holding general proxies for more than two-thirds of the votes of the Foundation, and he intends to use them to approve the swap. And his ass is covered because the Board will recommend the swap. It’s loaded with Blackrock appointees.”
Beaudoin finished his beer, and Vanier gestured for two more.
“So how much do they stand to make?”
“Hard to tell. I’ve seen studies that value the condo project at $400 million. The land alone, free and ready to develop, is worth about $80 million. It’s three city blocks, about ten minutes walking distance from downtown.”
“When’s the vote?”
“That’s what I haven’t been able to figure out. Even though Henderson is sitting on enough proxies to carry the vote, he still has to do things by the book. He needs to give notice to all the Foundation members and tell them what business is being considered. I’ve drafted and redrafted the notice a dozen times, and Henderson keeps giving it back to me. He says it’s too clear, that I should make it obscure. I’ve drafted fine print that would make you go blind. That notice will go out soon, and then it’s fifteen days to the meeting.”
The beer arrived, and Beaudoin took a deep gulp. Vanier looked at him, trying to make up his mind, thinking that maybe a late conversion was better than none.
“How do you feel?”
“How the hell do you think I feel? I feel like shit. I’m betraying the one good thing I’ve done in the last five years. I try to justify it. I didn’t really have a choice, I have to support my family.”
“That justifies it?”
“No, that’s not it. But I’ve got responsibilities. I’ve got two beautiful children and a wife who still loves me. Somebody has to put bread on the table.”
“If only life were that easy, Pascal. The reason why you screw people doesn’t matter, you’re still screwing people. And who says you’re entitled to use your family like that, to justify something they wouldn’t agree with anyway.”
“You’re right. It’s just bullshit self-justification. It’s just me. I’m responsible. My family’s not involved.”
“Oh, they’re involved. If you’re involved, so are they. It’s just not their fault. But you didn’t call me for forgiveness or for a blessing. What is bothering you?”
Beaudoin stared into his beer and said nothing.
Vanier tried again. “What does your wife think of all this?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“You sure?”
“No. Maybe that’s why I called you. Something’s got to give. Letting this happen is a betrayal of who I am, of who I see myself as. I won’t be the person she married, and she’ll know. If she accepts it, we’ll both be different people. And I don’t think I would like either of us.”
“People change all the time,” Vanier said.
“No, they grow, they mature. But what’s at the core stays the same.”
Vanier thought about what he had said about Marcel Audet never changing. “Maybe you’re right.”
“So, what should I do?”
“I’m the last person to ask for advice. It’s your decision. You have to make it.”
“But I’m not alone.”
“Then talk to your wife. They tell me that communication is good; it’s a healthy part of every marriage.” Vanier sounded like he believed it.
Beaudoin was silent.
“So, what’s Marcel Audet doing at the shelter?”
“I’ve thought about that. Blackrock has something on Nolet. He used to be a solid guy, but he’s shut down for the last six months. He knows what’s going on, but says nothing, like he’s scared. I think Audet is there to keep an eye on him, to keep the pressure on. From what I’ve heard, Audet seems to have started a personal business, kind of a pay-day loan scheme. If you’re homeless, you can use the Shelter’s address to receive social security checks. I think Audet cashes them, for a price, and pockets a percentage. He’s a nasty piece of work.”
“I know. So why did you call me? What can I do?”
“Nothing, I guess. It’s just, when you showed up at the office, I was hoping that the deal would be sidetracked. It wasn’t. Henderson’s still pushing.”
He looked at Vanier, his hands opening up on the table. “This isn’t police business, is it?”
“Not that I can see. Just another deal where good people get screwed over and everything is perfectly legitimate.”
“This isn’t where I wanted to be. You start by making small concessions, and before you know it, you’ve sold out. Your visit shook me. It made me think.” He took a long slug of beer and looked at Vanier. “Maybe I just wanted a sounding board. No, it’s more than that. I wanted you to know what’s going on.”
“Like I said, I don’t normally give advice,” said Vanier. “You lawyers have that all sewn up. But I’ll make an exception in your case, Maitre. Things can get ugly when there’s a lot of money involved. Be careful.”
Vanier wrote his cell phone number on his card and handed it to Beaudoin. “Call me. If you’re worried. If something comes up. Call me.”
Beaudoin put the card in his pocket, and Vanier stood up.
“So, when I go to see Blackrock Investments, who should I ask for?” said Vanier.
Beaudoin looked up at the policeman, surprised, and told him.
4.30 PM
Blackrock Investments had its offices on the top floor of a building on Chabanel, the centre of Montreal’s garment district until the industry abandoned Montreal for the sweatshops of China, Vietnam and Bangladesh. With the industry gone, Chabanel became a honeycomb of empty spaces. That’s where Blackrock came in. Backed by generous subsidies of other people’s money, subsidies from all levels of government, they began buying the empty shells and reinventing the area as the creative and artistic centre of Montreal. Even with the subsidies, it was hard going, but eventually the neighbourhood started to fill up with designers, artists and software producers. Rents were cheap, because everyone was subsidized.
Vanier and St. Jacques sat in the steel-themed reception area on oversized chairs that looked like they were designed by a club-hopper whose idea of furniture was a place to perch for a few seconds before flitting to the next flower. The receptionist, a tall Haitian beauty, was dressed for a fashion shoot and thumbing through a magazine like they weren’t there. Chill-out music, the kind Vanier hated, played from expensive speakers hidden somewhere in the decor. St. Jacques shifted uncomfortably on her perch.
The thick carpeting masked the sound of the approaching men, and Vanier sensed movement only at the last minute. Two men stood in front of them in suits that looked like they had been sprayed on. The shorter of the two reached out his hand to Vanier, “Inspector Vanier, I am Vladimir, Vladimir Markov. Please call me Vladimir, everyone does. And this is Mr. Romanenko. He prefers to be called Mr. Romanenko.”
Vanier found himself being polite. “Gentlemen, this is Detective Sergeant St. Jacques.”
Markov’s eyes made a fairly obvious tour of St. Jacques’s body. “Detective Sergeant, I am charmed to meet you. Tell me, do you wear a gun? I would find that so exciting,” he said, turning on what might pass for charm in Eastern Europe.
“Gentlemen, we have a few questions we would like to ask,” said Vanier.
“Follow me, Inspector,” said Markov, turning to the boardroom. “Ayida,” he said to the receptionist, “could you whip up some coffee for our guests?”
“
“
Markov led them into a boardroom dominated by a huge conference table of grey polished steel that contrasted with the white walls and black-framed prints.
