The Delicate Storm

‘I’m meeting R.J. Kendall.’

The maître d’ led him across the crowded dining room. Cardinal recognized an assistant Crown attorney and nodded to a provincial court justice. Police Chief Kendall was ensconced in a plush side room that Cardinal had never seen before.

‘It’s the Windigo man himself,’ Kendall said as Cardinal entered. The chief’s face was florid, not from embarrassment or drink but from high blood pressure. ‘Do you know Paul Laroche, here? Of Laroche Real Estate?’

‘Of course. I mean, I know who you are,’ Cardinal said, shaking hands with the man who stood to greet him. Laroche was no taller than Cardinal, but he gave the impression of size – massive chest, wide shoulders – a man who could take care of himself. His grip was strong without being showy.

‘Haven’t I seen you out at the club?’ Laroche said.

‘Blue Heron Club,’ R.J. explained. ‘Paul owns it.’

‘With partners,’ Laroche said. ‘Are you a golfer?’

‘Not me,’ Cardinal said. ‘Haven’t got the patience. I want to just carry the ball right over to the pocket.’

‘Not a golfer. Are you a hunting man, then? A skier?’

‘None of the above. In summer I like to go out in the boat. Watching the hockey game’s about as close to any sport as I get. Unless you consider woodworking a sport.’

Laroche smiled. His dark hair had flecks of grey in it, but it was close-cropped, in a clinging style that flattered his well-shaped head. He was wearing a beautifully cut chalk-stripe that must have cost four times the highest sum Cardinal had ever paid for a suit. He looked like an investment banker.

‘You said you’re impatient. But I would have thought patience was a necessary virtue in your line of work,’ he said, sitting down again.

‘Actually, Detective Cardinal is one of our stars,’ R.J. said. ‘Remember the Windigo case?’

‘Really? That must have been something,’ Laroche said. ‘To take down two serial killers in one case. Quite a victory. And you probably saved a lot of lives.’

‘I had help. Lise Delorme was the one who actually—’

Laroche raised his hand. ‘Lise Delorme,’ he said. ‘I know that name …’

‘Well, she was in the papers a lot with the Windigo thing. She—’

‘No,’ Laroche said. ‘She’s the one who brought Mayor Wells to grief.’

‘Yes, she did. Performed a real service to the city that time.’

‘Oh? You think so?’

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ R.J. said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but we’d better get our orders in. What’s good, Paul?’

‘The maple-glazed venison is your best bet. But you must let me order the wine.’

The Trianon mostly succeeds in its efforts to ape European elegance, but the one area in which it falls down is the staff. Instead of old professionals, diners are waited on by charming but not necessarily competent young women. Laroche was polite but firm with the knock-kneed, freckled creature who served them.

Real estate was obviously a paying proposition. Laroche’s whole being glowed with money the way an athlete’s body glows with health. It shone in the gold cufflinks, glinting against the snowy perfection of French cuffs. It shone in the just-right shade of tan of Laroche’s face – a skier, Cardinal surmised.

After they had ordered, Kendall said, ‘You mustn’t get Paul onto politics, Detective Cardinal. He’s one of the key men behind Premier Mantis.’

‘Of course. You ran his local campaign,’ Cardinal said.

‘Which is the reason for this meeting,’ Kendall said. ‘The Conservatives are having a major fundraiser this coming weekend, and Paul is asking for extra police presence.’

‘Plain clothes? Shouldn’t you be talking to Chouinard about this?’

‘Chouinard’s already agreed. We’re thinking two detectives – Delorme and you.’

‘This will not be too onerous,’ Laroche said. ‘It’s going to be at our new ski club – the Highlands? – and the dinner will be sumptuous, I assure you. Except for being on watch for suspicious individuals, I think you’ll manage to enjoy yourselves.’

‘You’ll need more than two detectives to secure an event like that.’

‘We’ll have our own private security, of course. They will be on the doors and backstage and so on. But frankly – in the wake of September 11 – I don’t think private security’s enough. I’ll be much more comfortable if we have a couple of professionals right in among the tables. Premier Mantis is a very prominent figure.’

‘We’ll put three or four patrolmen outside as well,’ R.J. said.

‘Are we going to be doing this for the Liberals and the NDP, too?’ Cardinal said to Kendall.

‘Certainly. If they ask us.’

