Asylum (20 page)

“What does that mean?”

“Experiments,” was all she’d say, and I never really understood what she meant. But there was so much at the asylum that I didn’t understand. “Keep your head down and pray it doesn’t happen to you,” was Régine’s counsel, and it was good advice.

There was so much there that I prayed would never happen to me. But I suspected that everyone in the building was praying the same thing, and it didn’t work for a whole lot of them, did it?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ivan was late. Ivan is often late. It’s one of the few things that I
don’t
love about my husband.

I flipped through my notebook while I was waiting. Julian had been right: there was no way that I would ever have kept any of this straight in my head if I hadn’t written it down. As it was, I was
still
having trouble keeping everything straight in my head.

My wine arrived and I sipped it slowly, reflectively, looking to see if there was some connecting thread I had missed. I got to the interview with Violette Sobel and wondered if Julian had had more luck with her, and if so, when exactly he planned to share that information with me. I read a little aimlessly, my hand turning the pages automatically …

And stopped. Violette had said that Annie and her husband had tried to have children, but they hadn’t been able to. Okay, I know, so a lot of people have infertility problems. But let’s pair that with Annie’s past and the percentages start rising. I didn’t know if the Duplessis orphans were infertile, but with what had gone on at the asylum, I wouldn’t ignore the possibility.

It was a poker hand, I thought, that Ivan would surely bet on.

Annie must have been part of the experiments, part of the program. She had been adopted, I thought, either out of guilt or—I would bet—because Dr. Desmarchais was conducting a little experiment of his own. Take a damaged child and put her in an optimum environment. Does she survive?

I shook my head. No: he’d been interested in drugs, in using pharmaceuticals to combat Communism and make the world safe for democracy. Annie had nothing to do with that, surely.

By the time Ivan arrived I was more puzzled than ever.

He was in high spirits. “Getting closer to tournament approval,” he said. The Montréal Casino was applying to be a stop on a number of world poker tours; it would be important for Ivan to secure its status. The question had been occupying him, off and on, for over a year.

I raised my glass. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

“Thanks.” He looked around for a waiter. “What are you drinking?”

“Côtes du Rhône,” I said. “But don’t get a bottle unless you want to drink it yourself; we have a wake to go to, and I probably shouldn’t be tipsy for it.”

“Ah, yes. Danielle Leroux.” He put his hand over mine. “I’m unaccustomed to being married to an investigator, my love. Sorry.” He paused. “I won’t tell you how worried I am about you,” he resumed conversationally. “Because I know how little you’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll consider it said.” I smiled. “Thanks for caring, Ivan.”

He squeezed my hand before releasing it. “My pleasure, babe.”

The funeral home was filled to overflowing. There were snacks in the front room, Danielle’s coffin in the back, flowers and insipid piped-in music surrounding us. The coffin was closed, and I remembered the photographs I’d looked at, that first day, at the police station.

I found her brother sitting near the coffin, a faded-looking overweight woman in a tight black dress sitting next to him, a glass of wine untouched and perhaps even forgotten in her hand. “Monsieur Leroux?” I asked in French. “I don’t know if you remember me, we spoke a couple of days ago. My name is Martine LeDuc.” I gestured behind me. “
Je vous présente mon mari
, Ivan Petrinko.” The two men shook hands gravely. “Monsieur Leroux, again, I’d like to say that I’m very sorry for your loss.”

He raised mournful eyes. “The police have caught her killer,” he said, his voice dull. “Thank you for your help.”

I exchanged glances with Ivan; he nodded and turned to the woman sitting next to Jacques. “Madame Leroux,” he said, extending his hand to her. “Please accept the expression of our most sincere condolences.” Okay, so it sounds better in French, even with Ivan’s accent.

She started murmuring a reply in her upriver accent that Ivan would never understand and I turned to her husband. “Will you be staying on in Montréal to settle your sister’s affairs?” I asked.

He shrugged. “There is little to settle,” he said. “The funeral is tomorrow. We will clean her apartment and we will go home.” His callused hand sought and found that of his wife and closed around it, whether for support or to support her, it was hard to say. It was a curiously touching gesture.

