The Delicate Storm (31 page)

“This is fascinating. Tell me while we walk to the car.”

Laroche opened his umbrella and held it so it covered both of them. His car, a shiny black Lincoln Navigator, was only steps away, but the wind blew the rain sideways and Cardinal’s legs were getting soaked. Laroche pulled his car keys from his pocket and the door of his Lincoln popped open with a chirp.

“Get in! Get in! You’ll catch a cold.”

They got into the car, the interior of which was the size of a small apartment. The rain was loud on the roof. Laroche started the motor and switched on the wipers.

“Everything went fine for our newly respectable Monsieur Grenelle,” Cardinal said. “He got a good job with Mason & Barnes Real Estate—people with political connections, the kind of people he liked. He was a man on the make, and it looked like nothing could stop him. But then one day a terrible thing happened. An old lover showed up.

“She didn’t look anything like a terrorist. Cute, petite, those good French bones. And she wasn’t much of a terrorist, really—cooked the odd meal, carried the odd message, wouldn’t hurt a fly. But she was crazy about Yves Grenelle. Or at least she had been, twenty years previously. By 1990, you’d think she’d have forgotten the guy, and maybe she would have, had she not moved into the same damn Willowbank Apartments. What are the chances of that, do you suppose?”

“Coincidences happen all the time. Where would we be if they didn’t?”

“How did it happen? Did she bump into him in the elevator? That’s what you told the police. You said, ‘I didn’t know her. I saw her once or twice in the elevator. I didn’t know her name, even.’ That’s what you told Detective Turgeon. ‘Madeleine Ferrier? Was that her name? I never knew.’”

“I told your detective the truth. I didn’t know her.”

“Yves Grenelle did. It was Madeleine Ferrier, and he knew her very well. She’d been totally in love with him, and no doubt he had a good time playing to that hero-worship. It must have been quite a moment in that elevator, when the two of you came face to face for the first time in twenty years. What did she say? ‘Yves, my God! Where have you been all these decades?’

“Whatever her exact words may have been, you were absolutely certain that she recognized you. That was enough. You’d been so careful, so patient. And things were beginning to look secure. How could you risk your whole new identity? Not possible. So Madeleine Ferrier had to be killed. And she was: strangled with her scarf and then her clothing torn off to make it look like rape.”

Laroche switched on the CD player. Classical music surrounded them.

“Poor Detective. You’re really just not having any luck on this case, are you. Obviously, you’ve got no prints, no DNA, none of those wonderful conclusive things that would make your job more satisfying. I mean, you seem to be accusing me of being this retired terrorist, as you call him, this Yves Grenelle. But if you could prove such a thing, we wouldn’t be having this conversation—not here, anyway. You’d have me down at the police station, waving your proof in front of my face. But you don’t have anything to wave and so you’re resorting to a kind of hysteria that’s very unattractive.”

“Dr. Cates lived in one of your buildings too. When Miles Shackley threatened to expose you, you agreed to meet with him. Probably in his car. You shot him, but you were injured, almost certainly by a gunshot. Why else would you be afraid to go to a hospital? You tried to live with the wound for a couple of days, but you couldn’t. You needed a doctor—a doctor you could force not to report the gunshot. And you knew where to find one. You met her the day she moved into one of your buildings.”

“Hundreds of people live in my buildings. Maybe a thousand. Did you know your partner was once a tenant of mine?”

“But those names don’t appear in two different murder cases. Both victims strangled, both made to appear raped? Miles Shackley liked to break the rules, didn’t he? He broke them when he played his assassination scenario out for real. And he broke them when he showed up here thirty years later to blackmail his old associate in destabilization, Yves Grenelle. Because of course you never really were a left-leaning terrorist, you were a hard-right conservative, just as you are today.”

“You think the CIA ran the FLQ? I thought you were more intelligent than that.”

“They didn’t run the FLQ—they ran you. Then you went your separate ways in the world. Shackley’s was all downhill. He was out of the CIA and down on his luck, and somehow—how? old intelligence contacts? the Internet?—after thirty years he found out where you were. He showed up with proof that you killed Raoul Duquette and demanded some outrageous amount of money in order to keep the lid on that little tidbit.”

“Come on. I’ll show you the view from the ridge. I wouldn’t attempt it in any other vehicle, but I think this one can do it.”

Laroche drove slowly round the edge of the parking lot and out past the sign. He made a right and drove uphill, keeping the Navigator in second gear. In a few minutes the trees on either side cleared. Laroche pulled over and killed the lights. They were looking down toward the Highlands lodge, a yellow glow in the distance. Lights on the hydro towers blinked on and off, a warning to aircraft. One of the towers was less than thirty yards away. Even with the rain pelting the roof of the car, Cardinal could hear the throaty hum of the wires.

