What Moira Ellibee said disturbed them.
She denied calling the police to ask Émile Cinq-Mars to drop by.
Skeptical, and intending to demonstrate the powers of a police department, Henri Casgrain dialed his poste. He requested the record of the overnight call from a woman identifying herself as Moira Ellibee, and to be informed of calls placed overnight using Moira’s phone. He and Cinq-Mars waited in her kitchen while she fumed. Both gave her marks for expressing her indignation with gusto, and for once she sounded credible. The phone rang and Casgrain picked up. The call in question had been made from a payphone in the southeast quadrant of the city. As well, Moira had neither received nor initiated any call from her home the previous evening or overnight.
‘Told you! Wasn’t me!’ Moira was exuberant. She bounced around the kitchen. Cinq-Mars thought she could have out-spit Serge the Spitter, she was so excited.
‘I believe you now,’ he conceded.
In entertaining their apologies, Moira alarmed Casgrain.
‘I’m right. You’re wrong. I might be bad, but you’re so, so, so wrong, wrong, wrong.’
‘Moira,’ Cinq-Mars directed her, ‘behave yourself.’
She contorted in sexual ferment, both hands behind her head, lifting her hair and swaying.
‘Gonna make me, my detective?’
‘Leave him alone, ma’am,’ Casgrain butted in. ‘I’m married, but Sergeant-Detective Cinq-Mars is like a priest. Not officially. More like a monk. Poor man has taken a vow of chastity. He’s one of those chaste cops you’ve heard people talk about.’
Moira had not heard anything of the sort. Her hands fell limply to her sides and her mouth went slack. ‘That true?’
Cinq-Mars saw the virtue in his partner’s folly. He chose to play along. His shrug conveyed the impression that he’d be embarrassed to admit to his membership of a sect of chaste cops.
Bewildered, Moira collected herself and offered them tea.
Casgrain was in for a second surprise when his partner accepted. He’d have bet on him bolting. Instead, once the tea steeped and their cups were poured, Cinq-Mars took his out to the back balcony. Casgrain tagged along behind.
‘Not Moira,’ Cinq-Mars whispered. ‘Then who?’
Casgrain posed a question. ‘To what end? Why did someone try to lure you out at night?’
The cops mulled it over.
‘A prank, you think?’ Cinq-Mars suggested.
‘An ambush has to be considered.’
He had a point. Someone had wanted Cinq-Mars outside at night. The outcome, had he responded, was both a crapshoot and a worry.
‘Shot across the bow, Émile. Time to watch your step.’
‘You too. Keep in mind, my last two partners took bullets.’
‘Day and night, foremost in my head.’
He may have been kidding. Cinq-Mars took it as gallows humor. Truth in it.
Briefly absent, Moira rejoined them. She had slipped into something summery, a pale blue frock with a remarkably short hem.
‘Henri, did you know this about Moira?’ Cinq-Mars asked. Casgrain had had his sport with him; time to turn the tables. ‘The Virgin Mary, Our Lady the Mother of God, gave Moira the body of a fourteen-year-old for life. Isn’t that something?’
‘Excuse me?’ Convinced he’d misheard.
‘You’re Catholic, aren’t you?’ Moira asked. ‘Must be. You’re French.’
Casgrain stared back at her.
Cinq-Mars gave him a modicum of shelter. ‘He’s not practicing.’
She wasn’t about to quit. ‘Are you open-minded, Detective Casgrain?’
‘Mind like a steel trap,’ Cinq-Mars quipped.
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Casgrain battled his way back into the repartee, changing his strategy. ‘But yeah. It’s pretty closed. Me and the Virgin, we don’t see eye to eye that often.’
‘Pity,’ Moira concluded, an acknowledgment of defeat. She may have been enjoying a little fun herself. ‘At least Sergeant-Detective Émile has an open mind.’
‘He’s a peach.’
They both expected Cinq-Mars to follow through, but he was gazing down at the lane. ‘Hmm,’ he said, without realizing he’d emitted the utterance.
‘What’s up?’ Casgrain drew closer.
‘Nobody’s there.’
People were milling about down below, attentive to their chores and amusements. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Children. Adults. Girls. Notice, not a single teenage boy. Where’ve they gone?’
The janitor came out down below and dragged a child’s empty wading pool from shade into sunlight. He looked up, as if checking for the sun’s trajectory, and spotted the man who was observing him.
‘Thanks for the tea,’ Cinq-Mars remarked to Moira.
‘Stay a while.’ A directive. An ultimatum.
