“How about a bite to eat?” he asked, taking them in tow. “There’s a good little restaurant around the corner.”
Patterson tried to duck out, but finally went along when Roberge insisted. The two men talked as though they’d known each other for ages, which surprised Juliette.
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“Just to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”
The policeman would have grabbed her arm if she’d let him. He whispered a lame joke in her ear to put her at ease. Roberge was the type who couldn’t help imposing his good-naturedness on everyone, even at a time like this.
“Very interesting case. A model employee beyond reproach; always knew what he was doing. Well, he put three, maybe three-and-a-half million, dollars in his pocket over eleven years, a little at a time. Seems like nothing, just a discreet fiddling of the company books.”
When they came to a red light, Roberge paid no attention and dragged his companions across anyway, ignoring the car horns. A show-off in the spotlight. This is a setup, thought Juliette, but what for?
“You know what did him in? The flu. Yeah, yeah, a week in bed, says the doctor. Well, it gets worse: two weeks, three, and he had to be replaced in accounting. Some whiz kid with a calculator suddenly smells a rat. At first, no one would believe it, and then …”
Fortunately, the restaurant was nothing like Roberge. It was simple, discreet, settled at the bottom of a quiet street; a romantic sort of place for couples in the evening. The owner had done his best to attract a local lunchtime clientele, even adding a “Judge’s Special,” but the message hadn’t got across, as the place was empty.
“Anyway, the moral of the story is ‘beware of conscientious people.’ You know, the ones who never take vacations or call in sick. The ones who never give up.”
“You mean like you?” ventured Patterson.
Roberge smiled as he slid into a booth. “People think thieves are lazy. Not true. Stealing is a full-time job. You’re always on. No let-up. Take Max O’Brien, for instance, he’s our regular man-in-the-wind.”
Juliette looked up, but Roberge was staring at Patterson. “So, one day he shows up in Montreal and the next he’s in New York. He spends his entire life on the road, in hiding.”
“Is this going somewhere?” Patterson asked.
Roberge turned to Juliette, then Patterson again. He wasn’t so jolly anymore. He was through with the song and dance. “Why have you two been lying to me? Why are you protecting that crook?”
Patterson was about to protest his innocence when Roberge held up his hand for silence: “You had lunch together like old buddies.”
He stared at Juliette. “And he came to see you at the hospital. You talked to him. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Juliette was mute, and Roberge lost patience. “A nurse identified him. He saw the two of you together.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“We’re not in court here, Mrs. O’Brien. I’m not out to ‘prove’ anything. All I’m saying is, I know you three have been in contact.”
“Hey, leave her out of this.”
“Look, Dennis, it’s nice of you to play the tough guy, but …”
“You shut up!” yelled Juliette.
She was startled by her own anger. She’d spoken too loudly, and the owner behind the counter was staring at them. She wished she hadn’t accepted this stupid invitation. She stood up. “I won’t have anything to do with your garbage. My husband’s just died.”
“I’m sorry. Please sit down.” He took her by the arm.
“Leave … her … alone,” emphasized Patterson firmly, but Roberge wasn’t budging. He fixed his gaze on Juliette.
He said, “I don’t wish you any harm, Dennis, either. All I want is your co-operation.”
“I don’t have to answer to you.”
“I know, and normally I wouldn’t bother you, but I need your help.”
“You’re not getting anything from me, ever.”
“Please sit down.”
She pulled her arm out of his grasp but sat down. Patterson, to her right, was staying silent, almost as though he knew what was coming next.
“Max O’Brien’s in India,” Roberge continued as he thumbed through the menu. “How do I know? As a matter of fact, I don’t know that yet, though David’s mother is convinced that’s where he is. I could ask Josh Walkins, the RCMP man over there, to get a list of newly arrived Canadians and Americans in New Delhi, say, in the last forty-eight hours. There won’t be a ton of them, given the political situation.”
He’d made his choice and closed his menu. “But it would be pointless,” he said to Patterson. “I can get that information here myself and quite easily, can’t I, Dennis?”
Juliette turned to Patterson as he played nervously with his knife. His anger had given way to resignation, though Juliette didn’t know why. She looked to Roberge, but the policeman was no longer interested in her. He added, “I’m sure Mrs. O’Brien would be thrilled to hear what you have to say about him.”
“Shut up. This is none of your business.”
Roberge couldn’t help smiling once again. Juliette felt bad for the former diplomat. She now understood the cop’s tactic. He’d included her just as bait and pressure for Patterson’s confession. She didn’t know Patterson well, but she was aware that David’s confidence in him was unshakeable. By attacking Patterson, Roberge was also attacking David.
“So what’ll it be, Dennis? Shall I tell all to David O’Brien’s wife, or will you work with us?”
“Why are you being such a creep?” Juliette said in disgust.
Now she had his attention once more.
“You should be glad. You’re this piece of crap’s latest victim. I’m only trying to protect you.”
“Yeah, well, your methods stink.”
“Max O’Brien’s are even worse. Ask Béatrice about it. I’m sure she’d be glad to tell what she knows.”
Turning back to Patterson, he said, “The minute I learned he was headed for India, I alerted Josh Walkins. I even sent him photos on the Internet — Photoshopped. Amazing piece of software, isn’t it? Do you know it? Yup, I knew Max O’Brien was a master of the disappearing act, and figured he was sure to see his old ‘friend’ Patterson for some specific purpose, like, say, getting himself into the High Commission. A letter from a former diplomat, or better yet, a personal call to Raymond Bernatchez would do the job. That meant revealing the assumed name he was travelling under, and you’re going to tell me what that is right now without a fuss.”
Patterson went on playing with his fork, while Juliette begged him not to give in to this blackmail, but he wasn’t listening. “Peter Brokowich.”
Roberge then turned to Juliette with a smile. “Terrific, and now, how about we order?”
Juliette was already up and heading for the exit. Patterson caught up with her in the street. “Look, let me explain.”
She was in no mood to listen to him humiliate himself any further. She hailed a taxi and got in. She felt like throwing up, and leaned her head against the window.
Most diplomats die in their beds, surrounded, at best, by their grieving families, and at worst