Delorme had protested, Cardinal had insisted, and in the end she stayed, nibbling halfheartedly at the pizza in the sudden silence of his departure. It seemed so- what was the word?- orchestrated. Inviting her all the way out here. 'Forgetting' his press meeting. The pizza arriving just so. It was as if he wanted her, for the space of an hour at least, to have his house to herself: Go ahead. Look. I've got nothing to hide.
Was this Cardinal's way of saving her (or Dyson, or the department) the embarrassment of a search warrant? Or was it a preemptive strike, designed to take the wind out of her sails? A guilty man would never give her free access to his home. But then again, it was the same as with his desk: A guilty man might well leave it wide open precisely so you would think him not guilty.
Delorme wiped pizza grease from her fingers and telephoned Dyson. This press thing Cardinal was going to, was it for real? It was most certainly real, Dyson assured her; R. J. was very high on it, and Cardinal had better get his ass in there toot sweet (his French sent a shudder down Delorme's spine) or Dyson would personally see him writing traffic tickets before the week was out.
'He's on his way.'
'How do you know that? Are you at his place? What are you doing at his place?'
'I'm having his baby. But don't worry, I can still look at things objectively.'
'Ha ha. The fact is you have an opportunity here, just like we discussed.'
'What I can't figure out is why he's giving it to us- unless he's innocent.'
'Wouldn't that be nice.'
Delorme stood up, brushing crumbs from her lap. Above the fireplace there was a black-and-white photograph of Cardinal, dressed in an old workshirt and jeans, planing a piece of wood, leaning over it like a pool player. He had a three-day stubble and sawdust in his hair, and he looked kind of sexy for a cop. Well, sexy or not, first he leaves his desk drawer open, and now he was giving her the run of his house. As far as Delorme was concerned, that was asking for it.
The Algonquin Bay police department does not have rules for surreptitious searches for the very good reason that its officers are not supposed to conduct them. Delorme had never relied on clandestine methods to collect evidence, nor would she now. Any clandestine search was of necessity in the nature of a reconnoiter, a preview of what might be available to those (armed with a warrant) who might come after. The only thing the Ontario Police College at Aylmer teaches about such searches is that they are illegal and their fruits inadmissible. What Delorme knew of this unsavory art, she had taught herself.
She had an hour, say forty minutes to be on the safe side. It was essential to be highly selective. She ruled out all the places she'd seen cops search in the movies: the hard-to-get-at places like tops of cupboards, the attic space- anything requiring something to stand on. Also off the list: any spaces that required moving furniture. There was no way she could lift up rugs or check under couch and chairs without Cardinal's seeing the disruption, and in any case she did not believe that if Cardinal had anything to hide he would hide it in such places. She would not be lifting the lid of the cistern, either.
No, within minutes of Cardinal's departure, Lise Delorme had decided she would search only the most obvious place for incriminating material: Cardinal's personal files. These he kept conveniently labeled (and unlocked) in a two-drawer metal cabinet, much dented. In no time at all she learned exactly what he earned from the department (with all the overtime, it came to a lot more than she had expected) and that his charming but subzero lakeside house was not paid off. The monthly payments were high but manageable on Cardinal's income, unless he had other major expenses- such as a daughter attending an Ivy League university.
Delorme was more interested in Catherine Cardinal's income. If she had some private source, Cardinal might be off the hook.
She pulled out tax returns.
Last year's filing, a joint one, was in Cardinal's handwriting and showed that he told Revenue Canada exactly what he earned. It also indicated that Catherine Cardinal made little more than pocket money as a part-time photography instructor up at Algonquin College. But there was a second file that was of considerably more interest, a return for the U.S. Internal Revenue Service. It was for Catherine Cardinal but filled out in Cardinal's messy but intense hand. You'd never hire an accountant, would you? Far too vain about your mental faculties. The form showed that Catherine Cardinal had earned eleven thousand U.S. dollars in rental income from a Miami condominium. Apparently it was vacant for most of the year.
