Abigail settled into the seat at the table opposite him, slouched down a little. She took her time before looking up as though abruptly distracted by a stray thought. Émile Cinq-Mars motioned the guard at the door with his chin. If looks could kill: the corrections officer settled on a sigh, obeyed and left the room.
‘Wish I could do that,’ Abi said.
‘I wouldn’t put it past you.’ They shared a grin, then Cinq-Mars said, ‘You wanted the meeting, Abi. To break the routine or something serious?’
‘What’s not serious? My life is on the line, Émile. That’s not changed.’
‘Mmm,’ he murmured.
‘Not good enough. If that’s all you’ve got, I’m dead meat.’
‘You know the drill, Abi. Show us where you hid the money and police departments across the country will compete to bail you out. If you keep a smidgen for yourself, who’d know? You’d get away with it. No one has an accurate account of how much you stole. No one ever will. You pulled off the perfect crime and all that, until you didn’t.’
She seemed to want to respond, but never found the words.
‘My guess? You don’t have the money,’ Cinq-Mars said. He smiled in a way she found curious.
Abigail studied his expression, wondering what he knew to say that or smile that way, or if his words and his look were mere conjecture, a false flag. She finally managed to admit, under her breath, ‘Never did.’
He nodded. He added, also under his breath, ‘I know.’
‘You know? What do you know? You don’t know squat. You’re bluffing.’ Her voice remained hushed as though someone in the room might overhear. But they were alone.
‘Never bluff a bluffer, as they say. You’re a modern day Robin Hood, Abi.’
She went silent then. Her eyes moved around the small room, calculating.
Cinq-Mars pressed his advantage. ‘Remember, I studied your process. Best as I was able, anyway, back when we were building a case against you. High finance is not my bailiwick, Abigail, but still, did you really think I put in all that time and found nothing?’
She met his gaze again. ‘Of course I did. Are you having me on, Mr Copper-Man?’
He raised his hands and spread them apart for a moment. ‘Everyone who investigated you outwitted themselves. Including me. We aided and abetted your own deceptions. We failed to consider your basic motivation. I cottoned on, eventually. I’m not saying you’re altruistic to the bone, Abi, but you funneled biker drug money into charities around the world.’
‘Oh, did I? That’s a wild thought, Émile. You can’t prove nothing like that.’
‘Sorry, Abi. That jig’s been up for a long time. What I think is, you never figured out how to funnel the cash back to yourself. Hitting up foreign accounts where money was being moved at lightning speed and in huge numbers – rapid-fire money laundering on the fly, heady stuff – you figured out how to skip a beat.’
‘Skip a beat?’ She was trying to put on a brave face although defeat showed around the edges. They’d been adversaries for years; she had never shown signs of being foiled before.
That smile of his again, a mere uptick, difficult to decipher. He explained, ‘No one was likely to notice if a chunk here or a chunk there vanished along the way. Chunks always vanish along the way and no one is ever certain of where. It’s just expected. Once in a while, somebody gets a bullet to the back of the head, but half the time that bullet was only a crude guess. No one actually knows where all the money went, and not many care as long as most of it arrives on target and close to being on time. Some banks take a cut, it’s assumed. They’re adept at making money disappear. Your problem, Abi, was where to put it all? Once you opened a funnel, giving the lion’s share to yourself was a hurdle too big and a step too far. You might have figured it out one day, that might have been the plan, but you failed to do it in the short term. A whole other problem for you that required more time.’
‘Especially if you’re not free to travel,’ she admitted. ‘I had to look like I was on the job.’
‘What bank could you hoodwink to store it for you – for you, personally? But charities? They received these odd deposits, raw cash to them, and never looked that gift horse in the eye. Why would they? No need to even issue a tax receipt or say thanks. They had a notion where it was coming from. Probably thought hoodlums the world over were suffering a crisis of conscience to be so generous. By moving it around from one charity to another, no big red flag was raised. Until one was hoisted when the tally really began to add up. Good scheme, Abi. Very smart.’
