Messenger of Death (16 page)

“Don’t worry,”
he said. “If worse comes to worst, I’ll interfere. Mind you, for
the next promotion you’ll need 100 percent of the membership vote.
Hold on.”

Machete did let
Leila go and looked after her as she ran to Claude.

“Let’s party,”
she said, clutching Claude’s arm. The gentle warmth of her hands
soothed his rage.

“We’ll talk
about details later,” Stash suggested. “I’ll let you know how to
find me.”

“Gimme a puff.”
Leila pointed at the joint. With a melting heart, Claude saw her
pink lips parting. His desire to kiss them was overwhelming.

She drew in the
smoke and laughed.

“What was that
joker saying to you?” Claude asked, rising to his feet.

“He told me,
‘flash your boobs, babe.’ He then said that I couldn’t be your old
lady that fast because you’d left the pen not long ago.”

Leila led him
to the table where Marcel sat in the company of two bikers and his
mama; she now had a towel around her hips.

Claude noticed
that Marcel did not drink. Leisurely smoking a cigarette, he
observed the backyard from the corner of his eye.

Everyone was in
a good mood, high on drugs and alcohol and the freedom from any
restrictions. Agitated voices mingled into an incomprehensible
chorus. Only two women were not topless: Leila and Techie’s old
lady. A tall and pretty brunette about thirty years old, Techie’s
old lady held herself with the pride of a woman who knew her worth.
Drinking Coca-Cola, she talked to everyone who wanted her company
in a friendly manner. All the bikers regarded her with respect.

“I wanna swim,”
Leila said. “Let me change. I’ll be back soon.”

When she left,
Claude went to take a grilled steak.

“Having a good
time?” somebody asked from behind his back. Claude turned around.
Techie stood there, smiling.

“Yes.” Claude
was flattered by the fact that the legendary Techie was talking to
him as an equal.

“How have my
machines worked?” Techie asked. Claude new too well whose people
had supplied the firearms he had used in his hits. They made sure
that their stolen guns had no faults in either performance or
reliability.

“Very good. I
like them.”

Claude could
talk about guns forever. He liked these dangerous toys; they
elevated him by their power and their ability to intimidate
people.

Techie spoke
like a polite and cultured man. He did not use foul language or
take advantage of his stature or influence. But Claude felt in his
gut that this was a man of iron will and a clear, powerful
mind.

“You need some
training, I think,” Techie said, taking a bite of grilled chicken.
“Marcel mentioned it.”

“I can shoot,”
Claude remarked with pride.

“I know. But
there are many circumstances when a trained hand is a must. Could
you shoot with precision while you run? Would your shots be
accurate when your target is moving fast? How about long-distance
shots? There are some other aspects. Trust me, training would give
you that extra mile in many circumstances.”

Claude nodded,
his eyes watching Leila in her bikini. She gave him a smile over
her shoulder; then, after a moment of hesitation, she plunged into
the lake with a joyous scream. It did not escape his attention that
Machete, who sat with his mama on the beach, was watching Leila,
too. This biker, no doubt, had snorted too much white powder.
Apparently violent, he would be tough to deal with if push came to
shove. Techie understood where Claude’s attentions were being
diverted.

“He’s never
gone after someone’s old lady before,” Techie said. “I don’t have a
good feeling about him lately. He takes too much blow. Sooner or
later, he will lose his mind. Such people eventually become a
burden, rather than an asset, to us.”

This was a
serious remark, just short of a death sentence, as Claude
understood it. The usual way for the Devil’s Knights to deal with a
burden was to dispose of it.

When Leila came
out of the water, Machete stood up and blocked her way in an
attempt to strike up a conversation. She stepped back.
Short-tempered Claude had had enough.

“Sorry,” he
said to Techie, and walked briskly to Leila.

“Let’s sit at
the table,” he said, taking her hand.

“Hey, buddy,”
Machete objected, giving him a contemptuous look. “Can’t you see
that we were talking?”