‘Work,’ he stated. ‘Another day.’
Casgrain got in his digs. ‘He’ll be back in a flash with more trash, I’m sure.’
The remark caused Moira to titter. She’d never heard the silly line. Cinq-Mars returned an eyeroll, yet the delay prompted another question to arise. He noticed the chalk lines. Her home had been marked, unlike the apartment of the man the locals called Willy. According to his observations, her apartment had not been slated for a break-in. Her locks the issue.
‘Moira, do you see these slash marks? The yellow lines on the brick?’
‘Hoo-gee. I’m forgetful. I keep meaning to wash them off. I have no idea why they’re here.’
‘You’ve noticed them before.’
‘I’m a very observant person, my detective. I saw the mark and washed it off. Only, it returned. The second time it became a pair of marks and I figured it might have a purpose. So I left it alone. Lately, I keep forgetting. I’ll wash it off now.’
Casgrain wanted to confirm. ‘You saw one mark. Washed it off. Then there were two?’
‘Maybe it was ghosts!’
‘As good an explanation as any,’ Cinq-Mars noted.
The two detectives did not speak of the matter further, yet the curiosity of the marks resided with both men. First one. Then two. How come?
Not a great distance as the crow flies. A mile, a mile-and-a-half to Little Italy, east of Park Extension. On a street corner near the largest outdoor farmers’ market in North America, two slow-moving trucks braked loudly. They jerked to a stop alongside the curb. Both drivers stepped down from their cabs and went to the rear of their rigs.
They shoved open the roll-up doors and unloaded trolleys of flower flats. The supply endless, a springtime magic. In Montreal, the third week in May signaled the beginning of the flower-planting season; anything earlier risked frost. A line of young men arrived to receive the trollies. They wheeled them toward the vendors’ stalls, a vibrant parade of color. No one noticed the youths speaking English among themselves, and also Russian.
At their station house, Cinq-Mars and Casgrain ran into a visitor. Shooting the breeze with a young woman from the secretarial pool, Armand Touton was dishing out relationship advice.
‘No matter what, never marry a flic.’ The secretary was on hand specifically for English correspondence, so the two were speaking English when Touton inserted the French equivalent of cop.
She laughed. ‘What about a fireman?’
‘Now you’re talking. They’re smoking hot, eh?’ He was half-seated on her desk. He pushed himself upright to leave her and badger Cinq-Mars instead, switching to French. ‘This is what it means to work days? Show up any time you please?’
‘It’s a wonder we come in at all. Armand, meet my new partner, Henri Casgrain.’
The two shook. ‘Why’d he want you?’ The older man pulled a gruff tone. They were walking toward the detectives’ desks.
‘Did he?’ Casgrain asked.
‘Begged. I should know. I set it up. He got down on his knees.’
Cinq-Mars ignored the ribbing, confident that Henri would pick up on Touton’s fun in a twinkling. Once he pulled up a chair, the other two followed suit.
‘Give me good steak, or pork, or chicken, a barbecue and tongs, I’m a wizard.’
Touton had already lost the upper hand. ‘Ah, excuse me?’
‘Probably that’s why,’ Casgrain explained. ‘My cooking.’
The old guy appreciated the response. He concluded that his former initiate kept good company on the force.
‘We’ve met before,’ Casgrain pointed out to him. ‘I applied to be on the Night Patrol.’
Touton studied him a moment, remembering. ‘I told you why I didn’t take you on.’
‘That hurt. Hard to roll with that punch.’
Touton looked over at Cinq-Mars. He smiled weakly, then sighed. ‘He stoops over. I needed men with good posture.’
Cinq-Mars censored him with his look, then stated flatly, ‘What an idiot.’
‘I was a punk back then,’ Touton concurred, and apologized to Casgrain. ‘Sorry about that. I’m not so stupid now.’
The tone may have been in jest; Casgrain accepted the remarks anyway.
‘I’ve looked through the mob’s funeral photographs,’ Touton announced. ‘Ugly mugs.’
‘Didn’t know they came in,’ Cinq-Mars admitted.
‘Captain Delacroix showed them to me. Good man, Delacroix.’
‘And?’ Cinq-Mars asked.
‘Familiar faces. How come these Mafia punks walk around with impunity?’
‘Did in your day, too, Armand.’
‘They limped, back then. Black eyes in their mugshots, more bruises. Anyhow, I saw nobody I can pick out as Coalface. Sorry, a dead end.’
‘Thanks for trying,’ Casgrain said.