“It’s a hell of a yarn you’ve concocted, Detective. Complete fiction, of course.”

“You think this is fiction?” Cardinal pulled the photograph from his pocket.

Laroche looked at it without reaction. “Which one do you think is me? The girl? You think I had a sex change?”

“The girl is Madeleine Ferrier. You killed her, remember? That’s you on the right, in the striped T-shirt.”

Laroche handed it back. “It could be anyone.”

“Really?” Cardinal pulled out a printout of Miriam Stead’s work. “Here’s a police artist version, thirty years later. Remove a little hair, lose the beard, add seventy pounds or so …”

“Artist is the operative word, Detective. It’s work of the imagination, like your story.”

“You know, the bullet exited Shackley’s car by the passenger door handle. I figure he probably hit you just above the elbow. About here.” Cardinal grasped Laroche’s bicep and squeezed.

Laroche let out a cry and pulled his arm away.

“I suppose that’s my imagination too,” Cardinal said.

“You startled me, that’s all. I don’t like to be touched.” Laroche regained his composure, but there was a fine sweat on his upper lip.

In the distance, transformers made tiny blue novas as they exploded with pops that sounded like gunfire. And there was another sound, a piglike shriek that Cardinal knew was tearing metal.

“I’d recommend we move the car,” Cardinal said. “That tower could collapse any minute.”

Laroche stared down at the silver hills, the line of hydro towers. “Two weeks from now, that state-of-the-art ski lift will be hoisting hundreds of people up those slopes. The hills will be full of the laughter of vacationers having a good time. Spending their hard-earned money in Algonquin Bay. Our studies suggest it’ll be about a million each season.”

“Like I said, I’m impressed.”

“I don’t know what you expect, laying out these accusations. Are you expecting me to bribe you?”

“You’re too smart for that.”

“Are you taping me? Hoping I’ll break down and confess?”

“Why don’t you? You’ll feel better.”

“I’m sure confession feels good for a lot of people. It wouldn’t have become a cultural obsession otherwise. But I suspect that cleansing sensation is very short-lived. And I’m sure you feel the same.”

“We’re not talking about me.”

“Aren’t we? You seem fixated on the idea that men are not what they seem. I wonder why that is? Well, it’s true, of course, men are often not what they seem. Geoff Mantis is an exception, and it’s one of the reasons I admire him. Your father may have been another exception—my condolences, by the way—a union man. A true believer in the dignity of labour, collective bargaining.

“Then take me, an orphan from Trois Rivières pulls himself up by his bootstraps. How likely is that? I almost don’t blame you for wanting to pull such a preposterous story apart. But then, take you. You work for the city. I know exactly what you earn. It seems so unlikely that a local cop could put a daughter through Yale.”

“I wanted to,” Cardinal said. “Couldn’t afford it in the end.”

“And the Tamarind Clinic in Chicago. Best that money can buy for the treatment of depression. Particularly good with females, I understand. But medical care is not free in the United States. Even a short stay in such a place will run into the tens of thousands—American dollars, not Canadian. Are you getting this on tape, by the way?”

“I’d hardly tell you, if I were.”

“And you could hardly use it, with what I’ve just said.”

Cardinal opened the passenger door and got out. Freezing rain soaked him instantly. Laroche rolled down his window.

“You’re planning to walk back in the rain?”

“I guess so. The only murderers I talk to are the ones I’m arresting. Maybe we’ll talk another day.”

Laroche shrugged. “How far do you think you’ll get with that, Detective?”

“Probably not far. Like you said: if I had the proof, I’d put the cuffs on you now.”

Metal screamed again, and with a slow, graceful gesture the hydro tower tilted over on one side. A line snapped and cut through the air with enough speed to take a man’s head off. It hit the ice with a sound that made Cardinal’s guts liquefy, a colossal, intergalactic belch. It was maybe twenty yards away. Cardinal stood absolutely still, feet together.

“You sure you won’t get back in the car?”

“Thanks. I think I prefer to stay here.”

A stiff wind blew from the east. A crust of ice was forming in webs along Cardinal’s sleeves.

“So, here we are,” Laroche said. “I didn’t panic. I didn’t break down and confess. What does that make me?”

“I wouldn’t pretend to know. I don’t understand you.”

“You wouldn’t. We’re very different people. I mean, look at me: I’m building this place, I own more buildings than you own shirts, I’ve got enough money for thirty men. And I’m on excellent terms with your police chief and the crown—not to mention the premier. And then …” He made a gesture toward Cardinal, as if pointing out a shoddy building he wouldn’t even attempt to sell. “Look at you.”

The hydro wire cracked again and hit the ice. Garlands of blue sparks danced toward Cardinal.

