The Dead of Winter (10 page)

2.30 PM

The offices of Henderson & Associates were located in a tired high rise on University Street, reasonably well situated downtown but well past anything resembling its prime. Vanier and Laurent went up to the fifteenth floor and followed the arrow to an incongruous set of mahogany doors with gold handles that contrasted with the industrial carpet and painted gyprock of the hallway. Inside the heavy doors their feet sank into thick carpet in front of a fortysomething receptionist who was winning the war against age. She was wearing a headset and working a console like a D.J.

“Henderson and Associates. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” said Vanier, leaning towards her and getting lost in the faintest hint of perfume. “We're here to see Maître Beaudoin.”

She held her finger up and smiled at Vanier, pointing to the phone.

“Yes, and who can I say is calling?” She pushed some buttons and said, “Madame Delorme for you, sir.” She listened for a few seconds, pushed another button and said, “I'm sorry, Madame Delorme, Mr. Henderson is in a meeting at the moment, may I take a message?”

Vanier stood at the desk, imposing his bulk. She was used to the difficulties of the double duty and she held up her finger again, giving him another heartbreaker of a smile.

“Henderson and Associates. Can I help you?”

Vanier took a step back and then walked around the receptionist's desk to the hallway leading to the offices. The impact was immediate. She took off her headphones and dashed after him, taking his elbow delicately and walking him back to the reception area like they were both looking for the dance floor. Vanier was enjoying it.

“I am so sorry, Mr…?”

“Detective Inspector Vanier.”

“I am so sorry, M. Vanier. Sometimes it gets so busy that I completely forget my manners. I'm Julie. Please excuse me.” She led him back to reception, holding his elbow.

“Not at all,” said Vanier, thinking that he could forgive her a lot under the right circumstances. “This is Detective Sergeant Laurent. We're here to see Maître Beaudoin. He's expecting us.”

“Of course he is. He asked me to seat you in the main boardroom,” she said, still holding his elbow, like he might try to escape again. Laurent followed them through the glass doors of the boardroom, its tall windows providing a perfect view of the building next door. “Some coffee?”

“Wonderful,” said Vanier.

“Please take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the long, dappled green marble table. The room was decorated in an Oriental style with a large Chinese gong on one side table and several Chinese vases on another. The floor was polished hardwood, with a Persian carpet under the table. The walls were clear glass.

Julie returned a few minutes later with a tray holding a full pot of coffee, cream, sugar, china coffee mugs, and a plate of biscuits.

“Please, gentlemen, help yourselves, and call me if you need anything. Maître Beaudoin should be here in a few moments.”

Vanier watched her leave, as Laurent poured two cups of coffee, handing one to Vanier. Vanier sat with his back to the window, facing out of the boardroom through the glass wall. Laurent was at the end of the table, which would make it impossible for Beaudoin to find a spot where he could look at both of them at the same time. They saw him approach and break into a smile even before he was through the door.

“Gentlemen,” he said, reaching out to shake Vanier's hand and then Laurent's. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. I'm always glad to help Montreal's finest. Now, what can I do for you?”

Beaudoin exuded the good humour of a welcoming host, and wariness only broke through in the shortest of flashes. His short frame was carrying too much weight, and he sat down. They exchanged cards.

“We'd like to ask you a few questions about the Holy Land Shelter,” said Vanier.

“The Holy Land Shelter? That's police business?”

“We're investigating the deaths on Christmas Eve and trying to understand the lives of the homeless. We're just looking for background. You were heavily involved in the Shelter's Board, and we thought you could give us some insight.”

“Well, yes, I was involved with the Shelter, but it was mostly legal and administrative work. I'm not really an expert on the homeless. All I know is that it's a tough life.”

“You'd be surprised what can help in an investigation like this.”

“I suppose.”

“For instance, so much of the work is done by volunteers. What brings people in? What makes people leave? We've heard that there were big changes last year at the Shelter. I understand that most of the Board resigned. Why was that?

“Well, I can't speak for the others but for myself, I was tired. Simple as that. Five years is a long time, and I needed a rest. And the Board needed fresh blood. There's nothing wrong, is there?”

“I didn't say there was a problem. We're just interested in understanding how these places work. Just a little curious, that's all.”

Beaudoin looked down at the business cards. “Chief Inspector, you must be a busy man, and these latest murders must be taking up a lot of your time. Are you working on those, Inspector, or are you just interested in the Shelter?”

“Maître Beaudoin, I have the best job in the world. When something interests me I can look into it. Luckily, not everything interests me, so I have time to do my job. Right now, I am simply trying to understand what it means to be homeless in Montreal. How they live, where they go, who they have dealings with. So the Shelter is a good place to start, isn't it? After all, it takes in, what, 300 people a night?”

“The Shelter does great work, Inspector. It fills a desperate need. I enjoyed my time there. You have no idea what kind of a feeling that gives you. It's rare, especially in this business. I didn't do hands-on work with the homeless, but I think what I did was helpful. In a lot of ways I miss it.”

“So why quit?”

“Like I said, five years is a long time. I needed a rest. And they probably needed a rest from me.”

“What about Father Drouin? Did he need a rest too?”

“Ah, Father Drouin. A great guy, a great human being. He could be difficult, but it's because he's so shy. It took me over a year to get to know him properly, but when you do, you can't help but love him.”

“He got tired too?”

“Perhaps. Yes. He was tired too.” Beaudoin's answers were slowing down, like he was trying to guess where Vanier was going. “It's not easy you know, it can take a lot out of you. And he had other things to do. He's very busy for a priest. He's involved in a lot of things.”

