A Life Betrayed (Montreal #2)

Chapter Eight

T he only place Truman would agree to meet her was at Copps Coliseum in Hamilton on the night of a home game. Frances hadn’t picked him for a Bulldogs fan—let alone a hockey man—but he hadn’t exactly proven easy to pin down. The stadium was packed. Rowdy fans in blue-and-white jerseys, with giant cups of beer in their hands, jostled past her as she followed the signs to the second floor Club Level.

Frances had little in the way of a traditional hockey education, and everything she’d learned about the game came from her male colleagues. Her father had been more interested in Hitler’s tactical advances than the NHL. While she could talk her way through a conversation about stats and scoring with passable accuracy, she wasn’t planning on wasting any of her precious time with the Reapers’ head discussing sports.

By the time she reached the marked VIP area, the throngs of people had largely thinned out. She stepped through a set of heavy doors and found herself in an elevated section overlooking the rink. Lights flashed overhead, and the boom of an announcer’s voice was intersected by pumping music and spontaneous cheers from the crowd. The seats in the VIP area were more spaced out than the rest of the stadium, and spectators dotted the rows in twos and threes.

In the far back row, sitting alone, she spotted a large man swigging from a plastic cup of beer. Frances approached him carefully, not sure he’d seen her. She didn’t know why, but she’d expected him to be wearing his cut—the black leather vest with a distinctive scythe motif that she’d seen detailed in police documentation. Instead, the man before her was dressed in faded jeans and a forest green sports jacket.

Truman looked over when she was several steps away, his eyes crawling along her body before they reached her face. Frances felt her skin prickle. There was something possessive about his stare, as though she was there for his viewing pleasure.

She recalled the heft of William Truman’s file, which included a substantial section on the trafficking and prostitution activities linked to the Ontario Reapers chapter. Her attempt to penetrate Mathias’s defenses by way of a honey trap had clearly been off the mark—she still smarted at the condescending way he’d spelled that out to her. But Frances got the sense, from the way Truman’s gaze lingered on her chest, that he’d be more susceptible to such a ploy.

When he was done examining her, Truman gestured to the seat beside him, where he’d placed a cup carrier crammed with three more beers. “I would offer you a drink, but it’d be wasted on the likes of you.”

“Pity,” she said, cresting the final step and sitting down two seats over, the beers between them. “I am on the clock, after all.”

“They let broads do more than pick up phones now? Guess a decent pair of tits can get you all sorts of places.” His thin lips curled on his fleshy face.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Frances shot back. She’d heard it all before. Something about a woman with a badge had the effect of rustling a man’s feathers. “But enough about me,” she continued, tiring of the predictable banter. “Border Services was kind enough to refer us a case they’ve been working on—a string of gunrunning activities over the past year that they believe are connected. Over twenty thousand illegal weapons smuggled into Ontario from across the southern border. While CBSA was able to confiscate a portion of that number, the rest is largely unspoken for.”

Truman took a swig of beer, apparently unaffected.

“What they have been able to do, however, is trace it back to you,” she said, trying to keep the smugness from her voice.

Apparently, the Reapers’ affiliation with the Montreal mafia had resulted in a bad case of overconfidence. The Canada Border Services Agency had initiated a series of surveilled stakeouts and come away with video evidence of weapons being delivered to various Reaper-owned establishments across Ontario. In one video, Truman himself could be seen inspecting the contents of a crate as a delivery was unloaded into the storeroom at the back of the Iguana, his infamous Hamilton brothel.

“I assume you’re aware of the situation, or you wouldn’t have met with me today,” Frances said. “A conviction of this nature carries a sentence of eleven to fourteen years. I can imagine the prospect of jail time might be somewhat unsettling.”

“Can you?” Truman sneered. He brought the cup of beer to his mouth and chugged it back. “So, what—I hand over a couple of the boys, point you in the direction of the guns, and you get your little hoorah? What’s the going rate—three to one? I got a few guys who could use a stint in the cooler.”

“No,” Frances said with a shake of her head. Below, in the rink, there was a flurry of movement as the Bulldogs burst out onto the ice, and a roar went up from the stands. She turned to fix Truman with a hard stare. “I want something on Mathias Beauvais.”

Truman visibly stiffened. Then he began to chuckle, covering his misstep. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Come on, Truman. We’ve known about your little family-facilitated narcotics shipments for a while now. We know the two of you are working together. What we don’t have is any evidence linking him to the operation. We’d like you to help us with that.”

Truman tossed his now-empty cup to the floor by his feet. “Fuck off,” he growled. “There ain’t no way I’m helping you. Do you know the man? Fourteen years in the hole is nothing compared to what he’ll do if someone rolls over on him.”

“Don’t worry about Mathias,” Frances said, feigning confidence. “When we’re done, he’ll be put away for a long time.”

Truman shifted so he was facing her, his bulky frame spilling over the edge of the seat. She hadn’t realized quite how hefty he was until she’d sat down, and even with the surrounding crowd, she felt the menace of his physicality.

