Miss Montreal (13 page)

“Did he ever talk about adoption issues?”

She frowned. “No. Why would he?”

“He recently contacted a woman who works on adoption reunification. I was supposed to meet her today but she didn’t show up.”

“It must have been for his work, then. He never talked about anything like that when we were married.”

“Did he usually tell you what he was working on?”

“When we were together, sure. All the time.”

“Nothing lately?”

Camille looked away and up to the right as if searching her memory: “There was something about an Arab family. I know that because he asked me to keep Sophie one Saturday night when she was supposed to be with him. He had to go out to Ville St-Laurent.”

“To a carpet store?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Was it near where he was killed?”

“All he said was Ville St-Laurent.”

“Anything about Laurent or Lucienne Lortie?”

“The ones running for election?”

“Yes.”

“He was writing about them?”

“Apparently.”

She laughed. “
Mon Dieu
, that would be funny. They are so, so out there on the right. He would have made hamburger of them.”

“His editor told me he was usually fair to his subjects.”

“Yes, but the Lorties—Sam was very liberal, very left on most things. Christ, I would love to see what he would have written about them.”

A raindrop hit the bridge of my nose. One must have hit Camille as well because she looked up and took one in the centre of her forehead.

“Merde
,” she said. “I think I’m going to have to go.”

“Can I give you a lift?”

She thought about it as more raindrops started to fall, spattering against the dirt of the playground, leaving dark pock-marks. “You know, that would be good, because there is something I have of Sam’s at my place. A box of things I took from the flat by mistake when I moved out. I was meaning to give it back to him.”

“Do you know what’s in it?”

“Memorabilia Arthur wanted him to have. Old photographs, mostly. Images of Montreal the way it was in Arthur’s day. When the English ruled and all was well and the east end was the place you escaped from.”

I
stopped at the Holiday Inn to see if Detective Paquette had sent Sam’s phone records and bank statements as promised. The concierge said no, nothing had arrived. I was wondering if it was going to take another twenty to jog his memory when someone behind me said, “Mr. Geller?”

I turned to see Paquette, holding a thick manila envelope, which he handed to me. “The material you asked for. Hand delivered, no less.” He didn’t look as fresh as he had earlier that morning. His tie was loosened, the collar unbuttoned. His eyes were bloodshot. Only his hair had escaped the rigours of another day in Homicide, still neatly parted with nothing amiss.

I said, “Thanks. You have a minute to talk?”

He made a show of looking at his watch and said, “I suppose.”

I pointed to a seating area where club chairs were arranged around a glass-topped coffee table. We sat at diagonal corners. He hiked up his slacks and crossed his legs. I kept both feet on the floor and leaned forward. “Did you get my message?”

“Something about Mr. Adler’s body?”

“Yes. He was found barefoot, wasn’t he?”

“I believe he was, yes.”

“Which suggests he was abducted from his home, shortly after the phony call to the police.”

“We all arrive at conclusions in our own way and at our own speed. I must remind myself you are not as experienced at this as we are.”

“ ‘We’ being you and Detective Chênevert.”

“And our investigative team. So you think he was assaulted near the rear door, is that it? And then spirited away from there?”

“That’s what I think.”

“And your friend, does he agree?”

“My friend?” Wondering if he knew about Ryan. There was no reason for him to, unless he was the one having us followed.

“Monsieur Ducharme.”

Ah. Bobby. “I haven’t discussed it with him.”

“I see. Well, since I wish not to have lawyers from Geniele et al. receiving complaints that I’m being uncooperative, I will disclose the following: having looked through the reports filed by the scene of crime experts, I can say there was indeed a small amount of blood in a crack between two floorboards near the rear of the flat. I repeat, a small amount. We are not prepared to make any firm conclusions from this.”

“But it’s likely he was first assaulted there and taken elsewhere.”

“Between you and me, yes. That’s what is likely. Anything else? My workday is not over by any means.”

I waited until Paquette stood up and had turned to leave before saying, “Are you having me followed?”

