by Giles Blunt
“They phoned the info down to us. Completely routine procedure. We run a check on Howard Matlock. Nothing against. Then—and this is the same day I’m talking about—the guy turns up again in the middle of the night. Night-shift security catches him on the perimeter, with those binoculars practically glued to his face.”
“On the perimeter,” Cardinal said. “If he was a spy, he must be the most inept spy the world has ever seen. I’ve been up to that base, and there’s absolutely nothing to see until you get two miles inside the mountain. It’s trees and rock. Period.”
“True enough. But his objective may not have been the installation hardware—it may have been the security itself. The whole point may have been to check out their strength by getting himself caught. We just don’t know. The worst thing is, security screwed up. Screwed up big time. They neglected to check the day ledger when they caught the guy, so they didn’t know he’d already been nicked earlier. Unbelievable as it seems, they let him go. By the time security realized their mistake, it was too late. That’s when they called us for the second time. There were some red faces up there.”
Squier clicked his remote and the laptop went dark. He folded it up with a snap. “My superior called me at six in the morning. Told me to be on the seven o’clock flight to Algonquin Bay. Security had taken down Matlock’s licence plate number—a rental car from Toronto air-port—and the Loon Lodge address. But I got here too late. I never even caught sight of him, and then suddenly you guys were all over his cabin.”
“What would you have done if you had found him?”
“Followed him, of course. Not me personally—we use surveillants for that sort of thing.”
“Really,” Musgrave said. “We use cops.”
“It’s unfortunate I didn’t catch up with this individual before he got killed. Personally, I suspect he isn’t anything to worry about. No links to al-Qaeda or anyone like that. But not having cleared him, and him being dead after two hits on CADS security—well, let’s just say it raises red flags. And that’s what puts us in the ball game.”
“Well, maybe we could get the OPP in on this too,” Cardinal said.
“Oh, I don’t think the provincial police have any jurisdiction here.”
“He was joking,” Musgrave said.
“We could get the Knights of Columbus and the Ladies’ Auxiliary,” Cardinal went on. “And the Elks might be interested too. I mean, we’ve practically got enough for a curling team already.”
“Yes, I thought you might not be pleased,” Squier said.
“Home turf and all that. I just want you to know that I’m here—and CSIS is here—to give you every possible assistance. You’ll probably want to see my ID.” He pulled out an embossed employment card with his picture on it. “You can call that number for confirmation of everything I’ve said.”
“Believe me,” Musgrave said to Cardinal, “I’ve done that. He’s for real, and so is CSIS, and that’s just the way things are. Make whatever calls you have to make, and then why don’t you bring us up to date on where you’re at with the investigation?”
Cardinal considered calling Chouinard and raising bloody hell, but he had a strong sense that it would get him nowhere. He was also grateful that Squier was pretending they’d never met.
“Basically, there’s nothing to tell,” he began. “Forensics doesn’t have a lot to work with—an arm, an ear, pieces of leg, scalp, bits of pelvis. The guy was killed, then he was hacked up, then he was fed to the bears. The story Matlock gave the owner of Loon Lodge is that he was here to check out the ice fishing. There were no other guests, and so far the only lead we have is a paint scraping taken from where the body was chopped up. We’re looking for a late-model Ford Explorer, walnut brown. We’ve got an ad coming out in tonight’s Lode asking for help from anyone who may have talked to Matlock.”
“Tell me if I’m being rude,” Musgrave said, “but have you examined his car? CSIS here says he rented a red Escort.”
“We’re looking for the car. Are we done here? I’d like to get on with it.”
“What about the American end?” Squier asked. “What’s first on the agenda down there?”
Musgrave stared out the grimy window at the traffic on MacPherson, as if the question had nothing to do with him.
“First thing we have to do with New York,” Cardinal said, “is notify next of kin, if there are any, and interview them. We’ll have to ask the usual questions—any enemies, et cetera, recent altercations …”
“I can do that,” Squier said with childlike eagerness. “Why don’t you let me do that? I have to handle a lot of American stuff anyway, liaising with the FBI and so on.”
Musgrave turned on him. “Do us all a favour, will you? Put one of your former Mounties on it. What the hell do you CSIS infants know about investigating a murder? Or investigating anything for that matter?”
“The top brass at CSIS may still be former Mounties from the old security service days,” Squier said, “but among the rank and file there’s hardly any of them left. And frankly, I don’t think my superior is going to want them on this case.”
“You little dorks with your laptops and your cell-phones—you think you run the universe, don’t you.”
“Sergeant Musgrave, I’m sure you know that the former Mounties on CSIS staff were never criminal investigators; they were security officers, same as I am.”
“Oh, really? And I’m sure you know—or would know, if you took the trouble to look back a little further—that a lot of those security men put in ten or fifteen years in the criminal divisions before moving on to security. Unfortunately, when the media went Mountie-hunting, a little window dressing was in order, so Ottawa passes a new law and abracadabra: you jerks do exactly what the Mounties were doing, only now it’s legal. Oh yes, and dear me, so sorry, I hope you don’t mind—a lot of damned good men were forced out.”
