In the Shadows, page 10
Madame Roy glowered at Damiano and her inspection, so she left the secretary with her files. Damiano wanted to get the call over as quickly as possible and tapped in the number.
Caitlin had stopped answering sixteen-digit numbers she didn’t recognize and felt were scams. Nevertheless, she felt she knew the person behind this one. “Hello.”
“Lieutenant Detective Damiano. You should have discarded my private number, Professor Donovan.”
“I found it in my files.”
“Well?”
“You are the only person we felt we could trust. I have an urgent matter.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I must be honest with you, Professor Donovan, I’m interim chief and I am extremely busy. May I not pass your call on to someone I trust?”
“I’m not exaggerating when I say this is a matter of life and death, Detective. I would not have disturbed you otherwise.”
“Go on then.” Damiano felt obliged to listen.
“This concerns the fatal shooting involving a police officer in Laval.”
Damiano exhaled. “The SQ are handling this case, but I can put you in touch with a good man.”
“Detective, we may not have had a positive encounter last year, but I am a responsible woman, and I need your help. Don’t pawn me off on someone else, please. Hear me out at least. I trust you to keep this conversation private.”
Despite the umbrage Damiano took from Donovan’s remarks, she was intrigued. “Go ahead, Professor.”
“My friend of many years was a witness to the shooting. The victim knocked her between two cars in his attempt to escape the officer chasing him. She was on her knees when the officer called out to the victim by name and shot him three times. He shot the man outright. My friend, in shock, managed to get to her feet, but she then stood face to face with the officer. They were five feet apart. He saw her and she saw him. She was able to run away because illumination from lights emanating from an apartment building distracted the cop.
“My friend is staying with me. That officer has managed to find her address and the address of her mother, whom he has called. She fears for her life, and her mother’s. Apart from her immediate fear, she is frightened about the retaliation that will follow, for God knows how long, if she comes forward. She has no choice – he knows who she is and where she lives. Today, he might discover where she works.”
A goddam train wreck! Boucher is under my command.
“Are you there, Lieutenant Damiano?”
“I am. What was the name she heard the shooter call out?”
“Jacques.”
Damiano’s day got worse. “I see. When your friend says it was murder, is she aware that the victim was found with a weapon?”
“She knows that the man didn’t have a weapon when he stopped and turned with his hands raised. He was pointing in her direction, she believes, to alert the officer that there was a witness. She is so frightened that she doesn’t want to come forward. I’ve told her, she needs help. That officer is intent on confronting her.”
“Was she injured when she was knocked to the ground? Is there a chance she is mistaken about the weapon?”
“Her knee was cut and she bit deeply into her tongue. She doesn’t need glasses, so what she witnessed she saw clearly. If she is somehow wrong, why would the officer be tracking her down? His actions suggest she saw a murder. Can you protect her?”
“Has she consulted a lawyer?”
“I did for her. His advice was to go to the police and to alert as many responsible parties as possible, thereby making the situation difficult for the officer to retaliate.”
Damiano couldn’t argue with that advice, but it meant media and the great pleasure they’d enjoy cutting down the division. Worse, she had done a cursory prelim with Boucher. She should have done better. For a moment, she felt slightly lost. The parameters of her new position steered Damiano back on track. “I am first an officer of the law, Professor Donovan. I cannot withhold evidence in a criminal investigation. Before I do proceed …”
Donovan held back a shouting match itching to erupt by clearing her throat and interrupting. “As an officer of the law, you are under another obligation, to serve and protect, Lieutenant Damiano. If you divulge this evidence when I have told you that this officer is out hunting down my friend, you are putting her in harm’s way.” Donovan continued without giving Damiano a chance to speak. “I have begun to record this conversation. If my friend is injured, you personally will have to answer because you know the present dangerous circumstances.”
“Stop right there! Recording this conversation is completely inappropriate. Before I transmit any information to the officer handling this case, I will meet with this friend. You must know that eyewitness testimony is not highly regarded in the court.” The fact that Donovan’s friend had heard the name of the victim was strong evidence that Damiano kept to herself. “Can you both come to the Crémazie Division tonight at seven?”
