The Delicate Storm (12 page)

He examined the cheap, painted pine desk on which stood a phone, a cracked mug full of pens and pencils, and a calendar with the previous Thursday circled—the day Shackley had flown to Toronto. The desk, indeed the entire room, was neat but dirty; grit crunched underfoot. There was a clean patch by the desk lamp about the size of a laptop. Either Shackley had taken it with him and it was now missing or Squier had got here first.

Cardinal opened the middle drawer of the desk: more pens and pencils, bits and pieces of office supplies. He opened a side drawer, finding nothing but cheap envelopes and a roll of stamps, a half-empty pad of paper. He held the pad up to the light, but there were no traces of writing on the top sheet. The wastebasket under the desk was empty. He lifted the desk lamp, lifted the phone, lifted the mug full of pens. Nothing. A search of the underside of the desk and its drawer also yielded nothing.

A quick search of the bathroom also yielded nothing, as did the cupboard in the kitchenette. Shackley appeared to live primarily on cereal. The cupboard contained four different boxes, the corners nibbled and frayed by mice.

Cardinal had rarely come across a life so colourless. Of course, it could have been intentional—the kind of deep cover one reads about in spy novels—but he didn’t really think so; the despair was too convincing. He stood still and listened. Footsteps from an upstairs neighbour, high heels it sounded like. Down the hall, Van Morrison was singing hysterically. Farther off, a small dog yapped.

Cardinal went to the file cabinet. Two drawers, mostly empty. There were a few hanging files—taxes (not done by Howard Matlock, he noted), social security forms, banking. Shackley’s only income seemed to be from social security—a few hundred dollars a month. Bills: cable TV, electricity, telephone. Cardinal pulled out the last three months’ phone bills. There were calls to three different numbers in the Montreal area code, Shackley’s old stomping ground. Cardinal put the phone bills in his briefcase.

Cardinal spent the next hour going through every book, note and piece of mail he could find. Nothing. He opened the back of the television, the back of a radio and even checked the freezer. Then he stood in the middle of the room and tried to spot the one thing that didn’t belong. It took a while, but eventually his gaze fell on the grille of the ventilator shaft. It was a small rectangle just above the stove and, unlike everything else in the place it was spotlessly clean. Old building like this, Cardinal thought, you’d expect the ventilator shaft to be pretty grungy.

He found a screwdriver, removed several screws and lifted the grille from the wall. As it came away, a clear plastic envelope trailed after it, attached by a short length of fishing line. It contained a smaller envelope. Cardinal opened it and extracted a curling photographic negative. He switched on the desk lamp and held the negative up to the light. He couldn’t discern much other than that it showed a group of people, three men and one woman. He put it into his briefcase along with the phone bills.

Afterward, he stood outside on Sixth Street. He had finished what he had come here to do much quicker than he had anticipated. He thought about calling Kelly; he even held the phone in his hand, ready to dial. But he had hurt his daughter so much with his crisis of conscience the previous year. He had thought he was doing the right thing, deciding not to keep the rest of the Bouchard money, but Kelly had paid the price. The thought of sitting across from her in a heavy silence made his heart ache.

He called Catherine instead. He had been operating in hunter mode all day, but the sound of her voice awoke in him something more tender. And tenderness evoked fear.

“Catherine, I don’t want you to be scared, but it might be good if you keep a close eye on things around the house. And on our street. Has there been anything unusual that you’ve noticed?”

“What do you mean? Like what?”

“I don’t know. Strange phone calls. Hang-ups, maybe.”

“No. Nothing at all. Why?”

“Nothing. Old business that keeps resurfacing. We just need to be careful for the next little while.”

“John, there’s something else we have to worry about. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“I’ve just come back from the hospital. Your father’s in intensive care.”

14

A
BOUT THE TIME
C
ARDINAL HAD TAKEN OFF
for New York, Lise Delorme had finished the more prosaic task of designing and running off missing person flyers bearing Dr. Cates’s photograph.
Have you seen this person?
Delorme’s phone number was printed at the bottom. Szelagy was spending his morning canvassing the doctor’s neighbours in the Twickenham. Delorme left half the flyers on Szelagy’s desk, then went down to the ident section.

Of all the rooms in the police station just then, ident was the one that was suffering the most. The entire ceiling was gone, and the officers had set up makeshift plastic tents over their desks and file cabinets. The plastic kept the dust off their equipment, and also did a neat job of preventing any circulation. What it didn’t keep out was the noise of construction above them.

“How can you work in here?” Delorme said to Arsenault. She had to shout over the screech of a metal drill. “There’s no air.”

“Air?” Arsenault said. “My hearing’s being destroyed and you’re worried about air?”

Collingwood looked up at Delorme for a moment then back at his computer, imperturbable as a monk.

Delorme and Arsenault stepped into the hall.

“What can you give me from Dr. Cates’s office?”

