reach of lowly police officers.
Eventually Ayida reappeared with a tray and four china cups.
“Ayida used to be a barista, and she cannot resist showing off her talent,” said Markov. “Isn’t that right, Ayida?”
Ayida acknowledged that he was right with a faint smile, and withdrew without a word.
“The coffee is roasted by 49th Parallel in Vancouver. Without a doubt, they are the best coffee roasters in North America, true artisans. Cheers!” Markov said, as he raised his cup.
Vanier reciprocated with a nod despite himself; he had to admit that the coffee was a huge step up from the machine at headquarters, even down to the palm tree pattern traced into the foamed milk. St. Jacques stared at the palm tree in her cup. Vanier pulled out a notebook and placed it on the table, a simple act of intimidation that seemed to be lost on Markov. Romanenko stared at the notebook.
“Now, Inspector,” said Markov, “how can we help you?”
“We’re looking into the deaths of five homeless people on Christmas Eve.”
“I heard about that,” said Markov. “It’s tragic. As a member of the community, I feel that we really must do more for the less fortunate in society. But how can we help you with this, Inspector?”
“We’re looking into Blackrock’s relationship with the Holy Land Shelter. You’re familiar with the Shelter, I assume?”
“Of course I am, Inspector. Isn’t every Montrealer? It’s a wonderful institution. In fact, I believe that we made a substantial donation to the Shelter last year. As I said earlier, we at Blackrock are very cognizant of our civic duty.”
“What is your involvement with the Shelter, apart from the donation, of course?”
Markov sat, perfectly composed. He didn’t look like he was forming an answer, and that was Romanenko’s cue.
“Could you be a little more specific Inspector? That’s a fairly vague question,” said Romanenko.
The gloves were coming off, and Vanier felt more at ease.
“Is Blackrock interested in acquiring the Holy Land Shelter land?”
“Inspector,” said Romanenko. “I can’t see how Blackrock’s investment plans have anything to do with your inquiries.”
“Let me decide that. It’s a simple question, yes or no?”
“Simple, I agree,” said Romanenko. “But you are asking a question relating to the confidential business plans of a private corporation. A question, I might add, that has no apparent bearing on your investigation. If people knew what we plan to do, anyone — even a policeman — could make a fortune. Confidentiality is a critical part of our business. I am sure you understand, Inspector.” He turned to face Markov. “I am advising my client not to answer any questions relating to the business plans of the company.”
“He’s strict, Inspector,” said Markov. “Perhaps that’s why he’s so good. But I must follow my lawyer’s instructions. Is there anything else you wanted to know? Perhaps something related to your investigation?”
Vanier was outgunned but tried again. “I’ve noticed that many of the current Board members of the Shelter have ties either to Blackrock, or to you. Why would that be?”
“Inspector,” said Romanenko, “I believe that the usual objection to your question is that it assumes facts that have not been proven. And, again, that it does not appear to have any connection with your investigation.”
“He is good, isn’t he?” said Markov, smiling like an insurance salesman.
“So you won’t help us with our investigation,” Vanier said, looking at Markov.
Markov moved forward in his chair and looked Vanier in the eye, dropping the all-good-friends pretences.
“Inspector, if you come to me with a question relating to your investigation, any question at all, you will have my full cooperation. But don’t think for one moment that you have a licence to come wandering in here with your wonderful assistant just because there is something about the modern world that you don’t understand. Catch the madman who committed these murders, and I will have a word with the Mayor about a commendation. But I recommend that you stay with the job at hand, Inspector.”
“Tell me, Mr. Markov, do you know a Michel Audet? He works at the Holy Land Shelter.”
“Who?”
“Michel Audet. Name ring a bell?”
“Honestly, I can’t say that it does. But you know how it is, Inspector. I meet so many people, sometimes names escape me.”
“Even though your Board members hired someone with a criminal record for security?”
Markov said nothing. “Inspector, the Board does what it thinks is best for the shelter. Who am I to second- guess their decisions? Anyway, all I can say is that I don’t recall this Mr. Audet. Perhaps I met him, perhaps not.”
“Thank you, sir. I think that is all then,” said Vanier, standing to leave. He waited for St. Jacques to join him, standing next to a perfect scale model of Blackrock’s latest project, perfect, even down to the tiny people and shrubbery. As St. Jacques approached, he took a step back towards the maquette, and St. Jacques saw that a collision was inevitable.
Markov yelled, “Stop,” but Vanier continued, colliding with the table, and sending the maquette crashing to the floor where it broke into pieces. Vanier looked up from the pile of rubble.
“So sorry. Accident.”
Markov was angry and doing his best to contain it. He walked over to Vanier and said quietly, “Hey, policeman, chill. I’ll have Ayida show you out.”
“No need, we know the way.”
St. Jacques joined Vanier as he walked to the exit. Vanier wondered how long it would be before the complaint reached Bedard.
8 PM
The city was half way through the job of clearing the snow from the last storm when another rolled in, promising to drop 25 to 39 centimetres. It had started around 5.30 p.m., and the snow was inches deep. Despite the storm, rue St. Denis was still crowded with bar-hoppers. At every corner, teenagers, refugees from small towns in the country and crap neighbourhoods in Montreal mumbled to anyone who would listen, “Hash, coke, Ex?” The market was open, and business was brisk.
Vanier was walking north, amusing himself by swerving into the pushers and their customers while he scanned the perimeter of the crowd. The pushers and their clients always scattered, looking at him like he was drunk, but not sure enough to do anything about it. He spotted Degrange standing in the entrance to a rooming house five steps up from the street, keeping an eye on his vendors. After years of loyal service, Degrange had been promoted. It wasn’t much of a promotion, but enough so that he didn’t touch the drugs or the money anymore. His job was to make sure that the pipeline kept flowing in both directions, drugs to the street and money to his boss, with no leaks in either direction. He was wearing a red lumberjack coat with a Montreal Canadiens toque pulled tight over his ears. When he spotted Vanier bumping his way up the street, he pulled back into the shadow of the doorway. He had nowhere to go when Vanier climbed the steps.
“Inspector Vanier, great to see you again,” he lied. “What can I do for you?”
“Let’s take a walk”
“I can’t, Inspector. I can’t be seen walking down the street with someone like you. You understand”.
“Shut up shop. Right now. I’ll be in Harvey’s, up the street. You better be there. Ten minutes.”
Vanier walked down the steps and turned in the direction of Harvey’s, continuing to weave through the pedestrian traffic, bumping into the vendors and disturbing the market.
He ordered two coffees at the counter and found a quiet table, glaring at anyone who approached to keep the surrounding tables remaining empty. Some customers recognized him and left without ordering. The coffee was getting cold when Degrange sat down and reached for the paper cup. He pulled four sachets of sugar out of his pocket and tore them open, two at a time, before tipping them into the coffee.
“You shouldn’t do that, Inspector, scaring away the customers. It’s bad for business.”
In the heat of the restaurant, Degrange stank of mildew, sweat and cigarette smoke.