Her mouth remained slightly agape.
‘You knew? Yet said nothing?’ She seemed to be accusing him of a crime, and Cinq-Mars accepted that he might be guilty of one or two himself. She was growing wary, for if he had crossed a line to her side of the fence and had something on her, what did he want from her now? That was how her world had always worked.
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Abigail, if people were aware that you never possessed the money you pilfered, that you never hid it away in a secret vault somewhere, you’d be a carcass in a dumpster within the hour, no matter where you’re living. Let’s keep this one to ourselves. No need to mention it. I haven’t. You gave the money away. I’ll admit to my failure, take the abuse the department will enjoy heaping on me. I’ll claim I couldn’t drag it out of you, that you’re one stubborn lady.’
‘Shit, man. I had no idea.’
‘Why so glum?’ She did appear to be dismayed.
‘If you figured it out, other people will, too.’
Cinq-Mars dismissed the notion. ‘I had resources and imagination, both. Other people? They’ll assume forever that you took the money for yourself. Who gives it away in this world? They’ll keep looking for a stash of cash overseas with your name on it. Money, Abi, is hard to find when and where it doesn’t exist anymore. You’ll be fine.’
She wasn’t so sure. ‘In here, for now. I might survive – short term.’
‘I’ll be working with honest officials. We want to take away the bikers’ ability to move prisoners around the system. We’ll add security checks specifically with you in mind so that the new regulations cannot be subverted. Very senior people will have to sign off on moving you, and on moving anyone close to you.’
She shook her head in defiance of him. ‘Then what? When I get out, bikers will have my skin. I’m not sure I can live without it, Cinq-Mars. I used to strip naked in their clubs, when I was still a kid, but naked with no skin? That’s another story.’
‘You’ve been working on that one I know.’
She shot him a glance, confused. ‘What do you know? Surprise me again, Cinq-Mars.’
‘Your disappearing skin. I’m talking about Rozlynn.’
She sighed. ‘More bad news. You figured that one out and this time you told people. I’m burnt toast.’
Cinq-Mars wasn’t so sure. ‘Before you join her in the Manitoba wilderness, Abi, a biker war will be underway. My prediction? Whoever doesn’t die will be imprisoned. But many will die. More than one or two. Probably more than one or two dozen. Some say more than a hundred, although I hope not. You’re a concern for bikers now, that’s true, but after a bloodbath who will remember you? When all that shakes down, who will still be alive to remember you or give you a second thought after your release?’
She shrugged. Although her nerve endings and her bones were keenly interested.
‘No one,’ he told her. ‘All you have to do is survive your time in Lady Jail, hang out in the wilderness for a few years until you’re utterly forgotten, then you’ll be home-free. Just don’t find your way back to prison, not here, not anywhere, and forget about your old haunts. No nostalgia tour.’
Abi put her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. She held the pose. She broke from it when her survival instincts took hold again. This time she was the one with the ironic smile. ‘What do you want, Cinq-Mars?’ Life came down to that. She reverted to his surname to show that she was onto him.
He wasn’t going to say, initially. An intensity in her eyes changed his mind. She deserved that much, and he could tell that her brooding led her back to distrusting him as she did the rest of the world. ‘I followed the money, Abi. When not a single penny was detected, I figured out that it must have been dispersed. You helped a lot of charities. Do I really want to go back to them and demand that the mob’s money be returned or that banks who participated in their schemes be compensated?’
She stared back at him.
‘A rhetorical question, Abi.’
‘Our secret, I hope. But if you don’t want the money back, the question still remains. What do you want, motherfucker?’
Cinq-Mars nodded in agreement. ‘It’s true. I have something on you. So behave.’ He put his elbows on the table. ‘What I want is to get you out of here, because we both know I probably can’t keep you alive if you stay on the inside long term. A year or two will bring the news of your demise.’
‘Reality kicks in. Finally. I’m listening.’
