By the Time You Read This

2

NORMALLY, LISE DELORME WOULD have been irritated at being called in on her day off. It happened all the time, but that didn’t make it any less annoying to be hauled out of whatever you were doing. She had been at a pub, enjoying a particularly pungent curry with a new boyfriend—a very good-looking lawyer only a year or two her junior—whom she had met when he unsuccessfully defended a long-time thug Delorme had nabbed for extortion. This was their third date, and even though the concept of sleeping with a lawyer was extremely hard for her to accept, Delorme had been planning to invite him in for a drink when he took her home. Shane Cosgrove was his name.

It would have been sexier if Shane had been a better lawyer. Delorme actually thought his thuggy client should have got off, considering the meagre pile of evidence she had managed to put together. But still, he was good-looking and good company, and such men, single, are hard to come by in a place the size of Algonquin Bay.

When she returned to the table, Shane asked her if she needed to lie down, she had turned that white. Detective Sergeant Chouinard had just told her that the victim was John Cardinal’s wife and that Cardinal himself was at the scene. A patrol unit had called Chouinard at home and Chouinard had in turn called Delorme.

“Get him out of there, Lise,” he had said. “Whatever else is going on inside him right now, Cardinal’s been a cop for thirty years. He knows as well as you and me that until we rule out foul play, he’s suspect number one.”

“D.S.,” Delorme said, “Cardinal’s been absolutely loyal to his wife through a lot of—”

“A lot of shit. Yes, I know that. I also know it’s possible he finally got fed up. It’s possible some little straw just broke the camel’s back. So get your ass over there and make sure you think dirty. That place is a homicide scene until such time as we rule out foul play.”

So there was no irritation in Delorme’s heart as she drove across town, only sorrow. Although she had met Cardinal’s wife on social occasions, she’d never gotten to know her well. Of course, she knew what everyone in the department knew: that every couple of years Catherine went into the psychiatric hospital following a manic or depressive episode. And every time Delorme had encountered Catherine Cardinal, she had wondered how that was possible.

For Catherine Cardinal, at least when she was well, was one of the few women Delorme had ever met who could with any degree of accuracy be described as “radiant.” The words “manic” and “depressive”—not to mention “bipolar” or “psychotic”—evoked images of the frazzled, the wild-eyed. But Catherine had radiated gentleness, intelligence, even wisdom.

Delorme, single for more years than she cared to count, often found the company of married couples tedious. In general, they lacked the spark of people still on the hunt. And they had an exasperating way of implying that single people were in some way defective. Most upsetting of all, many seemed not even to like each other, treating each other with a rudeness they would never dream of inflicting on a stranger. But Cardinal and his wife, married God knew how long, seemed genuinely to enjoy each other’s company. Cardinal talked about Catherine almost every day, unless she was in hospital, and then his silence had always struck Delorme as an expression not of shame but of loyalty. He was always telling Delorme about Catherine’s latest photograph, or how she had helped some former student get a job, about an award she had won, or something funny she had said.

But in Delorme’s experience there was something imposing about Catherine, something commanding, even when you knew her psychiatric history. In fact, it may partly have been an effect of that very psychiatric history: the aura of someone who had travelled into the depths of madness and come back to tell the tale. Only this time she hadn’t come back.

And maybe Cardinal’s better off, Delorme thought. Maybe it’s not the worst thing for him to be free of this beautiful albatross. Delorme had witnessed the toll on Cardinal when his wife had been admitted to hospital, and at such times she found herself surprisingly angry at the woman who could make his life a misery.

Lise Delorme, she cursed herself as she came to a stop at the crime scene tape, sometimes you can be a hundred percent, unforgivable, unmitigated bitch.

If Chouinard had been hoping his speedy dispatch of Delorme would prevent suspect number one from messing up a crime scene, he was too late. As she got out of the car, she could see Cardinal holding his wife in his arms, blood all over his suede jacket.

A young cop—Sanderson was his name—was standing guard by the crime scene tape.

“You were first on the scene?” Delorme asked him.

“Got an anonymous call from someone in the building. Said there appeared to be a body out back. I proceeded here, ascertained that she was dead and put in a call to the sarge. She called CID and Cardinal got here first. I had no idea it was his wife.” There was a trill of panic in his voice. “There’s no ID on the body. There’s no way I could’ve known.”

“That’s all right,” Delorme said. “You did the right thing.”

“If I’d have known, I’d have kept him away from the body. But he didn’t know either till he got up close. I’m not gonna get in trouble over this, am I?”

“Calm down, Sanderson, you’re not in trouble. Ident and the coroner will be here any second.”

Delorme went over to Cardinal. She could tell from the damage to his wife that she had fallen from a high floor. Cardinal had turned her over and was holding her up in his arms as if she were asleep. His face was streaked with blood and tears.