'Date of purchase,' Delorme whispered aloud, flipping through the unfamiliar form. 'Come on, now. Date of purchase. You claim depreciation, somewhere you've got to say when you bought the damn-' She sat back on her haunches, gripping the blue-and-white form. Catherine Cardinal had bought the condo in Florida three years ago, with a down payment of forty-six thousand dollars U.S., just six weeks after the first Corbett fiasco.
Careful, now, Delorme's inner voice said. You don't know anything. You keep looking and you keep your mind open. We are in collecting mode here, not judging.
Cardinal had claimed a portion of his homeowners insurance policy as a deduction. Delorme found the file marked Insurance. The amount of the policy seemed low at first glance, but then she remembered that it was the property, not the house, that was expensive. The file contained receipts for large purchases- Cardinal's Camry, a new refrigerator, a table saw- but then Delorme came upon a receipt that made her catch her breath. It was from the Calloway Marina in Hollywood Beach, Florida, in the sum of fifty-thousand dollars for a Chris-Craft cabin cruiser. Dated October, two years ago. That would put it just two months after the second Corbett raid went bad.
Again, Delorme made an effort to calm her beating heart, told herself not to jump to conclusions. Jumping to conclusions turned you into a danger to everyone who got near you. But that amount, and on that date- well, it was damaging, no question.
At the rear of Cardinal's bottom drawer, she pulled out a file marked Yale. She scanned the contents swiftly, correspondence from Yale on expensive letterhead that confirmed what she already knew: that John Cardinal was paying a damn fortune to send his daughter to a famous school. Over twenty-five thousand a year in Canadian dollars, not including living expenses, and then there were travel costs and art supplies on top of that. Cardinal had said Kelly was in her second year of grad school, so he was looking at close to seventy-five thousand dollars and she was not even done yet.
Delorme put the papers back and closed the drawer. Stop while you're ahead, she told herself: the boat, the condo, they're more than enough to follow up.
She put Cardinal's half of the pizza in the fridge, washed her plate, and put on her coat. She switched off the light, wondering why on earth her partner would allow her to search his place when there was so much incriminating evidence around. It didn't make sense.
Driving into town, she called Malcolm Musgrave on her cell phone. 'I've been looking at some very interesting receipts- large purchases right after your Corbett raids. But I can't tell you where I found them just yet.'
'He's your partner, I understand that, but you're not running this investigation on your own.'
'Ninety-six thousand dollars U.S. That's in addition to a kid at Yale.'
'Probably our exalted commissioner makes that much, but I don't and you don't and neither does your partner.'
'It looks bad, I know. But he doesn't live high. He doesn't spend a lot of cash.'
'You're forgetting there's a considerable stick here as well as the carrot. Once someone like Kyle Corbett gets his pincers into you, you don't just decide you're tired of the game. You do what he wants, or he'll get you where you live. You might want to interview Nicky Bell on that subject. Oh, that's right, he's dead. Silly me.' Musgrave told her to hang on a minute.
While she was waiting, she saw John Cardinal driving back out to his place. She raised her fingers off the wheel to wave, but he didn't see her. Suddenly Delorme regretted making the call. Then Musgrave came back.
'Look, I'm gonna need to know more about these receipts. We don't have time for prima donnas here, sister.'
'Sorry. I don't think I can do that. Not yet, anyway.'
Musgrave pressed her. Gave her his You're-playing-with-the-big-boys-now basso aria.
'Look, I'm doing my job, all right? I'm investigating the guy. That's all you have to know right now.' Musgrave started in on her again, but Delorme clicked off the phone.
When she got home, she remained in her car with the motor running, leaning her head on the steering wheel. She tried not to identify the feelings that flowed inside her. Delorme had come across a lot of larcenous men in her six years with Special. And in that time she had come across motivations that rivaled the northern woods in their