‘Always. This is what you’ll give me. The ways and means. Show us how to disrupt the flow of biker money. Do it now while they are on the brink of an all-out war, when they won’t be able to handle the confusion, or stem the outflow. Yes, I know, they’ll stick a finger in the dyke. They’ll establish a better system next time. But let us jangle their nerves and undermine their structure at the same time that they’re self-destructing. Give us the keys to knock down their money-laundering system, even if that’s temporary. With that, I can spring you early. I can spring Roz early. You’ll both be off to the wilderness and you won’t have to come back.’
She seemed to be in a trance, scarcely breathing. Staring at nothing at all. Perhaps not even listening. A grave notion appeared to cross her face, altering her coloring. She took a few breaths. Nodded. Stared him down again. She spoke quietly, the underlying intensity apparent. ‘How else could I get to them, Émile? I had to hurt them. I stripped for them as a kid. I was a fucking kid. They passed me around. You can imagine. You don’t need the gory details and the truth is, as these things go, compared to others I got off easy. I’m not saying I got over it, but maybe I could let it go a little. I was smart. I could take care of myself. Up to a point. I made my way out from under them. I made myself useful and kept my clothes on. I could handle the paperwork when they needed someone for that, and day-by-day I made myself more important. You know, when the really big money first started coming in, they didn’t have a clue. They’d go down to Las Vegas or Atlantic City. They even brought me along sometimes as their play doll. I saw a way out. They didn’t care if they made or lost money at the tables, as long as they came home with clean sparkly cash. I learned how money worked. Made friends with Mafia accountants, got tips. The old men were willing to share stuff with a young chick and they were, I have to admit, generally good to me. Happy to settle for a little flirtation, a kiss on the cheek, a friendly hug. They let me claw my way up the ladder. Still a criminal but left alone. Independent. I taught bikers how to flip real estate deals six ways in Germany for God’s sake, give up a small bribe here or there, to exchange dirty money for crinkly cash and piles of it. I learned what banks were willing to comply. What foreign governments were hoping you’d call. You know? I became important. My own person. Then some crooked engineer wanted me as a reward for fixing a job. He’d seen me show up at a job-site with the payroll – another way of cleaning cash – and just like that, the bikers sold me out. They let the guy have me just to put me in my place, to let me know that, never mind my upper class manners – I was born and raised with those – and never mind the job I did for them, I was still their wasted worthless little gutter whore. I could say a word less gentle. That’s when I knew I had to hurt them. Really hurt them. I knew how to do that, too.’
‘Take their money.’
‘That, too.’
‘Too?’ She had surprised him for a change. ‘What else?’
‘Put one over on them. Trick them. Fool them. Beat them at their own game. They hate that so much more. That was my revenge. Also, truth be told, my downfall.’
Cinq-Mars felt a tingling, as if a premonition was stirring on his fingertips.
She confirmed what she had alluded to. ‘I’m not saying I let them find out what I did. I don’t think I’m that stupid. But almost. I left clues. I found ways for them to think that someone, somewhere, was ripping them off. If not for that, nothing would have come back to me. I’d still be supporting charities. I just so much wanted them to know they were being ripped off.’
‘What you could have done with your life, Abi,’ Cinq-Mars said, and sighed, his tone sympathetic and wistful. He honestly admired her.
‘Tell me about it. But never on the cards in this lifetime. Anyway, I’m past fretting about that. Sergeant-Dee-tective Émile Cinq-Mars, what the hell do you want from me?’
The crux of their negotiation, for this was proving to be a negotiation. ‘Ways and means, Abi. Ways and means.’
‘Then I’m out?’
‘By leaps and bounds. Do we have a deal?’
She thought it over. ‘Out first. Then the good word?’
‘No guarantee on that. I can try.’
‘I can offer more than you’re asking for. Your bosses’ heads will spin.’
‘In that case, we can swing it. I’ve already softened up the interested parties.’
‘All right then.’
‘Deal?’
‘Deal. Now, Émile, let’s talk about what I really came here for.’
