Page 40 of A Life Betrayed

Mathias gave a snort of laughter. “What do you think I am, a fucking animal?” He held out his wrists, and the young cop cuffed him then steered him by the elbow toward the Explorer. Mathias pulled back pointedly. “Don’t need my hand held, kid.”

On the drive to the station downtown, Mathias ran through his options. His phone burned a hole in his pocket, but with the cuffs on, there was no way of getting to it and letting anyone know he’d been pulled up. He would have to wait until he was booked before he made his official phone call. Mathias only hoped the man was available—for what the family paid him, he’d damn well better be.

A group of officers gathered behind the glass screen of the processing room when he arrived, no doubt relishing the sight of one of the family’s elite detained in custody, the ink still drying on his fingers. Mathias stared right back, swallowing his pride, which stung like acid going down. He was relieved of his phone, his watch, and the ring taken from the little finger of his right hand. Mathias watched as the young officer slipped thering into the clear plastic bag with the rest of his possessions and wondered if he registered its significance. Mathias counted himself lucky he didn’t take to carrying a weapon these days. That would have caused a raft of additional problems. It had been a necessity when he’d spent his time chasing down clients. Now he had people to do that for him.

After being booked, he was led through a series of sterile corridors before being shoved into a holding cell. The door slammed closed behind him, with no mention of the call he was entitled to. Mathias sat down on a metal bench bolted to the wall and took in his surroundings.

The room was an off-white box of concrete, empty save for the homeless man stretched out across the green linoleum floor, snoring loudly. Graffiti was scrawled across the walls—previous occupants had taken it upon themselves to inform the world of such truths asNIQUE LA POLICE!The booking officer must have had some latitude when it came to what was confiscated going into the cells—his Rolex was deemed far more dangerous than some scumbag’s pen. Or perhaps they got a kick out of parting him from his spoils.

He figured the fanatical police interest, those sneering faces pressed up against the glass, wouldn’t be the exception going forward. Looking down at his cuffed wrists, Mathias tried to ignore the cold sense of dread they conjured. He’d never been afraid of a fight and was confident in his ability to hold his own. But this was different—this was no place for retaliation, only submission.

He focused on pulling air slowly through his nose to squash the panic. If Mathias was honest, he’d always harbored a secret belief that he was more likely to be shot down by some disgruntled lackey than get pulled in by the pigs. He’d gotten where he was by deftly navigating the legal system’s manyincompetencies, yet here in the belly of the beast, Mathias was beginning to feel the creep of foreboding.

It must have been evening by this point, though it was impossible to tell in the windowless cell. Above, fixed to the ceiling in cages, the fluorescent lights flickered away with unnatural intensity, creating an artificial, unending daylight. His gaze kept returning to the thick metal door, which set off an unsettling hum in his brain, a callback from the past that kept slipping through his memory, refusing to be caught.

Mathias’s head began to throb, and he knew he would have to keep his wits about him if he was to win this round. He assumed the denial of his legal rights was simply an extension of Allen’s flex. It was reckless—unlike his world, this one had clear rules, and if she didn’t follow them, it would be to her detriment. So far, he’d demonstrated nothing but compliance. He just had to wait her out.

Despite his ability to rationalize the unfolding situation, the feeling was still there—a low drone in the back of his mind. Mathias shifted on the bench, the metal cutting into his wrists, and his pulse began to race. Then it came to him, a flash of memory almost belonging to someone else, like a story he’d heard and not lived himself—the lock on his bedroom door. It had been fixed to the outside so she could keep him in when his father visited—as if he didn’t know what the man was there for. Sometimes, she forgot to unlock it after he’d gone. As a child, Mathias would sit on the floor in the room, all distractions exhausted, and stare at the door. He’d imagine what would happen if his mother never let him out, how long he could survive without food or water. But he didn’t call out or bang on the door. He refused to give her the satisfaction. And when, hours later, she would finally appear—voice keening with apologies, hands fluttering about his face—he would brush heraway so she couldn’t tell how relieved he was to see her and how afraid he’d been.

Stiff within the shackles, Mathias turned over his left hand, an instinct years ingrained, only to be confronted by his bare wrist. An hour might have passed or only five minutes—there was no way of knowing. Trapped in a cage devoid of space and time, Mathias leaned back against the cold concrete wall and waited.

Chapter Sixteen

Rayan stood by the chessboard in the corner of the living room and rolled the white knight between his thumb and forefinger. He gripped his phone in the other hand, but it remained silent, the screen dark. For the second time in two days, he’d called, and Mathias hadn’t picked up. He tried to be careful about his expectations. Between Mathias’s family commitments and the growing urgency of the situation with the Feds, it was understandable that his visits would become more sporadic. But after two days with no word, Rayan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. While he knew Mathias’s other number by heart—filed away since those early days, a number that had always sent a flutter of anticipation in his stomach when he’d seen it appear on the screen—there was no way he would take the risk of calling it, especially with things as they were.

He thought of how the inspector had confronted him in Toronto and all the ways in which Mathias might find himself similarly ambushed. That first night after arriving in Montreal, when Mathias had come to find him at the boarding house, he’d given Rayan a brief rundown of the investigation and the tip-off that had launched it. But Rayan had worked with the man long enough to know Mathias was deliberately withholding certain details. While Mathias’s unwillingness to confide in him pained Rayan, he understood his reticence. Rayan hadn’t exactly been acting like he had things together.

Rayan deliberated at length before making his move, vaulting over Mathias’s bishop to capture one of his pawns. He placed the black piece in the box and flipped the coin on the table so that it once again sat with the Queen’s profile face up. Then, as though his play on the chessboard was merely a proxy for the real move he’d been considering, he strode to the dining table and pulled out his notebook and pen. He began to scribble, the numbers spilling from his mind—reluctant, hazy after having been buried so long. The last two he struck through and flipped. Only when they were out on paper could he be sure of the order.

He stared down at the number and scanned his brain for confirmation. It was as close as he was going to get. He picked up his phone, dialed, and held the receiver to his ear before realizing it was a Sunday afternoon.

That didn’t seem to matter to the man who answered. “Oui?”

It was impossible to tell from his greeting whether he was who Rayan hoped he would be. “Dubois?”

“That’s me,” Grayson Dubois rumbled. “Who’s this?”

Rayan knew he had to be cautious. Here he was, in a city where he was no longer supposed to exist. “I need your assistance,” he said, dodging the question. “Am I right to assume you still have an agreement with Mathias Beauvais?”

There was a pause. “That would depend on who’s asking.”

“Someone looking out for his interests,” Rayan hedged. “If the arrangement no longer stands, I’ll facilitate one of my own. Name your price.”

What did Mathias say about getting creative?Rayan would use every last cent if he had to. Through the earpiece, Rayan heard the rustle of fabric and then the sound of a door closing.

“The arrangement stands,” Dubois said.

“I need to know if he’s been detained and, if so, how to get him out.”

“Easy enough. Give me a few hours. Not everyone’s so cooperative over the weekend. I’ll find out what I can and call you back on this number,” Dubois said. “But I’ll need a name and half up front. I’m not a fan of the whole anonymous thing. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

A name, Rayan thought.Easier said than done.

After he hung up, Rayan wired the lawyer the agreed amount and waited, the hours dragging by as he paced the safe house, unable to think of anything else.

Dubois called him back that evening, as promised. “He’s being held at the station downtown. They picked him up Friday.”

Friday?Rayan ground his teeth in frustration.He’s been there since Friday?

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