The Delicate Storm

by Giles Blunt

  “Looks good to me,” Delorme said.

  Cardinal shrugged. “As long as we’re facing the back.”

  “That’s what I thought too,” Beacom said. He rolled up the floor plan. “I’ll tell their coordinator and I’ll let you know if there’s any change. Personally, I thought the two of you should have earpieces and wireless mics, but Laroche nixed that. Said it killed the whole advantage of having a couple of cops among the guests. He’s got a point.”

  A few minutes later Beacom introduced them to the associates who would also be at the fundraiser. One was a retired firefighter Cardinal had worked with many times; the other two were young men barely out of high school.

  Delorme pretty much summed up his feelings when they were in the car heading back to the station.

  “This job,” she said. “Sometimes I wish I’d taken up something more satisfying—like, say, sanitation.”

  28

  THE FRUSTRATIONS OF THE JOB, along with the loss of his father, had begun to tell on Cardinal. He didn’t go in to work for the next couple of days, and dealt instead with the sad details of the funeral. There were visiting hours at the funeral home, and there was the ceremony itself at the cathedral, followed by the cremation. Kelly had wanted to come home, and so had Cardinal’s brother, but the ice storm had hit the airport hard and there was nothing flying into or out of Algonquin Bay. Despite the condolences of friends and colleagues, and the tender concern of his wife, Cardinal found himself getting more and more depressed.

  On Friday he went back to work, and Delorme filled him in on her progress on the case. That took about thirty seconds, because there was no progress. Forensic had had nothing more to report, a second canvassing of Dr. Cates’s neighbours had turned up nothing new, nor had a microscopic examination of Shackley’s personal effects.

  “Okay, look,” Delorme said. “We’re not going to get him at this time. But something will happen—maybe a month from now, maybe a year from now—he’ll make a mistake, or some witness we don’t know about will come forward, and we’ll get our break. But for now it’s just not going to happen.”

  Cardinal closed his file. He felt like setting it on fire.

  “The really grotesque thing,” he said, “the thing that really drives me wild, is that we have to go to his damn fundraiser, for God’s sake.”

  “I know. I asked Chouinard if he could get us out of it, but he said no.”

  “Chouinard. I don’t know what it is that happens to people when they become managers, but it sure happens fast.” Cardinal put his file in the desk and slammed the drawer shut. “You know, even if Laroche wasn’t our prime suspect, I wouldn’t want to help his bloody candidate. Thanks to Mantis and his cutbacks, my father spent his hospital stay stuck in a corridor.”

  Delorme laid a warm hand on his shoulder.

  That night, as Cardinal and Delorme drove through the black, empty streets, they saw three separate transformers explode in beautiful blue flashes.

  West of Sumner Street, the lights were still on. But the street lights were severely weighed down. Several had snapped and lay like severed limbs across the highway, some still lit. Hydro crews were at work clearing them. The shopping malls and the businesses lining the highway were deserted, and the northbound lanes were empty. But a long line of cars snaked out toward Marshall Road. It looked like Laroche’s fundraiser would survive the storm intact.

  “You have to wonder,” Delorme said, “how many people would vote for the premier if they knew his local campaign manager was a murderer.”

  “Maybe quite a few. Some American politician once said, ‘The only way I can lose this election is if I get caught in bed with a dead girl or a live boy.’”

  “That’s what I like about you, Cardinal. You always see the bright side.”

  The road out to the new ski lodge had been so thoroughly salted it was like driving on gravel. The line of tail lights snaked over the hills and into the woods, the whole thing inching along like a rubescent worm.

  Eventually they came to a set of traffic lights that had been knocked out by the ice, and a large sign announcing HIGHLANDS SKI CLUB. As Cardinal waited for the line of cars to move, he read the rest of the sign in the light from his headlights. There was a list of companies involved in the project, primary among them Laroche Development. Beneath the list of companies, in yet smaller print, was another notation: THIS PROJECT WAS PARTIALLY FUNDED BY A NORTHERN DEVELOPMENT GRANT.

