The Delicate Storm

12

DELORME TOLD CARDINAL about her missing doctor the next morning. They were in the squad room, sipping coffee from Tim Hortons.

“She can’t have been gone long,” Cardinal said. “I just saw her on Monday.”

“You know Winter Cates?” Delorme said. “I wish you’d told me that yesterday.”

“You didn’t ask,” Cardinal said. “I hope she’s all right.”

“It’s not looking good, unfortunately. She’s been gone nearly thirty-six hours, but her car’s still at home.”

Cardinal recalled the young woman’s brisk manner, the way she had handled his father, stern but friendly. He remembered the dark eyes, the barely controlled hair. “I only met her for the first time on Monday,” he said, “when she was treating my dad. But there was a guy in her office—young guy with blond hair who seemed to be having an argument with her.”

“Craig Simmons. I’ve already talked to him. He’s an ex-boyfriend, not to mention a Mountie.”

Cardinal snapped his fingers. “That’s where I’ve seen him before. He works for Musgrave, right? What’s his story?”

“Let’s just say, if Cates doesn’t show up, I’ll be talking to Corporal Simmons again soon. This guy’s all attitude and no alibi.”

Delorme put down her coffee, wandered over to Chouinard’s office and rapped on the door.

Cardinal’s phone rang. He picked it up, and the voice on the other end eradicated all thoughts of the missing doctor.

Few men can say exactly what is the worst thing they have ever done, but Cardinal knew to the hour. It had been almost thirteen years ago, his last year on the Toronto narcotics squad. The squad had raided the house of one of Ontario’s top three drug dealers, a violent pig named Rick Bouchard. While Cardinal’s fellow officers had been dealing with Bouchard and his henchmen—including a malevolent troll named Kiki B.—Cardinal had found a gym bag full of cash in a bedroom closet. To his everlasting shame he had walked off with nearly two hundred grand of it. The other five hundred thousand was used as evidence, and the cash, along with the drugs, had been enough to convict everyone they hauled in.

Kiki B. was on the line now.

“I hope you got Rick’s card. I wouldn’t want you to think we’d forgotten about you.”

“Kiki, I’m only going to say this once: if you—or anybody connected with you—ever shows up at my home, I will make you pay for the rest of your life. Do you understand that?”

“Twelve years, Cardinal. Do you understand that? Bouchard’s been in Kingston Pen for twelve years. He’s got another six months to go and then he’s out, and he wants his money now. He sees it as a nest egg you’ve been holding for him.”

“Tell him not to expect interest. The market’s been bad lately.”

“He wants his two hundred grand, Cardinal. He knows you took it and he’s going to get it back or you may as well start making out your will.”

“I don’t have his money, Kiki. This may be hard for you to imagine, but it’s the truth.” Cardinal wished he felt as calm as he managed to sound.

“Uh-huh. What’d you do—give it to charity?”

“Actually, did you ever hear of Sunrise?”

“The Sunrise Foundation? You gave it to a drug rehab outfit? Oh, man, Rick’s gonna really appreciate the humour in that one, Cardinal. He’s gonna laugh really hard.”

It was true that was where the last of the money had gone, but before that Cardinal had used it to cover Catherine’s hospital bills in the States, where her parents had insisted she get treatment, and Kelly’s tuition at Yale. He had revealed the whole story to his wife and daughter the previous year, when he could no longer live with his conscience. With her tuition pulled out from under her, Kelly had been forced to leave Yale before her final semester, and Cardinal was certain she had not forgiven him. He had even attempted to resign from the force, but Delorme had intercepted his resignation letter on its way to the chief. “You’re a good cop,” she had said to him. “Why damage the department by quitting?” Cardinal had been in hospital with two bullet wounds at the time and hadn’t had the strength to resist.

“Kiki, why don’t you find yourself a new employer?” he said now. “Put a resumé together. You’re not getting any younger.”

“This is your last warning, Cardinal. You think Bouchard’s gonna come out of prison broke? He won’t stand for it.”

“Oh, he won’t stand for it. Well, in that case—”

“Okay, I’ve tried to help you here. You choose not to be a good listener, that’s your problem. And don’t think Bouchard can’t have you dealt with from prison—he can. Next time it won’t be a card or a phone call.”

Cardinal hung up. He held his hand out above his desk and watched it tremble. Shame welled up inside him, that something he had done—even though it had been so long ago—could jeopardize his home. For the thousandth time he cursed his own stupidity.

His intercom buzzed, Mary Flower telling him that Calvin Squier had arrived. Cardinal went out to the desk area.

“Great to see you again, John,” Squier said, putting out a hand to shake. “How you doing?” Only Americans shake hands that much, Cardinal thought. Americans and con men and Calvin Squier of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

“You’re back from New York already? You just left yesterday.”

“Couldn’t wait to get back. New York’s not a town I want to spend a lot of time in.”

Cardinal brought him back into the CID area. The squad room was a considerable improvement over the previous headquarters, with its dented file cabinets and smells of smoke and sweat and other, less palatable odours. But Cardinal was sure that Squier, with his Boy Scout smile and his too many teeth, worked in the finest office a federal budget—and a hidden budget at that—could buy.

“Hey, nice space you have here,” Squier said. He made a sweeping gesture at the desks and dividers, the wall of windows, the sheets of plastic sagging overhead. Delorme was just coming in from somewhere. She glanced at them a moment, then went over to her own desk. Squier’s head turned.

Cardinal pulled a chair out from McLeod’s cubicle. McLeod was still on vacation in Florida.

“Have a seat.”

“New York, I’m telling you,” Squier said. “Too big, too dirty and just too darn American. I fully understand they had that awful 9/11 thing, but I wasn’t even near that area. There’s no trees in that city. Nothing green. No air. Mind you, it’s kind of impressive to look at. It’s Toronto times a hundred. You ever been?”

