The Dead of Winter (18 page)

“Oh, that's OK. I love a challenge.”

Vanier pushed Audet out the door in front of him and walked him down the hallway and through the doors leading to the stairwell. It was deserted, and Audet went to climb the staircase. Vanier pulled him back and swung him against the wall, following with a punch to his gut. Audet doubled over, his knees buckling. Before he could think of reacting, Vanier pulled him up and landed another. Audet went down on his knees. Vanier pulled him up again and delivered a third punch to the gut. Audet fell back down on his knees, gasping for breath.

“OK, that should do it. Now, M. Audet, where is M. Nolet?”

“Dining room. Supervising the scumbags. It's suppertime.”

“Right, let's go back to the office and you can sit down.”

“I want to call my lawyer.”

“You can do that back in the office. Might be safer there.”

In the office, boxes were being packed with file folders, and the computer was being disconnected. Everything that was being removed was logged on to a sheet.

“Janvier, could you have someone get M. Nolet. He's in the dining room.”

While he was waiting, Vanier began to go through Audet's pockets. “Maître Giroux, does the warrant cover things found on the premises?”

“Yes Inspector, it says, any
other things found on the premises that might provide evidence relating to the receipt of funds from the
Ministère de l'emploi et de la solidarité sociale.”

“And is a telephone a thing?” he said, holding up Audet's phone.

“Yeah, that's a thing.”

“And what are these?” asked Vanier, holding up two USB sticks that he found on Audet.

“Those things are data sticks. Used to store data,” said Filion. “Those are definitely things.”

Audet looked defeated. Nolet appeared, looking frightened.

“What's all this about? We're a homeless shelter. What in God's name are you doing?”

“M. Nolet, good to see you again. Just routine work supporting the Ministère de l'emploi et de la solidarité sociale. I believe it's a simple audit of the books. Things got a bit out of hand because of your M. Audet here, but they're under control now. We'll be taking M. Audet off your hands for a while. Seems he assaulted M. Letarte. But you can go on with your work. We should be finished in a few hours, and then we'll be out of here. Oh, by the way, do you have a cell phone?”

“Yes,” said Nolet, fishing it out of his pocket. “Why?”

“Seized,” said Vanier, pocketing the phone.

Nolet looked from Vanier to Audet, who continued to look at his shoes.

Laurent called for a squad car to take Audet to the nearest station, with instructions to book him for assault. Given the holidays, Vanier hoped he wouldn't get a bail hearing for a couple of days. The seized documents and computers were to be sent to the offices of M. Letarte, with a promise that they would be copied and sent to Leroux's squad. Vanier had given the data sticks to Sergeant Filion and had pocketed Nolet's and Audet's cell phones. He looked at Laurent, “So I can leave you to close up once they've finished.”

“Of course, sir.”

With that, Vanier shook hands through the crowd of officers, thanked Leroux for the favour, and left.

9.30 PM

The office cleaners had finished for the night at Henderson and Associates, and Beaudoin had worked late often enough to know that Henderson never came back to the office after nine o'clock. Even so, he was nervous, and the sweat was staining his shirt. He could feel his heart beating as he sat in front of the computer on Henderson's desk scrolling through files. He decided that the safest and quickest thing to do was to copy everything that was even slightly relevant to the Holy Land Shelter on to the data stick. He could go through it all later. He did a search for all the emails between Vladimir Markov and Henderson, and copied them. He was surprised there were so many. He then turned to Henderson's files on the Shelter. Most of them he recognized as his own memos and draft documents, but he copied them anyway.

While he was scanning through the files, he came across one marked, “Overseas Billings” and copied everything in it. After an hour, he pulled the data stick out of the computer and began shutting down the computer. As he pressed the “Shut Down” command, he heard the electronic ping that announced the front door to the office opening. He pocketed the data stick and picked up the December issue of
Canadian Bar Association Journal
on Henderson's desk. The cover article was on electronic discovery. He almost crashed into Henderson as he left his office, and Henderson's face creased into its habitual broad smile, an unnatural curving of the lips without any sign of joy.

“Pascal. Working late I see. What were you looking for in my office?”

“Just this article on electronic discovery. I knew that we had received it, and it wasn't in the library. I figured it might be sitting on your desk. Don't mind if I borrow it for a while, do you?”

“Not at all, Pascal.”

