Bikers in gangs can look a mess, but not their bikes. Pipes shine and tires gleam. Riders won’t drive a mile without reaching for a microfiber cloth to polish their hog again. If she fails to sparkle in the sunlight a pressure washer or an air hose is hauled out to correct the blemish. The Harley parked directly in front of Cinq-Mars’s motel room door was the exception proving the rule. Its dustiness indicated that it hadn’t moved all day with no one handy to give it a loving buff. A brief shower spotted the fuel tank and smeared the road dust on the saddlebags. A light greenish pollen suffused the chrome surfaces.
In biker-world, a disgrace.
Taking his ease on the porch as a few hours passed gently under the lens of his whisky glass, making a few calls on the motel’s porch thanks to a long extension cord, Cinq-Mars was adroitly positioned to observe the biker’s return. The leader arrived in a taxi without his gang colors. Not quite a suit upon his frame as the jacket and trousers didn’t match, nonetheless he was duded up. Burgundy sports coat. Pressed charcoal pants. Polished winged-tip brown Oxfords. An honest to God white shirt. He had drawn the line at a tie, but still, the man turned out as sharp as a mannequin.
Even so, he clunked his way up the steps.
Passed in front of the visiting Montreal detective.
‘On your own?’ the policeman inquired. One bike only remained in the parking lot.
‘I know what you think.’
‘Do you?’
‘Up to no good, the others, that’s what you think,’ the biker said.
‘Curious is all.’ As he spoke, Cinq-Mars realized that he could no longer qualify himself as sober.
‘More like suspicious,’ the biker declared. ‘Stupid way to live. My friends left. I stayed put. I had work to do. Makes you no safer, if that’s what’s gnawing on your pecker.’
He was slow to comprehend, an effect of the whisky. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Cinq-Mars. We got no interest in you. You’re under no threat. But you never know. Things change. So you’re no safer, neither.’
‘Same here. You’re under no threat from me,’ Cinq-Mars assured him.
‘How come? You wake up in the morning with a job to do. Put the bad guys away. That’s me, no?’
‘Way beyond my jurisdiction. I have no cause to pinch you.’
‘Sounds about right. But whatever you doing here, isn’t that outside your jurisdiction?’ the biker inquired. He was softening. ‘This ain’t no place to be hanging out just for the hell of it. Nobody takes a vacation in this town.’
‘Same as you in one respect.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Visiting folks in the Joliette Institution for Women.’
The biker gave him a long look, for while he knew that Cinq-Mars had been visiting the jailhouse, it had not occurred to him that his own comings and goings were under scrutiny. He shifted his gaze to the roadway and a moderate bustle of traffic there. The view was not much of an entertainment, yet provided a destination for his gaze as he sorted through his own reactions. He turned back to Cinq-Mars. ‘I’ll buy the next bottle if you’re in a mood to share the one you got.’
‘Take a seat,’ Cinq-Mars invited.
‘What the women say’ – he issued a whoop of a belly laugh – ‘let me go freshen up first. For me that means taking a long leak.’
‘Come by when you’re ready. I’ll find an extra glass.’
Early in his career, Cinq-Mars had been advised to make connections. As his mentor had stipulated, he was a loner, yet in his profession he could not go it alone. By connections, his mentor meant people of every stripe, including the nefarious. Paul Lagarde, who was suited up today, was a mid-level criminal biker, perhaps with greater ambitions, who worked outside Montreal. They’d have no occasion to run into each other in the normal discharge of their opposing duties. That being true, the day might come when he could be useful. Who could tell what an unforeseeable future might bring?
Nothing to lose. Had the man not offered to purchase the next bottle?
Paul Lagarde reemerged freshened in biker leather, chains, and his usual bling. The Iron Cross that dangled from an earlobe had not been present ten minutes earlier. He accepted a glass of Laphroaig from Cinq-Mars and took it down a few steps to his Harley. From his saddlebag he pulled out a rag and a plastic bottle of Quick Detailer. Spritzed his machine and rubbed her down with ardent enthusiasm, returning his beast to its primal glow. As he labored, the two chewed the fat on their upbringings as farm boys, each curious about how two men from the countryside diverged in opposite directions upon entering a wider, wilder world.
One man stayed righteous, the other chewed on the hard tack of corruption. Which he found tasty. Both were content with their lot in life.
Lagarde put his stuff away and joined Cinq-Mars on the porch. Cop and biker, side-by-side in the shank of the evening, imbibing.
‘Cops I know been crooked the day they got hatched.’
