“You’re right. We are trying to find the person who did it,” said Vanier.
“So it’s true, they were killed? That’s the word on the street.”
“Yes, it’s true. And we have reason to believe that your life may also be in danger. Your name came up in the investigation and we think you may be in danger. We’re here to offer you protection for a while, until this gets resolved.”
“Me? Who the hell would want to kill me? I’m nobody.”
“Just like the others. There wasn’t much point in that, either. But they’re dead. We want to offer you protection. Just till we find out who did it.”
“The police offering me protection?” Again, the off-centre laugh that seemed like it could snap off into delirium at any moment. “You people have hounded me all my life. I’ve been fucked around by the police for as long as I can remember. It’s a joke, you offering me protection.” His voice was getting louder.
“I’m sorry for whatever other officers put you through,” said Vanier. “But believe me, we’re here to help you.”
Paquin’s mind was racing trying to process so much information. Life was usually simple, he took decisions on impulse with little thought for consequences. But this was different. “What kind of protection?” he whispered, looking first at Vanier and then to Laurent.
“We’ve arranged for you to stay in a small men’s shelter in the East End. You’ll be off the streets for a while. Warm bed at night, good food. Medical help. I understand that you have a condition.”
“I get help. I go to Dr. Grenier’s clinic when I’m sick. He knows me.”
“It’s temporary. We’re going to resolve this thing soon and then you can do whatever you want. We think you should be off the street for a few days. We can drive you there now if you want.”
Paquin wasn’t good at decisions. His mind was a jumble of fear and desperation. Shelters had rules and restrictions. The doors are locked at night. Get up now. Shower now. Eat this. Don’t drink… don’t drink. That was the clincher.
He looked at the officers. “I’m not afraid. I’ve survived 25 years on the streets.” His courage was returning as he talked. “I don’t need your fucking protection. I don’t need you. Go find your crazy and lock him up. But you’re not locking me up in no fucking shelter just because you can’t do your job.”
“Think about what you’re saying. We’re not locking you up. We’re offering you a chance. Take it, or at least give it a try,” said Vanier.
“No way. No fucking way. I can look after myself.” He was becoming agitated, looking beyond the officers to the door. “Am I under arrest? Because if not, I’m leaving,” he said, but not getting up from the table until they gave him a sign. He knew the rules.
“Here,’ said Vanier getting up. “Take my card. If you change your mind, call me. Call me. Anytime.”
Paquin took the card, stuffed it absent-mindedly into the pocket of his filthy coat, and stood up. Vanier reached into his pocket and took out two twenties. “If you won’t accept our help, take this. Maybe it will help.”
“Every little bit helps, Inspector,” said Paquin, already planning what to do with 40 dollars as he headed for the door.
2:00 PM
As they left the Old Brewery mission, St Jacques called with a possible location for Latulippe. In a few minutes they pulled into a diplomatic parking space outside the ICAO building on University Street. A panhandler was working the cars stopped at the lights, moving up and down the line of cars for as long as the red light lasted, then manoeuvering back to the sidewalk through slow traffic. He was showing a grimacing mouth full of filthy teeth to each driver while waving an extra-large McDonald’s paper cup and doing a weird, shuffling dance to music only he heard. His breath formed white clouds in the freezing air, but he seemed impervious to the cold. The light changed to green, and he snaked his way back to the sidewalk. He recognized them as cops immediately.
“Hey, I ain’t doing nothing wrong, just exchanging coins for songs.”
“Are you Denis Latulippe?” said Vanier.
“What of it?”
“Can we talk?”
He didn’t answer, just shook the cup under Vanier’s chin. There wasn’t much to shake. “Talk ain’t cheap,” he said.
Laurent got his attention by holding a five dollar bill over the cup.
“We’ve got a proposition for you,” said Vanier. Laurent dropped the bill into the cup.
“What might that be, officers?”
“We think you’re in danger. Your name came up in an investigation. Someone threatened to kill you. Do you have any idea who would want to kill you?”
“Kill me? They’d be doing me a favour, and no one done me a favour in a long time. Except for your friend here of course” he said, motioning to Laurent with a yellow-toothed grin, as he pulled the five dollars from the cup and pocketed it. “Who the hell would want to kill Denis? I’m everyone’s friend.”
He started his shuffling dance again.
“Think about it. You know anyone who would want to put you out of your misery? Maybe for your own good?” said Vanier.
Latulippe was taken aback, but seemed to be giving it serious thought. “Naw. Can’t think of anyone. You guys serious?”
“We are. And we think it’s serious enough to offer you some shelter. Think of it as a week’s holiday in the country. All expenses paid.”
Despite his bravado, Latulippe was taking it seriously. His thoughts telegraphed to his face like it was wired directly to the emotional centre of his brain; the worst poker face in the city.
“Wait a minute. Is this anything to do with those people who died on Christmas Eve? Is it about that?”
“Yes,” said Vanier. “Your name came up, and we thought it best to make sure that you were out of harm’s way. Look, I’m freezing out here, why don’t we talk in the car?”
“You’re not arresting me?”
“For what, selling songs? We’d have to go after Celine Dion too,” said Vanier. “Grab your bags, and we can talk in the car.”
Latulippe reached behind a column in the building entrance, grabbed a backpack and a large Holt Renfrew shopping bag, and followed them to the car. The engine started at the first turn of the key, and Vanier put the heat on full blast. He turned to look at Latulippe in the back seat, dwarfed next to Laurent and grinning like a circus clown. He quickly regretted pumping the heat. Sitting with Latulippe in any enclosed space would not have been pleasant, but with the heat going, the air quickly became as thick as the inside of a Port-A-Can on the last day of a NASCAR weekend in August. Laurent cracked his window down and pointed his nose into the cold breeze.
“Seriously,” said Vanier, trying to make sense of Latulippe’s insane smile. “What would you say to an all-expenses holiday in the Laurentians? A nice house just outside Morin Heights, or we can do a halfway house in the East End. Your choice. Three meals a day, TV, your own room. Just no booze or drugs. You can go outside to smoke. What do you think?”
Latulippe had lost his grin. “I can’t think! I need time. Look, I don’t understand. Who would want to kill me? Why me? You got a cigarette?”
Vanier raised his hand to indicate no. Latulippe looked at Laurent and got the same response.
“We could buy you a couple of packs on the way if you want,” said Laurent.
“Look, I don’t think I can dry out that quickly, you know. I need to work up to it. Not saying that I can’t go dry — I can. It’s just that I need some time, that’s all. You know, get into the right frame of mind. I can’t do it suddenly. These places of yours. Maybe one of them can change the rules for a few days, give me a chance to work up to it. Time to adjust, you know?”
“They’re firm on that one, Denis. No exceptions. No booze, no drugs — they have businesses to run, people who want to get dry. Their clients can smell an unopened bottle of wine at 50 yards, and they won’t bend the rules. I already asked.”