The Delicate Storm (17 page)

“That doesn’t mean he knew her.”

“We won’t know till we ask.”

“You forget—I’m not working the Cates case, remember?”

“No, but you’re working security for Laroche’s fundraiser. Can’t hurt to talk to the guy.”

They met outside Laroche Real Estate, which was located in a beautifully restored Edwardian house on MacIntosh with porthole windows and an ornate L-shaped veranda.

A glossy young woman directed them to the Mantis campaign headquarters a few doors down, in a converted storefront that had been vacant for years. The interior was furnished with old metal desks and what looked like a hundred phones. Many of these were manned by middle-aged housewives, but there was also a platoon of eager-looking young men in shirt sleeves. It was one of these, a kid no more than eighteen, who went to fetch Laroche. So young, Cardinal thought, and so conservative.

“Detective Cardinal,” Laroche said when he came out. “How nice to see you again.” He handed a stack of paper to his pimply assistant and said, “These are fine.”

Cardinal introduced Delorme.

“The notorious Detective Delorme,” Laroche said with a smile. “I’ll have to watch what I say.”

He led them back to an ugly little cubicle with cheap pine panelling and metal bookshelves full of videotapes. One wall was dominated by a huge poster of a smiling Premier Mantis standing in front of the Ontario flag. On the windowsill, a combined TV/VCR was playing a tape of Mantis joking with reporters outside Queen’s Park; the sound was off. A snapshot on a bookshelf showed Laroche and Mantis dressed in hunting gear, grinning amid brilliant fall foliage.

The only seating consisted of task chairs rolled up against a table with three computers and telephones on it.

“Have a seat,” Laroche said. “I don’t imagine you’re used to such luxury.”

“I feel right at home,” Cardinal said.

“You’ve met with Ed Beacom, I take it. Have you worked out the security arrangements?”

“We’ll be meeting with Ed soon,” Cardinal said. “That isn’t actually what we came to talk about.”

“Oh?”

Cardinal looked at Delorme:
It’s your case
.

“Mr. Laroche,” Delorme said, “did you know Winter Cates?”

“The young woman who was murdered? I assume the reason you’re asking is because she lived in one of my buildings.”

“Did you know her?”

“I met her once. I happened to be at the Twickenham the day she moved in. Lovely young woman. Good doctor, too, from what I hear. It’s a terrible loss.”

“When you met her, was there anything about her that gave you cause for concern?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Perhaps there was something unusual on her rental application. Or maybe there was someone with her …”

“Just a couple of moving men, I think.”

“And you never saw her again?”

“I own a lot of buildings. I don’t manage them day-to-day.”

“I know,” Delorme said. “I used to be one of your tenants.”

“Really?” Laroche said. “Which building?”

“The Balmoral, over on MacPherson. Not for long, though.”

“Well, I’m sorry we didn’t keep you.”

“Too expensive. The city doesn’t pay me enough.”

Laroche laughed. He said something in French that Cardinal didn’t catch, and Delorme said something back. Cardinal sensed that she found Laroche attractive, even though he must have had twenty-something years on her. Perhaps it was the dark good looks, greying at the edges. Or perhaps it was the self-assurance that wafted around him like expensive aftershave.

“I’m glad you came by,” Laroche said. “I was going to call R.J. and run an idea by him. It’s the first time one of my tenants has been murdered, and I have to say I don’t like it one bit. I was wondering if a reward would be any use. Understand,” he said, touching Delorme’s sleeve, “I don’t want to blunder in where I’m not wanted. I know sometimes rewards can help, and if that’s the case with this matter, then I’d be prepared to put up twenty thousand or so.”

Delorme looked at Cardinal. Cardinal just shrugged; it was her call.

“It’s very generous of you,” Delorme said. “But it’s early days yet. What makes you think we wouldn’t catch the killer without a reward?”

“I don’t doubt your competence, Detective. After Mayor Wells—not to mention the Windigo case—who could? It’s just that Dr. Cates was a young woman, full of promise.”

“And she was your tenant.”

“This would be entirely anonymous, of course. But as I say, I don’t want to interfere if you think it won’t help.”

Delorme glanced at Cardinal and back to Laroche. “My feeling is, it’s too early. This isn’t a case where we suspect a group of people. If it was a gang thing, or a drug thing, I would say go for it. You get one of them to turn on the others, it’s the fastest way to make your case. But we’re looking at a one-off crime here. So I don’t think it would do much good—unless you’re offering the reward to the killer for turning himself in.”

Laroche smiled. “Not what I had in mind, Detective. It must serve you well in your line of work, that sense of humour.”

Delorme shrugged. “You asked my opinion,” she said. “That’s it.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” Laroche said. “It’s an open offer.”

“Do you think it was odd, him offering a reward?” Cardinal said when they were outside.

“Not really. That’s the kind of guy he is. He’s a real force in the francophone community—very active in the church and charities and so on. What I like about him, he never takes credit for anything.”

“You just think he’s sexy,” Cardinal said.

