by Giles Blunt
“In a way, it wasn’t even stolen. My son took it. He’s supposed to be studying journalism at Ryerson, but no, he just quit going and came back early. Didn’t get around to telling us about it till a week later. In the meantime, he snuck into the boathouse and took the snowmobile for a wild time with his girlfriend.”
Cardinal asked her for the exact date.
“Just a minute,” she said, and closed the door. When it opened again, the cat was gone. “He brought it back January twelfth. Or rather, we brought it back-had to go pick it up at his girlfriend’s place, other side of the lake. Some little skanky thing can’t even spell college. Guess they had a great time till it run outta gas.”
“Why didn’t you let us know it had been returned?”
“To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you cared.”
“We’ll need to see it.”
“Why? The machine’s not stolen anymore.”
“It involves something else we’re working on. Could you just show it to us, please?”
They got the key from her and opened the side door of the garage.
“It was returned before Marjorie Flint was even abducted,” Delorme said.
The garage was large and neatly kept. The Arctic Cat was still on the trailer. The cowling showed no sign of damage or recent repair.
Next stop, the home studio of one Anne-Marie Caffrey, proprietor and yogi in chief of Namaste Yoga.
“Yes, they took the trailer too, I’m afraid. It was sitting right in front of the garage, so I guess we made it easy for them.”
Delorme and Cardinal were seated side by side on a sofa while Ms. Caffrey told them about the theft of the family snowmobile. She was dressed for her afternoon yoga class in tights and a tank top, and although her hair was many different shades of silver, she had the body of someone half her age. Delorme thought this woman was the calmest person she had ever met. She promised herself to take up yoga within the week.
“I was of two minds whether to even report it,” Ms. Caffrey told them.
“Why’s that?” Cardinal’s voice was softer than usual. Apparently her tranquility was contagious.
“Well, you know, it’s possible the person just wanted to borrow it for a while and will return it of their own accord.”
“It’s possible. In fact, we had a case exactly like that, didn’t we, Detective Delorme?”
“A family member took it,” Delorme said.
Ms. Caffrey smiled. “Well, we don’t have children, so that’s not the case here. Anyway, it’s not good to be too attached to things. My husband and I enjoyed the machine for a couple of years and now someone else is enjoying it.”
“Someone who doesn’t own it,” Delorme said.
“Someone who didn’t buy it, let’s say.” This delivered with a very slight, very tranquil nod. “I was never too keen on the thing. So noisy, and not exactly eco-friendly. But my husband wanted it, and it did get us out into the woods a lot more often than we would have gone otherwise.”
Cardinal asked her if she had any idea who might have taken it.
A shake of the head. “Someone who needed a snowmobile? Or imagined they did.”
“Did you see anything or anyone that might give you an idea who took it?”
“Not a soul.”
“You teach yoga,” Delorme said. “You have a lot of strangers coming to the house.”
“I don’t think of them as strangers, and I doubt any of them would borrow anything without asking. Mind you, I did see a van parked nearby a couple of times, not one we usually see around here, and I did vaguely wonder why. I mean, we know most of our neighbours, and it wasn’t any of theirs.”
“How do you know?” Cardinal said.
“It was a commercial vehicle of some kind-you know, like a contractor or a delivery van. Oh, and it was from Toronto. I remember thinking that was a little odd. It was white, very grubby.”
“Old?” Delorme said. “New?”
“It didn’t look new. The logo or lettering had been painted over-not very well. And it was so dirty.” Ms. Caffrey looked grave for a moment, then brightened. “Of course, the fact that your van needs a bit of a wash doesn’t automatically make you a snowmobile thief.”
They got a few more details about the van from her. Cardinal sketched a rough outline of a van and got Ms. Caffrey to show him where the logo and lettering had been. She couldn’t remember what it said, or the type of business, but she did remember it had no windows. Model or make? No idea.
“Do you think she’s for real?” Delorme said when they were in the car again. “That stuff about how it’s nice if someone else is enjoying her property?”
“It’s one way of looking at it.” Cardinal put the key in the ignition and started the engine.
“Make our jobs a lot different if everyone was a Buddhist.” Delorme didn’t know why she was going on about it’ it wasn’t what she wanted to talk about. There was only one thing she wanted to talk about, but Cardinal’s streak of hyperchat was over, and now he was barely talking at all.
They got stuck in construction for ten minutes and still he didn’t say anything. Just sat there tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and resolutely not looking at her.
If he doesn’t say anything by Wal-Mart, she told herself, then I will. But Wal-Mart came and went and neither of them spoke.
If he doesn’t say anything by the lights at Sumner, she promised herself, then I will. But he made the left at Sumner and they drove on past St. Boniface Church and the city jail and still neither of them spoke.
She decided the parking lot would be her now-or-never point. Cardinal made the left off Sumner and the right into the lot, but instead of pulling into his slot, he just stopped by the front entrance.
“I’ll drop you off,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting with the crown.”
“You’re seeing Romney again?”
“No, no. Hartman. My endless Wilkerson case.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll see you later, then. Or whenever.” Delorme undid her seatbelt and grabbed her briefcase.
