Crime Machine (16 page)

For the next few minutes there was the sound of the two of them tapping at their separate keyboards. In the far corner of the squad room Ian McLeod was yelling at his lawyer. McLeod, as Delorme had once put it, was born for divorce the way some men were born for the army or the priesthood.

They announced the various headings to each other as they clicked on them:
Laura Carnwright on the recent upturn
…
Laura Carnwright on rezoning the west end
…
Laura Carnwright talks to the Canadian Club on the country’s prospects for a green economy
.

“Here we go,” Delorme said. “Aboriginal art show.”

“I don’t have that,” Cardinal said.

“It’s under Images. She’s at the Macklin Art Gallery. Kind of dumb to have an affair when you have a wife who looks like that, no?”

“He’s got pictures of her all over his office.” Cardinal leaned over to look at her screen. “And you know what else he’s got in his office? He’s got
Native art.” He stood up and took his coat from the coat tree and put it on. “I have a sudden urge to visit an art gallery. What about you?”

“Can’t. I’ve got to set up my ATM stakeout. Don’t look like that.” She put on her Chouinard voice. “‘The citizens of this town do not lie awake nights worrying they’re going to be attacked by Russian mobsters. They worry about being mugged taking cash out of the ATM.’”

—

Jane Macklin turned out to be much younger than Cardinal had expected. And she didn’t resemble his—admittedly vague—idea of a gallery owner. She was thirty at most, and looked like someone who might cut hair in an upscale salon. Her own hair, dyed jet black, was styled in a pageboy that looked as if it had been cut with a laser. The Aboriginal art, she told him, had been taken down several months earlier.

“It was probably my most successful show,” she said. “Sold practically everything. We had artists from all over northern Ontario. If you’re interested, I can arrange to show you some interesting work. I just need a little advance notice.”

Cardinal told her who he was. “We’re trying to find someone—a young woman. We don’t know her name, but she may have been one of your artists for that show.”

“And I thought for sure you were an art lover when you walked through that door.”

“No, my wife—” He caught himself about to use the present tense. “And my daughter’s an artist down in New York.”

“New York. Wow. Tough town. You said you’re trying to find a young woman?”

“Around nineteen or twenty years old.”

“We had a few younger artists in the show. They’re taking the traditional forms in some interesting directions. But twenty—I don’t think we had anyone that young. This would be someone local?”

“Probably.”

“There was a woman from the Nipissing reserve, but I think she must be late twenties at least. She sold a big piece about two minutes after we opened.”

“Oh, yeah?” Cardinal took a leap. “Would that be Laura Carnwright who bought it?”

Miss Macklin gave him a funny look. “You know Laura?”

—

Cardinal drove out of town along Main, past the residential area, past the turnoff to St. Joe’s—formerly a Catholic girls’ school, now a home for retired nuns—past the Fur Harvesters’ warehouse. Cars were circling the lot, looking for parking, and others were parked along the shoulder of the road. Three men were huddled around the side door, smoking and laughing. He made a left and drove past the sign saying
NIPISSING FIRST NATION
.

Sandra Kish lived in a tiny white bungalow with a single sapling out front that looked in danger of shivering to death. A blue Chevy Echo gleamed in the driveway. Cardinal pulled in behind it, noting the snow tires and undamaged tail lights.

Ms. Kish might have been in her late twenties as Ms. Macklin had said, but it was impossible to tell. She was the kind of fat that flattens the features and smoothes the skin. She could have been twenty-eight; she could have been forty.

Cardinal had interrupted her working on a painting and she was not pleased to see him. He told her who he was and that he was investigating a major crime.

Miss Kish showed no interest. “Ugh. Crime. I stopped reading the newspaper years ago.” She was dressed in paint-spattered jeans and an enormous T-shirt that had once been yellow but was now dotted and streaked with many colours, mostly red. A headband creased the doughy skin above her eyebrows. “I just can’t afford to absorb all that negative energy. It interferes with the work.”

Her front room had been turned into a studio, rich with the smells of paint and wood and mineral spirits.