  Cardinal turned into the drive. He had to shift the car into low gear to make it up the grade. After about fifty yards the birches cleared and the silvery expanse of the Highlands came into view. The club was built in two sections: a five-storey A-frame set at right angles to a long, low lodge. Cedar cladding gave it the warm but rough-hewn country look favoured by ski clubs, and the steeply pitched roof added an Alpine feel.

  The parking lot was almost full. Clean-cut young men in earmuffs directed cars to the few remaining spaces. Cardinal parked a long way from the lodge doors.

  Beyond the club, the Laurentian foothills flowed away in waves of ice that glowed like skim milk in the light from the club. A line of fifty-foot hydro towers stood at attention across the top of the ridge.

  Inside the front door a large bearded man in a tuxedo stood by a velvet rope, checking invitations. Cardinal and Delorme showed their badges.

  Delorme let out a low whistle as they entered the dining room.

  Cardinal had to admit the place looked spectacular. The cathedral ceiling was hung with Canadian flags and Ontario ensigns. Three fireplaces blazed with the kind of fires that must have warmed medieval castles on such cold winter nights. On the far side of the room, a three-storey glass wall gave a view of the icy hills. Cardinal scanned the crowd, particularly near the front tables, but could see no sign of Laroche.

  Delorme moved up toward the front on the near side. She would be close to the stage steps and have a clear view into the wings on the far side. Cardinal headed for a table directly across the room.

  He could feel the temperature drop as he moved toward the vast expanse of window. There was a sound like distant applause and three hundred heads jerked around to see: it had started to rain again, and the icy droplets clamoured against the glass. Cardinal recognized many faces in the crowd: aldermen, the mayor, several lawyers, a judge, the owner of a large construction firm and at least five real-estate people. Toward the front he noted some old pols from Toronto and a couple of Conservative federal MPs, and the former prime minister. Beacom’s team, complete with earpieces, was posted at various exits.

  A fanfare of trumpets split the air, courtesy of the Highlands’ state-of-the-art sound system. Everyone faced the rear as the double doors swung open and Ontario premier Geoff Mantis strode in, flanked by the usual cohort of men and women in suits, one of them Paul Laroche. They marched up the middle aisle, Mantis waving to everyone, smiling like a lottery winner. The crowd rose to its feet, applauding wildly. There were scattered whistles.

  Mantis shook hands with people at the front tables, then sat down. His wife, Cardinal noted, was nowhere to be seen. Charles Medina, one of the real-estate magnates and president of the local Conservative party, took the stage.

  Medina thanked everyone for coming. He made a couple of jokes about the weather, and several more about the Liberals and the New Democrats. He praised Geoff Mantis, noting the benefits of his leadership: lower taxes, better investment climate, higher profits. Yeah, Cardinal thought, tell us about the closed schools or the growing hordes of homeless people, not to mention the crumbling health care system.

  Medina was interrupted several times by cheers. And when he finally introduced the premier himself, the crowd got to its feet again amid a roaring surf of applause, as Mantis left his table and joined Medina onstage. They shook hands, grasping shoulders and apparently sharing an old-buddies joke. Mantis turned to the crowd, raised his hands in acknowledgement of his welcome and made calming motions, grinning the whole time, until the audience quiete
d and sat down.

  Cardinal was near the stage. He could see the place reserved for him at the third table, but he stayed by the wall.

  Paul Laroche had now appeared in the wings on the far side. It occurred to Cardinal that Laroche might have a drink at some point and leave traces of his DNA on the glass. But Laroche showed no inclination to sit at a table. He was standing, feet apart, arms folded across his chest, a magician watching his sorcery unfold. At the microphone, Mantis posed a series of rhetorical questions: “How would you like a whole raft of higher taxes? How would you like to see more people get paid for doing nothing? How would you like to see our talented businessmen and technical wizards hampered by increased legislation?” Cardinal had heard it all before. So had everyone else in the place, but everyone else in the place liked it.

  Cardinal edged his way around the front tables. Delorme frowned at him as he passed by her toward the stage door.

