By the Time You Read This

48

DESPITE WHAT HE RECOGNIZED as his previous misbehaviour, Cardinal was a firm believer in procedure. And the proper procedure on this frosty night—still no snow and yet the temperature heading toward freezing—would have been to call his detective sergeant and tell him the evidence he had. If Chouinard agreed the evidence warranted immediate arrest, the D.S. would assign other detectives to assist him. If not, a discussion with the crown might be arranged to see what more was needed.

As he drove past the cathedral toward Randall Street, Cardinal knew very well he was violating procedure by not calling his D.S. But then, he was violating procedure by working on the case at all. And he was violating procedure by not calling for backup. He could see D.S. Chouinard’s face forming in the frost on his windshield. He could hear his angry words somewhere within the blast of the Camry’s heater.

But none of that stopped him.

The Camry zoomed through a red light, cherry flashing on the roof. No siren. He didn’t want the doctor to hear him coming.

Three minutes later he was pulling to a stop a few doors from Bell’s house. There were lights on at the back and upstairs. He went around to the rear, passing the kitchen windows; there was no shadow of movement inside. The BMW was still parked in the driveway.

Cardinal stepped silently onto the back porch. The upper part of the back door was glass, mostly covered by gingham curtains on the inside. He peered through a small gap and saw the far wall, with its fridge and calendar, a cuckoo clock above the far door, which was closed. And, changing his angle a bit, he could see the still form of Mrs. Bell, curled up on the floor in a dark pool of blood.

Cardinal broke the glass with his elbow and reached in to open the lock.

He paused for a second in the doorway, listening. The house was huge, and the kitchen door was closed. If Bell was home, he might not have heard the window break.

Cardinal tiptoed around the blood and touched the side of Mrs. Bell’s neck. She was still warm, but there was no pulse, and the size of the dark pool beneath her indicated there never would be. There were defensive wounds on her forearms and a terrible gash across her throat.

Not your best work, Cardinal thought. You’re used to having people kill themselves for you. She took your discs, stole your precious trophies, and you went into a rage. The question is, what do you do next? What does a man obsessed with suicide, and guilty of at least two murders, do next?

Cardinal turned the handle of the kitchen door and moved silently into the front hall, the waiting area. It was lit by a small, elegant chandelier, but the doctor’s office, off to the left, was dark, as was the living room on the right. He tried the office door. Locked. The stairs were carpeted, but old. He stepped on the edges to minimize creaking, his Beretta in his hand.

Upstairs, the only light flowed from the front room. Four steps and Cardinal was there, gun at the ready, safety off, right hand cradled in left palm. The room was large but overfurnished, with two armoires, two armchairs, an antique vanity and a vast bed covered in a red quilt on which a suitcase lay open, half packed with men’s clothes. A quick check showed no one behind the door, no one under the bed, no one crouched in the armoires.

Cardinal worked his way swiftly through the other rooms: A bedroom set up as a sewing room. A guest room, spicy with the scent of potpourri. And two other rooms done up in subtle colour schemes, one a small TV room, the other a comfortable-looking library with a small billiard table and a fireplace.

There were two more doors leading off the hall. The first proved to be a closet.

A creak. Was that a floorboard overhead? Someone on the third floor? It could have been nothing, just the kind of noise an old house makes, but Cardinal went dead still, listening.