‘What are you doing here, Armand?’ Cinq-Mars put to him. Impossible for the visit to be social. He’d wanted him to check the photographs but had not called to say they were in. That they arrived before he did was purely coincidental.
‘I’m not welcome here no more?’
‘Not especially. What’s up?’
‘I was returning stolen property, Émile. Except it got hijacked. Locals up north sold the stuff from under me.’
‘Try to make a little sense, please?’
‘The toasters, Émile. Your toasters were delivered to me. How do you like them apples? Can you believe it? I can’t and I was there. Some kind of a message. One question is, what’s the message? The other question – can you guess?’
He wasn’t planning to test the new guy in their group, but Casgrain interrupted to supply an answer. ‘Who from?’
‘That’s it. On the money. Who sent them?’
‘And why to you?’ Cinq-Mars tacked on the third essential query.
When the flower vendors sent their helpers to gather the brunt of the delivery, their people couldn’t locate the trolleys of flowers. No petunias, geraniums, pansies, verbena. No nothing. A man walking by said that, yeah, he found it peculiar that young men unloaded flowers from a couple of trucks then loaded them back onto a bigger truck around the corner.
Italian vendors indulged in a collective conniption fit. Raucous; entertaining to many in the vicinity. Anybody would think Italy had lost a World Cup match. One among them was inspired to call the cops. He believed in both law enforcement and the Bible and incessantly prevailed upon Jesus to help, even as he demanded that the police get a move on. Another angry vendor telephoned the Mafia. They paid for protection, he pointed out. ‘Where is protection we pay for when we need?’
The discussion in the police station was dominated by the strange reappearance of the toasters; the false alarm call overnight that Cinq-Mars had failed to respond to due to his general laziness, or so Touton decreed; and the weather. Initially, they spoke of the three topics in order, before they blended together. Touton threw in a few remarks on fishing. After that, Cinq-Mars felt his old boss’s gaze as it burrowed into him, twisting inside.
‘What?’ he demanded.
Casgrain had gone silent. He noticed the intensity between the two men.
‘Ask me why I’m here,’ Touton stated.
‘I asked. You didn’t answer. Except about the toasters.’
‘You didn’t press. Was it for nothing I mentored you, taught you what I know?’
‘Why are you here, Armand?’
Casgrain followed the exchange with increasing interest. Department lore often centered around these two men when they were both on the Night Patrol. He felt privileged to overhear their back and forth and noted how their mutual respect was also combative. They were not alike. But if they chipped away at each other long enough they might become alike.
‘Your assassin. The dead guy in the closet,’ Touton parried, ‘has been identified.’
The detectives shared a glance. They hadn’t heard.
‘How do you know what I don’t?’ Cinq-Mars inquired.
‘Connections, Émile. Told you a hundred times, forge connections. Is that cotton batting in your ears?’
‘Answer me, Armand. How do you know what we don’t?’ Cinq-Mars repeated.
‘The folks who identified him called me.’
‘Why you? You’re retired.’
‘Something to do with not trusting police in general. Only certain officers in particular. I’ve given them your name for next time. Expect a call.’
‘From who, Armand? Stop beating around—’
‘CIA.’ He leaned back, addressed Casgrain. ‘Shut up about it, OK? You’re not hearing this.’
Casgrain was waiting for Cinq-Mars to respond. When he didn’t, when he sat there as though a pickpocket had pilfered his tongue, he spoke up for him. ‘What the hell does the CIA have to do with stinky cheese?’
Cinq-Mars found his voice again. ‘Answer him.’ Not a demand. More like an entreaty.
‘Your dead guy is a former – well, that’s a matter of conjecture; he might not be a former anything – your dead guy is ex-KGB, or KGB. Somebody in your department put his mugshot on the wire looking for an identity. Police forces, God bless them, drew a blank. Either that or they didn’t bother to pay attention. Like I said, God bless the buggers. The CIA, however, made a positive ID. They have no plans to tell a soul. Except, you know, me.’
‘Why not?’ Casgrain inquired, although he wanted to ask, why you?
Touton shrugged. ‘A pearls-before-swine type thing. Not something you want to do, toss jewelry to pigs. Am I right, Émile?’
‘Hold on. Are you calling cops pigs?’ Casgrain interjected.
‘Whoa. Easy. I’m one of the good guys, remember?’ Both men smiled.
‘What else?’ Cinq-Mars inquired.
‘Who says there’s anything—’
‘What else, Armand?’
Cinq-Mars waited.
Touton seemed to be waiting on something also.
Casgrain observed their contest of wills.
He had a thought. ‘Do you want me to leave?’ he inquired.
