Ice Lake (42 page)

Downstairs, they found the key to the alarm where they had left it, shut it down and opened the door. Brother Tom held the door while Lucy ditched the key under the radiator, then the two of them scurried off.

Lucy Gabriel took the file called
Darkling Star
away with her.

Running behind schedule, Emile Cinq-Mars decided to stick to his plan and make another visit. While it was a little late for a social call, this was business, and the business at hand was of more than trivial importance. Painchaud had been doing a good job, and was proving to be cooperative, but in the long run Cinq-Mars preferred to receive his information straight from the source. While he would, no doubt, be disturbing a woman who was raising a small child by calling on her so late, that could not be helped. The detective chose a rural route that followed the north side of the Back River, then the forested north side of Lac des Deux-Montagnes. Camille Choquette rented the hut where Andrew Stettler’s body had floated to the surface—a good enough reason to ask her a few questions. She had testified to Sergeant Charles Painchaud that she had not been up to the hut for a while, testimony brought under scrutiny by the minnows found swimming in a bucket of water not wholly frozen. She also knew people—Lucy Gabriel, and maybe Andrew Stettler. So the interview had to be conducted.

The woman lived in the small community of Lac des Deux Montagnes, on a street of modest cottages. For Cinq-Mars, the village was only slightly out of his way home, as long as he could make the ice-bridge before it closed for the night. He had to ask directions at an all-night gas station but found his way soon enough.

Two cars were parked in front of Camille’s house, one in the short driveway, which did not lead into a garage, the second, on the street. Cinq-Mars recognized the second vehicle, so he parked farther down the block. To make certain, he called in the license plate number, and was informed that the vehicle belonged to Sergeant Charles Painchaud of the SQ. So the other man was also pulling long hours—a credit to his profession. Cinq-Mars elected to wait, perhaps talk to Painchaud before he interviewed the woman. That
way, any contradictions could be worked to their advantage.

His bones ached, his eyelids were heavy. Cold, and huddling inside his coat, the city detective nodded off. He woke up frigid in his car and immediately started the engine to generate heat. Painchaud must still be inside, his car remained at the curb. Cinq-Mars did a slow drive-by, to see if there was anything to pick up. He observed a light being extinguished in the living room. He parked and walked by on foot. Lights were on at the back of the house, which was strange—not customary procedure for a police interrogation. Two options presented themselves. Painchaud could be in danger. Unlikely, but conceivable. Or—but the second option struck him as absurd.

Cinq-Mars walked up the drive. He hated to go around to the side or rear of the house, as his footprints would be well marked in the snow. Instead, he went up to a window in the front door, which didn’t have curtains, and peered inside. He was patient, glancing in from time to time, then ducking his head out of sight. He saw nothing.

Then he did see something.

Charles Painchaud emerged from the bathroom. He was out of uniform.

Camille Choquette bounced up to him and gave him a peck on the lips before she entered the bathroom herself.

The police officer disappeared down a hall, turning left.

Emile Cinq-Mars returned to his car.

On his cellphone, he called his partner. “Bill? Before we meet on the ice tomorrow morning, I’ve got a couple of things for you to think about.”

“What’s up?” Mathers asked. He was wary about losing his night off.

“Andrew Stettler was connected to organized crime.
It’s tenuous, but it’s real enough for me. His buddies are Hell’s Angels.”

“That opens up the floodgates. What else do you have?”

“Camille Choquette, the woman who discovered Stettler’s body—”

“I remember who she is.”

“—and Charles Painchaud, remember him? They’re lovers.” After listening to dead air awhile, Cinq-Mars added, “Kind of takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it with my own eyes, Bill. Good thing, too. I might not have believed it otherwise.”

“Emile,” Mathers said, “something’s going on.”

“Tell me about it. Do you know what else?”

“There’s more?” Mathers asked.

“We don’t have a clue what’s up. What do you think about that?”

He could almost hear Mathers shaking his head, trying to put something together, but coming away more dumbfounded than before.

“That’s what I say,” Cinq-Mars told him. “My sentiments exactly.”

13
PICKING BONES

The next day, Tuesday morning, February 15
, 1999

Close to the appointed hour, at seven minutes past 8:00 a.m., Detective Bill Mathers joined Emile Cinq-Mars on the frozen lake for breakfast, near the hut where Andrew Stettler’s body had been found afloat. He parked on the ice between his partner’s Pathfinder and the makeshift white trailer that had the word
RESTAURANT
emblazoned in bold red letters. At one end, the diner served up bait, and at the other
perchaud
—grilled fresh perch served on a hot dog bun with tartar sauce. A full breakfast was also on the menu, and during the day the diner did a brisk business in hamburgers and hot dogs. The restaurant opened at six each morning, catering to fishermen who had slept in their huts overnight. Snowmobilers dropped in as well, along with commuters on the lake road bound for their jobs in the city. As these patrons had to get going early, the detectives were arriving after the usual morning flurry, and, for a little while at least, they had the place to themselves.

Awaiting his bacon and eggs, Bill Mathers studied the wall of fame—fish photographed with the proud men and women who had made the catch. One man he recognized. A large, hefty walleye was held aloft by
a straining, smiling Emile Cinq-Mars. “You never told me.”

“I’m a modest man, Bill. But that was one impressive fish.”

“Maybe that’s how she knew to call you down here.”

“Who?”

“Lucy Gabriel. When all this began, she asked to meet you here, didn’t she?”

He hadn’t considered the possibility before, that his honoured place amid proud anglers had compromised his anonymity. “It’s not that good a picture,” Cinq-Mars grumbled, his usual surly morning self.

