through Leduc’s accounts?’
‘I suppose so.’ Jean-Paul smiled tightly. The re-assurance offered little consolation. Hearing Georges even talk about it was a sour reminder of just how far they’d been dragged off course. Dragged back to the past. Jean-Paul turned to Jon Larsen. ‘What are the police saying?’
‘Three shots, the final one to the head. Professional hit, probably connected with Savard’s criminal activities. And that he was under investigation – no doubt part of their purge against us, though that part I’m assuming.’ Larsen glanced at the notepad before him. ‘Oh, and they’re looking for a black van – a Chevy Venture that they suspect might be connected. Apart from that, nothing. I’ll do some digging, but we might not get much more than that.’
Jean-Paul nodded. They’d pushed hard the last six months to get a stronger inside track at the RCMP. But their only contact was in Vice, and Chenouda’s group handling the investigation against them was tight-knit and secretive. Little of any value leaked out.
‘And what’s Roman’s view?’ Larsen asked.
‘I only spoke to him briefly on the phone, but he’s pretty sure Cacchione’s behind it.’ Jean-Paul tilted his head and shrugged. ‘Apparently, after the mess with Leduc, Savard confided in him that he was concerned that as a friend of Leduc’s, Cacchione might worry that Savard had been privy to secrets about Cacchione’s drugs network. That wasn’t the case, but Savard feared that Cacchione might believe it to be so.’
Larsen asked: ‘Do you think Cacchione might have been also responsible for Steve Tremblay’s death?’
‘Maybe,’ Jean-Paul conceded. Until now, they’d had no reason to believe that the death of the car driver that night was anything other than what it appeared: a boating accident. Now he was beginning to wonder.
Georges looked down for a second. Was it just family allegiances and respect for Jean-Paul that stopped anyone airing the other possible option: that with the increasing RCMP investigation, Roman might be keen to bury all traces to that fateful night. Or was it simply because of what he knew about that night that nobody else at this table knew? He could hardly scorn those allegiances, when it was exactly that which had made him shy away from telling all to Jean-Paul in the first place. Yet now that one lie – or at least not telling all the truth – was becoming dangerously compounded.
Jean-Paul misread his look of concern. ‘If it’s Cacchione’s intention to target others from that night, you and Roman will have to be extra vigilant. I’ll talk to Roman about stepping up security.’
Great, thought Georges. So now his future health would rest in Roman’s hands, yet he’d cut himself off from being able to tell anyone why he didn’t feel entirely comfortable about that. ‘Okay,’ he said meekly.
‘This whole affair with Leduc has been messy, and unfortunately could get messier still,’ Jean-Paul said with resignation. ‘But I’m determined that it not be allowed to drag us back or in any way affect our new direction. I think the two of you appreciate more than most how important that is to me.’
As Jean-Paul came onto discussing with Jon Larsen their most recent problem of fresh licensing pressure with two clubs – which they feared was all part of the general RCMP Lacaille-family purge – Georges suddenly felt strangely remote, cut-off from their conversation; the stranger perhaps he’d always been. The weight and grandeur of the room pressed in as it had done at that first meeting with Jean-Paul and Jon Larsen: the rococo-edged ceilings and pillars, the rich red drapes tied with gold brocade, the high-backed Louis XIV chairs, the collection of family photos on a long side table with priceless ormolu clocks interspersed – an altar to time-family continuum; the ornate cherub ‘Houdon’ statue at the far end, who apparently had
‘I suppose so.’ Jean-Paul smiled tightly. The re-assurance offered little consolation. Hearing Georges even talk about it was a sour reminder of just how far they’d been dragged off course. Dragged back to the past. Jean-Paul turned to Jon Larsen. ‘What are the police saying?’
‘Three shots, the final one to the head. Professional hit, probably connected with Savard’s criminal activities. And that he was under investigation – no doubt part of their purge against us, though that part I’m assuming.’ Larsen glanced at the notepad before him. ‘Oh, and they’re looking for a black van – a Chevy Venture that they suspect might be connected. Apart from that, nothing. I’ll do some digging, but we might not get much more than that.’
Jean-Paul nodded. They’d pushed hard the last six months to get a stronger inside track at the RCMP. But their only contact was in Vice, and Chenouda’s group handling the investigation against them was tight-knit and secretive. Little of any value leaked out.
‘And what’s Roman’s view?’ Larsen asked.
‘I only spoke to him briefly on the phone, but he’s pretty sure Cacchione’s behind it.’ Jean-Paul tilted his head and shrugged. ‘Apparently, after the mess with Leduc, Savard confided in him that he was concerned that as a friend of Leduc’s, Cacchione might worry that Savard had been privy to secrets about Cacchione’s drugs network. That wasn’t the case, but Savard feared that Cacchione might believe it to be so.’
Larsen asked: ‘Do you think Cacchione might have been also responsible for Steve Tremblay’s death?’
‘Maybe,’ Jean-Paul conceded. Until now, they’d had no reason to believe that the death of the car driver that night was anything other than what it appeared: a boating accident. Now he was beginning to wonder.
Georges looked down for a second. Was it just family allegiances and respect for Jean-Paul that stopped anyone airing the other possible option: that with the increasing RCMP investigation, Roman might be keen to bury all traces to that fateful night. Or was it simply because of what he knew about that night that nobody else at this table knew? He could hardly scorn those allegiances, when it was exactly that which had made him shy away from telling all to Jean-Paul in the first place. Yet now that one lie – or at least not telling all the truth – was becoming dangerously compounded.
Jean-Paul misread his look of concern. ‘If it’s Cacchione’s intention to target others from that night, you and Roman will have to be extra vigilant. I’ll talk to Roman about stepping up security.’
Great, thought Georges. So now his future health would rest in Roman’s hands, yet he’d cut himself off from being able to tell anyone why he didn’t feel entirely comfortable about that. ‘Okay,’ he said meekly.
‘This whole affair with Leduc has been messy, and unfortunately could get messier still,’ Jean-Paul said with resignation. ‘But I’m determined that it not be allowed to drag us back or in any way affect our new direction. I think the two of you appreciate more than most how important that is to me.’
As Jean-Paul came onto discussing with Jon Larsen their most recent problem of fresh licensing pressure with two clubs – which they feared was all part of the general RCMP Lacaille-family purge – Georges suddenly felt strangely remote, cut-off from their conversation; the stranger perhaps he’d always been. The weight and grandeur of the room pressed in as it had done at that first meeting with Jean-Paul and Jon Larsen: the rococo-edged ceilings and pillars, the rich red drapes tied with gold brocade, the high-backed Louis XIV chairs, the collection of family photos on a long side table with priceless ormolu clocks interspersed – an altar to time-family continuum; the ornate cherub ‘Houdon’ statue at the far end, who apparently had
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