Crime Machine (26 page)

“No, no, we have our own hillbillies, you may have heard. Say, did I
thank
you gentlemen? I certainly meant to.”

“We do actually have running water up here,” McLeod went on. “And horseless carriages. Electricity, even. And we have been known to make a case or two.”

“Oh, now you’ve taken offence. The
last
thing I wanted. I’ve really put my foot in it, haven’t I.”

“Through it,” McLeod said. “You put your feet through it.”

“Wonderful
. Now I’m a figure of fun.”

“All right,” Cardinal said. “So you head out to the scene. What were you looking for on the lake?”

“Evidence. Often people will go over the
interior
of a scene with a fine-tooth comb, and the exterior … who knows? Maybe a perpetrator approached via snow machine. Maybe someone could have tossed a weapon out there, forgetting the lake was frozen.”

“Sort of,” McLeod said.

“Go ahead, amuse yourself, Detective. I deserve it.”

“You’re welcome to observe,” Cardinal said. “But I don’t really see how you can help.”

“Similarities,” Mendelsohn said. “Your case has certain similarities to another case of mine. Do you suppose my clothes would be out of the dryer yet?”

“No,” McLeod said, “our dryers are very inferior up here. What similarities?”

Mendelsohn gave him a mournful look and reached for a Kleenex. He blew into it with surprising force, and then lay back. Eyes closed, he said, “Two cases. I brought copies of the files to show you, but they’re in my hotel room.

“About six months ago in Westchester County—that’s just north of the Bronx. Swanky area. Family of three found murdered. Shot. Weapon was a nine-mil of undetermined make and model. Mutilated post-mortem. Heads turned up a few days later on some church steps like a trio of gargoyles. Sick stuff.”

“Definite similarities,” Cardinal said. “But a church is not a dock. An undetermined make is not the same as a Browning HP.”

“No, and three people are not two. You’re
right
, Detective. You’re absolutely a hundred percent
right
about that. It’s not
definitive.”

“What’s your other case?”

“Long Island. Two years previous. Sam Begelman, sixty-two, retired manager with Bergdorf’s, is shot with a nine-mil,
possibly
a Browning HP. Bodies of wife and teenage daughter found nearby. Once again, beheaded post-mortem. Heads turn up in Central Park—Belvedere Castle, if you know what that is—placed on a parapet overlooking the Great Lawn. New York’s my hometown, and I’ll tell you it absolutely
ruined
the park for me.”

“There’s been some suggestion the Bastovs may have been connected to organized crime. Or at least victims of it.”

“Really. There’s nothing like that with the other cases. I can do a rundown on the Bastovs in our database. Would that be useful to you?”

“Very,” Cardinal said. “Tell me more about the victims.”

“Like I say, Begelman was a former Bergdorf’s manager. Wife was an interior decorator. Daughter was a student at the Lycée. They also had a son away at college who survived. Not a suspect. The Westchester family, the guy was a finance type. Venture capital. Wife a CPA. Fifteen-year-old son was a high school sophomore.”

“Signs of robbery?” McLeod said. “Any other motive?”

“No obvious one. No robbery.”

“With all this head-chopping, was there any consideration given to terrorism?”

“Not really. For one thing, these killings had none of the trademarks—no scimitar, no video, no Great Satan screed, et cetera. Terrorists
advertise
. Terrorists want you to
know
it’s them. Anti-Semitism maybe. The Begelmans were not observant, but they were big supporters of Israel. So no, Homeland Security did not get excited about it. And I have to tell you, our HQ does not buy the similarities—not to the extent I do. They’re content to leave that case strictly with New York Homicide. Those guys are good, but they don’t have our resources when things get out of state, not to mention out of country. It’s also only fair to tell you that the NYPD is not on board—so I’m on my own here, pretty much. I hope I won’t inconvenience you too much.”

“Hell no,” McLeod said. “We can use the entertainment.”

“Detective Cardinal?”

“As long as you don’t go barging into crime scenes unannounced. I want one investigation here, not two.”

