The Dead of Winter (16 page)

“The police offering me protection?” Again, the off-centre laugh that seemed like it could snap off into delirium at any moment. “You people have hounded me all my life. I've been fucked around by the police for as long as I can remember. It's a joke, you offering me protection.” His voice was getting louder.

“I'm sorry for whatever other officers put you through,” said Vanier. “But believe me, we're here to help you.”

Paquin's mind was racing trying to process so much information. Life was usually simple, he took decisions on impulse with little thought for consequences. But this was different. “What kind of protection?” he whispered, looking first at Vanier and then to Laurent.

“We've arranged for you to stay in a small men's shelter in the East End. You'll be off the streets for a while. Warm bed at night, good food. Medical help. I understand that you have a condition.”

“I get help. I go to Dr. Grenier's clinic when I'm sick. He knows me.”

“It's temporary. We're going to resolve this thing soon and then you can do whatever you want. We think you should be off the street for a few days. We can drive you there now if you want.”

Paquin wasn't good at decisions. His mind was a jumble of fear and desperation. Shelters had rules and restrictions. The doors are locked at night. Get up now. Shower now. Eat this. Don't drink… don't drink. That was the clincher.

He looked at the officers. “I'm not afraid. I've survived 25 years on the streets.” His courage was returning as he talked. “I don't need your fucking protection. I don't need you. Go find your crazy and lock him up. But you're not locking me up in no fucking shelter just because you can't do your job.”

“Think about what you're saying. We're not locking you up. We're offering you a chance. Take it, or at least give it a try,” said Vanier.

“No way. No fucking way. I can look after myself.” He was becoming agitated, looking beyond the officers to the door. “Am I under arrest? Because if not, I'm leaving,” he said, but not getting up from the table until they gave him a sign. He knew the rules.

“Here,' said Vanier getting up. “Take my card. If you change your mind, call me. Call me. Anytime.”

Paquin took the card, stuffed it absent-mindedly into the pocket of his filthy coat, and stood up. Vanier reached into his pocket and took out two twenties. “If you won't accept our help, take this. Maybe it will help.”

“Every little bit helps, Inspector,” said Paquin, already planning what to do with 40 dollars as he headed for the door.

2:00 PM

As they left the Old Brewery mission, St Jacques called with a possible location for Latulippe. In a few minutes they pulled into a diplomatic parking space outside the ICAO building on University Street. A panhandler was working the cars stopped at the lights, moving up and down the line of cars for as long as the red light lasted, then manoeuvering back to the sidewalk through slow traffic. He was showing a grimacing mouth full of filthy teeth to each driver while waving an extra-large McDonald's paper cup and doing a weird, shuffling dance to music only he heard. His breath formed white clouds in the freezing air, but he seemed impervious to the cold. The light changed to green, and he snaked his way back to the sidewalk. He recognized them as cops immediately.

“Hey, I ain't doing nothing wrong, just exchanging coins for songs.”

“Are you Denis Latulippe?” said Vanier.

“What of it?”

“Can we talk?”

He didn't answer, just shook the cup under Vanier's chin. There wasn't much to shake. “Talk ain't cheap,” he said.

Laurent got his attention by holding a five dollar bill over the cup.

“We've got a proposition for you,” said Vanier. Laurent dropped the bill into the cup.

“What might that be, officers?”

“We think you're in danger. Your name came up in an investigation. Someone threatened to kill you. Do you have any idea who would want to kill you?”

“Kill me? They'd be doing me a favour, and no one done me a favour in a long time. Except for your friend here of course” he said, motioning to Laurent with a yellow-toothed grin, as he pulled the five dollars from the cup and pocketed it. “Who the hell would want to kill Denis? I'm everyone's friend.”

He started his shuffling dance again.

“Think about it. You know anyone who would want to put you out of your misery? Maybe for your own good?” said Vanier.

Latulippe was taken aback, but seemed to be giving it serious thought. “Naw. Can't think of anyone. You guys serious?”

“We are. And we think it's serious enough to offer you some shelter. Think of it as a week's holiday in the country. All expenses paid.”

Despite his bravado, Latulippe was taking it seriously. His thoughts telegraphed to his face like it was wired directly to the emotional centre of his brain; the worst poker face in the city.

“Wait a minute. Is this anything to do with those people who died on Christmas Eve? Is it about that?”

“Yes,” said Vanier. “Your name came up, and we thought it best to make sure that you were out of harm's way. Look, I'm freezing out here, why don't we talk in the car?”

“You're not arresting me?”

“For what, selling songs? We'd have to go after Céline Dion too,” said Vanier. “Grab your bags, and we can talk in the car.”

Latulippe reached behind a column in the building entrance, grabbed a backpack and a large Holt Renfrew shopping bag, and followed them to the car. The engine started at the first turn of the key, and Vanier put the heat on full blast. He turned to look at Latulippe in the back seat, dwarfed next to Laurent and grinning like a circus clown. He quickly regretted pumping the heat. Sitting with Latulippe in any enclosed space would not have been pleasant, but with the heat going, the air quickly became as thick as the inside of a Port-A-Can on the last day of a NASCAR weekend in August. Laurent cracked his window down and pointed his nose into the cold breeze.

“Seriously,” said Vanier, trying to make sense of Latulippe's insane smile. “What would you say to an all-expenses holiday in the Laurentians? A nice house just outside Morin Heights, or we can do a halfway house in the East End. Your choice. Three meals a day, TV, your own room. Just no booze or drugs. You can go outside to smoke. What do you think?”