He turned back, an amused look on his face. “Why on earth would I do that? Are you so significant as to warrant surveillance?”

“You tell me.”

“No, Mr. Geller.”

“No, you’re not having me followed?”

“No, I don’t think I will tell you.”

——

Holly Napier called my cellphone as I was pulling into the entrance of the Delta. I parked off to one side and flipped it open.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“How do you say dead end in French?”

“Impasse.”

“That’s how it’s going.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Did you by any chance tell anyone about our meeting yesterday?”

There was a brief pause before she said, “Just the people in the office. I told you yesterday, we’re a very close bunch. I thought they’d want to know someone was trying to find out what happened to Sammy. Plus I thought it was cool—private detectives in my office. Or one anyway, plus your friend Ryan. Why do you ask?”

“The police seemed to know where we were staying before I even met them.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t tell them.”

“What about your employees?”

“I don’t think any of them knew where you were staying. That isn’t something I shared.”

“Did you tell them about Marie-Josée Boily?”

“The social worker? No.”

“She was supposed to meet me this afternoon but she never showed up.”

“You think there’s something sinister about that?”

“It’s how my brain works. Like hearing that Sammy missed a meeting with Laurent Lortie.”

“You need a drink?”

“I probably do.”

“I’m hoping to get out of here around eight tonight. You want to grab one together?”

I thought of her clear green eyes and the mass of red curls
that swirled around her head and said yes before I could think of any reason to say no.

A moment after I ended the call, it rang again. I thought Holly had probably discovered a reason why she couldn’t meet after all, but it wasn’t her.

It was Mehri Aziz, speaking in a whisper.

“I’m sorry about what happened at the store today,” she said. “My brother has a bad humour some times. No, not humour. Temper.”

“We might have provoked him a little.”

“He thinks you are looking to blame him for what happened to Mr. Adler.”

Mr. Adler—keeping up the pretense that she didn’t know him better than that.

“The only people I want to blame are the ones who beat him to death.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

“If you still want to talk to me,” she said, still in a low voice, “I can meet you about five-forty-five. I’ve told my brother I have errands to run.”

“Where?”

“Do you know where is the Marché Jean-Talon? The big market?”

“No.”

“Where are you staying?”

At least she didn’t know that. And I decided to leave it that way. “At the Holiday Inn on Sherbrooke near St-Laurent.”

“Then you take St-Laurent north to Jean-Talon and turn right for a few blocks. It’s just before St-Denis. I’ll be inside the entrance on the south side, buying flowers. At five-forty-five, but please, no later. The market closes at six and if I am much later than that coming home, there will be questions.”

“I thought your family was more liberated than that.”

“Not on every subject,” she said.

Ryan was on the bed when I got in, watching something on my laptop. In a perfect partnership, he would have been doing research, scouring Sammy’s files on the Lortie family, the Kabul carpet trade or something else connected to the case. That’s what Jenn would have been doing if she’d been here. Instead, Ryan was watching a compilation of Manny Pacquiao’s greatest knockouts.

“Unbelievable fighter,” he said. “He’s held eight titles in six different weight classes. Ninety-eight pounds his first fight, worked his way up to a hundred and forty-four as a welterweight. You’re what, one-eighty-five?”

“Give or take a pound.”

“He’d still kick your ass, I don’t care how many black belts you got.”

“In the ring, maybe.”

“Not in the street?”

“No.”

“He hits fucking hard for a little guy.”

“But he’s never been kicked in the throat.”

“True. And what’s that you got?” I was carrying the box of memorabilia Camille Fortin had given me, along with Paquette’s manila folder.

“Sammy’s phone records and bank statements. And some things his ex-wife had.”

“You look at it yet?”

“Haven’t had a chance.”

He moved my laptop aside and said, “Want to spread it out here?”

“Not now. The woman from the rug store just called. She wants to meet me in an hour at a market north of here.”

“Which one?”

“Jean-Talon.”

