Never Forget Read online

The group was on its way to the car when a light went on in the window of a nearby house. At this time of night, that was an ominous sign. They’d been spotted.

  The front door opened. A man with unkempt grey hair, wearing a bathrobe, leaned out over the threshold. “Hey! What were you guys doing down there? The cops will be here any minute!”

  The leader of the group thrust a hand under his coat and pulled out a pistol with a silencer attached. Still walking, he fired two shots in the direction of the homeowner. The bullets struck the door, which immediately swung shut.

  The car was parked in a shadowy spot, its engine running. The group piled in quickly and sped away. They were already on Mount Royal Boulevard when a police cruiser shot past in the opposite direction.

  Sitting in the front passenger seat, the shooter turned to the third man, who was in the back seat, and the only one still masked. “Take that thing off, Lessard. You’re gonna get us all caught.”

  Martin did as he was told. Then he slid his hands under his legs so the others wouldn’t see that they were shaking.

  16

  INTERROGATIONS

  Monday, December 19th

  Victor’s gaze slid out the window of the Shäika Café and wandered through Notre-Dame-de-Grâce Park, pausing when it came upon a dog pissing on a tree. Beside the dog, its master was stiff with cold. On Sherbrooke, a ceaseless stream of cars flowed eastward, accumulating in a jam each time the traffic light at Girouard turned red.

  “Earth to Victor.”

  His gaze returned along the snowy sidewalk and re-entered the restaurant, skating momentarily along the tabletop before rising to meet Nadja’s eyes. It was barely 7:00 a.m. They had just finished breakfast.

  “I was daydreaming. Sorry.”

  Nadja put her hand on his and gave him a heavenly smile. He’d willingly have died for another one.

  “It’s all good. When is Jacinthe coming to pick you up?”

  “She should be here any minute. I’ll get the bill.”

  They waited on the sidewalk with their arms around each other. The wind bit at their flesh. Victor was about to kiss his girlfriend when a high voice rang out behind them: Nadja’s yoga partner came up, guiding a baby carriage through the slush.

  There were delighted cries and hugs: the two friends hadn’t seen each other since the baby’s birth two months earlier. Nadja bent over the carriage and pulled back the blanket to show Victor the infant’s face.

  “What a little angel,” she said, her eyes shining with a light he hadn’t seen before.

  “Mmm,” he responded in a strangled grunt.

  A car horn honked. Victor turned and saw Taillon on the other side of the street. He waved to Nadja and her friend before running across between the stopped cars.

  Seizing the door handle of the Crown Victoria as though it were a life raft, he dived into the vehicle.

  “You okay, Lessard? You don’t look so great.”

  Jacinthe was weaving through traffic, but Victor didn’t object. Their power struggle was unfolding at a different level, in a war of knobs. When he boosted the car heater, she lowered it. When she tuned the radio to one station, he switched to another.

  “You know I can’t stand western music, Jacinthe.”

  “That was country. Totally different. And don’t even think about putting on your club music.”

  In the end, they settled on a jazz station that, when Victor tuned to it, was playing “So What” by Miles Davis.

  “What’s the age difference between you and Fernandez?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Does she want children?”

  “Not sure. We’ve never really talked about it. Change of topic. What do we know about Judith Harper’s boyfriend?”

  “Bennett? Not much. He’s a vice president at Pyatt & White, a company that makes aircraft parts. What about you? You ready to have more kids?”

  “You don’t think I messed up badly enough with the ones I’ve got? Where did he go on his business trip?”

  “I think Gilles mentioned Boston.” Jacinthe fell silent for a moment. “You may not have a choice, if you want to hang on to her. It’s right over there.”

  The Gnome was waiting for them in the lobby of a high-rise near the Italian Consulate on Drummond, just south of Doctor Penfield Avenue. In the elevator, he explained that Will Bennett had gotten back to town during the night and had called Lemaire first thing in the morning.