“That looks familiar,” Cardinal said, pointing to a panorama-shaped canvas propped against one wall, a fantasia of animals linked together by whiplash-shaped tongues. “I saw something a lot like that in a real estate office the other day. Except the tongues were blue.”

“Carnwright’s, I bet.”

“You’re right.”

“She put it in the office, huh? I thought she was going to put it in her home. Well, I guess the office is better. More people will see it.”

“This would be Laura Carnwright we’re talking about, right? She bought it at the Macklin Gallery show?”

“That’s right. She’s a lovely person, a powerful spirit. Very knowledgeable.”

“And you know her husband too, of course.”

“Not really. Laura introduced him—but she had to pry him away from the catering table, and he went right back to it, far as I know. I had the impression she was the art lover of the two.”

“Did you see him talking with anyone else?”

She shook her head. “I barely noticed him.”

She flipped through the lean-tos of canvases, pausing now and again to show Cardinal a painting, as if that had been the sole purpose of his visit.

“That exhibition was amazing,” she said. “I sold all three of the pieces I had up. See, that’s the hard part about art, not making it, not selling it. What’s hard is getting it out there where people can see it. They should have more First Nation shows like that. I mean, this was world-class—they had Champlain’s catering it, for God’s sake. People see class like that, they want to buy.”

Her voice was low, with a smokey rasp to it, nothing like the panicky teenager’s they’d heard on Delorme’s voice mail. You think you have a great lead and it turns to dust in your hands. As he was heading for the door, Ms. Kish seemed to pick up on the fact that he had asked her almost nothing.

“That’s it?” she said. “I thought you were working on a major case.”

“Unfortunately, I’m having kind of an uninspired day. You ever experience those?”

“It’s been known to happen. When it does, I find by far the best thing is to curl up on the floor and cry.”

“Thanks,” Cardinal said, stepping out into the cold. “I’ll have to try that.”

S
AM HAD NO DOUBT
R
ANDALL WOULD
be missing her by now. Two people could not touch the way they had, love the way they had, know such passion, feel such joy, and simply abandon it as if it had never happened. Okay, maybe she was addicted to those orgasms he seemed to engineer so effortlessly, but it wasn’t just sex. It was his eyes, the way he seemed to liquefy at the sight of her tawny skin, the way just seeing her seemed to take him over some threshold. No one could be that loony about just sex. He had to be missing her.

But there were lots of good reasons for him not to call. Which was why Sam was shivering in a phone booth across the street from Carnwright Real Estate, actually quaking with cold. Even with its fleecy hood, her denim coat was no match for the cold winds that blew uptown off the lake, and she couldn’t ask her mother to fix the bloodied parka.

Sam had bailed out of drawing class early to get here before five. Now it was a quarter after and it was dark and the cars were crawling up Algonquin with their headlights on and no doubt their heaters going full blast while she stood huddled in a phone booth waiting for the love of her life to appear. At least the phone booth cut the wind a little.

An old guy in a long grey coat came out and got into a flashy car
parked in the small lot beside the house. Mr. Carnwright maybe? A few minutes later a woman in a black down coat that made her look like a carbonized waffle emerged, cellphone pressed to one ear. Phyllis. Randall had mentioned Phyllis a couple of times, not exactly in what you’d call positive terms.

The windows of the real estate office went dark and the porch light went on and Randall came out at last. He turned around to check that the door was locked. The traffic was moving again, and Sam had to dodge through it, causing people to honk.

She caught up to him in the parking lot.

“Sam.” He looked over her shoulder and around the lot. “Jesus Christ, Sam.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I had to. I miss you.”

“Jesus Christ.” Randall pointed his key at the car and the locks chirped open. “Get in before anyone sees you.”

Sam got in and he hit the ignition. “Heat, heat,” she said. “I’m freezing. God, I’m so happy to see you.”

She touched his arm and he shook his head. “Not good, Sam.”

“Come on—just a few minutes? I have to be at work soon. Maybe we could just drive around?”

“Uh-huh. Someone sees us and I explain it how?”

“You were showing me a house. Come on, show me a house. I’ll tell people I just won the lottery and I’m buying it for my mother. No, I’ll tell them I sold
Loreena Moon
for a million bucks. Take me anywhere. I just want to be with you.”