This time, he was the one confused. ‘What’s that?’
‘Tell me. I need to know.’ That sly gaze. ‘Million-dollar question. Not, where’s the money, but … you know how it goes. Us girls, we’re starved for good gossip. Even a hardcase chick like me. So, Émile, tell me, tell us all, how’s your love life going these days?’
Rather than blow her off, or join in the laugh, Cinq-Mars took the question to heart. He closed his eyes a moment. She wasn’t sure if that expression emulated taking a bullet to the chest, or if he was deep in thought. When he opened them again, he confided, ‘I’ve decided. I’m going to ask the lady to marry me.’
‘You will! Will you? Émile!’ She bounced up in her seat. ‘Cinq-Mars! Fantastic. Attaboy!’
He did his best to smile but couldn’t hold it. ‘I’ve got a snowball’s chance, Abi. She’s already been thinking about it. Fair enough. There’s lots to think about. She’s American. She lives on a farm. I’m a big-city cop in Canada. She’s hung around, though. She hasn’t beat it home yet. If she’s waiting for me to pop the question, maybe she’s thought things through. Hard to imagine she’ll say yes.’
‘Émile Cinq-Mars, you’re scared.’
He managed a thin smile. ‘Terrified, actually.’
‘Good luck with it, Émile. Holy shit!’
‘Yeah. Let’s hope we both have enough good luck to go around.’
‘We’ll need it. Cheer up. Hang in there, baby.’
‘You, too, Abi. All in all. You, too.’
Before meeting with his next, and he hoped his last, inmate, Cinq-Mars was interrupted by an unexpected visitor. Inspector Gabriel Borde of the Sûreté du Québec stepped into the room shortly after Abigail was led out.
Unexpected, but not surprising. ‘What are you doing here, Gabs?’
‘Good to see you, too, Émile. How’s it hanging out here in the bushes?’
‘Sorry. It is good to see you. I didn’t know you were still around.’
‘I wasn’t. I’m not still around. I’m zipping in and I’ll zip back out again. This meeting is not happening even though it’s official bees’ wax. We need to talk, Émile.’
That sounded ominous, and Cinq-Mars indicated the chair opposite his own. ‘I’d offer you a beer, but this is a penitentiary. They’d put us both in solitary for that.’
‘You may be headed there anyway.’
He was hesitant to ask. ‘What’s up?’
‘You’re a tall man, Émile. With big feet and we all know you have a large nose. It’s exceptional, in fact. You’ve been sticking your big beak where it doesn’t belong – only according to some, I’ll grant you that – and stepping on toes smaller than your own.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that in sticking your neck out it’s landed in a noose.’
‘Aren’t you just full of nutty illustrations regarding my physique.’
Borde chuckled. He was the gentlest of men. Thinning prematurely, he had started to wear his hair straight back in recent months and the style suited his visage. He looked as though he might be a friendly face in haberdashery who could pick out a client’s suit size in an instant, rather than a detective alert to a gangster’s next move. A family man with simple interests; a good cop with an unswerving moral code which is what had brought the two men, from different forces and different agendas, together. They knew there were times when cooperation between departments – given nothing more than lip-service by the higher-ups – was vital to the public’s interest. Their liaison was unofficial but fiercely defended between them and included other like-minded cops.
‘Sticking with the theme of body parts,’ Borde continued, ‘the SQ wants to slice your balls off.’
‘With a rusty blade, I imagine.’
Borde considered, only for a moment, continuing with the imagery, but he had arrived on a serious mission and wanted to get to it. ‘Some will say you’ve tracked down the money. Some say you’re clever enough to keep a slice of that pie for yourself. Some say you’ve thrown in with the inmates to run your own scheme. They’ve concluded that that’s what’s really behind the reforms you want to impose on the prison system, on the chain-of-command. Some say under suspicion and since the brain trust is as dumb as ducks that opinion might fly.’
‘They have nothing on me.’
