A Life Betrayed (Montreal #2)

Chapter Twelve

A ndré Nadeau was nothing like what Frances had expected. She’d driven to Maskinongé to find out more about Rayan and how he’d ended up working for the family, entertaining the hope that she might discover the man hiding out at his father’s house. After all, the tiny town in rural Quebec seemed like the perfect place to disappear.

She still believed he was key to the case against Mathias. Not only had Rayan worked closely with the mafioso, but he was also implicated by his own involvement in the family and a string of prior crimes on his record. Then there was his brother’s murder. Frances had stretched the truth somewhat when she’d spoken with Rayan in Toronto. There was no open investigation into Tahir Nadeau’s death. However, the circumstances were suspicious enough to serve as a compelling weakness to exploit—maybe even convince Rayan to turn on his boss.

“About time you people did something about him,” André said after she’d introduced herself. He peered at her through a crack in the front door as she stood on the porch of the run-down bungalow where he lived.

“May I come in?” she asked. “I have a few questions.”

André appeared to consider her request for a moment before stepping back and beckoning her into the house. Frances had conjured the image of a man wracked with guilt about what had happened to his wayward son. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with a sour-faced alcoholic. She could smell the beer on his breath at barely ten in the morning. She glanced around the mess of the living room. Filth covered almost every surface, and the distinct odor of mold clung to the air. She didn’t feel comfortable sitting, so she remained standing by the door, her notebook and pen in hand.

“He’s always been a bad apple,” André asserted, stumbling to his easy chair and lowering himself into it with a labored wheeze. “He and his brother.”

Frances stilled. “Tahir?”

“That one.” He picked up an open can of beer from the end table. “Bunch of ingrates.” He brought the can to his lips and took a long swig. “She picked the names. I thought women from over there were supposed to be submissive, obey their husbands and all that. But she made such a stink about it I let her have her way.”

“Sir, Tahir Nadeau is dead,” Frances said dubiously, not sure whether he was simply confused or truly hadn’t known. “I have the police report with me. I was going to ask what you knew about the circumstances surrounding his death. It appears to be a homicide, but no investigation was launched.”

André gave a dispassionate grunt and took another pull from the can.

Frances frowned. He doesn’t care if his own kid is dead. But why does that surprise me? She’d read the custody-hearing transcript and seen the numerous attempts the court had made to contact this man. His definitive silence said everything.

“Tell me more about Rayan. When did you last hear from him? Has he made any contact recently?”

“I don’t hear shit.” André gave a phlegm-filled cough. “You think he’d bother to call once in a while, help his old man out. I’m on disability—it’s all I have.”

“He’s been associated with certain criminal groups,” Frances nudged. “What do you know about that?”

“It doesn’t surprise me. He was always following his brother into trouble.” André repositioned himself on the chair with considerable effort, his breath rasping as he held the can of beer close to his chest, making sure not to spill. “You wanna know more about the kid? Start writing, lady.”

As Frances recorded André’s testimony, she grew more skeptical of his credibility. He had plenty to say about his son—how disobedient he’d been as a child, how violent. Yet the details were vague and the timing all over the place, and she had a growing suspicion it was just a story he told himself. She would file it and add it to the case she was putting together on Rayan, but she was pretty sure it wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny.

Frances recalled Rayan’s expression when she’d addressed him by his family name, the briefest of flinches, as though she’d unearthed something unpleasant. Having seen his state records and now his childhood home, she struggled to reconcile the unwelcome sense of pity that surfaced. His surviving parent was a man convinced of his victimhood, with no comprehension of his own faults, the ripple of hurt forever expanding outward.

Frances left the house, less confident than when she’d arrived. She hurried to her car as a sprinkle of snow began to fall. Once in the driver’s seat, she pulled out her notebook and absently flipped through her notes. She let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the pad onto the seat beside her.

Despite her overarching belief in the rule of law, the cynical side of her knew that Rayan was someone who’d been given very few chances in life. She’d encountered many men like that during her time, and they almost always ended up addicts, criminals, or dead. Then there was the fact that Rayan was a student at one of the country’s top universities and apparently doing quite well for himself. In the brief overview of his movements that Stan had put together, Frances had been hard- pressed to find any indication that he was engaging in much else besides his studies.

Her theory about him working as a satellite agent for the family might be misplaced. Maybe instead, he’d had his likeness scrubbed from the record so he could leave his old life behind. If that was the case, she needed to figure out why.

“Repeat it back.”

Rayan rattled off the number he’d just saved to his phone, his mind already storing it away for future reference.

“Good.” Mathias tossed his empty coffee cup into the trash. “That’s who you call—no questions. He knows what to do.”

Rayan nodded. He’d arrived at the Collections office that morning to find Mathias’s Mercedes parked outside, which was unusual. Typically, Rayan sat around for a good half hour before his capo stalked into the office with a sour look on his face. Mathias was not a morning person. The reason behind Mathias’s early appearance had something to do with the notable absence of Franco Ricci.