‘They won’t,’ Laroche said. ‘Their political fortunes are such, these days, any fundraiser they hold is likely to be a low-profile affair. We are, after all, the only party with a provincial premier as its candidate.’

The food arrived, and the venison was as good as any Cardinal had ever tasted. He was tempted to try the Bordeaux with it – the chief wouldn’t have minded – but he wanted to be absolutely clear-headed for the afternoon.

They discussed various angles of security for the fundraiser. Cardinal tried not to let his impatience show. Security detail was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about while investigating a murder. Laroche had brought a floor plan of the new club, and they talked about deployment of the security personnel inside, patrol officers outside and the two detectives among the guests.

When they were having their coffee, Laroche said to Cardinal, ‘So you didn’t care for Mayor Wells, I take it? You know, he was a wonderful mayor.’

‘Well, yes – if you ignore the fact that he was stuffing ballot boxes. You don’t think he deserved what he got?’

Laroche looked Cardinal up and down – taking his time about it. ‘People in our society have decided it is a crime to stuff ballot boxes. That makes it a crime. In other places it’s not a crime, or it’s overlooked. It’s not inherently evil. And one shouldn’t forget all the things Mayor Wells did for this city.’

‘He built the airport. He built the overpass. Then he stole an election.’

‘Let’s not make him out to be Richard Nixon,’ Kendall said.

‘There’s good and bad mixed in every man, don’t you think?’ Laroche said. ‘For example, you saved the city from a murderous rampage, but I’m willing to bet there are things in your life that might not look so heroic on page one of the Toronto Star.’

‘You’re right there,’ Cardinal said. He thought of the anniversary card. We know where you live.

‘And Wells was a character. People underestimate how important that is in a leader. That’s why I could never run for office myself, much as I’d love to. Too colourless.’

‘But you’re very impressive,’ Cardinal said. ‘We’ve just been introduced, and I’m sitting here, impressed. That’s half the battle, isn’t it?’

Laroche laughed, showing perfect teeth.

‘I’m a behind-the-scenes man, born and bred, Detective. Give me a candidate like Geoff Mantis, I’ll do everything I can to get him elected. I’ll call in the debts, twist the arms, you name it. But run for office myself? Not a chance.’

Laroche spoke as if he were laying out his points in a seminar, his modulation highly educated. Cardinal wondered if he had lived abroad. Laroche gripped Cardinal’s arm lightly. ‘Forgive me for being so earnest. These questions are on my mind, what with the election coming up.’

‘Is Geoff Mantis going to win again?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m going to make sure of it.’

After the luxurious interior of the Trianon, the parking lot felt even more cold and damp. Disembodied headlights glided through the mist along the bypass, and rain felt imminent.

Laroche climbed behind the wheel of a Lincoln Navigator that was parked by the restaurant entrance. He rolled down the window and said, ‘R.J., I forgot to ask – how are things progressing with your body in the woods?’

Kendall shrugged. ‘It’s Detective Cardinal’s case. We have some leads. We’re moving along. Right, Detective?’

‘Not as fast as I’d like. But I always feel that way.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Laroche said. ‘If your record on the Windigo case is anything to go by, you’ll have this matter wrapped up in no time.’ He drove off into the fog, his turn signal winking toward town.

‘Smooth character,’ Cardinal said.

‘Rich character. Not bad for a guy who grew up in an orphanage. I mean, running the premier’s campaign?’

‘I voted against Mantis.’

‘Luckily,’ Kendall said, ‘most people had better sense.’

On his way downtown again, Cardinal called his father on the cellphone.

‘Hold on a second. I’m just pulling some chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.’

Since his wife had died ten years previously, Stan had taken up an interest in cooking. It still gave Cardinal a kick to see his father – tough, sinewy Stan Cardinal, with his muscular forearms and powerful chest – wearing an apron and wiping flour from his hands. Cookies were his specialty.

‘Did you see the cardiologist?’

‘Catherine drove me up this morning. Dr Cates irritated the hell out of me, but she knows how to get things done, I’ll say that for her.’

‘What’s the cardiologist say?’

‘He’s scheduling me for a bunch of tests up at the hospital. He thinks I have congestive heart failure.’

‘What? Dad, why didn’t you get this taken care of six months ago?’

‘It’s not a big deal, John. It’s just some tests. And he’s giving me tons of drugs. I think they’re working already.’

