Even your local shopping mall can turn eerie after midnight.
Michael drove my Nissan Altima—since repaired—along the lane bordering Carrefour Laval, a 300-store mall in the Montreal area. The parking lot usually bustled with activity, but at this late hour, it was deserted.
The exception was the battered Chrysler parked along the back wall of the complex forty feet ahead of us. As we approached, our headlights exposed dents on the driver’s side of the car. Anyone could easily assume it had been used for target practice.
“It’s Claude Savant,” Michael said, confirming the identity of his informant.
Four months after the murders in the port, Claude had called Michael to say he had information for him. They’d set up a meeting, and since Michael needed my help as a translator, I tagged along. His informants trusted him, so it was an easy next step to accept my presence during their discussions.
Michael cut the engine. We stepped out and walked across the snow-covered asphalt toward Claude who remained seated in his car, half of his unshaven face visible in the moonlight. Claude signaled for us to get in.
Michael settled in the front seat and I sat in the back. The odor of marijuana hit me, but in spite of the cold weather, Claude kept his window open. A good thing.
Claude handed Michael a package wrapped in brown paper. “Les informations sur les Hells Angels.”
Michael nodded to show that he understood.
“Je suis un homme en sursis,” Claude said, his voice calm, even as his eyes jumped across the vast parking lot.
“He says he’s a man living on borrowed time,” I said, sensing the gravity of his statement.
Michael glanced at me. “Megan, ask him to elaborate.”
I translated for Michael. “Claude, expliquez-nous ce que tu veut dire.”
Claude looked at me in his rearview mirror before gazing back at the empty lot. His eyes revealed no emotions. I wondered if he’d succeeded in hiding his feelings from years of practice or whether he’d lost hope about life in general.
“Daniel Plouffe m’a contacté après qu’il s’est évadé de prison,” Claude said.
I translated for Michael. “Daniel Plouffe contacted him after he escaped from jail.”
Claude went on in his native French. “He entrusted me with a package of notes—things he’d learned about the secret dealings of the Hells Angels while inside. Rumor had it the bikers didn’t trust Daniel. They planned to have him killed in jail. Make it look like an accident.”
“So Daniel knew they wanted him dead even then?” Michael asked him.
Claude nodded. “Daniel was smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for. He made plans to bolt before they could carry out the vendetta. The gang boss found out. He must have changed his mind about the hit because he ordered Daniel to take Pierre Favreau with him at the last minute.”
Michael shrugged. “Regardless, Daniel’s life wasn’t spared in the end. Do you know why?”
“Days before he was killed, he met an ex-con in a bar—someone he’d known in jail. He told Daniel to be careful because he’d heard the hit on him was still on. That’s why Daniel gave me the package. As a kind of security. He told me he’d be coming into a lot of money soon. He planned to head south to Mexico where no one could find him. If things didn’t work out, I was to make good use of the information in the package.” He kept his eyes on the parking lot.
“The police suspect that Pierre Favreau killed Daniel. I thought these guys were on the same team.”
Claude shook his head. “It doesn’t change a damn thing. Sometimes a member gets the order to knock off another member. It’s the way things work with the Hells Angels. They have eyes and ears everywhere. You can’t trust anyone. Especially the dirty cops on the gang’s fat payroll.”
I remembered how Detective Leclerc had so easily dismissed Gary Stilt’s connection to the Hells Angels. I couldn’t help wondering if they’d paid him off to look the other way.
Michael tapped the package. “How does this information make you a marked man?”
“The gang boss wants to make sure Daniel’s notes are destroyed. Sooner or later they’re going to trace them back to me. Then they’ll put a price on my head too.” He aimed a forefinger at his temple.
“Do you have a secure place to go to? Lie low for a while.”
Claude shook his head. “There’s no way to escape the wrath of the Hells Angels. They have connections all over the world. You already know that.”
Michael paused. “Why are you doing this, Claude? It almost sounds as if you have a personal grudge against them.”
“You could say that.” He looked at Michael. “Daniel was my brother.”
I stifled a gasp.
Michael stayed cool. “Your last names are different.”
“We had different fathers.” Claude stared ahead. “I swear, I’ll destroy the gang’s operations. Even if it means I’ll die trying.” He placed his hands on the steering wheel and clutched it.
“But—” Michael began.
Claude cut him off. “I don’t want to waste any more time. The facts are in the package. All you have to do is make things right.” He gestured briskly for us to leave, then turned on the ignition.
“Thank you.” Michael gave him a discerning look before we stepped out.
Goosebumps ran up and down my spine as we watched Claude speed off toward the Laurentian Autoroute. The few brave souls who crossed the Hells Angels inevitably lived to regret it.
A gut feeling told me Claude would be one of them.