By Ted Wenskus
Ted Wenskus is a Rochester-area speculative fiction writer, currently living in Greece, NY. He has published several works, including recent short stories in the UK anthology Rom Zom Com and the horror/comedy anthology Strangely Funny. He also co-authored the post-apocalyptic comedy novel The Mostly Weird Chronicles of Steffan McFessel with Marcos Donnelly. Ted has written numerous short plays which have been produced in England as well as throughout New York State. He is currently working on a number of fiction and theater projects, including his first full-length play.
It can be argued that the Seven Years’ War influenced North America’s political geography even more than the War of American Independence. In “A Few Acres of Snow,” Ted takes us to a reimagined Rochester that is built on new colonial origins, yet is still home to a stew of political passion, greed, and murder.
—
Jacques LaVille inched his Peugeot 307 up the icy incline that emptied onto the strip-mall-lined Rue d’Arête. The start-and-stop creep toward the Genesee River would have been slow enough with the panoply of traffic lights that ran from the west side to the Old City. But today, as far as he could tell through the sleet, they were all in blink mode. Christmas lights having a fit.
It actually might have looked pretty, if he hadn’t had to drive through it all to get to the body.
The day had started promisingly enough. Industrial-strength coffee, a couple pain au chocolat, and a smoldering smile from Laure at the lakeshore café in Côte Sud. Sigh. He should settle down. And why not with her? He could … well, he could help her make coffee. That’s all you needed to know to make a living in a café, right?
He shook his head. Who was he kidding? Once an investigator, always an investigator. He clicked the radio on.
“Mayor Broussard today continued to maintain that recent land claims of the Seneca Nation should be addressed jointly by the state of Pennsylvania, as well as the Province of Carillon,” a smooth male voice stated. “The Mayor added that he respects the claims of all First Peoples and that he welcomes the United States’ cooperation with New France and tribal leaders in coming to a mutually beneficial resolution.”
Well, that’s one theory, Jacques thought. He turned south down Avenue du Fleuve.
“In local news, regional events commemorating the 250th anniversary of the Seven Years’ War were announced today by the Ministry of Culture. Educational programs will be held weekly at Fort Genesee, culminating in a reenactment this summer of the Marquis de Montcalm’s triumphant, final defeat of British forces around the Great Lakes.”
Jacques maneuvered around a heavy-coated woman shuffling down the gutter of the slush-covered boulevard. Had the Marquis really known what Carillon winters would be like, he might not have fought so hard. Still, the summers were warmer than those of Québec—that alone had convinced Jacques to move to the south of New France. And you couldn’t get much farther south than Rochefort.
The radio droned on and soon the side street leading to the Falls appeared through the misty haze. He idled as a crowd exiting the Métro crossed the street and disappeared ghost-like into the glass and steel of the financial district. He turned in the opposite direction. Toward Old City. Toward the gorge.
The street narrowed immediately, and ornate facades of gray stone rose up on either side of the boulevard—early courthouses and merchant centers from centuries past. A block later, small tidy shops with sharply slanted roofs crawled by, their unscreened windows still dark for the mid-week day. Beyond that, a small park with bright red metal benches circled a statue of the city’s founding father: Joseph Rochefort, who established the port city as a resupply point for French ships traversing Lake Ontario long, long ago.
Jacques aimed for the assemblage of blue-and-red lighted cars just past the park, found a meter with time still left on it, and crunched to a stop. The sleet pelted his face as he got out of the Peugeot and picked his way up the brown-bricked lane to the biggest huddle of police—always a good place to start.
“Nice spring day for a swim,” Jacques said as he sidled up.
The four faces turned to him, none too amused. “Who the hell called you?”
“It’s okay—I got this,” a deep voice said behind Jacques. He knew who it was even before he turned.
“Michel,” Jacques said. Bearded, tall, Michel wore a dark coat with the collar turned up against the sleet, a refillable coffee mug firmly in his hand.
“Jacques,” Michel nodded. “Glad you’re here.”
