Deja Dead Page 0,40

the boutiques, bistros, and modern brick buildings of L’Université du Québec, which lined St. Denis.

“Sacré bleu!”

“Ca-lice!” said Charbonneau as a dark green Toyota station wagon cut him off.

“Bastard,” he added as he hit the brake then shot up to its bumper. “Look at that oily little freak.”

Claudel ignored him, apparently used to his partner’s erratic driving. I thought of Dramamine, but held my tongue.

Eventually we reached René Lévesque and turned west, then cut north onto St. Dominique. We doubled back at Ste. Catherine and, once again, I found myself in the Main, less than one block from Gabby’s girls. Berger is one of a small checkerboard of side streets sandwiched between St. Laurent and St. Denis. It lay directly ahead.

Charbonneau turned the corner and slid to the curb in front of the Dépanneur Berger. A dingy sign above its door promised “bière et vin.” Sun-bleached ads for Molson and Labatt covered the windows, the tape yellowed and peeling with age. Rows of dead flies lined the sill below, their bodies stratified according to season of death. Iron bars safeguarded the glass. Two geezers sat on kitchen chairs outside the door.

“Guy’s name is Halevi,” said Charbonneau, consulting his notebook. “He probably won’t have much to say.”

“They never do. His memory may improve if we sweat him a little,” said Claudel, slamming the car door.

The geezers watched us silently.

A string of brass bells jangled as we entered. The interior was hot and smelled of dust and spices and old cardboard. Two rows of back-to-back shelves ran the length of the store, forming one center and two side aisles. The dusty shelves held an assortment of aging canned and packaged goods.

On the far right a horizontal refrigerator case held vats of nuts, dal, dried peas, and flour. An assembly of limp vegetables lay in its far end. Something from another era, the case no longer refrigerated.

Upright coolers with wine and beer lined the left wall. In the rear, a small, open case, draped with plastic to conserve the cold, held milk, olives, and feta cheese. To its right, in the far corner, was the bank machine. Except for this, the place looked as if it hadn’t been renovated since Alaska applied for U.S. statehood.

The counter was directly to the left of the front door. Mr. Halevi sat behind it, speaking heatedly into a cellular phone. He kept running his hand over his naked head, the maneuver a holdover from a hairier youth. A sign on the cash register read SMILE. GOD LOVES YOU. Halevi was not taking his own advice. His face was red, and he was clearly piqued. I stood back and watched.

Claudel positioned himself directly in front of the counter and cleared his throat. Halevi showed him a palm and nodded his head in a “hold on” gesture. Claudel flashed his badge and shook his head. Halevi looked momentarily confused, said something in rapid Hindi, and clicked off. His eyes, huge behind thick lenses, moved from Claudel to Charbonneau and back.

“Yes,” he said.

“You Bipin Halevi?” asked Charbonneau in English.

“Yes.”

Charbonneau placed the photo face up on the counter. “Take a look. You know this guy?”

Halevi rotated the picture and leaned over it, his jittery fingers holding down the edges. He was nervous and trying hard to please, or at least to give the impression of cooperation. Many dépanneur operators sell smuggled cigarettes or other black market goodies, and police visits are as popular as tax audits.

“No one could recognize a man from this. Is this from the video? Men were here earlier. What did this man do?”

He spoke English with the singsong cadence of northern India.

“Any idea who he is?” said Charbonneau, ignoring the questions.

Halevi shrugged. “With my customers, you don’t ask. Besides, this is too fuzzy. And his face is turned away.”

He shifted on his stool. He was relaxing somewhat, realizing that he wasn’t the object of the inquiry, that it had to do with the security video the police had confiscated.

“He a local?” asked Claudel.

“I tell you, I don’t know.”

“Does this even remotely remind you of anyone comes in here?”

Halevi stared at the picture.

“Maybe. Maybe, yes. But it’s just not clear. I wish I could help. I . . . Maybe this could be a man I’ve seen.”

Charbonneau looked at him hard, probably thinking what I was. Was Halevi trying to please, or did he really see something familiar in the photo?

“Who?”

“I—I don’t know him. Just a customer.”

“Any pattern to what he does?”

Halevi looked blank.

“Does the guy come at the