A Life Betrayed (Montreal #2)

Chapter Five

R ayan remembered the flour on his mother’s hands as she kneaded dough on the kitchen counter. He could hear the chatter of the TV from the living room, where his brother was stretched out on the floor in front of the screen. Even cartoons couldn’t lure Rayan from the joy of standing on a chair by her side and watching as she dipped her slender fingers into the flour jar. She would sprinkle a delicate layer of white across the lump of unshaped dough and work it in with the heel of her hand. Sometimes she broke off a piece and gave it to him to roll into little balls, which he would lay on the tray alongside the perfect circles of flatbread. While the bread baked, she mixed oregano, cumin, and sumac to make za’atar, which she would spread across the top and douse with olive oil.

On Saturday mornings, she ruled the house. Their father wouldn’t be up until noon, sleeping off a hard night at the local tavern after his pay packet came in on Friday afternoon. They listened to Najwa Karam, and his mother spoke to them in her native tongue, her voice sounding different from how it did in French—more melodious, as if this was the real her and the other woman simply a character she played.

He wondered how much of his mother’s life had been spent playing a character—the dutiful wife, the assimilated immigrant, the happy mother. Perhaps it was a trick he’d learned from her. But hiding had only left him starving with need.

In darker moments, Rayan feared she’d believed she was doing them a favor, relinquishing him and his brother to the system. After leaving his father, she had struggled to find work and keep their small family afloat but was unequipped to navigate the expectations placed on her by an unfamiliar society. If there were services, she didn’t know about them, and if there was help, she didn’t ask for it. The thought that his mother had decided he and Tahir were better off without her was too painful to imagine.

In the kitchen of his apartment, Rayan pushed his knuckles into a ball of dough on the counter. He kept his movements slow and even, in no hurry to get the dough onto the tray and into the oven. It wasn’t Saturday but Sunday, and he’d woken with an overwhelming urge to make his mother’s flatbread. Recreating the dishes from his childhood had become a strange sort of medicine.

Recently, he’d found himself able to remember things again, the memories floating into being as though released from the murky confines of his mind. He wondered if it was because, in the last few years, the tenor of his life had so drastically changed. When he’d first come to Toronto, Rayan had felt like he was still in hiding. He’d barely left the apartment except to go to classes and had kept to the same nearby stores. Then, as time went on and nothing happened, Rayan began to shake free of his self-imposed exile. Still most comfortable on foot, he started to explore the city, walking from one neighborhood to the next, taking it all in.

He’d never felt such freedom before. Even when he and his brother had been loose on the streets of Montreal, with no responsibility to anyone or anything, it hadn’t been true freedom. Details about what they’d eat and where they’d sleep had been contingent on the events of the day—he’d planed down his ability to imagine the future and see past the task of keeping one foot in front of the other.

Rayan realized now how ruinous such uncertainty had been. With each new neighborhood he discovered, each course he completed, each purchase he made for the apartment, he fought to counter the voice of warning in his mind. It told him not to be foolish, for everything could once again be taken away.

After setting the dough aside to rise, he opened the pantry to discover he was out of oregano. Rayan grabbed his keys and walked to the door to pull on his coat. He left, locking the apartment behind him. During the week, the streets around his building bustled with commuters and school children, but on weekend mornings, they were virtually empty. Rayan preferred it like this. In crowds, he tended to let his paranoia get the better of him.

A store run by an Iranian couple, several blocks from his apartment, sold a selection of specialty foods—spices, grape leaves, and ajwa dates, along with cans and jars that he recognized but didn’t know the names of. The couple were friendly and spoke often of their family back home, cousins and nieces and uncles who were always promising to come visit. Sometimes they put things aside for Rayan that they thought he might like.

That morning, someone had set up a small table covered with stacks of glossy pamphlets outside the store. It was manned by a young boy wearing a yellow hat and gloves, perched on a metal foldout chair.

“Sir, did you know…?” the boy called out.