Cardinal shook his head. “You spoke to Matlock’s next of kin?”

Squier nodded. “Spoke to the wife. She was pretty broken up, of course.”

“What did you find out?”

“According to her, Howard Matlock didn’t have a single enemy in the world.”

“That’s what she told you?”

“Oh, not just the wife. I spoke to neighbours, local church, couple of clients—he was a chartered accountant, remember. Clients had nothing but good things to say about him: thorough, saves you money, but honest. That’s not what I get from the FBI, however.”

“Really? What did the feds have to say?”

“They’re keeping very close tabs on a homegrown anti-government outfit called WARR—short for Waco and Ruby Ridge, two places where the FBI killed American citizens. Anyway, WARR is a bunch of angry white men whose first priority, it seems, is what they call ‘blinding the enemy.’ They want to hamper America’s ability to surveil its own people. So they’ve been sending pipe bombs to the NSA, that kind of thing.”

“Which would explain an interest in the CADS base, but not who killed him.”

“The Bureau had connected Matlock to an explosive device that got sent to their Washington headquarters. Luckily, it didn’t explode. Anyway, Matlock was working out a deal to turn state’s evidence, and apparently his fellow members of WARR got wind of it.”

“Solid motive for murder, in other words.”

A high-speed drill started up overhead, and they had to shout at each other to be heard.

“Very solid.”

“And what about the wife? She a member of this nut-group?”

“Nope, strictly Matlock’s personal hobby, far as we can tell.”

“How’d they get along?”

“About average, I’d say. His own folks’re dead, but I talked to his in-laws. In-laws say they had their ups and downs like anybody, but no knock-down, drag-out fights. Neighbours never heard them screaming at each other or anything like that. Why, you think the wife wanted him done for?”

The drilling stopped, and the sudden quiet seemed exaggerated.

“I only know what you tell me.”

“Well, I can tell you there was no huge insurance policy on him, if that’s what you’re thinking. I checked that out first thing. Besides, I think this WARR angle looks a lot more promising, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But tell me this, Squier: why would they kill him in Canada?”

“Because it would be that much harder to make the connection to them. And, please, call me Calvin.”

“But I like Squier. It has a knights-in-armour ring to it.”

Squier regarded him thoughtfully. Then he leaned forward in his chair and spoke confidentially. “You’re not still upset about the other night, are you? I must be nearly twenty years younger than you and I had the advantage of surprise, big time.”

“Squier, did anyone ever tell you you talk too much?”

Squier nodded. “People have told me that. I have to be honest—not a good thing in my game, either.”

“No, indeed,” Cardinal said solemnly. “Loose lips sink ships.”

Squier looked around at the squad room, his gaze settling a little longer than necessary on Delorme. “So, did you and Musgrave make any headway?”

Cardinal told him the tale of Bressard and the bears. Squier took notes on a palmtop device with a tiny metal pencil.

“And who does he say paid him to get rid of the body?”

“A gangster named Leon Petrucci.”

Squier noted the name on his palmtop. “Why would a local Mafia guy have any interest in an American terrorist? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. You asked where we’d got to; that’s where we are.”

“I suppose they could have just contracted it out.”

“Petrucci’s not Al Capone. I’d be surprised if anyone in the States had ever heard of him.”

“In any case, there may not be much more for you to do. All the answers are going to come from the American end and this WARR angle. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you fully informed.” Squier fitted his palmtop into a smart leather case and put it in his pocket. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. I’ve already spoken to the Forensic Centre about arrangements to ship the remains back to the U.S. In the meantime, you can find me at the Hilltop.”

“Well, you’ve certainly been busy. If I can ever return the favour, I hope you’ll let me know.”

“Oh, you can count on that, John.” Squier reinforced his all-Canadian grin with a thumbs-up. “You can take that to the bank.”

As Cardinal was showing him out, Squier said, “Was that Lise Delorme? That woman a couple of desks over?”

“Detective Delorme. She’ll break your arm for you, Squier.”

“Why would she do that? She’s not wearing a wedding ring.”

“She’s a very serious person.”

“Well, so am I, John. So am I.”

When he was gone, Cardinal went straight back to his desk and dialed New York information. They gave him the phone number for Howard Matlock at 312 East Ninety-first Street. Cardinal began to think what he would say to the bereaved wife, if she was at home.

“Hello?” It was a man who answered.

“Hello, is this the residence of Howard Matlock?”

“Yes.”

A relative, Cardinal thought. An in-law come to comfort the wife.

But then the voice said, “I’m Howard Matlock.”

Detective Sergeant Daniel Chouinard was looking for something under a stack of yet-to-be-installed shelves and banged his head when Cardinal announced that he wanted to go to New York.

“There’s no reason to go to New York. CSIS is going to New York.”

“CSIS has already come back. Calvin Squier just laid out a very plausible scenario for Matlock’s murder. According to Squier, Howard Matlock was caught spying on the CADS base, right?”

“Right. So?”

“I just called the CADS base. Their head of security has never heard of Howard Matlock. He has no record of any such incident.”

“Well, maybe CSIS told him to deep-six the records of it for some reason.”

“Calvin Squier also neglected to mention another little detail.” He told Chouinard about his call to New York.

“You’re telling me Howard Matlock is alive?”

“Howard Matlock is alive, and Howard Matlock has never heard of Algonquin Bay.”

“Meaning we have no idea who the dead man is.”

“Not a clue.”

Chouinard retrieved a Sony Walkman from under the shelves and dropped it into his briefcase.

“Well, you have to go to New York. No question. We won’t have any trouble selling R.J. on this one.”