A Life Betrayed (Montreal #2)

Chapter Fifteen

T ruman appeared considerably more agitated when Frances met with him a second time. Following pressure from the RCMP, Border Services had come down hard with their gunrunning charges and issued a freezing order, which prevented the Reapers’ head from accessing assets for several of his establishments. A summons had been issued, and he was due in court the following month. It was enough to propel Truman to seek her out and grasp at the possibility of a plea. Not that it made him any more gracious in his dealings with her. He’d been pushed hard into a corner, and it was clear he wasn’t happy to find himself there.

They’d arranged to meet at a deserted Hamilton movie theater that was screening a matinee of a recent action film nearing the end of its run. Frances had arrived first and seated herself in the back row to wait. After the opening credits had started, she saw Truman slink into the darkened cinema.

“Nice choice,” she said sarcastically as he squeezed his considerable bulk down the aisle toward her.

The movie was about a cop called out of retirement to hunt down a serial killer—at least that was what she’d gathered from the first few painful minutes. As someone who worked in the profession, she’d always found cop movies hard to stomach. The blaze of guns and glory obscured what was, in reality, a tedious push and pull of dead leads and paperwork.

Truman came to a stop and lowered himself into a nearby seat with an audible grunt. “Creaming your panties already?” he shot back.

“I see you’ve changed your tune. Something to do with the impending trial date?”

Truman glared at her in the darkness, and Frances held his gaze. He’d need more than a sour look to ruffle her. In truth, she’d been relieved to get word from her go-between that Truman wanted to meet again. Since her fruitless visit with André Nadeau, she hadn’t made much in the way of progress.

Rayan still hadn’t resurfaced, which didn’t bode well. If he’d been concerned about saving his own skin, he would have made contact by now. She’d thought his initial reluctance to divulge anything about his boss had been typical family bravado, but if he would rather spend his life on the run than roll over on Mathias, that threw her strategy out the window. Fortunately, Truman had sweetened the bitter taste of disappointment. Of the two possible informants with the potential to bring Mathias down, he was the more promising choice.

Truman shoved a hand holding a crumpled manila folder into the empty space between them. She leaned over and took it then pulled her phone from her pocket to illuminate the contents. At first, Frances wasn’t sure what she was looking at. The initial few pages were Hamilton-Oshawa Port Authority documents that detailed fees paid for scheduled shipments from the Hamilton port to the ports of Montreal. Someone had circled the name of the company addressed in the invoices: Laurent Importations. The following pages were customs seizure notices listing the shipment identification numbers and sailing times. She flipped back and forth between the pages, noting that the ID numbers on the port authority invoices matched those of the shipments that had been seized.

“What is all this?” she asked, growing annoyed. Truman had said he had something connecting Mathias to the cross-provincial drug trade that would substantiate the original tip-off.

“Christ, lady, I gotta do all your work for you?” Truman snapped, shifting in his seat. “You’ve got a whole office of pencil-pushers at your disposal. Look up the holding company. I think you’ll find that it links directly to our friend.”

Frances flipped back through the pages in her hand. Laurent Importations didn’t appear anywhere in the sender or recipient details for the seized shipments. There had been a handful of different names and addresses listed on the customs forms that the Quebec office had looked into, only for the trail to go cold. But that was because they hadn’t thought to link the shipments to port authority fees, a connection that could only have come from someone on the inside, someone who knew they were being paid off.

“It’s a start,” she said, keeping her voice even so as not to let on how pleased she was. “But I’m going to need more than this to put him away. And you’re going to have to up your game if you want any chance at a plea.”

Truman slammed his fist against the back of the empty seat, causing the row of plastic chairs to shudder. “What the fuck are you playing at? You said you needed info. Here it is. Don’t go changing the rules to suit yourself.”

Frances let out a short laugh and got to her feet. “Not fair enough for you, Truman? I make the fucking rules. And if you want a snowball’s chance in hell of walking away from prison time, you will follow them.” She tucked the folder under her arm and strode out of the theater.

When she emerged into the lobby, Frances took out her phone and called the office’s head of research. “I need everything you can find on a Quebec-registered holding company, Laurent Importations.” If what Truman had said was true, and they could link the company back to Mathias, she would have enough for a warrant.

“Come here—let’s have a look at you, then,” Freddie Mancini announced from the living room.

Mathias came to a stop in the hallway, only steps away from the front door and mere moments from freedom. It wasn’t often that he saw his father. As Mathias had gotten older, the visits began to occur less frequently. When his father did come by the apartment, it was never to see him, and Mathias knew to make himself scarce.

Mathias was barely thirteen and still growing into himself, his body different from one day to the next. He turned around for his old man’s assessment, hating the hope that leapt to his throat, as though his father would suddenly bestow upon him years of abandoned praise.

“You’re a tall one, aren’t you?” Freddie chuckled. “And those eyes. You sure he’s mine?”

