Crime Machine

30

CARDINAL HAD NO DOUBT THAT Divyris—despite his alleged fear of the Russian underworld—would flee the country if he could. When McLeod finished with him, he was booked on the fraud charge and installed in a cell. By the time that was done, the day was pretty much over.

Cardinal and Mendelsohn were heading out to dinner, to Morgan’s Chop House.

“Oh, hey—old-style chophouse with the red check tablecloths and all that? Sounds like my kind of place,” Mendelsohn said. “Sounds like my ideal.”

“So let’s go there and we can toss ideas around.”

“Excellent. I could eat an entire cow.” He opened the door to his bright red rented Alero. “Oh, wait—sorry, I forgot my galoshes. Hang on a second and I’ll follow you in my car.”

Mendelsohn went back inside and Cardinal crossed the parking lot and got into his Camry. He backed out of his space just as Donna Vaughan was pulling into the lot. They rolled down their respective windows.

“Is there any chance I can take a few minutes of your time?”

“I’m just heading out to a working dinner with a visitor, I’m afraid.

“Is that him?” Donna pointed to Mendelsohn, who was coming out the side door of the station, now wearing his galoshes and fur hat.

“That’s him. FBI.”

“Seriously? He doesn’t look nearly slick enough.”

“Is it urgent? I can postpone dinner half an hour.”

“No, that’s all right.” Her grey eyes were cool, in contrast to her voice. “To tell you the truth, I just wanted to see you. I’ve been thinking about last night.”

“Why don’t you come round later?”

“I really shouldn’t. I’ve got to organize all my notes into some usable form, and a friend just FedExed me a fat trial transcript to read.”

“Come over when you’re done.”

“Really? I mean, I’d love to, but—”

“Good. I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, this is nice,” Mendelsohn said. He looked around over the top of his menu. “Stained glass lamps, waitresses in uniforms, I like this. What more could a man want?”

They ordered salads to start, even though Cardinal warned him they would be strictly iceberg lettuce.

“I’m old enough to remember when we just called it lettuce. It was all iceberg lettuce. Pour some of that Kraft ranch-style on it? Can’t be beat.”

Mendelsohn had delicate table manners, dabbing at his mouth often with his napkin. Cardinal asked about his colleagues (wonderful characters, good men), and his boss (not a bastard, but not exactly effervescent).

“Tell me about this McLeod,” Mendelsohn said. “I get the impression he’s maybe not quite the loose cannon he seems.”

“McLeod is a solid investigator. Also reliable in court, keeps his facts straight.”

“Oh, in court. I imagine he has a pretty good delivery. And this Delorme. Now there’s an attractive woman, and I don’t mean just pretty.”

“Sergeant Delorme has no idea how attractive she is.”

“Which is part of the attraction.” Mendelsohn pointed a fork at his food. “Good pork chop. Most places dry them out, but this is just right. By the way, database came back negative on the Bastovs for Russian mob.”

“You wouldn’t necessarily know if they’d merely been threatened by the mob, though, would you? Most people are going to be too scared to tell anyone, right?”

“You’re right. It doesn’t rule it out. But I checked with NYPD as well—they’re the real experts. Lev Bastov has met one or two connected people in Brooklyn, but not in a way that raised flags. They got a don down there with interests in the fashion business, which gets you to furs pretty quick.”

They talked about Yevgeny Divyris. Neither of them thought he was guilty of murdering his sister and her husband. Whether he hired someone else to do it, however, was still an open question, at least to Cardinal. Mendelsohn was skeptical even of that.

“He has the motive,” Cardinal said. “And he’s got a nasty edge to him.”

“Hundred percent. I agree with you. But I’m coming at this from an entirely different angle. And here …” Mendelsohn paused, fork in midair. The expression on his face was as if he were straining to hear a faint melody. “And here, I don’t know. There’s other stuff I should tell you.”

“So tell me.”

Mendelsohn winced. “I feel awkward. It isn’t that I didn’t trust you. It’s just—especially in the Bureau—you learn to keep things close to your chest. We’ve been burned by other agencies, other departments, and the DOJ itself, come to that. Don’t even talk to me about the CIA. So, we’re not real good about sharing information.”

