The Dead of Winter (17 page)

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I couldn't forget his face. Those eyes, they were so expressive. I can picture them now.”

The officers watched as she seemed to lose track of the conversation. The little colour in her face drained, and she raised herself out of the La-Z-Boy with an effort, the cat waking up in mid-air and falling onto his paws as though he was used to it.

“Excuse me,” she said, rushing past the officers and disappearing again into the kitchen. They listened to her retching and the sound of vomit drop into the sink. By the rattling sound, there were dishes in the sink. She reappeared wiping her mouth with a dishcloth. Her face was as white as the landscape outside the window.

“I'm sorry, but I don't feel well. I'm going to have to lie down.”

“Could you come in to see us tomorrow, Mme. Paradis?” asked Roberge.

“I'm supposed to be at work tomorrow. But I haven't been feeling well. So maybe I could call in sick. What time?”

“As early as you can make it.”

“So let's say 10.30, shall we? No sense in fighting traffic, is there?”

“10.30 it is, Mme. Paradis. Are you sure you know where we are?”

She squinted at his card again. “Of course. I'll be there at 10.30 and I will ask for either one of you. That's right isn't it?”

“Perfect.” The officers got up to leave, and she dropped back into the La-Z-Boy. The cat bounded back into her lap.

“And, Mme. Paradis, perhaps an early night tonight,” said Roberge. “We'll need you in top form tomorrow. If you're not feeling well, a good night's sleep might be a good idea.”

She promised to be a good girl, and they found their own way out.

3.30 PM

Audet was agitated as he looked at the balding civil servant across from him. He was holding himself back with difficulty.

“Tell me again, M. Letarte, you're from where?”

“The Ministère de l'emploi et de la solidarité sociale, you may know it better as the Welfare Services. And, as I said, we have the right to examine all of the books and records relating to the Shelter's receipt of welfare cheques addressed to beneficiaries who have chosen the Shelter as their address to receive benefits. At last count, there were 437 people who received their welfare cheques through the Shelter. So it's really quite simple. I would like to see the records that confirm receipt and distribution of the cheques.”

“You got a search warrant?”

“M. Audet, I don't need a search warrant. It says right there in section 83 of the Act,” he said, pointing to the photocopy he had given Audet. Then he quoted from memory. “
An Inspector –
that's me
– can enter any place during office hours to examine and, if found, to remove to be examined at a later time, the books and records of any business or organization that has agreed to receive payments on behalf of beneficiaries under the Act.
”

“Well, I don't have access to these books and records. It's Christmas. We're on skeleton staff.”

“Then I would refer you to section 90 of the Act.”

Letarte pointed to section 90, which he had also photocopied. Audet stared at the sheet of paper and Letarte began to recite, “
Anyone who fails to produce any books or records in accordance with a request pursuant to section 83 is guilty of an offence
.”

“Wait a second,” said Audet. “You don't have a search warrant, and I'm guilty of an offence if I don't give stuff to you? What kind of a country is this?”

“It's the law, Mr. Audet. Now, could you please show me the records relating to welfare cheques?”

“Go fuck yourself,” said Audet, rising from the chair. “I don't have to listen to this bullshit. Listen, you want to look at papers, you do what everyone does, OK? You go see a fucking judge and get yourself a search warrant.”

Audet got to his feet, moved behind Letarte's chair and pulled him up by the collar until the civil servant was standing on his toes.

“I should toss you out the fucking window, you asshole.”

“What are you doing? I protest. This is assault.”

“Fuck you.”

Holding his collar, Audet frog-marched Letarte out of the office and down the staircase to the front door. Letarte didn't resist. It was all he could do to keep up with Audet and breathe at the same time. Audet pushed open the door with his left hand, and shoved Letarte violently out the door with his right hand, watching him hop, skip and jump down the three steps of the entrance trying to keep his balance before finally losing his footing on a sliver of ice and falling heavily into the snow piled up at the edge of the path.

“Fucking asshole,” Audet screamed after him before letting the door close.

Letarte got to his feet slowly and brushed snow off the front of his coat. He was still shaking when he got to the car parked at the corner.

“Why do you upset people like that?” Vanier asked as Letarte climbed into the back. Vanier could see the veins in Letarte's neck pumping blood as he pulled the door closed, pushed the button to lock it, and put his hands between his knees to stop them shaking.

“You didn't tell me he was a violent maniac,” he said finally, turning to Vanier. “I could have been killed. I am definitely putting in for overtime on this. Forget any more bloody favours, Inspector Vanier.”

Vanier was laughing. “Just imagine what it will be like when we come back, Claude.” He turned to the other passenger in the back seat. “So Maître Giroux, can we get the affidavit finished before we get to Outremont?”

“It's all done, Inspector, except for the play-by-play of what went on inside. M. Letarte, did you ask M. Audet for access to the books and records relating to social security cheques?”

“Damn right I did.”

Giroux began typing on his laptop.

Laurent had already pulled a U-turn and was heading to the home of Judge Antoinette Cardillo, duty Judge of the Superior Court of Montreal.

“And what was his response?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Now, Claude, that's no way to talk to Maître Giroux,” said Vanier.

“I was answering the question. Audet told me to go fuck myself. Oh yeah, he said that he should have thrown me out the window.”

“Great,” said Giroux, typing on his portable. “Then what?”

“He said that if I wanted to see the books I should go see a fucking judge and get a warrant.”