“He’s got a semiautomatic stashed in the trunk and picks a fight with the cop giving him a speeding ticket!” Tony’s voice had a habit of carrying, and Rayan had been able to piece together the rest as he waited in the hallway for Mathias to emerge from the man’s office.

Mathias had been tasked with coordinating a peaceful resolution, and while their interactions with local law enforcement were brief—almost nonexistent—he’d decided to use this moment to impart an important lesson to Rayan. The phone number belonged to Grayson Dubois, a defense lawyer and well-oiled friend of the family. He sat on an annual retainer, the cost of which Rayan could only guess at. And in return, when there was trouble—as the present situation demanded—Dubois was called in to perform his magic.

Rayan drove Mathias downtown to a swanky bistro in the Quartier International. A man in a gray suit and tie was seated toward the back of the restaurant and waved them over. On the table before him were several plates of food—eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes. He picked idly from the plates with his fork, like a king at a banquet.

“It’s been a while, Mathias,” Dubois announced. “I know a smart man when I never see him. Now, some of your friends, on the other hand—”

“I have a job for you,” Mathias interrupted, taking a seat across from the lawyer. “But we need to move quickly.”

“We always need to move quickly,” Dubois said, spearing a large chunk of sausage and shoving it into his mouth. He was bulky, with sandy hair parted neatly to one side. The dewiness of his pale skin had the curious effect of obscuring his age. “I’m almost finished here. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Anything you’d like to order?”

Mathias ignored him. “Francesco Ricci. His bail hearing’s at noon.”

“What are we talking?”

“Unlawful possession, disorderly conduct.”

“Rather tame for your lot. I take it you’ll cover bail as required?”

Mathias gave a brief nod.

Dubois lifted his cup to take a large gulp of coffee then patted down his pockets for his wallet and tossed down a handful of notes beside the plates of half-eaten food. “Shall we?” he said, standing, and together they made their way outside to the car.

Rayan dropped the lawyer off at the municipal police station and then parked the Mercedes across the street to wait. Beside him, his capo rolled down the window and idly tapped out a cigarette, watching the trickle of people moving in and out of the building. Twenty minutes later, Franco—looking slightly worse for wear—emerged from the station, accompanied by a smug-faced Dubois.

“He sent you,” Franco sneered when he reached the car and stopped beside the open passenger window. “Big surprise.”

“A little more of that gratitude, and I’ll leave you here,” Mathias replied stonily, flicking the butt of his smoke at Franco’s feet before turning to address the lawyer. “Appreciate the favor, Dubois. Payment will be forthcoming.”

“Pleasure doing business with you fine fellows. Until next time.” Dubois grinned and raised his hand to hail down a passing taxi.

Franco got into the back seat, and Rayan started the engine. He pulled the car out onto the road and joined the line of vehicles inching through downtown traffic.

“Franco,” Mathias said flatly as they made their way past the convention center.

“Yeah, it was stupid,” the man muttered.

“It’s more than that. You can be stupid without drawing attention to yourself,” Mathias scolded. “Caravella should’ve been enough of a deterrent.”

“You had to bring up Angelo fucking Caravella,” Franco growled.

“You seem intent on following in his footsteps. Keep this up, and Franco Ricci will be the next name thrown around as a warning.”

“All right, all right,” Franco said. “What do I owe you?”

“My fucking morning back,” Mathias snapped. “You can take the money up with Tony.”

“Ah, Christ,” Franco said with a grimace. “Do you know what a pain in the ass it is owing that man money?”

“I think our clients have a fair idea.” Mathias smirked. “Never been dumb enough to have the privilege myself.”

Free from the worst of the congestion, Rayan merged onto Pie-IX Boulevard and headed toward Rosemont.

“Back before your time, Tony never would have trusted anyone with something like this,” Franco said. “But now it’s all Beauvais this, Beauvais that. You’re the closest one to figuring out how he runs the joint.”

“Only because he hates getting off his ass,” Mathias scoffed. “So he sends me out like a trained monkey.”

“Because he trusts you,” Franco retorted. “And he sure as hell doesn’t trust the rest of us. Even though I’ve been working for him since you were in fucking prep school. You should know what that means.”

Rayan turned the car down a narrow street beside Marché Jean-Talon and shot his boss a furtive glance. Mathias was staring out the window, silent.

“You know he’s going to give it to you,” Franco continued.

“What?”

“Collections.”

“I don’t want it,” Mathias said curtly.

Rayan had a feeling Mathias’s eyes were on a bigger prize. He pulled the Mercedes up outside Franco’s house.

“How’d you—” Franco laughed and leaned forward to clap him on the shoulder. “Shit, I always forget this one drove for me. Nadeau, isn’t it?”

Rayan nodded.

“He doesn’t forget much,” Mathias remarked, and Rayan tempered the swell of pride at his capo’s indirect praise. “Get yourself cleaned up. Tony’s expecting you back at the office.”

Franco muttered a string of curses, stepped out of the car, and slammed the door behind him.

“Who’s Angelo Caravella?” Rayan asked as they drove back toward the Collections office.