“Bit puzzled why I am, actually,” Jacques said, looking around. “Don’t you usually beat private investigators away from crime scenes with a stick?”
“To be fair, police business is not your business anymore.” Michel took a sip of coffee. “Usually.”
“Oh?”
Michel indicated they should walk out of earshot of the disgruntled constables and they ambled to the railing that bordered the gorge. The cliffs below were still covered in spikes of ice, particularly on the layered stone near the Grande Cascade des Iroquois cataract. A hundred meters downriver, a pair of constables in reflective yellow jackets maneuvered their inflatable raft near a pile of end-of-winter refuse—logs, trash, and ice—that had been shot over the Falls.
They took in the scene until Michel broke the silence. “Do you know who Daniel Lambert is?”
Jacques frowned. “He’s a separatist, isn’t he?”
“He’s the separatist,” Michel said. “Been leading the movement for twenty years or so, making the case for land south of the Saint Lawrence to break away and become its own independent, English-speaking … entity.” He sipped some more coffee. “Ludicrous, of course.”
“Of course.” Jacques paused. “He our swimmer?”
Michel nodded. “Found jammed in with the ice little over an hour ago. They’re looking for more evidence.” He indicated the constables below, now struggling against the Falls’ swirling current.
“Accident? Fell from the edge?”
“Not unless he shot himself in the chest on the way down.”
“That would be a trick.” Jacques tapped a finger on the railing in thought. “Sounds like pretty standard police work—you know, the stuff you claim I don’t do anymore. Where do I fit in?”
Michel didn’t look directly at Jacques as he spoke. “I don’t think I need to emphasize just how serious this is. It could be our Mr. Lambert shot off his mouth one too many times to New France loyalists—he did love to do that. Or, it’s some other completely unrelated crime. Either way, it’s going to attract a lot of attention fast. As soon as word gets out.”
Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Media doesn’t have this yet?”
Michel shook his head. “It’s just a matter of time. But I wanted to give you a head start.”
“Uh,” Jacques said. “As in … running away?”
“Don’t be an idiot.” Now Michel turned to him. “No, I’m calling in a favor.”
That stopped Jacques cold. “Really.”
“Don’t make me say it twice.” Michel tapped the last few drops of coffee out of his mug and closed the lid with a snap. “Everyone knows you’re friendlier with the more … colorful characters of Rochefort. As soon as this news comes down, they’ll go to ground and take any information they know with them. All I’m asking is for you to get to them before the news blows and find any leads.”
Jacques wiped away a splash of sleet from his cheek, took out his phone, and noted the time—8:09 AM. “I better put some change in the meter then.”
“Excellent.” Michel nodded.
Jacques turned to return to his Peugeot but stopped mid-stride. “One thing,” he said, raising a finger. “Laure just got this parking ticket the other day …”
Michel let out a long breath of steam. “You still pining for her?”
“Man has to have a hobby.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Funny, she says that, too.”
“There must be something to it then.” Michel waved Jacques off. “I’ll handle it. Just go.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
The Orange Line train squealed to a stop and Jacques stood to exit the car. There weren’t many passengers going to the east side of the city this early: a couple of Pakistani students absorbed with a gadget of some sort; an old woman in a purple kerchief with a face as worn as a post-winter street; someone who almost came in from the other car but, upon looking in, must have decided that four people were just too many to be around that morning. Jacques smirked. He’d had mornings like that, too.
The doors glided open with a chime and Jacques stepped out into the harshly lit white-tiled tunnel of the platform. He looked for the exit labeled Rue de la Cathédrale, but found that a sticker had been placed over it that read Bažnyčios gatvė. Lithuanian, but still Church Street. He headed up the stairs.
Out in the cold, wet air again, he oriented himself by finding the cathedral. It was one of the largest Catholic cathedrals in Carillon. Brilliant white and intricately Gothic, the tops of its two pinnacled towers disappeared in today’s fog of clouds and crows.
