by Giles Blunt
“So it might be the choice of an older man?”
“Leap, leap, leap, Detective. I’ll just stay on solid ground, if you don’t mind.”
“Detective Cardinal, did you have any questions for Mr. Venn?”
“No, indeed.”
“Okay. Well, I guess I have just one last one.”
“Really,” Venn said. “How pleasant.”
“Have you ever considered taking antidepressants? Zoloft? Prozac? Might make your life a lot easier.”
“Perhaps you’re unaware, Detective Delorme, that the SSRIs have the known side effect of interfering with sexual function.”
Delorme had to leave before he said any more. She checked her watch and said something about making their plane.
“Good to be out of there,” Cardinal said when they were out on the street again. “That was terrifying.”
“Yeah. Weighted blades and all.”
“No, no. The thought that Cornelius Venn has a sex life.”
8
SAM DOUCETTE HAD SPENT THE entire weekend shuttered in her room, only coming out for meals. From the first moment she had heard that word, beheaded, she had barely been able to move. She told her mother she had a big art project due for class—and she did work on her drawings—but she kept switching obsessively from the radio to the Web, checking the news reports for any mention of witnesses or “persons of interest.”
She picked up Pootkin, small warm bundle, but the cat squirmed away and leapt onto the windowsill and sat there whapping the wall with her tail.
Randall hadn’t called. He would have to know about the murders by now; he must know how frightened Sam was. But he didn’t call. She wanted him to put a strong arm around her shoulders, to tell her everything would be all right. She wanted a police car with two burly officers in it to park outside her house twenty-four hours a day and follow her at a not too discreet distance. She wanted a muscly bodyguard in a black turtleneck and an earpiece to walk beside her looking intimidating.
Reason told her that the best policy would be to go about her normal routine as if nothing was wrong. She opened her closet and dug out a mid-length denim coat with a woolly collar and lining. Her down coat, torn and bloodied, was jammed in the back of a shelf. She dug out a beret she hadn’t worn this year. Her father had given it to her and she had to admit it was pretty cute. But one day Lisa Culkin had said, “Hey, you look great, Sam—just like a Girl Guide.” Which was probably why her father liked it, the serious air it imparted to his frivolous, wayward daughter who only wanted to study art and nothing, as he put it, “real.”
She grabbed her backpack and went out to the garage and looked at the back end of the Civic. Beret, backpack, different coat—it’s not me he’s going to recognize, she figured, it’s this damn car. The garage was her father’s domain—when he was home. The walls were covered with shelves full of tools, hardware, bits of lumber and parts of machines he intended to fix but never did. He also kept his hunting gear out here. Not his guns, but his tents and sleeping bags and a canoe hoisted up on ropes. There was the Vixen Excalibur crossbow he had taught her to use, his longbows, and arrows in various states of repair. His current walkabout must be just a hiking trip, because most of his hunting stuff seemed to be there.
She rooted around on the shelves and the workbench and found an open tub of Polyfilla. She had to pry the top off with a screwdriver. The stuff inside looked usable.
The how-to sites said you were supposed to fill the hole with mesh or wire wool first, but the hole was so small that didn’t seem necessary. She scooped out some of the compound and smoothed it over the damaged metal. It looked about as much like a bullet hole filled in as a bullet hole could look. It would be hard to match the paint, but she planned to bring a couple of tubes back from the college and give it a try.
The tail light was another matter. She had called the Honda dealership and they’d told her they could have the part in two days and it would cost her more than a week’s pay. They took a deposit off her credit card, which with her student credit limit left her about fifty cents’ further flexibility.
She caught the bus up to the college and spent the afternoon in drawing class. They had a nude model—a girl from the drama department with big shoulders and beautiful breasts. Sam wondered for a moment if she might be a little bit lesbian, but then she remembered Randall’s body and the things he did to her and decided it was not possible.
Raffi March, the instructor, went from student to student. It always took Sam quite a while to know what she thought of a drawing, but Raffi always knew right away. He was an enthusiastic teacher, had a boundless affection for young artists, and he was by far the gayest person most of the students had ever met. The boys, in particular, never tired of imitating his flamboyant manner of speech.
“Tisk-tisk-tisk, Miss Doucette. Tisk, tisk, tisk. This is not an illustration class. Algonquin College does not offer an illustration class. This is not Comics ‘R’ Us. We’re here to draw, draw, draw.”
“I am drawing.”
“You’re illustrating.” He pointed with a graphite-grubby finger at her work. “Hard shadows and simple lines will work on a poster or in a comic book, but you’re not developing your skills with light and shade—and you must, must, must develop a finer touch. You’ll never be able to capture subtleties of expression otherwise.”
“Can’t you just use a camera for that?”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” He turned to the entire class and spread his arms theatrically the way he always did when making pronouncements. “This is fine art, people. Fine art. Subtlety is not your enemy. Subtle is not the same as boring. Dare to be dull!”
“But what if I’m not a subtle person?”
“Well, I suppose you could stick to crayons and Magic Markers.”
“Really? Could I?”
Raffi put his face in his hands and wept with a gusto and conviction that made the class laugh. Only the model, half hidden behind her waterfall of blond hair, remained silent.
