The Dead of Winter (12 page)

“What?”

“Simple question.”

“Listen, Inspector, if you think that David is my source, you've got it dead wrong. In fact, he's been pissed at me for the last few days. Every time I do a story that's a bit too accurate he's on my case wanting to know where I'm getting my information. He was worried. He knew someone would make the connection soon enough.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“What I told you; that I work harder than the others.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you like, Inspector. I have a job to do, and just because my brother-in-law is on the investigation doesn't mean I stop working. But don't think that he's feeding me information. He's not.”

“Just so we're clear, M. Gauthier. If you have a source in my division, he or she is finished. Understand?”

“Good day, Inspector.”

3 PM

Vanier was sitting with his back to a wall in Magnan's Tavern, his attention divided between watching the door and watching highlights of last night's hockey game on the big screen. Magnan's was almost empty, the lunch crowd long gone and the evening crowd not yet arrived. Only the serious drinkers were bridging the gap. Beaudoin walked in and quickly spotted Vanier. As he sat down, a waitress close to retirement age appeared behind Vanier with a tray in one hand, the other resting on Vanier's shoulder. Beaudoin ordered a beer and Vanier a refill.

“I wanted to follow up on our conversation. We were interrupted,” said Beaudoin.

“Yes, I noticed. It must be hard.”

“What?”

“Becoming a professional, and then finding that you're not in charge. You're still taking orders.”

“Are you in charge, Inspector?”

“Ha,” Vanier's eyes brightened. “Good question. Can we ever be independent?”

“Win the lottery, I suppose.”

“No. Not even then. So what else is there?”

“What?”

“The Shelter. What should I know?”

The waitress put two frosted drafts on the table and walked off, and Beaudoin started talking. There was a company, Blackrock Investments, and they were interested in acquiring the Holy Land property. Not acquiring exactly, because acquiring implied buying it, it implied a cost. They were interested in having the Shelter's land and a lot less interested in paying for it. Henderson got wind of it somehow and, all of a sudden, Blackrock became a client. Henderson concocted a plan. It was a land swap. Blackrock owned land on the fringe of the fringe of the lower island under the expressway, a worthless patch of land good for nothing but low-rent warehouses and chop-shops. It was known as The Stables, because people had once kept horses there, maybe a hundred years ago, but it was now one of those useless, polluted urban islands, rendered inaccessible by highways and train tracks. The plan was to swap the Holy Land property for The Stables, along with a promise to build a state-of-the-art refuge for the homeless. Because promises and plans are cheap, no expense was spared. It would be a comfortable home for the destitute, designed for rehabilitation, retraining and reintegration; an ambitious plan to bring the homeless back into society instead of just warehousing them for a night.

Beaudoin explained that he didn't grasp the swindle immediately. He thought it was a great idea to upgrade the shelter. But within weeks, he realized it was all bullshit. The Stables was owned by a shell company, an empty shell that was ready to fold as soon as the swap was done. Everything was planned, even the excuses: the land was polluted, they couldn't get planning permission, financing didn't come through, it wasn't the ideal place to house the vulnerable. Nothing mattered, not even the excuses. There would be no new building, no new shelter. Blackrock would get the Holy Land property and make a fortune. The homeless would lose what little they had and end up, well, homeless. It would be tragic, hands would be wrung, but in the end, nobody would care. It was a brilliant plan.

But to get the swap accepted, they didn't just need the approval of the Board of Directors of the Shelter; they had to get the Holy Land Foundation to approve it. The Board ran the Shelter's day-to-day operations, but the Foundation owned the Shelter and the land underneath. It was run by a group of solid citizens whose job was to look after the Holy Land's core assets.

“The Foundation's members are all getting on in years, the average age must be 85,” said Beaudoin. “It's easy to flood the Board of Directors with hand-picked yes men, but you can't do that with the Foundation. The way it's set up, the members of the Foundation choose their own members. To serve on the Foundation, you have to be asked by the current members of the Foundation. So that was a major problem. The current members of the Foundation would never agree to the deal without the kinds of guarantees Blackrock was not prepared to offer.

“So, brilliant as it was, the plan had a major problem: the Foundation. That's where I came in. After years on the Board, I knew the members of the Foundation, and they trusted me.”

“So you went along?” asked Vanier.

Beaudoin looked down at the table and continued, trying to leave himself with some excuses. He couldn't.

“More than that, I became the key to the whole plan. Henderson told me to start courting the members of the Foundation and to start collecting proxies, the right to vote on behalf of the Foundation members. So I did. I took them out to dinner, to the hockey game, and then things started to happen. At first, it was only proxies for easy decisions at single meetings. But gradually I built up trust. I would call the members before meetings to get their instructions on how to vote on specific issues. After a while, they started asking me how they should vote. Eventually, some members were offering me general proxies. Like I said, they trusted me. They thought I was doing them a personal favour. To make matters worse, the proxies were always in the name of Henderson, my boss. I told them, well, I told them what I was told to tell them, that it was to preserve independence. So now Henderson's holding general proxies for more than two-thirds of the votes of the Foundation, and he intends to use them to approve the swap. And his ass is covered because the Board will recommend the swap. It's loaded with Blackrock appointees.”

Beaudoin finished his beer, and Vanier gestured for two more.

“So how much do they stand to make?”

“Hard to tell. I've seen studies that value the condo project at $400 million. The land alone, free and ready to develop, is worth about $80 million. It's three city blocks, about ten minutes walking distance from downtown.”

“When's the vote?”