I wasn’t about to shatter what little peace they were finding here. I gave him my card. “Please,
monsieur
, if you need any assistance, call on me.”

He looked at it and then looked back to me. “I thought you were with the police,” he said dully.

Oops. “Not officially,” I said, “though I have been helping them with their inquiries.” A phrase that could cover a plethora of situations. “
Monsieur
, if there is anything in your sister’s affairs that strikes you as unusual, will you call me then, too?”

He laboriously put the card in a pocket without letting go of his wife’s hand. I knew how that felt, I knew how many times Ivan’s touch had been a lifeline for me. “But they caught the man,” he said again.

I shrugged. “There are always details,” I said cryptically. “And he has yet to go to trial.”

“
Bien, alors
.” Our audience was clearly over. Ivan was still saying nice things to Madame Leroux and receiving incomprehensible replies in return. I shook her hand and we walked away.

“What now?” Ivan was eyeing the sweets table. “Besides the pastries, I mean.”

It was a good question. I saw Richard, across the room, deep in conversation with the woman I’d met the first day I went to the UQAM library; but it was Ivan who suddenly pulled me aside. “Shit. Who
was
this woman, anyway?” he asked, his voice low and intense.

“What? Why? What do you mean?”

He turned his back to the other people. “The three guys over there? In the expensive suits?
Don’t look
,” he added quickly. “They’re Americans.
Persona non grata
at the casino. Lots of money, lots of connections, got thrown out and asked not to return because they were trying to take over some of the action.”

He was talking like somebody in a Rat Pack movie, and I said so. “What does that mean, anyway, take over the action?”

“I don’t have time to give you gambling lessons, Martine,” Ivan said impatiently. “I’ll be happy to explain at length later. What you need to be asking yourself is why they’re here, at the wake of a relatively unimportant librarian.”

I leaned up to kiss his cheek, and glanced at the three men he had indicated. He was right, of course. “Do they have government connections?” I asked softly.

Ivan shrugged. “Who doesn’t, these days?”

It was a non-answer. I looked around again. Maybe Richard had an idea of who was who in the room; it appeared he was the closest thing Danielle had to a friend. “Okay,” I said, “wish me luck.”

Ivan started to say something but I was already halfway across the room. The three suits were blending in well, on the whole, without getting too far from one another. They were all in their mid-forties: the one closest to me had an acne-scarred face and eyes that never seemed to stay still. The other two were slightly older, slightly more florid; one of them was engaged in conversation with a familiar-looking woman. Ah, yes: the landlady; she’d let Julian and me into Danielle’s apartment.

Fools rush in, I thought, mentally blessing myself with the sign of the cross. I had a feeling I was going to need all the help I could get. I went over to acne-face with my hand outstretched. “Good heavens, it’s Christian!” I exclaimed in French. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were a friend of Danielle’s!”

He wasn’t flustered in the least. “You have me confused with someone else,” he said, his voice flat, his accent American, his French surprisingly accurate.

I frowned, and raised my voice ever so slightly. “But I’m sure of it! We met at the party at the consulate!” I managed a flirtatious giggle. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me, Christian!”

Now he was looking slightly uncomfortable. “You’re mistaken,” he said, glancing at me and then away.

“Hard to believe. We had such a good time that night. Of course, if you’d rather
pretend
you don’t know me…” My voice trailed off and I glanced around with a rueful smile. Several people gave uneasy smiles back, no doubt wondering if I planned to make a scene.

Good: I was hoping he was wondering the same thing.

One of his colleagues drifted over. “Is there a problem?” he asked in English, his smile pleasant, his eyes hard.

Before Acne-Face could respond, I had turned to the new arrival. “I am so sure that Christian and I met,” I said, my English as heavily accented as I could manage. “Were you at the party at the consulate, too?”

He looked blandly from Acne-Face to me. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met.” Another American accent. “Will you excuse us, Miss–er—?”

“LeDuc,” I said automatically, then mentally kicked myself. I was way too naïve to be playing this game. Lying was
not
second nature.