‘They don’t need anything on you to wreck you. You might still get support in your department but if the SQ sets out to wreck you, they’ll just wreck you. They want the money. They want something out of this. We have a dead comrade, and this flag you’re flying that Isaure Dabrezil was gang-compromised does absolutely nothing for our public relations. You get me?’
‘If I’m hearing you correctly, Gabs, we’re not talking about the truth or about what’s right.’
‘That offends the priest in you, I know. We’re not talking about justice. We’re talking about power and we’re talking about politics and we’re talking about the one whose head will land upright on a pointy stick. Ah, that will be your head I’m talking about.’
‘I thought my neck was in a noose?’
‘Whatever works best.’
Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars of the Montreal Police Service placed his right forearm on the table between them and gently tapped his palm against it. The incessant tapping annoyed Inspector Borde of the provincial police but he let it go. He waited, hoping that his friend, with all his plans, had also figured a way out for himself. He’d upset the prison bureaucracy in revealing how the gangs could influence the movement of prisoners, and upset the SQ echelon by suggesting that their undercover cop posing as a prison guard was also undercover for the mob. As the gangs splintered into warring factions, Isaure Dabrezil was not quick enough on her feet, knowing too much to suit one side and doing too little to suit the other and probably still a cop, too. She may have thought herself immune from retribution due to her police and prison status. A lesson you don’t get a second chance to learn. She had to go, and gone, the SQ was pissed. Meanwhile, his own city police department had been hoping he’d unearth a treasure trove of cash they could announce to the media, then request a bump to their budget in the new year. That these imaginary monies would be returned to previous owners – not rightful owners – was neither here nor there. They wanted and had expected that announcement and that it be theirs, and neither the Mounties’ nor the SQs. The mucky-mucks had their private agendas and he was not cooperating.
He finally stopped tapping and looked his friend in the eye.
They needed to pull strings. He explained it. ‘First, this is what I need.’ He wanted Abigail released. Her sentence had been rigged from the get-go, and their connections in the Mounties could sneak through an early ‘conditional’ parole. ‘Let people think she’s being paroled early to give up the money. Any judge will sign off on that. Our friends will know better, but others won’t object if they think it’s the money.’
‘Émile, come on, they’ll turn rancid if it isn’t. No noose for your neck. You’ll be flattened by a freight train. I’m talking a hundred cars long.’
‘I love your illustrations, Gabs.’
‘Get serious.’
‘I’m dead serious.’
‘Then get this. I haven’t told you, but they’re thinking to let Malka Hayer walk on the murder rap. What might come out in trial is too risky, and anyway, they don’t think they can convict on the word of a fragile teenaged killer. This is no time to be making demands, Émile.’
‘I have more.’ He blocked his pal’s objection. ‘Hear me out.’ Cinq-Mars explained that they had to call on their friends in the Mounties for another favor, to force a retrial for Rozlynn, and to spring her on bail in the interim.
‘Émile, when does this madness end? Give me something, for God’s sake.’
‘How about I give you more than something? How about I give you the mother lode.’
‘Listening.’
‘A biker war is coming.’
‘Rumors are rampant, Émile.’
‘Horse’s mouth, from my side. How would you like to take down their financial money-laundering system, complete with international banks, enablers and subordinates? The prison bureaucrats will be happy because they go undisturbed as long as Abi and Roz are released. Your SQ has an orgasm because they totally rock the bikers’ fiscal world. They might pull in some excess cash, too, maybe. The Mounties are delirious because they participate on an international level. They uncloak and reveal. Even my department is happy enough although I will remain a perpetual disappointment to them. But my head stays on my shoulders.’
Borde gazed back at him. While there was admiration in his gaze, another element mixed with that. One that feared for the man’s well-being and safety. Not for this time around, perhaps, but over the course of their lives this priestly cop might receive his comeuppance. As though the world of cops and bad guys was too treacherous a path for one of his inclinations.
‘Your nose is huge. You do stick it in where it does not belong.’
‘Again with the body parts. What else do I get?’
