Crime Machine

27

CARDINAL PUT IN THE CALL TO Peel Regional and spoke to Sergeant Rob Fazulli, who headed up airport security. They had worked together briefly on Toronto vice “back in the Jurassic Period,” as Fazulli put it, but he wasn’t happy to hear from Cardinal again. “We already sent you guys the parking video. Do you know the kind of effort that took?”

“Car stolen from your airport—you would have had to do that anyway.”

“And now you want us to match a face from the parking lot to U.S. arrivals?”

“Just within the hour previous to the car theft.”

Now he’s going to tell me about the thirty million, Cardinal thought.

“Cardinal, Pearson handles thirty-two million passengers a year.”

“And at least one of them decapitated two people in my town. If you’ve got more gruesome murders to deal with, by all means handle them first. Otherwise, you know …”

“Consider it done,” Fazulli said, and rang off. Consider it done was a phrase they used to employ in Toronto vice when they had no intention of doing whatever was being proposed. Cardinal, not by nature an optimist, in this case chose to think Fazulli was kidding.

His phone rang as he was hanging up. Toronto Forensics getting back to him on the sawdust. The analyst sounded suspiciously youthful.

“I’m actually just an intern. I’m working on my doctorate in botany,” he told Cardinal. “When I saw we had a sawdust sample, I took a personal interest and put it under the scope during my lunch hour.”

“I’m already impressed. What did you find?”

“White pine and birch. That’s it.”

“No cedar?” Cardinal said. “No mahogany?”

“No, no. Just the two—white pine and birch.”

Cardinal thanked him and hung up. “Hey, McLeod, what do you make of this?”

McLeod’s face rose like a bloodshot moon above the divider. Cardinal told him the results.

“The Highlands manager said they were doing all kinds of work out there, right? Cedar and mahogany, et cetera? So where did Irena Bastov pick up white pine and birch on her hem? We haven’t had a lumber mill in town must be twenty years. And somehow I can’t see a couple like the Bastovs dropping into Home Depot while they’re here for the fur auction.”

“Home Depot, you’d get all sorts of cedar.”

“So where are two visitors going to pick up white pine and birch sawdust?”

“As it happens, you’re asking the right guy, Sergeant Cardinal.” McLeod addressed him in the tone of mock formality he always adopted when feeling particularly smug. “I can think of two places. You know Kabinet Kreations out on Cartier?”

“The unfinished-furniture joint? They must handle more than pine and birch.”

“Nope. Reason I know, I just ordered an entertainment unit from them. I asked for oak—like I could afford it—and he told me no, they only do pine or birch. I went for birch.”

“You think the Bastovs arrive in Algonquin Bay and the first thing they do, they head out to Kabinet Kreations?”

“No, I do not. You know what your problem is, Detective?”

“No. Please tell me.”

“Your problem, Detective Cardinal, is that you don’t drink enough. If you drank more often, you would go to bars more often. And if you went to bars more often, as I do—purely in the interests of law and order—you would know that the floors of the Chinook roadhouse are covered with sawdust.”

“Okay. Why would it be just pine and birch?”

“An excellent question, Detective Cardinal, and once again I can satisfy your curiosity. You know who owns the Chinook?”

“That Greek guy—Jimmy Kappaz.”

“Jimmy Kappaz. And guess where he gets his sawdust.”

“Kabinet Kreations? McLeod, how would you know a thing like that—assuming it’s true?”

“Kabinet Kreations is owned and operated by one Leon Kappaz—Jimmy’s older brother. He’s got the identical moustache—Greeks, as you know, are born with them. Same hound dog face. I got to asking him about Jimmy, about the Chinook, and he happened to mention that’s what he did with his sawdust.”

“I always hoped you’d be good for something,” Cardinal said, “but you’ve exceeded all expectations.”

“Thank you, Detective—and congratulations, by the way. Delorme tells me you’ve cleared the Scriver case.”

The Chinook had been through many different incarnations—from inn, to cabaret, to oyster bar—but for the past ten years it had been a roadhouse, meaning the music was always live and loud, the food was down-home (and surprisingly good) and the beer tended toward the more powerful concoctions of the Quebec microbreweries. It had a sizable dance floor, now dark and deserted. Smells of stale beer and sawdust.

Jimmy Kappaz was sitting at the end of his bar with a morose expression on his face, punching numbers into an adding machine. When Cardinal showed him the pictures of Lev and Irena Bastov, he recognized them at once.

“Sure. Exotic couple. Both with huge fur coats. Not my usual customer.”

“Why didn’t you call us?” Cardinal said. “Their pictures have been all over the newspapers.”

Kappaz shrugged. “Who reads the papers?”

“You didn’t hear about a double murder just up the road?” McLeod said. “What are you, retarded?” Cardinal gave him a look, and McLeod corrected himself. “Sorry. Are you developmentally impaired? These people had their heads chopped off.”