He glanced over at Mathias’s mother, who was standing by the sofa, and she gave him a small smile. A joke, but it set the fury burning in Mathias, making what he was even more sullied. After all, it was a special kind of bastard who didn’t know his father. Mathias, on the other hand, saw too much of the man in himself. When he looked in the mirror, it was his father who looked back—the dark hair, the wide shoulders, the rise of his forehead.

“I’ve got something for you,” Freddie said.

That came as a surprise. Mathias couldn’t remember ever receiving anything from his old man. Freddie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cheap watch with a blue plastic strap, like something you gave a kid who was learning to tell time.

“Man’s got to have a watch. Don’t leave home without it.” He folded his arms, displaying the gold band of his Rolex. “Listen carefully, kid. Ain’t nothing more important than being on time. That’s how you get ahead in life.”

Mathias stepped forward and took it.

“So, you play sports—part of a team?” Freddie asked. “Can’t be good for a boy to spend so much time with his mother.”

Mathias turned the shiny face of the watch over in his hand. Whose fault is that?

“He’s always so busy at school, leaving early and staying late. What is it you practice again?” his mother asked, her tone vague.

Mathias was amazed she’d even noticed. He hadn’t had to come up with an excuse because she’d never taken an interest in where he was. That’s what she thinks I’m doing—making the most of the school’s extracurriculars?

Mathias sold pills—Adderall, Ritalin, Klonopin—behind the gymnasium before and after school, sometimes during lunch if he was feeling entrepreneurial, though that ran a higher risk of being discovered by the faculty. A fellow student, Philippe Bossé, bused in from the South Shore and stole the pills from the back room of his parents’ drugstore. He and Mathias divided them into baggies and sold them to the rich kids at their private school. They were making a killing, selling them for far more than street value, because when Mommy and Daddy were the source of endless pocket money, who gave a shit what things cost?

Philippe was skinny and a good head shorter than Mathias. He’d attempted the enterprise before only to end up with a black eye and his stash stolen. Philippe had come to him because everyone at school knew Mathias could deal a decent punch and had no qualms about handing them out. He cut Philippe extra for sourcing the supply, and they split the remaining profit.

“I run track,” Mathias lied, if only so his mother wouldn’t look like a complete idiot.

Freddie let out a rasping laugh. “No point training to run away from things, boy. Got to meet life head-on.”

Mathias wondered what other kernels of truth his father felt generous enough to lay on him. But Freddie had already lost interest and had turned away without another word. Instead of heading to the door, Mathias walked back to his room and tossed the watch into the trash bin by his desk. Then he took down the tin from the top shelf of his wardrobe and retrieved a handful of cash.

A man needs a watch, does he? Well, Mathias would have to go out and buy himself something decent.

Mathias sat at Tony’s desk in the Collections office. He still thought of it as Tony’s desk—the man had occupied it long enough. Compared to his old boss’s tenure, Mathias’s time as division head was merely a blip. Since inheriting the role, he’d considered himself more of a placeholder and figured it was just a matter of time before someone relieved him of the inconvenience. Because of this, he’d left the office mostly unchanged. If Tony happened to stroll in one day, back from the dead, he would find things as he’d left them, with fewer dirty coffee cups but retaining the ever-present whiff of cigar smoke.

Mathias studied the figures on the latest contract remittance sheet while Jacques sat across from him, smoking absently. “They don’t add up.”

His second nodded. “That’s the problem—I can’t figure out why.”

Mathias dropped the sheet onto the desk. “And Lucio prepared this?”

“Based on the numbers Franco sent through.”

“Either Lucio’s made a mistake, or Franco’s fudging the numbers.” Mathias got to his feet. “I need to speak with Lucio about month end anyway.” Jacques stood to follow, and Mathias gave a curt shake of his head. “Stay here,” he instructed, a common refrain in recent months. “Sonny’s late dropping off his takings, and I need someone in the office to lock up.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Mathias pulled open the office door, stepped into the hallway, and made his way to the stairwell. With Collections, it was always one step forward and two steps back. Now he knew why Tony had been such a grumpy bastard—managing the division was like herding cats.

Lucio could usually be found at the office, but he’d been called in by the Betting division that morning to help his former team with an emergency. It was late Friday afternoon, and Mathias knew, heading into the weekend, with paychecks hot in people’s hands, the place would be inundated. As he reached the bottom of the stairs and strode out into the parking lot, Mathias saw the car first—an unmarked silver Ford Explorer looking out of place idling behind the building. Then he saw the cops. Both plainclothes, they waited to one side of the car as he stepped through the door. Mathias let it swing closed behind him and watched as they approached.

“Mathias Beauvais?” the younger of the two asked, sounding peppy and sporting a bright smile, like they were fucking friends.

“What’s it to you?”

The older cop beside him scowled and folded his arms. Despite being familiar with several of the regular players that covered their beat, Mathias didn’t recognize the man. “Let’s not make a fuss, Beauvais.”