“We’ve read that the officer works in that division. I would not feel safe going there.”
Damiano pinched the roof of her nose. The professor was impossible! “Give me your address – make sure you are both there at seven. I haven’t time to waste, so tell your friend that I said no embellishments. I need solid facts that the SQ will work, and her mother’s address. I’ll have a patrol sent out there tonight.”
“I understand your position is difficult, Lieutenant, I do. My friend is in a precarious situation.”
Damiano contacted the SQ and waited several minutes to be connected with the detective handling the shooting. She explained her new job and the need to be kept up on files. “Do you have the time for a brief analysis of your findings? Chief Donat wants to be alerted to the updates on his patch.”
Detective Pichon was a fly fisherman, who knew about lures and casting techniques. “You have something for me, Chief Damiano? You know I have no obligation to discuss the case with you.”
Damiano was a strong swimmer, but she had no time for games. “Nothing solid and it might be nothing at all.”
“How about I decide that?”
“I hope to find something tonight, latest tomorrow morning. As soon as I do, I will promptly send it along. Can you give me anything on your progress?”
“I’m about to set up another interview with Officer Boucher. The vic’s weapon was untraceable, but no fingerprints were found on the clip, or on the bullets for that matter.” Pichon let that thought sit for a few seconds. “I wonder if our vic was some kind of hired security or knew a cop? Haven’t found any evidence that he did. It’s strange just the same, using a cop’s trick for his throwaway.”
“It is. Whatever I find, you’ll have.”
“That’s the game, Chief Damiano.”
“I know.”
After the call, Damiano found Boucher’s partner, Louis Doucette. She’d save him for an early morning interview. Something stank!
Damiano went off to find the room Pierre had chosen for the murder layout. He had found one beside the file room. She stood quietly, amazed at the amount of work he’d accomplished in such a short time, all of it as scrupulous as Matte himself. He had photos of the principal cast members with bios underneath and dates, times and numbers. On a separate wall, printed out were the four bits of information they had learned. He hadn’t noticed her by the door. Damiano walked in and up to Matte’s photo of Dylan. He was beautiful and boyish. Matte turned and said. “That’s Dylan alright.”
The strain on Matte’s face was apparent. Dylan’s death numbed him, hemmed him in by the loss and the pain of their failed relationship.
Damiano spoke quietly. “I was just wondering, Pierre, how do we explain this photo? We haven’t even learned where Dylan lived.”
“I’ll have something tomorrow. A place, I hope. I intend to barhop tonight.”
“As a cop?”
“Really, Chief? You should know better.”
“Take care, Pierre.”
Chapter Twenty
Back in her own office Damiano wondered if she should call Officer Doucette, or catch him off guard. She decided surprise was the better move. She checked the time and cursed that she had chosen seven o’clock for the interview on Wood Avenue. Montreal might as well be a city closed to any form of transit, walking included. The quickest route was prayers, and she had lost the knack. Rue St-Denis from Mount Royal south was shut down. She left the office in an unmarked car and drove or rather stalled on St-Urbain Street. She used flashers and siren bursts, but the drivers caught in the bottleneck couldn’t move even if so inclined. Ten minutes later, she had travelled half a block. When she finally reached a red light, she saw a traffic officer and shouted “Thank God!” Her flashers and siren drew him running and ducking between cars to reach their vehicle. “Can you do something for me?” she pleaded, badge in her hand.
Damiano felt she was in the inlet, the Red Sea, and Moses had raised his staff, and God parted cars for her. The parting lasted until she turned right. Sherbrooke Street swallowed her up in another jam. She couldn’t ride the sidewalks, a favorite mode. They were under siege as well. Damiano was ten minutes late for the interview on Wood Avenue. The twenty-minute drive had eaten up an hour and seventeen minutes of her life! She parked illegally and fumed up the stairs to the front door. She remembered she’d thought the house was expensive and greedily large for one person. She didn’t bother with the bell; she hammered on a window pane.