Beaudoin walked quickly back to his office, cradling the data stick in his fist and hoping the computer had shut down.

Henderson scanned his desk for signs that things had been disturbed. Even though the desktop looked like a disorganized litter of files, loose paper and magazines, he knew its contours and could find anything in seconds. It didn't seem to have been disturbed. But when he sat down, he reached under the desk and touched the computer. It was warm to the touch. He picked up the phone and dialed. He let it ring five times before it picked up.

“Vladimir, it's Gordon. I've been thinking. We need to move forward with the transaction.”

10.30 PM

The small room was lit by two flickering candles that cast their light upwards to a crucifix holding the tortured body of Christ in eternal pain. A figure knelt before the crucifix at a wooden prayer desk, his head bowed into his hands, rosary beads entwined around his thick fingers.

“Dear Lord, I have sought to do only your bidding. With your grace and love, I have done what you have asked of me. I have helped your chosen ones join you in eternal life. I have joined with you in this sacred task. But it is difficult, Lord. I'm weak and need your help. My faith falters, and I need your hand to reach out and touch me. I'm afraid and I need your strength. Restore my soul. Strengthen my conviction. Help me overcome these human frailties and proceed with your work. Lord, I know you have called me. Please understand that I am not rejecting that calling. Just give me the strength that I need.

“You were right. They did not suffer. They left all suffering behind as they joined you in paradise. And they are blessed. How I long for my own time to be with you, to be united with you in your eternal love. As your chosen disciple here on earth, this should be a joyous time for me, but I'm filled with fear and doubt.

“Give me the gift of faith. Give me a sign. Even you, my Lord, even you in your darkest moments asked for help. Remember, in the Garden of Gethsemane, as you waited for the Romans to come to bring you to your death, you asked your Father:
if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as Thou wilt.
Dear Lord, it was God's will that you drink deeply from that cup of human suffering, that you sacrifice yourself for us. But your Father did not desert you:
and there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him.
Lord, you who were once a man. You who walked this earth as a man know how weak I am. I am only a man and I am nothing without you. So I beseech you, my Lord and Saviour, help me to be strong.

“There are more, Lord, and I am testing them to see if they are ready. But there are also obstacles to our mission. There are those who would stop me. If your mission is sacred, how far must I go to protect its fulfillment? I need your guidance.”

EIGHT
DECEMBER 30

11 AM

Vladimir Markov was sitting alone
in a booth in a nondescript café on Notre Dame staring at the door and talking on his cell phone. Romanenko was sitting at the counter behind him nursing a coffee. The waitress and cook, the only staff in the place, were taking advantage of the holiday quiet and the absence of the owner by drinking surreptitious shots of cognac in the kitchen.

“Yeah, OK. You did great to get the shit out on bail. What do you want me to say? I'm paying you enough that I don't have to say thanks. And, frankly, Audet can rot in prison for all I care. But I want this whole thing closed down, you hear me?” said Markov. Then he listened, keeping his eye on the door.

“Whatever. I don't give a shit about excuses. I just want this problem to go away as fast as possible. Do whatever you have to do. If Audet has to plead guilty, that's his problem. If that's what it takes, he'll plead guilty. Gotta go. Just get it done.” Markov clicked the phone off and watched the door as Marcel Audet walked in, all attitude, like he owned the place. He walked over to Markov's booth and eased himself in.

Audet was smiling. “Hey, thanks for the lawyer, Mr. M. He got me out this morning on a promise to keep the peace.”

Markov didn't respond. The waitress walked over and opened a notepad, pen in hand.

“Get you something?”

“You have a menu?” asked Audet

“He'll have a coffee. He's not staying,” said Markov.

The waitress left and came back with a pot of coffee, a cup and a saucer. She poured the coffee, pulled two creamers out of the pocket of her nylon one-piece, and dropped them on the table.

Markov waited for her to leave and said, “I told you. I wanted things kept quiet.”

“Listen, Mr. M. I haven't done anything to mess things up.”

“Loan sharking? Money laundering? The way I hear it, you've been running a fucking bank down there.”

“So, I helped some people out, that's all. Nothing criminal. I didn't even make much money out of it.”

“People connected to me gave you the job. And that means I'm connected to you and your fucking schemes. I got a visit from some fucking cop yesterday afternoon who already made the connection.”

“Look, like I said, it's not a big deal. I helped people out, that's all.”