  “He knows?”

  “He insisted on being told.”

  The three police officers wore appropriately sombre expressions as they offered their condolences to Will Bennett, who seemed more taken aback than overcome by grief.

  At Bennett’s request, the cops took off their shoes before heading up the passage to the living room. The space was decidedly masculine, expensively decorated but not ostentatious. Will Bennett asked the detectives if they’d like a cup of coffee. After a significant look from Victor to Jacinthe, the three declined.

  As they sat on the couch, the detective sergeant studied their host. Trim and athletic, in his midfifties, with a sweater draped casually over the shoulders of his Lacoste polo shirt, Bennett projected the carefully crafted image of a prosperous man.

  The standard introductory questions revealed that he was divorced and had a daughter in her twenties. He’d been at P & W for more than fifteen years. He’d met Judith Harper four years ago, at a Fangs fundraiser. They had become lovers shortly afterward.

  “When did you last see Dr. Harper?” Victor asked him.

  “We had dinner the night before I left.” Bennett reflected for a long time. “That would have been Tuesday.”

  “Did you hear from her after that?”

  “No,” Bennett replied immediately.

  “Take a moment to think it over. No emails or text messages?”

  “None. Judith didn’t own a computer or a cellphone.”

  “You weren’t worried when you didn’t hear from her?”

  “Not at all. We had a very open relationship. We could go for weeks without seeing each other, and then not be apart for a dozen days in a row.”

  “Did she have any family?” the Gnome asked.

  “Judith was a widow, an only child who never had children of her own. Her father died when she was in her teens. She lost her mother several years ago. She must have a few cousins, but nobody close enough for me to know about.”

  “There was a big age difference between you, wasn’t there?” Taillon observed.

  “That’s right,” Bennett said drily. “I’m fifty-eight and Judith was seventy-six. What’s your point?”

  “We apologize, Mr. Bennett,” the detective sergeant said calmly. “This is a difficult time for you, and here we are, asking questions. Under other circumstances, you would have been a potential suspect, but since you were out of the country …”

  “I have an alibi, is that what you’re saying?” Bennett’s face reddened with indignation.

  “I can understand that you’re upset,” Victor said placatingly. “But give us ten more minutes and we’ll be done.”

  The detectives asked a few more questions about the business trip. At Victor’s request, Bennett gave them his boarding passes, his parking stub, the bill from the hotel where he had stayed, and contact details for the two colleagues who had accompanied him.

  When they left, Will Bennett slammed the door behind them.

  “Ten bucks says he drives a Range Rover,” Taillon said, pressing the elevator button.

  “My money’s on Mercedes,” Victor answered.

  “You’re both wrong. It’s an Audi,” the Gnome declared, not needing to recheck the report that had been drawn up the day before and was now tucked into a folder under his arm.

  The conversation continued as they stepped outside to the building’s parking area.

  “Even so, follow up with his colleagues,” Victor instructed Lemaire.

  “Waste of time,” Taillon said. “The guy’s got a cast-iron alib
i.”

  The wind was wailing between the buildings.

  “What’s on your mind, Vic?” the Gnome asked, shivering.

  “It’s probably nothing, but when I asked about the last time he saw Harper, he had to think before answering. When I asked if he’d heard from her since then, he answered right away. Like he didn’t want to seem doubtful.”

  “Lessard and his hunches,” Taillon said sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

  From the living room of Judith Harper’s apartment, Taillon stood with her hands behind her back, watching the bundled-up pedestrians trudging along Sherbrooke. Then she raised her eyes to admire the sheen of the river.

  “Not exactly hard up, was she?” Taillon said as she joined Victor in the kitchen.

  The detective sergeant was standing with his arms folded, seemingly lost in thought.

  “Okay,” Taillon said, “you wanted to see where she lived. Happy now?”

  He’d looked into each room, examined every hiding place, but for some reason, it was the kitchen that drew him like a magnet.

