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.’