Rayan stopped and looked at the kid, whose plump cheeks were ruddy from the cold.

“On any given night in Canada, 3,491 women and 2,724 children sleep in shelters because it isn’t safe at home.” The boy spoke in a practiced voice as though he’d carefully memorized each statistic. He picked up a pamphlet in his gloved hand and held it out to Rayan.

Rayan stepped over and took it, glancing down. On the cover was a picture of a woman holding a little girl close to her chest. Beneath the image was the name of an emergency shelter.

“How old are you?” Rayan asked.

“Six and a half,” the boy said, grinning proudly. “My mom works there.”

A woman with two bottles of water emerged from the store and sidled up beside the kid. “We’re actually just around the corner,” she said, gesturing toward the end of the street. “This time of year always seems to bring an extra demand for our placement services.”

Rayan took out his wallet and removed a clump of bills from the fold. He pushed them into the slot at the top of the collection box on the table.

“Thank you so much,” she said with a smile. “Your donation will go toward food and clothing to help families get back on their feet.”

Rayan nodded and continued into the store, the pamphlet still in his hand. After his meeting with Professor Hofstein, he’d looked up utilitarianism—an ethical theory promoting actions that ensured the greatest good for the greatest number of people. Rayan had never really adhered to a life philosophy. He’d always found living hard enough without the luxury of determining how he went about doing it. But living hadn’t been hard lately, and in the absence of struggle, he’d felt a growing need to make sense of where he stood.

Hofstein’s mention of redemption had caught on something, tugging like a hook. Maybe it was childish fantasy to think a future of good deeds could cancel out those of the past. How much good would it take to cancel out mine?

Mathias sat in one of the VIP rooms at the back of Le Rouge, tapping out a cigarette from the pack in his hand and placing it between his lips. Across the table, Narcotics head Filippo De Luca leaned forward to light it for him. It was unusual for Mathias to find himself at the club on a Monday evening. Or any evening, for that matter.

If there was one positive thing about being on the council, it was that Mathias had to frequent Le Rouge far less often than he used to. Lucio stood in for him as the Collections rep at division head meetings, and Mathias didn’t make an appearance unless a particular item of business called for it. As for the Quintino, they preferred their meetings to be held during daylight hours, opting for places that served better food and less pussy.

“Two shipments in six months?” De Luca shook his head, bringing the flame to his own smoke and taking a pull. “No longer looks like a coincidence.”

“The man’s blasé about it, too—doesn’t seem to think it’s a concern,” Mathias said. “Give me the numbers. What are we looking at?”

“They’re down. Have been for months now. What with the seizures and the flood of product making its way up from Colombia—at two-thirds of the cost, mind you—the arrangement’s no longer proving as lucrative as it was when we began.”

“So you’d recommend pulling the plug?” Mathias asked, exhaling a stream of smoke.

De Luca splayed his hands. “I mean, we could sit on it, see if things pick up. But if they stay the same, we’re better cutting our losses.”

Mathias tapped the end of his cigarette against the ashtray in the center of the table.

“Obviously, in this situation, there are wider implications with that course of action,” De Luca added carefully.

“Truman.”

“Exactly.”

“If he’s underperforming, not keeping his eye on the ball, we’re well within our rights to terminate the agreement. There might be hurt feelings, but this isn’t fucking summer camp,” Mathias said. “I’ll discuss it with the boss. I wanted to get your take first.”

De Luca nodded and moved to top up their glasses.

“While I’m here,” Mathias began, “do you know of anyone involved who’s caused issues, kicked up some attention?”

De Luca cocked his head. “Not that I’m aware of. What’s this about?”

“Turns out the Feds received a tip-off about our little operation.”

“You’re serious?” De Luca’s eyes widened. “You don’t think it could be…?”

Mathias paused, his drink raised halfway to his lips, the possibility only now occurring to him. “No,” he said, dismissing the idea. “He’s stupid but not that stupid.”