‘Answer the man,’ Cinq-Mars suggested.
‘Do you trust him?’ Touton asked.
‘I requested him for a reason.’
Touton consented. ‘This goes no further.’
The slightest of nods from Casgrain, virtually imperceptible, confirmed a shared oath of secrecy as if inscribed in blood.
Touton breathed in. ‘Russian gang members, Ukrainians, others, East Germans, have been arriving. A few show up with purpose. To establish a criminal beachhead in the land of plenty.’
‘Canada?’ Cinq-Mars asked.
‘The USA, you dope, but yes, Canada, too. They figured out how the Mafia in the US takes advantage of keeping a leg in a different country – Canada. How that is useful. There’s already Russian criminal gangs in New York and Miami, although they’re still scattered and small. For now. The move will be to coalesce. First here. Montreal is their exit strategy. Here they get out from under the FBI. They work first on their escape hatch. Since it’s the KGB and maybe ex-KGB pitching in, it helps to keep the CIA out of the way, too. They would have succeeded, except one of their assassins showed up dead in a closet that belonged to an undercover cop. A cop, I’m advised, of questionable loyalties.’
‘Can we nail down if Willy is Coalface or not?’
‘We can,’ Touton said.
‘How?’
‘Fingerprints,’ he decreed. ‘I’ve kept Coalface’s prints on file. I had him rub his fingers in the coal bin I told you about. Sent in a unit after that.’
‘Come on, we didn’t use fingerprints back then.’
‘Wrong. We didn’t have a system for prints, that’s true. Used to take years to find a match, but people have worked with prints for like a century. We expected it to become a big thing soon. I wasn’t always an old fart, Émile. Was a time, I was cutting edge.’
Cinq-Mars laughed lightly. Touton was never more cutting edge than a sledgehammer.
The three men went distinctly quiet when Captain Delacroix emerged from his office and made a beeline for their assembly. He’d taken time with Touton while waiting for the detectives to show. The precinct captain didn’t look comfortable that the legendary Armand Touton was now engaging with his officers. Undermining his authority was likely how he’d interpret the exchange. But another matter was on his mind.
‘Gentlemen, a heist. Need you two on it.’
Two excluded the third person. Delacroix probably enjoyed making that distinction.
Touton stood immediately to get out of everyone’s way.
‘What kind of heist?’ Casgrain inquired.
‘Flowers. A bunch were stolen from the Jean Talon market.’
The four men fell silent.
The way he said it lacked both heft and urgency.
Finally, Touton remarked, ‘Is this what you do now, Cinq-Mars? Chase down guys who steal tulips for their girlfriends?’
Cinq-Mars figured that was coming. ‘The sad thing, Armand, most days they get away with it. Yesterday, my God, it was marigolds. The day before, daffodils. Still no arrests. We’ll try to do better this time before the city falls apart.’
Delacroix wasn’t certain why the men were so amused. He feared they were laughing at him. ‘Get going,’ he commanded.
‘We’re out the door, Cap,’ Cinq-Mars assured him.
In the parking lot, Cinq-Mars gripped Touton’s hand more firmly than usual. Then held onto it, as though commencing a machismo challenge.
‘What?’ Touton asked.
Cinq-Mars maintained his grip but turned his head to Casgrain. ‘What’s the janitor’s name?’
The detective checked his notepad. ‘Surname, Ananyev. First name, Bogdan. Sounds better backwards. Properly, his name is Bogdan Ananyev. Son is Mikhail Ananyev.’
‘You got that?’ Cinq-Mars asked his old mentor.
Touton looked over at Casgrain, who said, ‘I’ll write it down for you.’ He did. He tore off a scrap of paper that he passed to the older man, who took it with his left hand.
Still firmly in the grip of Émile Cinq-Mars, Touton grumbled, ‘What am I, your secretary now? I run background?’
‘Use your contacts. Run his name past the CIA. Let me know if it raises a red flag. So to speak.’
They disengaged, and the two active detectives were on their way. For his part, although he would never say so, the retired man was pleased to have been given a chore, one that less than a few private citizens on earth could hope to undertake successfully.
He forgot to add that he’d be seeing them again shortly. In his dress blues. Touton had decided to attend the police funeral for Detective Norville Geoffrion the following day. He wasn’t big on funerals, but given that representatives were arriving from across the continent to pay respect to one of the fallen – a detective from the department he’d served for so long – his request to march in the procession had been accepted.
Tomorrow he would look like a cop again. Today he’d act like one and get Cinq-Mars his information.