“Should’ve known some lady cop would be thick as a brick. You think prison will stop Beauvais? Do you know how many people he has in his pocket? He’d be running the joint before you know it—turn it into his own little fiefdom.” Truman raised his arm and pointed a thick sausage finger in her face. “I ain’t giving you that, sweetheart. Ask for something else, or we’re done here.”

Frances shrugged and got to her feet. “Then we’re done. If it’s not Mathias, you’ve got nothing I want.” She moved to the stairs and stopped to address Truman over her shoulder. “I look forward to the trial. I hope you’ve got a good lawyer.”

Armando Bernardi owned Le Chataignier , an exclusive French restaurant in the cobblestoned Vieux-Montréal neighborhood that was open to the public only three nights a week. It catered handpicked events for the family’s elite and hosted the occasional private function upon request. Apparently, even the boss was an admirer. He and his wife ate there every other Saturday.

It was also where the Quintino liked to hold their meetings. The aging councilmen were most comfortable when plied with a steady stream of rich food and expensive alcohol. They’d paid their dues and were no longer interested in margins and maximizing efficiency, only with how to maintain their station and ensure that the boss kept the ship afloat. It had proven a drastic change of pace for Mathias, who was wired to hunt out problems and aggressively resolve them.

They were seated in the private dining room toward the back of the restaurant and had just finished the fourth course of a seemingly endless lunch. Enzo interrupted a discussion on the increased customs presence at the Chartierville border crossing and turned to Mathias. “Did you look into that new inspector?”

“I did.” Mathias placed his knife and fork across his half-eaten plate of seared duck. “I also had the pleasure of meeting her. I would be careful who you speak to at Le Rouge going forward.” There was a low murmur of disquiet from the three men at the table.

“This the broad with the RCMP? I thought she was supposed to be some brainless paper shuffler,” Gabriele grumbled.

“I wouldn’t underestimate her,” Mathias cautioned. “When was the last time the Feds tried to infiltrate one of our establishments?”

“The Quebec office would never be so brazen,” Armando said with a snort.

“That’s why she’s here. She’s got no qualms trying things the local office wouldn’t dare,” Mathias said.

“I don’t like it,” Enzo said, tapping his knuckles against the starched white tablecloth. “Do what you need to stay ahead of this.”

The waitstaff came through from the kitchen and began clearing their plates. Mathias waited until they’d left before continuing. “What I can’t figure out is who’s behind the original tip-off.”

“Who wouldn’t benefit from us going through the wringer? I can’t think of a single group that won’t stand to gain,” Armando said.

“Might not be a group behind it,” Gabriele posited. “Could be a personal grievance, a targeted attack.”

“Regardless, the Feds can’t afford to keep this dragging on.” Enzo raised his glass of wine to drain it. “My guess is they’ll want something to show for their time, and we’re an easy target.”

Mathias didn’t give voice to his suspicions about Truman, since they were still just that: suspicions. There was no need to get the council up in arms until he heard back from Gurin.

The servers chose that moment to return with ramekins of crème br?lée and cups of black coffee. The conversation at the table shifted as the men busied themselves with the final course. “So, Beauvais,” Armando said, giving him a sly smile. “Has the boss shown you the office?”

Mathias pushed his dessert aside and considered the question carefully. “He has. It’s ambitious.”

“It’s crazy, is what it is,” Enzo retorted. “I was hoping you’d convince him of that.”

“I can’t say I’m entirely on board,” Mathias said judiciously. “He seems dead set on corporatizing Collections.”

“Thought you’d be happy to be rid of the division. It’s no secret you can’t stand it,” Gabriele said, cracking the layer of caramelized sugar in his bowl with the side of his spoon.

“Giovanni has always had grand plans. Some of them are worth indulging—others not so much,” Armando said with a snicker.

“And this one…?” Mathias asked, raising his cup of coffee to his lips.

“I say let him go down this fanciful path for now. He’ll figure out soon enough that you can’t run a successful division without boots on the ground,” Enzo said.

Mathias took a sip of coffee. He hadn’t had the impression that Giovanni was chasing a dream—it had sounded like he’d already thought all of this through. “There’ll be pushback,” he conceded. “Not everyone in the division’s going to blend seamlessly into a swanky office.”

“That’s for fucking sure,” Armando crowed, and the men around the table chuckled.

Mathias swallowed another mouthful of coffee and thought of the boss’s warning— soon Quebec will be expected to fall back in line.

In the face of the unfolding situation with the Feds, he was beginning to think Giovanni’s prudence might be justified.

Frances couldn’t stop looking at the infinity tattoo on the underside of the man’s left wrist. She’d first noticed it when he’d raised his hand in greeting after arriving at the restaurant for their ill-fated date. It was garish, like Chinese characters on someone’s lower back, and laughably small, as though he’d wanted to be edgy but unobtrusive.

If you’re going to get a tattoo, commit, God dammit.