‘Heart failure, though. I wish you weren’t living out to hell and gone.’

‘Nonsense. Whole reason I moved in here was so you wouldn’t have to worry about me. Why the hell do you think I got a bungalow? No damn stairs to break my neck on, that’s why. This is the easiest place in the world to keep clean and get around in. I’ve got peace and quiet and fresh air. I’ve got my stereo and my VCR and the best microwave on the market. I’m telling you, I’m king of the castle, here.’

‘Well, if the fog gets any worse, you might want to think about moving in with us for the duration.’

‘Drop it, John.’

Cardinal turned onto MacPherson, skirting a messy construction site.

‘They said on the news you found a chewed-up body in the woods?’ Stan said. ‘Sounds a little more interesting than the usual crap you get.’

Great, Cardinal thought. Here we go.

‘Those trailer trash constantly shooting each other. Drug dealers. Robbers. Fat-assed drunkards. I don’t know why you didn’t go into a more interesting line of work. It’s not like you didn’t have the education. Your ma and I saw to it you and your brother got to college. You could have gone into any profession you wanted.’

‘That’s exactly what I did, Dad. I went into the profession I wanted. A line of work that can actually make a difference in people’s lives. A lot of my colleagues didn’t go to university – that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Look at the people you worked with.’

‘Morons, the bunch of them! Except for Mark McCabe. Mark was the smartest guy I ever knew. Read more books than most college professors. Did long division in his head. But he was a union man through and through. And it was guys like you – your oh-so-brainy colleagues – that saw fit to bust his head open for having the guts to call a strike against the fat bastards that run this country. That nightstick came down on his head – and I heard it. It sounded like a plank dropping on a cement floor. That nightstick came down on Mark’s head and for the next three years he did nothing but drool, and then he died. A good, good man.’

The line went quiet. Cardinal heard his father sniff and knew that he was crying. His dad, who for most of his long life had displayed few emotions other than irritation, now became teary when he talked of the past. It didn’t seem to be self-pity but some deeper, long-abiding sorrow. The tears would flow for a minute, then be gone.

‘You okay, Dad?’

There was a loud sniff from the other end of the line. ‘Fog’s turning to rain,’ Stan said. ‘Maybe I’ll plant some zinnias in the spring.’

7

‘Listen,’ Musgrave said. ‘I’ve gone over it with my regional commander. I’m not working with that laptop-toting twerp from CSIS. What we do is, I deal with you, you deal with him.’

‘Squier didn’t seem all that bad to me,’ Cardinal said.

‘You haven’t worked with CSIS before, have you.’

‘No.’

‘You poor bastard. Anyway,’ Musgrave said, looking at his watch, ‘this is forty-five minutes of my life we’ve wasted. Tell me again what we’re doing here.’

They were parked in an unmarked on Main East. The fog had finally condensed into actual rain that was drumming on the roof.

The moment Cardinal had hung up with his father, the cellphone had rung in his hand and Arsenault was on the line telling him they’d matched a print at the trapper’s shack to a name: Paul Bressard. Cardinal had driven straight out to the house. Bressard’s wife, who was already reeking of scotch at one-thirty in the afternoon, told him Paul would probably be at Duane’s Billiard Emporium. Cardinal didn’t mention that he was a cop, and she wasn’t sober enough to tell.

Which was how he and Musgrave came to be sitting in the unmarked on Main East watching the decayed entrance to Duane’s Billiard Emporium.

‘Duane’s is a hangout for the guys who can’t quite make it to big-time crime,’ Cardinal said. ‘Bikers that failed the entrance exam to Satan’s Choice, Italian guys too dumb for the mob.’

‘And the wife just handed you this information? Why’d she take a shine to you?’

‘In Cutty Sark veritas.’

‘In Cutty Sark bullshit, it looks like.’

‘Tell me something, Musgrave. Does your wife know your every move?’

‘You could fill a mountain of CD-ROM with what my wife doesn’t know. It’s a point of pride with her.’

‘Fine. So let’s give it another half-hour.’

They listened to the rain hammering down for another ten minutes, and then the Explorer came into view.

‘That’s him with the moustache?’

‘That’s him. The guy with him is Thierry Ferand, another trapper.’

Bressard parked half a block away, then he and Ferand came slouching back toward the pool hall through the rain. Ferand was half the other man’s size and had to scuttle along beside him like a dachshund.

