by Giles Blunt
They talked for a while in low voices. Cardinal asked about her background and was somewhat surprised that she talked about it openly—a horrible father, a nonentity mother, two failed marriages. There was no self-pity in it; she related the bits of information as if they were facts she’d come across on microfilm.
In the morning she roused him with the heat of her mouth and then he was inside her again almost before he was fully awake, so that it felt like an extremely vivid dream. Then a rushed breakfast and awkward goodbyes. When Donna was gone, Cardinal stood for a long time looking out the window, coffee mug in hand, watching the darkness recede from the white and grey expanse of Lake Nipissing.
29
THE SUN WAS STILL LOW IN THE SKY, the first rays hitting the gravestones, slowly turning the light from grey to pale blue. Cardinal pulled to a stop in the parking lot, switched off the Camry and got out. He shut the door but didn’t lock it. There were no other cars, and no footprints marred the snow that covered the graves and the paths that wound among them.
He stood for a moment in the pale wash of sunlight. The cawing of a distant crow and, closer by, the obsessive squawk of a squirrel claiming territory. Smells of snow and wet bark. The black branches, the paper-white hills—Catherine had taken many pictures of just this sort of scene. But Cardinal had never shared her attraction to graveyards. He left the parking lot, gloveless hands in his pockets, and took the path over the nearest hill.
The tips of his ears burned with cold. He walked through a copse of blue spruce and beyond it to an oak that spread its branches over the path, so low he could reach up and touch them. Catherine had told him a couple of times that she wanted to be buried under a tree, wanted to feel she was spreading her branches in some kind of blessing on those who were still alive. Not that they had talked about death a lot, no more than most couples.
Cardinal squatted down beside the edge of the path and brushed the snow away with his bare hand. Underneath Catherine’s name, the brass plaque identified her as a photographer and teacher, the beloved wife of John Cardinal and loving mother of Kelly. Then there was the date of her birth, some fifty years previous, and the date of her death—the plaque said nothing about murder—some fifteen months ago.
Catherine would not have approved of the plaque. She was never one to make a fuss about herself, and not the least bit sentimental. Cardinal hadn’t been sentimental either, until his wife had been taken from him. He had had photographer and teacher engraved because Catherine, when she was well, had been utterly devoted to being both. Beloved and loving, well, those were understatements, the least you could say. The thesaurus was next to useless when it came to describing such things; Cardinal had checked.
The snow melted on his hand and he let the water drip from his fingers onto the brass plaque, where it immediately began to freeze. He didn’t believe in God. He didn’t believe in an afterlife either; at least, he told himself he didn’t. So it wouldn’t be right to say he was talking to the woman who had shared her time in the world with him. But he stayed very still and thought about Catherine’s life, and his life, and many things Catherine had said or done. And her face.
—
Special Agent Mendelsohn was nothing if not a hard worker. He asked Cardinal if he could go over missing person reports in case one of these missing persons might turn out to be in fact another murder victim who would lead them to the same perpetrator. Cardinal brought a stack of files to the meeting room, there being no desk available, and there Mendelsohn took off his sports jacket and rolled up his sleeves and fell into intense concentration.
Cardinal checked back a little later and Mendelsohn was in exactly the same posture, files on his left, untouched coffee on his right. It was not hot in the meeting room, but Mendelsohn was sweating. Cardinal’s own concentration was interrupted again and again with thoughts of Donna Vaughan. Still, he sat at his desk, drawing diagrams of what he knew, what he thought he knew, what he wanted to know.
One of the things he wanted to know was the location of the Bastovs’ rental car. Hertz had not reported it missing—it was merely on their files as overdue. Cardinal had a copy of their records in front of him. Mercury Grand Marquis. Current model. Plate number duly noted.
“Lise.”
Delorme rolled her chair back and raised her eyebrows
“There were only two sets of tire tracks in the driveway of the Trout Lake house, right?”
“Right.”
“And they match the ATM kid’s car, not a Mercury Grand Marquis. Now, since it’s not in the lot of their hotel and it wasn’t at the scene of the murder, it seems likely that the Bastovs drove somewhere else—somewhere they met someone who then drove them out to Island Road.”
“Makes sense.”
“And since our killer is from out of town, it stands to reason the Bastovs might have met him at a hotel—a hotel other than the Highlands. We should check them all for the Bastovs’ Grand Marquis.”
“I’ll get Sergeant Flower to put the street guys on it. If they all stop by the hotels in their sector, we’ll get a quick answer.”
A little later, Cardinal went into the meeting room to check on Mendelsohn.
“Oh, hey,” Mendelsohn said. “This fur auction stuff is interesting. I could read all day about this. And this protester—this Pocklington—what a piece of work he is. I hope someone’s keeping an eye on him.”
“I gave you missing persons stuff to read.”
“Yeah, yeah, I went through all that.”
They were interrupted by Delorme. “They’ve located the Bastov car. The Belvedere Motel.”
