reaction it got. He had had it wrapped in Place Ville Marie by volunteers collecting money for the Children’s Hospital. Since Marianne had left, he had every important present, and there weren’t many, wrapped by women who could wrap presents better than he could. It made no difference. The hands lay unmoving underneath the package. He reached over and turned each hand upwards so that they held the gift.
“So things are going great, Mum, really great. Elise is growing up so fast, it’s incredible. She’s becoming a real lady. She couldn’t come today. She has a thing at the church but she told me to give you a big hug from her. And to wish you a Merry Christmas. That’s what she said, merry, not just happy.”
Vanier stood up and leaned over to hug his mother. “That’s from Elise, Mum,” he whispered into her ear. She stared, unblinking.
“Marianne couldn’t come either. She sends her apologies. Had to be with Elise at the church too,” he lied, “and Alex sends his love.”
Vanier looked around. The room was quiet, as though the residents were waiting for the party to begin, like toys waiting for a child. Or maybe they were having the party when he arrived and stopped, unwilling to let him into their secret. Three women were looking at him, smiling.
“So we had a great Christmas, Mum. I wish you had been there. We had the whole thing. The turkey was the best in years, crisp golden brown skin and moist inside. The whole house smelled of roast turkey. Potatoes, mashed, sweet, and roast. You remember Mum, how much I love roast potatoes, don’t you? Especially the way you used to make them. And the stuffing Mum, nobody makes stuffing like yours, with the sage and onions, but Marianne’s came in a close second. She uses your recipe. We had Brussels sprouts, peas, green beans, and those carrots that you like in thin sticks. And then we had one of those old-fashioned Christmas puddings with holly on the top. I poured some brandy on it and set it on fire. What a feast. We had friends over to help us eat it all, and there’s still enough left over for a week.”
He reached across and took her hand. “Mum, I wish you could have been there. You should have seen us. What a time.”
He took the package from her hand. “Aren’t you going to open your present, Mum? Let me help.”
Vanier took the present and began to unwrap it. He opened the box and looked inside like it was a surprise. Reaching in, he took out a fur scarf and held it up. “What do you think, Mum? It’s made of fox, I think. It’s like one you used to have years ago, the one you were wearing in that photograph of you and Dad in Winnipeg. When was that? Could have been 1953, before my time. Let me help you put it on.”
He gently placed it around her neck, took her hand, and drew her fingers down its soft length a few times. He placed her hand back in her lap and sat down. He looked into her eyes and convinced himself that they had changed, softened a little.
“So, I’m still busy Mum. Always something new, always chasing after the bad guys. This time, we have a really bad sort. But we’ll get him, Mum. We’ll get him soon.”
Vanier sat there looking into her eyes. Eventually, he became aware of eyes on him and stood up to kiss his mother on the cheek.
“I have to go now Mum. I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”
He bent again and kissed her on her head, holding the kiss. Standing up, he looked around at several faces that had been watching, and mustered a broad grin. “And a very Merry Christmas to all of you.”
Most smiled back.
Vanier left, turning once at the door to the lounge to look back at his mother sitting motionless in her chair.
The drive back was difficult. The storm was in full force, and visibility was close to zero. He played Coleman Hawkins, and, as always with the Hawk, felt better, like a load was slowly lifting. Tom Waits to walk with you on the way down, the Hawk to bring you back up.
FIVE
DECEMBER 27
7 AM
The early morning sun reflected red and gold off downtown buildings, promising a cold day under a cloudless sky. Sunlight was flooding into Vanier’s apartment, and he was feeling good. After watching the sunrise over the river, he had taken a long shower and dressed in a clean suit and ironed shirt. He sat on the couch, his face bathed in the light of the rising sun, and closed his eyes. There was no alcohol fuzziness and no fatigue from sleeping on the couch. Christmas was over.
He focused on his breathing, belly out for the inward breath, in for the outward breath, and relaxed. Thoughts bubbled up from the depths, and he acknowledged them as he had been taught, and let them continue their upward journey out of consciousness. After five minutes, there were no more thoughts, just steady breathing, awareness and a sense of wellbeing. He let twenty minutes roll into thirty, like a child refusing to come out of the pool in summer, and finally surfaced with an unconscious smile on his face.
He got up, stretched, and went into the kitchen, cut chunks from a block of extra-old cheddar, and put an English muffin in the toaster. The kettle boiled, and he made a cup of instant coffee, then sat at the table eating and looking at downtown through the picture window. The phone rang.
“Vanier,” he said.
“Luc,” said Dr. Anjili Segal.
“Anjili. How are you?” said Vanier, happy that he didn’t sound like he had been drinking all night.
“I’m well Luc. So, you survived Christmas?
“It was wonderful,” he lied. “And you?”
“The same, Luc. But I’ll be glad to get back to work. I’m booked for the fourth and fifth autopsies of your Christmas Eve victims. If you want to be there, I am starting at 11.30 on the first. Probably three o’clock on the other one.”
“I’ll be there, Anjili. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
“You don’t have to be facetious, Luc. I just thought you would be interested in attending.”
“Anjili, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll be there. I may even bring a guest.”
“I’ll see you then, Luc,” she said and hung up.
9 AM
St. Jacques put the phone down as Vanier walked into the Squad Room. She didn’t look happy.
“The Santa suits are a dead end, sir. We checked the rental stores on the Island without any luck. There are only four stores that rent them out, but there’s any number of other places that sell them. Even Wal-Mart sells them. Of the four rental places, only two rented suits with fur trim on the bottom of the pants. Apparently, it’s a premium item, and our Santa had fur on the hem of his pants. Only eight of those suits were still out on Christmas Eve. It seems that the big trade in rentals is for parties before Christmas, not for the night itself. Anyway, all but eight of them were returned before Christmas Eve.”
“Have we tracked them down?” asked Vanier.
“Seven were accounted for, and both the owners and their suits were far away from downtown on Christmas Eve. The eighth was rented by a Tony Martino, who was at home Christmas Eve, but he left the suit in his office. He was supposed to have returned it on December 23 but didn’t. He was nervous during the interview with the uniforms. He said he left the suit in the office after the Christmas party because there was a stain on it and he wanted to wash it out before giving it back.”
“He couldn’t bring it home for the wife to wash, I suppose?” said Vanier.
“Exactly, sir. Human frailty,” said St. Jacques. “The stain seems to have been semen, his own, the result of an encounter with one his staff that got out of hand, so to speak. Kind of like the Lewinsky dress. He wanted to clean it up before he brought it back, but didn’t have time, so he left it in the office. He told the officers where he left it, and that’s where it was when Martino brought the officers to the office. Martino says that nobody could have got into the office after it closed, and he was with his family on Christmas Eve.”
Vanier sighed. “So no easy trail to Santa. The perfect disguise at Christmas. Everyone sees it but there’s