“It’s a doctor’s office—they keep it clean. I hope you weren’t expecting a zillion fingerprints or anything.”

“One would be fine.”

“Well, we got a lot more than that, but mostly they belong to Dr. Cates and her assistant. We’re running the rest for records, but nothing so far.”

“And the bandage wrapper?”

“Prints from the doctor. Nothing else.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Paul. What about the paper from the examining table? The assistant swears it was changed Monday night, but yesterday morning it had been used.”

“No hair, no fibre, unfortunately. But we did come up with some traces of blood. We typed it AB-negative.”

“That’s rare, isn’t it?”

“Pretty rare. We’ve sent it down to the Forensic Centre for DNA analysis, but you know the drill—it’s going to take a while.”

Delorme drove through a light freezing rain to the home of Dr. Raymond Choquette. Ray Choquette had been in practice in Algonquin Bay for twenty-five years. He lived in a three-storey red brick house on Baxter, a tiny, sloping side street less than four blocks from St. Francis Hospital. Delorme could name at least three doctors off the top of her head who lived on Baxter. Her parents used to bring her to a doctor named Renaud who had lived on this street. He had been a gruff old codger, a throat specialist who always wore a reflective lamp on his forehead. He had always threatened to take Delorme’s tonsils out but died before he got the chance.

There was a Toyota RAV4 parked by the side door of the Choquette home. With the temperature dropping, the Toyota was covered with a fine glaze of ice. Delorme parked behind it, jotting down the licence number before she got out of the car.

When Choquette opened the door on the front porch, Delorme showed her badge and introduced herself in French.

“You’re lucky you caught me,” Choquette replied in English. “This time tomorrow the wife and I’ll be in Puerto Rico.” He was a tall man in his mid-fifties, with a ruddy complexion that made him look jolly—which Delorme suspected he was not—and a long straight nose that made him look snobbish, which Delorme suspected he was.

Delorme continued in English. “Dr. Choquette, do you know a woman named Winter Cates?”

“Yes, of course I do. She’s taking over my practice. Took over, I should say. Is there some kind of trouble? Don’t tell me the place has been broken into again …”

“I’m afraid Dr. Cates is missing.”

“Missing? What does that mean, exactly? She hasn’t shown up for work?”

“She hasn’t been seen or spoken to since late Monday night when she was home watching TV. Yesterday morning she missed a surgery she was scheduled to assist at, and she hasn’t shown up for her office hours either.”

“Perhaps she had an accident. All this rain—and now it’s turning to ice.”

“Dr. Cates is missing. Her car isn’t.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds bad. Are you sure? I saw her just a few days ago.”

“Do you mind if I come in and ask a few questions?”

Dr. Choquette’s ruddy face sagged a little, but he made a show of good cheer. “By all means. Come in, come in. Anything I can do to help …”

Choquette led Delorme into a small TV room. It was tiny, cozy, full of bookshelves stacked with English titles. Delorme had a sudden sense that Dr. Choquette was one of those Ontario French Canadians, rare these days, who attach themselves entirely to the English culture and forsake their own background. Many of the shelves contained golfing videos and trophies. Apparently he was a regular at the local tournaments. There were small trophies and large ones, golden men wielding golden clubs, plaques, cups, mugs and fixtures from various courses he had played. A photograph on the wall showed Choquette in plaid pants and yellow cardigan next to some famous golfer; Delorme wasn’t sure if it was Jack Nicklaus or the other one. Except for Tiger Woods, all golfers looked the same to her: men in funny pants.

“I hope nothing’s happened to her,” Choquette kept saying. “I just hope she’s all right.”

“You said you saw her recently. When was that, exactly?”

“It was at Wal-Mart. Yes, it was at Wal-Mart, and I know that was Thursday.”

“Did she seem under any particular stress to you?”

“Not at all. She’s a chipper thing. Intrepid, is my impression—you know, nothing gets her down.”

“Any enemies that you know about? Anyone she was afraid of? Worried about?”

“Winter? I can’t imagine her having an enemy in the world. She’s totally gregarious. Been here six months and already she’s got more friends at the hospital than I had in my first six years. And I’ll tell you her secret: she loves to assist.”

“Assist?”

“In the O.R. Surgery. She let it be known right away that she liked to assist, and that’s rare.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why?” Choquette looked at Delorme as if she were a dolt. “Because it doesn’t pay, that’s why. The Ontario government in its infinite wisdom has structured payments so that a GP is much better off seeing patients in his own practice than assisting at surgery. Spend two hours in the O.R. and you get paid the same as treating two or three patients. Obviously, you can see a lot more than two or three patients in that time. These days the Hippocratic oath may as well be a vow of poverty. Do you know what I get paid if I set your broken arm? Less than half what a vet gets paid for putting a splint on your dog. Please. Don’t get me started on that subject. All you need to know about Winter Cates is that she’s really well liked in the medical community. Totally unruffled sort, and a great sense of humour. Believe me, a sense of humour is highly prized in the O.R.”