‘We’re on. Of course. By the way, I’ve delayed mentioning that two people are waiting for you outside these walls. One a biker I know. The other a rather attractive woman, Émile. The biker introduced me to her. They were talking amicably outside. Both waiting for you to emerge. Is this your life now?’
Borde noticed his friend pale. Cinq-Mars asked, ‘Was she packed?’
Borde adapted his tone to convey sympathy. ‘Looked like it,’ he said.
Rozlynn slumped into the room, her usual recalcitrant self. Cinq-Mars expected to get no reaction out of her and didn’t but proceeded to detail his plan anyway. He told her that she deserved a new trial. He had talked to the Mounties on her home reservation and they agreed. She’d been a good kid. They didn’t understand why she had killed her dad without ever saying a word in her own defense. They could understand now that mistaken identity might have played a part; they knew the character and record of her intended victim, which brought up the notion of self-defense given the nature of her uncle, and with it the possibility of early parole pending a retrial. The Mounties were willing to take it up with the public prosecutor. They’d present a compelling argument. Given time served, the circumstances, with any luck Roz could be freed, pending that new trial.
Roz listened. Implacable.
He wasn’t sure what freedom meant to her. He assumed that it might be complicated. They had once discussed whom she might kill if freed.
Then she said, ‘OK.’ A woman of few words.
Cinq-Mars said, ‘OK.’ They both waited in silence. Then he said, ‘You didn’t give Malka extra time on how to use a strangulation wire, did you?’
Roz didn’t respond at first and stared at the tabletop. After a while she adjusting her posterior, and answered, ‘Why would I?’
‘I don’t know,’ he responded. ‘But I think I have my answer.’
He had no clue how things might work out with her, but he figured she had the patience to see the matter through. For the time being, she would have to wait without getting her hopes up and she was good at both those things. He kept his own hopes for her high. He was naturally optimistic that way, but at the same time he accepted that challenges lay ahead for her.
Sandra was leaning on the front hood of her two-tone green pickup, an old and dented Ford Ranger, alongside the battered biker, Paul Lagarde. He grinned upon spotting Cinq-Mars emerge from the penitentiary. A grin so broad he looked like a kid again who’d been nabbed playing hooky. Cinq-Mars strolled over. Sandra remained in place, immaculately alluring to him in her jeans and cowgirl boots, leather vest with fringe over a mauve shirt. By comparison, Lagarde resembled a hirsute mannequin dressed in debris rejected by a garbage dump. A look that possessed its own peculiar charm, he had to admit, although Cinq-Mars could do without his Iron Cross that always dangled from an earlobe. He presumed that the accessory was meant to offend, and so, as always, he did his best to ignore it as the man stepped forward to greet him. He focused on his smile.
‘Paul.’
‘Émile.’
A first name basis with your foe. Merit to that over the long haul.
‘In for a visit. Saw your girl waiting for you. Thought I’d hang around to say so long.’
‘I’m glad we’re on different turf, Paul. May we never meet again.’
‘I hear you. But I enjoyed it. Anyway, before we go down different roads, Émile, tell me, what do I need to know?’
‘Are we trading?’
‘Everything’s negotiable, right?’
‘Your work here is done, Paul. Airtight and absolute. Nothing for you to see or know or do.’
‘That so? Maybe I don’t agree. But I’ll keep it in mind.’
‘You have a war to fight. Stay safe. What’s here disappears from view.’ He wasn’t going to mention names.
Paul Lagarde put his hands on his ample hips to consider the news. ‘Could come a time,’ he mused, ‘middle of a war, when a tip might help us both out. Maybe one less body on the ground.’
‘If you expect me to arrest an enemy of yours the info needs to be golden. Nothing fabricated. Otherwise, you become the target yourself.’
‘Sure. That’s fair. I leave you to your girl. Her, I asked for a favor, Émile. Take her up on it.’
He had no clue what that might mean. Considering the source, he was unnerved. ‘OK. I guess. Stay safe.’