His eyes
weren’t focused. Fighting with him, however, would be stupid: He
was a full patch member, which meant a lot. Luckily, the matter
didn’t get that far. Techie came up and stood between them.

“Marcel’s
waiting for you,” he said to Claude. He talked to Machete until
Claude and Leila left. Marcel made an inviting gesture for them to
sit nearby.

“Machete’s
getting into trouble,” Marcel said. “I know him. When he loads up
too much, it’s hard to calm him down. I’m sorry to say it, Claude,
but you’d better leave. Tomorrow, when he’s sober, I’ll give him an
ultimatum. But for now, just to avoid a stupid conflict, you’d
better leave with your girl.”

Claude saw
Techie speaking with Machete. The addict was obviously angry, but
Techie remained calm, his eyes cold as ice.

Ten minutes
later, in a sour mood, Claude climbed on his bike with Leila
settled in behind him, and steered through the gate. Not a single
car was on the road. At the first intersection, though, they bumped
into a line of police cars. They were flagged over to the side.

“Driver’s
license,” one of the police officers demanded menacingly. Claude’s
driver’s license was in order. His answers were deliberately
stupid, but polite. The police took a picture of him and copied all
the data from his documents. For probably the first time in his
life, Claude didn’t lose his temper.

“Why have you
left the party?” the officer asked with a sarcastic smile.
Undoubtedly someone in the village had complained.

“Ain’t no
party,” Claude said.

“Go,” the
officer commanded and turned his back on him. Luckily, he did not
question Leila. She might have been in trouble if he had.

Chapter
4

I

The information
technology revolution had created many new ways and methods for the
police to store, organize, analyze, and present intelligence data.
Serge Gorte was one of the detectives who used those new tools to
the fullest. Occasionally, though, they just didn’t seem to help.
Like now, looking at his various flowcharts and tables, he remained
at a loss—how did this murder relate to anything?

Technically,
the case, which involved a car dealer’s young wife, had nothing to
do with bikers and therefore was the problem of another department.
But something about the case piqued his interest. One thing was
obvious: A professional hit man had committed the murder. No clues
had been left that would help lead to the killer. Missing jewellery
and money appeared to be an awkward attempt to imitate a robbery.
Circumstantial evidence suggested that the victim knew the killer
personally. She’d let him in, with no protest or resistance.

Too many
murders in the last few months have been committed by experienced
hands, Serge thought. Granted, they’d been hits on bikers or their
associates and involved guns, explosives, and beatings, some in
public places. This case seemed to have no similarity whatsoever to
the others, but . . .

The first
person he suspected was the husband of the dead woman, Norman
Vincent. He had a firm alibi, though, and he didn’t seem to have a
police record—at least no information about him was readily
available.

Serge sighed.
He turned to study the pictures of ten bikers that police had taken
last month on a stakeout. Someone in a country village had alerted
police to their noisy arrival, and even though lawyers for the
Devil’s Knights club protested police harassment of bikers, the
current political climate was not in their favor. Checkpoints had
proven to be very valuable in the past. They often led to charges
for firearms violations and to the discovery and identification of
new members and associates of the gangs, which allowed their data
to be gathered and recorded in police files.

No illegal
substances or violations had been found, though, on any of these
bikers: no drugs, no firearms, no contraband. On the other hand,
only nine of them were known bikers, notorious leaders of the
Devil’s Knights club. One of them had not been associated with any
biker gangs before. A biker wannabe, perhaps—information about him
was abundant in police files and the files of various
penitentiaries. He was Claude Pichette, a violent, ill-tempered
psychopath who had proven to be a danger to fellow inmates and to
prison guards, as well. What was he up to? What was he doing for a
living? What if he was somehow connected . . . ?

Well, something
was nagging at Serge, and the idea was worth a try.

He dialed the
number for the security office at the Vincents’ condominium
building. A female officer answered abruptly, then changed her tone
as soon as Serge identified himself. In a short time, she found out
that the security guard who had been on duty at the time of the
murder was currently working a shift. Serge picked up a few
pictures from the table and put them in the breast pocket of his
jacket. In his customary, unhurried pace, he went out, got into his
car, and drove to the condominium.

