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  “I guess.”

  “Did he speak English?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he have an accent?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Jesus Murphy,” Karen said, “how long were you talking to him?”

  Dougherty kept his eyes on Nancy. “What kind of car was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it big or small?”

  “Big, I guess.”

  “What colour was it?”

  “I don’t know. White.”

  “With a black roof?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” Dougherty said. “I guess you didn’t see the license plate?”

  She looked at him and smirked and raised an eyebrow.

  He relaxed a little and moved out of the way so Nancy could see the TV.

  Karen said, “You know this guy?”

  “I’m going to,” Dougherty said and made his way out.

  He drove straight to Bonsecours Street to find Carpentier and tell him he could now place the same car at two abductions — or one almost-abduction — so excited he’d forgotten all about the kidnapping.

  Until he got to headquarters and the place was lit up like Christmas and every cop in the city was there.

  chapter

  twenty-seven

  On the third floor, Dougherty tried to get into the homicide office but the place was packed. It looked like every detective on the force was crammed in there — and every one of them seemed to be smoking two cigarettes.

  Down the hall he saw Rozovsky by himself in the ident office.

  “Did you hear?” Rozovsky said, and Dougherty said, “Something about a kidnapping?”

  Rozovsky looked up from the file he was holding. “No, Janis Joplin died. What’s this about a kidnapping?”

  “Funny,” Dougherty said. “And what’s-his-name last month.”

  “Jimi Hendrix. My sister cried.”

  “Mine, too. Not as much as she did over the other one in court.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one waving his dick around onstage.”

  “Oh yeah, Jim Morrison. Yeah she cried about that, too, but it doesn’t look like he’ll get any jail time.”

  Dougherty said, “Too bad,” then he looked at the photos Rozovsky had on the table. “That the ransom note?”

  “Hey, hey, we never use the word ransom. This is the communiqué.”

  “But it’s the same demands they had written up last time, when they were going after the American?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  Rozovsky spread a few eight-by-ten black-and-white photos across the desk, each one showing a page of the communiqué. “Seven demands. My French isn’t great.”

  Dougherty translated as he read. “Number one: must see to it that repressive police forces do not commit the monstrous error of attempting to jeopardize the success of the operation by conducting searches, investigations, raids, arrests by any other means.”

  “Of course, can’t do our jobs.”

  “Next: the manifesto has to be published on the front page of every newspaper in Quebec. In case nobody else knows what the problem is, I guess.”

  “I like number three,” Rozovsky said, “releasing the prisoners.”

  “Like that’s going to happen.”

  “They released that one in London,” Rozovsky said, “who hijacked the plane.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, just last month — three planes blown up in the desert.”

  “Yeah,” Dougherty said, “it was in all the papers,” using the line his father always used for World War II.

  “So, remember one of the planes landed in London, two hijackers onboard with guns and hand grenades. The guy — he was from Honduras or Nicaragua or something — he was killed on the plane and she was arrested?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So, she got released last week.”

  “Well, these guys aren’t hijackers,” Dougherty said, “Geoffroy put the bomb in Place Victoria.”

  “And about a hundred more. He’s serving a 124-year sentence.”

  “Most of the rest are in jail for armed robbery.”

  “Collecting voluntary taxes, they call it.”

  “All right, then they want a plane to go to Cuba or Algeria — they still haven’t made up their minds. They just know they want out of here. The Lapalme boys again, and then here’s your voluntary tax, half a million dollars in gold bullion. Then it says, When one recalls the spending caused by the recent visit of the Queen of England, the millions of dollars lost by the Post Office Department because of the stubborn millionaire Kierans, the cost of maintaining Quebec within Confederation, etc.… $500,000 is peanuts! Nice of them to point that out.”

  “They saved the best for last,” Rozovsky said. “They want the name and the picture of the informer who gave up the last kidnap attempt.”

  Dougherty looked up. “I would’ve liked to see the look on Carpentier’s face when he read that.”

  “Then there’s lots more political stuff,” Rozovsky said, “and then the instructions.”

  Dougherty said, “I like this part at the end: ‘We feel confident that the imprisoned political patriots will benefit from the experience in Cuba or Algiers and we thank them in advance for the concern which they will express for our Quebec comrades.’ So they’re getting on the plane whether they want to or not?”

  Rozovsky read the last line: “‘We shall overcome.’”

  “Yeah, on a beach in Cuba with half a million bucks. So what’s happening now?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “They had a press conference, said they received the demands and they’re working on it.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  Rozovsky shrugged. “No idea, but I can’t see them going along with any of this. They’re putting together a list of suspects now: the guys from the last time, the ones arrested up north — they’re out on bail.”

  “And the ones from last winter — they had the same demands and the manifesto. They were going after the Israeli ambassador.”

  “Everybody’s been called in.”

  Dougherty shook his head, couldn’t believe it, but then he wasn’t all that surprised, either. “Like we don’t have anything else to do.”

  “And they want the manifesto read on TV.”

  “Is it the same one they had in the summer?”

