“What is it we can do for you? Are you selling tickets for the annual ball?”
“The annual ball is a thing of the past, but if it is ever revived, I’ll put you down for a table, shall I?”
“Absolutely.”
“We were here to speak to Maitre Beaudoin about his work with the Holy Land Shelter.”
“Well, there are no secrets in this office. We supported Pascal’s efforts to help the needy. He has a big heart. But you know how it is Inspector, business comes first. After five years, it was time for him to direct his efforts elsewhere. We live in a very competitive world, and there are limits to how much time can be wasted. We are all slaves to the billable hour; the clients are more demanding by the day.”
Beaudoin looked down at the table, scratching notes on a yellow pad.
“And talking of the almighty billable hour, Inspector, it would be more efficient if you would write down your questions to Pascal and send them to us. We would be happy to provide you with answers to any questions you might have. But right now, I need Pascal on a call to Japan that I promised would begin in five minutes,” said Henderson, looking at his watch.
Vanier took the cue, hoping he could come back some day with a good reason to question Henderson. He’d been thrown out of bars with more subtlety. The two policemen stood up and exchanged handshakes with the lawyers. Beaudoin left them at reception, but Henderson waited to see them leave. Vanier cast a goodbye smile at the receptionist, who gave him one of her own and a small wave.
“Fucking bastard,” said Vanier as the elevator doors closed.
3.45 PM
When the door closed on the departing policemen, Gordon Henderson walked into Beaudoin’s office.
“Pascal, why didn’t you tell me that you were meeting with police inspectors? I don’t like having to find out things like that from Julie.”
“Well, Mr. Henderson, they just called this morning and asked if I would have time to give him some background on the Holy Land Shelter for their investigation. They’re the ones on the Christmas Eve deaths. I didn’t think anything of it, they just wanted background information.”
“Just background information? Pascal, you know that the Shelter is a very sensitive file. We can’t go around discussing it with just anyone, and particularly not with policemen. We have a duty to our client. I really am disappointed, Pascal.”
Beaudoin swallowed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have spoken to you first. It’s just … well, you’re right.”
“Just see that it doesn’t happen again. Now, where are you on the Blanchard letter? I need to send that out first thing tomorrow morning. Is it ready?”
“Almost, Mr. Henderson. Almost,” Beaudoin said. He hadn’t even started it. “It will be on your desk before you arrive in the morning,” he added, ruining not only his evening, but a good part of the night.
“Wonderful. I’ll leave you to it then,” Henderson said, and left.
Beaudoin pulled a file from the pile on his desk and began to focus on the problems of M. Blanchard, who wanted to double the size of his Westmount house over the objection of his neighbours and the city council. He began typing into the computer, drafting objections to the reasonable arguments of the city and the neighbours that the plans ignored the by-laws and the character of the neighborhood, and would be a palatial monument to bad taste. He would get to the threats against the individuals and the council later; it was always better to close with the threats. At 7.30 p.m., he stopped writing, picked up the phone and punched numbers.
“Hello?” a young voice, a girl.
“Hey, Chickadee!”
“Papa,” she squealed. “Where are you? Maman made shepherd’s pie, your favourite.”
“I’m still at the office, my love. I have to work late. Can you pass me Maman?”
“Maman,” she yelled into the phone. There was silence. Then she said, “Maman says if you’re going to be late, you can heat up your supper in the microwave. Are you going to be here before I go to bed? I can wait for you.”
“No, my love. It’s going to be late. Tell you what, though, I’ll see you in the morning. Tell Maman and David good night from me, and give them both a big kiss and a hug. I love you, Chickadee.”
“Me too, Papa. But I gotta go. Dinner’s on the table. Bye.”
He heard the click of disconnection and put the phone back in the receiver. He turned back to M. Blanchard’s problem, which was quickly becoming Westmount’s problem.
5 PM
From where he sat, Vanier could see the back of D.S. Fletcher’s head. Fletcher had just returned to work and was catching up. Vanier had spent the last hour reading interview reports and watching Fletcher. Eventually, Fletcher pushed his chair back and rose from his desk, stretching. “Anyone want coffee?”
“Sure,” said Vanier, fishing for change. “Regular Colombian, milk, no sugar.”
Fletcher took the coins and three other orders and left. His jacket was still on the chair, and Vanier was on his feet immediately, walking towards the wall that held the maps, photos and notes of the investigation. As he passed Fletcher’s desk, he bent slightly and pulled Fletcher’s cell phone from his jacket pocket. Back at his desk he quickly scribbled the numbers in the call log since Christmas Eve, along with the times and duration. He looked up from time to time and scanned the room, but if anyone had noticed, they were not saying anything. When the list was done, he wandered back towards the photo wall and slipped the phone back into Fletcher’s pocket. He was studying the wall when Fletcher returned with the coffee.
“So what do you think, sir?” said Fletcher, handing him the coffee.
“Thanks. Don’t know what to think. Maybe we’re wasting our time.”
“We won’t know till we get the cause of death, I suppose.”
Fletcher went back to his desk. An hour later, he went to the bathroom, and Vanier approached St. Jacques and handed her a paper.
“I have a job that needs discretion.”
She looked at the list.
“I want all these numbers identified, but don’t do the checking from here, and don’t tell anyone what you’re doing.”
She couldn’t help glancing at Fletcher’s desk.
“Yes, sir. When do you need this?”
“Soon as you can, Sergeant.”
11 PM
Vanier was wandering fitfully around his apartment, picking things up and putting them away, keeping busy. An unopened bottle of Jameson was calling to him, and he was doing his best to resist. It was late, and he wasn’t tired, but sleep would be the only way to quiet the bottle. The phone rang.
“Luc?”
“Anjili. What’s new?”
“Bad news. The five victims from Christmas Eve all died of poisoning. Potassium cyanide.”
“Are you sure?”
“Normally toxicology can take weeks of tests, if you don’t know what you’re looking for. There are just too many variables. But we decided to test directly for potassium cyanide. All the victims were flushed.”
“Flushed?”
“Pink looking. First, we put it down to alcohol, but one of the doctors reported smelling almonds, which is typical with potassium cyanide poisoning. So we got one of the bottles from your people and tested the residue. It showed positive for potassium cyanide, along with rum and eggnog. Then we did blood tests and found significant concentrations in each of them. Luc, each of them had ingested enough to kill a horse. These people were poisoned, Luc.”
“Shit. What exactly is potassium cyanide?”
“It’s the same poison that Jim Jones used for the mass suicide of his followers. Remember Georgetown?”
