Tracking down the last of the brawlers took time. The afternoon raced to a close as Émile Cinq-Mars backed into his usual parking spot when visiting the Reverend Alex Montour.
That the spot was perpetually available verged on the miraculous. Teasing himself, he wondered if her Protestant God or his Roman Catholic deity intervened.
Henri Casgrain was curious. ‘Another drowned girl?’
‘Don’t stay for this one, Henri. Drive back to the poste. I’ll walk home, then either get my car later or leave it. Safer in the lot than on these streets.’
‘Is it?’ Casgrain asked. The man patted down his mustache, a habit.
Cinq-Mars was confused. ‘Safer? Sure. Probably.’
‘I meant, is it another drowned girl?’
Cinq-Mars explained. ‘This is the minister who’s looking out for the girl’s family.’
‘Showing her my Polaroids?’ Casgrain maintained a proprietary interest in the snaps.
‘End of shift, Henri,’ Cinq-Mars reiterated. ‘Go home. No overtime. See your kids.’
‘My pictures. My artwork. I’ll go in with you. Then I’ll go home.’
Casgrain meant to make fun of himself when he spoke of his photographs as artwork, although Cinq-Mars recognized the defense mechanism. He had diligently done a super job with the snapshots. He analyzed each one as it developed and critiqued the outcome, saying what could be better, what turned out well. Handing the task to him had been sheer serendipity, no big deal. He’d had no advance warning that the man would accept the task exactly as forewarned, as an art project. Cinq-Mars wanted and expected quick functional portraits; Casgrain desired memorable ones. He then made fun of himself before his boss did.
Cinq-Mars was amused, yet impressed, by his partner’s steady hand and incisive eye. The man trained the camera’s lens to capture personality and nuance. And character. Even when his subjects were unwilling to cooperate, or especially then, Casgrain succeeded. Cinq-Mars gleaned that the man’s innate talent at detection stemmed from a genuine interest in what lurked beneath the human façade, which uncannily emerged from several portraits.
‘Did I tell you? The minister’s a woman.’
Casgrain had no response.
‘That doesn’t surprise you? Surprised me.’
‘Émile, in what century were you born?’
‘Don’t give me that. Just because I don’t say “cool” and “far out” doesn’t make me Victorian.’
‘Nobody says “far out” anymore. I’m supposed to be the old fogey, Émile. You’re the young one. Try to keep that straight.’
They were climbing out of the car and locking up. Casgrain hitched his trousers. Cinq-Mars adjusted his holster where his pistol dug into his hip in the car seat.
‘Henri, you coach these teams, baseball, hockey. Do they win or lose?’
‘It’s how you play the game, Émile.’
‘You’re saying they lose.’
‘Some years.’
‘Most years?’
‘It’s not about winning and losing.’
‘That’s old school. Old, old school. We young guys, we’re into winning.’
‘It’s about building character.’
‘Nope. Winning.’
‘Having fun?’
‘Nope. Winning.’
‘Your generation sucks, the way you think.’
‘And you’re an old fogey. Saying “sucks” doesn’t change that.’
‘My kids taught me that one. What’s the minister’s name?’
‘Alex. She sleeps with women.’
‘What?’
‘Are you shocked?’
‘You are. That’s why you mention it. Proves my point. You’re from another century. How did you find that out?’
‘She volunteered the information. Maybe to shock me. I’m not sure.’
‘Alex what?’
‘Montour. The Reverend Alex Montour.’
‘Got it. She was at Bondar’s party.’
‘Helped get him out of jail. I tried keeping him in. From that, we’re friends. Maybe.’
‘And you don’t want me here, why?’
‘Not that. It’s your kids. We have a deal. No overtime for you.’
‘Well. Maybe a dribble.’
‘A dribble, then.’
Cinq-Mars rang the doorbell.
‘Hope she’s still here,’ he said.
She was. And showed them in.
The reverend had already received a call from the girl’s mom and been filled in on the talk with the officers. ‘Thank you, Émile.’
‘I haven’t helped yet.’ Switching gears, he said, ‘Alex, about Johnny Bondar’s house party.’
The minister grimaced. ‘Nothing new to report, Émile.’
Henri Casgrain’s head came up. His partner was on a first-name basis with the minister. He smiled to himself and seemingly filed something away.
‘The other night, we had a brawl in Park Ex. Detective Casgrain has taken Polaroids of a number of participants. I’d like to know if you recognize any young men, and specifically if you recall seeing them at the Bondar party. Will that be all right?’
She consented, and Casgrain stood and arranged the portraits on the desk facing her. He took care to keep each snapshot perfectly aligned with the others, as though presenting them at a formal gallery. The slowness with which he presented his pictures allowed Reverend Montour to undertake a careful study.
When all the snaps were down, Cinq-Mars asked, ‘Recognize anyone?’
She identified a few of the boys by name.
‘I’m pretty sure this young man was at the party. But I don’t know him. These two were definitely there.’ She indicated the brothers that the policemen had interviewed in a lane that morning. She waved a finger over a picture on the edge. ‘And this one.’
Cinq-Mars double-checked. ‘This boy was there?’ He moved the picture closer to her.
‘No, sorry. Not the boy. The man in the background.’
The one picture that Cinq-Mars had taken, not Casgrain. The snapshot of Mick and his dad. The minister was indicating that the dad, the janitor, had been at Bondar’s party.
‘The older man? Not the younger one?’
‘That’s right.’
Cinq-Mars inscribed notations on the back of the photos she identified while Casgrain gathered up the rest of his artwork.
‘These are good pictures, by the way,’ Reverend Montour said.
‘Thanks,’ Casgrain said.
‘You took them, Detective? You missed your calling.’
‘I find Polaroids to be, you know, somewhat limiting.’
‘You did very well.’
‘Thanks,’ he said again. Almost wistful in his appreciation of her compliment.
Cinq-Mars thanked her upon departing. He wanted to kick up his heels on the street. A good end to their workday.
Casgrain spoke up. ‘Interesting, Émile. You’re formal with some people yet insist on informality with others. First-name basis with the minister. I’m learning about you.’
‘You’re putting me under a microscope again. Mind saving that for the bad guys?’
‘You wanted me as a partner, Émile. What you get is what you get. Now, since you forced me to work overtime—’
Casgrain put up a hand to block the obvious protest coming back at him.
‘Buy me an ice cream cone before we head in,’ Casgrain said.
‘Ah, what? What?’
‘We’ll review the case.’
They did exactly that, licking ice cream while mulling the investigation. The first real taste of summer while discussing the cameras, the young guys, the missing man known as Willy, Bondar’s association with at least a few of the brawlers, the janitor’s association with Bondar, the homicide detectives’ appearance at the party, Bondar killing an associate of a man assassinated by a bomb in his television set. So much circled around so much else that it was a good thing they ordered double-scoops. Cinq-Mars enjoyed a conflicting combination, maple walnut over black cherry. Casgrain doubled up on pistachio over pistachio.
They drove back to the station together to retrieve both their personal cars.
‘Gotta hurry!’ Casgrain suddenly exclaimed. ‘Ballgame tonight.’
‘Hope you win.’
‘Émile, it’s how you play the game.’
‘Henri, that’s only true if you lose.’