  “No,” Rozovsky said, “I don’t think so.” He pulled a few more of the eight-by-ten photos from the pile and spread them out on the table. “I think it’s longer.”

  Dougherty said, “Great.” Then he scanned the typewritten text in the first photo and read, “‘Le Front de libération du Québec n’est pas le Messie, ni un Robin des bois des temps modernes.’ Okay, so they aren’t the Messiah or a modern-day Robin Hood, that’s good to know.” He read some more and then said, “It is a group of Quebec workers ‘qui sont décidés à tout mettre en œuvre,’ who have decided to use every means possible so the people of Quebec ‘puisse prendre définitivement en main son destin.’ Take control of their own destiny. By any means necessary. What are they now, Malcolm X?”

  “Yeah, that’s good,” Rozovsky said. “This is Marcel X.”

  Dougherty skimmed the photos Rozovsky had spread out on the table, saying, “The usual stuff: the FLQ is not an aggressive movement, it’s a response to big business and the ‘marionnettes des gouvernements fédéral et provincial,’ the puppet governments.”

  “Yeah,” Rozovsky said, “of course.”

  “‘Le show de la Brinks,’” Dougherty said, “What’s that?”

  “Remember, before the election, that bank had a convo
y of Brinks trucks move all the money to Toronto.”

  “Oh yeah, the Royal Bank.”

  “Royal Trust, I think, and I don’t think it was money — it was securities or something.”

  “Or nothing,” Dougherty said, now remembering the rumour at the time, that the trucks were empty, like the manifesto said, just a show. Then he read some more and translated, “The Lapalme boys get another mention. They really want them hired back.”

  “Good jobs, working for the post office,” Dougherty said. “Federal government jobs.”

  Rozovsky said, “Right. And Bill 63, I guess they figure it didn’t go far enough making French the language of Quebec.”

  Dougherty was still reading. “Shit, they mention Cotroni by name.”

  “He’s not going to be happy.”

  “‘Faiseurs d’élections Simard-Cotroni,’” Dougherty said. “Election fixers. I guess that’s Édouard Simard.”

  “The Premier’s father-in-law.”

  “And the mob — they’re covering everybody. Then it’s a democracy of the rich and the ‘parlementarisme britannique, c’est bien fini,’ and that’s it for democracy.”

  “Parliamentary democracy anyway.”

  “Yeah, well,” Dougherty said. “Like my father says, democracy is a terribly flawed system, it’s just the best one we’ve been able to come up with so far.”

  “But these guys have something better in mind.”

  “I’m sure they do.” He read some more, saying, “Lots of reasons for the poverty, unemployment and slums, lots of reason for you, ‘M. Bergeron de la rue Visitation, Madame Lemay de St-Hyacinthe, M. Tremblay de la rue Panet,’ lots of reasons why you do not feel free in our country of Quebec, why you drown your despair ‘dans la bière du chien à Molson.’ Okay, Molson is no Labatt’s, but dog beer?”

  “They’re naming all the names,” Rozovsky said.

  “Yeah, but Mr. O’Malley of Liverpool street, nobody cares about your poverty,” Dougherty said and then read, “‘We live in a société d’esclaves terrorisés, a society of terrorized slaves’ — a little extreme — ‘terrorisés par les grands patrons: Steinberg, Clark, Bronfman, Smith, Neaple, Timmins, Geoffrion, J.L. Lévesque, Hershorn, Thompson, Nesbitt, Desmarais, Kierans.’”

  “Making it personal,” Rozovsky said, “not a bad idea.”

  “Yeah, Trudeau ‘la tapette,’ always calling that guy a fag.”

  “Barbra Streisand’s just a beard.”

  Dougherty read some more. “Terrorized by the church gets a mention, of course, Household Finance Corp., Eaton’s, Simpsons, Morgan’s, Steinberg’s — didn’t they mention Steinberg’s already?”

  “Can’t mention the Jews enough,” Rozovsky said. “And what’s that, terrorized by science?”

  “By the closed circles of the universities and their monkey-bosses.” Dougherty shook his head, thinking how much his father had wanted him to go to one of those universities. “Robert Shaw is only the assistant monkey — he’s the McGill guy, right?”

  “Vice-principal. He was the one they went after in that McGill-Français stuff.”

  Dougherty said, “Oh yeah, there was a big protest. I wasn’t on duty for that one.”

  “And the cops are bad, too,” Rozovsky said, reading the next page. “Arms of the system?”

  “Strong-arms. They should understand these ­reasons — they should have been able to see that we live in a terrorized society because, without their force, without their violence, everything fell apart on October 7.”

  “I like the way the cops are the bad guys,” Rozovsky said, “but also without us the place will blow up into anarchy.”

  “A one-day wildcat,” Dougherty said, “and no one will ever forget it.” Then he read some more. “‘Le jour s’en vient où tous les Westmount du Québec disparaîtront de la carte.’ All the Westmounts of Quebec will disappear from the map.’”

  “Big talk.”

  “And the usual ending,” Dougherty said, dropping the photo, “‘Vive la révolution Québécoise! Vive le Front de libération du Québec!’”