Laroche rolled up his window and the Navigator pulled away. Cardinal watched the red lights descend the hill, throbbing now and then as Laroche tapped the brakes. Rain pounded his skin like marbles.

Three times, Stancek had said. A main wire would go dead after it shorted three times. Cardinal was already drenched, shivering from head to foot. He badly wanted to run. But he remembered that boy on the transformer years before. The power line slithered in rapid S patterns across the ice. Cardinal closed his eyes and tensed for the shock.

The power line came around again, whistling as it cut the air. It hit the ground with a roar and a spray of blue sparks. And then there was just the rain, and the creak and moan of metal.

29

I
T WAS NEARLY NOON
when Chouinard called Cardinal into his office the following Monday.

“You’re off the Shackley–Cates case,” he said without preliminary. “You know why.”

“No doubt because somebody told you to remove me.”

“Talk to Kendall, if you want. It won’t get you anywhere.”

The chief was in an even worse mood than Chouinard.

“You completely ignore your assignment, a simple matter of augmenting security at a public function. You make wild accusations against a prominent businessman. You break so many rules of procedure I can’t even begin to count them. And then you come to me wondering why you’ve been removed from the case?”

“Chief, have you looked at what we have against Laroche?”

“All I see is what we don’t have. What we don’t have is a serious case against Paul Laroche. In the first place, we cannot prove he’s Yves Grenelle, therefore we have no motive. In the second place, nobody saw him at Dr. Cates’s apartment or Loon Lodge, therefore we cannot show opportunity. In the third place, we have no murder weapon, therefore we cannot show he had means.”

“There are no other suspects in this case, Chief. The DNA in the blood in Dr. Cates’s office matches the DNA from the blood in the car. We know the man who killed Dr. Cates is the man who killed Shackley, and we know Laroche had a motive to kill him.”

“No, you don’t. You know Yves Grenelle had a motive to kill him.”

“All we need is a warrant to check Laroche’s DNA. I know he’s going to match. Delorme knows it. You know it.”

“I know what the evidence tells me I know. And the Crown has already informed you we do not have enough for a DNA warrant. Apparently, you took this as a go-ahead to harass Paul Laroche.”

“He’s a killer, Chief. He should be behind bars.”

“You’re not going to put him there by ignoring reality. And the reality, now, is that you’re off this case. Frankly, if it wasn’t for the fact that your father just died, I’d consider putting you on suspension. We’ll just say you were under stress and your judgment was clouded. What did you think, you’d rattle him into a confession?”

“Stranger things have happened. The whole Cates crime shows a certain degree of panic.”

“Your judgment was clouded, Cardinal. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

The ice storm eventually departed. The clouds and the fog were trundled away like stage props, and the sun shone once more on the glittering woods. Gradually, the icy hills and roads were cleared of the fallen towers, the broken branches, the shattered trees. Winter soon returned with a more common run of snow and temperatures in the minus thirties. The people of Algonquin Bay huddled in their down parkas and turned their heat, once it was restored, up full.

Spring came early that year. The usual bets were placed on when the ice on Lake Nipissing would break up, but no one came close. By the middle of April the last miniature white islands had melted away. By May there was one last vestige of winter remaining. The bottom of Bradley Street, where it curves round a set of low-lying hills that embrace the northern shore of Lake Nipissing, is where the snow trucks of Algonquin Bay dump their dune-sized loads. By the end of the season the dump is a flat-topped mountain of crystallized snow, dark on the outside with gravel, salt and other debris, and on the inside, fretted with long white crystals. This man-made mountain is so dense it doesn’t melt away until mid-July.

Cardinal and Catherine could see it from out on the lake, glittering in the sun where pieces of ice had fallen away. Along the shoreline, the buds on the birches and poplars were emerald green. Other trees that Cardinal could not identify from out on the water were bursting with white blossoms.

The sun was warm on their faces and hands, but there was a crisp breeze that penetrated their windbreakers, and the Canadian flag on the stern of the boat set up a cheerful snapping.

Cardinal’s boat was a small fibreglass outboard his father had bought when Cardinal was still in high school. The motor was just a 35 Evinrude, nothing that was going to tip any canoes in its wake, but it could get you across Lake Nipissing in no time. The odd thing about that lake, although it is the biggest body of water in Ontario outside of the Great Lakes, is that it is also one of the shallowest—no more than forty feet at its deepest points. Even a moderate breeze like the one that nipped at Cardinal’s face this May morning could start a considerable chop. Waves kicked and slapped at the hull.

They had started out from the West Ferris dock and cruised slowly past the city. The limestone cathedral was bone white, and car windshields caught the sun and shone like mirrors. Joggers in colourful outfits moved in pairs along the waterfront.

