The Delicate Storm

14

ABOUT THE TIME CARDINAL HAD TAKEN OFF for New York, Lise Delorme had finished the more prosaic task of designing and running off missing person flyers bearing Dr. Cates’s photograph. Have you seen this person? Delorme’s phone number was printed at the bottom. Szelagy was spending his morning canvassing the doctor’s neighbours in the Twickenham. Delorme left half the flyers on Szelagy’s desk, then went down to the ident section.

Of all the rooms in the police station just then, ident was the one that was suffering the most. The entire ceiling was gone, and the officers had set up makeshift plastic tents over their desks and file cabinets. The plastic kept the dust off their equipment, and also did a neat job of preventing any circulation. What it didn’t keep out was the noise of construction above them.

“How can you work in here?” Delorme said to Arsenault. She had to shout over the screech of a metal drill. “There’s no air.”

“Air?” Arsenault said. “My hearing’s being destroyed and you’re worried about air?”

Collingwood looked up at Delorme for a moment then back at his computer, imperturbable as a monk.

Delorme and Arsenault stepped into the hall.

“What can you give me from Dr. Cates’s office?”

“It’s a doctor’s office—they keep it clean. I hope you weren’t expecting a zillion fingerprints or anything.”

“One would be fine.”

“Well, we got a lot more than that, but mostly they belong to Dr. Cates and her assistant. We’re running the rest for records, but nothing so far.”

“And the bandage wrapper?”

“Prints from the doctor. Nothing else.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Paul. What about the paper from the examining table? The assistant swears it was changed Monday night, but yesterday morning it had been used.”

“No hair, no fibre, unfortunately. But we did come up with some traces of blood. We typed it AB-negative.”

“That’s rare, isn’t it?”

“Pretty rare. We’ve sent it down to the Forensic Centre for DNA analysis, but you know the drill—it’s going to take a while.”

Delorme drove through a light freezing rain to the home of Dr. Raymond Choquette. Ray Choquette had been in practice in Algonquin Bay for twenty-five years. He lived in a three-storey red brick house on Baxter, a tiny, sloping side street less than four blocks from St. Francis Hospital. Delorme could name at least three doctors off the top of her head who lived on Baxter. Her parents used to bring her to a doctor named Renaud who had lived on this street. He had been a gruff old codger, a throat specialist who always wore a reflective lamp on his forehead. He had always threatened to take Delorme’s tonsils out but died before he got the chance.

There was a Toyota RAV4 parked by the side door of the Choquette home. With the temperature dropping, the Toyota was covered with a fine glaze of ice. Delorme parked behind it, jotting down the licence number before she got out of the car.

When Choquette opened the door on the front porch, Delorme showed her badge and introduced herself in French.

“You’re lucky you caught me,” Choquette replied in English. “This time tomorrow the wife and I’ll be in Puerto Rico.” He was a tall man in his mid-fifties, with a ruddy complexion that made him look jolly—which Delorme suspected he was not—and a long straight nose that made him look snobbish, which Delorme suspected he was.

Delorme continued in English. “Dr. Choquette, do you know a woman named Winter Cates?”

“Yes, of course I do. She’s taking over my practice. Took over, I should say. Is there some kind of trouble? Don’t tell me the place has been broken into again …”

“I’m afraid Dr. Cates is missing.”

“Missing? What does that mean, exactly? She hasn’t shown up for work?”

“She hasn’t been seen or spoken to since late Monday night when she was home watching TV. Yesterday morning she missed a surgery she was scheduled to assist at, and she hasn’t shown up for her office hours either.”

“Perhaps she had an accident. All this rain—and now it’s turning to ice.”

“Dr. Cates is missing. Her car isn’t.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds bad. Are you sure? I saw her just a few days ago.”

“Do you mind if I come in and ask a few questions?”