“It goes a long way in police work too,” Delorme said.

More questions elicited the information that Dr. Winter Cates interned at Sick Kids, did her residency at Toronto General.

“Dr. Cates is an attractive person,” Delorme said. “Do you know anything about her romantic life at all?”

“There you have me. I wouldn’t know a thing. I had the impression she had someone in Sudbury, but beyond that I can’t help you. Dr. Cates loves her work, and all we ever talk about is medicine.”

“And you sold her your practice, is that correct?”

“Sold? No, you can’t sell a practice, not in this province, anyway. No, no. I met her down at Toronto General when she was doing her residency and, like everybody else, was totally charmed. She said she’d love to set up in Algonquin Bay, and I mulled that over. I’d been planning to retire for a decade at least. Anyway, I offered to take her on as a partner for six months and then I’d make my graceful exit. Which I have done.”

“Dr. Choquette, when did you purchase your tickets to Puerto Rico?”

“Months ago. I don’t see what my tickets have to do with anything.”

“May I see them, please?”

The doctor rose, even redder in the face, and Delorme could see him working to restrain his temper as he left the room. He returned a moment later with the tickets and handed them over without a word. Two return tickets to Puerto Rico, purchased in November, returning in one week.

“Thank you.” Delorme handed the tickets back. “Where are you planning to stay?”

“A lovely resort called Palmas del Mar, on the south coast. Do you know it?”

“No.” Having no interest in Caribbean vacations, Delorme was not entirely sure where Puerto Rico was, other than somewhere past Florida.

“Gorgeous place. Perfect location—a little short on beachfront, but they make up for it with one of the finest golf courses you’ve ever seen.”

“And can you tell me where you were Monday night, Doctor? Round about midnight?”

“Playing bridge with friends. We have a regular Monday night game that—Goddammit, surely you can’t suspect me of having anything to do with this? A young doctor goes missing, what’s that got to do with me, for God’s sake?”

Delorme took her time to respond, watching a vein that throbbed in Dr. Choquette’s temple. “You have financial dealings with Dr. Cates. All right, you didn’t sell her your practice, but there’s a large office full of equipment. My understanding is you had a disagreement over what was included in the transfer of your practice. And you were angry about it.”

“Oh, really.” Dr. Choquette crossed his arms and looked Delorme up and down. “I’d love to know who you’ve been talking to.”

“Dr. Cates is refusing to pay you what you think the stuff is worth, is that it?”

“Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. I should have used a lawyer—I normally do for all my business dealings—but for some reason I didn’t in this case. Maybe because Winter’s so—well, she’s very appealing, let’s say. We are having a dispute over depreciation. Do you know how much an examining table costs new? I thought we had found a figure comfortably in the middle between what I could get for the stuff if I put it up for sale, and what Winter would have to pay if she had to buy it new. Apparently I was wrong. I mean, ask her, if you think I’m lying.”

“Dr. Cates isn’t here to ask, unfortunately. How much money was involved?”

“Not a fortune. A couple of thousand. It’s the principle of the thing. Look, she’s probably got eighty to a hundred grand in education costs to pay off, and every penny counts. No doubt she really believes we agreed to the lower figure, but it’s just wishful thinking on her part. Anyway, it’s not a big deal. Now, if you don’t have any more questions …”

“No more questions. But I’ll need the names of your bridge partners.”

Next stop: Glenn Freemont, unpleasant patient.

Freemont answered the door in his bathrobe, which looked as if it had seen several previous owners, at least one of whom had died in it. He was a runt of a man in his mid-thirties, with the oiliest hair Delorme had ever seen.

“Mr. Freemont, I’m investigating the disappearance of Dr. Winter Cates,” she said after she had introduced herself. “May I come in and ask a few questions?” The door to Freemont’s basement apartment had no awning, and Delorme had no umbrella. Icy drops of rain were inching down her neck.

“Why?” Freemont was leaning with his hand against the door jamb, as if to block any sudden moves.

“You’re a patient of Dr. Cates. I need to ask you some questions.”

“She’s got a million patients. Why are you coming to me?”

“Mr. Freemont, would you rather have a thorough scrutiny of your workmen’s comp? Maybe I should just give them a call.”

“Go ahead. I’m cut off anyway, those jerks. I got a bad back. I never used to have a bad back. And the reason I got one now is because I lug cans of paint up and down two flights of stairs all day. Try it sometime. See how you like it.”

“You had a screaming fit at Dr. Cates’s office. Was that because she wouldn’t back up your claim?”

“It wasn’t a screaming fit. We had a discussion, that’s all.”

“According to witnesses, you slammed the desk with your fist and kicked over a plant.”

“She called me a liar. I don’t take that kind of shit. Not from anyone.”