The worried faces that greeted her at the door toned down Damiano’s foul mood.
“Thank you for coming, Lieutenant. You can use the dining room. This is Carmen DiMaggio,” Caitlin said, leading them both into a lovely room of yellows and whites. The oak table was only partially cleared of piles of papers. “Sorry, I’m sorting through things at the end of the year.”
Damiano was quick to see, on the other side, the generous plate of salmon and egg salad sandwiches and a crystal pitcher of iced tea. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and her stomach was grumbling. “I’m not here for tea and sandwiches!” Her eyes were glued to the food, and her declaration was feeble.
“Carmen hasn’t eaten all day – you’re both Italian, so I know what you can do with food. I’ll leave you two.”
Caitlin left the room and expected to hear hard questions from the lieutenant. Instead there was silence. She tiptoed to the door, maybe a shuffle or two, but that was it. Ten minutes later, she decided it was her home and she had a right to check to see if they were getting along. When she peeped in the room, the Italians, heads down, were putting the sandwiches away at alarming speed.
When Damiano spotted Caitlin, she wiped a linen napkin across her mouth and straightened up.
Carmen grabbed the last sandwich before she wiped her face. No one had touched the tea.
“I’m glad to see Carmen has finally eaten.”
From that point on, it was all business. The recording began, followed by questioning.
Carmen reached down for her purse and pulled out a sketch. “I’m no artist, but I can do a simple sketch.” She passed it across to Damiano who gave it an appreciative nod. “Come over here and show me exactly where you were when the incident occurred.”
Carmen did.
As Damiano could see, Carmen was just shy of five feet from Boucher.
“Listen carefully, Ms. DiMaggio. When the victim stopped and turned, did you hear any noise that might indicate he dropped or tossed something?”
“No. He stopped dead and turned, raised his hands like I said, but pointed his right hand towards me. The officer just shot – it was over so quickly, but in some ways, it all seemed like slow motion. He called ‘Jacques’ as I’ve already said.”
Damiano took out a selection of photos.
“Do you see the perpetrator here? Take your time.”
“I don’t want to appear in court – I’m not brave or stupid. I’m not risking my life and my mother’s for some drug pusher. I’m sorry – I haven’t slept – I’m scared all the time. Please don’t tell me about civic duty! I want my life back.”
Damiano drummed the table. “You don’t have to point him out, just tell me if he’s here.”
“He is.”
“If there is a second witness, would you be willing to ID him?”
“Let the second witness do the ID. What about me? What happens to me now? Do I wait for him to find me at work?”
“If you’d ID the officer, I’d give that information to the SQ who are handling this case. They’d make an arrest. But my hands are tied if you won’t help. I can see you’re frightened. I can put a patrol car on you for a week, but I can’t do it forever, Ms. DiMaggio. We depend on citizens far more than we’d like to admit.”
Carmen rubbed her face, smearing tears. “I’m totally fucked. Dammit to hell, he’s number two. Now please leave and get me that car.”
Damiano rose. “May I keep the sketch?”
Carmen didn’t look up but nodded.
“If it means anything, you are brave. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is not my case, but I will help you every way I can.”
Carmen buried her head into her arms on the table and wept. Caitlin saw Damiano out.
“Make certain she stays with you for at least a week. There will be a patrol car at her work tomorrow,” Damiano said.
Driving back, Damiano knew she had to get the truth from Doucette early tomorrow morning. “It’s a wonder Donat managed to stay sane. I have to check the other files – I can’t get by with notes. Then there’s my primary case, Dylan Kane.” She knew she should have ordered Pierre off the case, but he had his screws into her. She felt his anger. He was blackmailing her. Home life was back on shaky ground. She gave the drivers ahead of her a loud horn that earned her a burst of honks and two fingers from bolder drivers. “I want my life back!”