“They offer these excursions in Bali where you can swim with dolphins,” Louis was saying, and his green eyes lit up as though he was reliving the experience right there in the vegan tapas place he’d suggested over the phone. “It’s incredible. You’ve got to try it.”

She nodded and took another sip of her beer. They sat at a small table by the window, and she found her gaze wandering to the far more interesting people strolling by outside.

“Have you traveled much, Frances?”

“No,” she said truthfully.

After graduating from university, she’d spent a month in Europe before starting cadet training at the RCMP academy. It had been an attempt to reclaim some of the fun she’d missed as a straitlaced student fixated on a future in law enforcement. But instead of partying and sleeping with foreign boys, she’d felt homesick and spent her time eating supermarket pastries in cheap hostels. This was the part where she was supposed to say that she would like to travel and planned to one day backpack through Asia or go bungee jumping in New Zealand.

“I feel like I haven’t even done Canada justice yet.”

“Tell me about it. Skylar and I—” Louis flushed and looked embarrassed to have mentioned his ex again. He’d done it twice already, and their food hadn’t even arrived.

Frances pretended not to notice. She mentally cursed Diana and her own inability to say no. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the idea of having someone to share her life with, but she hated the process of getting there—marketing herself, the endless disappointing dates, all her own insecurities mirrored back at her. Because if she was honest, Louis was a perfectly nice person. He was friendly and enthusiastic and had worked in asset management at a well-known national bank for the good part of a decade. She was the one with the problem.

She imagined what Louis would say if she told him she’d once exposed a group of insurance brokers who ran an underground torture club. Or that last year she’d busted an international drug ring that spanned four countries and had led to the seizure of over eight hundred kilos of meth destined for the street. Frances lived in a world that most people would find abhorrent, filled with questionable characters and even more questionable motives. And she liked it—more than she liked the idea of swimming with dolphins. That probably made her what Ethan had so affectionately called her—a freak.

“So, you live in Montreal?”

“Temporarily,” she said. “Just while I’m working this investigation. I’m originally from here. I plan on moving back to Ottawa once everything’s wrapped up.”

“How long does that usually take?”

How long is a piece of string? “Depends. Some investigations are more cut-and-dried than others.”

“And this one?”

She thought of the hostile welcome she’d received at the Quebec office and the glint of intimidation in Mathias’s eyes. “Not so cut-and-dried,” she admitted.

“I’ve never met anyone who worked for the RCMP,” Louis said with a grin. “Bet it’s mostly guys, huh?”

Frances shrugged. He was right. She’d always used it to her advantage, though, as a way to stand out and push herself harder. “Mostly, but it’s changing.”

Fortunately, a young woman in a black apron appeared beside Louis and began setting out a series of small dishes on the table between them. Frances wasn’t confident she could determine what any of them contained.

“Diana mentioned you’d recently come out of a long-term relationship.” Louis handed her an empty plate as the server left. “I know how tough that is.”

Frances could have killed her sister. Recently? It was going on a year since Ethan had ended things. Her transfer to Montreal had actually come as a relief. Ottawa was a small town, and she’d grown tired of bumping into Ethan at places they’d frequented while together.

She loaded tiny portions of food onto her plate, not because she was interested in eating them but more as a thing to do. “It was pretty amicable. We had different ambitions.”

Ethan’s had been to get married and have babies, little girls he’d already named Poppy and June. Hers had been to make superintendent by the time she turned forty. In a way, the timing worked out perfectly. His leaving freed her up to take on the Quebec investigation, which put Frances one step closer to a promotion. They never could have made it work while they were together. She’d have turned the opportunity down and quietly resented Ethan for the rest of her career.

“How long were you guys together?”

“Eight years,” Frances said as though it wasn’t a big deal. It had been—still was.

She’d met Ethan one morning after leaving a security briefing at Parliament Hill. He’d been part of an antiwar protest that had turned violent, and Frances had helped rinse the tear gas out of his eyes with her water bottle. He’d looked up, face red and eyes streaming, and flashed her that disarming smile of his, like he figured it was as good a moment as any to hit on her. They were together by the end of the week. He’d loved telling that story to people they met at parties.

Now it was like time had skipped forward and she had nothing to show for it. While Frances had always been lukewarm about the idea of a family, Ethan was the only man she could imagine having one with. Getting back out there was supposed to feel empowering, but instead, it brought into sharp focus just how good she’d had it.

“Wow, I can’t imagine,” Louis said, shaking his head sympathetically and scooping what looked like a fake crab cake onto his plate. “Skylar and I were together for two, and that felt like a lifetime.”

Frances almost rolled her eyes. Two years was foreplay.

They made uncomfortable small talk through the rest of the meal and parted with an awkward hug. It had been clear from the outset that they were poorly matched. She didn’t know what Diana had been thinking.

Fortunately, Frances had far more pressing concerns on her mind. That was the beauty of a demanding job—it left little room to mull over the other things in her life that weren’t working.