‘I hope you don’t know many like that,’ Cinq-Mars responded.
‘As many as you, my guess.’
‘The wrong ones, then.’
‘Your take, not mine.’
‘Grant you that.’
Both grinned.
‘Consider though,’ Cinq-Mars asked him to ponder, ‘that a crooked cop can be useful to your needs today, but who knows what’s on the news tomorrow? The time comes when the only hope you got left is a righteous cop.’
‘Hard to think that.’
Cinq-Mars sipped, then said, ‘I’ve seen it. Crooked cops get sorted out. Either by your guys or by ours, in-house. You live on a one-way street, Paul. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not preaching. Just asking. How many bad guys die in old age without losing time inside? Try none. It seems like a good street for a while, yours. Affluent. Can’t argue with you there. Your spare change will outdo my life-long pension. You won’t even miss the wad you blow in Vegas. For all that, for what you know and who you know, the card you play can kill you. Hard times require hard measures.’
‘Too long a fall for me. I’m righteous in my own house.’
Cinq-Mars rubbed his chin. ‘Says to me you lack the imagination to see what’s coming.’
‘Possible. But I don’t see a righteous cop offering me a street I’d walk on. The desperation comes around and goes around, but it don’t mean much. I don’t feel that way much anyhow.’
‘Desperate, you mean.’
‘Like that, yeah.’
‘Never said it was likely. A last resort if your tank runs dry.’
‘I’m no snitch, Cinq-Mars. Only in your dreams, the wet ones.’
‘I wasn’t asking, Paul. That would be disrespectful.’
They sipped in a convivial fashion. Cinq-Mars had downed several glasses and had lost count.
‘I’ve seen the other,’ Lagarde said. ‘The good cop who turns bad enough.’
‘Seen that, too,’ Cinq-Mars agreed. ‘But a sad day. How is it a good thing if you take the wind of hope out of the weather?’
‘Fancy words. Are you a poet or just drunk?’
‘We can always use a sea breeze,’ Cinq-Mars replied. Definitely tipsy. Lagarde saw that.
‘One man’s losing his hope can be another guy’s opportunity up in the air.’
‘I thought I was the philosopher,’ Cinq-Mars said. ‘Must be this porch. Or the whisky. Shall we drink to that?’
‘To what?’
‘Philosophy,’ Cinq-Mars suggested.
‘Philosophical horseshit!’ Lagarde toasted, raising his glass.
They clinked and drank to that.
‘What’s your end?’ Lagarde asked him. ‘You warned me off Abigail. For no good reason, I say that. What’s your take?’
‘What’s yours?’
‘Didn’t I ask first? Some rights in that.’
‘I’m the investigator. I got rights, too.’
‘We’re only drinking whisky. Seemed personal to you, that’s all I’m saying.’
Cinq-Mars tapped his own nose with his thumb a moment. ‘You knew what I was talking about without my explanation.’
‘What’s your end, I’m asking? It’s not something I can go look up.’
Cinq-Mars thought about it. He had to keep Lagarde aware that his threat to protect Abigail within or even outside the restraints of the law still held, notwithstanding the diversion of their evening. If the man couldn’t differentiate sincere threats from idle ones, that would work in his favor. Keep an adversary confused, and never let him think you’ll be hampered by the law. Basic alternative police procedure. Force the bad guys to resort to lawyers; better that way for everyone’s security.
‘My interest is in her protection. I don’t consider what she did to be worth a death sentence, I don’t care who the victims were. Besides, maybe it’s personal. I arrested her.’
‘No shit?’
‘That was me. And I compiled the evidence against her. She got more prison time than she deserved. Her punishment should end there. If she dies, I won’t tolerate it. And you, you’re another one after her money?’
‘You’re right. I have no shame. It’s always about the money, Cinq-Mars. Anyway, it’s crooked money. We got a right.’
‘Sorry? How’s that? Money from a trust company?’ Cinq-Mars knew better but did not want to reveal the depth of his understanding. Sometimes it helped to play the naive.
‘Who made the deposits?’
‘Not something I’m aware of.’
‘So you say.’ Lagarde checked the other man’s look. ‘Really? You don’t know? Good. Tells me we looked after our end. No fuckups. Until Abigail goes and sticks her fingers in the pie.’
‘Some pie.’
