The office was located in an exquisitely maintained corner house on Woodrow at Sumner, with a wraparound porch and casement windows and a well-tended lawn. It looked like a set from a TV series about a happy family; all it needed was a swing set on the side lawn. Cardinal had been here several times, when Larry Carnwright had handled the sale of his house.
The receptionist informed him that Randall Wishart was representing the Schumacher property. Wishart came out and shook hands with him and led him back to an office decorated with flattering photographs of Algonquin Bay houses that the Carnwright firm had sold. This being a high-end outfit, there was also a fair bit of art around the place. A small, squat Inuit sculpture of a polar bear sat on top of a bookcase full of binders, and a large, colourful painting or print-Cardinal was never quite sure of the difference-had one wall to itself. There were also plenty of pictures of a sharp-eyed blond woman-in a skiing outfit, in a poolside lounge chair, and a professional portrait in a blue pinstripe suit. She had the startling blue eyes of the Carnwright family.
“Have a seat,” Wishart said, indicating a chair. He was handsome in a conventional way, late twenties or so, with something of the look of a politician. Not a hair out of place. “Are you here on police business or about a house?”
“Both. I have some questions about the Schumacher place out on Island Road.”
“Don’t tell me they’ve had a break-in.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Happens all the time with lake properties-well, I’m sure you know. Was there a break-in?”
“You didn’t hear the news on the radio this morning?”
“What news?”
“You’re the Schumachers’ agent, correct?”
“I guess so.”
“You’re not sure?”
Wishart smiled. “Well, this is confidential, but the Schumachers are not serious about selling. I knew that right off. I wanted to take a video of the place-it’s standard for the online listings-but they wouldn’t let me. They’re asking way above market, and I think it’s really just a ploy to get their kids to move back to Algonquin Bay. Kind of an empty-nest thing. I took them on for goodwill-if they ever really decide to sell that place, I’d love to handle it.”
“Have you been out there recently?”
Wishart pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not recently. Not for a few weeks, anyway. I’m gonna go out there and take that sign down. It’s just an invitation to trouble, obviously.”
The key was not a crucial matter-the back door of the house had been jimmied, after all-but Cardinal asked anyway.
“Yes, I have a key. I should probably return it. They’re a nice old couple, the Schumachers, but believe it or not, we do actually like to sell houses, not just put up signs.” Wishart sat forward and opened a desk drawer. He rattled around and pulled out a key and put it on his desk. “That’ll remind me to get it back to them.”
“Have you shown the house to anyone?”
“Not a soul. Had a lot of inquiries, though.”
“Phone calls? Or did you actually meet with anyone?”
“Lots of calls. The asking price put ’em off pretty quick. And a few people looked at the picture out on the veranda and came in to ask about it. That stopped soon as I added the price to the posting, though.”
“Did any of the inquiries strike you as suspicious?”
“Suspicious in what way? People are always inquiring about houses they can’t come close to affording.”
“Perhaps someone just trying to determine if the house was unoccupied at the moment? Asking after the owners’ whereabouts or habits, for example?”
“No one like that. Just people who like the idea of owning a house out on Trout Lake. No shortage of those.”
“All right. Is there anything else you can think of to tell me?”
“Well, no. I mean, it could be anybody, right? We’re talking about a break-in.”
“Actually, two people were murdered and had their heads cut off.”
Wishart went very still and blinked a few times but didn’t look away. When he spoke again, his voice was solemn. “Did I hear you right?”
“You did.”
“My God. You said they were… decapitated?”
“That’s right.”
“My God,” he said again. “But-so, are you looking for some insane individual, like a psycho of some sort?”
“Of some sort.”
“My God.”
“Just for the record, Mr. Wishart, can you tell me where you were Thursday night?”
“Thursday night? That’s easy. I was watching the game at a friend’s place. Leafs lost, of course. Troy was destroyed. He’s a serious Leafs fan. I mean serious. God, I can’t get over this.”
“Troy?”
“Troy Campbell. We went to high school together.”
“I’ll need his address. Home and work.”
“What? Oh, of course.”
Wishart gave him the addresses and Cardinal wrote them down. Then Wishart went with him to the front door, still a little stunned.
Cardinal asked him about the Acura parked outside.
“Pardon me?”
“The black Acura. It’s yours?”
“Oh. Yes. Speaking of things we can’t afford. God, I can’t get over this. It’s horrifying. Let me know if I can do anything to help.”
“You can. We need you to come down to the station to be fingerprinted.”
“Sure. Absolutely. I’ll try to get down later in the week.”
“Today, Mr. Wishart.”
–
On his way back to the office, Cardinal stopped off at the local hockey arena, which was called Memorial Gardens, although no one knew in memory of what. It was only a couple of blocks from work. Cardinal couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a game, but even though the concession stands were not open at this hour, the smells of popcorn and caramel hadn’t changed. A janitor mopping the front lobby directed him to the security office.
A lot of security people are former police officers, or people who want to be police officers. Troy Campbell was neither. A tall man with shoulders that looked like they could support a small cathedral, Campbell was a former captain of the Algonquin Bay Trappers, the local Junior A hockey team. A photograph on the cinder-block wall showed him swooping away from a goal, stick high in the air. He still had the blond hair of the photograph, but it was thinner now, unlike the rest of him.
“What can I do for you, Detective? The only time I see police is when we have to charge some drunk for throwing bottles on the ice.” Campbell had the easy confidence of a man who is used to being the biggest in the room.
“I’m investigating a major crime, and right now I’m just nailing down a few corroborating details.”
“Nothing at the Gardens, I hope.”
“No. But I need to know where you were Thursday night.”
“Where I was.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I don’t understand. Why do I have to tell you where I was?”
“You don’t have to. But it’s pertinent to our investigation, so it depends how helpful you want to be. Or not.”
Campbell laughed. “Sorry. Don’t get me wrong. I’m just mystified. I’m glad to help. Thursday night I was
