Until the Night

15

DELORME OPENED HER LAPTOP ON the dinner table and typed in Assistant Crown Attorney Garth Romney. She added Régine Choquette to the search, and the screen lit up with many articles. She selected Images, and the first one to appear, top left, was the picture of Romney holding up the hood found on Choquette’s body.

That hideous leather object, black, dirty, a hole for the nose, a zipper for the mouth and the zipper shut tight. Some women like to be scared.

Romney held it at arm’s length as if it were a dead rat. Behind him, a picture of the Queen, the Canadian flag, the flag of Ontario.

Delorme clicked on another image, then another, coming to rest on a picture of Fritz Reicher—a little thinner back then, blond hair a little thicker. Beside him, lawyer Richard Rota.

“It’s a police!” Richard Rota said, coming out of courtroom three. “What have I done this time?” He set his briefcase on a bench and shrugged on his overcoat. He went about five foot four, even with the lifts, which meant Delorme could look him in the eye without looking up, an excellent thing in a lawyer.

“I wanted to talk to you about Fritz Reicher,” she said.

Rota closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “Reicher, Reicher … it sounds familiar …”

“The Régine Choquette—”

“I’m messing with ya. I know who you wanna talk about, and I also know why. We can talk in there.”

They went to an interview room at the end of the hall. Rota dropped his briefcase on the desk and sat beside it. Delorme decided to remain standing as he started firing questions at her. Like many lawyers, he spoke louder than was strictly necessary. How’s his good friend R.J. (the police chief), how’s Ian McLeod, and what about this new guy, this Roach character?

“Loach,” Delorme said. “He’s fine.”

“What about John Cardinal?”

“He’s fine too. I wanted to ask you—”

“You could use a few more of him.”

“I had occasion to talk to Reicher recently on another matter.”

“Women turning up dead in the great outdoors?” Rota gave an exaggerated shrug. “Of course you want to talk to him. Makes sense. Cop sense, anyway. Not that I’ve seen mention of any sexual element in the papers.”

“I was a minor witness in the Choquette case.”

“I remember. I deposed you. I was very polite, as I recall.”

“You were adequate.”

Rota laughed. “Thank you. That’s the best I ever get from women.”

“In his original statement to Detective Cardinal, Reicher said the entire scenario was under the control of Leonard Priest. Priest chose the woman, drove all the way here from Ottawa specifically to arrange an encounter with her. To ‘play some games,’ as Reicher put it.”

“That statement was made before he had benefit of counsel. What’s your point?”

“He said Priest was there the whole time. That it was Priest who ordered him to shoot.”

“It’s a defence Germans seem fond of.” He raised a hand to forestall Delorme’s next question. “And you want to know why Algonquin Bay’s finest defence counsel did not push for the arrest and trial of Leonard Priest.”

“Well?”

“Because it was not in my client’s best interests. That’s the short answer.”

“And the long answer?”

“It’s the long answer too.”

“Did Leonard Priest pay for Reicher’s defence?”

“Fritz Reicher paid for his own defence. Whether Priest gave him a handsome severance cheque or not is none of my business.”

“Did you ever meet a friend or associate of Leonard Priest’s named Darlene?”

“Darlene? No, I’ve never met any Darlene. Until this moment my life has been Darlene-free.”

“Did you not at least wonder why the Crown chose not to pursue Leonard Priest? The murder weapon was his gun. Found in his sex club. His prints were at the scene.”

“What’s to explain? Obviously, the ACA didn’t feel he had the evidence. You know, you’re not bad at this. You ever think of going to law school?”

“Way we saw it, the case looked like a total gift.”

“Garth Romney saw differently. Look, Garth’s a real go-getter. Mr. Avenging Prosecutor. A real pain in the ass for us innocent little defence lawyers.” Rota suddenly snapped himself together. The gleaming shoes flashed, the white cuffs shot forward and he was sitting upright, pulling his desk chair toward her, elbows on the desk. “Look, we have to be mindful of lawyer-client privilege here, but I’ll tell you this. If Leonard Priest came to trial, Fritz would have been called to testify. You’ve met Fritz. Have you met Priest?”

