Out of the bag he brought a brick of paraffin wax. “Monsieur Beliveau says everyone’s been buying paraffin, especially at this time of year.”
“Not much help,” said Beauvoir, taking his seat again.
“No, but this might be.” And from the bag he pulled a tin. On it was written
“Oh, really?” Beauvoir uncapped the marker.
Agent Lacoste, like every Montrealer, knew about Habitat, the strange and exotic apartment building created for Expo 67, the great World’s Fair. The buildings had been considered avant garde then, and still were. They sat on Ile des Soeurs, in the St. Lawrence River, a tribute to creativity and vision. Once seen Habitat was never forgotten. Instead of a square or rectangular building to house people the architect had made each room a separate block, an elongated cube. It looked like a jumble of children’s building blocks, piled on top of each other. One interconnected with another, some above, some below, some off to the side, so that daylight shone through the building and the rooms were all bathed in sun. And the views from each room were spectacular, either of the grand river or of the magnificent city.
Lacoste had never been in a Habitat condo, but she was about to. Jacques Brule, Olivier’s father, lived there.
“Come in,” he said, unsmiling, as he opened the door. “You said this was about my son?”
Monsieur Brule was very unlike his son. He had a full head of dark hair and was robust. Behind him she could see the gleaming wood floors, the slate fireplace and the huge windows looking onto the river. The condo was tasteful and expensive.
“I wonder if we could sit down?”
“I wonder if you could come to the point?”
He stood at the door, blocking her way. Not allowing her farther into his home.
“As I mentioned on the phone, I’m with homicide. We’re investigating a murder in Three Pines.”
The man looked blank.
“Where your son lives.” He nodded, once. Lacoste continued. “A body was found in the bistro there.”
She’d intentionally not identified the bistro. Olivier’s father waited, showing absolutely no recognition, no alarm, no concern at all.
“Olivier’s Bistro,” she finally said.
“And what do you want from me?”
It was far from unusual in a murder case to find fractured families, but she hadn’t expected to find one here.
“I’d like to know about Olivier, his upbringing, his background, his interests.”
“You’ve come to the wrong parent. You’d need to ask his mother.”
“I’m sorry, but I thought she’d died.”
“She has.”
“You told me on the phone he went to Notre Dame de Sion. Quite a good school, I hear. But it only goes to grade six. How about after that?”
“I think he went to Loyola. Or was it Brebeuf? I can’t remember.”
“
“No, I’d never divorce.” This was the most animated he’d been. Much more upset by the suggestion of divorce than death and certainly than murder. Lacoste waited. And waited. Eventually Jacques Brule spoke.
“I was away a lot, building a career.”
But Agent Lacoste, who hunted killers and still knew what schools her children attended, knew that wasn’t much of an explanation, or excuse.
“Was he ever in trouble? Did he get into fights? Any problems?”
“With Olivier? None at all. He was a regular boy, mind you. He’d get into scrapes, but nothing serious.”
It was like interviewing a marshmallow, or a salesman about a dining room set. Monsieur Brule seemed on the verge of calling his son “it” throughout the conversation.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” She wasn’t sure that was exactly on topic, but she wanted to know.
“I don’t know.”
She should have guessed. As she left he called after her, “Tell him I said hello.”
Lacoste stopped at the elevator, pressed the button, and looked back at the large man standing in the door frame, shutting out all the light that she knew was streaming into his apartment.
“Maybe you can tell him yourself. Visit even. Have you met Gabri?”
“Gabri?”
“Gabriel. His partner.”
“Gabrielle? He hasn’t told me about her.”
The elevator came and she stepped in, wondering if Monsieur Brule would ever find Three Pines. She also wondered about this man who kept so much hidden.