  “Have you found something?”

  Silence.

  “No? Can we leave?” Jacinthe was already walking up the hallway.

  Before turning off the lights, Victor cast a final glance behind him, frowning.

  On the sidewalk beside the car, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag. In the driver’s seat, Jacinthe was on the phone, her muffled voice resounding in the cold air. Blowing out blue billows of smoke, he tapped on the passenger window.

  She hung up and pressed a button to lower the window. “Finished your smoke?”

  “What time are we meeting Lawson’s secretary?”

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  Victor tossed his cigarette in the snow and got into the car. “We have time. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  In operation since 1865, Joseph Ponton Costumes was located in a heritage building on Saint-François-Xavier.

  “We’re going to be late because of this, Lessard,” Jacinthe muttered as she pushed open the door of the boutique.

  “Two minutes, that’s it,” Victor answered. He was already scanning the shelves.

  A sales clerk with a triple chin walked toward them, rubbing his hands. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I’m looking for a Santa’s elf costume.”

  “I don’t have any in your size. What I’ve got in stock would only fit a child.”

  “Show me,” Victor said, laughing.

  Taillon frowned. She’d just figured out what he was up to. “You’re a fucking idiot, Lessard!”

  Adèle Thibault had agreed to meet them in the food court of the Stock Exchange Tower. The place was full of morose-looking professionals who, days before the Christmas holiday, were already dreaming of tropical beaches, or country places in the Laurentians, or the seasonal cheer of their own homes. Lawson’s secretary was wearing a severe black dress with a yellow carnation above the left breast. Her grey hair was drawn into a bun, revealing her face and highlighting its imperfections. She drank her coffee in little sips, grimacing, as though she were swallowing bitter cough syrup.

  “You seem surprised by Mr. Lawson’s departure,” Victor remarked.

  “He’s taken a handful of vacations in twenty-six years. This is the first time he’s ever left without dictating memos in his active files. And he delegated the bulk of his work to Mr. Rivard, who isn’t … I mean …”

  “Not the best legal mind?” Victor suggested.

  She closed her eyes, nodded, and opened them again with a confidential look. “You didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Were you aware of Mr. Lawson’s relationship with a young man named Wu?”

  The secretary allowed herself a half smile. “Not with that young man in particular, but I’m sure you already know he was a confirmed bachelor.”

  Victor and Jacinthe exchanged a look. The reference to Lawson’s sexual orientation couldn’t have been clearer. Adèle Thibault was from a generation that still used euphemisms to describe gay men.

  “How did he spend his time on the day in question?” the detective sergeant asked.

  “He had an important meeting with clients at seven a.m., which he walked out of before it was over. He asked to have a file brought up from the archives.”

  “And then?”

  “He appeared at my desk ten minutes later, told me to hold his calls, and shut himself in his office. When the file arrived, he asked the mail boy, Lucian, to take it down to his car. Then he left.”

  “I’m guessing it was unusual for him to behave that way?”

  “It had never happened before.”

  “And this file … what was it?”

  It was an old, inactive file whose exact name she couldn’t remember. “North Industries, something like that,” was all Victor could get from her. She promised to email him the details.

  “Did he seem different as he was leaving? Perturbed?”

  “Perturbed? Oh, yes! But that was how he always looked.”

  Victor couldn’t help but smile. Having finished her coffee, the woman pulled a packet of mints from her purse and slipped one into her mouth. She held out the packet to the detectives. Jacinthe, who hadn’t said a word so far, couldn’t resist.

  “You don’t think he’s gone on vacation?” Victor resumed.

  “Not for a second.”

  “So where is he? Did anything else happen that was out of the ordinary? Think back … a strange phone call? A visitor?”

  Taillon touched Victor’s shoulder. “Look out. We’ve got a problem.”

