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.