Ice Lake (21 page)

“What time?”

“Eight.”

“All right. Sounds cloak-and-daggery,” Andrew Stettler said.

“That’s the way it’s got to be, Andy, from now on. See you then.”

Stettler put down the phone. His boss was rapidly becoming paranoid. He usually appreciated paranoia in a client. Fear created opportunities he could exploit. There was, he knew, much to fear. He wondered, with some anticipation, how Werner Honigwachs would react if he learned that the celebrated city detective, Emile Cinq-Mars, might be bumped off.

He was thinking about it. It would be a big step, knocking off a cop. A famous cop, especially. There’d be shit to pay for that, so the benefits would have to be large.

Stettler turned off the shower, then went to his fridge and helped himself to an individual-sized raspberry yoghurt. He retrieved a spoon off the dish rack by the sink. In his small living room, he slumped down in a big comfy chair, his legs slung over the armrest, and ate slowly, thoughtfully. He was tempted to see what was on the tube, but his mother might seize the opportunity. If she thought all he was doing was watching television, she might invite herself up to meet his date. Instead, Stettler sat in the dark and thought things through. He already had something in mind, but he needed to look at the benefits and weigh the consequences. His best option from various perspectives, he was guessing, and convincing himself by the minute, was to order the assassination of the Montreal detective, and tell Honigwachs about it in advance.

That’s what he would do. At his meeting with Honigwachs, he’d let him know that a new cop was on the scene, none other than Emile Cinq-Mars. He’d listen to the man fulminate and fret. Then he’d tell him that he was going to have him killed. He’d make sure that Honigwachs understood that he had no say in the matter. Just to keep him in his place, to keep him apprised of how the real world—the world in which he found himself—worked.

Andrew Stettler licked the last of his yoghurt from the container with his tongue. It had been a long time since he had exercised the full power at his disposal. He anticipated that his associates would object to the victim being a cop. He’d have to talk them through that. He’d have to demonstrate that too much was at stake. Tons of money, for openers. Not millions—billions. That would impress them. He’d point out that the time was right, for the gang had no particular grievance against Cinq-Mars at the moment and therefore would invite no suspicion out of the ordinary. His gang always got away with murder anyway. The last time
anyone had been convicted of a gang hit was way before anyone’s time. If they used their media and internal police sources to protest that they weren’t involved, they might not have to endure excessive heat. In terms of convincing the gang members, it wouldn’t be hard to summon an array of grievances against this particular cop. That being the case, Andrew Stettler was confident that, through tact and strong argument, by measuring the payoff against the hurt they’d have to go through, he could persuade his people to dispose of the legendary detective.

He needed the spectacular hit. An end move to corral his prey. The drug project had proceeded as planned. Soon, money would be flowing into BioLogika in unprecedented amounts. He needed to implant more than mere paranoia in the brain of Werner Honigwachs. He needed the company president to tremble at the sight of him. Now was the time to seize full control of the entire operation, and the best way to do that was through a show-crime. See, fella? This could happen to you, too. Honigwachs would also fear the police, knowing that he was loosely attached to a cop’s murder. He’d be broken, fearful, compliant, anxious to protect himself and willing to cooperate. But for his own good, his own enlightenment, he needed to be removed from his executive suite and have his nose swished around in a cesspool, and he needed to have his natural cockiness surgically removed, as if it were a malignant tumour. Honigwachs needed to be convinced of the true might and the absolute authority of his colleagues. Time to turn down the lights on his party.

As for the cops, Stettler theorized, they’d get over it. Various departments would be in an uproar for months, but where would they look? All the obvious suspicions would lead nowhere. If anything came out about the drug deaths in the United States, if anything led investigators north, the local cops wouldn’t take
much of an interest, not when they had a cop-killing on their hands.

Stettler smiled. There were more benefits. The death would give Lucy and the others pause. They’d not connect it to their own enterprise—why should they? But a doubt would fester. They’d move more fearfully. They’d be increasingly distrustful of one another. Their petty counter-conspiracy would disintegrate, going nowhere, accomplishing nothing.

As an added bonus, he believed that he might be saving Lucy’s life. Given the money at stake and the personalities involved, Honigwachs might be foolish enough to eliminate Lucy. If he was smart, if he had the nerve, he should do it. He probably had it in mind, it would only be a matter of figuring out how. Honigwachs was probably just waiting for the opportunity. One hadn’t come up, as Lucy was defending her home on Indian land with a shotgun and not going out in public. Stettler believed that if he informed Honigwachs that the police detective was going to die, and the president subsequently read about the killing in the papers, the man would not presume to act independently. He’d leave Lucy alone, or get permission first. He’d be putty, Play-Doh in Stettler’s hands. He’d tell him to leave Lucy alone, which would only help to keep him nervous.

The time had come to put the BioLogika Corporation under foreign ownership, and the aliens in charge would be the mob.

Returning to the kitchen, Andrew Stettler dropped the yoghurt container in the trash, then washed his hands. This would be a major play for him, the biggest of his career. He was pretty sure that he had everything covered.

8
DARK IS THE GRAVE

The following weekend,
Saturday night into Sunday morning, February 12-13, 1999

Andrew Stettler believed that the meeting had gone well. At the squash club, he had let Werner Honigwachs know that his universe was to be guided differently from now on, that the planets would be altering their orbits. He had told him that the policeman would have to die.

“Look up,” he instructed Honigwachs in the change room.

Sitting with his pants off in front of his locker, the company president did so.