Latulippe had lost his grin. “I can't think! I need time. Look, I don't understand. Who would want to kill me? Why me? You got a cigarette?”

Vanier raised his hand to indicate no. Latulippe looked at Laurent and got the same response.

“We could buy you a couple of packs on the way if you want,” said Laurent.

“Look, I don't think I can dry out that quickly, you know. I need to work up to it. Not saying that I can't go dry – I can. It's just that I need some time, that's all. You know, get into the right frame of mind. I can't do it suddenly. These places of yours. Maybe one of them can change the rules for a few days, give me a chance to work up to it. Time to adjust, you know?”

“They're firm on that one, Denis. No exceptions. No booze, no drugs – they have businesses to run, people who want to get dry. Their clients can smell an unopened bottle of wine at 50 yards, and they won't bend the rules. I already asked.”

Vanier knew they were wasting their time. They weren't offering protection, they were just telling him he was a marked man.

“Look, I have to think this over. Maybe I can just disappear for a few days. I know people. I have places to stay. I mean, who is this guy? Why me? Why the others?”

“We don't know. But it won't be long. Listen, give it a try for a day or two. What's the worst that can happen?”

Latulippe didn't answer that one. “No, I'm staying here. I can take care of myself. I can stay quiet.”

“Denis, we can't force you to do anything, but this is serious.” Vanier saw that he had already lost him. “Tell you what, take a few days to get yourself organized. The offer is open whenever you're ready. Take my card and Sergeant Laurent's. Call either of us anytime and we'll pick you up. And here, take this in the meantime.” Vanier handed him two twenties.

Latulippe looked at Laurent, as if willing him to chip in another twenty. Laurent kept his hands in his pockets. He looked at the two business cards in his hand as if reading them.

“What's your name again?” he said, looking at Vanier.

“Detective Inspector Vanier. My number is on the card.”

“Well, thanks for the offer, but I gotta leave.”

With that, he was out of the car and walking up University Street with his bags. They watched him go.

“So what do we do? We can't have someone follow him around,” said Laurent.

“No. And we can't arrest him either. He has his own fucking problems, and they won't let go of him. That's why he's on the street. You think we're the first to offer him help?”

“I suppose not.” Laurent transferred into the front seat. “Christ, it's cold out there. Where to now?”

“A surprise I've been planning.”

“Great. I love surprises.”

2.30 PM

Brossard is a small town on the south shore of the St. Lawrence where those who aren't rich, poor or stubborn enough to live downtown can afford to raise a family and still be close enough to commute to the city. Because of the bridge, it's an hour's commute each way, built for the respectable people who work eight-to-four or nine-to-five, the people who keep the castle running but can't sleep within its walls, the FedEx drivers, the sandwich shop owners, the elevator and escalator mechanics who keep everything greased and running, and the bank tellers who haven't been swapped for more machines. In Brossard they raise families in desolate suburban plots where hundred-year-old trees were bulldozed out of the way to lower the cost of putting up the factory-built crap that passes for houses. In the oldest sections, the trees had grown back in orderly rows along the main streets, and with only slightly less order in backyards. In the newer developments, the only nature is trimmed grass and gardens bought from Home Depot. In winter, the landscape is bleak, and the wind blows the snow into great drifts against the only obstacles left: houses, pre-fabricated garden sheds, and above-ground swimming pools.

Detective Sergeants Roberge and Janvier were in a small house, sitting uncomfortably on a small sofa facing Mme. Adèle Paradis, the Grande Dame of the classified advertisement department of the
Journal de Montréal
. She was sitting on a dark blue La-Z-Boy that clashed with everything else in the room, a fat grey cat was asleep in her lap. Two other cats were prowling around, unhappy with the visitors. Mme. Paradis was nursing a hangover and drinking coffee laced with gin in an attempt to pull herself together. She had been asleep when they arrived, and they had waited ten minutes on the doorstep, and another twenty while she made instant java in the kitchen.

“So, what can I do for you? Would you like biscuits? I don't have visitors often.”

Sergeant Janvier reached into his bag and pulled out three photocopies. Each was a page from the St. Jude section of the classified ads in the
Journal de Montréal
. On each page, a specific ad had been circled.

“Mme. Paradis, we're interested in the ads that have been circled. We went to the office, but they couldn't tell us much. They confirmed that the ads were all paid for in cash at the counter and there was no address. The people at the office said that if anyone could give us more on who placed the ads, it was you. That's why we're here. Do you remember any of the people who placed the ads?”

Mme. Paradis took the papers with a shaking hand and began to look through them. She was suffering, but doing her best.

“It was the same person. He bought all of them, Pious John. Such a charming man. Always paid cash and didn't want a receipt.”

“Pious John?”

“Well, that's what he told me once. When I asked him he said: You can call me Pious John. So that's what I called him.”

“You remember what he looks like?”

“Remember? Of course I do. He's handsome, a little strange, but handsome. He has these piercing eyes and such a real smile. You know what I mean? Some people smile and you know they don't mean it. When he smiles, you feel it. I like him. A real gentleman.”

“So why do you say strange? You said he was a little strange,” asked Janvier.

“I did, didn't I? I suppose it was the way he dressed. He always wore this long black cassock. Like a priest, but not quite. At first I thought he was Orthodox. But then he wouldn't be praying to St. Jude, would he?”

“I suppose not,” said Janvier.

“So I asked him straight out. I said,
So, what order are you with?
”

“And?”

“
Not the Church of Rome
. That's what he said. It sounded so strange.
Not the Church of Rome
.”