“Absolutely,” Mendelsohn said. “Word of
honour
. I’m at your service, minute my clothes are dry.”

—

Lise Delorme was in her cubicle catching up on her reports when her cellphone chirped, indicating a text message. It was from Shane.

“Oh fuck,” Delorme said, scrolling down the tiny screen.

Delorme pressed speed-dial. It rang twice and switched over to voice mail. She leaned deep into her cubicle so no one would overhear. “The reason our relationship isn’t developing,” she said into the phone, “is because you are not developing. That’s spelt Y-O-U A-R-E. Really, Shane, what kind of three-year-old breaks up with someone by text message? And for your information, the sex is not great, you are not great, and I feel perfectly okay. So just FUCK OFF.”

“Maybe I’ll come back later.”

Delorme spun round.

Jerry Commanda was standing behind her in his OPP parka. It had been ten years since he’d switched over to the provincial force, but the front desk still let him sail right through as if he remained on staff.

“What the hell do you want?” Delorme said. “You know I’m not good company by the end of the day.”

“Way I hear it, you’re pretty hard to take the rest of the day too.”

Delorme looked at her watch. “Shouldn’t you be out catching speeders?”

“Wanted to give you a heads up. You okay? You look a little pale.”

“Problem with a lawyer. Take a seat—you look like a totem pole standing there.”

Jerry pulled Cardinal’s chair over and sat down. He unzipped his parka. “You know a guy named Henry Whiteside?”

Delorme shook her head. “From the reserve?”

“Not exactly. He was banned a few years back. You must have seen him on the street. He used to always be begging outside the Country Style top of Algonquin.”

“That guy? Oh, man, he was in terrible shape. I haven’t seen him for years. I assumed he died.”

“You wouldn’t recognize him if you saw him now. Henry turned himself around a few years ago. Did the twelve-step thing, got his head together, and even managed to get a job at Rona—he’s quite a carpenter when he’s sober. Looked healthy for the first time in ten years.”

“You’re right—I wouldn’t have recognized him.”

“Anyway, Henry has a cousin still lives on the rez, and according to her, he’s gone missing. He had a small room here in town, and was leading—for him, anyways—a regular life. He’s at Rona for a couple of months and then one day he just doesn’t show up for work. They didn’t think to report him missing—they figured either he’d heard the call of the wild or the call of the bottle. He hadn’t been there long enough to make real friends who would check up on him. So it wasn’t till his cousin stopped in the other day that anyone realized he’d moved out of his place. Rent was paid up, but one day he was there, next day he was gone.”

“When was this?”

“Day she checked in on him was December 1, but he could have left quite a while before. She said he’d been considering a job somewhere out in the bush—just a handyman thing, but she thought it had some connection to the fur business. I figured, with the Bastov case, you guys’d be in a good position to keep an eye out, maybe ask around a little?”

Delorme finished making a note on a legal pad. Then she swivelled back to face Jerry. “You know I can’t file a missing person on this, right? It’s just too likely he’s off on a drunk. Nobody’s going to send out a search party.”

“I know. I just wanted to bring it to your attention.”

“Okay. I’ll tell the others in morning meeting to keep an eye out for him.”

“Thanks, Lise.” Jerry stood and zipped up his parka. “It’s just I have a fair acquaintance with recovering alcoholics. You get a sense for who’s going to make it and who won’t.”

“And you thought Henry would.”

“Hundred percent. Course, if he turns up frozen solid with an empty can of Sterno in his fist, I’ll have to reassess my recovery meter.”

When Jerry was gone, Delorme wrote
Henry Whiteside
in big letters on the biggest Post-it Note she could find and pinned it to the corkboard above her desk. Then she picked up her cellphone and opened the speed-dial menu and deleted Shane.

—

Cardinal drove home that night in a state of frustration. They had so many leads—the tires, the make of the car, the shoe prints, the bullets, the parking garage video—and yet it seemed they were still treading around the edge of the case instead of moving closer to the heart of it. Then there were the New York cases that Mendelsohn had brought—with their tantalizing similarities and yet no solid connections. He opened the parking garage with his clicker and drove down the ramp.