Delorme squatted beside him. She gently touched Catherine’s wrist and then her neck, establishing two things: there was no pulse, and the body was still warm, though beginning to cool at the extremities. There was a camera bag nearby, some of its contents spilling out onto the asphalt.

“John,” she said softly.

When he did not respond, she said his name again, her voice even softer. “John, listen. I’m only going to say this once. What we have here, this is breaking my heart, okay? Right now I feel like curling up in a corner and crying and not coming out till somebody tells me this isn’t real. You hear me? My heart is going out to you. But you and I both know what has to happen.”

Cardinal nodded. “I didn’t realize it was … till I got up close.”

“I understand,” Delorme said. “But you’re going to have to put her down now.”

Cardinal was crying, and she just let him. Arsenault and Collingwood, the ident team, were heading toward them. She held her hand up to ward them off.

“John. Can you put her down for me now? I need you to put her back just the way she was when you found her. Ident’s here. The coroner’s going to be here. However this happened, we need to do this investigation by the book.”

Cardinal shifted Catherine off his knees and, with futile tenderness, turned her face down. He arranged her left hand over her head. “This hand was up like this,” he said. “This one,” he said, taking her other arm by the wrist, “was down by her side. Her arms are broken, Lise.”

“I know.” Delorme wanted to touch him, comfort him, but she forced her professional self to keep control. “Come with me now, John. Let Ident do their work, okay?”

Cardinal got to his feet, swaying a little. Sanderson had been joined by lots of uniformed colleagues now, and Delorme was aware of one or two people watching from balconies as she led Cardinal past the scene tape and over to her car. Bits of computer crunched underfoot. She opened the passenger door for him and he got in. She got in on the driver’s side and shut the door.

“Where were you when you got the call?” Delorme said.

She couldn’t be sure from Cardinal’s expression if he was taking anything in. Was he aware of the ambulance, its lights uselessly flashing? Did he see the coroner heading toward the body with his medical bag? Arsenault and Collingwood in their white paper jumpsuits? McLeod slowly pacing the perimeter, eyes to the ground? She couldn’t tell.

“John, I know it’s a terrible time to ask questions …” It was what they always said. She hoped he understood that she had to do this, probe the wound with the knife still in it.

When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly clear; he just sounded exhausted. “I was at the Birches motel, in my car, with the mayor.”

“Mayor Feckworth? How come?”

“He was demanding a full missing-persons on his wife, threatening to go to the chief, the papers. Someone had to break the bad news to him.”

“How long were you with him?”

“About two and a half hours, all told. He came to the station first. McLeod can confirm all this. Szelagy, too.”

“Szelagy was still staking out the motel on the Porcini case?”

Cardinal nodded. “He may still be there. He’ll have his radio off. You would too, if you were watching the Porcinis.”

“Do you know why Catherine would be here at this building?”

“She went out to take photographs. I don’t know if she knew anybody here. Must have, I guess, to get access.”

Delorme could almost hear Cardinal’s cop mind trying to click back into gear.

“We should be checking out the roof,” he said. “If that’s not where she went over, then we should be canvassing the upper floors. You should be, I mean. I can’t be involved.”

“Wait here a minute,” Delorme said.

She got out of the car and found McLeod over by the Dumpster.

“Lot of crap all over the place,” he said. “Looks like someone blew up a computer back here.”

“CompuClinic’s out front,” Delorme said. “Listen, did you see Cardinal earlier this evening?”

“Yeah, he was in the office till seven-thirty or so. Mayor showed up around seven-fifteen and they went out together. Probably to the Birches motel, where his wife’s been boinking the Sanitation Department. You want me to call the mayor?”

“You have his number?”

“Do I ever. Guy’s been bugging me all week.” McLeod had already pulled out his cellphone and selected a number from a list that glowed lilac in his palm.

Delorme went over to the ident guys. They were down on their knees picking up small items and dropping them into evidence bags. The moon was higher now, and no longer orange. It lit the scene with a silvery light. A cool breeze carried smells of old leaves. Why do the worst horrors occur on the most beautiful nights? Delorme wondered.

“You bagged her hands?” she said to Arsenault.

He looked up at her. “Well, yeah. Until we actually rule out foul play.”

Collingwood, the younger member of the ident team, was extracting objects from the camera bag that lay a few feet from the body. He was young, blond and laconic almost to the point of hostility.

“Camera,” he said, holding up a Nikon. The lens was smashed.

“She was a photographer,” Delorme said. “Cardinal said she went out this evening to take pictures. What else?”

“Spare rolls of film. Battery. Lenses. Filters. Lens tissue.”

“About what you’d expect, in other words.”

He didn’t reply. Sometimes it was as if you hadn’t quite hit Collingwood’s Enter button.

