Crime Machine

33

ON THURSDAY, CARDINAL AND Delorme flew to Toronto and drove a rental car to the morgue. The pathologist had no surprises for them. Irv Mendelsohn died as a result of the bullet wound to the head. The chest wound would have killed him by itself had the cranial devastation not done the job first.

In Firearms, it was Cornelius Venn’s conviction, expressed with his patented mixture of paranoia and hostility, that the recovered slugs had been fired from a Browning Hi-Power nine-millimetre—the same make and model as the gun that killed the Bastovs, but not the same individual firearm. It was, however, the same weapon that was used to kill the boy at the ATM.

Half an hour later, they were driving up the 427 toward the airport.

“We know the kid was with whoever killed the Bastovs. And whoever killed him also killed Mendelsohn, making it likely it was either the guy who helped him steal the car from the airport or someone else who joined them later. But why would he or they kill him while he was robbing a cash machine?”

“Thieves fall out,” Cardinal said. “It happens all the time.” He changed lanes and made the turnoff to the airport.

Delorme continued thinking aloud. “How did this person or these persons even know about Mendelsohn?”

“Well, they’re not dumb,” Cardinal said. “Obviously, they know how to find people. I didn’t tell you, but the other night that American reporter was followed—or at least thought she was—by a guy in his mid-fifties.”

“She was? When did she tell you this? And why wouldn’t you mention it at the morning meeting?”

“Because she admitted she was probably just being paranoid. She’s been writing about the Russian mob, and maybe the horror stories got to her.”

“How would they even know about her? It’s not like she’s Diane Sawyer.”

“She’s been following the Bastovs. Following the fur business. She’s tenacious, same as Mendelsohn. Maybe these characters knew the two of them were closing in. Maybe they were even interviewed by them at some point—who knows? The Bastovs were at least partly connected to Russian organized crime, and those people kill cops and journalists whenever they feel like it.”

Delorme pointed to the sign for rental returns, and Cardinal drove into the underground lot. He parked under the Avis sign and an attendant trotted over to take their mileage. While they were waiting for him to print out a receipt, Delorme said, “I still don’t see why you didn’t tell me about Donna Vaughan being followed.”

“I have no explanation, Lise. Maybe I was just overwhelmed with Scriver.”

“You haven’t spent five minutes on Scriver since this case hit the fan.”

“Lise, I was kidding.”

“Ouais, ouais—t’es bizarre, tu sais?”

“I do know what that means.”

“Good.”

The Peel Regional Police, Airport Division. Cardinal had arranged to meet Rob Fazulli in Terminal One. He took them into his office, which managed to be glass-walled and claustrophobic at the same time. Flight announcements echoed beyond the walls.

“Funny thing,” Fazulli said. “I was convinced I would hate working at an airport. But you know what? Airports are great places when you don’t have a flight to catch. You truly get to watch the world go by.”

He put a disc into a player and turned on the monitor. The image was surprisingly sharp: a line of travellers with shoulder bags and carry-ons in postures of weary resignation.

“Passport control,” Fazulli said. “Terminal Two. Twenty-seven minutes before your suspect vehicle was stolen. Note the guy with the hoodie and the backpack. Parking lot image was too low-grade for facial recognition, but he could be one of your perps, right? Guy who jimmied the car?”

“Could be,” Delorme said. “But lots of people dress like that. Practically everyone under twenty dresses like that. Certainly can’t tell from this distance.”

Fazulli looked at Cardinal. “She always this impatient?”

“Always.”

Fazulli hit fast-forward. Now the kid was before the immigration officer, maybe four feet from the camera.

“It’s him,” Delorme said.

“Such certainty all of a sudden,” Fazulli said.

“We’ve seen him up close,” Delorme said. “He got himself killed robbing an ATM. That’s definitely him.”

“I don’t suppose you have the flight number,” Cardinal said.

“You seem to have forgotten what an ace crime fighter I am,” Fazulli said. He picked up a folder, opened it and read aloud, “Liam Rourke. Age sixteen. American Airlines flight 592, La Guardia to Toronto.”

“Fantastic,” Delorme said. “You guys’re better than TV cops.”

“Better-looking, too,” Fazulli said.

“This is great, Rob,” Cardinal said. “Now all we need to do is look for two single male passengers on that flight who purchased their tickets probably at the same time.”

“We already did that. And it’s a good thing we did, because we could never have matched up the images from that parking lot video. I’ve been pushing for new equipment over there, but car theft is not exactly a priority with the TSB. Here’s what we got.” He switched the video to another image. A man in his fifties, salt and pepper hair, close-cropped. Handsome and fit.

“Facial recognition any good on this one?” Cardinal said.

“Totally useless. So much for TV cops. Those guys can extract DNA from a postal code. But almost as good—same flight, same ticket purchase. This is Curtis Carl Winston, fifty-eight.”

“Winston?” Cardinal said. “Winston sounds kind of familiar.”

“I believe there was a British prime minister by that name. Fat guy with a cigar?” Fazulli handed over the folder with a flourish. “Sir? Madam? Thank you for using Peel Regional Police, Airport Division. We accept MasterCard, American Express and most forms of alcohol.”

Cardinal thanked him. “And listen, Rob. Next opening comes up in our department, I’m starting a Draft Fazulli campaign.”

“Appreciate it, but I could never live up north. Too much crime.”

“Is there something going on with you, John?”

They were sitting at the Air Canada gate, waiting for their flight to board. Cardinal watched a little boy stumble toward the window, gripping a teddy bear. He told her he was fine.

“You seem distant.”

“This case is taking up a lot of mental space.”

“But suddenly you’re not talking to me, you don’t want to watch videos together, you’re not calling. And when I call, you’re either too busy or you don’t answer. Have I done something to upset you?”

“I’m just preoccupied with the case, that’s all.”

Delorme pulled out her BlackBerry and scrolled through her messages. After a while she said, “I know we’re just friends, but we see each other a lot—twice a week usually, outside of work. We’ve been doing that for, what, nearly a year now? But suddenly you change the rules, and you won’t even talk about it. Just because you’re seeing Donna Vaughan doesn’t mean you have to stop talking to me.”

“I haven’t stopped talking to you.”

“Is she the jealous type? Wants you all to herself?”

“There’s nothing for her to be jealous of. I haven’t even mentioned you.” Cardinal felt bad before he had even finished saying it.

Delorme looked at him, scanned his face once and looked back down at her BlackBerry. She pressed the dial button and put the phone to her ear, got up and walked over to the window.