“Briefly.”

“Then you know how that would have worked out.”

“The Crown could have offered Reicher a better deal.”

“No such offer was made or requested. Had Priest been brought to trial, he would have painted Fritz as a disgruntled employee looking for revenge—among a lot of other unpleasant things.” Rota stood and picked up his briefcase. “Can I go home now?”

Delorme stepped aside and Rota held the door open for her. He was a polite little guy, she’d forgotten that about him.

“Let me walk you to your car, Detective. I’m intrigued by this Darlene character.”

“You really don’t know anything about her?”

“Not a thing.”

“Me either.”

Curriculum vitae for Keith Charles Rettig, born July 7, 1954. Joined Brunswick Geo in 2004. Previous employment: Toyota Canada, 1996–2004; Inglis Appliances, 1990–1996; GeoLogic Solutions, 1988–1990; Argus Aquatics, 1984–1988.

Cardinal looked up the last two companies on the Internet. He couldn’t find GeoLogic Solutions anywhere, but Argus Aquatics had been bought and sold by several different companies, the latest being Neptune Corp., makers of submersibles ranging from three-man subs to the kind of remote-operated vehicles used to explore the Titanic. Rettig was a finance man, not a techie, but the early involvement in robotics was still evident.

Cardinal looked up Senator David Flint again in Who’s Who in Canada. The entry was modest considering his business successes and his current position. He had begun to make his mark in the early eighties with a startup called Momentum, which designed power systems for electronics in confined spaces such as aircraft and submarines. In the following years he had added several patents in photovoltaics to his list of achievements. A stint at Boeing apparently hadn’t worked out too well, and he moved back to Canada after just four years in Seattle.

Frank Gauthier, he discovered from a similar search, had a long history with MRG Robotics. Twenty-five years with the company he had founded in 1986, its first triumph being a robotic assistant for hip replacement surgery. Before that he had worked two years for R-Tech, which went on to a troubled history with bionic limbs and thoroughly human lawsuits. MRG had been a prime contributor to the development of the Aesclepius system, which detects a surgeon’s hand movements and transmits them, much reduced, to an array of micro instruments.

All this information was easy, if time-consuming, to collect. Cardinal, no tech whiz, took a blank sheet of paper and drew three columns, into which he copied the names and dates.

He entered all three names together in the Google search field: Keith Rettig, David Flint and Frank Gauthier. No results.

He spent the next hour accessing business databases. It was no problem to get executive lists for all the various companies that were still extant. But he didn’t know where to find “historic” staff lists or where to look for information on companies that were defunct. Delorme would know. But Delorme was not here, and Delorme was behaving strangely, and Delorme was angry with him.

He opened the To Do list on his computer, and just below Call Ronnie B. he added Lise re corporate histories.

He looked again at his handwritten table. At the top of it, he wrote: U of T, 1980. That was the year of the photograph in the Varsity, three grinning postgrads with what looked like a tin insect. None of the three career columns had any entry earlier than 1984.

Leonard Priest opened the fridge, took a large bowl from it and nudged the door shut with his elbow. He took two large goblets from the cupboard and filled them both just under halfway and handed one to Delorme. He raised his glass and she clinked with him. They both took a sip.

“Very nice,” she said. In contrast to Richard Rota, with Priest she had to look up to meet his eye.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Neither did I,” Delorme said. Thinking, Boy, is that the understatement of the year.

“What made you change your mind?”

Priest’s calling her twice over the course of the day might have had something to do with it. Message one: He had some information relevant to her case that he wanted to share with her. Message two: He had failed to mention in his first message his most important attribute as far as women were concerned—no irony intended: he was a very good cook. The worst she could expect was a bang-up meal and a first-class bottle of wine.

“I was hungry,” she finally said.

“Fair enough. I hope you won’t be disappointed. Let’s sit.” He tilted his glass toward the living room, the couch. “Don’t worry, I’m on best behaviour.”

