Asylum (18 page)

Dr. Christopher MacDougal.

I woke up then, I think. Realized that if I was going to handle this, I was going to have to start handling it. I picked up the telephone, checked for a dial tone, and started punching in Julian’s number. At the same time, I called out, “I’m fine, thank you, Professor. What are you doing here so late?”

He cleared his throat. “We need to talk, Mrs. LeDuc.”

Julian’s answering machine. Great. “Professor MacDougal,” I said clearly, for both of them to hear, “it’s late. I’ve had a long day and I’d like to go home. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”

“Mrs. LeDuc, really, even
you
must see that it’s impossible to carry on a conversation through this door.” The condescending tone that I remembered so well.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But it’s late and I have promised my husband to take precautions these days.” This was sounding really stupid, the cat and the mouse bickering back and forth at each other through a closed door. I found the extension for security and punched it in. “I’m calling security now.”

He laughed, a thoroughly unpleasant sound. “Who do you think let me in?”

There was a click in my ear and a voice, blessed, wonderful, human. “
Sécurité
.”

“
Ici Madame
LeDuc,” I said, crisply and loudly. “I desire an escort to the street, please, and a taxi.” To hell with the cost. “Please send someone to my office now.”

“
Bien, madame
.”

Silence from the corridor. I didn’t hear any steps receding down the hallway, didn’t hear anything at all for a good two to three minutes, when there was an authoritative rap on the door. “Madame LeDuc?
Sécurité.”

I grabbed my jacket and purse, thrust my feet hurriedly back into my shoes, then opened the door. The navy blue of the uniform and the vaguely familiar face were reassuring. The lights, I noted, were turned on. “Did you let someone in the building to see me?”

He looked surprised. “
Non
,
madame
. No one has come in since six o’clock.”

“I see.” I didn’t say anything else until he’d flagged down a cab for me and I thanked him and gave the driver my destination. I sat in the back and didn’t think, didn’t cry, didn’t do anything but shake.

Ivan wasn’t home. There was a note on the kitchen table: “Went to play racquetball with André,” it said. “Page me if you need me.”

I paged him, then called Julian’s mobile. “Hey, Martine, what’s up?” He sounded as if he were at a party.

“Have you checked your voice mail?”

“No, why, what’s wrong?”

I shivered, looking around me again for reassurance. As soon as I’d gotten in I’d made sure all the doors and windows were locked, all the drapes drawn, and I still felt a long way from safe. The Scotch I’d drunk earlier was turning sour in my stomach. “MacDougal was at my office.”

“When? Tonight?”

“Yeah. He—it creeped me out, Julian. I think it was meant to.”

“Probably.” Somewhere in the background there was laughter, quickly smothered. “Where are you now?”

“I’m home. I’d better get off the line, Ivan’s probably trying to call me. Check him out, Julian, will you?”

Ivan called as soon as I’d hung up. “Hey, babe, what’s up?” He sounded slightly breathless.

“Get here,” I said tersely. I think I was about to collapse.

He didn’t waste time asking questions. There are many things I love about my husband, and his ability to read me—and respond—is one of the best of them.

By the time he got home, I was drinking Côtes du Rhône, wrapped in a wool shawl, and still shivering. I couldn’t seem to get warm enough. As soon as Ivan walked into the room, I burst into tears.

Another thing I love about Ivan is that he knows when to talk and when to shut up. That night, he held me, and rocked me, and didn’t say a single word for an hour. I love my husband.

*   *   *

Julian was delighted.

I have to say I was less than thrilled with his reaction. “Someone’s getting nervous,” he said the next morning, back at my office. “It means we’re getting close.”

I observed sourly, “The last time someone got close, she also got dead.”

He was undaunted. “If they wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” he said. “That was a warning.”

I shivered. “I could do without another one. Are we making any progress? Did you go through Francine’s lists last night?”

He looked at me, grinned, looked out my office window, and looked back at me. “You and
Francine
went through Francine’s lists last night,” I concluded. “Julian, stop looking so damned pleased with yourself. You can’t flirt your way through this investigation. Did you find anything?”