  The detective sergeant turned and glanced in the direction Jacinthe was pointing: a smiling Louis-Charles Rivard was strutting in front of an attractive young articling student whose shapely legs shimmered through sheer black stockings. The lawyer’s smile died on his lips when he saw Lawson’s assistant with the officers.

  He rushed over, red-faced. “How dare you question our employees without permission?” he demanded in a low voice, trying to keep a lid on his indignation.

  Taking Adèle by the arm, he pulled her to her feet and started to lead her away.

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, Victor blocked his path. This time, he was deadly serious. “I don’t need your permission. What can you tell me about the file that Mr. Lawson took with him on his ‘vacation’?” Victor asked, using his fingers to frame the last word in air quotes.

  “Nothing. It’s covered by lawyer-client privilege. Step aside.”

  Suppressing an urge to insult the man, Victor stood watching Rivard in silence. Jacinthe knew that look. Victor wouldn’t retreat. Suddenly he seemed as impenetrable as a wall. She rose to her feet and placed a thick hand on her partner’s chest.

  “Let him go, Vic. Before he shits his pants.”

  From the Stock Exchange Tower, they went straight back to Versailles and had a quick bite in the atrium before sitting down at their desks to carry out routine tasks: analyzing evidence, cross-checking facts, organizing information, and doing paperwork. At one point, still preoccupied by her list, Jacinthe went to the hospital to see Horowitz. She returned two hours later wearing a scowl, and shut herself in the conference room.

  As for Victor, he blackened his notebook despondently as he scratched out details that had been checked: the documents expert, the medical examiner, and the forensics team were continuing their evaluations; the divers had found nothing after dragging the canal; and the Polaroid woman hadn’t turned up in any of their photo databases.

  Apart from the information on file, Victor wasn’t able to learn much more about Lortie’s movements during the days that had preceded his suicide. After being told that the chief of psychiatry at Louis-H. wouldn’t be in his office until tomorrow, Victor went out for a smoke in the damp air. With the winter solstice hours away, darkness was already descending on the city.

  The parking lot was emptying out little by little. Victor was in a foul humour, feeling as though every ope
ning in the case led nowhere. When he got back to his desk, a Post-it on his computer screen informed him that the boss wanted to talk.

  The office was as quiet as a coffin’s interior. Leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the windowsill, Paul Delaney seemed to be asleep.

  “Hello, Chief.”

  “Have a seat, Victor.”

  Sighing, Delaney sat forward. With his purple-ringed eyes, haggard features, and grey complexion, the head of the Major Crimes Unit had grown old before his time.

  “How is she?”

  “Stable. She has another test later in the week.”

  “And how about you, Paul?”

  With one finger, Delaney swept dust particles from the surface of his desk. He was silent for a moment. “Madeleine is well treated. The doctors are really good. What I find hard is being shut out. No one tells me anything. The doctors have joined with her, they’re fighting the illness as a team, and I’m not part of the process.” Delaney’s eyes brimmed.

  Victor lowered his gaze. “If there’s anything I can do …”

  Delaney wiped away a tear and coughed, trying to give the impression that his allergies were acting up. “I read your email. You want me to authorize a missing person alert for Lawson.”

  “He may be dying somewhere, Chief.”

  “Or he may be the killer. You don’t need to convince me, but the answer’s still no.”

  “Are they putting pressure on you?”

  “They’re threatening legal action.”

  “Rivard?”

  Delaney nodded.

  Victor told him about the confrontation with the lawyer that morning. “I can understand that he’d prevent us from questioning Wu to protect Lawson’s reputation. But trying to stop me from talking to his assistant? They’re covering something up.”

  “You’re reading too much into it. They want to avoid negative publicity. Do I really need to spell it out? Think how it’ll play in the media when it comes out that a principal partner in one of the city’s biggest law firms has disappeared. We’re not talking about some nobody; the guy’s name is on the firm’s letterhead. Now throw in the fact that we want to talk to him in connection with a murder, and imagine their reaction.”