“Sure, I heard people talking about it. But I didn’t pay much attention. Like I say, who cares about the news?”

Cardinal asked him if the Bastovs had been with anybody else.

“Sure, yeah. One guy. Nobody I recognized. Guy maybe late fifties. Short hair.”

“Think about it. Can you describe him better than that?”

“Not really. I was crazy busy.”

“Did they meet him here, or did they arrive with him?”

Kappaz shrugged and shook his head. “Don’t know. They were sitting far end of the bar, I was down this end, making a million drinks for the waiters.”

“Did they look like they were friends, the three of them?”

“No. The couple left, and the other guy, he looked pissed off.”

“Short hair. Late fifties. What else?”

“Who knows what else? I’m a bartender, not a detective.”

“Hey, Euclid,” McLeod said, “I thought Greeks were supposed to be smart.”

“Long time ago.” He swung his mournful eyes back to Cardinal. “It’s just my feeling, but the guy looked tough—you know, like a Marine or something. Like if you got him upset, he might dismantle you.”

“Thanks,” Cardinal said. “Listen, can you get someone to cover the bar for you before the evening rush? We need you to go downtown and talk to the police artist.”

“I told you, I don’t remember nothing.”

“Do it anyway. You may be surprised.”

When they got back into the car, Cardinal drove out along Island Road rather than back toward town.

“I want to take another look at the scene,” Cardinal said.

“Fine by me. By the way, I talked to Ron Larivière—the bush pilot Irena Bastov was screwing? He denied it at first, of course, but faced with my priestlike demeanour he admitted that, yes, they had a two-night fling a couple of years ago, and that was the extent of it.”

“And you believe him?”

“I actually do. Besides, on the night in question he was drinking with a bunch of trappers at the Bull and Bear.”

“What about the guy who used to run the trappers’ association?”

“That was more challenging. Donald Rivard left town six years ago and didn’t keep in touch with anybody. I tracked him down to Red River, where apparently he died of cirrhosis in 2008. So glamorous, the fur industry.”

There was a car parked in the hydro turnoff where Sam had parked. Cardinal pulled into the Schumachers’ drive. Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, but other than that the house gave no sign of what had taken place inside. They went in through the back door and into the dining room. The blood-smeared floor, the empty chairs.

“Heat’s back on,” McLeod said. He picked up an unused Baggie from the floor and put it in his pocket. “Makes you wonder who turned it off. And why.”

“Probably the killer. Wanted to be sure we found the bodies exactly the way he left them.”

“You think it’s the guy the Bastovs were with at the Chinook? From Jimmy’s description, it could be the older guy on the airport tape.”

“Could be. But it was Wednesday night they were seen with him. They were killed Thursday night.”

“Well, we know it’s not the ATM mugger. The shoe prints don’t match. And he was not left-handed.” McLeod interrupted himself to point out the back window. “Why, look at that—a suspect.”

Outside, a pudgy man in a long dark coat was contemplating the snowy surface of the lake. He was about ten yards from shore, hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders hunched, even though it was a relatively warm day. On his head, a Russian-style fur hat.

“Looks too harmless,” Cardinal said.

“Looks like a fucking commissar. Do you suppose he realizes that the lake ice is not exactly the safest place to—”

It was as if, by raising the possibility, McLeod caused it to happen. The ice gave way beneath the man and he pitched forward. In an effort to counterbalance, he tipped back. As his weight shifted to his rear foot, that too broke the surface. Now only his shoulders and head were visible.

McLeod pulled out his cellphone and dialed 911.

“Find some rope,” Cardinal said. “And a crowbar or something.”

He grabbed a broom and reached the lake in seconds and ran to the end of the dock. He got onto the ice on all fours and lay down to spread his weight. He dragged himself forward and placed the broomstick across the hole. The man was trying to suck in air, unable to speak. He grabbed hold of the broom handle. Cardinal pounded the near edge of the hole, snapping off chunks of the weakest ice.

McLeod was on the dock now. He tossed a crowbar, and Cardinal used it to break more ice until he reached a thicker patch.

“You’ve got to pull yourself up,” he said to the man. “We’re not going to be able to haul you out of there without your help.”

McLeod had tied some clothesline into a lasso. Cardinal looped it around the man’s shoulders and told him to put his arms through. Together they managed to get the rope under his arms.

Cardinal crawled back to the dock. He and McLeod braced the rope around their backs and heaved. The man got first one leg up out of the water, then the other. He collapsed on the ice, and they dragged him to shore.

As the wail of the ambulance grew louder, Cardinal reached into the man’s coat. He made a token effort to resist, his hand a white claw. The dripping bills inside the wallet were American, and a government card identified him as Special Agent Irv Mendelsohn, FBI.

McLeod, who had been looking over Cardinal’s shoulder, let out a bark of laughter.