His gaze returned to the street. Block upon oddly angled block of utilitarian brick buildings stretched out in every direction—cheap immigrant housing from when textiles had been the town’s big industry. Keeping west of the cathedral, he walked briskly through the village in a jagged, twisting route. Ten minutes later, he arrived at his destination: a narrow door next to a half-frosted window with a hand-painted sign that read Kepykla Simas. Simas’ Bakery. Jacques clomped some of the slush off his boots and entered.
A string of bells jangled and a tall, heavily built man in his later fifties turned to face Jacques from behind the counter. In an instant, a wide smile lit up his face. “Jacques! It’s been a while.”
“Black bread lasts a long time,” Jacques said, making sure the thin door was shut tightly.
The man tsked. “While it can last for a very long time, that doesn’t mean that it should.”
“Simas, you could survive on a single loaf in the wilderness for weeks. And probably club some of the wildlife with it, too, for extra measure.”
“Good enough for a gulag, good enough for my customers.” Simas smiled wider. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Jacques sat down at a small square table, brushing some sugar grains from the blue tablecloth. “Any babka yet?”
Simas set down two big ceramic mugs—coffee for Jacques, black tea for himself—and sat heavily in the opposite chair. “Sunday before Easter. Not one day before.”
“It’s a work of art. The cocoa filling is to die for.”
“You are too kind.” Simas wrapped his large, slightly floured hands around his mug. “Now. I sense you are here on a mission.”
“What makes you say that?”
Simas pointed to a small clock on the wall behind the counter that read 8:57 AM. “You are not an early riser by choice. No matter how much you love babka.”
Jacques shrugged. “I was wondering if you’d seen Daniel Lambert lately.”
“Lambert?” Simas frowned. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t come to this side of town much anymore … not like my friend Jacques!”
Simas chuckled for a moment before continuing. “He has been hanging out with his separatist friends—naturally—over in Denonville. Near the end of the Green Line. You should look there.”
“Any place in particular?”
Simas’ eyes narrowed. “Does he owe you money? You know I have a few friends who can take care of these small issues for you.”
“Steady there,” Jacques said. “Just looking for information.”
“We can take care of that, too.”
“I’m sure you can, Simas.”
Simas raised his hands. “Okay, it is your affair.”
“I appreciate the offer though. Any place he frequents more than most?”
“There is some new restaurant from the States that a lot of separatists go to. It’s called Hots and Potatoes, or something. Awful food. They specialize in something called plat bizarre. Lots of cold beans.” He shuddered.
“I’ll check it out.”
“Bring some Maalox.”
Jacques never really cared for Denonville. It was heavily geared toward chain stores, chain restaurants and, well, chain everything. Sprawling a few kilometers south of the downtown area, it had been specifically designed to offer tourist-friendly fare and a cultural experience safe for slightly Francophobe visitors.
The Green Line deposited him in front of a plaza consisting mostly of outlet stores for the largest New France retailers. Carrefour. Ogilvy’s. L’Oréal. He did a double-take when he saw that Nike had opened up shop here as well. Those Americans. Jacques half wondered if Lambert’s idea for a new English-speaking country had been influenced by the success of the post-colonial States. But who could tell.
He hefted the long loaf of black bread under his arm (“You will not leave without bread,” Simas had insisted) and set off toward the restaurant. He took a longer route, using the opportunity to see what was new in this neon-lit hub of capitalism. It was too early to hit the restaurant anyway—it didn’t open until 11:00. So he had some time to wander.
It also gave him time to lose his tail.
Jacques first noticed the man when he returned to the cathedral area. Medium height, sort of stocky; the man’s face was buried deep in the folds of his coat. Of course, so was everyone else’s that morning. But what everyone else wasn’t doing was feigning nonchalance. Badly. His poor performance on that point didn’t stop him, however, from following Jacques all the way down here, across a train transfer to boot. Jacques had definitely caught this guy’s interest.