Priest sat on the couch. Delorme chose an armchair.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for an appetizer. I’d given up hope.”

“You don’t seem the type to give up hope.”

“Yeah, I’m probably an optimist, generally speaking—enjoy a challenge, admire commitment and determination. But I don’t like feeling like an idiot, either, pursuing someone in the face of repeated rejection. Hard to tell the difference sometimes—between commitment and stupidity, I mean. How’s work going these days?”

Delorme shrugged. “Challenging.”

“In general? Or for a woman in a man’s world?”

“Both.”

“I can imagine.” He looked at her and shook his head. “God, I’m an idiot.”

“For which thing?”

“For behaving the way I did. I know you think I’m just playing you—”

“Yes.”

“Right, then. Apology is on the table. Next business …” He picked up a remote from the glass-topped table and pointed it at the largest TV screen Delorme had ever seen. The logo of a cable station came up and he froze the image. “This is Up to the Minute—Toronto news show. Tends to be a little fluffy, but it does have the virtue of being live.”

He hit Play and the announcer did his intro. “Today is Tuesday, January third, and you’re watching Up to the Minute.”

Priest hit Pause. “I’m assuming the date is of interest.”

“The day Marjorie Flint was abducted.”

“And the time, no? The show airs at five o’clock.”

“And the time.”

Priest reached for the wine and topped up their glasses. He hit Play again and the show continued.

“There he is,” he said, “in all his glory.”

The interviewer asked first about music, any plans for a solo album. No, but Priest said he was honoured to have been asked to play bass on Daniel Lanois’s latest effort. There was no mention of Priest’s clubs, and after a few more pleasantries they went into the nature and makeup of an anti-poverty group he was involved with.

“You don’t need to hear the whole thing,” Priest said, and switched off the TV. “Excuse me a second.”

He went out to the kitchen and bent to peer through the oven door, putting on a pair of glasses to do so. He took them off and came back.

“Dinner is served.”

Cardinal put his dishes in the dishwasher and sat down at the kitchen table again and scrolled through the contact list on his cellphone. He dialed Ronnie Babstock at home. He’d already tried him at work and been told he was on his way back from a business trip to Brussels.

“Ronnie. John Cardinal. Something I want to ask you. Give me a call back when you get a chance—it’s kind of urgent. Hope Brussels was good.”

He went into the living room and picked up the TV remote and just held it in his lap. He thought about his day. Loach coming in and yelling at him in Chouinard’s office.

Loach: Am I lead on this case or not? Because if I am, then I want everyone to pull their weight.

Chouinard (to Cardinal): You didn’t do your follow-up?

Cardinal: I’m working on something that actually promises to go somewhere. These women are all connected through their husbands, who were at school together. I think they must have worked together, too, at some point, and if we can find that point, we might be able to discover who exactly it is that they’ve pissed off so bad.

Loach: We have a recording of the guy’s voice, D.S., the guy’s voice. I say that trumps any ancient history between the victims’ spouses.

Cardinal: Let me follow this, D.S.

Chouinard: They live in three different cities, these husbands. Do they have any recent connection?

Cardinal: Not that I know of. Not yet. But it may not have to be recent.

Loach: We have a voice on the line confessing to murder and you don’t want to pursue it. That’s your opinion, I don’t care. D.S., we’re going to need some manpower from OPP to make up for the slack around here.

At that, Cardinal had turned to Loach and totally lost it, calling him a pompous little twit and a prima donna and any number of other things until Chouinard booted him out of the office. In the movies it always looked so satisfying to tell someone off. Why in real life did it feel like shit? In the end, Loach got his OPP assistance. Cardinal couldn’t wait to hear from Jerry Commanda on how that was going.

He turned on the television and it tried to sell him a Volvo and he turned it off and put the remote aside. Delorme would be good right now. Have her sitting on that couch with her feet up. Small feet, white socks. She’d called in sick again and hadn’t returned any of his calls. None of Loach’s either. Loach was turning out to be an albatross, but he had reason to be frustrated with Cardinal and Delorme.

