Sac de noeuds
Robert Malacci
(Chapter 3, p. 19-27)
I'm sitting in Chalifoux's office, waiting for what he has to tell me. For the time being, he's intently reading a newspaper. Sometimes, I hear him grumbling and I'm beginning to feel time is passing too slowly. Finally, he decides to speak.
"All right, everything's there... Raymond died in the Laurentians, coming back from his cottage. Apparently driver error, but he'd been driving for at least thirty years!"
Since he referred Sancerre by his first name, I imagine the man was more than a distant acquaintance.
"You knew him?"
"Very well, which is why I would like you to find out more about this accident."
"What do you have in mind exactly?"
"I would like to know what his death might mean for his company, Zegma Technologies, and I would like you to go and nose around."
"Isn't that more of a job for a detective?"
"More or less, which is why I want you to come back. Anyhow, I would never have asked Alfred, he would fuck up everything, he has as much subtlety as a rhinoceros! That he's got jaundice is a good thing, all things considered. I'm spared looking for a good excuse to give him."
"I understand... but I don't know if I would do better than him."
"I still know you a little, Malacci, you shouldn't have any problems. The people you're going to meet are no dummies and you'll have to be tactful."
"But how far should I go with my nosing around?"
"As far as you can. If Robert's death was an accident, it will only confirm what everybody thinks."
"I'll have a budget for this?"
"Yes, but bring your receipts."
"I ask Georgette for the money?"
She's been Chalifoux's secretary for years."
"No. Don't tell anyone here what you're going to be doing. Here's something for your initial expenses."
He hands me a five hundred dollar cheque with my name on it.
"Of course, you will also be getting your regular salary."
"Who's going to replace me as photographer? I won't be able to do both jobs at the same time."
"I had an arrangement with a freelancer when you went on vacation. He provides us with what we need."
"Is it okay, what he does?"
"Not bad. But you're still the best!"
He pulls out a cigar and lights it. He seems satisfied. Me, I'm not, not really.
"I find this odd."
"You have questions?"
"At least one. But I'll wait a little longer before asking you."
He smiles.
"That's what being tactful means! I knew you were the one I needed. But you don't need to know more for the time being. Except that Raymond is to be buried tomorrow. You'll have to attend the funeral mass, in Outremont."
Walking me to the door, he gives me the copy of La Presse that he was perusing at the beginning of our little talk.
"Start with Painchaud's article on the accident. After that, contact me if you learn something new."
Back home, I first take some antibiotics before reading the article. The accident took place at night, on a dirt road. Something that really seems stupid. The BMW hit a low concrete wall. Sancerre wasn't wearing his seatbelt and he died on impact. The text mentions there was fog that night and adds that an autopsy is to be performed. Since I would really like to know the results, I call the morgue, where I know somebody: Yves Dupire, a nice guy who failed his medical exams twice.
"Hello, Yves, it's Malacci."
"Oh, how are you?
"Not too bad, except for some infection I caught in Guadeloupe."
"The clap?"
"No, urchins. It's really stupid."
"I never like to eat those creatures.
"I meant their stings."
"Oh. You're right, it's stupid!"
"It is. You know about Raymond Sancerre's autopsy, the one who died in his car in the Laurentians?"
"Sure. I'm the one who assisted the M.E. who did it."
"May I know the results?"
"Why?"
"I've got to write about it and I would like to know if Sancerre was drunk when he died."
"Oh. You know that legally I can't reveal the results of an autopsy?"
"Yes, yes, but I just want to understand why Sancerre crashed his car. In my opinion, alcohol is the only explanation."
"Hmmm, I know you, you'll end up learning what you want, what with all your contacts!"
"Indeed."
He's wrong, but I may as well let him keep his illusions.
"We found nothing special, no alcohol, no cardiac problems, no diabetes or anything else. In fact the guy died in good health!"
"That's what I wish for us. And the cause of death?"
"Rupture of the cervical vertebrae. He was driving too fast and his belt wasn't fastened."
"Do you think it could be a suicide?"
"Possible, but it's the police who are charge of violent deaths. Well, I have to go. I have an appointment... Say, it's a woman."
"Nice body?"
"You would have liked her, no doubt. But half her face has been smashed in and the rest is not much better."
Hanging up, I think that perhaps I know the woman they'd just brought to the morgue, but quickly banish this thought to go back to Sancerre's death. I'd hoped that the autopsy would have revealed some health problem that would have caused the crash, but no such luck. Of course, it would have put an end to Chalifoux's request if I declared: "It's clear as day, so to speak: Sancerre was as blind as a bat and he lost his glasses when he made a wrong move. He panicked when his car went into a skid and he crashed into the low wall. Q.E.D."