The crowds petered out, and soon Jacques found himself walking down a side street with almost no one else in view. The sleet had stopped for the moment, so he was able to listen for footfalls behind him. They were still there.
He turned down a back alleyway and stopped on the pretense that he was checking his phone for messages. Now that he thought of it, he needed to do that anyway. But while he navigated the touchscreen menu, he listened carefully for his stalker.
The footsteps stopped around the corner. Paused. Shuffled. And then retreated back the way they came.
Interesting.
Jacques waited a few minutes before moving again. He was a little disappointed the man didn’t follow him down the alley—he could have gotten the drop on the guy. But for all of his stalker’s poor tailing skills, he was smart enough not to fall for the bait. Annoying.
He turned his attention briefly back to his phone. No texts from Michel or, what he’d really been hoping for, from Laure. He’d promised he’d check in later with her after being so unceremoniously summoned from her café. She’d laughed at that. She always did. But it was a kind, warm laugh. One that could melt frozen chocolate.
He toggled the touchscreen off, adjusted the loaf of bread under his arm, and reemerged from the alley.
There was a crack and the top of his black bread disintegrated in a cloud of crumbs.
Jacques threw himself to the ground and rolled back around the alley corner, waiting for another shot. But instead, he heard cursing—very loud and amazingly foul. Like the man was suddenly in pain.
There were voices then, attracted by the noise. The stalker heard them, too, and his footfalls quickly receded into the distance.
Jacques waited for a moment in the slush before raising himself in a crouch and peeking around the corner. No shooter. Just a slowly dissipating cloud of white smoke and an acrid odor of gunpowder. A lot of it, too.
A few faces looked down the alley at Jacques as he got up and wiped the freezing Rochefort weather from his pants and coat. “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “My bread just went off.”
That mollified—or worried—the small group of curious souls enough to disperse them. Good. Nothing worse than having people traipse on potential evidence.
He looked at the pavement, half-coated in half-watery slush. No way he’d get a footprint out of this. But maybe there was something else. In fact, that cloud of gunpowder smoke was something …
Jacques moved to where the stalker-cum-shooter had been standing. More slush and a bit of plastic garbage. He turned to head back to the main thoroughfare when something attracted his attention. He bent down and picked up a small square of cloth. Cloth that wasn’t wet yet. Cloth that had slight burn marks on it. He smelled it and jerked his head back from the chemical stench.
Jacques quickly pocketed the cloth and speed-dialed Michel. He picked up on the third ring. “Yeah?”
“I suppose it’s too early to get a ballistics report on Lambert?”
“We work fast, but not that fast. Why?”
“If I’m right, you’re going to find that he was killed by a very weird .50 caliber shot. And I mean black-powder-loaded old-school .50 caliber.”
Dead air for a moment on Michel’s end. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. But I don’t want to say more at the moment. I’ve had a rough morning.”
“Listen, if you’re withholding—”
Jacques disconnected. Now that he thought of it, he had had a rough morning. Even by his standards. He needed coffee. He checked his watch. 10:30. Maybe this Hots and Potatoes restaurant would take pity on a cold traveler in need of caffeine. It was a separatist hang-out, sure, but no one in Carillon was so unpatriotic as to deny a fellow citizen coffee.
He found the restaurant easily enough about ten minutes later. It had an amusing red-lettered sign that featured cartoon illustrations of a hot dog and a potato, each with wide Disney eyes and slightly insane smiles. He checked the glass door and found it unlocked. He swung it open and entered.
It was a cramped space with dark wood paneling and orange plastic bench seats. A few black-and-white photos hung on the walls—famous patrons, perhaps? There was possibly a framed health certificate, too, but the layer of grease on its glass made it difficult to tell for sure.
A young, pony-tailed woman, maybe in her twenties, was stuffing napkins into a metal holder on one of the tables. She glanced up and started to say something, but Jacques beat her to it. “I know you’re not quite open yet, but I’m just interested in a cup of coffee if you have some ready. No problem if it’s not.” He gestured to his damp pants. “Had a bit of a close encounter with the weather today.”