“Hell, I know that place. There’s a lot of Italian places around there I used to eat with some of the local boys.”

He got off the bed and slipped his jacket on, pulling it away from his shoulder holster when it snagged on the butt of his Glock.

“You don’t have to come,” I said.

“You afraid I’m gonna spook her?”

“You’d spook Manny Pacquiao, why not her?”

“I’m coming anyway. It could be a set-up. Don’t forget someone followed us from their place.”

“All right. Let me check my email first.” I did it on my phone, thumbing through my inbox past messages that had gotten past my filters to promise cheap Alaskan cruises, to an hour-old message from Gabriel Archambault, Lortie campaign press secretary, asking which media outlet I was with. He said Monsieur Lortie was getting so many requests for interviews that he was giving priority to those based in Quebec.

I’ve posed as a reporter before to get interviews with people who might not otherwise want to grant one, most recently in Boston. This time, I went straight to the point. I wrote back saying I was not a reporter but an investigator looking into the murder of Sam Adler, late of
Montreal Moment
magazine. I would need about fifteen minutes of Monsieur Lortie’s time, the sooner the better. I left my number and asked him to reply as soon as he could.

Driving north on St-Laurent, past the east side of Mount Royal, I saw for the first time the great cross perched atop its summit. At night it’s lit up so the whole east side of the city can see it, a constant reminder of the Church that utterly dominated Quebec society—as much as if not more so than Ireland’s—from its founding to the sixties, when the people finally, and resoundingly, threw off that yoke and started down the road to
secularism. But the cross remains, a hundred feet tall, telling the people that even if they have abandoned the Church, it is still there for them. For those who still believe.

We got to the market at five-thirty. There was a large parking lot on the south side but most of it was taken up with stalls selling produce, so we had to hunt for a spot on nearby streets, finally finding one on Henri-Julien. We didn’t want to enter together so I told Ryan to wait a minute and then follow me in.

“You hear me whistle,” he said, “look alive. It means someone’s coming up behind you.”

Even with just fifteen minutes left before closing, the market was packed with people. It was a long, wide rectangular space with a peaked roof. Along both sides, vendors stood behind counters calling out their specials, their closing-time deals. As I scanned the different outlets looking for Mehri, I could smell coffee, spices, strong cheeses, fresh meat. Over some of the stalls hung dried chilies, sausages and strings of garlic heads. There were flats with six dozen eggs, baskets brimming with peppers of every colour, stacked cans of homegrown maple syrup, and every fruit and vegetable you could imagine; some were not yet in season in Quebec and some would never be. As I walked down the main aisle, I saw corridors leading off to the left and right with more stalls selling fancy mustards, scented candles and soaps, jam and marmalade, honey, candies—and flowers.

And Mehri, watching as a man in a sailor’s cap wrapped bright yellow carnations in cellophane. Even though she was expecting me, she flinched when I called her name. She smiled, sort of, glanced at her watch and said, “You made it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I didn’t give you much time and the traffic sometimes …”

The man behind the counter handed over the flowers and we moved closer to a door that led out the east side of the building.

“Tell me the truth about Sammy,” I said. “Was something happening between you beyond the story he was writing?”

“You have to understand,” she replied. “This is not easy for me to talk about, especially to a man I don’t know.”

“You said you wanted justice for him.”

“And I do. But how do I know that telling you this will help?”

“Did you tell the police?”

“That we were—no, I didn’t.”

Those first three words, at least, gave me my answer. “Did they ask?”

“No.”

“Of course they did, they found the hair.”

“What hair?”

“Like the one we found in Sam’s bed. The police found some too. You can’t tell me they didn’t ask.”

“Why would they? I was wearing hijab when I went to be interviewed. They never came to the store.”

“But it’s true. About you and Sam.”

She lowered her eyes. I could see the discomfort. “That we were becoming intimate? To a certain extent, yes. But we were not lovers, not in the way you think.”

“We found a hair in his bed that matches yours.”

“I lay in his bed with him, one time only, the night before he was killed.”