Yet the thought lingered. After he’d finished up with De Luca, Mathias walked out to where Jacques was waiting in the hallway, and together, they made their way toward the entrance of the club. One of the hostesses stopped him when they reached the door.

“Mr. Beauvais,” she said, throwing a glance over her shoulder. “One of the girls wants to see you.”

“I’m not interested,” Mathias said brusquely and stepped past her.

“She said it was important,” the woman said, lowering her voice.

Mathias stopped, immediately suspicious. He gave her a short nod and turned to his second. “We’re done here.”

As Jacques peeled off, Mathias followed the hostess to one of the private enclaves around the back of the main stage. She shut the curtain behind him and disappeared without another word. He stood in the middle of the cramped room, unwilling to sit, let alone touch anything. It had been years since he’d last been back here, and he was in the enviable position of no longer having to prove himself. His status afforded him the ability to wield no as a power play, and he was free to act as though he was above the club’s inferior offerings. Still, the room conjured a familiar unease in his stomach.

The curtain parted, and a slight girl with wavy blond hair slipped into the room. She wore a sheer robe over top of her skimpy outfit and clutched it to her chest as though shielding herself. “Sorry to bother you,” she mumbled nervously. There was a rough edge to her Quebecois, revealing a small-town pedigree. “I-I just thought you should know.”

“About…?” he asked curtly.

She shrank and refused to meet his eye. “She was the one who contacted me. My boyfriend’s court date is coming up, and she said she could get him off—”

Mathias knew where this was headed. “In exchange for what?”

The girl’s eyes, wide with panic, flew to his face. “I didn’t agree to anything. I didn’t tell her anything!”

Mathias tempered his agitation. He had little patience for hysterical women. “What’s your name?” he asked evenly, changing tack, which appeared to calm her somewhat.

“Lauralie.”

“Now, Lauralie, what did this woman want you to do?”

The girl ran her tongue across her lips. “Get close to you. Give her information.”

Mathias almost laughed. To think he would confess his sins to a piece of ass. “Did she say who she was with?”

Lauralie shook her head. “No, but she was definitely a cop—Anglo. Her French was prissy. And she mentioned something about a federal case.”

“She gave me her number so I could get in touch,” the girl added. “Said her name was Allen something.”

Frances Allen. So his suspicions had been correct. The inspector wasn’t a chump, like Lapierre, and she wasn’t here to play games. “Well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint,” he announced.

Lauralie balked. “What?”

“Call her,” Mathias instructed. “Tell her you have some information and you’ll meet her at the dep across the street.” He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and held out a handful to the girl.

She took them gingerly. “Now? What if she can’t—”

“She’ll be there.”

Lauralie grimaced. “You’re not going to do anything?”

“That depends on what you’ve told her.”

“Nothing,” she whispered, shaking her head vigorously. “Honest to God.”

“Then I’m not going to do anything.” Mathias watched as she slipped her hand into the robe to pull out her phone. Not yet.

Frances peered at the gloomy contents of her fridge and weighed up her options. She’d meant to pick up groceries on her way home but seemed to be leaving the office later and later each day, only to bring work back with her anyway. The kitchen table was currently piled with filing boxes of records that she’d spent the last few nights trawling through. She was looking for someone close enough to Mathias to have the inside scoop but motivated enough to risk turning on him to cut a deal. She was beginning to understand why the investigation had gotten nowhere—an informant like that might as well be a fucking unicorn.

She closed the fridge and scanned the empty kitchen as though a warm meal might magic itself into existence. The rest of the apartment was equally sparse. Work was paying for it while she was stationed in Montreal. The place was nothing special—a simple studio that came with a bed and basic furnishings. Frances was still living out of the duffel bag she’d brought with her when she’d left Ottawa. If there was anything she happened to need—clothes, cutlery, a decent frying pan—she went out and bought it.

