Crime Machine jc-5

by Giles Blunt

  What they were saying made sense, Nikki supposed. She had been wondering why Lemur hadn’t used his gun. Poor guy. She pulled his iPod touch from her pocket. “Um, I took this out of Lemur’s room. Do you think he’d mind?”

  Papa looked at Jack then back to Nikki. “I think he’d probably want you to have it.” He went behind the wet bar and pulled down a brandy glass. He set it on the mantel and came back to stand behind Nikki. “Weaver stance.”

  “You want me to shoot that glass?”

  “That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

  “Maybe I should shoot a tin can instead.”

  “You hear that, Jack?”

  “Reluctance,” Jack said. “Pure reluctance is what I hear.”

  “Exactly. It’s what a criminal, or a terrorist, or a rogue government agent depends on-your reluctance. That is the last time you’re going to express it, Nikki.”

  Nikki adopted the slight crouch, left palm cradling right hand. The handgun packed a bigger thrill than the rifle. It felt so solid, so perfectly contoured for the hand. Even its disproportionate heaviness, once the clip was in, was pleasing.

  Nikki fired and the glass exploded. Jack let out a whoop.

  “Good,” Papa said. “But you hesitated.”

  Over the next half-hour he set up more glasses, an ornamental vase, a cute old teddy bear, several hats, various shirts and jackets belonging to Lloyd, framed photographs, even a couple of statues. They had to weigh a lot, the way Papa and Jack struggled with them. It was the teddy bear that gave her the most trouble.

  “Shoot him,” Papa said. “Save your life. Save your family. Shoot him.”

  Nikki shot the bear and he twirled into the air and landed face down. The stuffing blown out of his back pierced her heart.

  The statues were easier. One of them was a Greek god or something. Some dead Roman. Nikki had seen a similar statue in a museum once. Boring thing with a tiny little dick. She shot at the blank eyes and blew away a chunk of forehead and curls. She fired again and half the nose burst into dust. Suddenly the mouth looked delicate, almost feminine-tiny bow up top, plump droop of the bottom lip. A few more shots and there was no face left, not even much of a head.

  Papa said wonderful things to her the whole time: That’s our girl. You’re Nikki the Kid. You’re making me proud. She never knew words could have such power. She had seen TV images, some frozen wasteland where slabs of ice were breaking off and sliding into the sea. That was the sensation inside her now. Blowing plaster gods to smithereens, a hot automatic in her fist, and she starts to sniffle. Or maybe she was still remembering Lemur.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Papa said. “No reluctance. No hesitation. And most of all, no tears.”

  He unplugged the television. It was a flat panel like the one upstairs, forty inches at least, and he picked it up like it was made of Styrofoam.

  “Aw, not the TV,” Jack said.

  “She has to learn.” Papa set it down in front of the fireplace and plugged it in again. He clicked through channels until he found the kind of image he wanted-a man and woman reading the news. No sound.

  “Shoot the man,” he said.

  “You want me to shoot the TV?”

  “Nikki, this kind of hesitation will kill you. Shoot the man now.”

  Nikki took aim and put a hole through the man’s left eye. His mouth kept moving, head bobbing behind a pool of blackness that fanned out from the hole like black blood.

  Jack let out another whoop. “Watch out, people. Nikki the Kid’s in town!”

  “Shoot the woman,” Papa said, and Nikki did.

  27

  Cardinal put in the call to Peel Regional and spoke to Sergeant Rob Fazulli, who headed up airport security. They had worked together briefly on Toronto vice “back in the Jurassic Period,” as Fazulli put it, but he wasn’t happy to hear from Cardinal again. “We already sent you guys the parking video. Do you know the kind of effort that took?”

  “Car stolen from your airport-you would have had to do that anyway.”

  “And now you want us to match a face from the parking lot to U.S. arrivals?”

  “Just within the hour previous to the car theft.”

  Now he’s going to tell me about the thirty million, Cardinal thought.

  “Cardinal, Pearson handles thirty-two million passengers a year.”