“It’s pretty much like that between us and the RCMP.”

“Oh, good. I mean not good, but good you understand—now I don’t feel so selfish, so ungrateful.” Mendelsohn dug into his meal with renewed gusto. The snap peas were downright refreshing.

After a few moments of extremely reflective chewing, Mendelsohn leaned across the table. “Okay. Here’s the good stuff. My field supervisor and my colleagues would not approve, but I’m going to go out on a limb. Heck, I’ve already fallen through the ice in front of you—what harm can it do?

“Okay, we have these similar but not identical crimes. I see them as by the same guy or guys; others disagree. Fine. Here’s something I haven’t even floated by them yet, because I don’t want them to haul me straight down to St. Elizabeth’s.”

“St. Elizabeth’s?”

“Psychiatric facility in D.C. Full of agency burnouts. Anyway, here’s what I got—laugh if you want to, but hear me out first. These mashed potatoes are delicious, by the way. I sense more than a tablespoon of butter at work.

“Okay, we got the two cases—three, counting yours. I heard about three other unrelated cases—unrelated by anyone but me—where the doers are kids. These go back a ways—ten, twelve years. We’re talking real youngsters of thirteen or fourteen. No apparent motive. They break into a house, shoot anything that moves—mother, kid, they don’t care, it’s bang, bang, bang.”

“And they’re acting alone?”

“No. With other kids. Older kids. Eighteen, twenty years old. Reason we know, in one of the cases there was a survivor. This was near Elmira—upstate farming area. They missed this terrified thirteen-year-old daughter hiding in a closet. She hears the older ones giving orders: ‘Do it, shoot him,’ stuff like that. ‘That’s how Papa wants it.’”

“‘Papa’? They actually said ‘Papa’?”

“Yeah. So you think, what, European? New immigrants? But the survivor said they sounded American.”

“Was anybody caught?”

“Exactly one guy. He was sixteen, practically a child. He’s on his deathbed with a bullet in his skull. They can’t take it out or his brain comes with it. Lead detective asks him the question on everybody’s minds: Why? Why do you break into a house in the middle of the night and kill everything in sight? His answer? ‘Papa told us to.’

“Detective says, ‘What, your father told you to do this?’ Kid shakes his head and says, ‘Papa.’ It’s the guy’s name. Nobody knows his real name. Doesn’t like to be called anything else. Kid says he teaches them every-thing—from how to rob an ATM to hand-to-hand combat to outdoor survival. Made it sound like a crime school. A crime machine.”

“Robbing ATMs is interesting.”

“I thought you’d like that. Kid died before he could tell us much more.”

“Who shot him?”

“One of his teammates. Apparently he showed hesitation when it came to killing and one of his mentors dropped the hammer on him. Nice, huh?”

“Other than the ATMs, what’s the link with our case up here?”

“Same-type firearm—the Browning HP nine-millimetre.”

“Same make but not the same weapon? That wouldn’t even get you a search warrant up here.”

“I’m losing you,” Mendelsohn said, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. “Okay, it’s understandable. Here’s what I’m gonna do. What time’s your morning meeting? Eight-thirty, right? Nine o’clock I’ll bring everything in, we’ll go over it together. Is nine okay?”

“Sure. Nine’s good.”

“Rather than try to fill you in on everything over this beautiful meal—thank you for bringing me here, by the way, not everybody would do that for an out-of-towner—rather than talk your ear off right now, why don’t I tomorrow just bring you the stuff I’ve got.”

Cardinal signalled the waiter for the check, but Mendelsohn won the battle to pay it.

When they got out on the street, it was colder than before. The wind had picked up and eddies of snow twirled under the streetlights. Mendelsohn raised the collar of his overcoat—a manoeuvre that made him look like a comic-book PI. He thanked Cardinal again and shook his hand. He got into his car, started it and drove away.

When Cardinal got home he pulled his curtains so he wouldn’t have to look at his fogged-up windows. He went to the fridge and got some ice and put it in a glass. He poured a shot of Black Velvet, then added a little more and took it into the living room.

