“So, how I can I help?”
“Antonio, there is a child, a child who has reached a dead end and needs a second chance. I can vouch for him, nothing serious, just a second chance.”
“And? How can I help?”
“The second chance involves a change of identity. I assume that means a new passport, a driver’s licence, social insurance card, the whole thing. A deluxe package if you will. He needs a new life. I am willing to pay whatever it takes.”
“Monsignor, I think I can help. Don’t worry. My line of work brings me into contact with all kinds of people. I know who can arrange this. But these things aren’t cheap. You need to give me details. You know, since 9/11, this whole identity business has come under close scrutiny. Things are not what they were. Perhaps you could write out some details.” DiPadova took out a pen and a scrap of paper, handing it to the Monsignor. “Some simple information, the name that you would like, the height, weight, place of birth. Basic information.”
The Monsignor began writing, knowing he was putting himself into the debtor column with every word. DiPadova took the paper when he had finished and read through it quickly.
“Let me see what I can do. I’m sure I can help you.”
“Anything that you can do would be appreciated. I really didn’t know where to turn. What else do you need? You mentioned the cost.”
“You will need to give me ten photographs. Let’s wait for the rest. I’ll let you know.”
“I can imagine that things have become strict, even with passport photographs, I heard you need identification even to have a photograph taken.”
“Have your friend go to one of those photo machines and take a bunch of head shots. These people will turn them into passport photographs.”
“Your service to the Church will not go unrewarded, Michael.”
“It’s the least I can do, Monsignor,” he said, putting the hand-written note into his pocket.
The delicate business was finished, and Monsignor Forlini ordered brandies and relaxed into the habitual friendly role of the clergy. He asked about DiPadova’s family, and about how the children were doing at school. He talked about how difficult it was to love and serve God in the modern world.
DiPadova didn’t rush to pick up the cheque. Forlini looked at the leather folder that the waiter had put on the table, and eventually reached for it, already feeling the change in their relationship.
DiPadova had no trouble convincing the Monsignor to accept a lift back to the Cathedral, and watched the priest relish the soft leather seats of the Mercedes, stroking it unconsciously as the radio played piano jazz through BOSE speakers. As he left the car outside the Cathedral, the Monsignor made eye contact with DiPadova.
“What I asked is very important, Antonio. Your assistance in this will be greatly appreciated. Good night in the grace of God.”
DiPadova pulled away, resisting the urge to pump his fist in the air in celebration at something as simple as having Monsignor Forlini in his debt over a new identity. New identities were sold on the streets of Montreal every day. A first class, deluxe package that would withstand scrutiny by U.S. Customs was $10,000 at the most. But to have a future Archbishop, or even a Cardinal, in your pocket for $10,000, well that was
TWELVE
JANUARY 3
12.30 PM
John Collins had disappeared or, more accurately, he had never reappeared. Everyone at Xeon knew him, or thought they did, but each said that he had been closer to someone else. Truth was he was close to no one. He worked among them but was alone. Nobody knew where he lived or what he did outside work. Just about everyone said he was a little strange, but no more than that, not strange enough to be unusual.
It was the same thing with his neighbours. They all recognized him and would nod to him in the street, but that was all. The police had questioned and re-questioned everyone who had attended the Circle of Christ sessions and, again, the face was familiar, but that’s where it stopped. They remembered him, but didn’t know him and never remembered seeing him with somebody. He was a loner, living within the hive as though he belonged, but passing his life in a universe of one.
Vanier was frustrated. It was like Collins had never existed. And Vanier didn’t know how to find someone who was so disconnected.
His phone rang.
“Anjili, any news?”
“News indeed, Luc. How did you know?”
“About what?”
“About Audet.”
“He’s the corpse?”
“There’s no doubt. The dental records, blood, measurements, height, everything matches. The corpse is Marcel Audet.”
“You’re certain.”
“Luc, we could do a DNA but it seems pointless. In my opinion, there is no doubt it’s Audet.”
Vanier took a long breath.
“So what does it mean, Luc?”
“I don’t have a clue. I need to think.”
“Any word on Collins?”
“He’s disappeared down a deep hole. That’s not so hard if you hardly existed anyway. His own mother couldn’t find him and he wasn’t even hiding. What chance do we have when he really decides to hide? And how does Audet show up dead in his van?”
“There must be a connection.”
“What was Audet up to that he ended up as cinders in the front seat?”
“That’s police work, it’s what you’re good at, Luc.”
“People get murdered for a reason. Like the priest.”
“Father Drouin?”
“Yes. He probably knew Collins, or knew where to find him. So Collins decided he had to go.”
“So perhaps Audet figured it out, too.”
“Perhaps. But if Collins killed Audet, he must have had a reason, and Audet must have had a reason for being with Collins. Listen, I have to go. Thanks for this, Anjili.”
“Any time.”
3:00 PM
This time, Vanier had steeled himself against the allure of Ayida and her wonderful coffee. He burst into the offices of Blackrock and walked straight by Ayida, turning right, in the direction that Markov and Romanenko had come from in the earlier meeting. Laurent followed, and then the receptionist, protesting with waving hands and
“Got to go,” he said, putting down the phone.
“Officers, we have a receptionist for a reason.”
“Won’t take long, sir,” said Vanier, “Just a few additional questions.”
Romanenko entered the room, trying unsuccessfully to get in front of them to protect his client.
“Marcel Audet. Is he an employee of Blackrock?”
“I believe he may be on the payroll; I’d have to check. What’s it to you?”
“Let me ask the questions, sir. Is he or is he not an employee?”
“Like I said, I’ll check and get back to you,” said Markov, regaining his composure.
Laurent made a show of writing down the answers.