“You're in trouble, asshole. And that means I have to waste my time thinking about problems you've created.”

“Don't worry. It'll all blow over. It's just that the police are all over the place with these murders. They're jumping on everyone.”

“That's what I mean. You think our deal can go through when everyone and their mother are worrying about the fucking homeless? And now the police connect you and me.”

“Well, I can see that it creates problems. But what can I do? I'm here to help you, Mr. Markov. You know that.”

“First, your private banking scheme is over. Whatever money you took, you give back. And get receipts. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Markov.” Audet was beginning to sweat.

“Second, who the fuck is the sick bastard killing these people? I want you to find out, and get to him before the police do. If the police find him, this story stays in the papers for the next two years while he goes to trial, and every bloody politician and friend of the poor will be wringing their hands over the plight of the homeless. I don't want the homeless in the newspapers for the next two years. We need to shut him down.”

“Well, I suppose I can ask around.”

“Listen asshole. You're the one slumming around with these scumbags. Someone must know him. Get rid of this guy, and the press will move on in two weeks. Soon as you deal with him, things will settle down. Not before. You need to do your civic duty with this maniac. Do you understand?”

Audet looked into Markov's eyes and understood perfectly.

“Yes.”

Markov looked over his shoulder. Romanenko appeared at the table and dropped his hand heavily on Audet's shoulders.

“So, the chat's over, Mr. Markov?” said Romanenko.

“Yeah, it's over,” said Markov.

“And Mr. Audet is leaving?” he said, pulling Audet to a standing position in the booth.

“Yeah, he's leaving.”

Audet struggled out of the booth with Romanenko's hand still gripping his shoulder.

“I understand, Mr. Markov. I understand.”

“Good, now, get the fuck out of here. And listen. I can't take any more fuck-ups. You're on very thin ice, my friend.”

11.30 AM

In the still of the empty Cathedral, Fr. Henri Drouin sat on a straight-backed chair in St. Jude's Crypt, his rosary beads swinging almost imperceptibly as he fingered each prayer marker. It was one of his favourite times: after morning services but before the lunchtime show. In the old days people would always be dropping in for quiet prayers, but it hardly ever happened these days. Drouin sensed a presence in the stillness before he heard the shuffling feet. He turned to see a man approaching in a long black winter coat. Snow was still visible on his shoulders and hair, and Drouin smiled gently.

“John, thank you for coming.”

The man approached the chair and stood over Drouin.

“I was worried, Father Henri. You sounded concerned.”

John was so close that Drouin had to lean back in the chair and tilt his head back to look up at the looming figure.

“I
am
concerned. Did you hear about the deaths on Christmas Eve?”

“I did, Father. It's shocking. But they have gone to their Lord. Isn't that a good thing? Perhaps this answers our prayers. Didn't we pray for their deliverance from pain and suffering?”

“We prayed for these people, John. But not for their death. Murder cannot be God's answer to our prayers. Do you know anything about this?”

“Who are we to question how the Lord answers our prayers? Who are we to question His works?”

“I'm not questioning His works. The Lord didn't kill these people, John. Tell me the truth, do you know anything about this?” His eyes pleaded.

The man smiled.

“No, Henri. I know nothing. I am as shocked as you are. But why do you think it was anything but God's work, calling his servants home after desperate suffering? That's how I would like to remember them. That in their last hours, the Lord took an interest in them and called them to his arms.”

“I don't know, John. I just have a bad feeling.”

“Father Henri, the police will do what they have to do, and we will see that our friends simply passed on peacefully to a better place. To their reward.”

“Perhaps you're right, John.”

“I am right, Father. It was inevitable they would die soon. It saddens me that they left, but it's my loss that I mourn, not theirs. They are all much happier now. Remember the struggles of Joe Yeoman. Isn't he better off? And Mary Gallagher, how much more was she going to be forced to endure?”

“Mary Gallagher?” Drouin, blurted, immediately wishing he could take the words back. John said nothing, but both men knew. Drouin tried to rise but John didn't budge, he was still standing over him, and Drouin was forced to remain seated.

The tension was broken when John smiled. “Father, while I am here, could you hear my confession?” He stepped back and allowed Drouin to rise from the chair, the rosary beads still hanging from his hands.

“Of course, John.”