“That's what I haven't been able to figure out. Even though Henderson is sitting on enough proxies to carry the vote, he still has to do things by the book. He needs to give notice to all the Foundation members and tell them what business is being considered. I've drafted and redrafted the notice a dozen times, and Henderson keeps giving it back to me. He says it's too clear, that I should make it obscure. I've drafted fine print that would make you go blind. That notice will go out soon, and then it's fifteen days to the meeting.”

The beer arrived, and Beaudoin took a deep gulp. Vanier looked at him, trying to make up his mind, thinking that maybe a late conversion was better than none.

“How do you feel?”

“How the hell do you think I feel? I feel like shit. I'm betraying the one good thing I've done in the last five years. I try to justify it. I didn't really have a choice, I have to support my family.”

“That justifies it?”

“No, that's not it. But I've got responsibilities. I've got two beautiful children and a wife who still loves me. Somebody has to put bread on the table.”

“If only life were that easy, Pascal. The reason why you screw people doesn't matter, you're still screwing people. And who says you're entitled to use your family like that, to justify something they wouldn't agree with anyway.”

“You're right. It's just bullshit self-justification. It's just me. I'm responsible. My family's not involved.”

“Oh, they're involved. If you're involved, so are they. It's just not their fault. But you didn't call me for forgiveness or for a blessing. What is bothering you?”

Beaudoin stared into his beer and said nothing.

Vanier tried again. “What does your wife think of all this?”

“She doesn't know.”

“You sure?”

“No. Maybe that's why I called you. Something's got to give. Letting this happen is a betrayal of who I am, of who I see myself as. I won't be the person she married, and she'll know. If she accepts it, we'll both be different people. And I don't think I would like either of us.”

“People change all the time,” Vanier said.

“No, they grow, they mature. But what's at the core stays the same.”

Vanier thought about what he had said about Marcel Audet never changing. “Maybe you're right.”

“So, what should I do?”

“I'm the last person to ask for advice. It's your decision. You have to make it.”

“But I'm not alone.”

“Then talk to your wife. They tell me that communication is good; it's a healthy part of every marriage.” Vanier sounded like he believed it.

Beaudoin was silent.

“So, what's Marcel Audet doing at the shelter?”

“I've thought about that. Blackrock has something on Nolet. He used to be a solid guy, but he's shut down for the last six months. He knows what's going on, but says nothing, like he's scared. I think Audet is there to keep an eye on him, to keep the pressure on. From what I've heard, Audet seems to have started a personal business, kind of a pay-day loan scheme. If you're homeless, you can use the Shelter's address to receive social security checks. I think Audet cashes them, for a price, and pockets a percentage. He's a nasty piece of work.”

“I know. So why did you call me? What can I do?”

“Nothing, I guess. It's just, when you showed up at the office, I was hoping that the deal would be sidetracked. It wasn't. Henderson's still pushing.”

He looked at Vanier, his hands opening up on the table. “This isn't police business, is it?”

“Not that I can see. Just another deal where good people get screwed over and everything is perfectly legitimate.”

“This isn't where I wanted to be. You start by making small concessions, and before you know it, you've sold out. Your visit shook me. It made me think.” He took a long slug of beer and looked at Vanier. “Maybe I just wanted a sounding board. No, it's more than that. I wanted you to know what's going on.”

“Like I said, I don't normally give advice,” said Vanier. “You lawyers have that all sewn up. But I'll make an exception in your case, Maître. Things can get ugly when there's a lot of money involved. Be careful.”

Vanier wrote his cell phone number on his card and handed it to Beaudoin. “Call me. If you're worried. If something comes up. Call me.”

Beaudoin put the card in his pocket, and Vanier stood up.

“So, when I go to see Blackrock Investments, who should I ask for?” said Vanier.

Beaudoin looked up at the policeman, surprised, and told him.

4.30 PM

Blackrock Investments had its offices on the top floor of a building on Chabanel, the centre of Montreal's garment district until the industry abandoned Montreal for the sweatshops of China, Vietnam and Bangladesh. With the industry gone, Chabanel became a honeycomb of empty spaces. That's where Blackrock came in. Backed by generous subsidies of other people's money, subsidies from all levels of government, they began buying the empty shells and reinventing the area as the creative and artistic centre of Montreal. Even with the subsidies, it was hard going, but eventually the neighbourhood started to fill up with designers, artists and software producers. Rents were cheap, because everyone was subsidized.

Vanier and St. Jacques sat in the steel-themed reception area on oversized chairs that looked like they were designed by a club-hopper whose idea of furniture was a place to perch for a few seconds before flitting to the next flower. The receptionist, a tall Haitian beauty, was dressed for a fashion shoot and thumbing through a magazine like they weren't there. Chill-out music, the kind Vanier hated, played from expensive speakers hidden somewhere in the décor. St. Jacques shifted uncomfortably on her perch.

The thick carpeting masked the sound of the approaching men, and Vanier sensed movement only at the last minute. Two men stood in front of them in suits that looked like they had been sprayed on. The shorter of the two reached out his hand to Vanier, “Inspector Vanier, I am Vladimir, Vladimir Markov. Please call me Vladimir, everyone does. And this is Mr. Romanenko. He prefers to be called Mr. Romanenko.”

Vanier found himself being polite. “Gentlemen, this is Detective Sergeant St. Jacques.”

Markov's eyes made a fairly obvious tour of St. Jacques's body. “Detective Sergeant, I am charmed to meet you. Tell me, do you wear a gun? I would find that so exciting,” he said, turning on what might pass for charm in Eastern Europe.