target.

‘Did he ask many questions?’ Michel asked.

‘A couple — but nothing significant. Don’t worry, I covered it well. He went off satisfied.’

‘Satisfied’ and Campion didn’t sit well together. Michel could hardly remember him smiling; just a nervous tic which passed as the trace of a grimace and faded quickly.

Yves signed off with the promise of phoning through as soon as he knew something — though that call didn’t come through till the evening, almost three hours after Michel had headed for home. He’d dozed off in front of the TV, and the ringing phone woke him abruptly.

Yves voice at the other end was excitable, slightly breathless. ‘We changed directions slightly, and we hit on something. We weren’t getting anywhere fast with that first frame, we’d pulled it up and down four times and the shadows still obscured too much. So we started looking at other frames.’ Yves paused slightly, as if allowing Michel to catch up.

Michel blinked absently at the TV images ahead, but he was awake and sharply tuned from Yves’ first sentence. He gave an encouraging, ‘Right.’

‘At first we thought the frames further away would be too far for anything clear, and on those closer the angle of vision would be too sharp. But we decided to run through them anyway, and on part of the more distant sequence we suddenly hit gold. The passenger leans forward, only for a second to get something off the dashboard — but it’s enough to lift his face clear of any shadows. It’s a more distant shot, a bit more grain — but with virtually no shadows I think we’ve got chances of an ID from it.’

‘When will you know for sure?’

‘An hour. Two max.’

On the TV, an all day Quebec news channel was playing, with the next three days regional weather in a bottom band of sun, cloud and snow symbols. The building had cable, and between the English and French channels the total was 47. 47 channels and nothing on; Michel had flicked through practically them all before leaving it on news and weather. Michel felt excited by Yves words, but for some reason the images still numbed him, in the same way that they’d pushed him towards sleep shortly after dinner.

Or maybe it was now forced conditioning; each time he’d become wrapped up in the thrall of a possible breakthrough, he’d been let down. Neutral positioning was safer: the free-fall if it all came to nothing was less.

Yves promised to call back when there was more news, and Michel prompted that if it took longer than Yves expected, he should still call, ‘No matter what the time.’

The silence after hanging up brought home the tension of expectancy all the harder. An hour or two more to know if the case lived or died. The image light changes from the TV flickered across the subdued lighting of his apartment, pushed the photo snaps through his mind: Donatiens, Jean-Paul, Roman… then Tony Savard’s terrified face, pleading for his life. An image to match the screams on tape.

Michel stood up abruptly, started pacing to ease his tension. At least here, at home, he was surrounded by only family photos. Angelle blowing out the candles on her fourth birthday cake. Benjamin with his first bike. The whole family together in St Lucia, photographed by an obliging hotel waiter; five years ago now, a year before the split. Michel grimaced tightly. Happier times; it seemed remarkable how suddenly his life had changed.

He lifted his gaze from the photo and looked through the window onto the street. A two-bedroom loft apartment on St Sepulce Street in the Old Town, the extra bedroom had squeezed him with the mortgage and taxes. His original intention with buying in the area, shortly after the divorce decree nisi, was to enjoy a town bachelor pad and the life that went with it. But then he realized that opting for only one bedroom would mean that Benjamin and Angelle would have to sleep on put-up beds in the lounge on the alternate weekends they stayed over. It would be viewed as an entirely selfish move by Sandra, an extra dart in his back. So he pushed himself for the extra room for the kid’s sake.

Outside, a light dusting of snow lay on the street, which was quiet, almost deserted; only the brake lights of a single car edging slowly down towards the riverside. In the summer, the area would be a frenzy of activity, tourists ambling at all times of the day or night among the narrow cobblestone streets, rollerbladers and cyclists along the riverside promenades, the cafes of Place Jaques Cartier where he’d treat the children to dinner and ice cream while they watched the changing scenes of musicians, mimes and milling street activity. Summer in Old Montreal with their father. Some fond memories at least.

Michel liked this old part of town, in architecture the surrounding streets could be turn-of-the-century Paris; a surviving enclave against the skyscraper canyons of downtown. One small spot of Europe amongst square-block architecture that defined practically every city for thousands of miles to the Pacific. And it all started here, thought Michel, looking across the street to the floodlit stone-wall flank of the Basilica de Notre Dame, Montreal’s first church.

Michel shook his head. In a few months, as the surrounding streets were humming with summer life, Georges Donatiens and Simone Lacaille would be married there. Not the wedding chapel behind where most well-placed Montrealites got married and was good enough for Pelletier’s own daughter two years back, no. Simone and Georges were Montreal’s golden couple, they’d be married where Celine Dione was married, or not at all. And the RCMP, as with every major crime family wedding, would be mingling with the crowds on the sidewalk and in Place des Armes, taking snaps. More photos for his wall.

Except that by then there’d be no reason for any more photos for his wall; all chances of getting Donatiens to testify would have been long lost. In fact in only an hour or two he might know it was all over, if…

Michel stopped himself, looking keenly towards Notre Dame. Maitland’s words suddenly spun back: ‘I don’t see much hope of getting Donatiens to testify. He’s already practically family, and about to become even more so with his impending marriage. Unless we can somehow bring extra pressure to bear…’

Michel became aware that his hands were balled tight in fists at his side. He willed himself to relax, eased out his breath slowly, unclenched his hands. With Yves’ fresh hopes of a photo ID, it suddenly hit him that he now had an opportunity to pressure Donatiens which might not arise again. Even if Yves finally came up with nothing, he could probably milk it to good effect for twenty-four or even forty-eight hours.

Michel turned to the phone. He needed to share this with someone, and if he remembered right Chac was on duty roster until midnight. He smiled to himself as it rang out. Chac would comment that he must be crazy pulling in Donatiens for questioning, and then he’d calmly explain.