He nodded, clearly filing the name away for future reference, while I mentally used up every swear word I knew. “Excuse us, Miss LeDuc,” he said pleasantly and led Acne-Face away.

Ivan was at my elbow. “That went well,” he remarked. “Remind me to change the locks when we get home.”

“
Merde
,” I said miserably. “I had a chance there—”

“To find out what?” he asked. “We have files on them at the casino, babe. I’ll bet the police do too. We can find out anything you need without making yourself a target.”

“Maybe he’ll forget,” I said hopefully.

“And maybe you’ll win the World Series of Poker. Anyway, onward and upward. Hey look, your boss is here.”

And indeed he was, the mayor looking distinguished in a dark suit, his wife elegant in her usual designer clothes. Their son was with them, a twenty-something with a gargantuan ego who was attending UQAM and playing in a local rock band with an improbable name. Patrick, that was his name.

I waited until the trio had gone through the motions by the coffin and murmured the required platitudes to the family, and then I drifted over. “
Monsieur le maire
,” I said pleasantly. “How thoughtful of you to be here.”

“Ah, Madame LeDuc,” he said. “So sad, of course.
La pauvre petite.
Good news about the arrest, though, a fitting end to a sad chapter in the city’s history.”

“Indeed,” I said noncommittally, and offered my hand to his wife. “Madame Boulanger.”

Estelle Boulanger received me as the wife of a landowner might have noticed a tenant-farmer. “Madame LeDuc,” she said, her hand limp in mine, her gaze fixed somewhere just slightly over my head. Patrick, their son, offered me a sneer. I concluded that he didn’t want to shake hands. “
Bonsoir
, Patrick.”

He turned to his father. “I’m getting something to eat,” he said, and walked away. Big loss. I cleared my throat. “
Monsieur
, do you know the gentlemen over there—”

But they were gone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I slept fitfully, dreaming about endless corridors and doctors with bleeding scalpels in their hands.

Ivan was doing his usual routine of reading e-mails and news from his tablet over breakfast, but I caught him sneaking glances at me. “What is it?” I exclaimed at last, impatient.

He mumbled something incoherent and went back to staring at the screen, and a few moments later he was stealing glances again. “Oh, I give up,” I muttered, and left early for the office.

Theoretically, my job was done. There had been an arrest: the homeless man they’d arrested was going to a preliminary hearing; I didn’t have to keep playing go-between. But until I was officially told to, I wasn’t about to stop. I’d just stop meeting with the director of police, which wasn’t going to exactly ruin my day. Nor his, come to think of it.

Richard was out for the funeral and Chantal had a toothache. “Go ahead.” I waved her away and called downstairs to get someone out of the secretarial pool to help. I called Julian, who didn’t answer—there was a surprise. I was beginning to think he’d left the planet altogether.

I dealt with e-mails for a while and got myself a second coffee before leafing through my notebook again. Julian called in. “Hey, there, what’s up?”

“Where the hell are you?” I asked crossly.

“Nice to talk to you, too, Martine,” he said cheerfully. “I’m on my way to Danielle’s funeral, actually.”

“Watch for three middle-aged Americans in fancy suits,” I said, forgetting for a moment that I was mad at him. “They were at the wake last night. Ivan says they’re connected in some way; Connected with a capital C, that is.”

“In what way? And what’s their interest in Danielle?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something, maybe nothing, who knows. I’m waiting for a call from Ottawa and then I’m heading over to the casino—Ivan says he’ll get security there to let me look at their files.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How does Ivan know them?”

I sighed. “The thing about a casino is that nothing’s private. There are cameras everywhere, and files open on the most amazing people. Or so I gather.” I shrugged. “Confidentiality’s a big thing, too.”

“Meet me afterward, then,” he said. “We’ll compare notes.” There was a pause, and I heard him swearing at someone and informing them that they could not drive. I deduced that he was in traffic, probably weaving in and out of it in his TT. I was beginning to think that he wasn’t going to live long enough to finish this investigation. “Listen, Martine, meet me over in the Plateau, okay? Two o’clock at McKibbins?”