He picked up his land line and dialed Delorme’s home number.

“It’s John. Pick up, Lise. I’m worried about you. I got in royal shit today with Loach and Chouinard. Love to tell you about it. Hope you’re okay.”

He switched off the light and went to stand at the window. The moon hung low over the lake. It was nearly full and he could see the dark shadows of the Manitous out in the middle of the ice.

He went to the bathroom and turned on the shower and then to the bedroom to get undressed. He got his shirt off and stood there holding it. After a minute he put it back on and went back to the bathroom to turn off the water. Then he got his coat from the hall closet and headed out.

The night was clear and twenty-something below and the heater in his Camry was not as efficient as it once was. He drove up the hill across Rayne Street and up to Delorme’s. Her lights were off and there was no car in the driveway.

“Stupid,” Cardinal said—about himself, not Delorme.

He turned the car around and headed back down the hill. At the stop sign, he had a change of plan and made a left toward the downtown. It was a quiet night, not many cars about and too cold for many pedestrians except the odd dog walker. He thought about getting a dog, a living being to come home to, but he had never been much of a pet man. When Kelly was a little girl, they’d had a dog, a floppy-eared mutt named Gizmo that she loved passionately. But the dog developed a brain tumour that changed him from an affectionate goof into a biter. Cardinal had been forced to have him put down, and the memory of breaking his daughter’s heart had spoiled dogs for him forever.

He pulled into the parking lot of the Quiet Pint and sat for a minute. He didn’t recognize any of the vehicles.

Perfect beef tenderloin with a red wine reduction, arugula salad, and for dessert a lemon cream concoction that Delorme could have eaten four times more of.

“Well, you were right,” she said, raising her glass. “You are one hell of a cook.”

“Thank you,” Priest said. “Why don’t you go sit in the living room and I’ll bring us some port. Much underrated, port is.”

He had announced when they sat down that he wanted no discussion of police business during dinner, and they’d been almost entirely successful in avoiding it. Delorme asked him questions about the music industry, and they’d moved on from there to talk of movies and books. She was finding it a lot harder to believe Priest had ever killed anyone. She was feeling pretty comfortable, considering, and you would never have known, to look at her, that she was breaking every rule in the investigator’s handbook.

Priest himself noted this at one point. They had shared a laugh over an amusing scene in a Tom Cruise movie and he suddenly said, “Seriously, Lise—aren’t you being a little irresponsible? If you ever did bring a case against me, you’d be in a lot of shit, wouldn’t you? Having fraternized with the accused?”

Delorme shrugged. “Algonquin Bay is small. There’s not a single detective on the squad who hasn’t had to arrest a neighbour or someone they went to school with.”

“Not quite the same, is it?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

He came into the living room now with a dusty bottle of port and sat beside her on the couch and poured them each a glass. When they were about to toast, Delorme’s phone rang.

“Sorry. Hold on, I’ll switch it off.”

“I shut mine away in a drawer when I don’t want to be bothered.”

“I’d love to, but we have to keep them with us at all times.” She put the phone back in her purse and set the purse beside her on the couch. She reached for her glass again. “Sorry about that. Cheers.”

Delorme had never tasted port before, never tasted anything like it.

“Was this made by some monks high on a mountain somewhere?”

“Not bad, is it.” Blue eyes flecked with firelight.

He set his glass down and reached for a slim green folder, then sat back and opened it. Delorme didn’t know why, but his every move was attractive to her in some elemental way. To counter this, she thought of the black mask, Régine Choquette’s contorted body, Fritz Reicher’s “games.”

“Take a look at these.”

Delorme took the folder from him, careful that their hands did not touch. She picked up the first piece of paper. A receipt from Toronto’s Windsor Arms Hotel.

“I thought you had a home in Toronto.”

“Condo. Sold it. Look at the dates.”

“I see the dates.”

“Look at the others.”

She went through the receipts one by one—dinners at expensive restaurants, tickets to a Cat Power concert, a car detailing operation, a dentist—and closed the folder.

“You can keep those. My lawyer has the originals.”