But I won't be able to solve this so easily. I like it better this way anyway. For once, Chalifoux has given me a real investigation and I have to measure up to it. Whether or not he likes the result, he has to get his money's worth, since he wants to learn I don't know what. Meanwhile, I'll go for some pizza in Little Italy.
There is a joyous atmosphere, with Italians celebrating their favourite soccer team's victory in one of the European championships. It bugs me that I can't drink, because of the antibiotics. It's a pity, for a pizza without wine is like a woman without perfume. It might taste good, but you expect better.
After lunch, and despite the small time difference between Montreal and the Guadeloupe, I'm beginning to feel tired, especially since I didn't sleep last night. Coming out of the restaurant, I decide to get some information about Zegma and there is someone who can enlighten me: Max. The guy was a hacker and loved to wreak havoc on the Internet. One of his favourite traps was a nasty warning: "Don't open a post with the subject ALOUETTE if easy money doesn't interest you." But as soon as you tried to find out what ALOUETTE was, a virus was activated; it was only a trap for suckers and could damage the files of the inquisitive.
When I arrive at Max's apartment, it's as messy as usual, except for a room crammed with electronic equipment. It smells like pot - Max is a regular user. Short, with curly hair, he sniggers as he offers me a seat. On the phone I told him what I was looking for about Zegma, and I learned that he worked there once.
"So, you're interested in Zegma, Malacci?"
"I am, for the article I have to write about Sancerre. Tell me a bit about him and why Zegma is quoted on the Stock Exchange."
"Not complicated: they got the best programmers! Sancerre was some sort of genius. When he created Zegma, he attracted many people because of his reputation. He was much talked about at the time."
"But why did this firm become so important?"
"Wake up, Malacci! That's where they create the antiviruses everybody is desperate to get. The National Institute Protection Center is their biggest client. Sancerre always had a leg up on guys like me. He could have been a super-hacker and crashed the New York Stock Exchange!"
"Oh, okay. He hired you to do that?"
"No, I was supposed to encrypt his software to keep it from being hacked. I worked two months at Zegma... before being fired by Barnes."
"Why?"
"He caught me hacking some software in one of the company's computers. He told me to get my things and get the hell out of there."
"Tell me about this Barnes. What exactly does he do?"
"Public relations. Sancerre needed him to create the company. He lent Sancerre ten or fifteen million dollars, with buildings in Florida that he'd inherited from his father as collateral."
"What did he ask for in exchange?"
"Stock options, of course."
"So he's the majority stockholder now?"
"I dunno. Sancerre's wife, Dominique, must own tens of thousands of stocks."
"You know her?"
"Only saw her once."
"How old is she?"
"Forty something. Black, a real looker, but it's normal to have your tits redone, or anything else, when you got the dough!"
"She's African?"
"No, I meant her hair is black."
"Ah. Do they have children?"
"No idea."
"And what does Barnes look like?"
"Tall guy, fit, fifty something, not much hair on the noggin. I never understood why he sacked me."
"What are you doing these days?"
"I work for an Internet service provider, I'm a tech, take care of clients' problems. Except for a couple women who invited me in for quick fucks, it's not great. I'd rather work on my new software program."
"What is it?"
"A program based on astrology. With the user's date of birth and ascendant, my program will be able to tell what signs are compatible with the user's, male or, especially, female!"
"You know something about astrology?"
"No need to! I've got enough imagination to compensate. Like Confucius said: 'Joy is everywhere, you only have to extract it'."
Five minutes later, I leave, after declining to take the reefer he wanted us to share.
I kick about until the evening and treat myself to a smoked meat sandwich at Schwartz's. Coming back home, I switch on the TV and I stumble upon the Radio-Canada news. I never understood why a television channel names itself "radio" and not "TV" or anything else. TV69, The Bunghole, whatever! The news is depressing: another terrorist attack with a plane crash, more than two hundred casualties. As I am about to cut short the anchor's prattling, he announces that Raymond Sancerre's funeral will take place tomorrow in a church in Outremont, at three pm. The deceased's eulogy follows: CEO of Zegma Technologies, forty-nine years old. A picture of the man appears; to me, he looks like one of those financial sharks that crop up more and more often. Zegma might be worth more than a hundred million dollars and the stocks are supposed to be selling like hotcakes. Nothing should change, it is believed: David Barnes, the associate CEO, is standing firmly at the helm. That Barnes guy will certainly be present at the funeral. I'll be there too, as Chalifoux wishes...
© 2002 Éditions Alire & Robert Malacci
To find out what happens next...
