by Giles Blunt
Who has a weapon? I asked.
Rebecca still had the flare gun.
Dahlberg shook his head.
I turned to Deville’ I thought I could smell gunpowder. Ray? Do you have a gun?
No, me, I don’t ’ave a gun.
We all carried pencils but none of us had any real food. Deville had some Juicy Fruit, Dahlberg had a pack of cough drops and an Aero bar. I had nothing edible, but I still had my field glasses strapped round my neck and a butane lighter in my pocket.
It was decided that we would walk south in hopes of finding the seismic recording hut intact. I say south, but what I mean is south in relation to our base camp. Maintaining a sense of direction is one of the hardest things to do in the Arctic, especially in summer months, when the sun just circles above the horizon—a horizon that is all white and, unless you are near shore, devoid of landmarks.
It was hard travel, let me leave it at that. If you have never had to cross an extreme environment without the proper gear, nothing I say will convey the agony of this venture. It was crucial to move just fast enough to keep warm. To stop moving would mean freezing to death in a matter of fifteen or twenty hours. But moving even slightly too fast would bring on increased hunger, sweat that would soon cool, and exhaustion that would sap body heat quicker than anything except wind and moisture.
Jens could not keep up, and I asked Deville to hang back with him while Rebecca and I moved as fast as we could toward the hut.
Jens protested. Just keep me in sight. I’ll manage.
Don’t worry yourself, Dr. Dahlberg, Ray said. I’ll be wit’ you.
Rebecca and I pressed on ahead with an awkward, high-stepping gait and made reasonable progress. The lenticular cloud had shifted, and the sunlight warmed us as we moved. We kept our hands in our pockets—I had only one glove—although we took them out often for balance in the manner of a clumsy skater.
I don’t know how long we walked—long enough to leave Jens and Ray far behind. Perhaps two hours. I doubt if we exchanged more than a dozen words. Until we knew the status of the remote hut, there was no way to judge our chances of survival. Rebecca expressed no false hope, uttered no prayer. We just kept moving.
Where the seismic shack should have been, there was nothing but open water.
No good, I said. It’s gone.
Are you sure? Even if it’s broken off, shouldn’t we still be able to see it?
I was sure. Rebecca had never been to the hut, but I had many times. I pointed toward two distinctive promontories some three or four kilometres distant.
That’s still Axel Heiberg Island. A lot of ice gets pushed south as it jams up in the margin. With a little luck, we might make landfall somewhere near the Strand Fiord. The LARS research station should still be manned this time of year.
Rebecca stared at the claw shape of the two hills, their eastern sides of exposed rock, their western sides ice and snow.
15
DELORME OPENED HER LAPTOP ON the dinner table and typed in Assistant Crown Attorney Garth Romney. She added Régine Choquette to the search, and the screen lit up with many articles. She selected Images, and the first one to appear, top left, was the picture of Romney holding up the hood found on Choquette’s body.
That hideous leather object, black, dirty, a hole for the nose, a zipper for the mouth and the zipper shut tight. Some women like to be scared.
Romney held it at arm’s length as if it were a dead rat. Behind him, a picture of the Queen, the Canadian flag, the flag of Ontario.
Delorme clicked on another image, then another, coming to rest on a picture of Fritz Reicher—a little thinner back then, blond hair a little thicker. Beside him, lawyer Richard Rota.
“It’s a police!” Richard Rota said, coming out of courtroom three. “What have I done this time?” He set his briefcase on a bench and shrugged on his overcoat. He went about five foot four, even with the lifts, which meant Delorme could look him in the eye without looking up, an excellent thing in a lawyer.
“I wanted to talk to you about Fritz Reicher,” she said.
Rota closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “Reicher, Reicher … it sounds familiar …”
“The Régine Choquette—”
“I’m messing with ya. I know who you wanna talk about, and I also know why. We can talk in there.”
They went to an interview room at the end of the hall. Rota dropped his briefcase on the desk and sat beside it. Delorme decided to remain standing as he started firing questions at her. Like many lawyers, he spoke louder than was strictly necessary. How’s his good friend R.J. (the police chief), how’s Ian McLeod, and what about this new guy, this Roach character?
“Loach,” Delorme said. “He’s fine.”
“What about John Cardinal?”
“He’s fine too. I wanted to ask you—”
“You could use a few more of him.”
“I had occasion to talk to Reicher recently on another matter.”
“Women turning up dead in the great outdoors?” Rota gave an exaggerated shrug. “Of course you want to talk to him. Makes sense. Cop sense, anyway. Not that I’ve seen mention of any sexual element in the papers.”
“I was a minor witness in the Choquette case.”
“I remember. I deposed you. I was very polite, as I recall.”
“You were adequate.”
Rota laughed. “Thank you. That’s the best I ever get from women.”
“In his original statement to Detective Cardinal, Reicher said the entire scenario was under the control of Leonard Priest. Priest chose the woman, drove all the way here from Ottawa specifically to arrange an encounter with her. To ‘play some games,’ as Reicher put it.”
“That statement was made before he had benefit of counsel. What’s your point?”
“He said Priest was there the whole time. That it was Priest who ordered him to shoot.”