The woman hesitated for a moment, but quickly softened. “No problem. Feel free to sit anywhere.”
“Thank you,” Jacques said. He meant it, too. Cold, wet pants sucked.
He slid into a booth, put what was left of his black bread down, and quickly looked over a two-sided laminated menu on the table. The establishment’s specialty was prominently pictured on both sides, along with an assorted list of its possible ingredients, including special hot sauce. Plat bizarre, indeed.
“You’re a saint,” Jacques said when the woman returned with his coffee. ‘Adele,’ her nametag read. “Can’t say as I’ve been here before, but it’s created quite a buzz.”
“Yeah,” Adele smiled. “It’s popular with the universities.”
“A friend of mine told me about it. Says he hangs out here a lot. Daniel Lambert?”
“Oh, yeah! Danny!” She beamed. “He’s sooooo funny.”
Jacques smiled back. “Always has been.”
“Hey, have you heard from him?” asked Adele. “He left last night in a mad rush.”
“No, I haven’t talked to him today,” Jacques said. “He say why he took off?”
“Something about someone breaking into his house. He got a call from the police. Went to meet them there, I guess.” She looked out the restaurant window and some of her cheeriness evaporated. “I hope everything’s all right.”
Jacques sipped some coffee. She had a thing for Lambert: that was obvious. That could be very helpful. Especially if she was the last friendly face to see him alive.
He got up on the pretense of finding the men’s room. Once inside the locked, single-commode closet, he called Michel.
“You going to hang up on me again?” Michel answered.
“Quite possibly, but don’t take it personally.”
“Asshat.”
“Listen, I think I’m on to something. Did you guys send a car over to Lambert’s house last night to check out a possible break-in?”
“Not that I know of. I’ll look into it, but I think someone would have told me by now if there was a call like that.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Someone’s pretending to be a constable?” Michel always caught on fast.
“Possibly. Or at least that’s what Lambert told someone,” Jacques reflected. “But I don’t think he had any reason to make it up.”
“Someone?”
“Reception’s breaking up.”
“Fine, keep your damn secrets.” The surliness in Michel’s voice was palpable.
“Regardless, it was good enough incentive to get Lambert where they wanted him. And presumably take him to the Falls and shoot him there, or grab him, shoot him somewhere else, and then dump him over the Falls. Take your pick.”
“I was going to send a couple guys to check his place out anyway. Sounds like sooner is better than later,” Michel said. “We haven’t turned up any good evidence near the Falls yet, except sloppy tire tracks. But we’re looking.” He paused. “We’re still trying to track down his next of kin—apparently Lambert lived alone. But I bet the news will be public later today.”
“Got it. Any news on the ballistics?”
“Nothing detailed, but forensics did call to say they pulled out a big hunk of lead similar to what you described. What’s it mean?”
“I don’t know yet.” Suddenly, there was polite rapping on the men’s room door. Jacques quickly looked at the clock on his phone. 11:00 AM. “Have to go.”
“But—”
Jacques disconnected, pocketed the phone, flushed the toilet, and ran his hands under the tap. He exited, sliding past a rather anxious-looking patron who scowled at Jacques as he passed. C’est la vie.
Back at his booth, he noticed that his coffee had been refilled. Nice. He sat again, took out the scrap of scorched cloth and studied it, thinking.
He must have studied it a little too long, as Adele came back to check on him once again. “The kitchen’s officially open now. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you,” Jacques said.
“What’s that?” She indicated the scrap of cloth.
“This? A linen bore patch, I believe.”
“Oh, like with flintlocks?”
That snapped Jacques’ attention. “Uh, yes, actually. It’s loaded along with the ball in old pistols. Creates a tight seal around the shot for better accuracy.”
Adele got even more excited. “You’re a reenactor, too?”
“No, but I have a friend who is. I pick up his litter.”
