Chapter 27

"Pat, how nice of you to return my call."

"Christie, what the fuck is going on."

"Nothing much. How about you?"

"Don't give me this bullshit. Please."

"OK. Have you seen Shauna lately?"

A chill went down my spine.

"You vicious cunt! What have you done?"

"Almost nothing... yet! Would you like me to send you some pictures? She's such a pretty girl."

"You bitch. Let her go!"

"Isn't she sweet? What a cute little face. Such nice little boobies. And that sweet, sweet little pussy. It feels so nice."

I heard Shauna's voice. "Please don't," she cried, "Oh don't do that to me. Please."

"Let her go, goddam it! Why are you doing this?"

"Oh Pat, don't be such a spoilsport. We're just having fun, Shauna and I. Well I am, at any rate. And that's the important thing."

"Why, Christie? Why?"

"I guess you heard about that 'Tiger Princess' bullshit. Well I'm not a tiger. Not at all. I'm more of a pussy cat. Do you know the difference? No? Well, I'll tell you. Tigers kill their prey and eat it. Pussy cats like to play with their food. Didn't you ever see a puss cat playing with a mouse? I don't like mice. But I love to play with nice little pussies."

"Christie, if you dare to harm her, I'll..."

"Oh my, you're scaring me so much. What will you do? What can you do? I'll tell you: nothing. Besides, Shauna and I are having a wonderful time. Well, perhaps I should qualify that. I'm having a wonderful time. I do hope that Shauna has a good time. But it's not really all that important. She does have the sweetest little body. I'm really enjoying her. Besides, I'm sure she'll develop a taste for this kind of fun. Won't you my love?"

Once again I heard Shauna. "No. No. Please don't. I beg you. No not in my face! Don't put it in my face. Please."

"Oh that's nice," Christie cooed, "That's so nice. But you'd better start using your tongue, sweetheart. I could twist this little titty right off." I heard Shauna scream. Then Christie cooed, "Yeah, baby. That's the way. Yeah, right there. Pat, would you like to join us?"

"You cunt!"

"Don't use that word. It's not very nice. Oh! Shauna, you're so sweet! Yeah, just like that."

"Christie, I'm going to kill you!"

"No, Pat, you're not. I may kill you, though. You're going to sit still and wait for me. Just wait. I'll be there as soon as I finish here. We're going to have such fun!"

My windpipe was constricted. I couldn't breathe. I was terrified. I tried to scream. I awoke screaming.

Shauna held me. "Pat," she said, "you had a bad dream again. Was it Christie?"

"Yes, love. It was."

"Why does she scare you so much?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

What I did know was that I was getting mightily pissed off. Someone, most likely Christie, was fucking with my life. And two major nightmares in two consecutive nights were much too much. This shit had to cease.

At any rate, my night's sleep was now wrecked. It was nearly 6:00, so I decided to get up. I went downstairs and made some coffee. As I poured myself a cup, J. F. came in. After the shit that had gone down the night before, Jean-François had been reluctant to go home. He'd stayed at our house, in the second-floor room that Shauna had first occupied when she came to live with me.

He was wearing an old robe that I'd loaned him. His usually immaculate comb-over was a mess. Some of the too-long hairs were down over one ear. He advanced on the coffee machine and got himself a cup. Then Shauna came in to the kitchen. She was wrapped in her fuzzy robe, and she was yawning.

She asked, "Can I have some of that stuff?"

I grinned and poured her a cup. I got her cream out of the fridge. She poured the white things, the sugar and cream into her coffee and took a sip. She winced. "How can you drink this stuff on an empty stomach?"

"Ham and eggs?"

She yawned again. "OK. Let's do some grease. We might as well get used to it. We'll probably be dealing with a lot of greasy stuff all week."

"How about you, J. F.?"

"Bien sûr. Grease it is."