—
The Highlands Ski Lodge was just outside the city limits off Highway 11. It was the newest of Algonquin Bay’s hotels, and by far the most expensive. It was not visible from the highway. To get to it, you had to drive up a winding road to the top of Highland Ridge, an outcropping of the Precambrian Shield that dropped down toward Trout Lake in the north and offered a lofty view of Lake Nipissing to the south.
The lobby was a grand, high-ceilinged vista of cedar and red carpet. Cardinal and Delorme introduced themselves to the pretty Native girl at the front desk and waited there for the manager. He finally appeared, absurdly young and dressed in a sombre suit that would have looked good on a man twenty years older. His name was David Dee, and he reeked of Scope.
“Mr. Dee, we need to see your registration records for the past week.”
“May I ask what for?”
“We’re following up on a missing person report.”
“Under what name?”
“Bastov. Lev and Irena.”
Dee went behind the counter and stood at a computer terminal and typed in a few letters. His right hand nudged the mouse a couple of times and twirled the scroll button.
“They checked in, let’s see … on Wednesday.”
“They booked as part of the fur auction, right?”
“That’s right. They got a discount, even though they booked our most expensive suite.”
“Have they checked out?”
“No, they haven’t.” Mr. Dee frowned at the screen, his eyes scanning up and down.
“May I see the screen please?”
Mr. Dee swivelled the monitor around. It wouldn’t turn all the way and Cardinal had to lean over the counter to see. There were no entries for car and licence plate; he often didn’t give those himself when he checked into a hotel. “There’s a note here. They ordered room service, breakfast for two for Friday morning, but no one answered the door when it was delivered?”
&nbs
p; Mr. Dee swivelled the screen back. “Yes, that’s right. The room service manager charged it to the room and attached this note to the guest file.”
“Mr. Dee, we need to search their room, and we need to do it right away.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“No. But we have reason to believe—”
“You must know that’s not possible. We can’t have police searching guest rooms without a warrant. As long as our guests are registered here, the Highlands is their home. They have the same rights as they would have in their own household.”
Delorme stepped closer and leaned across the counter. “Mr. Dee, the Bastovs’ right to keep their heads connected to their bodies has probably already been violated. They’re not going to get upset if we search their room.”
The manager looked from Cardinal to Delorme and back again. “Oh, my God. These are those people?” His hand rose to cover his mouth. “Oh, my God.”
—
Room 217 looked out over the ski runs. Outside, the lift was hoisting people in goggles and colourful jackets into a sky of deep blue that flashed against the white glare of the slopes. There had been no serious snowfall yet this winter, but the snow-making machines had taken care of that. The room itself was overheated and smelled of perfume.
“I don’t know what that is,” Delorme said, sniffing, “but it’s expensive.”
Mr. Dee stationed himself by the door, hands clasped before him as if he were presiding over a funeral.
In the bathroom, Delorme pointed to a tiny atomizer of Jean Patou and said, “That costs at least two hundred dollars an ounce.”
There was a white leather toiletries case beside the sink on the left, and a tan leather one beside the sink on the right. Delorme examined the woman’s things and Cardinal the man’s.
Cardinal held up a prescription bottle of blue pills.
“I bet those have saved more than one marriage,” Delorme said.
They moved into the main room and surveyed the tops of the dressers, opening and closing the drawers. Clothes were folded neatly. There were several woman’s watches, cufflinks, even a tie pin.
“Guy’s really old-school,” Cardinal said. “I haven’t seen a tie pin since the sixties.”
“They were very thorough about unpacking,” Delorme said, “like they were planning to stay quite a while. I don’t think the fur auction has even officially started yet, has it?”
“The Highlands is a destination resort,” Mr. Dee said from the doorway. “A lot of the fur people book extra time. Especially if they like to ski.”
Two pairs of top-of-the-line K2 skis were propped up against one wall, still with store tags attached. In the closet, a neat array of clothes on hangers, woman’s on the left, man’s on the right. New York labels. Sweaters folded on the shelves, shoes and ski boots paired up in rows on the floor.
“No wallets anywhere,” Delorme said. “And there were none on the bodies.”
“We’re going to need that opened,” Cardinal said, pointing to the safe on a lower shelf.
“Sure,” Dee replied. “I can do that.”
“Hold it.” Cardinal pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Use this.”
Dee got down on one knee and used the tip of the pen to key in an override code. There was a whirring sound, the door popped open, and he stepped back to his former position, folding his hands as before.
“No wallets, no cellphones,” Cardinal said. “If the killer took them, let’s just hope he uses them.” He extracted two passports from the safe. One Russian, one U.S.
Delorme came to look as he opened the American passport. Lev Petrovich Bastov, sixty-three years old. “That’s our guy,” she said. “Definitely looks better all in one piece.”
Cardinal opened Irena Bastov’s passport. The Cyrillic alphabet stalled him, but the birthdate was clear and there was a U.S. visa attached that was filled out in English. Maiden name, Divyris. Country of origin, Ukraine. “Not even thirty,” Cardinal said. “That’s quite an age difference. The guy’s handsome, I guess. But not that handsome.”