‘Bressard’s a dresser,’ Musgrave said. ‘Get a load of the coat.’

‘He better hope the anti-fur movement never hits Algonquin Bay.’

Bressard and Ferand entered the building. Cardinal and Musgrave left the unmarked and went to examine the Explorer. A jagged line ran across two doors on the passenger side. ‘We’ll have to get our ident guys on it,’ Cardinal said, ‘but for now I’d say that looks fresh, wouldn’t you?’

‘I would. Is this guy going to be a problem?’

‘Bressard? No way. Bressard will come along voluntarily.’

Musgrave laughed. ‘Christ, Cardinal. I’d never have pegged you for an optimist.’

As they stepped into the dark stairwell that led down to Duane’s, Cardinal said, ‘Watch out for Ferand. He’s little, but he’s got a mean streak a mile wide, and he’s fond of brass knuckles.’

‘Let me handle him.’ Musgrave hitched up his belt. ‘It’s always the small guys.’

When Cardinal was a teenager, the poolroom had been like a secret society. Cardinal and his friends would play endless games of Boston, High-Low or snooker, chain-smoking their Player’s and du Mauriers like thirties gangsters. Smoke used to hang like storm clouds over a landscape of green felt. So he was a little surprised to step into Duane’s and find that the air was not even visible. Even pool players had become more health-conscious.

Duane himself was behind the counter from which he served easily the worst hamburger in town, for twice the going price. He was a great fat stoat of a man who, without ever having been convicted of anything more than the odd traffic offence, radiated an air of sleaze.

Most of the clientele were in their late teens or early twenties, all male, all trying with varying degrees of success to look tough. With a single glance around the room, Cardinal recognized two drug dealers and one car thief. Bressard and Ferand had started up a game at a corner table. Bressard was bent, lining up a shot. Without straightening, he looked along the cue at Cardinal as they approached. Ferand was drinking a Dr Pepper and spilled a good deal of it over his shirt when he caught sight of them. Cardinal had arrested him twice for assault, though only one charge had stuck. Ferand cursed, placed his cue in the wall rack and grabbed his coat.

‘Relax, Thierry,’ Cardinal said, flashing his badge. ‘We just need to talk to your buddy here.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Bressard said. ‘You’ve come to make sure I’m not dead.’

‘Oh no, I can see you’re not dead, Paul. I just need some help clearing up a few things with that story I mentioned to you yesterday.’

Ferand said, ‘What are you looking at?’

Musgrave was standing in front of the rear exit, arms folded across his massive chest, and staring at Ferand with a funny little grin, a barely perceptible uptilt in the corner of his mouth.

‘See, we still have this story about a murder in the woods,’ Cardinal said to Bressard. ‘We’ve even got a body now – not yours, obviously – but maybe you heard about it on the news.’

‘What if I have?’

‘Well, you’re the only person whose name’s come up in this whole deal. So I was hoping you’d come down to the station and help us clear it up.’

‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ Ferand said again. ‘You a faggot or something?’

Musgrave was still planted like a sphinx in the doorway, still doing that funny little Mona Lisa thing at Ferand.

‘Tell him to stop looking at me.’

‘Shut up, Thierry,’ Bressard said. ‘He’s just trying to psych you out. And you’re letting him do it.’

‘So, what do you say, Paul? Come on downtown with us, we’ll have a chat about how your name got mixed up in this. I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t—’

A small blur launched itself past Cardinal in Musgrave’s direction. Before he could even turn to look, the small blur came flying back and landed on the pool table. Balls went flying, the overhead lamp swung crazily back and forth. Something gold or brass glittered in Ferand’s hand as he lay groaning on the table, and then it slid to the floor with a clang.

‘Assaulting a police officer,’ Musgrave said. ‘He’s even dumber than he looks.’

8

Ferand was booked and placed in the cells, after Wudky had been transferred to the jail for his own protection, in case Ferand should happen to remember who it was he had mentioned the murder to.

Musgrave was all for going at Bressard full force, which was one reason Cardinal insisted that he do the interview by himself.

Musgrave shrugged. ‘I’m heading back to Sudbury. Let me know what the habitant has to say for himself.’