Dr. Choquette’s ruddy face sagged a little, but he made a show of good cheer. “By all means. Come in, come in. Anything I can do to help …”

Choquette led Delorme into a small TV room. It was tiny, cozy, full of bookshelves stacked with English titles. Delorme had a sudden sense that Dr. Choquette was one of those Ontario French Canadians, rare these days, who attach themselves entirely to the English culture and forsake their own background. Many of the shelves contained golfing videos and trophies. Apparently he was a regular at the local tournaments. There were small trophies and large ones, golden men wielding golden clubs, plaques, cups, mugs and fixtures from various courses he had played. A photograph on the wall showed Choquette in plaid pants and yellow cardigan next to some famous golfer; Delorme wasn’t sure if it was Jack Nicklaus or the other one. Except for Tiger Woods, all golfers looked the same to her: men in funny pants.

“I hope nothing’s happened to her,” Choquette kept saying. “I just hope she’s all right.”

“You said you saw her recently. When was that, exactly?”

“It was at Wal-Mart. Yes, it was at Wal-Mart, and I know that was Thursday.”

“Did she seem under any particular stress to you?”

“Not at all. She’s a chipper thing. Intrepid, is my impression—you know, nothing gets her down.”

“Any enemies that you know about? Anyone she was afraid of? Worried about?”

“Winter? I can’t imagine her having an enemy in the world. She’s totally gregarious. Been here six months and already she’s got more friends at the hospital than I had in my first six years. And I’ll tell you her secret: she loves to assist.”

“Assist?”

“In the O.R. Surgery. She let it be known right away that she liked to assist, and that’s rare.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why?” Choquette looked at Delorme as if she were a dolt. “Because it doesn’t pay, that’s why. The Ontario government in its infinite wisdom has structured payments so that a GP is much better off seeing patients in his own practice than assisting at surgery. Spend two hours in the O.R. and you get paid the same as treating two or three patients. Obviously, you can see a lot more than two or three patients in that time. These days the Hippocratic oath may as well be a vow of poverty. Do you know what I get paid if I set your broken arm? Less than half what a vet gets paid for putting a splint on your dog. Please. Don’t get me started on that subject. All you need to know about Winter Cates is that she’s really well liked in the medical community. Totally unruffled sort, and a great sense of humour. Believe me, a sense of humour is highly prized in the O.R.”

“It goes a long way in police work too,” Delorme said.

More questions elicited the information that Dr. Winter Cates interned at Sick Kids, did her residency at Toronto General.

“Dr. Cates is an attractive person,” Delorme said. “Do you know anything about her romantic life at all?”

“There you have me. I wouldn’t know a thing. I had the impression she had someone in Sudbury, but beyond that I can’t help you. Dr. Cates loves her work, and all we ever talk about is medicine.”

“And you sold her your practice, is that correct?”

“Sold? No, you can’t sell a practice, not in this province, anyway. No, no. I met her down at Toronto General when she was doing her residency and, like everybody else, was totally charmed. She said she’d love to set up in Algonquin Bay, and I mulled that over. I’d been planning to retire for a decade at least. Anyway, I offered to take her on as a partner for six months and then I’d make my graceful exit. Which I have done.”

“Dr. Choquette, when did you purchase your tickets to Puerto Rico?”

“Months ago. I don’t see what my tickets have to do with anything.”

“May I see them, please?”

The doctor rose, even redder in the face, and Delorme could see him working to restrain his temper as he left the room. He returned a moment later with the tickets and handed them over without a word. Two return tickets to Puerto Rico, purchased in November, returning in one week.

“Thank you.” Delorme handed the tickets back. “Where are you planning to stay?”

“A lovely resort called Palmas del Mar, on the south coast. Do you know it?”

“No.” Having no interest in Caribbean vacations, Delorme was not entirely sure where Puerto Rico was, other than somewhere past Florida.

“Gorgeous place. Perfect location—a little short on beachfront, but they make up for it with one of the finest golf courses you’ve ever seen.”

“And can you tell me where you were Monday night, Doctor? Round about midnight?”

“Playing bridge with friends. We have a regular Monday night game that—Goddammit, surely you can’t suspect me of having anything to do with this? A young doctor goes missing, what’s that got to do with me, for God’s sake?”

Delorme took her time to respond, watching a vein that throbbed in Dr. Choquette’s temple. “You have financial dealings with Dr. Cates. All right, you didn’t sell her your practice, but there’s a large office full of equipment. My understanding is you had a disagreement over what was included in the transfer of your practice. And you were angry about it.”

