time. Especially if they like to ski.”
Two pairs of top-of-the-line K2 skis were propped up against one wall, still with store tags attached. In the closet, a neat array of clothes on hangers, woman’s on the left, man’s on the right. New York labels. Sweaters folded on the shelves, shoes and ski boots paired up in rows on the floor.
“No wallets anywhere,” Delorme said. “And there were none on the bodies.”
“We’re going to need that opened,” Cardinal said, pointing to the safe on a lower shelf.
“Sure,” Dee replied. “I can do that.”
“Hold it.” Cardinal pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Use this.”
Dee got down on one knee and used the tip of the pen to key in an override code. There was a whirring sound, the door popped open, and he stepped back to his former position, folding his hands as before.
“No wallets, no cellphones,” Cardinal said. “If the killer took them, let’s just hope he uses them.” He extracted two passports from the safe. One Russian, one U.S.
Delorme came to look as he opened the American passport. Lev Petrovich Bastov, sixty-three years old. “That’s our guy,” she said. “Definitely looks better all in one piece.”
Cardinal opened Irena Bastov’s passport. The Cyrillic alphabet stalled him, but the birthdate was clear and there was a U.S. visa attached that was filled out in English. Maiden name, Divyris. Country of origin, Ukraine. “Not even thirty,” Cardinal said. “That’s quite an age difference. The guy’s handsome, I guess. But not that handsome.”
He turned the pages slowly.
Delorme pointed to the U.S. visa, the words Permanent Resident. “That could be why she married him.”
“You don’t think it was love at first sight?”
“Maybe on his side.” Even the photograph’s harsh monochrome could not mar the shining hair, the regal cheekbones, the erotic intelligence in Irena Bastov’s eyes.
Cardinal slipped the passports into a Baggie, put them in his pocket and knelt to take a closer look at the clothes. Health conscious, the two of them. Running shoes and gym gear for both. Then, under a stack of cashmere sweaters, a fifteen-inch Apple laptop.
Cardinal carried it over to the desk and opened it up next to the telephone. “Mr. Dee, do you have records of phone calls made or received?”
“We’ll have any long-distance calls. Local you’ll have to get from the phone company.”
“Could you check for us, please?”
Cardinal spent some time with the computer, starting with Irena Bastov’s browser history. The most recent activity was at Yahoo! Mail. E-mail could be a gold mine, but they would need her password. Before Yahoo!, there were searches for local restaurants, and sites that rated different types of ski boots. Before that, a search of real estate listings. Cardinal clicked on that. There were a couple of pages for Algonquin Bay and another in Huntsville.
“Seems like they were house hunting.” Cardinal opened her address book application. Many of the entries consisted of a single name and an e-mail address, starting with Anton and ending with Zara.
“Come and take a look at this,” Delorme said.
Cardinal joined her in the closet.
“You have to get on your knees to see it.”
Cardinal got on his knees.
“Look at the hem of her skirt there. The long one.”
Cardinal had to put on his reading glasses to get a good look. “Sawdust,” he said. “She looks like such a princess. Where would she pick up sawdust?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Mr. Dee had once again taken up his post at the doorway. “The lift shack and skyway are under renovation. The work was supposed to be done a month ago, but they’re using all different kinds of woods and there was a delay in getting the cedar and mahogany. Anyway, sawdust everywhere. They probably went to check out the facilities when they arrived. And the front desk says there were a couple of long-distance calls. I had them print out the numbers for you.” He held out a sheet of paper.
Cardinal took it from him and looked it over. “Hey, there’s a bit of luck,” he said to Delorme. “First number they called is the first number in her address book. Guy named Anton.”
He took out his own cellphone and dialed the number. Voice mail. A deep voice, indeterminate accent, cultured. This is Anton Bastov. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.
“I don’t mean to rush you,” Mr. Dee said, “but are you guys about done?”
Behind him in the hallway, Paul Arsenault and Bob Collingwood appeared in identical bunny suits, each holding a black ident case.
9
Cardinal and Delorme left the ident team at the hotel and drove over to the Algonquin Bay Fur Harvesters’ warehouse, which was located on the edge of town between the city proper and the Nipissing First Nation reserve.
The warehouse consisted of a front office, a large, echoing showroom, and several smaller showrooms for the display of different lots. Cardinal and Delorme were shepherded around by manager Hank Stromberg, a man with a neatly trimmed grey beard and hair the colour of nicotine. He was treating them with courtesy, but it was the strained courtesy a car dealer shows to someone who is never going to buy.
The bears-their hides, that is-were spread out on a large table: black and brown and tan with legs outstretched and chins upraised, as if they were doing the breaststroke. A nearby table displayed a dozen polar bear hides.
“But they’re endangered,” Delorme said. “How can you still sell them?”
“The polar bear is not endangered,” he said. “Not in this country.”
“What can anybody do with a polar bear hide? Who buys them?”
“Russians, mostly. They stuff them. Put them in the office lobby. Make an impression.”
Men in white lab coats were moving from lot to lot, touching hides, making notes.
Cardinal pointed. “Who are the guys with the clipboards?”
“Buyers. They have until this evening to check out the merchandise. Friday was beaver. Bidding on the rest continues through tomorrow.”
“And Irena Bastov was a buyer?”
“She was.”
“For whom?”
“That I couldn’t tell you. You’ll have to ask our Russian agent. All I know is she bought a lot of fur.”
“Russian agent?”
“A woman on staff here who works with the foreign buyers. A lot of them don’t speak English. She translates for them-and for us, of course. These are the minks. Oh, and seal.”
Stromberg led them through the main showroom where mink pelts hung from display poles. The air was redolent with fresh hide.
“Eighty percent of these are farm raised,” Stromberg said. “You can feel the difference in the fur.” He held out a pelt of chestnut brown for them to touch. Cardinal had never felt anything so soft. “Amazing what good care and regular feeding will do for an animal. Far superior to trapped fur. Here’s the seal.”
Seal hides took up perhaps a quarter of the space, spread flat on tables and on the floor. Delorme pointed to a stack of small hides. “They’re so tiny. I thought it was illegal to kill baby seals.”
Stromberg shook his head. “You’re thinking of harp seals. These are ring seals. Not as photogenic.”
The next room was devoted to wolves. Hundreds of pelts hung from a rack that snaked around the warehouse like a vast coat check. The wolves were strung up by their snouts, fluorescent light gleaming through the holes where their eyes had been.
“Those weren’t farmed,” Cardinal said.
“No. Trapped.”