  Rozovsky said, “It’s just the usual half-baked Marxist stuff you get on every campus in the world these days with some local names thrown in.”

  Dougherty peered down the hall. The homicide office was still full of men and smoke. “I got a good lead on the car.”

  “The taxi?”

  “No, the murdered women.”

  “What did you get?”

  “The guy tried to grab another girl, in NDG, out by a motel on St. James. She identified the car, it’s definitely a Lincoln.”

  “Licence number?”

  Dougherty looked at Rozovsky, smirked and raised an eyebrow. “But Carpentier said because it had only been linked to one of the murders, Brenda Webber in the Point, he wanted to be sure it connected to the others.”

  “But this wasn’t a murder.”

  “No, but Ruth said there’d be more.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “This means she’s right. There are going to be more — the guy is still out there trying.”

  Rozovsky said, “Everybody’s looking for the taxi.”

  “They can look for Lincolns at the same time.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure.”

  Rozovsky gave him a look, and Dougherty knew that wasn’t going to happen. “God dammit.” He paced the office. “Is Carpentier in there?”

  “I think so.”

  Dougherty walked out of the ident office and down the hall. He pushed his way into the homicide office and saw Detective Carpentier in a far corner with a few other senior detectives and made his way through.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “Okay.”

  Dougherty was nervous — the other detectives around Carpentier were looking at him. He said, “I talked to a girl today. A man tried to abduct her.”

  “Tried?”

  “She fought him off, got away.”

  “The same car?”

  “Same car.”

  “What was it, a Cadillac?”

  “’65 or ’66 Lincoln.”

  “Where?”

  “NDG, St. James Street, past Cavendish.”

  “All those motels?”

  “Yeah, right there.”

  Carpentier considered it and then said, “Maybe he’s from out of town.”

  Dougherty hadn’t thought of that. “You think he’d try and grab a girl right in front of his motel?”

  Carpentier shrugged, “I have no idea, just a thought.”

  A detective pushed his way past Dougherty and handed Carpentier a piece of paper. Carpentier read in silence for a moment, then said, “Maybe you should see if someone driving a car like that was staying in one of the motels?”

  “There are dozens of motels along that strip.”

  Carpentier looked up at Dougherty. “Yes, so?”

  “Well, you want me to check them all myself?”

  Carpentier handed the paper back to the other detective and nodded his approval for whatever was written there. “Yes. We’ve got a list of people we’re putting under surveillance tonight. With any luck we will end this thing tomorrow.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  Carpentier shook his head. “Hope the next one can fight him off, too.”

  chapter

  twenty-eight

  It was after nine that evening when Dougherty left Bonsecours Street and headed west out of Old Montreal. He took the Bonaventure Expressway and then the 15 north, heading towards the Décarie, through the Turcotte Exchange. All these brand-new expressways, two and three levels, built just in time for Expo 67, and Dougherty wondered how the tourists had managed — the whole thing looking like spil
led spaghetti.

  He took the Sherbrooke Street exit and then doubled back a little to Upper Lachine — still Upper Lachine at this end before it joined up with St. Jacques — and there were a couple of motels right there, the Aubin and Town Squire Motel.

  Dougherty pulled up in front of the office of the Town Squire and went inside. There was a man, probably sixty years old, sitting behind the desk, reading a paperback, and he didn’t look up until Dougherty was right in front of him. All he said was, “All night?”

  “What?”

  “Do you want the room for the whole night or do you have someone in the car?” He sat up a little and leaned past Dougherty, spotted the squad car and said, “Could you park that around back?”

  “I don’t need a room,” Dougherty said, “I need some information.”

  The man shrugged.

  “I need to know if someone driving a Lincoln was registered here over the weekend.”

  “I don’t know — I don’t work weekends.”

  “Can you check?”

  The man stood up slowly and opened up a big ledger on the desk. “All weekend?”

  “Friday night, start with that.”

  A TV was mounted in the corner of the office and the news was on, scenes of big cars pulling up in front of the National Assembly in Quebec City.

  “They better not give those punks anything they’re asking for,” said the man.

  Dougherty said, “No, I hope not.”

  “Nothing,” the man said closing the ledger book. “I got Chevys, I got Fords, but no Lincolns.”

  Dougherty wanted to say “Are you sure?” and he considered making the guy look again and look over Saturday and Thursday, but he had a lot more motels to cover. “If you remember one,” he said, “or the weekend guy remembers, call Station Ten and tell them, okay?”

  The man behind the desk said sure, but Dougherty knew this was a lost cause.

  He got nothing from the Motel Aubin, the Nittolo Garden Motel, the West End Motel or the Laval.

  Past the Elmhurst Dairy, St. Jacques Street split in two and Dougherty followed the Montreal-Toronto road and pulled into the Motel Raphaël parking. The Motel Raphaël was a big place built on a slight hill, so there were two rows of rooms with parking in front of each row. There was a pool in front and the office and restaurant were in a separate building. It wasn’t one of the motels thrown up fast for Expo — the Raphaël had been around a long time.