One morning in July, Peterson let Vanier into the apartment and left for work as usual. Just in case anyone missed him leaving, he stopped as he drove out of the parking garage and got out of the car to check his tires before driving off. Fifteen minutes later, he walked back into the apartment building in a baseball cap and a different coat. Vanier and Peterson waited 40 minutes until the lock in the apartment door was picked and the planter walked in with the drugs and money. Vanier still laughs at the pitiful I’m fucked expression on the planter’s face when he saw the two cops waiting for him.
In Vanier’s world, inter-agency cooperation was officially practiced by bureaucrats on committees who carefully channelled the flow of information backed up by strict rules to prevent any unofficial exchanges. All requests to other forces were supposed to flow through the committees and, because information is currency, the committees became farmers’ markets of swaps and promises where none of the farmers trusted each other. Vanier preferred the direct approach, granting and receiving favours with officers he knew, or who were recommended, and always keeping the ledger balanced.
Peterson picked up the phone on the third ring.
“I hope I didn’t wake you from your beauty sleep. You, of all people, need it.”
“Vanier, you bastard. What the fuck do you want?”
“You recognize me? I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. Wait a minute, I’ve got it. You’re calling me to wish me a Happy New Year.”
“You guessed. That and something else.”
“I might have known, you don’t do Happy anything. So what can I do for you?”
“Got a pen?”
“Course I do, I sleep with a fucking pen in my hand. Wait a second.”
Vanier heard the phone drop onto a hard surface, some shuffling and cursing, a woman’s voice, and then Peterson picked it up again.
“OK, so what is it?”
“Blackrock Investments, a property developer on Chabanel. Vladimir Markov, the President, or something like that, and Ivan Romanenko, the in-house lawyer.”
“And?”
“As much background as you can give me. I think they’re putting a little too much muscle into the development business, and I want to know if you guys have anything on them. They seem like slime.”
“That’s it? I thought slimy was a prerequisite for being a property developer. You have anything else?”
“It’s just that I had them down as simple businessmen, sleazy as all hell but no more than that. But I may have underestimated them.”
“It’s urgent, I suppose?”
“You read my mind.”
“OK, Luc, I’ll see what I can do and get back to you. Now, can I put on my pants?”
“Thanks, Ian.”
10 AM
Vanier and Laurent spent the morning looking for Marcel Audet. He wasn’t at the Holy Land Shelter, and Nolet didn’t seem to miss him. Nolet told them that Audet hadn’t been seen at the Shelter since before the New Year and hadn’t called to say when he would be back. He also said it wasn’t unusual for Audet to disappear without telling anyone, sometimes for a week at a time. Then he would show up as though everything was perfectly normal. He wasn’t the type to excuse himself.
It took them hours to track down Degrange, the rue St. Denis drug dealer, but they eventually found him in a rooming house near the bus station. He was still in bed when they knocked on his door.
“Who is it?” he asked through the door, protecting the only privacy he had.
“Vanier. Open the door, Louis.”
“Inspector. Give me a few minutes and I’ll meet you. Why don’t you go to the coffee shop in the bus station? I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
“Louis, open the fucking door or I’ll lean on it.” That’s all it would have taken, and asking him to open it was a polite formality. The lock clicked, and Degrange’s scrawny body stood before them in a dirty white wife-beater T-shirt, black Y-fronts and black socks. He was surprised to see Laurent standing next to Vanier and attempted a smile, showing a mouthful of rotting teeth.
“Can we come in?”
“Inspector, I’m not set up for visitors,” he said, backing away from the door as they walked through. He sat down on the edge of the bed and they stood over him. There wasn’t room to stand anywhere else. The window was covered by a thick brown blanket that was nailed into place, and the room was dark as a cave. Vanier pulled the chain on a bedside lamp and filled the room with a yellowish glow. It did little to dispel the gloom but illuminated the overflowing ashtray on the table and the empty screw-top wine bottle on the floor next to the bed. The air was close and heavy with the smell of stale tobacco mixed with the disturbingly unpleasant aroma of Degrange. Vanier knew that if he looked around, he would probably find a full jug of last night’s urine.
“It isn’t much, I know.” He tried to regain some humanity. “So, Inspector, what can I do for you?”
“You didn’t call me.”
“I was meaning to. But I didn’t want to disturb your holidays.” He gave Vanier an ingratiating smile.
“So what do you have on Audet?”
“Audet. Yeah, Marcel Audet. I have an address, Inspector. It’s here,” he said, reaching for his pants on the floor next to the bed. He dragged scraps of paper out of the pocket and handed one to Vanier, who checked it to make sure that it was legible.
“Anything else?”
“No. He’s not working with anyone that I know. Maybe he’s gone clean. It happens, Inspector.”
“You’re right. How much?”
“You said fifty.”
“And I gave you twenty. So here’s thirty. We’ll close the door on the way out.”
The address was downtown in one of those big anonymous towers that caters to people passing through on their way to somewhere else; twenty identical apartments on each of thirty identical floors. There was no answer when they knocked on the door to his apartment. They tried the neighbouring apartments, and nobody knew anything. The building lobby was as busy as a railway station with strangers passing strangers. The building allowed people to live alone, really alone.
As they were driving back to headquarters, Vanier got a text message to call Peterson when he got a chance. He had a chance half an hour later.
“Ian, it’s Luc.”
“Luc, where the fuck do you find these people? It’s time you started moving in better circles.”
Vanier smiled, “Nobody else will have me. Blackrock?”
“Yes, and their wonderful officers Markov and Romanenko.”
“So you lads on horses know them?”
“Know them? We’d be galloping up Chabanel on the fucking horses if we could get something on them. Grab a pen, Mr. V.”
Vanier began to take notes.
“Markov came to Montreal from St. Petersburg, that’s in Russia.”
“How do you spell it?”
“Russia or St. Petersburg?”
“Fuck off.”
“He came to Canada 12 years ago as an immigrant investor. Basically that’s an $800,000 ticket to Canada, but you get to keep the money. You just have to invest it in a Canadian business. We’ve been watching him ever since. Romanenko came a year later. And let me say for the record, Detective Inspector-”