“Found car keys in her coat pocket,” Arsenault said, handing them over.

“I’ll check out her car,” Delorme said, reaching for them.

The coroner was getting up from the body, whacking dust from the lower part of his overcoat. It was Dr. Claybourne, already balding in his early thirties. Delorme had worked with him a couple of times before. He had asked her out once, but she had declined, saying she was already seeing someone, untrue at the time. Some men were too nice, in Delorme’s view, too harmless, too bland. It was like being alone but without privacy.

“What do you think?” Delorme said.

Dr. Claybourne had a ring of red hair round his pate, and pale, almost translucent skin. He blushed a lot, Delorme had noticed, which she put down to his complexion.

“Well, she’s taken a terrible fall, obviously. And from the amount of blood, she was certainly alive when she fell.”

“Time of death?”

“I only have body temperature to go on at the moment, and the lack of rigor. I’d say she’s been dead about two hours.”

Delorme looked at her watch. “Which would put it at about eight-thirty. What do the measurements tell you?”

“Oh, I’d have to bow to your forensics experts on that. She’s eight feet from the edge of the building. The balconies extend five feet. She could have fallen from a balcony or a window.”

“From how high, do you think?”

“Hard to say. Somewhere around ten storeys is my guess.”

“The building’s only nine. We should probably start with the roof.”

“All right. I’m not seeing any evidence of foul play, so far.”

“I have a feeling you won’t find any. The victim is known to me, Doctor. Are you aware of her medical history?”

“No.”

“Call the psychiatric hospital. She’s been hospitalized up there at least four times in the past eight years. Her last stay was about a year ago and lasted three months. When you’ve done that, why don’t we go up to the roof?”

McLeod was waving her over. She left Claybourne dialing his cellphone.

“Feckless Feckworth was not happy to hear from me. I could hear the wife screaming at him in the background. Naturally I brought all my diplomatic and social skills to bear.”

“I can imagine.”

“His Worship says Cardinal was with him at the Birches till nine-thirty. Szelagy says the same.”

“You heard from Szelagy?”

“Yeah, he’s off the Porcinis for the night. He’s on his way.”

Delorme went to her car. Cardinal was where she had left him, looking as if he had taken a large-calibre round in the gut. Delorme led him over to the ambulance.

The paramedic was a hard-looking woman with very short blond hair. Her uniform was tight on her.

“Victim’s husband,” Delorme said. “Take care of him, will you?” She turned to Cardinal. “John, I’m heading up to the roof now. Stay here and let these people look after you. I’ll be back in about ten minutes.”

Cardinal sat down on the folded-out tail of the ambulance. Once again Delorme suppressed an urge to put her arms around him, her friend in agony and she has to remain all business.

McLeod and Dr. Claybourne went with her in the elevator to the top floor. Then they had to take the stairwell up another flight to a door marked Patio. The door was propped open with a brick. McLeod found a switch and turned on the exterior lights.

The roof had been covered with pressed wood flooring, and there were picnic tables with holes for umbrellas. The umbrellas had been taken in; the autumn breezes were already too cold for anyone to enjoy sitting outside for more than a few minutes.

“I can see why she might have come up here to take pictures,” Delorme said, looking around. To the north, a string of highway lights wound up the hill toward the airport. Slightly to the east was the dark shoulder of the escarpment, and to the south, the lights of the city, the cathedral spire and the post office communications tower. The moon was rolling out from behind the belfries of the French church.

McLeod pointed to an unadorned concrete wall, waist-high, that surrounded the roof. “Doesn’t look like the kind of thing you could easily fall over. Maybe she was leaning over to take a picture. Might want to look at what’s on her camera.”

“The camera was in the bag, so I don’t think she was shooting when she fell.”

“Might wanna check anyway.”

Delorme pointed in the direction of the moon. “That’s where she went off.”

“Why don’t you examine it first,” Dr. Claybourne said. “I’ll take a look when you’re done.”

Delorme and McLeod, careful where they stepped, walked slowly toward the edge of the roof. McLeod said in a low voice, “I think the doc’s sweet on you.”

“McLeod, really.”

“Come on. Did you see the way he blushed?”

“McLeod …”

Delorme approached the railing, head bowed, looking at the flooring in front of her. The area was well lit by the moon and by the roof lights. She paused at the wall and peered over, then walked slowly to the left, then back to the right beyond where she had started.

“I’m not seeing any obvious signs of struggle,” she said. “No signs at all, in fact.”

“Here’s something.” McLeod had spotted a piece of paper wedged under a planter and stooped to pick it up. He brought it over to Delorme, a lined page about four by six, torn from a spiral notebook.

It contained a few sentences, in ballpoint, written in a small, intense hand.