  “Where are you going?” she said, but Cardinal just waved her back.

  Laroche was no longer in the wings. Nor was he at any of the front tables. Cardinal surveyed the crowd, all staring adoringly at their premier, the hometown boy who made good. Cardinal went out through a side door and into the lobby. Laroche was heading out the front door.

  “You’re not staying for your moment of triumph?”

  Laroche turned, umbrella in hand. “It’s not my moment, Detective. It’s the premier’s.”

  “Still, you pulled it off. Twisted the arms? Pulled the strings?”

  “That’s what a campaign manager does. So my job is done—for the moment, anyway. And I’m fully confident Mr. Mantis will handle the crowd like the professional he is. R.J. told me you’d be staying through the dinner.”

  “I don’t think so. My appetite isn’t what it should be.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. And your investigation—are you making progress?”

  “Oh, yes. We know quite a bit more than we did a week ago. For one thing, it turns out our two murders are connected. And in a way, it involves your line of work.”

  “Which one? Real estate or development?”

  “Politics.”

  Laroche laughed. It was a big, easy laugh, the laugh of a man who knows he’s too important for anyone to tell him he laughs too loud. “Of course, people who don’t know much about politics are always accusing politicians of being rapacious. But they’re not usually accused of actual rape.”

  “Dr. Cates wasn’t raped.”

  “Really? The Lode had it wrong again?”

  “Dr. Cates was murdered. And then the murderer went to some trouble to make it look like rape.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. If you kill someone, how do you then improve your situation by making it also look like rape? You’re compounding the offence.”

  “Possibly. You could also be disguising the motive.”

  “Of course. I hadn’t thought of that. Chief Kendall did say you were good. And, silly me, I just put that down to esprit de corps.” Laroche moved away from the front door and gestured toward the elevator. “I don’t think you’ve seen the rest of the club. Shall I give you a private tour?”

  Cardinal shrugged. “Sure.”

  They stepped into the elevator, which hoisted them soundlessly to the third floor.

  “I’ll show you the northeast corner. That’s the best view—assuming the power doesn’t fail.” Laroche led him along a corridor. The cedar walls and rich red carpet gave a feeling of deep comfort, luxury combined with simplicity.

  “We’re taking bookings for two weeks from now. Believe me, nothing on heaven or earth is going to prevent this place from being open by the time the ice storm moves on. Voilà. Our prime run.”

  They were looking through a wall of glass. Lights on the tow line gave them a sweeping view of the hills, and to the south one could see all the way to Lake Nipissing. The far side of town was in complete darkness.

  “Beautiful,” Cardinal said. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble filling the place.”

  “If I thought otherwise, I’d never have built it.”

  “And you managed to get a Northern Development grant. It was up on the board at the entrance.”

  “Oh, no question. This project falls squarely in their parameters. Will it employ people? Yes. Will it enhance tourism? Absolutely.”

  “I imagine having the premier of the province on your side doesn’t hurt.”

  “Geoff Mantis is my friend, and I’ll do anything—anything legal—to get him elected, but he isn’t so stupid as to try and influence Ontario ministries in my favour.”

  “Of course not. Or CSIS, either.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “I doubt that,” Cardinal said.

  “Shall we go down? I promised my wife I’d be home to put the children to bed.”

  The elevator whisked them back to the ground floor. There was a burst of laughter from the auditorium, followed by applause.

  When they were at the front door, Cardinal said, “You know, I was surprised Yves Grenelle wasn’t mentioned on the project masthead.”

  “Who?” There wasn’t a trace of nerves or fear in the thick, heavy face. The furry eyebrows knit together in consternation, nothing more.

  “Yves Grenelle. He was in the FLQ cell that kidnapped Raoul Duquette. Excuse me, the FLQ cell that killed Raoul Duquette. Grenelle managed to escape just before the others got caught—no doubt assisted by his friend in the CIA, Miles Shackley.”

