By the Time You Read This

34

POLICE CHIEF R. J. KENDALL did not tend to be a harsh man. Cardinal had seen him give members of the force second, third, even fourth chances when he himself would have yanked badges and guns. But Kendall was also inconsistent to the point where you wondered if inconsistency was a policy with him, a way to keep staff on their toes. When provoked, he would shout abuse loud enough that the whole station could hear. Then a week later he’d be saying what a good job the former malefactor was doing.

Kendall was seated in his big leather chair now, the light from the window behind him turning his thinning silver hair into a dull halo. He had not asked Cardinal to sit down.

“It’s not that I’m unsympathetic,” he said. “If my wife were to die in similar circumstances—God forbid—I would probably be tempted to do the same thing.”

“Chief, I saw her just three hours before. She was fine. She was looking forward to working on her project. Not the kind of thing you expect from someone about to do herself in.”

“We have a coroner’s finding of suicide.”

“A young doctor. Inexperienced as a coroner.”

“You read the note yourself. You identified the writing. I don’t think we have to go into her history, do we?”

“She was doing fine, Chief. She was not in any emotional distress.”

“Delorme, McLeod, Szelagy—all of them were there with the coroner. None of them found anything inconsistent with suicide. Nor did the pathologist. There is nothing to investigate. We have no case.”

“Her note was written months ago. I had a guy in Documents confirm it.”

“Which you should not have done,” the chief said, a warning flush of crimson forming at his jawline. “That’s called a misuse of police resources. We have no case.”

“In order to believe it was suicide, you have to believe that she wrote a note three months ago. That she went on with her life as usual, giving no sign of her intentions. Then one night, in the middle of a photographic project, she takes along the note to leave at the scene before jumping off the roof.”

“We have NO CASE.” Kendall was on his feet now, his face a brilliant cardiac red. He was not a tall man, but he made up in decibels what he lacked in centimetres. “You will not come in here and tell me how the entire law enforcement community is wrong and you are right. And you will refrain from cross-questioning the chair of a college department as if she was a member of the mob! Do I make myself clear?”

“Chief, there are reasonable grounds to—”

“You were not even on the job, Cardinal, you were on leave. And you interrogated this woman as if she was a suspect in a murder case. But there is NO SUCH CASE. Your behaviour would be out of line if she were a streetwalker, if she were a drug dealer. But Meredith Moore is chair of a college department, and you do not interrogate such people when you have no warrant, no justification and NO CASE!”

Cardinal started to speak, but the chief raised a traffic-stopping hand.

“I don’t want you to go out of here thinking this is going to be a matter where I’m going to give you second, third or fourth chances. It isn’t. You want to be back at work, fine, you’re back at work. But you are here to pursue cases that I and your detective sergeant approve. Everything else is unlawful use of police resources, and I will not tolerate it. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I hope this matter is now closed.”

“I just have one question.”

“What is it?”

“What would it take to make you open a case on Catherine?”

“More than you have.”

When he returned to his desk, Cardinal found new e-mail waiting for him.

Cardinal’s own name was conspicuously absent from the address list; the message had been forwarded to him by Arsenault. Arsenault was now waving him over to the hallway connecting CID to Ident.

“I wanted to talk to you about the Zellers break-in,” Arsenault said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Cardinal followed him into Ident. Collingwood was out, and except for the two of them the place was empty.

“I ran the print,” Arsenault said.

“Obviously we can’t talk about it right now.”

“Why? The air belongs to Police Services?”

“The time does.”

“It’s okay. RJ has left the building.” He jerked a thumb toward the parking lot. “Just saw him take off in a limo.”

“Thanks for forwarding the e-mail. I don’t want to get anyone else in trouble.”

“Forget it. RJ’s a pussycat. Anyway, just wanted to let you know we came back negative on the thumbprint.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing local, nothing national. Total bust.”

“All right. It was worth a try.”

“I got a few more avenues I can explore. You want me to keep trying?”

“Just make sure RJ doesn’t find out.”

Cardinal picked up his mail and phone messages, and sat down at his desk. From the brass-framed photograph on his desk, Catherine smiled at him—the same smile that had sent his heart spinning way back when they had first met. Cardinal opened his middle drawer, put the picture inside and closed the drawer.

He began sorting his inbox: notices to appear in court, office memos, notices of parole committee hearings, missives from his pension plan, the payroll department, and various unclassifiable material that went straight to the recycle bin.

He opened the middle drawer, took out the photograph and set it once more in the corner.

“Are you really here this time?”

Delorme was dropping her briefcase onto her desk. She looked tired and frustrated, a slight pout forming on her mouth, but that was not unusual for Delorme.

“I’m back,” Cardinal said. “At least physically.”

Delorme sat down and rolled her chair up close. “Let me tell you about a case might take your mind off things.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She began pulling file folders from her briefcase. “I’ve got a crime scene but no witnesses, no victim and no perpetrator. How familiar are you with child porn?”

“Haven’t had that many cases. Keswick—remember him?”

“Keswick was nothing. Get ready for a real stomach-turner.”