There was a slight tremor in Musgrave’s voice that spoke of emotions more complicated than anger. Cardinal had never seen him so upset, and surprised himself by feeling the beginnings of something like sympathy for the man.
Squier started to speak, then apparently thought better of it and started over. “I can’t change ancient history. And believe it or not, I’m not here to make trouble. But we need your co-operation, and the fact is, I’m not asking. If you want to dispute that, either of you can take it up with my superior in Toronto or with CSIS Ottawa. You have the number. When you’re ready to co-operate, give me a call. I’m at the Hilltop Motel.” He tucked his laptop under his arm and left the room.
When he was gone, Cardinal gave a low whistle.
“My God,” Musgrave said. “Somebody shoot me.”
6
CARDINAL DROVE TO THE TRIANON HOTEL out on the bypass. If Algonquin Bay could be said to have a scene for power lunches, the Trianon would be it—not that anyone would give the food anything more than two stars—simply because, of the few higher-class places in town, it was by far the most expensive.
And the Trianon possessed, Cardinal had to admit, a certain Old World charm that was hard to find in Algonquin Bay. As he stepped inside, he could see it gleaming in the silver, twinkling in the chandeliers and candelabra. He could only afford to come here on special occasions; the last had been Kelly’s graduation.
“Which party?” the maître d’ inquired, with a passable imitation of Parisian hauteur.
“I’m meeting R.J. Kendall.”
The maître d’ led him across the crowded dining room. Cardinal recognized an assistant Crown attorney and nodded to a provincial court justice. Police Chief Kendall was ensconced in a plush side room that Cardinal had never seen before.
“It’s the Windigo man himself,” Kendall said as Cardinal entered. The chief’s face was florid, not from embarrassment or drink but from high blood pressure. “Do you know Paul Laroche, here? Of Laroche Real Estate?”
“Of course. I mean, I know who you are,” Cardinal said, shaking hands with the man who s
tood to greet him. Laroche was no taller than Cardinal, but he gave the impression of size—massive chest, wide shoulders—a man who could take care of himself. His grip was strong without being showy.
“Haven’t I seen you out at the club?” Laroche said.
“Blue Heron Club,” R.J. explained. “Paul owns it.”
“With partners,” Laroche said. “Are you a golfer?”
“Not me,” Cardinal said. “Haven’t got the patience. I want to just carry the ball right over to the pocket.”
“Not a golfer. Are you a hunting man, then? A skier?”
“None of the above. In summer I like to go out in the boat. Watching the hockey game’s about as close to any sport as I get. Unless you consider woodworking a sport.”
Laroche smiled. His dark hair had flecks of grey in it, but it was close-cropped, in a clinging style that flattered his well-shaped head. He was wearing a beautifully cut chalk-stripe that must have cost four times the highest sum Cardinal had ever paid for a suit. He looked like an investment banker.
“You said you’re impatient. But I would have thought patience was a necessary virtue in your line of work, “ he said, sitting down again.
“Actually, Detective Cardinal is one of our stars,” R.J. said. “Remember the Windigo case?”
“Really? That must have been something,” Laroche said. “To take down two serial killers in one case. Quite a victory. And you probably saved a lot of lives.”
“I had help. Lise Delorme was the one who actually—”
Laroche raised his hand. “Lise Delorme,” he said. “I know that name …”
“Well, she was in the papers a lot with the Windigo thing. She—”
“No,” Laroche said. “She’s the one who brought Mayor Wells to grief.”
“Yes, she did. Performed a real service to the city that time.”
“Oh? You think so?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” R.J. said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we’d better get our orders in. What’s good, Paul?”
“The maple-glazed venison is your best bet. But you must let me order the wine.”
The Trianon mostly succeeds in its efforts to ape European elegance, but the one area in which it falls down is the staff. Instead of old professionals, diners are waited on by charming but not necessarily competent young women. Laroche was polite but firm with the knock-kneed, freckled creature who served them.
Real estate was obviously a paying proposition. Laroche’s whole being glowed with money the way an athlete’s body glows with health. It shone in the gold cufflinks, glinting against the snowy perfection of French cuffs. It shone in the just-right shade of tan of Laroche’s face—a skier, Cardinal surmised.
After they had ordered, Kendall said, “You mustn’t get Paul onto politics, Detective Cardinal. He’s one of the key men behind Premier Mantis.”
“Of course. You ran his local campaign,” Cardinal said.
“Which is the reason for this meeting,” Kendall said. “The Conservatives are having a major fundraiser this coming weekend, and Paul is asking for extra police presence.”
“Plain clothes? Shouldn’t you be talking to Chouinard about this?”
“Chouinard’s already agreed. We’re thinking two detectives—Delorme and you.”
“This will not be too onerous,” Laroche said. “It’s going to be at our new ski club—the Highlands?—and the dinner will be sumptuous, I assure you. Except for being on watch for suspicious individuals, I think you’ll manage to enjoy yourselves.”
“You’ll need more than two detectives to secure an event like that.”
“We’ll have our own private security, of course. They will be on the doors and backstage and so on. But frankly—in the wake of September 11—I don’t think private security’s enough. I’ll be much more comfortable if we have a couple of professionals right in among the tables. Premier Mantis is a very prominent figure.”