Chapter Twenty-one
Detective Matte left Crémazie after seven and drove home to his apartment on Prince Arthur Street West in the La Cité complex. Like everything else in his life, Matte had taken time to choose an apartment. He had a view of Mount Royal Park, the old Royal Victoria Hospital and the Jacques Cartier Bridge. His home occupied the northeast quadrant of downtown Montreal in an area called Milton-Park. He liked the place with its large windows, closed in mid-summer with electric verticals, and quality wood floors that invited him to walk around in his bare feet. He had two pieces of abstract art, both by Michel Lafrance whose work was displayed in a gallery on rue Bonsecours in Old Montreal. In the master bedroom, above his chest of drawers, one on each side of the room, he had laminated posters from museum exhibitions that he rotated from time to time. The second bedroom displayed a wall of books: the architecture of the Greeks and Romans, the philosophers: Camus, Kierkegaard, Spinoza, Pascal and Watts. There was also a decent selection of memoirs. Young men who came to his apartment never asked if Matte had read the books. In fact, Matte had stalled after Camus and Kierkegaard, and the paradox of the absurd. There was no fiction, but he had read Waiting for Godot. There was no television. There was a sound system connected to an iPod. His kitchen had all the necessities for a good cook and someone who enjoyed fine wine. The wine rack was Matte’s pride.
The predominant gray of the living room walls was highlighted by one white brick wall. One of Lafrance’s sensual abstracts with its heavy blues, grays and yellows was elegantly displayed on that wall. Matte had met Lafrance, who had studied at the École des beaux arts. Matte was drawn to the painting’s intense and seemingly spontaneous brush strokes. Dylan had feigned a grasp of the works. Both heavy throw rugs were gray tinged with splashes of blue. Furniture was sparse – two red leather sofas, no chairs, but good lighting. Matte recalled one young man who took a look around the room and asked, “Is this an Airbnb?” Matte assured the man he lived there. “How?” he asked. “This is unreal!” There was no point explaining his regard for minimalism. The kid was there for an hour at most before he’d gotten what he’d come for and left.
In the bedroom he checked the locked drawer beside his double bed, a precaution he took every day. He thought to himself, I should have kept the cash here, and Dylan wouldn’t have taken it. He might still be alive. Matte ran a bath while he was undressing. He dropped his shirt and socks in a laundry bag in a hall cupboard, hung his pants and placed his shoes on a shoe rack. He stood naked before a full-length mirror. Matte thought he might see some change, some loss of bulk, but Dylan’s death had brought only a heaviness to his eyes. When clouds of heat rose from the tub, he turned off the water and stepped in, sat and disappeared under the near-scalding water. He stayed under until he began to choke. He sat up for a second and dropped back under, allowing his thoughts a freedom he had not admitted to them. He wondered when he’d first begun to hate himself for loving Dylan. He had spent every emotion, money, care, time and lost sleep, everything he had, to win his love. In the four-and-a-half years of their fragile relationship, he knew he had shrunk as a man. His heart was exhausted. Its strength had trickled away. Wasn’t that absurd, that love had cost him his heart?
He’d sometimes thought if Dylan moved out of the city, he could let go, perhaps make a new start. But Dylan’s death, the unequivocal departure, didn’t end his obsession and perhaps never would. Matte knew he’d still look in vain for Dylan in the men he met. Standing alone, Matte smiled sadly when he finally saw that Dylan was as weak as he was. Dylan had needed him, or men like him, for his survival. Matte reached for the bathrobe and wound its folds tightly around his body. He thought he smelled Dylan, but that wasn’t possible. He’d bought the robe only last week. He dressed carefully. He wanted information. He needed the name of Dylan’s last lover.
The bars never got going till just before midnight. Matte knew Jordan who worked the bar at Le Stud. He couldn’t afford to wait for the bar to be jam-packed with ear-splitting dance music amid a cacophony of shouting voices. He’d linger by one of the pool tables until he saw Jordan was free. Matte figured that the tourists would crowd the terrace until the night heated up. He was at the bar before nine. Jordan was in his mid-thirties and wore a gray stubble beard. He was toned and friendly – perfect for the job. “What’s up, Pierre?” he asked, wiping his hands on a wet towel and sticking it into his shorts. Tats ran up both arms.