“Oh, really.” Dr. Choquette crossed his arms and looked Delorme up and down. “I’d love to know who you’ve been talking to.”

“Dr. Cates is refusing to pay you what you think the stuff is worth, is that it?”

“Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. I should have used a lawyer—I normally do for all my business dealings—but for some reason I didn’t in this case. Maybe because Winter’s so—well, she’s very appealing, let’s say. We are having a dispute over depreciation. Do you know how much an examining table costs new? I thought we had found a figure comfortably in the middle between what I could get for the stuff if I put it up for sale, and what Winter would have to pay if she had to buy it new. Apparently I was wrong. I mean, ask her, if you think I’m lying.”

“Dr. Cates isn’t here to ask, unfortunately. How much money was involved?”

“Not a fortune. A couple of thousand. It’s the principle of the thing. Look, she’s probably got eighty to a hundred grand in education costs to pay off, and every penny counts. No doubt she really believes we agreed to the lower figure, but it’s just wishful thinking on her part. Anyway, it’s not a big deal. Now, if you don’t have any more questions …”

“No more questions. But I’ll need the names of your bridge partners.”

Next stop: Glenn Freemont, unpleasant patient.

Freemont answered the door in his bathrobe, which looked as if it had seen several previous owners, at least one of whom had died in it. He was a runt of a man in his mid-thirties, with the oiliest hair Delorme had ever seen.

“Mr. Freemont, I’m investigating the disappearance of Dr. Winter Cates,” she said after she had introduced herself. “May I come in and ask a few questions?” The door to Freemont’s basement apartment had no awning, and Delorme had no umbrella. Icy drops of rain were inching down her neck.

“Why?” Freemont was leaning with his hand against the door jamb, as if to block any sudden moves.

“You’re a patient of Dr. Cates. I need to ask you some questions.”

“She’s got a million patients. Why are you coming to me?”

“Mr. Freemont, would you rather have a thorough scrutiny of your workmen’s comp? Maybe I should just give them a call.”

“Go ahead. I’m cut off anyway, those jerks. I got a bad back. I never used to have a bad back. And the reason I got one now is because I lug cans of paint up and down two flights of stairs all day. Try it sometime. See how you like it.”

“You had a screaming fit at Dr. Cates’s office. Was that because she wouldn’t back up your claim?”

“It wasn’t a screaming fit. We had a discussion, that’s all.”

“According to witnesses, you slammed the desk with your fist and kicked over a plant.”

“She called me a liar. I don’t take that kind of shit. Not from anyone.”

“Can you tell me where you were Monday night? Monday night around midnight?”

“Monday night? Yeah, I can tell you where I was Monday night. I was in Toronto.”

“Why were you down there?”

Freemont hooked an index finger into his right cheek and pulled it back. A glimmer of pink, criss-crossed with black stitches. “Gum surgery. Early Tuesday morning. I drove down the day before, stayed at a hotel. Wait there.”

Freemont closed the door. Delorme pulled up the hood on her anorak. Rain pattered on nylon. A film of ice was forming over the puddles at her feet.

Two minutes later, Freemont came back with a fistful of papers. He handed them to Delorme one by one. “Receipt from the Colony Hotel. Receipt from the filling station on Spadina. Receipt from my periodontist. He wears black scrubs and he charges me a fucking fortune.”

“Do you always keep such careful records?” Delorme said, making a note of the periodontist’s name and number.

“Only when I plan to get reimbursed from OHIP.”

“That’ll be difficult. The province doesn’t cover dental work.”

Freemont snatched the receipts back. “Shows how much you know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Freemont. I appreciate your co-operation.”

“Oh, no. Thank you, Officer. And you have a wonderful day.”

Before Delorme reached her car, she heard Freemont scream from behind the closed door, “Bitch!”

Both the hotel and the periodontist backed up everything Glenn Freemont said. Delorme made the calls first thing when she got back to the station. She wrote up some notes on her interviews and handed off the names of Dr. Choquette’s bridge partners to Szelagy for follow-up.