He was unabashed. “Got a couple of options,” he said.

I gestured him into the seat across from my desk. I was feeling like pulling rank on him. “Tell me.”

He didn’t sit down. He came around the desk and put his hand on my shoulder gently. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you last night, Martine,” he said softly. It was oddly touching. I looked at the picture of Ivan and Lukas and Claudia at the amusement park and swallowed hard. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m okay. Tell me what you found.”

He sat on the edge of my desk. “Francine left a page off the list,” he said. “For what seemed to her to be obvious reasons. I guess we’d call it the political page.”

“That alone could get anyone hurt; I understand her reticence.”

“Ah, but it’s hard to stand up to my boyish charm,” Julian pointed out, feigning innocence. “Anyway, we’ve got an embarrassment—and I use the term advisedly—of riches. People in politics. People in entertainment. People in business.” He took a deep breath and a mischievous smile played with the corners of his mouth. “Fletchers.”

“
Oh, là, là
,” I commented under my breath. “But that just means they were seeing a call girl—it doesn’t mean there was any connection to the drug experiments. Wait,” I said, noticing his look. “You’re holding something back, aren’t you?”

He nodded, almost gleeful. “Last two names on the list,” he said. “My boss … and yours.”

“The mayor and the
directeur du service
?” It was almost comical. “Good thing she didn’t work out of a bordello. Those two would have killed each other if they’d ever crossed paths…” My voice trailed off. “Julian, the director is still holding that
clochard
, that homeless man.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said. “Our work isn’t done. Let’s file these for now. I’m going to see Mrs. Sobel. My mother gave her a call.”

“Your
mother
?”

He shrugged. “Told you my family connections would come in handy. When my mother calls, people listen. And obey.”

I spared a brief thought for what
his
childhood must have been like.

Julian was looking at me. “What are you going to do about MacDougal?”

“I should probably beard him in his lair,” I said, “but frankly, I’m too scared to do it.” Also, I had promised Ivan the night before that I would not. “I’m not sure what he’s up to, Julian. Last night … well, yeah, it was scary, but it was a little obvious, wasn’t it?”

“A warning,” he said again.

“But what’s he warning me to do? Keep investigating? Stop investigating? He could have been just a bit clearer, you know.”

There was a knock on the door, and Richard stuck his head in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Martine,” he said formally.

I waved him in. “Richard, this is
détective-lieutenant
Julian Fletcher from the SPVM.”

He nodded and they shook hands; they’d obviously met before. Richard turned back to me. “I wanted to remind you that I’ll be in late tomorrow. It’s Danielle Leroux’s funeral.”

Something caught in my throat. “
Bien sûr
,” I said automatically. I’d completely forgotten the other rituals in my single-mindedness about Danielle’s death. “Is there a wake tonight?”

He nodded. “At the funeral home. Then tomorrow at Saint-Denis church.”

I glanced at Julian. “I’ll go to the wake,” I said. “Thanks, Richard. Take all the time you need.” And if something didn’t get done because we were both paying our respects, well, that was fine. Francine’s list had, if nothing else, given me something to keep in my back pocket for when the mayor next chose to blame me for Montréal’s lapses in perfection.

As the door closed behind my deputy, Julian said, “While I’m talking to Violette, you might want to take on the Providence Foundation. Could be that something came up in conjunction with Annie’s work that sparked her interest.”

I shook my head in frustration. “You said her computer there was wiped. Nothing on the hard drive.”

“Yes, well, it’s not all about computers, Martine,” Julian said cheerfully, pushing himself off my desk and heading toward the door. “You can actually talk to real people too, you know.” He sketched a salute and was gone.

Real people. Now there’s a quaint concept.

I called Ivan to tell him where I was going, part of the agreement we’d made the night before. “What if you’re in a meeting?” I’d asked when he made me promise to keep him informed of my whereabouts.