“It’s a defence Germans seem fond of.” He raised a hand to forestall Delorme’s next question. “And you want to know why Algonquin Bay’s finest defence counsel did not push for the arrest and trial of Leonard Priest.”
“Well?”
“Because it was not in my client’s best interests. That’s the short answer.”
“And the long answer?”
“It’s the long answer too.”
“Did Leonard Priest pay for Reicher’s defence?”
“Fritz Reicher paid for his own defence. Whether Priest gave him a handsome severance cheque or not is none of my business.”
“Did you ever meet a friend or associate of Leonard Priest’s named Darlene?”
“Darlene? No, I’ve never met any Darlene. Until this moment my life has been Darlene-free.”
“Did you not at least wonder why the Crown chose not to pursue Leonard Priest? The murder weapon was his gun. Found in his sex club. His prints were at the scene.”
“What’s to explain? Obviously, the ACA didn’t feel he had the evidence. You know, you’re not bad at this. You ever think of going to law school?”
“Way we saw it, the case looked like a total gift.”
“Garth Romney saw differently. Look, Garth’s a real go-getter. Mr. Avenging Prosecutor. A real pain in the ass for us innocent little defence lawyers.” Rota suddenly snapped himself together. The gleaming shoes flashed, the white cuffs shot forward and he was sitting upright, pulling his desk chair toward her, elbows on the desk. “Look, we have to be mindful of lawyer-client privilege here, but I’ll tell you this. If Leonard Priest came to trial, Fritz would have been called to testify. You’ve met Fritz. Have you met Priest?”
“Briefly.”
“Then you know how that would have worked out.”
“The Crown could have offered Reicher a better deal.”
“No such offer was made or requested. Had Priest been brought to trial, he would have painted Fritz as a disgruntled employee looking for revenge—among a lot of other unpleasant things.” Rota stood and picked up his briefcase. �
��Can I go home now?”
Delorme stepped aside and Rota held the door open for her. He was a polite little guy, she’d forgotten that about him.
“Let me walk you to your car, Detective. I’m intrigued by this Darlene character.”
“You really don’t know anything about her?”
“Not a thing.”
“Me either.”
Curriculum vitae for Keith Charles Rettig, born July 7, 1954. Joined Brunswick Geo in 2004. Previous employment: Toyota Canada, 1996–2004; Inglis Appliances, 1990–1996; GeoLogic Solutions, 1988–1990; Argus Aquatics, 1984–1988.
Cardinal looked up the last two companies on the Internet. He couldn’t find GeoLogic Solutions anywhere, but Argus Aquatics had been bought and sold by several different companies, the latest being Neptune Corp., makers of submersibles ranging from three-man subs to the kind of remote-operated vehicles used to explore the Titanic. Rettig was a finance man, not a techie, but the early involvement in robotics was still evident.
Cardinal looked up Senator David Flint again in Who’s Who in Canada. The entry was modest considering his business successes and his current position. He had begun to make his mark in the early eighties with a startup called Momentum, which designed power systems for electronics in confined spaces such as aircraft and submarines. In the following years he had added several patents in photovoltaics to his list of achievements. A stint at Boeing apparently hadn’t worked out too well, and he moved back to Canada after just four years in Seattle.
Frank Gauthier, he discovered from a similar search, had a long history with MRG Robotics. Twenty-five years with the company he had founded in 1986, its first triumph being a robotic assistant for hip replacement surgery. Before that he had worked two years for R-Tech, which went on to a troubled history with bionic limbs and thoroughly human lawsuits. MRG had been a prime contributor to the development of the Aesclepius system, which detects a surgeon’s hand movements and transmits them, much reduced, to an array of micro instruments.
All this information was easy, if time-consuming, to collect. Cardinal, no tech whiz, took a blank sheet of paper and drew three columns, into which he copied the names and dates.
He entered all three names together in the Google search field: Keith Rettig, David Flint and Frank Gauthier. No results.
He spent the next hour accessing business databases. It was no problem to get executive lists for all the various companies that were still extant. But he didn’t know where to find “historic” staff lists or where to look for information on companies that were defunct. Delorme would know. But Delorme was not here, and Delorme was behaving strangely, and Delorme was angry with him.
He opened the To Do list on his computer, and just below Call Ronnie B. he added Lise re corporate histories.
He looked again at his handwritten table. At the top of it, he wrote: U of T, 1980. That was the year of the photograph in the Varsity, three grinning postgrads with what looked like a tin insect. None of the three career columns had any entry earlier than 1984.
Leonard Priest opened the fridge, took a large bowl from it and nudged the door shut with his elbow. He took two large goblets from the cupboard and filled them both just under halfway and handed one to Delorme. He raised his glass and she clinked with him. They both took a sip.
“Very nice,” she said. In contrast to Richard Rota, with Priest she had to look up to meet his eye.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Neither did I,” Delorme said. Thinking, Boy, is that the understatement of the year.
“What made you change your mind?”
Priest’s calling her twice over the course of the day might have had something to do with it. Message one: He had some information relevant to her case that he wanted to share with her. Message two: He had failed to mention in his first message his most important attribute as far as women were concerned—no irony intended: he was a very good cook. The worst she could expect was a bang-up meal and a first-class bottle of wine.
