Vanier knew they were wasting their time. They weren’t offering protection, they were just telling him he was a marked man.
“Look, I have to think this over. Maybe I can just disappear for a few days. I know people. I have places to stay. I mean, who is this guy? Why me? Why the others?”
“We don’t know. But it won’t be long. Listen, give it a try for a day or two. What’s the worst that can happen?”
Latulippe didn’t answer that one. “No, I’m staying here. I can take care of myself. I can stay quiet.”
“Denis, we can’t force you to do anything, but this is serious.” Vanier saw that he had already lost him. “Tell you what, take a few days to get yourself organized. The offer is open whenever you’re ready. Take my card and Sergeant Laurent’s. Call either of us anytime and we’ll pick you up. And here, take this in the meantime.” Vanier handed him two twenties.
Latulippe looked at Laurent, as if willing him to chip in another twenty. Laurent kept his hands in his pockets. He looked at the two business cards in his hand as if reading them.
“What’s your name again?” he said, looking at Vanier.
“Detective Inspector Vanier. My number is on the card.”
“Well, thanks for the offer, but I gotta leave.”
With that, he was out of the car and walking up University Street with his bags. They watched him go.
“So what do we do? We can’t have someone follow him around,” said Laurent.
“No. And we can’t arrest him either. He has his own fucking problems, and they won’t let go of him. That’s why he’s on the street. You think we’re the first to offer him help?”
“I suppose not.” Laurent transferred into the front seat. “Christ, it’s cold out there. Where to now?”
“A surprise I’ve been planning.”
“Great. I love surprises.”
2.30 PM
Brossard is a small town on the south shore of the St. Lawrence where those who aren’t rich, poor or stubborn enough to live downtown can afford to raise a family and still be close enough to commute to the city. Because of the bridge, it’s an hour’s commute each way, built for the respectable people who work eight-to-four or nine-to-five, the people who keep the castle running but can’t sleep within its walls, the FedEx drivers, the sandwich shop owners, the elevator and escalator mechanics who keep everything greased and running, and the bank tellers who haven’t been swapped for more machines. In Brossard they raise families in desolate suburban plots where hundred-year-old trees were bulldozed out of the way to lower the cost of putting up the factory-built crap that passes for houses. In the oldest sections, the trees had grown back in orderly rows along the main streets, and with only slightly less order in backyards. In the newer developments, the only nature is trimmed grass and gardens bought from Home Depot. In winter, the landscape is bleak, and the wind blows the snow into great drifts against the only obstacles left: houses, pre-fabricated garden sheds, and above-ground swimming pools.
Detective Sergeants Roberge and Janvier were in a small house, sitting uncomfortably on a small sofa facing Mme. Adele Paradis, the Grande Dame of the classified advertisement department of the Journal de Montreal. She was sitting on a dark blue La-Z-Boy that clashed with everything else in the room, a fat grey cat was asleep in her lap. Two other cats were prowling around, unhappy with the visitors. Mme. Paradis was nursing a hangover and drinking coffee laced with gin in an attempt to pull herself together. She had been asleep when they arrived, and they had waited ten minutes on the doorstep, and another twenty while she made instant java in the kitchen.
“So, what can I do for you? Would you like biscuits? I don’t have visitors often.”
Sergeant Janvier reached into his bag and pulled out three photocopies. Each was a page from the St. Jude section of the classified ads in the Journal de Montreal. On each page, a specific ad had been circled.
“Mme. Paradis, we’re interested in the ads that have been circled. We went to the office, but they couldn’t tell us much. They confirmed that the ads were all paid for in cash at the counter and there was no address. The people at the office said that if anyone could give us more on who placed the ads, it was you. That’s why we’re here. Do you remember any of the people who placed the ads?”
Mme. Paradis took the papers with a shaking hand and began to look through them. She was suffering, but doing her best.
“It was the same person. He bought all of them, Pious John. Such a charming man. Always paid cash and didn’t want a receipt.”
“Pious John?”
“Well, that’s what he told me once. When I asked him he said: You can call me Pious John. So that’s what I called him.”
“You remember what he looks like?”
“Remember? Of course I do. He’s handsome, a little strange, but handsome. He has these piercing eyes and such a real smile. You know what I mean? Some people smile and you know they don’t mean it. When he smiles, you feel it. I like him. A real gentleman.”
“So why do you say strange? You said he was a little strange,” asked Janvier.
“I did, didn’t I? I suppose it was the way he dressed. He always wore this long black cassock. Like a priest, but not quite. At first I thought he was Orthodox. But then he wouldn’t be praying to St. Jude, would he?”
“I suppose not,” said Janvier.
“So I asked him straight out. I said, So, what order are you with?”
“And?”
“Not the Church of Rome. That’s what he said. It sounded so strange. Not the Church of Rome.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I couldn’t forget his face. Those eyes, they were so expressive. I can picture them now.”
The officers watched as she seemed to lose track of the conversation. The little colour in her face drained, and she raised herself out of the La-Z-Boy with an effort, the cat waking up in mid-air and falling onto his paws as though he was used to it.
“Excuse me,” she said, rushing past the officers and disappearing again into the kitchen. They listened to her retching and the sound of vomit drop into the sink. By the rattling sound, there were dishes in the sink. She reappeared wiping her mouth with a dishcloth. Her face was as white as the landscape outside the window.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well. I’m going to have to lie down.”
“Could you come in to see us tomorrow, Mme. Paradis?” asked Roberge.
“I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow. But I haven’t been feeling well. So maybe I could call in sick. What time?”
“As early as you can make it.”
“So let’s say 10.30, shall we? No sense in fighting traffic, is there?”
“10.30 it is, Mme. Paradis. Are you sure you know where we are?”
She squinted at his card again. “Of course. I’ll be there at 10.30 and I will ask for either one of you. That’s right isn’t it?”
“Perfect.” The officers got up to leave, and she dropped back into the La-Z-Boy. The cat bounded back into her lap.
“And, Mme. Paradis, perhaps an early night tonight,” said Roberge. “We’ll need you in top form tomorrow. If you’re not feeling well, a good night’s sleep might be a good idea.”
She promised to be a good girl, and they found their own way out.
3.30 PM
Audet was agitated as he looked at the balding civil servant across from him. He was holding himself back with difficulty.
“Tell me again, M. Letarte, you’re from where?”
“The Ministere de l’emploi et de la solidarite sociale, you may know it better as the Welfare Services. And, as I said, we have the right to examine all of the books and records relating to the Shelter’s receipt of welfare cheques addressed to beneficiaries who have chosen the Shelter as their address to receive benefits. At last count, there were 437 people who received their welfare cheques through the Shelter. So it’s really quite simple. I would like to see the records that confirm receipt and distribution of the cheques.”