Cardinal sat Bressard down in the interview room. The trapper tried to appear calm, lounging in his seat, but he kept playing with the straw in his can of Coke. Cardinal’s manner was inquisitive but not unfriendly – just two colleagues out to solve this peculiar set of events together.

‘I’m hoping you can help me out here, Paul, because right now I have to say it looks pretty bad. How’s it happen that we find a dead body near your old shack in the woods? Can you help me clear that up?’

Bressard took a sip of his Coke, stared at the wall a moment and went back to twirling his straw.

‘We know it was chopped up at your old shack, by the way. There’s no doubt about that. Blood everywhere. All sorts of evidence.’

Bressard took a deep breath, sighed, shook his head.

‘You know, I might be inclined to think it had nothing to do with you. Somebody had an argument and got rid of the body in your old neck of the woods, maybe. But there’s one thing bothers me, and I hope you can explain it.’ He waited, but Bressard didn’t look at him. ‘Just tell me this, Paul. How’d you get the scratch on your front passenger door?’

No answer.

‘You might want to respond to that one, Paul. Because our scene man, and the Forensics Centre, and Ford Motors all say the paint we found on a stump in the woods matches the paint on your Explorer.’

Bressard sucked on the straw of his Coke until the contents rattled.

‘You may think I don’t know anything about you, Paul, but in fact I have a very good idea how you make your living. Number one, there’s the trapping – you have good years and bad years with that, like everything else. Number two, there’s the odd job for Leon Petrucci.’

The corner of Bressard’s mouth lifted in the beginning of a smile, but he didn’t take the bait.

‘Leon Petrucci. It’s been a while, maybe, but we know you’ve worked for him in the past. Number three, there’s the guiding. I know that a good part of your income comes from taking novice hunters out into the woods and finding a bear or two for them to shoot. And I also know that you don’t rely on luck for that. Put a few steaks out on the trail at the right time of year, you’re going to see a bear – especially if you know where they live, which I’m sure a long-time professional like you does.

‘Howard Matlock told the Loon Lodge people he was interested in ice fishing. He didn’t bring any guns or knives with him. Didn’t show the slightest interest in hunting. Now, I don’t mean to sound unpleasant, but how does Mr Matlock come to be eaten by bears near your old shack, Paul?’

Bressard burped quietly, picked up the Coke can and read the French side of the label. Cardinal had been at this game long enough to know when he was getting nowhere. One more shot, he thought. I’ll just give it one more shot.

‘You had a fight about something. Maybe he came after you first. Maybe you shot him accidentally – I won’t even pretend to know how – and then you decided to get rid of the body. I have to give you credit for originality there. But however it happened, unless you give me some kind of explanation, there’s a good chance you’ll go down for second-degree murder on this. It may take us a while to make the case, but we have a good beginning.’

Bressard set his Coke can on the table, turning it slowly. Cardinal grabbed it and tossed it into the wastebasket, where it landed with an enormous racket.

‘All right,’ Cardinal said, rising. ‘I was trying to help you, but you’re just making things worse for yourself. Unless you give me some reason not to, we’re going to have to charge you with murder. The Crown already has the paperwork; he’s just waiting to hear how co-operative you were.’

Bressard didn’t move a muscle.

‘Oh, for Chrissake,’ Cardinal said. ‘Let’s go.’

He reached for Bressard’s elbow, but before he could take hold, Bressard swung mournful eyes his way and said, ‘I got a serious problem.’

That’s a world-class understatement, Cardinal thought, but he didn’t say so. He sat back down and all he said was, ‘Tell me.’

‘If I don’t say anything, you take these bits and pieces you have and put me away for life – maybe or maybe not.’

‘You fed him to the bears, Paul. I don’t think there’s a lot of maybe here.’

‘So, me, I have a question.’

‘Shoot.’

‘What exactly can you offer in terms of witness protection? Would I get a new name, resettle somewhere?’

Cardinal sighed. Since Canada inaugurated its witness protection program in 1996, every thug with even the most tangential connection to organized crime has fantasies that, should the day come when the gang gets rounded up, he’ll turn ‘state’s evidence’ in return for a new identity and a nice cottage on a distant lake.

‘I have no control over witness protection, Paul. The Mounties decide who qualifies, and it’s seriously underfunded. I wouldn’t hold my breath.’

‘Then why the hell should I give you Petrucci?’

‘Are you saying you killed this guy for Leon Petrucci?’