“I was hungry,” she finally said.
“Fair enough. I hope you won’t be disappointed. Let’s sit.” He tilted his glass toward the living room, the couch. “Don’t worry, I’m on best behaviour.”
Priest sat on the couch. Delorme chose an armchair.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for an appetizer. I’d given up hope.”
“You don’t seem the type to give up hope.”
“Yeah, I’m probably an optimist, generally speaking—enjoy a challenge, admire commitment and determination. But I don’t like feeling like an idiot, either, pursuing someone in the face of repeated rejection. Hard to tell the difference sometimes—between commitment and stupidity, I mean. How’s work going these days?”
Delorme shrugged. “Challenging.”
“In general? Or for a woman in a man’s world?”
“Both.”
“I can imagine.” He looked at her and shook his head. “God, I’m an idiot.”
“For which thing?”
“For behaving the way I did. I know you think I’m just playing you—”
“Yes.”
“Right, then. Apology is on the table. Next business …” He picked up a remote from the glass-topped table and pointed it at the largest TV screen Delorme had ever seen. The logo of a cable station came up and he froze the image. “This is Up to the Minute—Toronto news show. Tends to be a little fluffy, but it does have the virtue of being live.”
He hit Play and the announcer did his intro. “Today is Tuesday, January third, and you’re watching Up to the Minute.”
Priest hit Pause. “I’m assuming the date is of interest.”
“The day Marjorie Flint was abducted.”
“And the time, no? The show airs at five o’clock.”
“And the time.”
Priest reached for the wine and topped up their glasses. He hit Play again and the show continued.
“There he is,” he said, “in all his glory.”
The interviewer asked first about music, any plans for a solo album. No, but Priest said he was honoured to have been asked to play bass on Daniel Lanois’s latest effort. There was no mention of Priest’s clubs, and after a few more pleasantries they went into the nature and makeup of an anti-poverty group he was involved with.
“You don’t need to hear the whole thing,” Priest said, and switched off the TV. “Excuse me a second.”
He went out to the kitchen and bent to peer through the oven door, putting on a pair of glasses to do so. He took them off and came back.
“Dinner is served.”
Cardinal put his dishes in the dishwasher and sat down at the kitchen table again and scrolled through the contact list on his cellphone. He dialed Ronnie Babstock at home. He’d already tried him at work and been told he was on his way back from a business trip to Brussels.
“Ronnie. John Cardinal. Something I want to ask you. Give me a call back when you get a chance—it’s kind of urgent. Hope Brussels was good.”
He went into the living room and picked up the TV remote and just held it in his lap. He thought about his day. Loach coming in and yelling at him in Chouinard’s office.
Loach: Am I lead on this case or not? Because if I am, then I want everyone to pull their weight.
Chouinard (to Cardinal): You didn’t do your follow-up?
Cardinal: I’m working on something that actually promises to go somewhere. These women are all connected through their husbands, who were at school together. I think they must have worked together, too, at some point, and if we can find that point, we might be able to discover who exactly it is that they’ve pissed off so bad.
Loach: We have a recording of the guy’s voice, D.S., the guy’s voice. I say that trumps any ancient history between the victims’ spouses.
Cardinal: Let me follow this, D.S.
Chouinard: They live in three different cities, these husbands. Do they have any recent connection?
Cardinal: Not th
at I know of. Not yet. But it may not have to be recent.
Loach: We have a voice on the line confessing to murder and you don’t want to pursue it. That’s your opinion, I don’t care. D.S., we’re going to need some manpower from OPP to make up for the slack around here.
At that, Cardinal had turned to Loach and totally lost it, calling him a pompous little twit and a prima donna and any number of other things until Chouinard booted him out of the office. In the movies it always looked so satisfying to tell someone off. Why in real life did it feel like shit? In the end, Loach got his OPP assistance. Cardinal couldn’t wait to hear from Jerry Commanda on how that was going.
He turned on the television and it tried to sell him a Volvo and he turned it off and put the remote aside. Delorme would be good right now. Have her sitting on that couch with her feet up. Small feet, white socks. She’d called in sick again and hadn’t returned any of his calls. None of Loach’s either. Loach was turning out to be an albatross, but he had reason to be frustrated with Cardinal and Delorme.
He picked up his land line and dialed Delorme’s home number.
“It’s John. Pick up, Lise. I’m worried about you. I got in royal shit today with Loach and Chouinard. Love to tell you about it. Hope you’re okay.”
He switched off the light and went to stand at the window. The moon hung low over the lake. It was nearly full and he could see the dark shadows of the Manitous out in the middle of the ice.
He went to the bathroom and turned on the shower and then to the bedroom to get undressed. He got his shirt off and stood there holding it. After a minute he put it back on and went back to the bathroom to turn off the water. Then he got his coat from the hall closet and headed out.
The night was clear and twenty-something below and the heater in his Camry was not as efficient as it once was. He drove up the hill across Rayne Street and up to Delorme’s. Her lights were off and there was no car in the driveway.