We headed to work early. J. F. took a cab to his office. Shauna, of course, wanted to drive her car. We arrived at about 8:30. Suprisingly, Bert and Tim were already there. They were in the meeting room deep in discussion.

About 9:30, Joe showed up. He came into my office and sat down. "Pat," he said, "I may have made a mistake, but I don't think so."

"What do you mean?"

"John Robinson, one of my classmates at university, is a Mountie. He's an inspector in the crime investigations section. I called him last night. He's coming by to talk to us this afternoon."

I was a bit taken aback. The "Mounties," the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, are not the clowns portrayed on Dudley Dooright. Nor are they the romantic figures of operettas and bad Hollywood films. They are Canada's national police force. They're like the FBI and the Secret Service rolled into one. The RCMP are responsible for all the federal policing of Canada. Their basic training resembles the U. S. Marines boot camp. They are, in short, some mean motherfuckers. I didn't look forward to dealing with this one. On the other hand, there was no doubt that Joe had done the right thing by bringing in the cops.

We got through the morning and early afternoon. I interviewed three members of Parliament and moderated our panel of "pundits." The topic was Jake Singh and his fuck ups. I kept my trap shut and let people who didn't know squat about the case pontificate and speculate. Everything would come out sooner or later.

About 2:00, Joe's Mountie pal showed up. Joe called me. I, in turn, called Jean-François. I went to Joe's office. Shortly, J. F. joined us.

Like most high-ranking Mounties I'd met, Inspector Robinson was dressed in civvies -- a spiffy-looking dark blue suit. Joe introduced him to us. Robinson shook hands all around. He had a firm handshake and a way of looking you in the eye that had probably provoked more than one confession. After Joe completed the introductions, we recited the events of the preceding day to Robinson. After we'd finished, he asked us to give him the background of the case in detail. J. F. repeated all the things that he'd originally told me about the Jake Singh business. I then told him how Jean-François had come to me. Robinson said very little during our recitations, interrupting only to clarify times and details. Most of the time, he simply took notes on a steno pad. After we'd all finished our stories, Inspector Robinson was quiet for a few minutes. Then he looked at us and sighed.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am amazed. I am most of all amazed at you, Mr. Ménard. I can't imagine why a man with your experience and sagacity didn't come to the RCMP immediately upon discovering this information. Then, I am amazed that you collectively did not call the Ottawa police about the events of last night. And you, Joe. I thought that you of all people would know better. These failures are inexcusable."

I'm afraid that the three of us looked like kids whose teacher just told them that she didn't buy the dog-ate-my-homework excuse.

"It's conceivable that you could even be charged with concealing evidence. It's doubtful that charges will be laid, but it's definitely possible."

The room was silent, the atmosphere tense. Then Robinson spoke again.

"However, we need to deal immediately with these most recent events. It's clear that there is some form of intimidation being attempted here. Have you any idea who may be involved?"

I spoke up. "Does the name Christine Lau mean anything to you?"

Robinson looked at me with his steely gaze. "Just what," he said, "do you know about Ms. Lau?"

I said, "I know that she's a gang leader. And she's already approached me about going easy on Jake Singh's girlfriend, who, she says, is her school chum. I wouldn't be surprised if she were behind all this stuff."

Robinson smiled. "I, on the other hand, would be very surprised if that were the case," he said. "Christine Lau is or has been suspected of involvement in a number of illegal activities. However, she has never, to my knowledge, been connected to any violent or overtly coercive acts. And she's never been convicted of any crime."

I looked at him with amazement. "But I've been told that she's a martial arts expert and a killer," I said.

"She may or may not be a martial arts expert, " Robinson said, " I'm not qualified to judge her expertise. As far as being a killer, there's no substantiated evidence of violence on her part. She's the mob's master strategist. She's the equal of the CEOs of many major corporations. No doubt she makes millions for her associates. But I'd very much doubt that she's involved in your problems. Frankly, you'd be beneath her radar screen."