A Life Betrayed (Montreal #2)

Chapter Four

F rances watched the girl reach beneath her fake fur coat to adjust the strap of her corset, her impressive décolletage straining against the gauzy fabric. She’d just come off a shift and looked out of place in her vinyl skirt and too-high stilettos as they stood by the entrance to the late-night diner Frances had suggested.

“Sure you don’t want to go inside?” she offered.

The girl shook her head, clutching an overstuffed purse to her side. “I’m good here.”

Frances had gone through the list of potential informants Sergeant Gagnon had compiled and was surprised to find that none of them were connected to the array of adult clubs the family operated across the city. One establishment in particular, Le Rouge, was known by local authorities to be a hotbed of mob activity. Yet from what she’d gathered, the divisional office had never tried to infiltrate the place from within.

There weren’t many women in Frances’s position at the RCMP. There were plenty at the agency—receptionists, administrators, researchers, and assistants—but few who’d climbed the ranks like she had. There were barriers, of course—men who’d held roles longer than she’d been alive and would give them up only if they were forced into retirement or keeled over entirely. But the federal police were beginning to see the value of a quick-witted female officer in the field. Early on in her career, she’d discovered that women had far more ways than men to slip into the criminal underworld unnoticed.

Frances had cast her net wide and asked the research team to put together a record of girls who worked at Le Rouge. Then she’d cross-referenced the names against the schedule of cases awaiting trial at the local courts, hoping to find an opportunity to exploit. She’d found one in Lauralie Duquette, a doe-eyed eighteen-year-old who’d submitted a character reference for her boyfriend, who was facing criminal charges for a string of home invasions. Frances had reached out and arranged a meeting, one Lauralie had cautiously agreed to, on the premise that Frances might help make her boyfriend’s unfortunate situation disappear.

While the tip-off had implicated several mob figures, Mathias was by far the most high-profile among them, and that was where Frances had decided to concentrate her efforts. With what she’d learned about him, his involvement in the cross-provincial narcotics shipments was likely just the tip of the iceberg.

She’d been trying to put together an idea of Mathias’s movements in the city, but so far, he’d proven elusive. If Frances had someone on the inside, she’d be able to get a better read on the man and his weak points. And if he was anything like the other crime bosses she’d put away, those points involved women—the younger, the better.

“George’s court date is coming up soon, isn’t it?”

Lauralie nodded, rummaging in her purse for a silver container of breath mints. She knocked several into her palm. “Next month. The eighteenth.”

“It must be so hard on you both,” Frances said, infusing her tone with just the right amount of sympathy. The boyfriend—George Lanore—had been behind a series of violent burglaries targeting houses in the city’s wealthy Outremont suburb. George had finally been arrested when an unsuspecting homeowner had caught him red-handed in his kitchen and taken to him with his kid’s baseball bat.

“He’s a good guy, honestly,” Lauralie seethed and popped a handful of mints into her mouth. She crunched them between her teeth. “He’s just really impressionable, you know? One of his friends roped him into it.”

Frances suppressed a scornful snort. She’d seen George’s rap sheet. This wasn’t his first brush with the law. Lauralie’s conviction that he was innocent was likely a product of her own imagination.

“That’s the thing, though,” Frances said. “He’s the only one placed at the scene, so it’ll be hard to argue that he was coerced.”

Lauralie looked at her from under her thick black lashes. “So what are we supposed to do? I don’t want him to go to jail.”

“Well,” Frances began judiciously, “there are ways I might be able to assist in obtaining a more lenient sentence.”

“You’re saying you can get him off?” she asked brightly, brushing back a strand of golden hair.

“I’m saying when it comes to informants assisting with a federal investigation, there are some liberties we can take.”

“What federal investigation?” Lauralie asked, scrunching up her nose.

“How much do you know about your employer?”

The girl’s mouth quivered before she quickly masked her discomfort with an easy smile. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The mob,” Frances said curtly, abandoning the sympathetic pretense. “The mafia runs Le Rouge, your place of employment. I have a hard time believing you had no idea.”

“We’re not supposed to talk about that,” Lauralie said, glancing around the parking lot. “Especially not to someone like you.”

“Quid pro quo,” Frances said with a shrug. “You help me, and in exchange, I help George with his current situation.”

Lauralie clasped the handle of her purse with a white-knuckled fist. “What do you need?”

“I need you to get close to Mathias Beauvais.”

The girl’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “I can’t—not him.”

“How many years did George’s lawyer say he was looking at?”

Lauralie stared at Frances, looking torn. “Seven to nine,” she whispered.

“That’s a long time, isn’t it, Lauralie?”

