Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(94)
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The Canadian Press, Sunday, December 29
by Hugh Dexter, CP Bureau Chief, Montreal
He was one of the finest reporters I have ever been privileged to work with. Unassuming and mild — meek might be apt — but quick-witted, a sterling writer, and a formidable digger of buried truths.
The truths he unearthed early this year, published in a shattering exposé of organized crime on the Montreal waterfront, incurred the wrath of the mob. Last winter, they tried to gun him down. They missed.
And now the burning question is whether they have finally succeeded in silencing Lou Sabatino, my colleague and friend during his 20-year career with this venerable wire service.
It is one of the most extraordinary ironies imaginable that within an hour of his daring rescue of a young girl and his citizen’s arrest of her alleged assailant, he vanished without a trace.
It is no secret now that he’d been living under the alias Robert O’Brien, so I can disclose that I was one of a handful privy to his double existence. He and his lovely wife and two grade-school children were moved to a secure lodging in the Montreal area. They were a very close family.
Sabatino remained on the Canadian Press payroll until May, when, dispirited that he could no longer work at the job he loved, he asked for and was granted a leave of absence.
Sabatino was the consummate journalist. He began his Canadian Press career in the early nineties with a newly minted journalism degree, worked the rewrite desk in Ottawa, then spent many years covering national politics. On his transfer to the Montreal bureau, he
(See Missing Hero, page 2)
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THE SIERRA FILE
Monday, December 30, 2:30 a.m.
Dear Arthur,
That you appeared startled and confused by my oral presentation of the events of Saturday was no doubt due to the fact I am less at ease with the spoken word than the written.
But it is important that you have this history clearly in mind for your bout on Monday with Mssrs. Cowper and Farquist, and to that end this weary late-night warrior has begun clacking away at his Olivetti, with a glass of good malt at hand.
So let us back up ten hours to a sunny, snowed-in afternoon, as your correspondent appeared at the door of Celeste Sabatino’s sister’s home on Hope Street.
You will recall that I was determined to make a last-gasp effort to coax Ms. Sabatino into making a public plea for her husband to come in from the cold. A press release, maybe even a press conference at which she would express her fears for his safety and proclaim her love for him and her desire for reconciliation.
Lucille Wong, the sister, met me at the door and introduced me to her husband, a well-respected geophysical engineer. I had looked him up and versed myself well enough in geophysics to express keen interest in his work, and we chatted pleasantly until he left for his study.
I was led through the bright, airy living room, where Lisa and Logan were playing with toys near a tinselled tree. Lovely, well-mannered children, who both shook my hand.
Celeste was waiting in a room at the rear of the house, now her studio, with ladies’ wear hanging along one wall and a work table covered with large sheets of paper and arrayed with cutting and colouring tools. On a nearby desk was a small, open gift box containing a diamond pendant silver necklace.
I accepted an easy chair beside a naked dummy. The chair was soft and comfortable but the mannequin unsettled me with her lifelike breasts and protruding pelvis. I was afraid I would not be at my best.
Lucille left to fetch coffee, while Celeste seemed anxious and wandered about, making small adjusments to her design wear.
All the while, as I tried to ignore the teasing nude, I made my pitch. A paean of praise and sympathy for her beleaguered, hunted, lonely partner, embellished with quotes from his love letter to her — which I observed on her desk, near the necklace.
Maybe I am not so ill-adept at the spoken word after all, because when I told her I believed she truly loved her husband, she replied with what seemed to be feelings long pent up, “Yes, I do. I do.” And at that point, she delved into a box of tissues.
Two coffees later, with Lucille’s aid, we had worked out a statement for the press. It concluded with the simple, ardent line, “I love you, Lou.”
Just then there was a commotion at the front of the house: Lisa and Logan were screaming, but not, I soon realized, in terror.
The two women bolted from the studio, and I followed. The children by then had burst from the house, and, as seen from the wide front windows, were bounding toward a beribboned child’s bicycle and two bulky canvas bags on the snowy lawn, all guarded by a five-foot-tall panda bear.
The youngsters were yelling, “It’s Daddy! Daddy’s been here!”
But there was no sign of Daddy, no vehicle driving off. Lisa had seen a car, but just its rear as it disappeared from view. Not a big car, just a “car car,” maybe blue.
As I hurried to my rented Fiat 500, I called out to Celeste to keep her phone at hand. I was at a loss regarding where to go, and was roving aimlessly about the neighbourhood when I heard the advancing wail of police sirens. Shortly, I spied two police cruisers rushing along a nearby street.
I followed them and came upon a scene that has been well described by news media outlets — understaffed on weekends, their reporters were just pulling in just as I arrived. (My little Fiat made the newscasts, parked beyond the police barricade, but I saw no sign of my portly self.)