“Danny’s a reenactor,” she said conversationally.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Always played the British side. Nothing like shooting the French, I guess.”
“I guess so,” Jacques said. “But wait. Doesn’t everyone want to be French? You know, the winning side?”
“Nooooo.” Adele crossed her arms. “Danny says it’s about recreating history and you need two sides in order to make it work.”
“Makes sense.”
“Do you know who’s even more into the reenactor scene? Or used to be?”
“Who?”
“Mayor Broussard.” She laughed. “He has a huge collection of antique muskets and pistols and such. Can you imagine it? A big old guy like that out in the mud and a funny hat shooting British troops?”
“Can’t imagine it at all,” Jacques said. “Still, it might be a good way to vent when some of the citizenry doesn’t see eye-to-eye on your agenda.”
“Tell me about it,” Adele said. “Danny goes on and on about him and the secession all the time. Gets kind of boring after a while, really.”
“I’d imagine so.” Jacques tapped his finger on his lips for a moment. “You know what? I think I will try a plat bizarre. With a hamburger and macaroni salad.” He paused. “The beans are really cold?”
“It’s the only way.”
“God have mercy.”
The meal was, as Simas warned, truly awful. But even as it gave him heartburn, it also gave Jacques time to think.
Chances were strong that the same person who shot Lambert took a shot at Jacques. Or there were two shooters who were associates. The flintlock clued that in—too much of a coincidence otherwise. And from the shooter’s scream after he shot, he just might have hurt himself in the attack.
Lambert was killed with a flintlock similar to the type that Lambert himself used as a reenactor.
Mayor Broussard was a reenactor, possibly had flintlocks of his very own, and didn’t get along with Lambert. Interesting, but so what? There were hundreds of reenactors in Carillon and thousands of people who didn’t agree with Lambert’s separatist views.
And then, someone faked being a cop to lure Lambert away from Hots and Potatoes last night to kill him.
But why?
Jacques stared at the beans on his plate. They were only slightly colder than his progress.
He started as the television above the counter flicked to life. He was getting jumpy. Being shot at probably had something to do with that.
The half-hour headline news flashed on. Nothing new seemed to have happened in the world since his commute this morning. But as Jacques absently pushed his beans around, his attention focused on the newscaster.
“Mayor Broussard again assured residents in the département of Irondequoit that land claim settlements with the Seneca Nation will be fair and equitable for all involved. He said he looks forward to working with all parties and invites public comments on this important issue.”
Adele stepped up to Jacques and asked, “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, thank you. This has been great. Except for the beans.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I pray not,” Jacques said. “Have you been following this land claim news?” He pointed a thumb at the newscast.
“Who hasn’t?” Adele snorted. “I mean, a government deal that basically buys out the land from under you and forces you to move somewhere else so the Senecas can move in?” She shook her head. “They should have their own land, sure, but displacing so many people to do it? After so long?”
“The Seneca Nation might say the same thing about displacing, you know.”
Adele frowned. “I know. It’s confusing. But Danny says he has a plan that takes care of it all. If he got his own country, that is.”
“Those little details do get in the way,” Jacques said. “Oh, one last thing. Have you ever seen Danny in his reenactor getup?”
“Oh, sure! A bunch of us went over to his house one time and he showed us all of his gear. He even let me shoot one of his pistols.”
Jacques’ eyebrows went up. “He practiced at home?”
“He has a long yard with a lot of barriers and dirt mounds set up. Said he did most of his shooting there.” She paused. “Are you going to see him today?”
“I don’t know,” Jacques said.
“Well, if you do, can you tell him to call or text me?”
“Sure thing.” She was going to get hurt bad by the news of Lambert’s death. And the fact there was nothing he could do about it knotted his gut.
She smiled as she took his money for the bill. “Okay, thanks!”
Jacques quietly placed a tip double the price of his meal under his coffee mug and left with his mind in a whirl of thought.
He arrived at the unassuming, gray-stone police station off Avenue du Fleuve about an hour later. Michel’s home away from home. Used to be Jacques’, too, once upon a midnight dreary.