“You have no idea what I think,” Delorme said. But she didn’t deny it, Cardinal noticed.

When he got back to the station, Cardinal went straight to the evidence room, where he signed out the box of Matlock–Shackley’s personal effects that had been removed from the cabin at Loon Lodge. He took it back to his desk, where he proceeded to remove items in no particular order. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for; it was just that, now that the dead man’s identity had changed, the things he had left behind might look different, perhaps lead in new directions.

Cardinal pulled out a shaving kit, a compact silver case that unfolded into a mirror. A small metal handle screwed into separate razor or toothbrush heads. It had a pleasing precision about it, like the parts of a gun. He wasn’t sure if the kit was expensive or not; he’d never seen one like it. The manufacturer’s logo was engraved into the case, above the words,
Made in France
. Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean Shackley bought it there.

The question of price made him take a closer look at the clothes. He pulled out a Brooks Brothers blazer, shiny at the elbows, frayed at the cuffs. The two shirts also had good labels and were exceedingly worn, as if Shackley hadn’t bought anything new in twenty years. Cardinal pulled out a sock with a hole in the heel. Apparently the CIA’s retirement plan was stingy.

He wished once again that they would find the damn car. There could be something crucial there. In fact, Shackley might have been murdered in the car. Why else would the killer take so much trouble to hide it or destroy it? Red Escort? Avis sticker? Why hadn’t it turned up yet?

He pulled the dead man’s plane ticket from the box: New York return to Toronto, American Airlines, five hundred dollars. Shackley had booked the flight a month ago, lots of advance notice; why did he pay so much for a coach fare?

Cardinal looked at the codes. Ah yes, no restrictions. Shackley wanted to be able to change his return date. Which suggested he hadn’t been sure how long he was going to be here. Whatever he was working on, the outcome hadn’t been certain.

And why had he been calling Montreal? Was there a connection there that had led him to Algonquin Bay?

Cardinal rubbed his forehead. He had the feeling there was some important deduction to be made here, which someone with a faster mind would be able to make right away, but it was beyond him. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

“Talking to yourself again?” Delorme said. She sat down next to him.

“Yeah. And it’s not helping.”

“What about the phone bills? You said he made some calls to Montreal?”

“They’re all unlisted. The only number I got through to was something called the Beau Soleil Daycare Centre.”

“A sixty-year-old New Yorker, he’s calling a Montreal daycare centre?”

“I know. Musgrave’s got their Montreal guys tracing the others.”

He was telling Delorme about the negative he had found in Shackley’s apartment when Paul Arsenault came in. Cardinal called across the squad room, “Hey, Arsenault. Did you develop that negative?”

“What’s the matter? You don’t check your inbox?” Arsenault grabbed a manila envelope out of Cardinal’s inter-office mailbox and tossed it onto his desk. “And before you ask: no, there were no fingerprints on the negative.”

Cardinal undid the clasp of the envelope and slid out two eight-by-twelve prints of the same photograph, handing one to Delorme. Black and white. A group shot of four young people: one woman, three men. Two of the men had long sideburns and moustaches; the third had a full beard. Cardinal held it up to the light. They looked happy, confident, grinning broadly for the camera, posed in front of two curtainless windows. Outside the windows, a view of trees and a church spire glinting in the sunlight.

“Pretty long hair,” Delorme noted. She was peering nearsightedly at her copy. “And look at the shirts on the guys, those collars.”

“Could be from the seventies,” Cardinal said.

“They look like a bunch of lumberjacks, except for the girl.”

“Hey, everybody.” Ken Szelagy stuck his head in the door, yelling over the top of the cubicles. He was holding a cellphone to one ear. “Time to saddle up. Sounds like we’ve got the car.”

The red Ford Escort was at the bottom of a disused quarry just off Highway 17. It had been found by a hiking enthusiast named Vince Carey. He had a completely shaved head, and a small tattoo of an eagle at the top of his neck.

“I was disgusted,” he told Cardinal. “I mean, you can’t just dump a car in the middle of the forest, even if it is a former quarry.”

“What made you come hiking through here in the middle of winter?”

“Well, it’s so beautiful with the ice over everything. And this area used to be kinda cool, you know? Last time I was through here—must’ve been about three years ago—runoff had formed a natural reservoir, almost a tiny lake, up to about there.” He pointed to a moss green line in the side of the granite cliffs.

“Did you see anyone else in the area today?”

“Not a soul. Nice and quiet.” Carey ran a hand over his scalp. “When I saw the water was gone, I thought I’d climb along the side of the cliff. Didn’t expect to see a damn car at the bottom. Pissed me off. So when I climbed back up to the highway later, I called Natural Resources to tell ’em about it, but they told me if it was a vehicle, I should call you guys. Which is what I did.”

“Okay, thanks for your help, Mr. Carey,” Cardinal said. “We’ll call you if we need anything more.”

“My pleasure.” He looked down the cliff to where Szelagy, Arsenault and Collingwood were crawling around the overturned car, then back to Cardinal. “Sure are a lot of you for one abandoned car, aren’t there?”