It was even darker than usual, and in the corner where Cardinal’s slot was located there was barely any light at all. Every day it seemed there was another problem with this so-called luxury building, and Cardinal thought once again—as he thought pretty much every day—that it had been a mistake to sell the house.

He switched off the car and got out and locked it and headed toward the elevator. He had his key out and was opening the door to the elevator room when there was a noise behind him. He spun around and his Beretta was already in his hand with the safety off.

“Jesus,” he said. “Are you out of your mind? I nearly shot you.”

It was Donna Vaughan, looking uncharacteristically nervous. She apologized profusely. “Can I come in for a while? Please say yes. I think someone’s following me.”

Cardinal looked past her at the garage.

“I don’t think he saw me come in here,” she said. “But I’m scared. I thought there was someone following me in the car, after I left the hotel—I just put it down to paranoia. But then, just now, as I was parking, someone pulled over a little ways behind. When I got out of the car, I heard him behind me.”

Cardinal picked up his keys with his left hand, keeping the revolver in his right.

He held the door open for her. When they were inside, he said, “Did you get a look at him?”

“Not really. Mid-fifties maybe? Long dark coat.”

“What about his car?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t see.”

“Where was this exactly?”

“On Travis—I think it’s called Travis. Near the corner. I saw a gun in his hand—I mean, I thought I did. I was totally freaked at that point.”

“And you think you lost him.”

“I hope so. I made a sudden rush toward a house as if I lived there and went back between it and the next house. I could see your building through the trees, so I just walked through the back. Got a lot of snow in my boots doing it.”

“You’re still driving the Focus?”

She nodded. “You’ve got a good memory.”

Cardinal hit the elevator button. “Get out on the ground floor and go sit in the lobby. I’ll come back in through the front.”

The elevator door opened.

“Maybe I should come with you.”

“Wait in the lobby.”

He went out through the pedestrian door beside the vehicle entrance. There was no one in sight. He looked for Donna’s tracks in the snow between the trees on the far side of the driveway. No one ever came through that way; there was only the one set of tracks. He went back to the driveway and turned up Travis Street, walking a hundred yards or so before he saw her car.

He bent to examine the doors, the windows. No signs of tampering.

The sidewalk was mostly slush, nothing that would hold prints. He walked farther up the street, shifting his glance back and forth from the parked cars to the houses. There were three vehicles. The first was covered in a month’s worth of snow. The hood of the second one was cold to the touch, and the third was a pickup—surely she would have noticed if it had been a pickup following her—also cold to the touch. He stopped at the end of the block and turned around. Once again on the way back he watched for movement among the houses, the cars, for anything at all, but there was nothing.

He went back to his building and in through the front door. Donna was in a corner chair that could not be seen through the glass doors. She stood up when he came in. “Did you see anyone?”

Cardinal shook his head. “Now maybe you could tell me what you’re doing here. How did you find me?”

“They said you’d just left the office. I thought I could catch you before you got home.”

“Why would I want to talk to the press when I’m off duty?”

“I know, I know. Look, I’m freelance—I have to push, okay? I’m sorry.”

“You look pretty shaken up. Maybe you better come in for a minute. Just don’t make it a habit.”

“I won’t. God, I’m so embarrassed. Helpless female.”

The elevator door opened and Donna went in ahead of him. She was hunched and tense, the former brassy confidence quite gone.

Cardinal pushed the up button. “How did you know where I live?”

“I was going through your local paper’s morgue. I came across an unrelated story about your run-in with your co-op board. Some ventilation issue?”

“Awfully thorough, aren’t you? What are you looking me up for?”

“Local colour, obviously.”

“That story didn’t give the building address.”

“Are you kidding? There was a picture of you standing in front of it. You can see this building from the government wharf.”

The door opened at the third floor and they got out.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he said when they were in his apartment. “Whisky okay?” He hung their coats up and went into the kitchen. He called out, “Ice?”