Crime Machine (14 page)

Chouinard pointed at Cardinal. “You didn’t happen to get what Wishart is driving, by any chance?”

“Yeah, I did. He drives an Acura TL.”

“I knew there was a reason I hired you,” Chouinard said, getting up.

“You didn’t hire me.”

“Well, somebody must have had a reason.”

C
ARDINAL AND
D
ELORME PULLED UP
in front of Carnwright Real Estate just as Randall Wishart was getting into his car.

“Mr. Wishart?” Cardinal said. “Could you hold it right there, please?”

Wishart looked annoyed, until he realized who Cardinal was and then he flashed a smile. “Detective—what can I do for you?”

“You can stop bullshitting me for a start.”

The smile vanished. He looked from Cardinal to Delorme and back again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Cardinal opened the rear door of the unmarked. “Or we could do it right here in your office—maybe bring your father-in-law in on it? Or how about your wife’s office? Would you prefer that?”

“Hey. I sell houses for a living. I don’t kill people.”

“Just get in the car.”

On the way, Wishart called a lawyer.

—

Dick Nolan was known around the CID as Dr. No, the reason being that he never agreed to anything if he could avoid it—certainly not to anything
that might be construed as disadvantageous to his clients, of whom Randall Wishart was now one. He arrived at the station fresh from court, Burberry overcoat flapping, red polka dot tie flying over one shoulder, thinning grey hair shooting out from his scalp like a seeding dandelion about to blow away. His colour was high, not due to the cold but to a state of outrage that, as far as Cardinal knew, was permanent.

Nolan stormed into the interview room where Wishart was waiting and slammed the door. Moments later his shouts of disbelief could be heard all the way down the hall.

Cardinal gave them fifteen minutes. When he and Delorme finally sat down across from Wishart and his counsel, he asked if they had any objection to the interview being videotaped. He knew what the answer would be.

“No tape,” Nolan said. “Why have you brought my client here against his will?”

“We believe he has knowledge pertinent to the investigation of a double murder,” Cardinal said. “By law we have to interview him and—by all means check with your client, but I believe he would rather speak to us here than in his office or his home.”

“You’re threatening his reputation and his peace of mind without cause, not to mention invading his privacy.”

“All right.” Cardinal closed his notebook and stood up. “If Mr. Wishart doesn’t want to talk to us today, we’ll talk to him another time.”

“Hold it. Hang on a second,” Wishart said. He leaned over to whisper to his lawyer.

“We’re prepared to proceed on a limited basis,” Nolan said.

Cardinal flipped the pages of his notebook. “Mr. Wishart, you told me you hadn’t been out to the Schumacher place for a couple of weeks.”

“The house was broken into. The rear door was jimmied,” Nolan said. “My client, as you very well know, has a key. Why would he need to break in?”

“To make it
look
like someone who didn’t have a key,” Delorme said.

“You were there on Thursday,” Cardinal said. “The day the Bastovs were murdered.”

“Do you have some evidence that puts my client there? Perhaps a security video? A witness?”

“We have tread marks that match the tires on his car. We have fingerprints on the For Sale sign. And on the bed in the master bedroom.”

“Prints that you matched to my client how? He has no criminal record. He has never been in the armed services. He has never had a security check. How would you have his prints?”

Cardinal folded his hands on the table and studied his thumbs. “Mr. Nolan, how uncooperative do you wish your client to appear? People who have recently been to the Schumachers’ were asked to provide fingerprints. He chose not to. Are you advising him to continue down that road? You know where it will lead.”

Nolan let out a long, slow exhalation through his nostrils. “Suppose my client—purely hypothetically—were to admit that his prints are likely on both the For Sale sign and the bed. There are any number of explanations for this. He’s a real estate agent who was asked to sell the house.”

“But never showed it,” Cardinal said. “So how do his fingerprints end up on the headboard and bedside table in the master bedroom?”

“I can clear this up,” Wishart said.

“You don’t have to say a word,” Nolan said. “Let me do the talking.”

“No, there’s a simple explanation. I’m sorry,” Wishart said to Cardinal. “I wanted to take a video of the house. The Schumachers had said no before, but I went ahead and did it anyway. I may have straightened the bed a little. You know, you want it to look the best possible.”

“That video is evidence,” Cardinal said. “You’re going to have to produce it.”