Mathias gave him a sharp look. “At least give the impression you’re not listening in.”

“Right,” Rayan said, averting his gaze.

Mathias let out a reluctant sigh and leaned back in his seat. “Angelo Caravella was one of De Luca’s captains a couple years ago. He made a name for himself taking risks, but he got too cocky, and the cops started snooping around. They didn’t go to him direct—they came after his contacts—the ones more likely to roll over. Then they started singling out people closer to the family. Word gets to the council then the boss, and soon, Caravella stops showing up. The family acts like the man never existed. The cops can’t get a case together, and eventually, they back off. Still, Caravella’s nowhere to be found—disappeared completely. That’s what happens when you get too much of the wrong kind of attention.”

Rayan knew now why Franco had bristled at Mathias’s warning.

“You would do well to remember that, Rayan,” his capo said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “You’re part of something bigger than yourself. Like the boss, I won’t hesitate to remove a weak link from the chain.”

It was late when Mathias let himself into the safe house. Since Rayan’s unexpected reappearance in Montreal, he’d found his attention splintered—which was dangerous, especially with so much in the air. He needed his head on straight if he was to figure out how to get them through this mess. But when he’d stopped by the apartment with supplies the previous evening, Rayan had seemed unusually thrown. Mathias had felt compelled to return that night, if only to assuage his own nagging concern.

The lights were off, and he assumed Rayan must have gone to bed. So he was surprised to see a darkened figure in the kitchen when he closed the front door behind him.

“You keep this place well stocked.” Rayan’s speech was slower than usual, and Mathias spotted an open bottle of Macallan on the counter.

Mathias took off his coat and hung it by the door. “Figured if I ever got holed up here, I’d want the essentials.” He walked into the kitchen, prized the half-empty glass of scotch from Rayan’s hand, and downed the remainder. “It’s late. You should sleep.”

“Why? It’s not like I have anything to do tomorrow.”

“You have work to finish.”

“Work?” Rayan gave a short laugh. “That’s not work.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“It’s pointless bullshit.”

They stood across from one another, the light from the window illuminating Rayan’s face, tired and hostile. “It doesn’t suit you,” Mathias said.

“Maybe I’ve always been a drunk,” Rayan said with a lazy half smile. “Just waiting to live up to my potential.”

“Giving up,” Mathias corrected him. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Rayan’s smile disappeared, and his eyes glinted. “I don’t know why I didn’t try it sooner. Life has shown me over and over again it’s not worth the effort. About time I took the hint.”

Mathias placed the empty glass down on the counter, put a hand on Rayan’s shoulder, and guided him toward the bedroom. He would deal with this tomorrow when the man had sobered up. They made it to the end of the hall when Rayan reached for him, his hands presumptuous and demanding.

Mathias was in no mood. “That’s enough,” he said, growing annoyed.

“I don’t get to fuck angry?” Rayan retorted. “Hasn’t stopped you.”

Mathias grabbed his arm, stilling him. “You want to fuck angry?” he murmured, his face inches from Rayan’s own. “I’ll make it so you can’t walk tomorrow.”

There was the slightest flicker in Rayan’s eyes that gave him away, an almost imperceptible flinch as Mathias called his bluff. Enough to cool the sudden flare of anger. Mathias let him go, and Rayan stepped back, glaring at him.

“Did you know about my brother?”

“About what?”

“The investigation into his death.”

“Peripherally,” Mathias said, remaining tactful. “Enough to be sure nothing came back to the family.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Mathias asked, narrowing his eyes. “That they found him washed up ten miles down the Saint Lawrence? That the cops launched a half-assed inquiry into how some junkie ended up with a hole in his chest—” He stopped when he saw the look on Rayan’s face.

“I saw him,” Rayan muttered. “Allen showed me. There were photos.”

Mathias understood then. The scotch, the dark smudges beneath Rayan’s eyes, the shadow of the man unearthed from the past. He silently cursed the meddling bitch.

“She made it sound like I was relieved.” Rayan swallowed hard. “Like I was a suspect.”

Mathias snorted in disbelief. “The thinnest fucking case alive.”

“Not when I’m on trial for everything else. Then it’s not a far stretch of the imagination.”

“She was baiting you.”

“What else do you know?” Rayan asked. “She said I have a file.”

Mathias chose his next words carefully. “Rayan, you spent half your life on the government’s radar. You have a file as thick as my fist.”

“So, you’ve seen it?”

“I did my research.”

“When?” Rayan asked.

“When you first started. I needed to know who I was working with.”

Rayan’s lips pulled into a sneer. “And were you disappointed?”

Mathias held his tongue. He would allow him this. Rayan was entitled to a reaction.

“Do you still have it?” Rayan pressed.

Mathias sighed. “Go to bed, Rayan.”

“Show me.”

“No,” Mathias snapped, putting an end to the discussion. He’d reached the limits of his patience. He wrenched open the door to the bedroom. “Now, you can get in there yourself, or I will make you.”

Rayan scowled, walking past him into the bedroom and slamming the door in Mathias’s face.