“Look at the poor trees,” Catherine said, pointing. Many of the maples and poplars had been sawed off flat at the top—a move necessitated by the split trunks and broken branches the ice storm had left in its wake. It would be years before they would recover their natural shapes.

“It’s the buildings I’m looking at,” Cardinal said. “There. There. And over there.” He pointed to the red brick of the Twickenham complex, the white tower of The Balmoral. From out here they could even see the main chalet of the Highlands Ski Club. “All of them owned by Paul Laroche, a guy who shouldn’t even be walking the streets.”

“Well, he isn’t walking the streets anymore. At least not in Algonquin Bay.”

“And we’re not having any luck tracking him down. We think he’s somewhere in France.”

“Well, you could count it as a partial victory, can’t you? He’s had to leave everything he’s built up over the years.”

“It’s something,” Cardinal said. “But it’s not what I’d call a victory.”

He swung the boat away from town and came about so that the bow was into the wind, then he eased back on the throttle.

“You want to do it here?” Catherine asked.

“It’s as good a place as any, I guess. Can you take the wheel for a minute?”

The boat wobbled beneath them as they switched places. Cardinal pulled a dark canister from the cloth sack the funeral home had provided.

“I thought it was illegal to spread ashes on the lake,” Catherine said. “Strictly speaking.”

“That’s true,” Cardinal said. “Strictly speaking.” He was trying to figure out how to open the canister. It was a heavy black rhomboid object made of India rubber or something very similar. There was no handle or tab one could grab on to and pull. Nor did anything seem to twist off.

“What do you suppose they do if they catch you?”

“The cops? They make you pick them up again.”

“No, seriously.”

“It’s probably a small fine,” Cardinal said. “I think I’m going to need a can opener to open this.”

“Want me to try?”

“Not to worry. I have the technology.” Cardinal pulled out his penknife and set to work prying the lid off. A moment later it came away, revealing a clear plastic bag about the size of a half-pound of flour full of pale grey ashes. Most of the pieces were smaller than the nail on his little finger.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Catherine said. “He was such a … vivid person.”

Cardinal undid the little plastic tie and opened the bag, the canister still resting on his knees.

A moment ago they had had the lake to themselves. Now there seemed to be boats everywhere. A sailboat fifty yards off. A motorboat cruising toward them at a good clip. Even a canoe, hugging the shore.

“I better wait for them to pass,” Cardinal said.

“Are you going to say anything?” Catherine asked. “When you spread them?”

“I don’t know. It seems like I should. I mean, I want to. I’m just terrible at anything like that.”

“Just say whatever you feel, John. You know he loved you.”

Cardinal nodded. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. The motorboat purred by. A family of four. The children in the back waved and yelled, “Ahoy, ahoy.” Catherine waved back.

“Well,” Cardinal said finally. “Here goes.” He turned around in his seat, kneeling on it. “I’m not going to drag this out, I’m just going to spread them and be done with it.”

“Okay. I’ll just keep it steady.”

The wind had picked up. Cardinal had to keep low so the ashes wouldn’t blow back all over the boat. As he leaned, the side wash from the motorboat caught them and rocked the boat. He had to clutch at the gunwale.

“That’s all I need—to fall in. Dad would love that.”

“Yes, he would.”

Cardinal steadied himself and eased the bag from the canister. Then, using two hands, he shook the bag gently, as if he were seeding a garden. The ashes formed a swirling grey cumulus in the water. It took a minute or so to empty the bag, and by that time the boat had left a thick grey trail behind them. Many of the lighter flakes floated on the surface, and even finer particles blew away in the wind.

“I guess I just want to say … I want to say to the lake, I guess: Take these ashes, and you be kind. This was a good man.” Cardinal had to take a deep breath. “This was a good husband and a good provider. A good man—I know I said that already. This was my father.”

Cardinal turned and sat facing forward again, suddenly exhausted.

Catherine held his arm. She cut the motor, leaning over and resting her head on his shoulder in the silence. Cardinal felt her shake with tears.

The boat drifted in the wind, turning slightly so that once again they were looking at the sunlight glinting on Algonquin Bay. They drifted for perhaps a quarter of an hour, saying nothing. Then Catherine squeezed his arm and said, “I liked what you said.”

Cardinal rinsed the plastic bag and the canister in the lake before putting them on the back seat.

“You want me to take the wheel again?”

“Nope,” Catherine said. “I’m fine.”

She started up the motor and they cruised back toward West Ferris, the waves muttering against the hull. The wind caught Catherine’s brown hair and tossed it every which way. Sunlight brought the colour to her cheeks and she looked a lot like the young woman Cardinal had married nearly thirty years ago.

He reached out and touched her shoulder.

Catherine looked over at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Cardinal said. “Head her for home, Captain.”