He sat in the recliner that Donna had occupied. He tilted back and thought about his day and about Mendelsohn. He thought too about the things he had to do the next day, the calls he would have to make, the reports he would have to write. He thought about Donna, about whether she would come. And if she did come, what it would mean.

He dozed off. When he woke up, the ice in his glass was gone. It was too early to go to bed and he didn’t feel like reading. He was watching the second half of a nature program when his cellphone rang.

“You’re still up,” Donna said. “I was worried it might be too late.”

“Where are you?”

She was at the front door of his building. He pressed the buzzer and waited for her in the hall. When she came out of the elevator, he said, “Do I look too eager?”

She didn’t answer, but when she reached him she put her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. Snowflakes melted against his cheek. She took a step back, keeping her hands on his waist. “You, sir, are seriously interfering with my concentration.”

When she was inside and he had taken her coat and poured her a drink, he asked her about her day. She sat in his chair again. She took a swallow of whisky, set the glass on the side table and looked at the ceiling for a moment, exposing a column of pale throat. When she looked at him again, she said, “Wouldn’t you rather just fuck me?”

Afterward, when they were lying side by side, the telephone beside the bed rang. Cardinal propped himself on one elbow and checked the caller ID. Delorme. He didn’t pick up.

“Cop’s life, huh?” Donna said. “Lots of late night calls?”

“That wasn’t work.”

“Aha—you exceeded your credit limit again.”

“It was a friend,” Cardinal said. “My best friend, actually.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Another time, maybe.”

She turned on her side and kissed his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m just interested. You can tell a lot about people by their friends. Not that I have any myself.”

“I doubt that.”

She lay back down. She held a strand of golden hair before her eyes, contemplated it for a moment and let it go. “My husband was my best friend. It’s funny—I didn’t think of him that way until he left. It was so painful, I wanted to turn to my best friend and say, ‘Oh, God, this hurts.’ But of course, he wasn’t there to turn to.”

“I’m sure you have other friends.”

She shook her head. “I’m curious about people. I like my work. I like to ask questions. Learn things. But I don’t want them with me at the end of the day. Husbands I get. Lovers I get. But friends …” She turned on her side again. “I’m surprised you have a best friend, actually. I mean, the way you spoke about your wife the other night, I assumed …”

He took hold of her hand and held it up. She had small, neat fingers, the nails clipped short. “Why would your husband leave? It’s hard to believe anybody would be that dumb.”

“Ray was a lot of things, but dumb, no. He just got tired of my being a bitch.”

“Were you a bitch?”

“Definitely.”

Cardinal looked at her. “I suppose I can see the potential.”

She smiled. “I was stupid. He was a very kind man. He looked after me—tried to—didn’t drink a lot, didn’t chase other women, watched over the finances okay. But, I don’t know, somehow he got under my skin and I just had to protest. Naturally, it came out in the worst way.”

“You slept around.”

“Worse. With his best friend.”

“Jesus. You were a bitch.”

She nodded—once, a simple affirmative. “I actually didn’t realize how much it would hurt him till after I’d done it. Ray was devastated.”

Cardinal turned on his side and put a hand on her shoulder. “Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to warn me off?”

“Maybe.” She gave a wan smile. “I just—you’re so different from me, that’s all. Loyal to the same woman for thirty years. I’m envious—not just of her, your wife, but of you. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be that stable.”

“Boring, most of the time.”

“I don’t think so. Not in your case. But I don’t seem able to sit still. Every time life hands me something that looks like it might be steady, comfortable—something that might last longer than a few months—I manage to destroy it.”

“But you didn’t do that entirely on your own. His so-called friend helped.”

She shook her head. “It actually doesn’t take two, John. Believe me, I’ve done it many times.”

“There you go, warning me again.”

“Or maybe I’m just trying to talk myself into being a better person. Maybe you’re worth changing for.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“And pretty soon you won’t want to know me.”

“Now we’re getting melodramatic.”

She put her arms around him and held him close. A hot tear slid onto his chest and cooled there.

“People can change,” Cardinal said. “I’ve seen it happen. People turn their whole lives around.”

She sighed, and reached up to touch his face. “What a lovely story.”