She ate lunch at her desk, contemplating the stack of flyers, Dr. Cates’s pretty face staring up at her. The construction crew was hammering and drilling upstairs, making it hard to think. She looked out the window at the parking lot. The rain had stopped, and now the day had turned bright and sunny. Even the most mundane objects—trees, telephone poles and mailboxes with their patina of ice—shimmered like figments in an ecstatic vision. As Delorme scanned the scene outside, the deep blue of the sky seemed to flash against the rooftops.

Her phone rang.

“Delorme. CID.”

It was a man named Ted Pascoe, a camera salesman at Milton’s Photo, younger brother of one Frank Pascoe, whom Delorme had put away for credit card fraud. Ted Pascoe was so frantic she could hardly make out what he was saying—something about a dead body in the woods.

“Slow down, Mr. Pascoe, slow down. Where are you?”

“Um, pay phone near the NorthWind Tavern. You know the tavern out past Algonquin Mall?”

Delorme knew it well. At one time she had had a boyfriend who liked his English beer. They used to go to the NorthWind practically every Friday night for fish and chips. Unfortunately, that was about as exciting as that particular romance ever got.

“I was taking pictures up the hill out toward Four Mile Bay. Took the four-by-four, just looking for a good shot, you know. And I came across this body. A woman. Looks like she froze to death.”

“Was there anyone else with you?”

“No. I like to be alone when I photograph. You can’t have someone tapping their foot waiting for you. You start rushing things, you forget to bracket, you don’t try all the angles. It’s really not very—”

“What’s the road like? Can we get a van in there?”

“No, no. This is strictly RV country.”

“Okay, Mr. Pascoe. Stay where you are. Don’t tell anyone else what you found. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Delorme knocked on Daniel Chouinard’s door and entered without waiting for an okay. He listened intently as she summarized the phone call. “So, it could be your missing doctor,” he said.

“I’d say there’s a good chance.”

“You’ll need help for this. Too bad McLeod’s out of town. Take Szelagy. You’ll need ident too.” He dialed an extension. “Arsenault, put down the sports section. You and Collingwood have got some actual work to do. And bring your Land Rover. Sounds like the ident van isn’t going to do it.” He hung up and said, “What are you waiting for? Hit the road.”

“I haven’t called the coroner yet.”

“I’ll do it. You get moving,” Chouinard said, adding wistfully, “Another body in the woods. I wish I was going with you.”

“Sorry,” Delorme said. “You’re strictly a big-picture guy now.”

“I know.” Chouinard sighed and tossed the stub of a pencil at his wastebasket. “And ain’t that a shame.”

Ken Szelagy had a tendency to chatter. They got into the car, and it was like pulling the string on a Chatty Cathy: the wife, the kids, the hockey game. Delorme managed to steer him briefly onto the subject of Dr. Cates’s neighbours.

“A lot of people are away just now—down in the Bahamas or wherever—so there weren’t actually that many people to talk to. Typical apartment building—I mean, nobody really knows anybody else. I think you could die in that building and no one would know. Anyway, the upshot is, no one saw or heard anything unusual Monday night or Tuesday morning. Everyone was either watching TV or in bed, and they didn’t hear a thing.”

“It’s so strange,” Delorme said. “If someone abducted her, you’d think somebody would hear a commotion of some kind.”

“She could have gone somewhere willingly. We just don’t know yet. She could have gone off with someone she knew, then there’s an accident or something else happens and that’s why no one’s heard from her.”

Szelagy veered off the subject again and started talking about his family. Delorme found herself wishing for Cardinal, who tended to be as quiet as she was. Szelagy moved on to his in-laws, his mortgage, his car insurance premiums. He was a force of nature.

“Szelagy!”

“What?”

“Cool it, for God’s sake.”

“Just being sociable. More than I can say for you.”

The truth was, for sheer amiability there was no one on the force who could touch Szelagy. He was just a natural-born nice guy, and Delorme felt bad for jumping on him. She drove the next few blocks in guilty silence.

“Sorry,” she said at the next light. “I’m just thinking about Dr. Cates.”

“That’s okay,” Szelagy said. Then he was off on the merits of the snowmobile he’d just bought for the kids. Really, the new Bombardiers were so fast, they were practically satanic.

They continued out along Sumner and then across the bypass onto Highway 63. Ice glittered on every roof, every wire, every bough. The sky was pure cerulean. Sunlight was refracted off the trees and rooftops, in piercing white rays when you were close, but from a distance with the silvery glitter of tinsel.