‘Say that. You heard about the hits on LeClair and Fournier, while back?’ Bikers both, although no one could guess it from their choice of apparel. Suits and ties, quality cloth. Italian leather for their shoes. They never spent time on Harleys, too difficult to pull themselves away from their ledgers and adding machines. ‘Both hits on account of Abigail. She should not feel safe on this planet earth. No matter your threats. I’m not speaking for myself. I’m only the messenger. You might want to watch out for your own threats though. Say it to the wrong guy next time, you can be like LeClair, like Fournier. Respected, but in the dirt. If somebody was willing to do in those guys, then somebody is ready to do in anybody, even an Émile Cinq-Mars.’
‘Point taken. Begs the question though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If Abigail is under so much threat, why is the inmate who is dead not her, but Florence? Did you know Florence, Paul?’
‘Not personally. She had a rep. Do you know who did it?’
‘Do you?’ Cinq-Mars pressed him in return.
‘If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. No point asking is there?’
‘Did you order the hit on Flo yourself?’
‘Whoa. No need for that. We’re having a friendly few drinks here. I’m not answering to shit like that.’
Cinq-Mars nodded in appreciation of the biker’s point-of-view. ‘Felons and that, killers, let’s say, never rush to confess. I’ve noticed that in my life. Just letting you know that my brain is on a merry-go-round and somebody in my vicinity is guilty. Somebody has to be. For now, everybody I meet, even the old guy who made my French fries last night, is a suspect.’
‘Speaking of – what do you think?’
‘About what?’ Cinq-Mars asked.
‘Fries, man. Poutine. I could kill a half-dozen dogs, too.’
‘You bad guys. You always want to tempt us normal folks.’
‘You game?’
‘Yeah,’ Cinq-Mars decided. ‘Why not? Another night of fries and dogs. Then I’ll have to get back for a phone call.’
‘We’ll take my Harley. I don’t have an extra helmet but you’re a cop. You can shake the fine if we get caught.’
‘I’ll pay the fine. But I will also wear the helmet. You can be windblown for once.’
‘Just don’t fucking arrest me, Cinq-Mars.’
‘Not this once.’
The sun had long set by the time Cinq-Mars telephoned the new lady in his life. Although he was lucid, she caught on pretty quickly that that glass of lucidity was augmented by a decanter’s worth of inebriation.
He explained. ‘I got home. Felt weary. The room, too oppressive for a nap. I took a bottle of whisky out to the porch. Forgot myself. Mistook the whisky for soda. A couple of glasses went down way too quickly. Drinking slowly after that didn’t much help. Then this biker came by—’
‘Biker.’
‘Yeah. Hells Angels affiliate. Rap sheet maybe not as long as your arm but wrist to elbow, let’s say, and we had a couple of drinks—’
Sandra Lowndes was heard to be enjoying herself at any rate.
‘What’s so funny?’ Cinq-Mars inquired. He was not put out, but happy to pretend he was. Her laughter delighted him.
‘Nothing. Go on. You and the biker got drunk, you were saying?’
‘Not really. We went out for hot dogs and poutine.’
‘What’s poutine?’ The popularity of the dish had only recently taken hold across the Province of Quebec. Its fame had not spread to other lands as yet.
‘Cheese curds and gravy on French fries.’
‘Oh my God. What? You eat that?’
‘You remember your meal afterwards, let me tell you. Washed that down with a couple of beers.’
‘I hope you weren’t driving, Émile.’
‘I was on the back seat of a Harley.’
In this conversation he was not conforming to the man she’d been talking to lately. She’d admitted an interest to herself, although any number of red flags had to be considered. Catholic, and practicing – where was that at? – a police detective of all things, older by far, French – good grief – from Canada, specifically the French Province of Quebec. His gargantuan nose she’d leave for others to mock. But she’d had to acknowledge a plus side, as well. She knew horses and she knew people who knew horses, and yet he was as knowledgeable as anyone. He had a better eye for foals than she did, and her eye was excellent. He was humble but damn smart. Gawd. And again, looking past the nose, he was good-looking in an aristocratic sort of way. Way tall. Superior build. Maybe softening up a bit. Ox-strong, she’d noticed it around the horses, although he handled them with an adroit tenderness she admired. Off the cuff, not her type, yet strangely and undeniably appealing. Anyway, whatever her type might be, no one in that indeterminate bracket had swept her off her feet in the last decade.
Unless this one had.
She admitted she felt herself lift above the floorboards on occasion when they talked. Damn he was smart. You ask a man to enumerate his hobbies and he comes back with quantum physics. Whoosh.
Even a few so-called negative aspects – French, religious, living in another country – created a dash of exotic appeal. She had not thought it likely in the beginning, but had begun to discern a possibility.
Still. She was thirty-one. He was fifty. Cripes.
