Until the Night (32 page)

Pick up my phone and dial *98 and when it asks for the PIN press 4252. Then hit 3 for saved messages
.

I don’t know if I can bring myself to tell you his name yet. I’ll have to think some more about that
.

Miranda

—Oh hell. Listen to the messages and then take a look in the other envelope
.

The voice that came on was so soft as to be almost a whisper. The words were close, muffled even, as if the mouthpiece were up against the lips. He was utterly sorry, his moods were getting the better of him lately, she mustn’t ever think he didn’t love her, she was the world to him.

The voice was not one she recognized. In that near whisper, it could have been anyone. He sounded educated, sincere, affectionate. As she
listened, she opened the smaller envelope, which appeared to contain a handful of receipts and a photograph.

The next two messages were muffled, whispery, romantic in an overwrought kind of way—but neither of them seemed to Delorme’s ears particularly inspired, particularly wonderful. Such was love. Passion anyway.

She swivelled the chair around and stared out the window as she continued to listen. A thin snow starting to fall, car lights travelling up and down the hill of Algonquin Avenue. And then the next message made her spin round and plant her elbows on the desk and stare at the base of the phone as if the caller might be visible there.

It was the same caller, the same man, but this time he had forsaken the breathy, into-the-pillow sibilants for accents more declamatory, flamboyant even.
Honey, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking! Sometimes, I swear, you just get me so excited I go over the top. But I’ve been soooooo bad! Darlene has been a bad girl, honey, and you’re just going to have to punish her. You’re just gonna have to take your little Darlene and put her over your knee!

Then, in his normal voice,
Seriously, Miranda, I love you and miss you and I’m sorry if I went a little overboard. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart
.

Delorme knew who it was.

Cardinal was brushing his teeth when the phone rang. He rinsed his mouth and spat and went to the living room to see if it was Delorme. It was Ronnie Babstock.

“How was Brussels?”

“Promising. Brussels was very promising. I’m tired as hell, though. Shoulda let one of the younger guys do it, but, I don’t know, I’m
good
at this, you know? I don’t trust anyone else to do as good a job. Not cuz they’re not smart—they’re smarter than me, some of ’em—but I don’t think anybody
loves
it as much as me, and therefore … you get my drift.”

“Thanks for getting back to me. You must be exhausted.”

“Yeah, but also kinda wired, as I guess you can tell. What can I do you for? You had a question, your message said.”

“You can’t talk to anybody about this, all right?”

“Word of honour.”

“I’m looking at David Flint, Frank Gauthier and Keith Rettig. Do you know any of them?”

“I know who they
are
—Flint and Gauthier anyway. Flint’s the senator whose wife died and Gauthier is a very big deal in medical tech. Who was the third guy?”

“Keith Rettig. He’s a CPA at Brunswick Geo.”

“Oh, right, right—with the missing wife or ex-wife or whatever.”

“She’s dead, actually. Her body was found while you were away. In circumstances similar to Marjorie Flint’s.”

“God, you’re kidding. That’s horrible.”

“I’m just wondering—you know the high-tech industry probably better than anyone—do you know if these guys have any history? They were all at U of T together.”

“Yeah, Flint was a year or two ahead of me—or maybe behind. Gauthier too, as I recall. I don’t think our paths ever crossed, though.”

“Did they ever work together?”

“You mean, like at the same company? You could look it up easily enough.”

“Well,
someone
could. I didn’t get very far, other than the school thing. I’m looking at the years 1980 to 1984.”

“Ah, yes, those dark ages pre-Internet. Did you think of asking Gauthier and the others themselves? I’m a big believer in the direct route where possible.”

“It’s not my best course of action just now. Gauthier’s dead, for one.”

“Frank Gauthier’s dead? When did that happen?”

“A few days ago. Suicide.”

“Oh, that’s sad. I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’m sure you’ll find out whatever you need to know. Sorry I can’t be more useful.”

The jet lag alone would have been enough to destroy Ronnie Babstock’s sleep that night, but Cardinal’s questions had cranked his insomnia dial right up to ten. I should have gone to the lake house, he told himself. The lake house was not so full of noises as this ancient place.

When the voice came this time (3:14 by the bedside clock), he was certain he had not been sleeping. It could not be a dream, unless it was a waking dream—and that was just another name for insanity.