—
The Belvedere was a grand name for a motel that was little more than a block of red brick offering views of a Petrocan gas station and a discount electronics store. Delorme and the ident team swarmed over the Grand Marquis the moment they arrived. Cardinal and Mendelsohn went in to talk to the manager, a tubby man in his sixties who was aromatic of pipe tobacco. “We get people helping themselves to our parking spaces all the time,” he told them. “This time of year we have a lot of vacancies, so we don’t call in the tow trucks like we might in summer.”
Cardinal asked to see the register, and the manager swivelled a battered and smudged PC monitor so Cardinal could see.
“Only three guests?”
“Yeah. Rushed off our feet.”
Two had checked in too late for the fur auction. “This third one,” Cardinal said, “the one who checked in a week ago last Wednesday. What can you tell me about him?”
“Not a thing. He signed in and I haven’t seen him since. Hasn’t given me any reason to worry.”
“He have any visitors?”
“I wouldn’t know. They don’t come through the office.”
“Was there anything unusual about him?”
The manager thought about it for a minute, chewing a plump knuckle. “One thing, maybe. He had an accent. He gave his name as Ted Nelson, but he didn’t sound like a Nelson. I didn’t question it—I mean, lots of people change their names when they immigrate. But to me he sounded more like a Sergei or an Igor.”
Cardinal turned to Mendelsohn. “You have any questions?”
Mendelsohn shook his head. “Your show, Detective.”
Cardinal made a note of the Chevy Aveo the man had registered, and the licence plate number. “His car’s not in your lot at the moment. You mind if we sit in here and wait for him to come back?”
“Why, has he done something?”
“We certainly plan to ask him.”
—
Cardinal asked Delorme and the ident team to leave the Mercury and come back later. He moved his own car farther up the street and came back to the motel office. He and Mendelsohn set a couple of chairs to face the windows, and rearranged some plastic plants so they could keep an eye on the parking area.
Cardinal was a little worried about manning a stakeout with Mendelsohn. Mendelsohn was a talker—not just a talker, an italicizer and a gesticulator—
and Cardinal didn’t like a lot of chit-chat on a stakeout. He preferred to think about the case, to try to develop ideas for new avenues of investigation. But the FBI man sat in his chair, watching a parking lot utterly devoid of activity, and didn’t say a word. He had his notepad out and occasionally flipped a page, made a note. Mostly he sat there, slouched at an angle, twirling his ballpoint in silence.
They sat that way for a good hour and a half. The manager, unasked, brought them coffee and muffins. It was the only time Mendelsohn spoke. He thanked the manager and bit into one of the muffins and called after him, “Hey, these are good. You’re very kind to share them.” Cardinal made a mental note to practise better manners himself.
“I have a colleague or two could take lessons from you,” Cardinal said.
“From me? What in? My tuba playing is not so hot, and my driving is a constant concern to the Bureau. Yiddish maybe? You have someone dying to learn Yiddish?”
“Not exactly,” Cardinal said.
“Can’t be much demand for it up here. Jews don’t respond well to cold. Deserts. We like deserts. Especially if they belong to someone else. I got a Palestinian colleague, we call him Zippy because his family name is a little like Doodah. One day I told Zippy, I said, ‘Doodah … Doodah … That’s so familiar. I got it! I think my cousin moved into your family house in Jerusalem!’ Oh boy, did I catch hell from him. Such bad jokes I make. I think I could take lessons from that McLeod guy. Now he’s funny.”
“McLeod, yeah. Very dry.”
“Dry, no. Funny, yes. Okay, I’ll shut up now. I hate people who gas on when you’re on a stakeout. The perfect opportunity for reflection and they have to launch this spielkreig. So dismayed I get. So disheartened.”
They settled once more into their separate quiets. Half an hour later, the Chevy Aveo pulled into the lot and parked in front of room eight.
“Let’s wait till he gets to the door,” Cardinal said.
“Long as he doesn’t get inside the door. That would be a negative thing.”
The man got out of the car and shut the driver’s-side door and immediately opened it again. He reached in and pulled out a paper bag with the KFC logo. He shut the car door again and locked it and carried his dinner to his room door.
Cardinal got up and drew his Beretta. He opened the office door slowly so it wouldn’t squeak, and he and Mendelsohn were behind the man before he had his key out of his pocket.
“Ted Nelson?”
The man turned and looked at them both and said, “Fuck.”
“I need to see some ID.”
“ID why? I have done nothing.”
“Just show me.”
The man reached into his inside coat pocket. Mendelsohn was behind Cardinal with his weapon drawn. The man dropped the wallet and Cardinal kept his Beretta trained on him while he picked it up. There was a credit card and a New York driver’s licence in the name of Nelson, but everything else was in the name Yevgeny Divyris.
“Yevgeny Divyris,” Cardinal said. “You’re related to Irena Divyris? You’re Russian?”
“Ukrainian,” Mendelsohn said, his Glock aimed at the man’s head.
The man turned and looked Mendelsohn up and down and spat on the ground. “Jew.”
“Yes. And please let me personally apologize. I’m so sorry you people had to work so hard herding us into the showers. Nice job your people did as camp guards.”
“Fucking scum. How many in my country you starve to death? Millions.”
“Hands behind your back,” Cardinal said.
“Millions dead from starving while landlords ate like pigs, and nobody talks about this millions. Only the fucking Jews.”