“He’s a good person!” she cried, her cheeks flushing.

Frances kept her face neutral. She knew better than to contradict the girl. “I’m sure he is. And you’re in a position to help him. Think how grateful he’ll be.”

Lauralie’s eyes darted nervously to a group of men loudly exiting the diner. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Frances hid a smile. If Lauralie succeeded in gaining Mathias’s confidence, she would finally have an in. And why wouldn’t she? The girl was pretty and eager. If Frances had learned one thing during her time on the job, it was that men like Mathias—men who sought status and power and believed themselves above the law—were easily ensnared by a young woman’s wiles.

Mathias was steps away from the Collections office door and mere moments from freedom when his phone rang. It was Giovanni’s minder, Henri Rossi.

“Boss wants to see you.”

“At the house?” Mathias asked, his eyes narrowing as he saw Sonny making his way across the office toward him.

“No, somewhere different,” Henri said cryptically. “I’ll send through the details.”

Mathias hung up, and Sonny sidled up beside him. “Boss, I’m having problems with the Carlisle contract.”

Knowing Sonny, they weren’t problems, just symptoms of his staggering ineptitude. “And…?”

“His partner croaked, and he’s selling the business. Doesn’t think the money’s going to cover what’s owed.”

“All I’m hearing is that he’s got issues. What’s that got to do with us?”

“I don’t think I can get the money.”

Mathias stared at the man in silence, watching him fidget with discomfort. “The less you think, Sonny, the better,” he said finally. “There are as many ways as there are bones in his body. Pick one.”

“But, boss—”

“Don’t come to me, expecting I’ll do your work for you,” Mathias cut in, fighting a growing irritation. “Carlisle is a cheat. His family has the money. You just need to go out and find it.”

He pulled open the door, strode out onto the landing, and headed for the stairwell. If Sonny had half a brain, he would know that Carlisle’s son was on the city council. That was where Mathias would start—he’d see how quickly the story changed when the councilor’s life got a bit more interesting. But that wasn’t Mathias’s job anymore, and Sonny had been doing this a long time. He could figure it out for his fucking self.

In the parking lot outside the building, Mathias made his way over to the Bentley and got in behind the wheel. He’d sent Jacques out on his own to correct a few problematic contracts. These days, his second doubled as an unofficial captain for the division. Jacques was more useful when he was getting work done rather than trailing Mathias from one tedious family commitment to another.

A second had once been a necessity—an extra set of eyes and a partner in intimidation. Mathias had little use for that now and preferred, instead, to move about on his own. It was less stifling that way and allowed him the freedom to go where he wanted. But having a second had never felt tiresome with Rayan. The man had been quiet, sure, but he’d had a knack for keeping pace with the procession of Mathias’s thoughts, occasionally adding his own eagle-eyed observations to the mix.

As he drove, Mathias mulled over the information Enzo had given him about Lapierre’s replacement. The sheet of paper had included a thumbnail photo of the woman in uniform—stern-faced, her auburn hair pulled back tightly behind her head. Inspector Frances Allen. The single-page bio listed her credentials, her personal background, and the high-profile cases she’d worked on. She’d been transferred from the Organized Crime branch at the RCMP’s Ottawa headquarters and assigned specifically to head the divisional office’s investigation.

Since the election of the current prime minister three years ago, there’d been a noticeable shift in attitude toward the family’s various activities. Anthony Piper had campaigned on a platform of getting tough on crime, and since taking office, he’d pushed to expand the powers of the RCMP and implement harsher sentencing. There’d been talk that, with a government more inclined to crackdowns, Quebec—a province long ignored—would be subject to increased federal scrutiny. That was why they’d brought someone in from the capital—the divisional office in Montreal had become too accustomed to collusion and partial to generous bribes, which was what had kept the family—and Mathias—safe for so long.

After receiving the news from Enzo, Mathias had reached out to his contact at the Quebec office, who’d hinted that Inspector Allen wasn’t well-liked by the local team. That could work in his favor. He’d been unable to gain any insight into the source of the tip-off. His informant had revealed that all identifying details had been scrubbed from the record, which meant someone at the RCMP was keeping that information close to their chest.

More concerning was the fact that the tip-off included details of the short sea shipments he’d been running with Truman. While they didn’t yet have anything solid to tie Mathias to the arrangement, this explained the recent string of seizures. Mathias already had a list in his head of those who were involved in the operation—peripherally or otherwise. He would have to be proactive at stamping out any potential source who might be funneling information to the inspector.