  “And at least one of them decapitated two people in my town. If you’ve got more gruesome murders to deal with, by all means handle them first. Otherwise, you know…”

  “Consider it done,” Fazulli said, and rang off. Consider it done was a phrase they used to employ in Toronto vice when they had no intention of doing whatever was being proposed. Cardinal, not by nature an optimist, in this case chose to think Fazulli was kidding.

  His phone rang as he was hanging up. Toronto Forensics getting back to him on the sawdust. The analyst sounded suspiciously youthful.

  “I’m actually just an intern. I’m working on my doctorate in botany,” he told Cardinal. “When I saw we had a sawdust sample, I took a personal interest and put it under the scope during my lunch hour.”

  “I’m already impressed. What did you find?”

  “White pine and birch. That’s it.”

  “No cedar?” Cardinal said. “No mahogany?”

  “No, no. Just the two-white pine and birch.”

  Cardinal thanked him and hung up. “Hey, McLeod, what do you make of this?”

  McLeod’s face rose like a bloodshot moon above the divider. Cardinal told him the results.

  “The Highlands manager said they were doing all kinds of work out there, right? Cedar and mahogany, et cetera? So where did Irena Bastov pick up white pine and birch on her hem? We haven’t had a lumber mill in town must be twenty years. And somehow I can’t see a couple like the Bastovs dropping into Home Depot while they’re here for the fur auction.”

  “Home Depot, you’d get all sorts of cedar.”

  “So where are two visitors going to pick up white pine and birch sawdust?”

  “As it happens, you’re asking the right guy, Sergeant Cardinal.” McLeod addressed him in the tone of mock formality he always adopted when feeling particularly smug. “I can think of two places. You know Kabinet Kreations out on Cartier?”

  “The unfinished-furniture joint? They must handle more than pine and birch.”

  “Nope. Reason I know, I just ordered an entertainment unit from them. I asked for oak-like I could afford it-and he told me no, they only do pine or birch. I went for birch.”

  “You think the Bastovs arrive in Algonquin Bay and the first thing they do, they head out to Kabinet Kreations?”

  “No, I do not. You know what your problem is, Detective?”

  “No. Please tell me.”

  “Your problem, Detective Cardinal, is that you don’t drink enough. If you drank more often, you would go to bars more often. And if you went to bars more often, as I do-purely in the interests of law and order-you would know that the floors of the Chinook roadhouse are covered with sawdust.”

  “Okay. Why would it be just pine and birch?”

  “An excellent question, Detective Cardinal, and once again I can satisfy your curiosity. You know who owns the Chinook?”

  “That Greek guy-Jimmy Kappaz.”

  “Jimmy Kappaz. And guess where he gets his sawdust.”

  “Kabinet Kreations? McLeod, how would you know a thing like that-assuming it’s true?”

  “Kabinet Kreations is owned and operated by one Leon Kappaz-Jimmy’s older brother. He’s got the identical moustache-Greeks, as you know, are born with them. Same hound dog face. I got to asking him about Jimmy, about the Chinook, and he happened to mention that’s what he did with his sawdust.”

  “I always hoped you’d be good for something,” Cardinal said, “but you’ve exceeded all expectations.”

  “Thank you, Detective-and congratulations, by the way. Delorme tells me you’ve cleared the Scriver case.”

&
nbsp; –

  The Chinook had been through many different incarnations-from inn, to cabaret, to oyster bar-but for the past ten years it had been a roadhouse, meaning the music was always live and loud, the food was down-home (and surprisingly good) and the beer tended toward the more powerful concoctions of the Quebec microbreweries. It had a sizable dance floor, now dark and deserted. Smells of stale beer and sawdust.

  Jimmy Kappaz was sitting at the end of his bar with a morose expression on his face, punching numbers into an adding machine. When Cardinal showed him the pictures of Lev and Irena Bastov, he recognized them at once.

  “Sure. Exotic couple. Both with huge fur coats. Not my usual customer.”

  “Why didn’t you call us?” Cardinal said. “Their pictures have been all over the newspapers.”

  Kappaz shrugged. “Who reads the papers?”

  “You didn’t hear about a double murder just up the road?” McLeod said. “What are you, retarded?” Cardinal gave him a look, and McLeod corrected himself. “Sorry. Are you developmentally impaired? These people had their heads chopped off.”