The highway itself was clear of ice, and they made it to the NorthWind in less than twenty minutes. Ted Pascoe was leaning against his Jeep Wrangler, smoking a cigarette. “I don’t even smoke anymore,” he said by way of greeting. “Quit two years ago, but this thing really rattled me. I never saw a dead person before—well, my dad, but that was different. I’m shaking.” He held out a quivering hand for verification.

Delorme introduced Szelagy, then asked Pascoe what time he had found the body.

“About forty-five minutes ago. I came straight here and called.” He gestured toward the pay phone.

“And you were alone?”

“Just me and the camera. Don’t get ice like this too often—I wanted to get out there before it melts. Was on a logging road about half a mile east of here.”

Arsenault and Collingwood pulled up in a Land Rover. Delorme gave them the one-minute signal. “Mr. Pascoe, why don’t you drive us right back to the spot and we’ll have the scene men follow along behind.”

A Lexus pulled off the highway and Delorme groaned inwardly. The role of coroner was filled by several doctors who worked in rotation. It was bad luck to draw Dr. Barnhouse twice in a row.

“You’re going to have to ride along with Arsenault and Collingwood, Doctor. Don’t think that beautiful car of yours’ll make it where we’re going.”

“Marvellous,” he said without humour. “Fantastic.” But he got out of the car, black bag in hand.

Whatever logging was done in the Algonquin Bay region had been finished half a century ago, but the old access roads remained. They were forgotten for decades, until the craze for recreational vehicles made them once more passable. The recent warm weather had reduced the snowpack in the woods to little more than a few inches, and the ice on top was a thin crust. The resulting traction was better than on the streets in town.

Here the trees were all pine. Their boughs were weighted down, but the trees themselves, selected over millennia for this environment, remained erect. Rays of light, bright as lasers, shot out from icy carapaces.

“This is where I got out,” Pascoe said. “Didn’t want to risk driving around that.” He pointed to a felled tree blocking the road ahead.

They got out of the car and waited for Arsenault and Collingwood. Delorme said, “Did you come back to the car the same way you went in?”

“Yup.” He pointed to footprints in the snow. “Those are my tracks. I didn’t notice any others, but then I wasn’t looking.”

Delorme and Szelagy led the way. Pascoe stayed close behind, followed by Arsenault, Collingwood and Dr. Barnhouse. They had been walking for less than five minutes when Pascoe said from behind, “Up ahead. Just beyond that stump. I nearly tripped over her.”

Working in Special Investigations for six years, Delorme had not had to face any dead bodies. Before that, as a constable, she had of course seen the usual victims of car accidents or drownings. The scenes, being death scenes, always had an air of hopelessness about them, even if the victim perished in a cheerfully decorated living room. Sometimes the circumstances were tawdry: men hanging naked, pornography scattered about their pale feet. Sometimes they were frightening: the scene of a raging fire, marks of its ferocity everywhere. Sometimes they were eerie: an abandoned mine shaft in the middle of a winter night. What Delorme had never seen, in all her years in police work, was a death scene so beautiful.

She and Szelagy and the others stood at the edge of a scene from a fairy tale. All around them the woods shimmered as if the trees were made of jewellery. There was no sound but the click of branches, and from farther off the buzz of a snowmobile. Sunlight bounced off every surface, making the scene more appropriate for a tale of magic, rather than a tragedy, the kind of tale in which statues come to life.

But the figure before them would not be coming to life. The dead woman lay on her left side in a position of repose, one knee and one arm drawn up as if for balance. There was no obvious sign of violence, no cuts or bruises. Photographed from a distance, she might have appeared to be asleep. But there is nothing more still than a dead body, and no mistaking it for anything else. This one was naked, covered with a glaze of ice. Even the long black hair that fell in tendrils across her face was encased in ice. It was as if she were under a spell—the victim of a jealous wizard, a wicked witch.

“There’s nothing to be gained by standing around gaping,” Barnhouse observed.

“It’s called assessing the scene,” Delorme said. “Maybe you, you prefer to barge in and trample over evidence, but we’re going to take some pictures first.”