As he expected, there were a number of not-so-subtle glares when he came in and asked to see the Chief Inspector—that being Michel, of course. He could have just called Michel and met him some other place nearby, but he concluded that he needed to be in the station for what came next.
He sat down on the precinct waiting bench and continued his research on his phone until Michel arrived.
“Jacques.” Michel’s greeting was as curt as ever.
“Can we talk in your office?”
“Sure.” They started walking toward the stairs. “I’m going to guess that you found something.”
Jacques kept his voice low. “Well, for one, I think that Lambert was shot at his house. He apparently practiced shooting there with his own flintlock pistols, so none of the neighbors would think much of loud shots in the night. Maybe annoying, but not unusual.”
Michel nodded. “My team’s still there. If there’s evidence, we’ll find it.”
They arrived at Michel’s office and the Chief Inspector gestured Jacques in. As Jacques sat in one of the high-back chairs facing Michel’s desk, Michel closed the door and drew the office shades. “Now,” he said, sitting in his own chair, “what do you have to tell me that requires you to do it in person, in private, and in my station?
Jacques let out a long breath. “I don’t think we’re looking for someone impersonating a police officer. We’re looking for a real one.”
Michel’s hands templed in front of his mouth. “Well, that explains why you wanted this private.”
“I know it’s a horrible thing to come to you with, but hear me out. We both know anyone can impersonate a police officer over the phone. So, with that reasoning, anyone could have shot Lambert. Yes?”
“Correct,” Michel replied.
“Now, what got me thinking was, why would someone want to shoot me?” Jacques held up a hand to stop Michel. “Today, that is.”
Michel drew back in his chair. “Seriously? Someone shot at you? When?”
“A couple hours after I left the Falls. Have to admire a shooter who’s on top of his game plan.”
“And you’re only telling me now?”
“There’s a reason I’m no longer on the force.”
Michel scowled. “Go on.”
Jacques got out of his chair and started to pace slowly. “About how many constables are there in the Rochefort police force who come from Irondequoit?”
Michel snorted. “I have no idea. Dozens at least. Scattered all over the place. What does that have to do with anything?”
Jacques nodded. “That’s about what I concluded, too. Now, how many Irondequoit natives in this particular precinct are aware of this case? And aware who was shot?”
The Chief Inspector thought for a moment and then narrowed his eyes. “About four.”
“And out of those four, how many were at the Falls this morning and saw that you called me in today? Because I know that’s something you wouldn’t just announce at the morning briefing.”
Michel’s face steeled. “One. Sergeant Dubois.”
“First name?”
“René.”
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Jacques pulled out his phone and fired up its browser.
Michel drummed his fingers. “You do realize it’s rude to text in the Chief Inspector’s office.”
Jacques looked up. “Researching, actually. Sorry. I just really needed a name to plug into a few places I’d bookmarked.” After a moment, he glanced at the touchscreen with satisfaction and toggled the phone off again. “Is he in the station now? Dubois?”
“I have no idea.”
“Could you find out?”
Michel grabbed the phone on his desk and punched a number. “It’s Michel. Do me a favor—is Dubois around?” A pause and then Michel nodded to Jacques.
“Ask if he’s wearing gloves right at the moment,” Jacques said.
Michel relayed the question and nodded again to Jacques. Jacques motioned for Michel to hang up, which he did with a curt, “Thanks.”
“What was that all about?”
“I think,” Jacques said, still pacing slow circles, “that if you ask Sergeant Dubois to remove his gloves, you will find some rather recent powder burns on one of his hands. Say, a couple hours old. Probably bandaged by now, but that’s not the point.”
“And?” Michel was even more focused now.
“Those would be burns he got from shooting at me this morning. Overloaded his pistol with powder, I’d wager. Pretty common for people who rarely fire flintlocks.” Jacques stopped. “Now, it’s already a remarkable coincidence that someone would shoot at me with the same sort of weapon that killed Lambert—if not the same weapon. But to pick me as a target only hours after you called me in?”