“It must be a likeness, Emile. I picked you out.”

Their coffees came up first, and each man was anxious for a gulp.

Bacon and eggs, hash browns, toast and jam followed. The men devoured their food with wanton appetites, although they took care this time not to go overboard. Counters ran along opposite sides of the trailer, and they sat in chairs that offered a view of the lake. Although the room was warm, the knowledge that they were on ice caused both men to keep their coats buttoned up.

Cinq-Mars filled his partner in on the strange news from the previous night’s reconnaissance.

“What now?” Mathers wondered.

“Let’s study the shack again.”

“Hoping to find out what, exactly?”

Cinq-Mars nodded slowly, as though he’d been asking himself the same question. “We’ll keep an open mind. So far, the hut has been thoroughly inspected only by Painchaud, and we don’t know if he did a proper job. It’s his girlfriend’s hut. We thought he was a good cop. Now that we’re thinking he’s not, it gives me an incentive to double-check his work. He might’ve been covering up.”

“That man has some explaining to do.”

“I’d be interested in hearing how he’d even begin.”

After breakfast, they learned that the crime scene had been placed under police lock, and that the hut’s proprietor had not been furnished with a key. He was a squat, cheerful sort who owned the farm on the opposite side of the road from the lake. His wife and daughters managed the leasing of the fishing huts and ran the bait shop and the restaurant, while he controlled public access for vehicles driving onto the ice. The farmer had met Cinq-Mars when the policeman had come to fish, and had often read about him in the papers.

“Do you have bolt-cutters?” Cinq-Mars asked the man.

“You’ll sign a paper?”

“Happily.”

The detectives waited on the ice, away from the restaurant and just beyond the parking lot, stamping their feet and gazing across the vast white expanse. “You look tired, Bill,” Cinq-Mars observed.

“I had my line checked for bugs. Then Donna and I talked half the night. She’s not thrilled about all this, Émile.”

Cinq-Mars nodded. “We’ll get our lives back.”

“What are the odds on that?” Mathers didn’t expect an answer. He sounded, if not bitter, fed up. The prospect of living a bachelor’s lifestyle again did not appeal to him.

“I’m churning a few thoughts,” his partner told him, as though that vague notion ought to be sufficiently soothing.

They continued to gaze across the frozen lake.

Both were dwelling on private matters. Cinq-Mars reminded himself to call his father. Mathers reflected on his wife’s upset. Together, they toed the snow, drawing doodles, their hands stuffed in their pockets, collars up to ward off the breeze.

Cinq-Mars broke the silence, bringing them back to the task at hand. “Bill, why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why trouble yourself putting the body under the ice? Ice is heavy. Bodies are cumbersome. The night was cold, freezing. Why put yourself out? Most killers prefer to get away from the corpse, beat a retreat. As it turns out, the corpse was discovered, and it hasn’t told us a whole lot. Why go to the trouble?”

Mathers stretched in the blinding sunlight, working a morning tension out of his joints. Driving out from the city at dawn had stiffened his muscles. “We don’t know where the body went in the water. Maybe it was easy. We don’t know if the killer expected the body to be found anytime soon.”

“Maybe it went in where it was found, and that wasn’t easy at all.”

“Why, though?”

Cinq-Mars shook his head. “Didn’t I just ask that question?”

“All right then, how?”

“Ah,” he acknowledged, “that’s a better question. Or at least as good.”

The farmer drove back from the huts in his big four-wheeler and got out and walked through the loose snow to where the policemen were standing. “It’s open. When you’re done, I’ll snap on my own padlock.”

“Appreciate that.”

The two walked onto the ice-road and made their way to the scene of the crime. Inside, the hut was frigid. They shut the door to keep out the breeze. The windows were small, with individual designs etched on every pane by frost, but adequate light filtered through, and each man examined the room with care. They handled the objects they found—the toys, the tins of fruit and vegetables, the cooking utensils and the extra clothing—with a
detached interest. The pantry had been emptied of perishables but was otherwise undisturbed.

“She slept here, obviously,” Mathers stated.

“That night?”

“Who knows? This winter though, definitely, at least from time to time. The bedding’s not dirty, but it’s not exactly fresh from the wash either. Either someone slept here on occasion or—”

“—other activities kept Miss Choquette warm.”

While Mathers continued to examine the everyday objects, Cinq-Mars folded his arms across his chest and stood still, just trying to get a feel for the place.

“Open the hatch,” he directed after a bit.

Mathers did so. The black hole where Stettler had been found, and the cavity created to remove him, had frozen over while the cabin had been barricaded. The surface was depressed like a spoon’s where new ice had formed.

“I imagine the original hole had been cut out with a chainsaw,” Cinq-Mars stated, “the same way they widened it to free the body.”

“You can still see the outline of the old hole.”

Cinq-Mars grunted, for no particular reason. “Painchaud and Choquette are lovers. On the day the body was discovered they kept that juicy tidbit to themselves. What else were they hiding? Did they know the victim? Camille works where Stettler got started in his new career.” He gazed at the ice while his partner, weary of that contemplation, looked up instead. After a few moments, Mathers stood on the grey wool blankets of the bed to examine the central roof beam.

“What are you doing?”

“What if?” Mathers mused. The beam was scraped, gently gouged in an area directly over the hatch.

“Wrap a chain around the beam and hook it to a block. Use a five-part, or a seven-part block-and-tackle to handle the weight.”

“What weight?” Cinq-Mars wondered. He put his hands on his hips.