He turned the pages slowly.
Delorme pointed to the U.S. visa, the words Permanent Resident. “That could be why she married him.”
“You don’t think it was love at first sight?”
“Maybe on his side.” Even the photograph’s harsh monochrome could not mar the shining hair, the regal cheekbones, the erotic intelligence in Irena Bastov’s eyes.
Cardinal slipped the passports into a Baggie, put them in his pocket and knelt to take a closer look at the clothes. Health conscious, the two of them. Running shoes and gym gear for both. Then, under a stack of cashmere sweaters, a fifteen-inch Apple laptop.
Cardinal carried it over to the desk and opened it up next to the telephone. “Mr. Dee, do you have records of phone calls made or received?”
“We’ll have any long-distance calls. Local you’ll have to get from the phone company.”
“Could you check for us, please?”
Cardinal spent some time with the computer, starting with Irena Bastov’s browser history. The most recent activity was at Yahoo! Mail. E-mail could be a gold mine, but they would need her password. Before Yahoo!, there were searches for local restaurants, and sites that rated different types of ski boots. Before that, a search of real estate listings. Cardinal clicked on that. There were a couple of pages for Algonquin Bay and another in Huntsville.
“Seems like they were house hunting.” Cardinal opened her address book application. Many of the entries consisted of a single name and an e-mail address, starting with Anton and ending with Zara.
“Come and take a look at this,” Delorme said.
Cardinal joined her in the closet.
“You have to get on your knees to see it.”
Cardinal got on his knees.
“Look at the hem of her skirt there. The long one.”
Cardinal had to put on his reading glasses to get a good look. “Sawdust,” he said. “She looks like such a princess. Where would she pick up sawdust?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Mr. Dee had once again taken up his post at the doorway. “The lift shack and skyway are under renovation. The work was supposed to be done a month ago, but they’re using all different kinds of woods and there was a delay in getting the cedar and mahogany. Anyway, sawdust everywhere. They probably went to check out the facilities when they arrived. And the front desk says there were a couple of long-distance calls. I had them print out the numbers for you.” He held out a sheet of paper.
Cardinal took it from him and looked it over. “Hey, there’s a bit of luck,” he said to Delorme. “First number they called is the first number in her address book. Guy named Anton.”
He took out his own cellphone and dialed the number. Voice mail. A deep voice, indeterminate accent, cultured. This is Anton Bastov. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.
“I don’t mean to rush you,” Mr. Dee said, “but are you guys about done?”
Behind him in the hallway, Paul Arsenault and Bob Collingwood appeared in identical bunny suits, each holding a black ident case.
9
CARDINAL AND DELORME LEFT THE ident team at the hotel and drove over to the Algonquin Bay Fur Harvesters’ warehouse, which was located on the edge of town between the city proper and the Nipissing First Nation reserve.
The warehouse consisted of a front office, a large, echoing showroom, and several smaller showrooms for the display of different lots. Cardinal and Delorme were shepherded around by manager Hank Stromberg, a man with a neatly trimmed grey beard and hair the colour of nicotine. He was treating them with courtesy, but it was the strained courtesy a car dealer shows to someone who is never going to buy.
The bears—their hides, that is—were spread out on a large table: black and brown and tan with legs outstretched and chins upraised, as if they were doing the breaststroke. A nearby table displayed a dozen polar bear hides.
“But they’re endangered,” Delorme said. “How
can you still sell them?”
“The polar bear is not endangered,” he said. “Not in this country.”
“What can anybody do with a polar bear hide? Who buys them?”
“Russians, mostly. They stuff them. Put them in the office lobby. Make an impression.”
Men in white lab coats were moving from lot to lot, touching hides, making notes.
Cardinal pointed. “Who are the guys with the clipboards?”
“Buyers. They have until this evening to check out the merchandise. Friday was beaver. Bidding on the rest continues through tomorrow.”
“And Irena Bastov was a buyer?”
“She was.”
“For whom?”
“That I couldn’t tell you. You’ll have to ask our Russian agent. All I know is she bought a lot of fur.”
“Russian agent?”
“A woman on staff here who works with the foreign buyers. A lot of them don’t speak English. She translates for them—and for us, of course. These are the minks. Oh, and seal.”
Stromberg led them through the main showroom where mink pelts hung from display poles. The air was redolent with fresh hide.
“Eighty percent of these are farm raised,” Stromberg said. “You can feel the difference in the fur.” He held out a pelt of chestnut brown for them to touch. Cardinal had never felt anything so soft. “Amazing what good care and regular feeding will do for an animal. Far superior to trapped fur. Here’s the seal.”
Seal hides took up perhaps a quarter of the space, spread flat on tables and on the floor. Delorme pointed to a stack of small hides. “They’re so tiny. I thought it was illegal to kill baby seals.”
Stromberg shook his head. “You’re thinking of harp seals. These are ring seals. Not as photogenic.”
The next room was devoted to wolves. Hundreds of pelts hung from a rack that snaked around the warehouse like a vast coat check. The wolves were strung up by their snouts, fluorescent light gleaming through the holes where their eyes had been.