“Let’s not,” Mathias said and moved to pass. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Afraid we can’t let you do that,” the glowering man said, and the young cop pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

Mathias arched an eyebrow. “What’s this, then? Show me the warrant.”

The older cop handed him a sheet of paper, and Mathias scanned it carefully, seeing his name printed clearly in black ink at the top of the page. The charges were deliberately vague, which was good. It meant they didn’t have what they wanted on him—something to put him away for a long time. He suspected this was Allen flexing her muscles. She was sending him a warning, hoping he would spook.

“Come quietly now,” the older man warned, eyeing Mathias warily as though he expected him to go down guns blazing.

Mathias gave a snort of laughter. “What do you think I am, a fucking animal?” He held out his wrists, and the young cop cuffed him then steered him by the elbow toward the Explorer. Mathias pulled back pointedly. “Don’t need my hand held, kid.”

On the drive to the station downtown, Mathias ran through his options. His phone burned a hole in his pocket, but with the cuffs on, there was no way of getting to it and letting anyone know he’d been pulled up. He would have to wait until he was booked before he made his official phone call. Mathias only hoped the man was available—for what the family paid him, he’d damn well better be.

A group of officers gathered behind the glass screen of the processing room when he arrived, no doubt relishing the sight of one of the family’s elite detained in custody, the ink still drying on his fingers. Mathias stared right back, swallowing his pride, which stung like acid going down. He was relieved of his phone, his watch, and the ring taken from the little finger of his right hand. Mathias watched as the young officer slipped the ring into the clear plastic bag with the rest of his possessions and wondered if he registered its significance. Mathias counted himself lucky he didn’t take to carrying a weapon these days. That would have caused a raft of additional problems. It had been a necessity when he’d spent his time chasing down clients. Now he had people to do that for him.

After being booked, he was led through a series of sterile corridors before being shoved into a holding cell. The door slammed closed behind him, with no mention of the call he was entitled to. Mathias sat down on a metal bench bolted to the wall and took in his surroundings.

The room was an off-white box of concrete, empty save for the homeless man stretched out across the green linoleum floor, snoring loudly. Graffiti was scrawled across the walls—previous occupants had taken it upon themselves to inform the world of such truths as NIQUE LA POLICE! The booking officer must have had some latitude when it came to what was confiscated going into the cells—his Rolex was deemed far more dangerous than some scumbag’s pen. Or perhaps they got a kick out of parting him from his spoils.

He figured the fanatical police interest, those sneering faces pressed up against the glass, wouldn’t be the exception going forward. Looking down at his cuffed wrists, Mathias tried to ignore the cold sense of dread they conjured. He’d never been afraid of a fight and was confident in his ability to hold his own. But this was different—this was no place for retaliation, only submission.

He focused on pulling air slowly through his nose to squash the panic. If Mathias was honest, he’d always harbored a secret belief that he was more likely to be shot down by some disgruntled lackey than get pulled in by the pigs. He’d gotten where he was by deftly navigating the legal system’s many incompetencies, yet here in the belly of the beast, Mathias was beginning to feel the creep of foreboding.

It must have been evening by this point, though it was impossible to tell in the windowless cell. Above, fixed to the ceiling in cages, the fluorescent lights flickered away with unnatural intensity, creating an artificial, unending daylight. His gaze kept returning to the thick metal door, which set off an unsettling hum in his brain, a callback from the past that kept slipping through his memory, refusing to be caught.

Mathias’s head began to throb, and he knew he would have to keep his wits about him if he was to win this round. He assumed the denial of his legal rights was simply an extension of Allen’s flex. It was reckless—unlike his world, this one had clear rules, and if she didn’t follow them, it would be to her detriment. So far, he’d demonstrated nothing but compliance. He just had to wait her out.

Despite his ability to rationalize the unfolding situation, the feeling was still there—a low drone in the back of his mind. Mathias shifted on the bench, the metal cutting into his wrists, and his pulse began to race. Then it came to him, a flash of memory almost belonging to someone else, like a story he’d heard and not lived himself—the lock on his bedroom door. It had been fixed to the outside so she could keep him in when his father visited—as if he didn’t know what the man was there for. Sometimes, she forgot to unlock it after he’d gone. As a child, Mathias would sit on the floor in the room, all distractions exhausted, and stare at the door. He’d imagine what would happen if his mother never let him out, how long he could survive without food or water. But he didn’t call out or bang on the door. He refused to give her the satisfaction. And when, hours later, she would finally appear—voice keening with apologies, hands fluttering about his face—he would brush her away so she couldn’t tell how relieved he was to see her and how afraid he’d been.

Stiff within the shackles, Mathias turned over his left hand, an instinct years ingrained, only to be confronted by his bare wrist. An hour might have passed or only five minutes—there was no way of knowing. Trapped in a cage devoid of space and time, Mathias leaned back against the cold concrete wall and waited.