The address Henri had sent him was located in a new building at the center of downtown. Mathias parked the car outside and walked into the swanky office tower, which boasted a roster of high-profile clients on the mezzanine directory. Mathias rode the elevator to the thirty-first floor and stepped out onto a walkway lined with windows. It smelled of fresh paint, and the carpet beneath his feet was pristine.

The walkway split off into two corridors. Mathias turned left and walked to the glass doors of an office suite with a numbered placard affixed to the wall. He pulled open the doors and stepped inside. He spotted Henri first then the boss, who was standing in the corner of the unfurnished office, staring down at the street below.

Mathias moved to the window and saw how high up they were. The cars below looked like toys on a child’s play mat. “Considering a new career?”

Giovanni turned to him with a slow smile. “Take a good look, Beauvais, at the future of Collections.”

Mathias cast his eyes about the empty office. “What am I missing?”

“While I appreciate the hard work, I think we both know you heading the division was temporary. Christ, you’ve complained about it enough. In truth, Collections has been in transition ever since Tony left us, and I think now’s the time to remedy that.”

Mathias couldn’t deny that the division had been a thorn in his side since he’d grudgingly agreed to take the helm, but what exactly had brought this on?

“Russo, God rest him, built this organization up from a gaggle of street criminals. We’ve moved beyond that, and it’s time we looked the part,” Giovanni said, peeling away from the window and stepping past him into the center of the room. “You know as well as I do, the country’s changing. It’s getting harder to keep the law from interfering in our various… endeavors.”

Mathias understood then where the boss was heading. “You want to move things aboveboard.”

Giovanni’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Always so quick, Mathias. You never fail to impress.”

“There’s a lot about this business that doesn’t exactly fit onto a spreadsheet,” Mathias scoffed.

“Of course, but there’s a hell of a lot that will.”

Mathias kept the skepticism from showing on his face.

“I’ve been in discussions with BCF Holdings, the company who owns this building, about a generous lease agreement,” Giovanni said. “In the words of our dear departed friend, money talks. And there are some very large organizations looking for a confidential cash injection. Why waste our time hassling mechanics for small change when we could be lending millions to the big players and making a killing?”

It was ambitious and not entirely out of the scope of reality. Mathias himself had considered the possibility of legitimizing certain family business ventures. “You’ve looked into the legal implications?”

Giovanni shrugged. “There are firms out there whose business it is to make dirty look clean. The current government isn’t going anywhere, and soon Quebec will be expected to fall back in line. We’ve grown beyond a small annoyance. We need to remain one step ahead and pivot before they try to shut us down.”

Mathias slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks. The afternoon sun streamed through the window, projecting his shadow onto the blank wall beside him.

“Think of it as an upgrade, a step into the future. We’d create a shell corporation with a shadow director and a respectable board lineup, use consultants to muddy the trail,” Giovanni continued. “Tony was one of the old guard. He stuck to what he knew. We’re taking Collections in a new direction.”

Mathias had found an old ledger at the bottom of one of Tony’s desk drawers. It dated back to the early eighties and was filled with a meticulous record of the division’s profits for that year. Tony had just been starting out and was tasked with molding a fledgling branch into a well-oiled machine, a task he’d made it his life’s mission to accomplish. He would have hated the idea of selling out to some faceless schmuck in finance.

“Don’t tell me you’re old-school as well,” Giovanni goaded him, misinterpreting his silence. “You would know well enough, Mathias, this is the way forward.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Mathias said. “But the trouble with working with a bunch of slippery suits in the Caymans is that it’s hard to find a neck to squeeze when things go wrong.”

Giovanni chuckled. “Trust you to get right to the point. And you’re not wrong—it does leave the issue of compliance. But there are paper-based ways to extract the desired response.”

Mathias had been doing this long enough to know that a piece of paper wasn’t nearly as effective as a clenched fist.

“The real money is to be made where the fat cats sit, and we’ve accumulated a sizable investment portfolio to run with the big boys,” Giovanni continued. “More profit for less risk, and we keep our noses clean in the process.”

If the boss wanted Collections to run like a high-end investment firm, it would mean dismantling the street teams and placing control into the soft hands of consultants who didn’t know a thing about the realities of their business.

Giovanni waved his hand as if swatting an errant fly. “I’m talking long-term here—future planning. There’s a lot to be worked out before then. But I figured…” He gestured around the pristine office. “Why not get started now?”

Mathias nodded noncommittally. A thought niggled in the back of his mind, remaining unasked: where does that leave me? But there would be time for questions. He’d learned, in his role as the boss’s counsel, that it was best not to contradict the man when he got an idea into his head. It was far easier to let the dust settle and then present a compelling counterproposal.