  “Detective, you have talent and you have persistence—two qualities I admire very much. But the stress of your job must be enormous, and frankly, it seems to be getting to you. Making these disconnected remarks. I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Shortly after he murdered Raoul Duquette—”

  “Hah! That’s a good one, Detective. You’ll have your own grassy knoll next.”

  “Shortly after he murdered Duquette, Yves Grenelle fled to Paris, where he stayed for approximately twenty years. He adopted a new identity. Lost a lot of those rough edges one might expect in a young man from Trois Rivières. Got himself an education, some surface gloss, and finally—probably sometime in the late eighties—he returned to Canada. Mind you, he wasn’t so foolish as to return to Montreal. No, sir. He’d move where no one would be looking for a retired French Canadian terrorist: to Ontario. To Algonquin Bay, to be precise. The Willowbank Apartments, to be even more precise. I know you’ve heard of the Willowbank Apartments.”

  “This is fascinating. Tell me while we walk to the car.”

  Laroche opened his umbrella and held it so it covered both of them. His car, a shiny black Lincoln Navigator, was only steps away, but the wind blew the rain sideways and Cardinal’s legs were getting soaked. Laroche pulled his car keys from his pocket and the door of his Lincoln popped open with a chirp.

  “Get in! Get in! You’ll catch a cold.”

  They got into the car, the interior of which was the size of a small apartment. The rain was loud on the roof. Laroche started the motor and switched on the wipers.

  “Everything went fine for our newly respectable Monsieur Grenelle,” Cardinal said. “He got a good job with Mason & Barnes Real Estate—people with political connections, the kind of people he liked. He was a man on the make, and it looked like nothing could stop him. But then one day a terrible thing happened. An old lover showed up.

  “She didn’t look anything like a terrorist. Cute, petite, those good French bones. And she wasn’t much of a terrorist, really—cooked the odd meal, carried the odd message, wouldn’t hurt a fly. But she was crazy about Yves Grenelle. Or at least she had been, twenty years previously. By 1990, you’d think she’d have forgotten the guy, and maybe she would have, had she not moved into the same damn Willowbank Apartments. What are the chances of that, do you suppose?”

  “Coincidences happen all the time. Where would we be if they didn’t?”

  “How did it happen? Did she bump into him in the elevator? That
’s what you told the police. You said, ‘I didn’t know her. I saw her once or twice in the elevator. I didn’t know her name, even.’ That’s what you told Detective Turgeon. ‘Madeleine Ferrier? Was that her name? I never knew.’”

  “I told your detective the truth. I didn’t know her.”

  “Yves Grenelle did. It was Madeleine Ferrier, and he knew her very well. She’d been totally in love with him, and no doubt he had a good time playing to that hero-worship. It must have been quite a moment in that elevator, when the two of you came face to face for the first time in twenty years. What did she say? ‘Yves, my God! Where have you been all these decades?’

  “Whatever her exact words may have been, you were absolutely certain that she recognized you. That was enough. You’d been so careful, so patient. And things were beginning to look secure. How could you risk your whole new identity? Not possible. So Madeleine Ferrier had to be killed. And she was: strangled with her scarf and then her clothing torn off to make it look like rape.”

  Laroche switched on the CD player. Classical music surrounded them.

  “Poor Detective. You’re really just not having any luck on this case, are you. Obviously, you’ve got no prints, no DNA, none of those wonderful conclusive things that would make your job more satisfying. I mean, you seem to be accusing me of being this retired terrorist, as you call him, this Yves Grenelle. But if you could prove such a thing, we wouldn’t be having this conversation—not here, anyway. You’d have me down at the police station, waving your proof in front of my face. But you don’t have anything to wave and so you’re resorting to a kind of hysteria that’s very unattractive.”

  “Dr. Cates lived in one of your buildings too. When Miles Shackley threatened to expose you, you agreed to meet with him. Probably in his car. You shot him, but you were injured, almost certainly by a gunshot. Why else would you be afraid to go to a hospital? You tried to live with the wound for a couple of days, but you couldn’t. You needed a doctor—a doctor you could force not to report the gunshot. And you knew where to find one. You met her the day she moved into one of your buildings.”