So cold. Dear God, I’ve never been so cold
.

It was in the room with him. Babstock lay unmoving, sweat beading on his forehead, slick beneath his arms and on the back of his neck.

I’m not going to get through this
. Shivers in her voice. Terror.
I’m not going to make it
.

Babstock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

I’m so frightened
.

He put on his bathrobe and slippers and switched on the light and stood listening.

Hold me. Hold me tight. Oh, God
.

Babstock got down on his knees and looked under the bed. He reached for the bedside lamp and removed the shade and laid the lamp down on the floor and looked again. Nothing.

He put the lamp back on the table without the shade and went to the foot of the bed and pulled at it. He leaned back with all his weight, but it wouldn’t move. He went to the side of the bed and put his shoulder to one of the posts. The bed shifted away from the wall at an angle. He pushed again.

He went back to the head of the bed and knelt again and placed his hand against the wall and waited. The bare bulb threw hard shadows, his head monstrous against the corner where the wall met the ceiling.

I don’t want to die
.

He ran his hand up and down the wall, feeling for vibrations. The wall felt like painted drywall, nothing more. He rapped a knuckle against it in various places and sat back on his heels.

The voice came again, but this time it was weeping. The woman, whoever she was, sobbed and shivered and it was hard to tell where the sound was coming from. He felt up and down the wall.

“Fuck you,” he said, and grabbed the bedside lamp and laid it on the floor again. He lay down on his back and pulled himself under the bed. When he reached for the lamp to bring it after him, he banged his head on the box spring and cursed again.

The undirected light from the lamp made it difficult to see. He put one hand out to shade it and with the other felt along the edge of the box spring.

Please …

Her voice louder now, directly above him.

Dear God, don’t let this happen
.

An audio clip from a movie. He could hear the sound effects now—the howling wind, the flapping canvas—tinny and miniaturized.

He found a gap in the seam and pulled the fabric away, closing his eyes against the dust. His fingers travelled along first one slat then another, until they dislodged a small object that landed on his chest and slithered to the floor. He got out from under the bed, set the lamp on the table and looked at the thing in his hand.

A cellphone.

It hurts
, the woman said, and Babstock hurled it against the wall.

Not even light out and there was someone at the door. Delorme finished drying off and put on her bathrobe. Then she went to the living room and made a small part in the curtains to peer out.

Cardinal pounded the door with the flat of his hand and leaned on the bell.

Delorme went to the door and opened it without taking the chain off.

“What the hell are you doing, John? It’s six-thirty in the morning.”

“Why haven’t you been coming in to work, Lise?”

“I’m sick.”

“You’re not sick, and in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got several murders to clear.”

“I’m sick. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She started to close the door, but Cardinal stopped it with his foot.

“I’m freezing, John. Get your foot out of my door.”

“Why aren’t you returning my calls?”

“You have work questions, I’ll answer them—when I’m at work. But I’m not at work now and I have nothing for you. You wanted to cool things off, I’m cooling them off.”

“Not like this. I just—Jesus, this is new territory, Lise. Can’t you have a little patience?”

“We work together, John. End of story. That’s the way you wanted it, that’s the way it is.”

“If you’re so sick, why were you at Leonard Priest’s last night?”

Delorme looked at him. “You followed me?”

“I was worried about you. This isn’t like you, not showing up, being evasive, being cold to me—”

“You followed me. I don’t believe it.”

“I didn’t follow you, Lise. Yes, I was looking for you, but I was not tailing you. We need you at work and I need your help with Flint and—What
were
you doing at Priest’s, anyway?”

“Why—do you think I’m fucking him or something?”

Cardinal let out a gasp. “Uh, no, Lise. That had not occurred to me.”

“What else could she be doing—right? She’s such a half-assed investigator, it couldn’t be anything work related. She must be fucking the guy.”

“Lise, truly. Let’s get past this and get back to work. You can’t call in sick when we’ve got all this work to do. You know it’s wrong. It isn’t like you.”

“Get your foot out of the way.”

“Lise, come on.”

“Move it!”

He removed his foot and she shut the door and locked it. She stood there, breathing hard. When she heard him drive away, she went to the bedroom and pulled her suitcase out of the closet.