Randall waited for a gap in the traffic and pulled out onto Algonquin. He took the first right onto a quieter street. A darker street. After two blocks he pulled over in front of a building that at one time had been a bakery. Shuttered now. Weeds in the parking lot and graffiti all over the brick.

“You told the police about me, didn’t you.”

“No! I didn’t say a word, I swear.”

“They know about me, Sam. How could they know about me if you didn’t tell them?”

“They’re police. They’re not retarded—they find stuff out. I love you, Randall—why would I do anything to hurt you?”

He looked her up and down the way you might look at a defective
purchase. “Maybe to stir things up with Laura. She leaves me, and then you have me all to yourself.”

“I do want you all to myself.” Sam placed a hand on the sleeve of his coat. She traced a pattern in the fabric with her index finger. “But only if you want me.”

“So why did you go to the police, Sam?”

“I didn’t. I called them.”

“I knew it. I fucking knew it.” Randall pounded the steering wheel.

“It was totally anonymous. I called at night, from a pay phone—I’ve never been in so many pay phones in my life—and I left a message on someone’s voice mail. A woman detective. I didn’t say anything about you. I just said I was in the house—actually, I said I was there to rob the place.”

“Not smart, Sam.”

“Well, how else am I going to explain what I’m doing there? I told them I heard the guy’s voice and he wasn’t Russian like the victims. They need to know or they’ll be looking in the wrong places. They have to catch him—he has my cellphone, Randall. Somebody’s been calling our house.”

“From your cell?”

“The number was blocked. But I pick up, or my mom picks up, and there’s someone there—you can tell there’s someone there—but he doesn’t say anything. He’s going to figure out where I live, Randall. He probably already knows.”

“If it wasn’t from your cell, I don’t see any reason to worry. It could be anyone. It could be a malfunction on the line, for all you know.”

“It’s him. The police have to catch him.”

“Well, this is great great, Sam. All you’ve succeeded in doing is putting them on to me. Laura is running for office. They haven’t made the announcement yet, but she’s going to be a candidate for MP. If this gets out, all that’ll be over.”

“If what gets out? That you visited a house you’re trying to sell?”

Randall grabbed her shoulder and shook her. “On the same day as a double fucking murder, Sam. With a hot little chick from the Indian reserve? How do you think that’ll play in a political campaign? How do you think that’ll play with my pillar-of-the-community father-in-law? Don’t you ever think of anyone other than yourself? Jesus Christ, Sam. How selfish can you be?”

He let go and Sam rubbed her shoulder. It was the first time Randall had ever touched her with anything other than affection.

“I thought you loved me,” he said. He was staring out the windshield at the snow that was beginning to sift down through the street light. “I really thought you did. But frankly, now I have to wonder.”

“I do, Randall. I do love you. You really don’t believe me?”

He gave a snort. “You’ve got some way of showing it.”

“Do you really hate it that I’m First Nations? I’m just asking—I won’t be mad, if it’s true. I just—does it bug you that much?”

“Oh, Sam …” He turned to her again, his expression softer. He took her hand and rubbed the woollen mitten with his thumb. “I actually love that about you. It makes you interesting—exotic, kind of. Sexy. Unfortunately, a lot of other people don’t think that way. They just think—well, you know how they think. And that makes me very sad.”

Sam buried her face in his shoulder. “Let’s go to a house. You must have another empty house somewhere. Please. I want you so bad.”

“I told Laura I was on my way home.”

“So you’ll be late. And I’ll be late for work.”

“Sam, we can’t do this anymore.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Sam, we can’t.”

“Ever?”

“Not until this is over, that’s for sure. I’m not going to ruin Laura’s career. I may not be the world’s best husband, but I’m not going to do that to her.”

“So you mean I don’t get to see you until they catch the guy and there’s a trial and he’s in prison? That’s
years
. Is that what you’re saying?”

“We’ll see each other when it’s safe. When we can relax and have a good time together. Which we can’t do now, obviously. It won’t be forever.”

A kind of nausea swirled in Sam’s chest. The word
heartsick
drifted into her mind. This is what they mean by heartsick. She started to cry.