“Lise.”
She turned to face him, one hand on the door handle.
“About the other night.” She waited.
“I think it was maybe a mistake. I mean, it was great, I enjoyed it, and God knows I’m attracted to you, but, you know, we do have to work together.”
“Chouinard’s wife works in the evidence room. Collingwood is going out with that blond beat cop, what’s her name.”
“Really? He’s quiet about it.”
“Of course he’s quiet about it. He barely speaks.”
“Well, it’s different being on the same squad. If things went wrong between us, it could get pretty difficult working investigations together.”
“I know that.”
“It’s not a small thing, Lise.”
“I know.”
“Besides which, I really like what we have. I love seeing you outside of work, the way our friendship has developed. It’s important to me.” Cardinal put a hand on his forehead as if checking for fever. “God, I never talk like this.”
“It’s important to me too.”
“Well, I don’t think we should jeopardize it. Let’s face it-it was a party, we’d both had a lot to drink. This kind of stuff happens all the time.”
“The office party, you mean. Get drunk, screw on the copy machine, et cetera.”
“I’m not saying it’s the same. I’m just saying it doesn’t have to mean we blow everything up. Sorry, I’m not putting this very well.”
“You’re putting it perfectly well. We have a good friendship, we work well together, you don’t want to risk all that over a single drunken kiss.”
“Well, not drunk. A little light-headed maybe.”
“Okay. You’re right. It makes perfect sense. We go back to the way it was and make like it never happened. Have fun with the crown.” She opened the door and got out.
“Not drunk, Lise.”
“I know
. And it wasn’t just one.”
10
“It’s nine-thirty,” Loach said. “Where the hell’s Delorme?”
“Called in sick,” Chouinard said.
“You guys do that a lot? Two murders, probably three, on the go-you get a headache, you don’t come in?”
“Last time Detective Delorme called in sick,” Cardinal said, “she had a fractured tibia and had just killed a guy who had the really bad idea of assaulting her.”
Chouinard said, “Let’s move on.”
“SIU musta loved that.”
“SIU had no problem with it. Proceed.”
Loach was standing in front of the whiteboard, tossing a marker up in the air and catching it. “While you guys were vacationing in Ottawa and doing whatever else it is you get up to-”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cardinal said, not loud. He didn’t look at Loach, just kept his pen poised over his notebook. Nobody else moved either.
“What I meant? What I meant was exactly what the words mean. As in, I don’t know what you and Delorme have been doing, because half the time you’re not here. If you want to take it some other particular way-like the D.S. says, that’s not my business.”
“Watch your mouth,” Cardinal said, still not looking at him.
Chouinard picked up a large dictionary and slammed it hard on the table. It occurred to Cardinal that it was the only reason the dictionary was kept in this room.
Chouinard looked at Loach. “Please continue.”
Loach turned to the whiteboard and wrote the words White Van, putting them in quotation marks and adding three underlines. The marker squeaked with every move.
“Okay. Had an idea our hotelier friend at the illustrious Motel 17 was not telling us the entire truth. His register showed only a single room occupied. I ask myself, how does this man make a living?” He twirled the marker and caught it. “Turns out, upon closer questioning, Mr. Motel has a sideline with one or two ladies of the night-actually your standard MILF — next-door, who makes a little extra through the online personals. One Millie Pankowitz.
“I proceed to the domicile of said Millie Pankowitz and interview her about the night in question. Results of that interview are as follows: Millie was in room nine, where she had already entertained two delighted consumers of the male persuasion seriatim. That means one after another as opposed to-”
“Jesus,” Cardinal said quietly.
“-as opposed to not one after another. She was waiting on yet a third prospect, who had an appointment for one a.m. She gives it fifteen minutes. He still doesn’t show and she finally bags it. Goes out, gets in her car and sees the parking lot is about as busy as usual for Motel 17. Two vehicles in addition to her own. Laura Lacroix’s black Nissan parked a couple of rooms over, another car-no doubt Mark Trent’s green Audi-by the office. But get this: She gets in her car and heads out of the lot. She’s rolling down the access road when a white van turns off the highway and comes up the access road. She stops at the highway, and in the rear-view sees the van pull into the motel parking lot.”
“There’s a murder two doors down from her,” Chouinard said, “and she doesn’t see fit to maybe mention this to the police?”
“Didn’t occur to her, far as I can tell. Reason being, hubby works night security and is unaware of her nocturnal activities. She better hope he never answers her online ad.”
“How do we know this white van wasn’t her one a.m. john?”
“Because that guy’s a repeat customer. She doesn’t know his real name-she calls him Tom-but she knows what he looks like and she knows his car. He’s maybe forty, got a beard and a crooked nose, and drives a Mazda3. This she remembers because she happens to drive a Mazda3 also. Now, she didn’t get a good look, but the guy she sees in the van is late fifties, maybe sixty, clean-shaven.”
“Still doesn’t rule out her john,” Chouinard pointed out. “He could have been in the back of the van. Or maybe he sent a friend as a proxy, so to speak. Bought someone a birthday present.”