After parking
close to the building entrance, he took a walk and looked around.
He noticed, first, the lonely street, which had no pedestrian
traffic. Then, a small park with a few benches caught his eye. It
was just off the street, and looked as if it might provide a
convenient observation post for watching the entrance doors. He
stepped inside the small lobby, absorbing every tiny detail.

At his left was
a windowed room where a security guard was supposed to be sitting.
Nobody was there. The next door was locked; naturally, only tenants
of the building would have a key for it. Soon, a young woman came
in. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.

“Would you like
to come in?” she invited with a smile.

“Thanks,” Serge
said as he followed her in.

A few minutes
later, a security guard—a tall, dark Indian man—came and settled in
behind his desk on the other side of the window.

“What can I do
for you?” he asked, leaning forward like a servant, ready to
please.

“I’m Detective
Gorte,” Serge said, showing his badge. A look of fright crossed the
guard’s face.

“There have
already been a few of you here asking questions,” he said. “I can’t
really tell you anything more.”

“I know. I’m
not going to take much of your time.” Serge forced a false grin on
his lips.

“Okay.” He
exhaled loudly. “What can I do for you?”

“The murder
happened between 10 and 12 o’clock, during your shift,” Serge said.
“Are you 100 percent sure that no stranger came in during that
time?”

“I am
positive.”

“Could you
remember those who came in?”

“Most of
them.”

“Did you see
all their faces?”

“I think so.
Most of them . . . I think.”

“Most of them .
. .” repeated Serge. “Could you give me an example of the ones you
didn’t see?”

“There was one
guy who was helping one of our elderly tenants with some bags. They
talked to each other. I supposed that they knew each other.”

“How tall was
the guy? How was he dressed?”

“Well . . .
about six feet, I s’pose. I don’t remember his dress,
though—nothing that stood out.”

“Never mind,”
Serge remarked impatiently. “Who was she, the lady he helped with
the bags?”

“The old lady
from the fifteenth floor. Rose is her name. She lives in 1509.”

“Good. Thanks a
lot. Can I have her phone number?”

“Sure.” The
guard opened a binder and wrote it down. “Here it is.”

Serge dialed
from the guard’s phone. A cracking voice, undoubtedly belonging to
an old woman, said, “Hello.”

“Sorry to
disturb you, Rose,” Serge apologized. “I am Detective Gorte,
investigating the murder in your building. Would you kindly agree
to have a chat with me for a few minutes?”

A moment of
silence followed.

“Certainly,”
the old lady said and hung up.

Serge took the
elevator to the fifteenth floor and knocked on Rose’s door. He felt
that somebody was watching him through the peephole. The lock
clicked and a thin woman appeared at the doorstep. She was very
old, indeed: Wrinkles took up all the space on her small face. The
top of her head was decorated with a crown of gray hair, light and
transparent like haze, tidily arranged in waves.

“Please, come
in,” she invited, squinting her pale eyes at him, as if disturbed
by the strong light. “This is probably regarding this terrible
murder on the seventeenth floor?”

“That’s right,
ma’am,” confirmed Serge.

“Please, sit
down,” she offered, pointing at a chair by her dinner table. “What
can I do for you?”

Serge accepted
the offer to sit down.

“On that day,
the day of the murder, I believe someone helped you with your
shopping bags. Is that right?”

“Yes, that is
right.”

“Do you
remember his face?”

“Not clearly. I
didn’t have my glasses on.”

Serge pulled
out the photographs and arranged them on her table.

“Do any of the
men in these pictures look like him?” Serge asked. The woman put
her glasses on and bent over, moving a finger of her right hand
from one face to another.

“Looked like
this one, actually,” she said, touching a photograph in the middle
of the row. Serge felt the familiar excitement of a hunter closing
in on his prey—she had pointed at Claude.