  “Sure, I heard people talking about it. But I didn’t pay much attention. Like I say, who cares about the news?”

  Cardinal asked him if the Bastovs had been with anybody else.

  “Sure, yeah. One guy. Nobody I recognized. Guy maybe late fifties. Short hair.”

  “Think about it. Can you describe him better than that?”

  “Not really. I was crazy busy.”

  “Did they meet him here, or did they arrive with him?”

  Kappaz shrugged and shook his head. “Don’t know. They were sitting far end of the bar, I was down this end, making a million drinks for the waiters.”

  “Did they look like they were friends, the three of them?”

  “No. The couple left, and the other guy, he looked pissed off.”

  “Short hair. Late fifties. What else?”

  “Who knows what else? I’m a bartender, not a detective.”

  “Hey, Euclid,” McLeod said, “I thought Greeks were supposed to be smart.”

  “Long time ago.” He swung his mournful eyes back to Cardinal. “It’s just my feeling, but the guy looked tough-you know, like a Marine or something. Like if you got him upset, he might dismantle you.”

  “Thanks,” Cardinal said. “Listen, can you get someone to cover the bar for you before the evening rush? We need you to go downtown and talk to the police artist.”

  “I told you, I don’t remember nothing.”

  “Do it anyway. You may be surprised.”

  –

  When they got back into the car, Cardinal drove out along Island Road rather than back toward town.

  “I want to take another look at the scene,” Cardinal said.

  “Fine by me. By the way, I talked to Ron Lariviere-the bush pilot Irena Bastov was screwing? He denied it at first, of course, but faced with my priestlike demeanour he admitted that, yes, they had a two-night fling a couple of years ago, and that was the extent of it.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I actually do. Besides, on the night in question he was drinking with a bunch of trappers at the Bull and Bear.”

  “What about the guy who used to run the trappers’ association?”

  “That was more challenging. Donald Rivard left town six years ago and didn’t keep in touch with anybody. I tracked him down to Red River, where apparently he died of cirrhosis in 2008. So glamorous, the fur industry.”

  There was a car parked in the hydro turnoff where Sam had parked. Cardinal pulled into the Schumachers’ drive. Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, but other than that the house gave no sign of what had taken place inside. They went in through the back door and into the dining room. The blood-smeared floor, the empty chairs.

  “Heat’s back on,” McLeod said. He picked up an unused Baggie from the floor and put it in his pocket. “Makes you wonder who turned it off. And why.”

  “Probably the killer. Wanted to be sure we found the bodies exactly the way he left them.”

  “You think it’s the guy the Bastovs were with at the Chinook? From Jimmy’s description, it could be the older guy on the airport tape.”

  “Could be. But it was Wednesday night they were seen with him. They were killed Thursday night.”

  “Well, we know it’s not the ATM mugger. The shoe prints don’t match. And he was not left-handed.” McLeod interrupted himself to point out the back window. “Why, look at that-a suspect.”

  Outside, a pudgy man in a long dark coat was contemplating the snowy surface of the lake. He was about ten yards from shore, hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders hunched, even though it was a relatively warm day. On his head, a Russian-style fur hat.

  “Looks too harmless,” Cardinal said.

  “Looks like a fucking commissar. Do you suppose he realizes that the lake ice is not exactly the safest place to-”

  It was as if, by raising the possibility, McLeod caused it to happen. The ice gave way beneath the man and he pitched forward. In an effort to counterbalance, he tipped back. As his weight shifted to his rear foot, that too broke the surface. Now only his shoulders and head were visible.

  McLeod pulled out his cellphone and dialed 911.

  “Find some rope,” Cardinal said. “And a crowbar or something.”

  He grabbed a broom and reached the lake in seconds and ran to the end of the dock. He got onto the ice on all fours and lay down to spread his weight. He dragged himself forward and placed the broomstick across the hole. The man was trying to suck in air, unable to speak. He grabbed hold of the broom handle. Cardinal pounded the near edge of the hole, snapping off chunks of the weakest ice.