“No, sir,” Stettler corrected him. “That’s down for you. Now look down.”

Confused, Honigwachs stared at the patch of floor between his bare feet.

“Wrong again. That’s up for you now. Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”

Honigwachs phoned him later on. He invited him to come out to fishing shack on the lake, near BioLogika. Andy was both suspicious and wary. He had told Honigwachs that the meeting with the Montreal cop was to take place nearby the very next morning, and he questioned the wisdom of visiting the lake that night.

Honigwachs appealed to his sense of mystery. “There’s stuff you should know that you don’t know yet, and the best place to find it out is on the lake. You don’t want to meet that cop in that fishing shack without talking to me first.”

He didn’t like it, but he had to accept the terms. “All right.”

Honigwachs knew what he had to do. Had Stettler not betrayed them? He had told Lucy, through Luc, about the drug cocktails being lethal. Perhaps he could be forgiven for that, but there was no discounting his latest threat. Andrew Stettler had taunted him and promised the death of a policeman. He had vowed to turn his world upside down. When Honigwachs had reported that news to Camille, she’d told him, “He’s trying to scare you.”

“He succeeded.”

“No, you don’t get it. He’s trying to scare you once and for all. Why would he tell you about something like that ahead of time? He wants you in his pocket.”

“Oh, God, what a mess.”

Camille had tried to soothe him over the phone. Before long, they had agreed to meet at a bar halfway between BioLogika and Hillier-Largent.

The room was windowless, with a plethora of TV sets tuned to yesterday’s hockey games and six-month old golf, all that was being broadcast on a dull day. Camille was waiting for him when Honigwachs strode inside.

“I didn’t think it would come to this,” she said. She was declining to look at him, but he knew what she meant.

“It hasn’t,” Honigwachs said.

“Stettler has to go.”

“Don’t be a drama queen, Camille.”

She scooped up her purse then and started to slide
out of the booth, but Honigwachs grabbed her wrist. “Sit down, Camille,” he said calmly.

She did. This time she stared at him across the table. “Stettler has to go,” she repeated.

“Why?”

“He’s part of the mob. Andy knows we’re sitting on a fortune. He knows about all the necessary stuff we had to go through to get where we are today. Killing a cop is stupid, unless you see it for what it is. He’s out to get you. Now that you’ve done your work and made your strike. As BioLogika stock rises he’ll own you, own us, own this operation. You have to strike first, Werner. I can’t believe it’s come to this point, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there’s no alternative.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He told you he’s killing the cop. What killer, what mob guy, would say that unless he had a reason to say that? What’s his reason, Werner. Damn it! Think!”

Honigwachs gazed at her awhile. Their waitress came and went and returned with their drinks, and he continued to stare.

They did not exchange another word at that meeting. He departed soon after finishing his drink, and they did not speak again until after Honigwachs had commanded Stettler to meet him in Camille’s shack. The next time they met was to concoct a plan for which everything was already in motion.

And now, after asking Andy to wait in the car, he was calling Camille to check that she was prepared and to build up his courage.

He dialled the company cell phone he had lent her.

“I’m bringing him over.”

“I’m ready,” Camille said. “Are you?”

The phone shook in his hand. “I’m ready,” he testified, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself.

“This is the only way we can go, Werner.”

“That’s what you keep telling me.”

“Werner, you have to be sure. You have to be absolutely certain.” I am.”

“Do you have the guts, Werner?” she asked him quietly.

“Watch me,” he whispered.

“Shoot straight.”

“He’ll be an inch away.”

Honigwachs drove Stettler down to the lake and parked at the nearby strip mall, then the two men walked the short distance onto the ice. Under a full moon, the lake with its blanket of snow shone in the dark, the fishing huts gently emitting smoke from their tin chimneys in the snapping cold. Arriving at a hut, Honigwachs opened the door, his smile having expanded to a broad beam. As he stepped inside, Andy was in for a surprise, even while a lurking suspicion was being confirmed—the hut belonged to Camille Choquette, and she was there to greet him.

“Come on in, Andy. Take a load off.”

“What’s this about?”

“Come in first.”

There wasn’t all that much room for the two men to remove their outerwear without bumping into one another. When they sat down on opposite bunks, they found the cabin quite toasty.

“I’ve had a problem,” Werner Honigwachs announced. “This is my way to solve it.”

“What problem’s that?” The president had called him away from a quiet night at home. Andy’s shirt was an earth-tone green, something he usually put on only around the house. He’d dropped his good jeans into the laundry his mother had going and so had thrown on an old pair with frayed cuffs and holes worn in the
hip pockets. The denim was thin for the cold, and he appreciated the stove’s heat.

“Tomorrow, you and Camille have a meeting with Sergeant-Detective Emile Cinq-Mars.”

“That’s right.”

“The two of you should go into that meeting with the knowledge that you’re on the same team. That’s what I think.” Honigwachs himself was casually dressed for this occasion, as if he had just come from putting his kids to bed. He wore a bulky wool sweater and corduroy pants.

“We are?”

“You are.”

Andy put a hand to the back of his neck and gave himself a gentle massage, as if he needed to relieve a pent-up tension. “Sir, I can see by your grin that you’re feeling pretty pleased with yourself. Like you just swallowed a canary.”

“I put one over on you, Andy. Admit it!”

“But anytime you want to compromise my identity to anyone, I might suggest that you check that out with me first. You told Camille about me?”

“Now listen, Andy—”

“No, asshole! You listen!
Don’t
go around telling people who I am or what I do! Is that absolutely crystal clear?”