‘How’s the work going?’ Sandra asked. That was another thing. Unlike accountants and lawyers, farmers, engineers and contractors, among other suitors she’d known over time, his job was an ever-changing topic of conversation.
‘In circles,’ Cinq-Mars replied. ‘The women had a brawl. A big one. If I call it a cat-fight, think lions, tigers, leopards. A few of my suspects have been tossed into solitary confinement.’
Who arrived home from work with stories like that? Who?
‘Wow,’ she said.
‘As for how it’s going, I’m getting nowhere. Speaking of nowhere …’ He took a deliberate pause. Then explained, ‘I don’t want you to think I’m drunk.’
‘But you are.’ That was another thing. For all his upright bearing, his moral and religious fortitude, he seemed willing to enjoy himself when the time was right. He wasn’t only a stick in the mud, although he was that, too.
‘Ahh … What I mean is …’ Another pregnant pause.
‘What do you mean, Émile?’
She was both teasing him and goading him on.
‘I might be in my cups but it’s not the drunk in me who’s doing the talking. I mean what I’m about to say. The drunk part, maybe that helps me say it, that’s all.’
Intrigued. ‘I’m listening.’
‘I’m stuck in this godforsaken town eating hot dogs and poutine with a criminal biker when I’m not drinking whisky, but mostly I’m drinking whisky.’
‘I feel for you. To the Catholic in you, it must feel like purgatory.’
‘Join me.’
Momentarily, dead air was returned. Then: ‘What? Oh, I like that, Émile. What girl has ever had a finer invitation?’ She switched to a deep, mock-male voice. “Hey, lady! I’m hanging out in a lower rung of hell. Come join me.” Who could refuse an invite like that?’
He was breathing a bit easier thanks to her reaction. ‘I was hoping maybe you couldn’t. Look, I’m living in a crappy motel without air conditioning. It’s uninhabitable during the day when it’s hot out. But there’s a hotel in the center of town that looks half-decent. You could stay there. In town, you can find things to do during the day. Maybe. Not promising. Then at night we can have dinner, get to know each other better. Your folks can look after the horses for a bit, right?’
‘My mom can, yeah. So, you stay in the crappy motel while I’m squirreled away in something that’s half-decent, like an unwanted mistress in a rundown flophouse? This gets better by the minute.’
‘If you put it that way,’ he said.
‘That’s how I put it.’
‘It does sound tawdry.’
A pregnant pause from both of them this time.
Cinq-Mars felt that she was waiting for him to improve his offer. Or rescind it.
‘I suppose, if you were to come all this way …’
‘I’d drive. If I went there. It’s a long drive. A full day on the road.’
Somewhat encouraging. ‘Right. It maybe would make more sense, you know, to just bite the bullet, and say, how about it, would you like to stay with me for a few days? See how that goes?’
‘In your crappy motel.’ More teasing. More goading him on.
‘I could take a room in the hotel downtown. The half-decent one.’
This time the pause felt more serious, to both of them. A line to cross.
‘You won’t change your mind when you’re sober?’ she asked. He supposed that that was her way of saying yes.
‘Oh God,’ Cinq-Mars said.
‘What?’
‘The biker’s banging on my door.’
She ignored that faraway intrusion. ‘This hotel, is it right in the center of town?’
‘Exactly right there. Restaurant on the main floor.’
‘I’ll find it. Joliette. Almost like Romeo and Juliet. Émile, this is almost your lucky day.’
‘Almost?’
‘Book two rooms. Same hotel, though. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Two rooms.’ One part joy to one part frustration.
‘Good night, Émile. Say hello to your biker.’
‘Good night, San.’
The man at the door was not a biker. An officer from the SQ, the provincial police, had arrived to pick him up.
‘What’s going on?’
‘The Joliette Institution asked me to escort you to the scene of a crime. Do you know Corrections Officer Isaure Dabrezil?’
‘I’ve been working with her, yes.’
‘She was murdered this evening, sir.’
‘What? How? At the prison?’
‘No, sir. In her home.’
‘Take me there. I’ll be right behind you.’
‘No, sir. I can’t let you drive in your condition. I’ll drive you.’
Cinq-Mars stared at him a few moments as though trying to comprehend what he could possibly mean. Inebriated, in love, in shock at the news that Isaure was dead, that Sandra was arriving tomorrow, a mix of emotions had him swirling. His brain, he was thinking to himself, being out of sync with himself, emulated the planet’s wobble on its axis, and why was he thinking that?
‘I’ll ride shotgun,’ he conceded.