They walked together to a confessional box that looked like three wooden phone booths against the wall. The central one was for the priest with a small grille on each side linking into the other two. One penitent would kneel and whisper his confession through the grille, while the other penitent waited for the wooden slat to open the grille when the priest was ready. Drouin hesitated, he didn't want to hear a confession because he knew too much already. He entered the centre box and sat down heavily, taking comfort in the familiar, polished wood smell, leaning forward to pull the door closed. The door stuck, then swung back open, and John entered the priest's box. He had put on latex gloves. He grabbed Drouin by the neck and pushed his knee into the priest's chest to hold him in place.

“John, what…?”

“I'm sorry, Father.”

“John….”

John tightened his grip on Drouin's throat and cut off the words. Using his free hand, he pulled a plastic bottle from the inside pocket of his winter coat and inserted the pointed end between the priest's lips, forcing liquid into his mouth. He let go of the priest's neck and clapped his hand over his mouth and nose. Drouin stared up in terror, his mouth full of liquid and his lungs pleading for air. John withdrew the bottle and put it in his pocket. He reached behind the priest's neck, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled, forcing Drouin to look up at the wooden ceiling of the box. Drouin's mouth opened slightly, and the liquid flowed down his throat. He gasped like someone drowning, but the hand on his mouth stifled even a cough. Again the bottle, and again his mouth filled with liquid. The knee on his chest was pushing forcefully. In seconds, the liquid had flowed down his throat, and he was drowning again. He couldn't get enough air. Another mouthful, and he looked into John's eyes, pleading. John stared back, and Drouin realized it was hopeless and began to pray in his mind, giving himself up to his creator.

“Father Henri. It's God's work. Even this. You should not have interfered.”

Before leaving the box, John checked for a pulse, and then placed the bottle into Drouin's hand, the same hand that was still clutching the rosary beads. He removed an envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the handrail inside the confessional. He took off the latex gloves, placed them in his pocket and left the box, closing the door behind him. Leaving the Cathedral, he dipped his hand into the holy water in the font by the front door and blessed himself.

NOON

Vanier was sitting across the table from Mme. Paradis and the sketch artist. Mme. Paradis's eyes were sparkling incongruously from within a tired face and a slouching body. She was enjoying her big day, but her body would have preferred to be lying down somewhere quiet.

“Now, Mme. Paradis, take a good look at the sketch and take your time. Tell me if you think that it's a good image of the man you say placed the ads in the
Journal de Montréal
. The man who signed himself Pious John.”

She studied the sketch for a few moments, squinting her eyes.

“That's him. That's him perfectly,” she said. “You're very good, M. Beaucage,” she said, giving him a practiced smile.

“Thank you Madame, but I am only as good as the witness's memory.”

“Are you sure, Madame? Are you confident that this is a good likeness?” asked Vanier.

“Positive,” she said, turning back to Beaucage with another smile.

Vanier hated eyewitness identification, and he hated sketched likenesses even more. Eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable. When six people inside a bank couldn't come up with the same number of men carrying guns, how could you expect them to get the eye colour or even the height correct? But it was easy, and too many cops went along with it. He knew it had put thousands of innocents in jails and helped as many guilty go free. And if eyewitness identification wasn't bad enough, an artist's rendition of what the witness thought they remembered was even worse. A bad sketch, and they were all bad sketches, was a-get-out-of-jail-free card when it didn't look anything like the accused.

Vanier turned to the artist, “M. Beaucage, could you get some 8 ½ by 11 copies, maybe twenty, made up as quickly as possible?”

“Yes, Inspector. There's a machine on the fifth floor that I've used before. I can do it immediately.”

Beaucage took his sketch and left Vanier and Mme. Paradis together.

“So, Mme. Paradis, tell me about Pious John.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

Mme. Paradis played with her empty coffee cup, but Vanier didn't take the hint. “Well, as I said to the other officers, he was a special sort. He would come in, take a number, and wait for his turn, sitting in that long black cassock like he was just like everyone else. Yet he stood out, like a film star. And when he sat in front of you, I've never seen eyes like that. It wasn't the colour, lots of people have brown eyes, but they looked into you like they knew your soul. I see all kinds of people every day, but he was different. There was deepness about him, a sad look in his eyes, like he knew so much more than the rest of us. And when he talked to you, it was like you were the only person in the world. Like that song from the seventies, “and read each thought aloud.”

“
Killing me softly
.”

“What?”

“The song, Roberta Flack,
Killing Me Softly With His Love
.”