“Screw the meetings, my wife’s welfare is more important.” He hesitated. “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of any of this, can I? Get you to hand all your information over to the police and have them do their job, instead of you doing it for them?”

“They’re not doing their job,” I said. “Except for Julian. And nobody over there takes him very seriously.”

“I just wish it didn’t have to be you, babe.”

You and me both, I thought.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It took me about twenty minutes on the Métro to get to Sherbrooke and another ten to walk to the foundation where Annie had worked. The building that housed it was old and imposing: it had been one of the fur trader’s mansions, with the requisite stone lions flanking the impressive front doors. If you didn’t know that philanthropy went on inside, you’d never dare ring the bell.

It was answered after a lapse of a minute or so by a young woman dressed in a little black nothing dress and a string of pearls. Probably real ones, and that dress was a Harvé Benard.

Apparently people who gave money away had a decent amount of it to keep, as well.

She was friendlier than she looked, though, and within minutes I was ensconced in a comfortable leather chair in a more than comfortable library-cum-drawing room, with tea being ordered. No one in these high places did anything without first serving beverages of some sort, it seemed.

Presently an elderly man shuffled in, apparently oblivious to my presence, and began perusing books on one of the shelves behind me. Innocent enough, but the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up all the same. After last night, the last thing I needed was someone creeping up on me from behind. Never mind that this particular guy didn’t seem to be the creeping sort.

It was a relief when the door opened and a middle-aged woman came in. Neat conservative suit, glasses, hair that—like mine—seemed to defy hairpins. “Madame LeDuc? My name is Elizabeth Romfield. I understand that you are investigating Annie Desmarchais’s death.”

“Yes,” I acknowledged, standing to shake her hand, sitting again as she indicated I should. “I have a few questions—”

“I am at your disposal,” she said pleasantly, sitting in a matching leather chair across from mine. “Annie was my closest friend for the past twenty years,” she added, her voice quiet and echoing with loss. “Anything that I can do to help, I will.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, awkwardly. “And I’m so sorry for your loss,
madame
.”

There was a moment of silence while I slid my ever-present notebook from my bag, trying to organize my thoughts as I did. I still uncomfortably felt the presence of the old man at my back. “
Madame
, what can you tell me about Annie’s work here at the Providence Foundation?”

“In general?”

I shrugged. “In general, in specific. Everything can be useful.”

“I see.” She smoothed an already-smooth skirt, then met my eyes. “Well, as you probably know, she was one of the founders. I don’t know where the name came from. It was established initially with a grant made by Annie and Violette Sobel, her sister. The money was inherited from their father, though I believe each of them was left well off by their respective husbands. Violette has little interest in the day-to-day functioning of the foundation, though she attends board meetings, as is proper. But from the beginning, Annie wanted to be a part of it, and I believe that her involvement was a prerequisite of the grant. She reviewed applications and did the first level of triage.”

I looked up. “Triage?”

“Not all grant applications can be accepted,” Elizabeth explained. “Not all, in fact, are appropriate. Annie decided which ones to deny right off and which ones to pass on to the committee for review. Beyond that, she also did her own research, bringing possible recipients to our attention, candidates who in many cases had not heard of the Providence Foundation but could benefit from it.”

“I see.” I hesitated. “I’m afraid you’ll have to start at the beginning. What sorts of grants are offered? For what, exactly? And what kind of money is involved?”

Elizabeth got up and went to the far end of the room, where she removed a binder from a shelf. Taking a glossy folder from the binder, she resumed her seat, passing it over to me. “Here is general information you can take with you,” she said.

I took the brochure. “I’ve actually seen this already, on the website,” I said, half apologetically. “I just wanted to hear the more personal side of the foundation work.”

“Well then, to answer your question, we have a wide range of grants. We start at a thousand dollars and go up into the hundred-thousands on some rare occasions. Most grants are for between ten and twenty thousand dollars. We give only to institutional recipients, not individuals. While we consider any proposal based on its merit, we have traditionally put a lot of money into the private mental health system.”

I watched her. “That seems logical,” I said.