“You will not.” Barnhouse did not take contradiction well. Coming from a woman, it had a visible effect on his blood pressure, and made him sputter. “You will not,” he repeated. “I am the coroner and I am in charge here.”

“Unless foul play has been established.”

“Which is what I intend to do, if you’ll only let me go about my work.”

“The victim is naked in the middle of a frozen forest. Me, as far as I’m concerned, foul play is already established.” Szelagy gave her a take-it-easy look, and Delorme mentally started counting to ten.

“I didn’t realize you’re a trained pathologist,” Barnhouse went on. “Perhaps you don’t need a coroner at all.”

Delorme said, “Doctor, we need you to take a look at her. Just let us get some pictures first before the bunch of us destroy any evidence.”

“We’ll set the videocam back here,” Arsenault said. “Leave it on wide angle.”

Collingwood was already snapping away with a still camera and measuring tape at the tracks that led into the clearing. There appeared to be only one set. He turned to Pascoe. “Could you lift your foot for me, sir?”

Pascoe obliged awkwardly, balancing himself against a tree. Collingwood snapped a couple of pictures of his hiking boots.

Arsenault shot a roll of pictures of the body, and then Delorme, Szelagy and the coroner moved closer. Dr. Barnhouse clutched a microcassette recorder in his fist and muttered into it as he leaned over the body: well-nourished woman, early thirties, discolouration around the throat suggesting strangulation.

“There’s her clothes,” Delorme said. They were strewn to one side, frozen into a violent still life. The veneer of ice precluded close examination, but there were buttons torn off, the stretched neck of a sweater.

“Looks like she was killed here,” Szelagy said.

“Possibly,” Barnhouse said. “But look at the lividity.” He pointed with a latex-gloved finger at the purpling of the lower leg and arm. “Blood travelled where gravity took it—backs of her shoulders and legs. She didn’t die in this position. She could have been killed here and moved by someone after death. Or she could have been killed somewhere else and brought here.”

“But the clothes …” Delorme said.

“Yes, well. No doubt there’s some explanation, but I doubt that it’s medical.”

“Can you give us a ballpark idea when she died?”

“She’s covered with ice, so obviously she must’ve been here during the rain—before it froze. On the other hand, there’s very little deterioration. So she hasn’t been lying out here for much of the warm spell. So I’d say she was dumped here late Monday, maybe Tuesday morning. But you know, with the refrigeration effect out here, it’ll be hard to pin down time of death without other indications. Now, give me a hand, here. I want to turn the body.”

Delorme put a gloved hand under the extended knee and lifted. The film of ice on the limbs splintered noisily and slid away. The dark hair remained stiff across half the facial features.

“Bruising in vaginal area indicates possible rape. There are also noticeable contusions around the throat. Strangulation is a possibility. They’ll have to open her up—look for petechial hemorrhaging in the lungs. Let’s get a look at you, now.” The stiffened hair crackled as Barnhouse moved it aside. “Oh, my,” he said. “I know this woman.”

“Guess we can hold off on distributing those flyers,” Szelagy said.

Delorme contemplated the icy features, the milky sheen on the half-open eyes. She thought of all the patients this young Dr. Cates would have helped—thousands, probably—had she been allowed to live. She wondered what kind of person could have done this to her. Her mind travelled forward into the things that would have to be done, informing Dr. Cates’s parents foremost among them.

She looked at Barnhouse. “We know Dr. Cates was home at 11:30 p.m. Monday night. A friend spoke to her. But we know from her machine she wasn’t answering her phone early Tuesday morning.”

“That would be consistent with what I see here. No doubt the pathologist will give you more.”

“How long do you think it’ll take the Forensic Centre to get back to us?”

“Now, there you’re in luck. Have you worked with Dr. Lortie down there?”

“No.”

“He’s one of their top pathologists. As it happens, he’s here in town assessing regional requirements. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble getting him to handle the case right here. It would save taxpayer resources and so on.”

“It would sure save us a lot of time,” Delorme said.

“God knows,” Dr. Barnhouse said, nodding at the dead woman, “it’s the least we can do for her.”

They fell silent. From the glittering woods there was no sound but the ticking of branches.