“His
exact
words?”

“Yes.”

“Marvelous.”

“Then he grabbed me and dragged me to the door and threw me out.”

“Wonderful. Here. Let me read this back to you.”

Giroux was drafting and correcting the affidavit while Laurent tried to break speed records. When they pulled up outside Judge Cardillo's house in Outremont, Giroux was printing out the affidavit on a portable printer. Vanier took in the tasteful Christmas lights that festooned the house; tiny white lights strung around the trees nestled in fluffy snow. Giroux grabbed the papers and his shoulder bag and followed Vanier, Laurent and Letarte to the front door. The judge stood in the doorway in a white dressing gown, her blonde hair brushed back. They had called to say they were coming, and Vanier wondered why she wasn't dressed. She waited while they took off their boots and then led them into an office on the ground floor.

“Gentlemen, this better be good, I have 12 people coming to dinner at 7 p.m., and I need to get ready. It's the holiday season, you know.”

Vanier watched black-suited catering staff hustling around behind the judge carrying glasses, bowls and cutlery into the dining room. She wouldn't be peeling potatoes tonight.

Giroux presented himself and introduced the two officers and Letarte. Vanier recognized her but didn't say anything. He had appeared as a witness before her about two years before. She hadn't believed him when he said the defendant's statement had been voluntary, and she let the rapist go. Two months later he was picked up again, this time for rape and murder. After a longer trial before a different judge, he was put away for life, without parole eligibility for twenty years. In a fit of anger fuelled by too much whiskey, Vanier had sent Cardillo a copy of the judgment, in a plain envelope, and just in case she had forgotten, he included a copy of her own judgment. It made him feel better.

“We're here to request a search warrant, Madame Justice. Here is the affidavit, and here is the warrant we are asking you to authorize.”

She took the papers and began reading the affidavit and the terms of the warrant. She looked up at M. Letarte. “You're the affiant?”

“What?”

“Are you the person who swore the affidavit?”

“Yes, in the car, before Maître Giroux, on the way over here.”

“And it's all true?”

“Yes, Madame. It's the truth.”

“You've had an interesting afternoon.”

“I suppose that you might call it that, yes.”

“Why are you conducting these inquiries over the holidays. Why are things so urgent?”

Letarte was lost. He knew that he couldn't say that he was doing it because Vanier asked him, and that he owed Vanier a favour. “I had a call, Madame, suggesting that certain officials at the Holy Land Shelter were defrauding welfare beneficiaries of their allowances. It's my duty to investigate.”

“If I could interrupt, Madame,” said Vanier.

“I wondered when you might speak up, Inspector,” she said, looking at him coldly.

“We consider that the allegations are very important, and if we don't act immediately, important evidence will be lost.”

“Inspector Vanier. Didn't I see you on the television yesterday, hiding behind a Press Officer?”

“Well, if you saw me, I couldn't have been hiding very well.”

She glared.

“Is this request related in any way to your investigation of the homeless deaths on Christmas Eve? You know that we frown on using pretexts to collect evidence.”

“Madame, we have no reason at this time to make any connection between any fraud at the Shelter and the deaths on Christmas Eve. Except, of course, that in both cases, homeless people are being treated very badly.”

She got his point. She had more to lose by refusing to authorize the warrant than by granting it. The homeless had become a news item, and she didn't want to be seen assisting in their exploitation.

“Very well, Inspector. Here is your warrant,” she said, signing three copies and pushing them across the table. “Go make your search.”

The men stood, wanting to be gone.

“Don't stand on formalities. Why don't you just turn and run. You have work to do, I suppose.”

“Thank you, Madame Justice,” said Giroux.

Vanier was on the phone to his good friend Leroux, a Detective Inspector in the Fraud Squad, before they were in the car. “We're ready to roll. Get the gang down there, and we'll be there in twenty minutes.”

They made it in fifteen. Vanier recognized the two unmarked cars and a black van by their occupants, ten officers in all, all of them itching to get out. He got out of the car and gestured to the others to follow. It was fifty minutes since Letarte had been thrown out into the snow, close to a world record for a search warrant. Vanier entered the building and waved the search warrant at the camera with a broad grin before leading six officers and Letarte down the hallway. Giroux tagged along just for the fun of it. Four officers stayed outside to watch the exits. Audet was sitting at his computer and looked up, open-mouthed, as they burst into the room. He started to type quickly, Vanier was already behind him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him over the chair and away from the keyboard. The chair fell, and Audet hung in mid-air until Vanier released his grip, letting him fall to the floor on his back. Audet knew better than to fight back, storing the anger.

“Fuck,” was all he could say.

“I did as you said, M. Audet. I went and got a warrant,” said Letarte with newfound courage. Vanier handed a copy of the warrant to Audet.

“Wait. Don't touch anything. I want to call my lawyers. Don't touch anything till I speak to the lawyers.” Audet was losing his authority, and he knew it, as he watched officers rooting through the filing cabinets.

“That's not how it works,” said Vanier. “Call your lawyers, but we're carrying on. Search warrant, remember? Now, where's M. Nolet?”

“How the fuck do I know? Go find him yourself.”

“Why don't we go find him together?” Vanier grabbed Audet and walked him to the door. “We won't be long, gentlemen. Carry on.”

“Wait, before he goes,” asked Sergeant Filion, the computer geek. “Any passwords I should know about?”

“Fuck you,” said Audet. “Want me to spell that for you?”