“We’ll put three or four patrolmen outside as well,” R.J. said.
“Are we going to be doing this for the Liberals and the NDP, too?” Cardinal said to Kendall.
“Certainly. If they ask us.”
“They won’t,” Laroche said. “Their political fortunes are such, these days, any fundraiser they hold is likely to be a low-profile affair. We are, after all, the only party with a provincial premier as its candidate.”
The food arrived, and the venison was as good as any Cardinal had ever tasted. He was tempted to try the Bordeaux with it—the chief wouldn’t have minded—but he wanted to be absolutely clear-headed for the afternoon.
They discussed various angles of security for the fundraiser. Cardinal tried not to let his impatience show. Security detail was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about while investigating a murder. Laroche had brought a floor plan of the new club, and they talked about deployment of the security personnel inside, patrol officers outside and the two detectives among the guests.
When they were having their coffee, Laroche said to Cardinal, “So you didn’t care for Mayor Wells, I take it? You know, he was a wonderful mayor.”
“Well, yes—if you ignore the fact that he was stuffing ballot boxes. You don’t think he deserved what he got?”
Laroche looked Cardinal up and down—taking his time about it. “People in our society have decided it is a crime to stuff ballot boxes. That makes it a crime. In other places it’s not a crime, or it’s overlooked. It’s not inherently evil. And one shouldn’t forget all the things Mayor Wells did for this city.”
“He built the airport. He built the overpass. Then he stole an election.”
“Let’s not make him out to be Richard Nixon,” Kendall said.
“There’s good and bad mixed in every man, don’t you think?” Laroche said. “For example, you saved the city from a murderous rampage, but I’m willing to bet there are things in your life that might not look so heroic on page one of the Toronto Star.”
“You’re right there,” Cardinal said. He thought of the anniversary card. We know where you live.
“And Wells was a character. People underestimate how important that is in a leader. That’s why I could never run for office myself, much as I’d love to. Too colourless.”
“But you’re very impressive,” Cardinal said. “We’ve just been introduced, and I’m sitting here, impressed. That’s half the battle, isn’t it?”
Laroche laughed, showing perfect teeth.
“I’m a behind-the-scenes man, born and bred, Detective. Give me a candidate like Geoff Mantis, I’ll do everything I can to get him elected. I’ll call in the debts, twist the arms, you name it. But run for office myself? Not a chance.”
Laroche spoke as if he were laying out his points in a seminar, his modulation highly educated. Cardinal wondered if he had lived abroad. Laroche gripped Cardinal’s arm lightly. “Forgive me for being so earnest. These questions are on my mind, what with the election coming up.”
“Is Geoff Mantis going to win again?”
“Oh, yes. I’m going to make sure of it.”
After the luxurious interior of the Trianon, the parking lot felt even more cold and damp. Disembodied headlights glided through the mist along the bypass, and rain felt imminent.
Laroche climbed behind the wheel of a Lincoln Navigator that was parked by the restaurant entrance. He rolled down the window and said, “R.J., I forgot to ask—how are things progressing with your body in the woods?”
Kendall shrugged. “It’s Detective Cardinal’s case. We have some leads. We’re moving along. Right, Detective?”
“Not as fast as I’d like. But I always feel that way.”
“Don’t worry,” Laroche said. “If your record on the Windigo case is anything to go by, you’ll have this matter wrapped up in no time.” He drove off into the fog, his turn signal winking toward town.
“Smooth character,” Cardinal said.
“Rich character. Not bad for a guy who grew up in an orphanage. I mean, running the prem
ier’s campaign?”
“I voted against Mantis.”
“Luckily,” Kendall said, “most people had better sense.”
On his way downtown again, Cardinal called his father on the cellphone.
“Hold on a second. I’m just pulling some chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.”
Since his wife had died ten years previously, Stan had taken up an interest in cooking. It still gave Cardinal a kick to see his father—tough, sinewy Stan Cardinal, with his muscular forearms and powerful chest—wearing an apron and wiping flour from his hands. Cookies were his specialty.
“Did you see the cardiologist?”
“Catherine drove me up this morning. Dr. Cates irritated the hell out of me, but she knows how to get things done, I’ll say that for her.”
“What’s the cardiologist say?”
“He’s scheduling me for a bunch of tests up at the hospital. He thinks I have congestive heart failure.”
“What? Dad, why didn’t you get this taken care of six months ago?”
“It’s not a big deal, John. It’s just some tests. And he’s giving me tons of drugs. I think they’re working already.”
“Heart failure, though. I wish you weren’t living out to hell and gone.”
“Nonsense. Whole reason I moved in here was so you wouldn’t have to worry about me. Why the hell do you think I got a bungalow? No damn stairs to break my neck on, that’s why. This is the easiest place in the world to keep clean and get around in. I’ve got peace and quiet and fresh air. I’ve got my stereo and my VCR and the best microwave on the market. I’m telling you, I’m king of the castle, here.”
“Well, if the fog gets any worse, you might want to think about moving in with us for the duration.”