  McLeod was on the dock now. He tossed a crowbar, and Cardinal used it to break more ice until he reached a thicker patch.

  “You’ve got to pull yourself up,” he said to the man. “We’re not going to be able to haul you out of there without your help.”

  McLeod had tied some clothesline into a lasso. Cardinal looped it around the man’s shoulders and told him to put his arms through. Together they managed to get the rope under his arms.

  Cardinal crawled back to the dock. He and McLeod braced the rope around their backs and heaved. The man got first one leg up out of the water, then the other. He collapsed on the ice, and they dragged him to shore.

  As the wail of the ambulance grew louder, Cardinal reached into the man’s coat. He made a token effort to resist, his hand a white claw. The dripping bills inside the wallet were American, and a government card identified him as Special Agent Irv Mendelsohn, FBI.

  McLeod, who had been looking over Cardinal’s shoulder, let out a bark of laughter.

  28

  Mendelsohn was taken to emergency, where he was treated with hot tea and an electric blanket. His first words to Cardinal and McLeod were, “So embarrassing. Thank you both.”

  “What are you talking about?” McLeod said. “You made our day.”

  “So humiliating.” Mendelsohn’s native tongue seemed to be italics. He blew on his tea to cool it.

  “What were you doing trampling all over our crime scene?” Cardinal said.

  “I know, I know. So rude. I wanted to go through proper channels. I did call your HQ. They said you were out, and I thought you might be at the scene. Enthusiasm got the better of me, I guess.”

  “We found a red Chevy Alero down the road a ways. Would that be yours?”

  “It was all Avis had left. I’m just here to help any way I can, fellas. You have a couple of dead Americans. I’m here to observe and assist.”

  “Sort of a charity thing,” McLeod said. “Help out the hillbillies up north.”

  “No, no, we have our own hillbillies, you may have heard. Say, did I thank you gentlemen? I certainly meant to.”

  “We do actually have running water up here,” McLeod went on. “And horseless carriages. Electricity, even. And we have been known to make a case or two.”

 
“Oh, now you’ve taken offence. The last thing I wanted. I’ve really put my foot in it, haven’t I.”

  “Through it,” McLeod said. “You put your feet through it.”

  “Wonderful. Now I’m a figure of fun.”

  “All right,” Cardinal said. “So you head out to the scene. What were you looking for on the lake?”

  “Evidence. Often people will go over the interior of a scene with a fine-tooth comb, and the exterior… who knows? Maybe a perpetrator approached via snow machine. Maybe someone could have tossed a weapon out there, forgetting the lake was frozen.”

  “Sort of,” McLeod said.

  “Go ahead, amuse yourself, Detective. I deserve it.”

  “You’re welcome to observe,” Cardinal said. “But I don’t really see how you can help.”

  “Similarities,” Mendelsohn said. “Your case has certain similarities to another case of mine. Do you suppose my clothes would be out of the dryer yet?”

  “No,” McLeod said, “our dryers are very inferior up here. What similarities?”

  Mendelsohn gave him a mournful look and reached for a Kleenex. He blew into it with surprising force, and then lay back. Eyes closed, he said, “Two cases. I brought copies of the files to show you, but they’re in my hotel room.

  “About six months ago in Westchester County-that’s just north of the Bronx. Swanky area. Family of three found murdered. Shot. Weapon was a nine-mil of undetermined make and model. Mutilated post-mortem. Heads turned up a few days later on some church steps like a trio of gargoyles. Sick stuff.”

  “Definite similarities,” Cardinal said. “But a church is not a dock. An undetermined make is not the same as a Browning HP.”

  “No, and three people are not two. You’re right, Detective. You’re absolutely a hundred percent right about that. It’s not definitive.”

  “What’s your other case?”

  “Long Island. Two years previous. Sam Begelman, sixty-two, retired manager with Bergdorf’s, is shot with a nine-mil, possibly a Browning HP. Bodies of wife and teenage daughter found nearby. Once again, beheaded post-mortem. Heads turn up in Central Park-Belvedere Castle, if you know what that is-placed on a parapet overlooking the Great Lawn. New York’s my hometown, and I’ll tell you it absolutely ruined the park for me.”