Lagarde tilted his head as though to suggest that that was not likely, raised an eyebrow, and moved across to his Harley. By the time Cinq-Mars walked over to where Sandra was standing by her Ford Ranger, the man was on his way. Loudly.
‘Lovely fellow,’ Sandra said.
‘I hope he behaved himself.’
‘A perfect gentleman.’
‘You’re packed,’ he said.
‘Yeah. Well, you know. Time to get back. You’re wrapping up here anyway.’
‘That’s true. You could, you know, stay awhile. Come back to Montreal for a bit. I could show you around the city. Lots to see.’
‘Ah, I dunno. From what you tell me, your apartment is the size of a phone booth. I’ll pass.’
He put a hand to the back of his neck, trying to think of something to alter the course of history. She was packed. She was leaving. Nothing he could do about that. He was dying on the pavement of a parking lot. He wanted to marry her.
Sandra placed a hand on his forearm, forcing him to look up, and she smiled. ‘I’m not going to move to Montreal, Émile. Nor to any city.’
‘I understand. Of course not,’ he acknowledged. Breath felt difficult.
‘On the other hand, the local paper is advertising a couple of horse farms for sale. Not that I want to live around this neck of the woods. I don’t.’
She had his attention now. He remained mute, waiting.
‘Other parts of Quebec though, ones I’ve visited in the past for horse shows, they might hold out possibilities.’
At the same moment that his heart clogged his throat, despair sullied his disposition. ‘I can’t afford to buy a horse farm,’ he told her. His life atilt, as if he was a kid at the top of a teeter-totter about to be slammed down hard on his butt.
She was trying to get his attention with her eyes. ‘I can,’ she told him. ‘I can make it pay, too. As long as you’re willing to drive into the city to do your silly policing, I’ll deal with the horses all day. I’ve been thinking about it. I can’t imagine a better life. Can you?’
He honestly couldn’t. Obstacles and challenges presented themselves, but none that were persuasive.
‘Most men in your situation, Émile, are asked if they’re willing to commit. You’re only being asked if you’re willing to commute.’
How could he not love a woman who could turn a phrase that way? How could he resist the sparkle in her eyes? He didn’t know how it happened, but her hips were resting against his, his hands encircling the small of her back.
He finally found his voice, and a blithe buoyancy of his own. ‘You know, San, I am Roman Catholic, and in my own way, practicing. Pretty conservatively, too.’
She quizzed him with her expression. Commented, ‘I’m not coming off the pill, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Not at all what I mean.’
‘Then why bring it up?’ A light dawned. How could she not love a man who posited these neat little riddles? He was bringing up his religion because he knew she feared the connotations. ‘Émile,’ she said, ‘did you just propose to me?’
‘Could be. I do believe in the sanctity of marriage. I’m not into living in sin.’ Serious words, although his tone was decidedly tongue-in-cheek.
‘Good, because I already invited Paul Lagarde to the wedding. I promised him a dance.’
His eyes scrunched. He looked away. She had the upper hand again. They could make their lives a game of this. He looked at her again, held her gaze, and they were both smiling giddily. ‘Wait. Wait. Wait one minute. Are you saying that you told Paul Lagarde about our wedding before you told me?’
‘Hey, he was here. You were late.’
She could so easily make him laugh. ‘My fellow cops won’t know what to think,’ he surmised. ‘If he’s still alive, which will be in doubt, Lagarde can come. You can dance with him, but only if he takes off that damn ornament, or whatever you call it, the one on his ear. If so, I can make that work.’
‘Always scheming. So we’re on?’
‘I’m definitely willing to commute,’ he said, to confirm their vow.
She laughed. ‘I’ll just commit,’ she said.
They laughed together. The kiss they both knew was coming was purposefully delayed, a moment too rare to be hurried. Cinq-Mars turned her, and held her with his gaze, and for just that moment it was as though they were dancing by the walls of the Joliette Institution for Women, which some call Lady Jail, by any name a penitentiary.