“I’m not sure if I still have it. I may have recorded over it.”

“You went out there against the Schumachers’ wishes to shoot a video—and broke the law by entering without their permission—but you may have recorded over it?”

Nolan looked at his client. “Now will you let me do the talking?”

Wishart slumped in his chair.

“There’s no reason why a video of an empty house is of evidentiary value,” Nolan said.

“Excuse me,” Delorme said. “A video taken the same day as the murders?”

Wishart sat up fast. “I didn’t say it was the same day. I told you where I was that day. I thought you were going to check with Troy.”

“I did,” Cardinal said. “And I just may talk to him again.”

Nolan put a restraining hand on his client’s wrist and glared him into
submission. Then he turned to Delorme. “Now you’re implying not only that my client was there, but
when
he was there. Fingerprints—even if they are his, which we are a country mile from granting—do not, as far as I know, come with a date stamp. Kindly tell us the nature of the evidence that puts my client at that particular house on that particular day.”

“Are you denying it?” Cardinal said to Wishart.

“He doesn’t have to deny or admit anything.”

“Hey, Counsellor, here’s an equation for you. I’ll let you do the math.” Cardinal had sworn to himself he wouldn’t let Nolan get to him, but he had to struggle to keep his voice calm. “The snow was fresh on Thursday, putting Mr. Wishart’s Acura with the Bridgestone Blizzard Grip tires there on that day. Either he was there for some entirely unrelated reason, in which case he’s only obstructing justice, or he was there to commit or abet a double murder. So rather than have him face a life sentence, I’d suggest you encourage him to admit one, that he was there on Thursday, and
two
, the reason he was there.”

“Do you have moulds from his tires?”

“We will soon enough.”

“Do you have any blood? Any hair? Any fibre? You don’t—or he’d be charged. Do you have evidence of prior association with the victims—these Russians from New York? You do not. So unless you have a security tape or an eyewitness who puts him there on Thursday night, you have absolutely nothing and you’re wasting everybody’s time.”

“If you weren’t at the Schumacher house,” Delorme said softly, “suppose you tell us where you really were.”

“I worked late—till six-thirty or so—and then I went over to Troy’s house. We watched the game and then I went home, around eleven-thirty. My wife was in bed, so she can’t confirm that, but Troy will.”

“Who won the game?”

“Montreal, 4–1 over the Leafs. Lost it all in the third.”

“What did you think of Rosehill’s penalty?”

“Rosehill didn’t get any penalties. He’s still out with a torn ligament.”

“Nice try,” Nolan said.

“Let me lay it out for you, Randall,” Cardinal said. “I think you have a girlfriend. I think you have a little something on the side. I think you have hot little rendezvous with her in empty houses.”

“No, no, no.” Nolan put up a hand like a traffic cop. “Unless you have this hypothetical other woman outside, that is totally inappropriate.”

“Randall knows what I’m talking about, don’t you, Randall? What’s her name, Randall?”

Wishart shook his head. “There isn’t anyone, I swear.”

“You’ve got a high-powered wife and you’re sitting pretty in her father’s firm. If this comes out, all of that could be blown sky-high. You can tell us now, or you can wait for us to find her, and if we do—”

“That’s all, Detective.” Nolan put his legal pad into his briefcase, snapped the locks on it and stood up. “My client has been more than co-operative.”

“Oh, good. I guess that means he’ll be supplying us with a set of fingerprints.”

“No, it does not.”

“And I guess it means he’ll be handing over that video of the house he took.”

“No, it does not. Not if it’s been recorded over.”

“Are you available for another meeting tomorrow morning at ten?”

“No. I’m in court. What possible reason could there be for another meeting?”

“There isn’t. I just wanted to hear you say no one more time. Something about the way you say it, Counsellor. I just can’t get enough.”

“Keep breaching my client’s charter rights and you’ll be hearing it a lot more.”

C
URTIS CARL
W
INSTON, WHO CALLED
himself Papa, knocked on the bathroom door. He had disabled the lock, but he gave it a moment before entering. The old man was standing in the corner, hands folded before him, secured by the plastic ZipCuffs that bound his thumbs. He stood erect, a certain nobility to his posture, but even this impressive front couldn’t hide his fear. Much that was wrong in the world could be traced to a shortage of fear, and Papa did what he could to supply it.

“How are you doing, Lloyd? Got enough to read?”