“Thank you. Leonard, can we just clear up one more small item?”

“God, you’re relentless. You’re lucky it’s sexy.”

“Why does Fritz Reicher say you ordered him to shoot Régine Choquette?”

“He doesn’t.”

“But he did. Then he changed his mind—so that’s actually two small items. Why did he say it, and why did he change his mind?”

“Fritz? Have you met Fritz? Fritz is an amiable idiot. I’m sorry, but he’s mentally defective—very attractive qualities in a servant, but not much use for anything else.”

“If he’s so dim, why did he change his mind?”

“As I understand it, he was stoned when he was picked up and babbled anything that came into his head. Then he sobered up …”

He swivelled toward her on the couch and tugged at a lock of her hair. “Now, haven’t I been a good boy? Haven’t made a single move on you all night, despite the fact that you look absolutely gorgeous.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“You can’t really think I’m a cold-blooded killer.”

“Maybe not cold-blooded. Maybe out of control.”

“So why did you come here, Lise?”

“You invited me. I’m an investigator. You have information.”

“Ooh, such a calculating little article you are.”

“I admit I find you fascinating. In a clinical way. Sometimes you almost seem like a good person.”

“Even when I’m bad, I’m not that bad.”

“Hmm.”

He grasped her elbow lightly and shook it as if rousing her from a nap. “Don’t you ever have the urge to break the rules? Do something a little wicked? Just be bad?”

She nodded. “Sometimes I even give in to it.”

“You smile like a cat, you know that? Not the warmest smile, must be said.”

“What can you tell me about Darlene?”

“Darlene.” He swivelled away again and poured himself more port. When he reached for her glass, Delorme put her hand over it.

He set the bottle down and took a sip. “I only know one Darlene, and I’m not going to talk about her.”

“Come on.”

“Sorry. Wouldn’t be gentlemanly. How would you like it if I talked about you?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“The night is young.”

“It must be awful to be an addict. Be a slave. Feel out of control all the time.”

“It’s only an addiction if you can’t afford it.”

“Really? That your personal definition?”

“It’ll do. Just out of interest, are you wearing your gun? Perhaps a neat little automatic strapped to your ankle?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I desperately want to kiss you, but I don’t want to get shot.”

“Better be careful, then.”

He leaned toward her and she didn’t pull away—to pull away would look like fear—but she did turn her face aside.

“All right,” he said, stopping halfway. “She doesn’t want to be kissed. What does she want? Hmm, I wonder.” A hand rested itself on her breast.

Delorme didn’t move, the heat of his palm through her clothes.

“What does Lise want, he wonders.” The hand sliding to the other breast and Delorme remaining utterly motionless, remaining that way, barely breathing, as the hand slides down her chest, across her midriff, and Priest leans closer so he can reach between her legs.

She grabbed his wrist and lifted it off and placed his hand back on the couch.

“Thank you for a lovely dinner.”

“Tease.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Silence means consent, darling.”

“Actually, it doesn’t. Check the Criminal Code.”

“You don’t have to go, you know. Not really.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, getting up. “Really.”

Priest stood up and blocked her way. “Do you know what you’re playing with?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“What I mean is, if you really believe I ordered that gormless German twit to shoot a defenceless woman, what does that say about you? That you come here and get all cozy, looking all hot and bothered—”

“Hardly. I’m leaving now.” She pushed past him and headed for the kitchen.

“Ambition isn’t the only pheromone you give off, in case you don’t know. But you do know, don’t you? You know very well. You want to play with fire, sweetheart, you better be ready for a little heat.”

“I’ll need my coat.”

“Of course. Sorry.” His tone had changed again. Once more he was the gracious host. He walked her to the door and retrieved her coat. She put it on, fighting with the zipper.

“Come on, Lise. Dinner’s one thing, but you really can’t still think I had anything to do with Marjorie Flint or Laura Lacroix.”

“I don’t.” The zipper finally surrendered and she pulled it up. “But I do think you killed Régine Choquette, and I’m going to put you away for it. That’s what Lise wants.”