“Really?” Loach said. “You do that a lot up here? Anyway, at this point, Millie is too pissed off to hang around and find out if Mr. White Van is hoping to meet her. Van goes into the lot, Millie hits the highway, and that’s the end of their brief encounter.”
“Delorme and I came up with a white van too,” Cardinal said. He told them about their interview with the serene Ms. Caffrey and held up his sketch for everyone to see. “She said it was a commercial van, no windows, some kind of logo painted out on the side. And from Toronto.”
“This is getting interesting,” Loach said. “Maybe we should get a police artist to interview these two ladies again.”
“I’m on it.” Paul Arsenault raised his coffee mug that said Arsenault in 20-point Helvetica. “I’ll be doing the Identi-Kit with Millie Pankowitz this morning. I’ll get more on the vehicle too.”
“In the meantime,” Loach said, “I want to look deeper into Mark Trent. I’m leaning toward the notion that he was the intended target and Ms. Lacroix, a.k.a. Ms. Rettig, may just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“We have progress,” Chouinard noted as they wrapped things up. “Definite progress. But it would be nice to have an actual suspect.”
At the visitor check-in, Delorme had to hand over her Beretta, her bag and even her belt to the plump guard on the other side of the counter. He issued her a receipt for the items and said, “Welcome to Kingston Penitentiary Services.”
As she went through the security gate, the alarm went off.
A massive guard with no discernible emotional life raised a hand in a “halt” gesture. “Notebook.”
Delorme handed it to him.
A female guard stepped forward and patted her down with a thoroughness that in any other circumstances would have got her arrested.
“Hey,” Delorme said, and stepped back.
“You got a problem?”
“Who taught you to give a pat-down-Paul Bernardo?”
The woman stepped close and looked into Delorme’s eyes for a full fifteen seconds. Burnt coffee on her breath. “Undo your jacket.”
Delorme unbuttoned her blazer and opened it up. The guard reached for the inside pocket and removed a ballpoint pen.
“Uh-uh.”
“The prisoner will be manacled. They let me keep it at check-in.”
“Do I look like I care?”
“I’m investigating a murder. I need to take notes.”
“The pen stays at check-in or it goes back outside with you. Your choice.”
The male guard handed back the spiral notebook. “This too.”
Delorme returned to the check-in counter. The plump guard shook his head. “Sorry. Tear a few pages out of the notebook, and you can use this.” He handed her a library pencil.
Delorme returned to the security gate and went through.
“You’re lucky that ain’t a underwire bra you’re wearing,” the female guard said, “or I’d a taken that too.”
Yet another guard escorted her from security, unlocking and relocking each door as they went. The prison interior-this part of it, anyway-resembled a high school. Gleaming floor, the smell of cleaning products, and steel doors that almost looked like wood.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Too long.”
Another door, another corridor. Halfway along, he stopped at a door with a small square of thick Plexiglas. It had been spat on and inadequately cleaned.
The guard opened the door and held it. “I know they told you the rules and I know you signed the visitors’ agreement, but I will tell you again. You do not touch the prisoner. You do not give anything to the prisoner. You do not accept anything from the prisoner. Nothing. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Sit in that chair over there. You will find a panic button under the edge of the table. It’s big enough you can operate it with your knee if need be. It rings an alarm out here that can’t be he
ard in there and will bring me pronto. You find it?”
Delorme felt under the table. “Got it.”
“All right, then.”
He closed the door and locked it. Delorme tried to pull her chair closer to the table, but it was bolted to the floor. She wrote several single-word reminders on a sheet of notepaper, the soft lead smearing her attempts at neat strokes and loops. The chair was too far from the table, and in no time at all her neck started to hurt.
The clack of the lock made her jump. The door opened and the guard steered Fritz Reicher inside. The prisoner was manacled at wrists and ankles, the two restraints connected by a short chain that kept his wrists low and before him in a monkish attitude. He was thirty years old, six-three, with enormous hands. The manacles did little to diminish the impression of physical power.
“Fritz, you’re gonna behave yourself, right?” the guard said.
“Yes, of course.” The German accent was still strong, but Reicher had a pleasant voice, melodious and surprisingly soft for a man of his size.
“You know what happens if you don’t, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Yes, of course. Yes, of course. You got a way with words, Fritz.” The guard had him lean against the wall. He knelt and unlocked the ankle manacles. He stood again and pulled the connecting chain through, turned the prisoner around, and unlocked the wrist restraints.
Delorme had expected the manacles to stay on. She thought about saying something.
“Sit.”
Reicher sat and folded his hands in his lap.
“You stay seated throughout, understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You don’t move out of that chair until I come get you, understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“All right, then.” The guard put his key in the door and looked back at Delorme. “I’ll be right out here.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She wondered again if she should ask about the restraints, but the guard looked as if he knew what he was doing.
He went out and closed the door behind him. Bolts slid home. Then nothing. No sound of him walking away. No sound of anything at all from the corridor. From somewhere beyond the prison walls, a truck horn honked long and loud. Men’s voices echoed along distant corridors, involved in a game or a fight.
