Giles Blunt - Forty Words for Sorrow

SHE spent another hour with the files- early cases of Cardinal's- and found nothing of interest. According to the files, John Cardinal was exactly what he appeared to be- a hardworking cop who got the job done efficiently and thoroughly, without bending the rules. Nearly all his arrests resulted in convictions, although not in the case she was reading now, involving a ne'er-do-well called Raymond Colacott who had since killed himself. The suspect had been brought into custody along with four kilos of cocaine that Cardinal had every reason to believe Colacott was selling. But when the matter was brought to trial, the evidence had gone missing, stolen from the evidence locker. Case dismissed.

The Crown had put its own investigator on the case (file handily included, courtesy of Dyson) and drawn a resounding blank. Cardinal had not been a particular suspect; too many people had had access to the evidence locker. A report was issued, procedures were changed.

Yes, it could have been Cardinal, but for a cop in Algonquin Bay to start selling coke would be far too risky. And Raymond Colacott was not Kyle Corbett, not someone capable of putting a cop on his payroll. If the investigation at the time had got nowhere, Delorme was certainly going to get nowhere nine years later when half the personnel involved had transferred to Winnipeg, Moose Jaw, or God knows where else.

Delorme scraped off her plate and put it in the sink. She had always intended to develop an interest in cooking, maybe even take a course up at the college one day, but lack of time and enthusiasm always seemed to weigh against it. Her mother, were she still alive, would have been horrified.

She went into the living room and pulled aside the curtain. Snowbanks glittered under the streetlights. She remained at the window for some time, staring through her ghostlike reflection, coffee cup in hand. Ten minutes later, she was in her car, driving with no clear intention up Algonquin toward the bypass. She made a right onto the highway, keeping the speedometer well below the speed limit. It was a peculiarity of hers, this aimless driving, and she would have been embarrassed if any of her colleagues had discovered her nocturnal habit. She wasn't sure if it was restlessness or if it was just a way of making daydreaming a physical, as well as a mental, process.

The bypass had a pleasant sweep to it, a graceful curve that held the higher end of town in a gentle embrace. It was a great pleasure to feel the slight but steady centrifugal pull as one drove the length of the city. Sometimes Delorme just drove the bypass out to the intersection with Lakeshore and then back into town along the bay. Other times, only when she was agitated, she did something rather more idiosyncratic: She drove out to the neighborhoods of friends and colleagues, not stopping to visit, just driving by seeing their lights on, their cars in the driveway. She knew it was neurotic, but it gave her a soothing sense of peace all the same.

She made a left on Trout Lake Road and drove all the way out to where it turned into Highway 63. In winter you could see right through the trees down to the houses on Madonna Road. She glanced over and saw the lights on in Cardinal's place, even saw a dark shape at the rear window. Probably that's the kitchen, she figured; he'd be doing dishes or having a late supper.

At the Chinook Tavern, she turned around and headed back into town by way of the college. Traffic was sparse now, and the city below her was all lit up. Thoughts of the Pine-Curry case were turning in her head, and she tried not to force them in any direction. She would just have her little drive and let things fall into place. A few minutes later she was cruising by a handsome, two-story stucco house in a not-quite-posh enclave all but hidden in the shadow of St. Francis Hospital. Dyson's car was parked in the driveway.

Delorme stopped at the side of the street, debating whether to pull in or not.

A pretty little girl, perhaps twelve years old, came walking uphill toward the house, accompanied by a boy of the same age or not much older. She clutched a collection of books to her chest the way girls do, and walked with head down, staring intently at the sidewalk. The boy must have said something funny because she looked up suddenly, laughing, showing a mouthful of braces. Then her mother, a bony, wraithlike figure, appeared in a side doorway and called her daughter away in a voice utterly devoid of affection.

The image stayed with Delorme all the way out to Edgewater Road. But somewhere between Rayne Street and the bypass, a plan of action had dropped into her head. She pulled into the driveway of the Swiss-style A-frame and rang the side doorbell. She had time to prepare her little speech, then forgot it all when the door was opened by Police Chief R. J. Kendall himself. "This had better be good," was all he said.

She followed him down to the basement, the same clubby room where it had all begun. The cover had been removed from what she had taken to be a billiard table. On it tiny soldiers in uniforms of red and blue did battle along the steep bank of a papier-mвchй river. Delorme had interrupted the chief in the pursuit of his passion, building recreations of famous battles in fanatical detail, and he was not about to abandon it for the sake of an unmannerly visit.

"Plains of Abraham?" Delorme asked, trying to ease her way in.

"Just get to it, Detective. General Montcalme is beyond your help."

"Sir, I've been combing the files for anything about Cardinal. Going over old cases of his, notes and everything."

"I assume you've discovered something sensational in those files or you wouldn't be breaking every rule of protocol, not to mention common courtesy, by showing up at my home unannounced."

"No, sir. The thing is, the files aren't going to lead anywhere. I'm just running in circles, and it's getting in the way of Pine-Curry."

"Look at this." The chief held out a smooth hand, palm up. A tiny cannon nestled in his palm. "Exactly to scale. There are twelve of them I have to fix into fittings that are barely visible to the naked eye."

"Incredible." Delorme responded with all the energy she could muster, but she could hear it wasn't enough.

"The files are important. A jury will expect a pattern of behavior."

"Sir, that will take forever, and it will all be old stuff impossible to prove."

"You have the Florida condo. You have the boat receipt."

"Dyson told you about those already?"

"He did. I asked to be kept closely informed."

"The receipt doesn't have Cardinal's name on it, sir." She had been about to tell him about Sergeant Langois, but no, better to wait and see what he might turn up down in Florida. "I've already contacted his American bank, but they're not exactly rushing to cooperate. What we need is something totally convincing. Something from right now. Something plain and simple."

"Naturally. If you want to ask your partner for a signed confession, go ahead. I don't expect you'll see a lot of success." He turned to her, a miniature tube of glue in his hand. "Or were you intending to interview Kyle Corbett on the subject? Excuse me, Mr. Corbett, is one of our detectives supplying you with confidential information? Gee, no, Officer, I have far too much respect for the law."

The chief was not by nature a sarcastic man. Delorme braced herself for one of his famous explosions, then plunged on. "Sir, I have an idea."

"Please. Enlighten me."

"What we do is we plant some information with Cardinal that he's sure to pass along- if he's really working for Corbett, that is. Something he'll have to let him know. Musgrave's crew will tap his phone and keep him under surveillance."

Kendall regarded her coolly, then turned back to his model, a tiny soldier pinched between thumb and forefinger. "I'll say one thing, Detective. You've got nerve."