moment to talk with Chac.
With the silent lull following and Michel’s expression thoughtful, almost morose, as the elevator doors opened Donatiens asked, ‘Something wrong?’
Michel smiled wanly. ‘Yeah. I just heard Madonna gave the spot to someone else.’
Within ten minutes of Michel calling Chac back with his thoughts about Venegas, Chac called Dorchester Blvd HQ to put out a general alert for Roman Lacaille’s black series 7 BMW.
The alert hit first all squad cars on Montreal Island, Monteregie, Laval, Laurentides and Lanaudiere, then minutes later was spread to up-province Quebec.
Venegas’s sudden departure might have been purely co-incidence, but if he had somehow got warning that he was being moved in on, Michel was betting good money that Roman Lacaille was involved. ‘Check his usual haunts, and if there’s no luck put out an alert for his Beamer. It’s distinctive, can’t be too difficult to track down.’
No news had fed back by the time Michel led Donatiens into a private room. Setting up the tape and having Donatiens brought a coffee killed another eight minutes, but still nothing. Michel’s unease returned. It promised to be a tense session, but knowing that Venegas was loose out there somewhere added an extra edge. If anything broke, he was going to be excusing himself a fair few times from the interview room; part of the key was not letting Donatiens know the state of play with Venegas.
The other thing pressing hard now on Michel, an increasing leaden cloak of suspicion that seeped like cold rain through every muscle, making him shudder, was that if Venegas had received a warning — which then might also explain how Roman Lacaille knew that Savard was in with them — then just who in his department could be the leak?
Roman Lacaille held his speed steady at 65 mph on Highway 40 towards Trois Riveres and Quebec City.
‘Where is this cabin?’ Venegas asked, glancing briefly across from re-tuning the radio as the Montreal easy- listening FM station they’d been listening to began to crackle and fade.
‘About eighty miles north. Lake Shawinigan, just beyond Trois Riveres. In the summer it gets busy, but this time of year it’ll be deserted. It’s ideal.’
‘Is it a family cabin?’ Venegas raised an eyebrow. ‘I mean — is it going to be an option they might easily jump for?’
‘What, you think I’m stupid.’ Roman waved one hand off the wheel, as if with another quick flip he might just slap Venegas. ‘It’s a friend of a friend’s. They ain’t going to trace it in a hurry.’
Venegas had always unsettled Roman. The product of a Sicilian mother and Venezuelan father, he had tight-knit curls and thick lips which might have been sensuous if they weren’t so out of place with his button-bead dark eyes and hardly any eyelids. But then he hadn’t chosen Venegas for his social companionship, it had been his reputation as an ice-veined hit man — which made Roman all the more unsettled now thinking of what lay ahead. Venegas had put on a baseball cap to hide his trademark curls and shield part of his face; obviously he was concerned that photos might already be out on the wire.
Venegas looked across hopefully from beneath the cap’s peak as Stevie Wonder’s ‘I Just Called’ came across. ‘Is that okay?’
Roman shrugged. ‘Yeah. It’ll do.’ The other brief flash choices had been Waylon Jennings, some hip-hop and a religious programme; but most of all the repetitive sound-burst changing grated on Roman’s nerves, given everything else swimming around in his mind.
Getting Venegas away had been frantic: his warning phone call, then Venegas packing a bag and getting clear with probably only minutes to spare before the RCMP arrived at his door. At Roman’s instruction, Venegas had walked two blocks from his apartment and grabbed a cab to a Boulevard St Laurent cafe, where Roman caught up with him ten minutes later. Venegas threw his kit bag in the back seat, and they sped north.
The first few miles, particularly crossing the Anuntsic Bridge, had been the worst. The tension tightened his nerves until the pulse throbbing at his temples ached. Still now he was tense and watchful for patrol cars, and his speed: several cars passed doing 70 mph or more, but just as many were going slower. He wanted to be as faceless and nondescript as possible among the traffic flow.