Jacques could see the dozens of questions competing to come next out of Michel’s mouth. “But what does him living in Irondequoit have to do with this?”
“Seneca land claims,” Jacques said simply.
Michel tossed his hands up. “That makes no sense, Jacques. None! Lambert had nothing to do with land claims. And neither do you!”
“I was just being nosy—that’s all the reason he needed to shoot me. But if you compare Sergeant René Dubois’ address to the areas that the Seneca Nation want to swap—like I just did a moment ago—you’ll find that he lives in one of them. Meaning, he may be kicked out of his house in the coming months if the land claims go through.”
“Again, so what?” Michel was getting pissed. “Lots of people are in that boat. And Dubois’ been an outstanding member of my force. Unlike you.” The Chief Inspector launched himself from his chair and took up position at the office’s street-facing window. “And he has family all over the government on top of that. Jesus, his uncle is Deputy Mayor!”
“I know. I just read that,” Jacques said, patting the phone in his pocket.
“This is asinine.”
Jacques went on the offensive. “I think it’s safe to say that Mayor Broussard and Daniel Lambert did not see eye to eye on a number of things. Specifically, this little plan of Lambert’s to secede from New France.”
“No news there,” Michel said. “But—”
“So what happens when the news breaks that Lambert is dead? Killed by an antique pistol. A pistol type that a large number of people just so happen to know the Mayor has a collection of—and that he knows how to use each of them from his years of being a reenactor. And that his animosity toward Lambert is very well documented.”
“What happens?” Michel roared. “I’ll tell you—no one would believe it! Because saying the Mayor had anything to do with this is bullshit!”
“You’re absolutely correct,” Jacques said.
Michel paused mid-rant. “But you were saying—”
“No one in their right mind who thought it through even just a fraction would say the Mayor suddenly decided to shoot Lambert. That truly beggars the definition of stupidity.”
Michel nodded. “Well, yeah.”
“But,” Jacques walked over to Michel, “with all of those factors in play, you as Chief Inspector would have to do some due diligence and investigate regardless. I mean, he has the weapons, a possible motive … you’d have to check things out. That’s your job. And that’s what the Mayor would expect from his police force.”
“Yes,” Michel agreed.
“So he would fully cooperate, probably, right?”
“Sure.”
“Including temporarily ceding day-to-day mayoral operations until things were cleared up?”
Some color drained from Michel’s face. “Most likely. And he would cede to the Deputy Mayor.”
“Who happens to be René Dubois’s uncle.”
“And who happens to be against the Seneca land claims which directly affect his nephew.”
“Which he could dismiss from the legislative agenda for years to come with a pen stroke in this brief interim,” Jacques concluded.
Michel leaned heavily against the window. “That’s some story.”
“And the moral of it is: never shoot at Jacques. If he hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have a clue about anything,” Jacques said helpfully. “But first things first: check to see what’s under Sergeant Dubois’ gloves.”
Michel nodded, slowly grabbed his phone and was about to dial when Jacques got up to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“After being shot at today, I decided to make a date—a proper date—with Laure this evening. I’d like to look my best.”
“You dump all of this on me and expect to just waltz away from it all?”
“You asked for a lead. I think I’ve over-delivered, actually.” Jacques put his hands in his coat pockets. “Besides, you have my number. Use it. I’ll clear my schedule to help in any way I can. Later. For the moment, I don’t think either you or Internal Affairs want me around during your chat with Sergeant Dubois.”
Michel considered. “Say hi to Laure for me.”
“Will do.”
Jacques had almost opened the office door when Michel added, “If you’re right—and I’m not saying you are, yet … that’s a lot of effort just to keep some land.”
“Voltaire said it best, I think.” Jacques nodded slowly. “‘So much fuss over a few acres of snow.’”
“Oui,” replied the Chief Inspector as he quietly took his phone in hand to make his call.
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