“Mister, I’m seventy-five years old. Why don’t you just take what you want and leave? I can’t do anything about it.”

“Did you have enough to eat?”

“Yes. Look, I’m an old man, I can’t sleep in a bathtub.”

“If there was room for a mattress in here, I’d requisition one for you, but there isn’t. And I can’t have you needing the bathroom every five minutes, can I?”

“Lock me up in the master bedroom. It’s got the ensuite.”

“And probably a lot of sharp objects. I’ll think about it. I don’t want to cause you unnecessary pain.”

Papa gestured at the door. He walked the old man down to the basement office and sat him in front of the computer.

“I don’t understand why you’re here,” Lloyd said. “Or what you want.”

“Let’s just say winter camping gets a little hard on the nerves, Lloyd—even when you know what you’re doing. Like everybody else in the world, we appreciate warmth and comfort.”

“Uh-huh. And how long are you planning on staying?”

“That’s strictly need-to-know, Lloyd. You’re not going to be able to type with the cuffs on. If I take them off, you’re not going to give me trouble, are you? I need your word on this.” He placed a hand on his sidearm.

“How am I going to give you trouble? You’re the one with the platoon.”

“Just give me your word, Lloyd.”

“No trouble. You have my word.”

Papa bent and undid the cuff.

The old man rubbed his thumbs and placed his hands in his lap.

“Call up your calendar.”

Kreeger put his bony hand over the mouse and did so. The screen lit up with the month of December.

“You’re shaking, Lloyd. You don’t have anything to be afraid of. I have no intention of hurting you. None whatsoever.”

“It’s a frightening thing to have your home invaded.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But it had to be done.” He squeezed the old man’s shoulder. Thin cord of muscle. “Relax. Really. I’m not a violent person. I wish I could convince you of that, but I understand you’re going to be skeptical. Who’s Greener and Greener, coming on Thursday?”

“Landscaping outfit.”

“Why would you have landscapers coming in December?”

“An estimate. Work they’re going to be doing in the spring.”

“Send them an e-mail and cancel.”

The old man called up his e-mail and addressed a message.

“Don’t just cancel. Make some arrangement to reschedule. Otherwise they’ll keep calling.”

The old man typed a little more. He was surprisingly good with the computer.

“Good. Hit Send. You’ve got two more appointments this week. Do the same with them. Then we’re going to set up an Out Of Office reply. Not that you get a lot of e-mail. Bit of a recluse, Lloyd?”

“Not a recluse. I’m retired. I stay in touch with my family, and if they don’t hear from me, they’re going to be worried and call the cops. My daughter’s a worrywart—she’s done it before.”

“Wrong approach, Lloyd. I don’t like lies.” Papa spoke softly. A little bit of fear was one thing, but he didn’t want the old man to panic. A couple of Papa’s former recruits had made that mistake in the past, terrifying their targets, and it had gone badly for everyone. “Your daughter lives in Colorado Springs, way down in the good old U.S. of A., and you hear from her once a month. So let’s not pretend she’s going to be any kind of factor.”

The old man looked up at Papa, his face hard. Old, yes, but not dumb, not a pushover. “If you’re so honest, why don’t you tell me what you did with Henry? You killed him, didn’t you?”

Papa gave him a look of worried sincerity. “Henry would be your Aboriginal friend? Henry is safe and sound in the bunkhouse. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anybody.”

“I heard the shots.” Those watery eyes looking at him, eyes that had seen a lot, maybe, but not enough to understand the kind of man he was dealing with.

“Relax, Lloyd. You’re letting your imagination run wild. The truth is, I’ve never killed anybody in my life.”

“Maybe not you personally. Maybe one of your associates.”

“You’re referring to my boys. Lemur’s only sixteen and he’s a good-natured kid—hardly your natural-born killer. And wait’ll you meet Nikki,
my youngest. She’ll be here tomorrow. Jack’s a bit of a commodity—I’ll admit Jack can be a handful—but it’s not his fault. He runs on adrenalin the way you and I run on oxygen, the way you and I run on food and water. But Jack is no berserker and he doesn’t go around shooting people, and I won’t hear him accused of it. So stop worrying about Henry, Lloyd. When this is all over, the two of you are going to be telling stories to your grandchildren. Now call up that Vacation Response and then we’ll move on to financial matters.”