Venegas was looking out thoughtfully over the snowbound landscape. ‘Is the cabin heated?’
‘Yeah, there’s a wood-burning stove. And apparently there should be plenty of chopped logs at the side.’ Roman looked across. ‘But anyways, you’re not going to be stopping there long. Ten days, two weeks for the heat to die down, time too to get a fake passport — and then you’ll be gone.’
‘Do you know where to yet?’
‘Martinique — I know a few places there. Or maybe Yucatan or Cuba; we’ve been doing some business there recently.’ Roman shrugged. ‘I haven’t completely decided yet.’ He was making it up as he went along. He knew that Venegas wasn’t going to make it any further than eighty miles north. But he was becoming increasingly anxious as the miles rolled by knowing that Venegas was armed to the teeth: a semi-automatic in his kit-bag and a 9mm in his inside pocket. Roman had asked what Venegas was carrying by-the-way, as if he might make up any shortfall. Roman had two guns with him: a.44 in his inside pocket and a.38 in his glove compartment.
‘Martinique sounds nice,’ Venegas said absently.
‘Yeah,’ Roman agreed. He welcomed the light conversation to ease his nerves; it might also help Venegas chill out. Venegas had noticeably calmed form the first frantic half-hour of their drive, but at moments his gun hand was still skitterish — clenching and unclenching on his knee or starting a move towards his jacket with the occasional car passing close. Roman could do with relaxing that hand a notch more. ‘Our mom goes down there regularly. She gets any browner and picks up any more patois, she’ll be a native.’
‘How long would I have to stay away?’
‘Could be a while. Eighteen months, maybe more for something like this to blow over.’
‘Beaches good down there?’ Venegas asked, thinking ahead to swaying palms and white sand when nothing but snow rolled past their window.
‘Yeah, real good. Mom stays in the south of the island, le Diamant, and there’s a beach there that…’
Roman broke off at the moment, noticing for the first time the squad car hanging four cars back.
‘Something wrong?’ Venegas asked as Roman’s eyes flickered repeatedly to his rear-view mirror.
‘Blue and white. But whatever you do don’t look round.’ Roman noticed Venegas’s gun hand, which had slowly relaxed with the tropic-isle talk, clench tight and tense again on his thigh. ‘Hopefully won’t be a problem.’
‘I thought you said your plan would work.’ Venegas stared stonily ahead.
‘I thought it would.’ But as the squad car moved up closer to only two cars behind, Roman had his doubts. He could picture them checking the registration, then they’d pull up just behind and the siren would wind up for them to pull over. Venegas’s gun hand sneaked inside his jacket.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Roman fired Venegas a warning glare. ‘They’ll have a pump-action pointed at the back of our heads before they even step out.’ He glanced back in his mirror to see the squad car ease up just behind.
‘We’ve got to do something.’ Venegas’s eyes shifted frantically, at one point towards his kit-bag in the back with the semi-automatic. ‘Can’t just let them take me like this.’
Roman’s brow sweated, trying to weigh up the squad car and what Venegas might do next. Still no siren as yet. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Roman hissed under his breath, as if the car behind might hear. ‘Why do you think they’re hanging back? They’re radioing for back-up. Even if they decide to pull us over on their own, the cavalry will be here before your gun’s even stopped smoking.’
Roman’s jaw tensed as the squad car pulled out from behind and started edging up alongside. Roman wasn’t sure whether to keep staring straight ahead or glance over as you might with any car that passed close. Venegas’s face too was a tense, frozen study, now turned slightly away — but at least his gun hand had eased away from his jacket and was rested back on his thigh. The squad car pulled directly level, and Roman finally went in-between and cast a brief sideways glance without hardly shifting his head. But the passenger seat officer paid little notice to them, he seemed wrapped up talking to the driver.
They eased by in only seconds — though for Roman it felt like torturous minutes, expecting the siren to suddenly wind up or another officer to pop up from the back seat and point a pump-action through the window at
