'That's my man.'
Delorme was trying to place what it was about Corbett's manner that was so familiar: the big smile, the apparent thought expended on trivial questions. Then she realized what it was. Kyle Corbett, former drug runner and current counterfeiter, had adopted the kindly condescension of the very famous. Delorme had once seen Eric Clapton in the Toronto airport, cornered by fans, signing autographs. He chatted with them in the same easy yet distant manner that Corbett had appropriated for himself.
He had swiveled his back to the camera and spread his arms along the bar as if the place were his. 'He doesn't look that dangerous,' Delorme observed.
'Tell that to Nicky Bell,' Musgrave said. 'May he rest in peace.' Then he gave a thumbs-up to his men. 'Crystal clear, sound and picture both. Nice piece of work.'
The radio crackled again. 'Taxi on Oak.'
Musgrave spoke into his radio. 'Tell me it's our man of the hour.'
'He's getting out now.' There was a pause. 'Can't see his face. It's raining and he's wearing his hood. Headed your way, though.'
There was a loud clink of glassware, and the two men at the video console suddenly sat back.
'Jesus Christ,' Musgrave said. 'The screen's blank.'
'They put something in front of it. Stacks of bar glasses.' Frantic hands twiddled at dials. 'It's those huge dishwasher trays they have.'
'Jesus. Hit the joystick. Can't you swivel around them?'
'I'm trying, I'm trying.'
'Shhh!' Delorme said. 'Let's at least hear what's going on.'
Corbett was greeting somebody loudly, expansively, in his best 'just folks' manner, and implying for the benefit of any restaurant staff that this meeting of cop and criminal was entirely accidental. 'You gonna join me for a drink? Always glad to know a fellow insomniac, even if he's playing for the wrong team.'
The reply was unintelligible. The other person was somewhere out of mike range, perhaps hanging up his coat.
'You guys always dress like Nanook of the North when you're off duty?'
'Larry,' Musgrave said icily, 'fix the fucking camera. We're losing the main event.'
Christ, Delorme prayed. Let's get it over with.
'What're you drinking?' It was Dyson who spoke. 'Shirley Temple or something?'
Musgrave whirled on Delorme. 'Who is that? Is that Adonis Dyson? I thought you fed this pill to Cardinal.'
Delorme shrugged. A mixture of relief and sorrow was flowing into her veins as if from a hypodermic. 'I fed Cardinal one date. Dyson got another.'
'You have something for me?' Dyson was saying on the darkened screen.
There was a crackle of paper. 'Invest it wisely. Personally, I like index funds.'
'I got a cab waiting. So I'll get right to the nitty-gritty.'
'What are you scared of? Didn't you hear I'm immune these days? Amazing what a court order can do. I gotta say, the law's really something when it works.'
'It's late, and I've got a cab waiting.'
'Sit down. Don't you haul ass on me. I told you I want a full fucking rundown. I don't pay you for chicken feed.'
'The Mounties are going to hit you on the twenty-fourth. No chicken feed. The twenty-fourth. That's all you need to know.'
'That's the poison pill,' Delorme said quietly. 'The twenty-fourth. Dyson's the only one I gave that to.'
'And don't clear out this time,' Dyson went on. 'Leave something for them to find, and a couple of guys, too. You've got nine lives, I realize, but you're running on number ten and so am I, and if they nail me we're all going down.'
Musgrave spoke into his radio. 'We're in play. Close the exits.' Then to Delorme: 'Let's get him, Sister.'
MUSGRAVE went in through the front door, Delorme through the back, each accompanied by two Mounties. Musgrave took Corbett, and Delorme dealt with Dyson. 'Really,' Delorme told people later. 'It was smooth as a business transaction. Corbett didn't put up any struggle. Just cursed a few times.'
Perhaps Dyson had been expecting this ending all along. He folded his arms and put his head down on the bar in the time-honored pose of the melancholy drunk, hiding his face.
'D. S., would you put your hands behind your back, please?' Delorme had no need to draw a gun, the Mounties behind her were taking care of all that. 'D. S. Dyson,' she said, louder. 'I need you to put your hands behind your back. I have to cuff you.'
Dyson sat up, his face paper-white, and put his hands behind his back. 'If it means anything, Lise, I'm sorry.'
'I'm arresting you for dereliction of duty, official misconduct, obstructing justice, and accepting a bribe. I'm very sorry, too. The Crown tells me more charges are likely.' She sounded very much the well-trained, don't-mess- with-me, modern policewoman. But she wasn't really thinking of the Crown, or the charges, or even Adonis Dyson. The whole time she was executing this by-the-book arrest of her boss, Lise Delorme was thinking of that gawky young daughter she had seen outside his house and of the wraithlike figure who had called her away.
45
IT was three-thirty in the morning, and Cardinal had the photographs pinned up on a shelf above the stereo, where a Bach suite was playing. He was not a classical music buff, but Catherine was and Bach was her hero. Listening to his wife's favorite music made the house seem less lonely, as if he might step into the living room and find Catherine curled up on the couch, reading one of her detective novels.
Katie Pine, Billy LaBelle, and Todd Curry stared at Cardinal from across the room like a very young jury who had found him guilty. Keith London- who might yet be alive- was abstaining from the vote, but Cardinal could almost hear his cry for help, the accusation of incompetence.
There had to be some connection between all four victims; Cardinal did not believe a killer could be entirely random in singling out his prey. There must be some thread, however slender, that united the victims- something that later would turn out to be obvious and he would curse himself for not seeing sooner. It would exist somewhere: in the files, in the scene photographs, in the forensic reports, perhaps in a stray word or phrase, the import of which had been missed at the time.
A car prowled by on Madonna Road, its motor muffled by the banks of snow. A moment later, footsteps sounded on his front steps.
'What are you doing here?'
Lise Delorme was on his doorstep, rain sparkling in her hair, her cheeks pink. Her voice was full of excitement. 'It's a ridiculous hour, I know, but I drove past on my way home and saw your light was on and I have to tell you what just happened.'
'You drove by on your way home?' Madonna Road was three miles out of her way. Cardinal held the door open for her.
'Cardinal, you aren't going to believe this. You know the Corbett case?'
DELORME sat on the edge of the couch, hands flying every which way as she told Cardinal everything, from Musgrave's first appearance to Dyson's laying his head on the bar like a man about to be guillotined.
Cardinal leaned back in his chair by the woodstove, countercurrents of dread and relief flowing across his belly. He listened as she outlined Musgrave's suspicions, Dyson's ambivalence, her own moments of doubt when she discovered the Florida condo, the boat receipt.
'You searched my place without a warrant,' Cardinal said with as little inflection as possible.
She ignored him, small hands moving in the light, her accent stronger than he'd ever heard it. 'For me, the worst moment.' Hand on heart, small round breast momentarily emphasized. 'Worst moment absolutely was finding