She gave a defeated sigh and reached for her keys. It would have to be takeout again. That was one thing she did like about Montreal—there was always something open, and it was almost always good. Even in the depths of winter, the city managed to maintain an air of vibrancy, its residents conditioned to simply carry on as usual despite the relentless pummeling of snow.

Frances was pulling on her boots by the door when her phone rang. She saw who it was and fumbled to pick it up.

Lauralie spoke quietly, her voice almost a whisper. “Can we meet? I have something to tell you.”

Frances glanced at the clock on the wall. It was late. She must have just come off a shift. “Of course.”

“Do you know the Beau-Soir across the street from the club?”

“I’m on my way.” Frances hung up and felt a jolt of excitement in her stomach. This was what she loved about the job, the slow-motion pursuit—each move bringing her one step closer to an endgame. Maybe she’d found her unicorn.

Frances pulled her car into a space at the far end of the convenience store parking lot. She got out and waited beside the driver’s door, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her winter coat. The place was relatively quiet for this time of night. There were two cars parked by the building and one idling off to the side. She checked her phone for missed messages, and when she looked up, she saw Lauralie approaching on foot across the parking lot toward her. The girl stopped when she reached Frances and glanced around distractedly, hugging her calf-length coat against her tiny frame.

“Cold night.”

Lauralie just nodded, chewing on her scarlet-painted bottom lip.

Frances was vaguely aware of a car door slamming and the thud of purposeful footsteps. Lauralie’s mouth gave a panicked lurch. Frances looked past her shoulder, and there he was, only meters away, heading straight for them. If she’d found his photo intimidating, she was even less prepared for how formidable Mathias Beauvais appeared in person. He was tall, well-built, wearing an expensive-looking suit beneath a full-length black overcoat. His face was handsome—unnervingly so—but it was the way his eyes fixed on her, cold and hard, that made Frances draw back.

Lauralie turned as he came to a stop beside her. “That’s her,” she said, a quiver in her voice.

“You did well.” Mathias gave a slight tilt of his chin. “Go on.” Despite hitting all the local notes, his French was more polished than the average Montrealer’s, betraying his maternal origins and—from what she’d discovered in her research—an expensive education.

Lauralie threw her a quick look before scurrying back across the parking lot, her heels clicking on the pavement. Frances hid her frustration. She’d hoped the girl would be her ticket into Le Rouge, but instead, Lauralie had gone straight to Mathias and turned her in. She recalled Gagnon’s warning: “I don’t think you understand the name the man has made for himself.”

“Didn’t pick the Feds for a bunch of pimps,” Mathias said, his breath coming out white. “She sucks me off for information, and you throw out her boyfriend’s conviction?”

“That’s—”

“A misjudgment on your part. Unfortunately for you, Inspector Allen, my cock doesn’t do the thinking for me.”

She froze. He knew who she was. Frances was suddenly aware of the delicate position she’d put herself in. Not expecting company, she had left her weapon at the apartment and hadn’t informed anyone at the office of her plans.

“I hope you compensated the girl for her time. How does the RCMP expense strippers’ tips?” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “A questionable use of taxpayer money.”

“Assuming you’ve ever paid any,” she shot back, some of her courage returning. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mathias Beauvais. I’ve certainly heard enough about you. Sounds like you’ve heard about me too. At least now, when I bring you down, we won’t be strangers.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow. “Awfully confident, aren’t you?”

Frances shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be? It looks like your luck has run out. We’ve caught onto your little cross-provincial enterprise.” She was bluffing—they were still struggling to gather anything substantial in the case against him, but she wanted to put a dent in that impenetrable exterior of his.

Mathias smirked. “You’re not going to find what you’re looking for, Inspector. If I were you, I’d tread carefully.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Why would I have reason to threaten you?”

“I know exactly who you are.”

His gray eyes narrowed. “Then you would know to mind your step,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet.

Frances watched as Mathias walked back to his car, her hands clenched tightly inside her coat pockets.