Giles Blunt - Until the Night

“Oh, Jesus,” Chouinard said. “Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me this is not the guy we’ve been throwing out a dragnet for.”

“Wait a second,” Loach said. “We don’t know it’s him who called. Rakov’s a total asshole.”

“An asshole who hates you,” Delorme said. “An asshole you got fired. An asshole the Toronto police have now charged with obstruction of justice and interfering with an investigation. I gave them your recording-they’ve already done the voice print.”

“Bullshit,” Loach said. He appealed to Chouinard. “She’s just trying to undermine me. It’s ridiculous. I’m citing her for insubordination, for conduct unbecoming, for misusing police funds, for-”

“Go home,” Chouinard said. “You’re not citing anybody.”

“No. This is wrong.” Loach shook his head. “This is so, so wrong.”

Chouinard looked over at Delorme. “Toronto Forensics confirms the voice?”

“It’s definitely Rakov.”

“You’re off the case, Loach. Go home.”

Loach stood up. “You’re both wrong. I did the right thing. I made the right decision. Given what we had to work with at the time, I made the right decision.”

“Go home.”

After he’d put his business card through the letter slot of Alison Durie’s door, Cardinal sat in his car and tried to decide what would be his next step. It seemed unlikely that the all-units would result in a street cop or a highway patrol pulling over exactly the right van. It would be the OPP, if anybody. If Durie was planning to complete his revenge on that Arctic island, he had to be headed for an airfield.

He opened his briefcase on the seat beside him and took out a photograph of Hayley Babstock. Twenty-seven or twenty-eight, a sweet age for a woman. Still enough of the student-age naivete to be cute, but there was a confidence in those blue eyes as well. She would be a person with a good idea of her own capabilities. He took out his pen and wrote on the back of the photograph, This is Hayley Babstock. She is a teacher-and also the daughter of someone your brother has reason to hate. He got out of the car and went back up the steps to Alison Durie’s house and pushed the photograph through the slot.

His phone rang as he was getting back into the car.

“Drexler here. Are you a hunter, by any chance?”

“No.”

“I’m standing by the side of a road just north of King City, watching two guys rig a sling hoist under a dead moose. It wasn’t shot, though. It was hit by a white van.”

“What’s going on? Is the girl okay?”

“She’s not here. Neither is Karson Durie.”

“Send me a picture of the van on my phone. Is there a logo on the side?”

“I’m sending it now. Jesus, you should see the antlers on this thing-they’re winching him out of the windshield. Must weigh fifteen hundred pounds. I gotta say, I am often struck by the role of sheer luck in the lives of criminals-not to mention the lives of their victims.

“Mr. Perpetrator-heading for an airfield five kilometres from here, where it turns out he has reserved a Twin Otter under an assumed name-has the bad luck to hit a moose. But lo, the wheel turns again, and he has the good luck to have a good Samaritan show up. This is bad luck for Mr. Samaritan, who has stopped his truck to help. “’Preciate it-please accept my. 45-calibre thank-you card.’ The man is dead. He’s got two kids under the age of twelve and a wife gonna be wondering why he doesn’t answer his cell.”

“We’re sure it was Durie.”

“Well, there’s no prints from the gloved one, but this Babstock kid is one smart cookie. She left her fingerprints inside-they’re all over the back. Perfect prints, like she pressed ’em and rolled ’em just for us.”

“Do we know what he’s driving now?”

“Our Samaritan’s vehicle was a black Dodge Laramie.”

“Should be easy enough to spot,” Cardinal said.

“Should be. And was. OPP found it by the highway about forty miles up the 400, and now we have no clue what he’s driving. And no clue where he’s heading. At this point the man is an open case in at least three jurisdictions, and we have no idea where he is.”

“Hold on, Art. I think we just got a break.”

Alison Durie was crossing the street toward him.

Delorme couldn’t wait to get out of the office again after her meeting with Loach and Chouinard. She could still hear them shouting at each other as she headed out the door. She drove up to the hospital and visited with Miranda Heap, who had regained consciousness. Her lips were swollen and she was groggy from the drugs, but her mind seemed perfectly clear. Perfectly clear, and perfectly made up. Did you listen to the phone messages? And you know who it is. Good. Did you get the receipts too? The photograph? Good. Son of a bitch thinks he’s going to be a judge…

Delorme paid another visit to her house and found, as Miranda had expected, that Garth Romney had left another message. Darlene has been such a bad girl, my darling…

“Yes,” Delorme said, “you have.”

Then she went back to the station and made copies of everything.

She sat across from Chouinard in his office as he leafed, grim-faced, through the receipts, shaking his head at what he was hearing through his headphones. Finally he took them off and muttered, “Garth, Garth, Garth… Misuse of funds, dereliction of duty…”

“Don’t forget assault.”

“Assault. Jesus. Tell me something, Sergeant Delorme. Tell me how it is that such seemingly intelligent people manage to get themselves into so much trouble.”

“I’d like to take this to Crown Attorney Hartman right away.”

“No, no. This is far too hot for the local. We take it to Sudbury, to the regional crown.”

“But that’ll take so long.”

“No, it won’t. Believe me, they’ll want this cleaned up fast-before Romney is actually installed as a judge. This is out of our hands, as far as jurisdiction goes-they’ll want the OPP, or actually, probably Toronto police to handle the investigation.”

“But the work’s all done.”

“I know. You’ve done it all for them. And now we know why Priest was never prosecuted.”

She told him about her interview with Fritz Reicher.

“He’s ready to testify?”

“Definitely. I’d like to arrest Priest as soon as possible. Why not tonight?”

“Hold on now. It won’t be tonight. Order of business is we get the regional crown on board first. He’s going to want to see-and hear-everything we have. He’ll want to line up an outside investigator, and then he’ll lower the boom.”

Delorme got up to leave. As she was opening the office door, Chouinard pounded his fist on the desk. “Damn.”

“What, D.S.?”

“This is good, eh? This is good. This is what we get into this business for, isn’t it.”

“I’d say so.”

He pounded the desk again. “Fantastic. Totally fucking fantastic-and you know I never swear.”

“Absolutely, D.S. I’ve always admired that about you.”

“After I sent you away so rudely,” Alison Durie said, “I went to look at some things my brother left behind. But I need to tell you a bit about him before I show you.”

Cardinal was sitting at her kitchen table, where a pot of tea was steeping. He studied her face. Wide brow, aristocratic neck, the regal manner undone by unbearable sadness.

“I flew to Yellowknife when Karson was released and brought him back here with me. He stayed for about six months.”

“How did he spend his time? Did he have a job?”

She shook her head. “My father left us some money. Karson’s share collected interest over the years. It generates enough income that he doesn’t have to take a job-provided he’s careful. He’s not a man who requires a lot of material things.”