“In all, seven of the ten members of the Board from last year are no longer there. That quite a turnover isn't it? It must be difficult for the organization to survive that sort of …turmoil?”

Beaudoin looked uncomfortable, but before he could answer, the conference room door opened, and a tall gaunt man walked in. He was dressed to announce his importance, peacock style. He looked straight at Beaudoin, ignoring the policemen.

“Pascal, I heard that you were having a meeting with some policemen. I thought you might need some back-up,” he said with a humourless chuckle, then turned to the two officers, with a broad smile that stopped well below his eyes. “Gentlemen, I am so pleased to welcome you to my offices. I am Maître Gordon Henderson,” he said, emphasizing the honorific title for Quebec lawyers.

Vanier and Laurent introduced themselves, and they exchanged cards with Henderson.

“What is it we can do for you? Are you selling tickets for the annual ball?”

“The annual ball is a thing of the past, but if it is ever revived, I'll put you down for a table, shall I?”

“Absolutely.”

“We were here to speak to Maître Beaudoin about his work with the Holy Land Shelter.”

“Well, there are no secrets in this office. We supported Pascal's efforts to help the needy. He has a big heart. But you know how it is Inspector, business comes first. After five years, it was time for him to direct his efforts elsewhere. We live in a very competitive world, and there are limits to how much time can be wasted. We are all slaves to the billable hour; the clients are more demanding by the day.”

Beaudoin looked down at the table, scratching notes on a yellow pad.

“And talking of the almighty billable hour, Inspector, it would be more efficient if you would write down your questions to Pascal and send them to us. We would be happy to provide you with answers to any questions you might have. But right now, I need Pascal on a call to Japan that I promised would begin in five minutes,” said Henderson, looking at his watch.

Vanier took the cue, hoping he could come back some day with a good reason to question Henderson. He'd been thrown out of bars with more subtlety. The two policemen stood up and exchanged handshakes with the lawyers. Beaudoin left them at reception, but Henderson waited to see them leave. Vanier cast a goodbye smile at the receptionist, who gave him one of her own and a small wave.

“Fucking bastard,” said Vanier as the elevator doors closed.

3.45 PM

When the door closed on the departing policemen, Gordon Henderson walked into Beaudoin's office.

“Pascal, why didn't you tell me that you were meeting with police inspectors? I don't like having to find out things like that from Julie.”

“Well, Mr. Henderson, they just called this morning and asked if I would have time to give him some background on the Holy Land Shelter for their investigation. They're the ones on the Christmas Eve deaths. I didn't think anything of it, they just wanted background information.”

“Just background information? Pascal, you know that the Shelter is a very sensitive file. We can't go around discussing it with just anyone, and particularly not with policemen. We have a duty to our client. I really am disappointed, Pascal.”

Beaudoin swallowed. “I'm sorry. You're right. I should have spoken to you first. It's just … well, you're right.”

“Just see that it doesn't happen again. Now, where are you on the Blanchard letter? I need to send that out first thing tomorrow morning. Is it ready?”

“Almost, Mr. Henderson. Almost,” Beaudoin said. He hadn't even started it. “It will be on your desk before you arrive in the morning,” he added, ruining not only his evening, but a good part of the night.

“Wonderful. I'll leave you to it then,” Henderson said, and left.

Beaudoin pulled a file from the pile on his desk and began to focus on the problems of M. Blanchard, who wanted to double the size of his Westmount house over the objection of his neighbours and the city council. He began typing into the computer, drafting objections to the reasonable arguments of the city and the neighbours that the plans ignored the by-laws and the character of the neighborhood, and would be a palatial monument to bad taste. He would get to the threats against the individuals and the council later; it was always better to close with the threats. At 7.30 p.m., he stopped writing, picked up the phone and punched numbers.

“Hello?” a young voice, a girl.

“Hey, Chickadee!”

“Papa,” she squealed. “Where are you? Maman made shepherd's pie, your favourite.”

“I'm still at the office, my love. I have to work late. Can you pass me Maman?”

“Maman,” she yelled into the phone. There was silence. Then she said, “Maman says if you're going to be late, you can heat up your supper in the microwave. Are you going to be here before I go to bed? I can wait for you.”

“No, my love. It's going to be late. Tell you what, though, I'll see you in the morning. Tell Maman and David good night from me, and give them both a big kiss and a hug. I love you, Chickadee.”

“Me too, Papa. But I gotta go. Dinner's on the table. Bye.”

He heard the click of disconnection and put the phone back in the receiver. He turned back to M. Blanchard's problem, which was quickly becoming Westmount's problem.

5 PM

From where he sat, Vanier could see the back of D.S. Fletcher's head. Fletcher had just returned to work and was catching up. Vanier had spent the last hour reading interview reports and watching Fletcher. Eventually, Fletcher pushed his chair back and rose from his desk, stretching. “Anyone want coffee?”

“Sure,” said Vanier, fishing for change. “Regular Colombian, milk, no sugar.”

Fletcher took the coins and three other orders and left. His jacket was still on the chair, and Vanier was on his feet immediately, walking towards the wall that held the maps, photos and notes of the investigation. As he passed Fletcher's desk, he bent slightly and pulled Fletcher's cell phone from his jacket pocket. Back at his desk he quickly scribbled the numbers in the call log since Christmas Eve, along with the times and duration. He looked up from time to time and scanned the room, but if anyone had noticed, they were not saying anything. When the list was done, he wandered back towards the photo wall and slipped the phone back into Fletcher's pocket. He was studying the wall when Fletcher returned with the coffee.