“Both hands,” Cardinal said. “Now.” He snapped the handcuffs on the man and turned him around. “That Mercury is your sister’s rental. You have any explanation why it’s at your hotel?”
“I don’t have to explain nothing. To you or your fucking Jew friend.”
“I’m sure you mean that in a positive sense,” Mendelsohn said.
They put Divyris into the back of the car and drove to the station, where he was booked on a charge of credit card fraud. They sat him in an interview room and left him there to stew for half an hour while they dug up all the background they could on him.
“Explain to me one thing,” Mendelsohn said, “and then I’ll just observe. Explain to me how it is that the Jews, who are supposed to be behind every international plot, who are supposedly manipulating the world’s banking system through a worldwide network of conspirators—explain to me how these Machiavellian geniuses ended up as lampshades and other handy household items.”
“Right now I’d rather ask him about his relationship with his sister.”
“Good point. Focus, Detective. I like that. See, I could learn from you.”
—
Cardinal sat himself down opposite Yevgeny Divyris and silently filled out a form. Divyris sat back with one foot crossed over his knee, cuffed hands in his lap.
“How long you plan to keep me here? You think I don’t have better things to do?”
Cardinal didn’t look up.
“I asked you question.”
Cardinal put aside the form. It was actually just a federal tax form; you couldn’t beat the feds for ominous-looking documents. At this proximity he could see Divyris’s resemblance to Irena. He had the same deep-set eyes, the same wide cheekbones, and Cardinal wondered if his sister had had the same arrogant attitude.
“You don’t have right to keep me here,” he said. “You have to charge me.”
“You’re charged with fraud.”
Divyris gave a snort. “Credit card. I thought you were investigating my sister’s murder, but no, big detective is worried about credit card. Is nothing.”
“It’ll do for now.” Cardinal flipped back through his notebook. “You owned a fur farm outside Kiev, didn’t you?”
Divyris stared at him. “Long time ago. Big deal.”
“It was doing quite well until about, let’s see, five years ago. What happened then?”
“Market problems. Suddenly no one buys furs. No one in Russia.”
“But some people were doing quite well. Lev Bastov, for example.”
“Lev Bastov? Is nothing. Nobody.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but Lev Bastov appears to own several fur farms in Russia, and owns or has a controlling interest in fur factories in Russia, China, the U.S. and Canada. He sells furs, buys furs, manufactures coats, hats, you name it, and sells them again. Hardly nothing.”
“Who cares? Is his business.”
“Just before the fur market really tanks, he sells his factory in Russia and buys two in China. That’s exactly one year after he marries your sister.”
“Maybe you never notice—so busy chasing credit cards—some guys are lucky. Other guys? Not lucky.”
“Which brings us to your own fur farm.” Cardinal consulted the notes. “A thriving business when you take it over, a disaster when you sell it—presumably for peanuts—two years later. Again, right before Lev Bastov hits the big time.”
“You get this from Internet? Internet is always wrong.”
“We have witnesses who say you were hot on the idea of Irena marrying Lev Bastov. You were totally excited about it. Lev Bastov was going to buy your fur farm and save you from ruin. Lev Bastov was going to set you up on a new farm somewhere profitable. Or better yet, he was going to make you manager of a fur factory.”
“Some guys like to talk big, you know? Some guys like to make promises—especially when they have eye on woman like my sister. If you cannot win her with your looks, you buy her with your money. You make big promise her family will benefit also. He will look after everyone. Then he’s married and big promises are forgotten.”
“But he did keep one promise. He did put you in charge of a factory in—where was it …” Cardinal flipped a page in his notebook, scanning until he found the entry. “Kalinin?”
“Kalinin. Fuck Kal
inin. Kalinin, it’s like getting charge of auto factory in Detroit. Like getting charge of Titanic. Bon voyage, Captain!”
“Sales went down, profits turned to losses, people lost their jobs, and Lev Bastov put it all on you.”
“Lev tells me, ‘You drink too much, party too much. You pay yourself too much. And you pay too much for furs when no market.’ As if I’m supposed to know future. I’m supposed to know China is going to rule universe? Fucking slave owners.”
“And he fired you.”
“Fuck him.”
“He gets your sister, he gets his factories, his profits, his jet-set lifestyle, and you get …”
“I hated the bastard, okay? Big revelation: I’m not going to miss Lev Bastov. But if you suppose I killed him, no. Kill him, maybe I can imagine. Kill Irena? Never. And you will never prove this, because I did not do it.”
“Why are you even in Algonquin Bay, if you’re not in the fur business anymore?”
“I buy for couple of Jews in garment district. Pay is shit.”
“Where were you the night your sister was killed?”
“My hotel.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“Yes, of course someone was with me. Irena and her fucking husband were with me. You saw their car outside hotel. You think I’m going to go out to some house with them, cut heads off, and stay in hotel waiting for you to arrest me? And all this time I leave their car outside my room?”
“You probably didn’t know it was their car. They come to visit you, they knock on your door—why would you see their car? Did you call them or did they call you?”
“They called me.”
“The memory on your cellphone says otherwise.”
“So I called them. Why not?”
