“Things like what?”
“A bush pilot, comes here a lot. Ron Lariviere. Everybody in this business knows Ron. Supposedly he was fucking her. Why do you look like that? You don’t use this word? All right. Supposedly they were making love,” she said, giving it ridiculous emphasis. “You like better? Supposedly they were making love. If true, I think this would upset Lev. Who knows? Maybe he got upset and someone got upset back.”
“But why would he kill Irena too?”
“In your job I suppose you must try and understand people. Is necessary maybe. But for me?” Ms. Kuritsyn shook her head. “Waste of time.”
10
It was dark when Cardinal and Delorme came out of the fur warehouse. The temperature had dropped, and blades of cold pressed against Cardinal’s face. The parking lot was empty except for three or four cars and a red pickup with a bumper sticker that said I ¦ Country Music.
“Lev Bastov’s been in this industry forever,” Cardinal said. “It may be his killer has too. At some point we’re going to have to talk to some real old-timers. Get background on him and the local biz.”
“What did you think of our Russian agent?” Delorme said. She pulled her hood up against the cold.
“I think she liked you.”
“Are you kidding? She was completely hostile.”
“Funny thing, Lise-you don’t seem to have any trouble understanding men, but women are a whole other story. I meant she liked you.”
Delorme looked back toward the warehouse, then at Cardinal. “No way. She has a husband.”
“Touching your hand, saying she’d marry you.”
Delorme shook her head. “You are so wrong.”
“Well, why don’t you wait in the car a minute.” Donna Vaughan was waving to Cardinal from across the parking lot. “Someone I have to talk to.”
The reporter was by her car, notebook in hand. She had bought herself a thicker parka since the other day.
“Just leaving?” Cardinal said. “Or just arriving?”
“Leaving. Man, I get tired of Russians. These people are paranoid with a capital P.”
“You talked to Natalia Kuritsyn?”
“Yesterday. Kind of frisky, that one. Today I was interviewing Russian buyers. Four of these guys, all built like trucks. All from Kalinin. Spoke five words of English between them.”
“How were you able to ID the Bastovs before we were?”
“Trade secret.” She held out her wrists together. “You can tie me up and beat me. I’ll never tell.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“Actually, it was just dumb luck. I happened to be interviewing Natalia Kuritsyn when she was waiting for the Bastovs to show up. She got more and more worried, called the hotel, called the cops. Did you find the car yet?”
“We’re running that down. They may not have bothered renting one.”
“Mercury Grand Marquis. Red. Current model. They rented it from Hertz at the airport. You want the licence number?”
Cardinal laughed. “You’re good.”
“I try to be, Officer.”
As Cardinal headed back toward his car, she caught up to him from behind. She spoke breathlessly, words colliding into each other. “Listen, I hate to sound forward and everything. I’m really not a pushy person, despite how it may look. But I’m sick of eating at the hotel and I’m hoping you’ll go to dinner with me. Someplace nice. I realize you’re married and I’m not trying to pick you up. In fact, I’d love to meet your wife, so bring her too and it’ll be my treat, okay? What do you say? I can put it on expenses and it won’t even be a lie. Say yes. You can explain Algonquin Bay to me. You can talk about hockey. It’ll be fun.”
It had started to snow, and a flake landed on her eyebrow and melted there. When Cardinal and Delorme got back to the station, McLeod told them how his unrelenting devotion to duty had led him to canvass the airport rental agencies and determine the make of the Bastovs’ car. An all-units alert for the Mercury Grand Marquis was already in place.
Cardinal dialed Anton Bastov’s number again. No answer. He looked up Donna Karan, dialed the DKNY corporate headquarters and finally ascertained his whereabouts. Anton Bastov had been overcome by severe food poisoning after a return flight from Paris. He was expected to recover but was still in hospital. Cardinal got the name of the hospital and called them and was told the patient was not well enough to receive bad news or be interviewed.
Cardinal typed up his supplemental reports, wondering if he should mention Donna Vaughan in them. He decided against it. She was press, not a witness, and others had garnered the same information through the usual police footwork.
D.S. Chouinard stopped by Cardinal’s cubicle on his way out. “Word to the wise. Just had a call from the FBI’s New York office. They’re going to be sending a man up here. Special Agent Mendelsohn.”
“What for?”
“We’ve got a couple of dead American citizens and they want to have a look-see. Naturally, we’re going to be the model of international co-operation.”
At seven-thirty, Delorme put on her coat. “You want to watch a video later, or are you too tired?”
“I’m pretty beat,” Cardinal said.
“You staying all night?”
“Nah, I’m just about done.” He didn’t feel like telling Delorme about his dinner date, he wasn’t sure why.
“Who was the blonde at the warehouse?”
“Donna Vaughan. Reporter from the States.”
Delorme’s brown eyes lingered on him for a moment, then she was gone.
–
DeGroot’s restaurant had opened up on Main Street the year before. It couldn’t boast the elegance of Champlain’s but, with its snug wooden booths and its red plush banquettes, it did offer a pleasant mixture of privacy and conviviality. It didn’t hurt that the food was good too. When Cardinal had warned Donna that it was a steakhouse, she said, “Fine with me, Detective. I’m good with red meat.”
She was already seated in a booth when he got there. “Typical pathetic single, right? Asks the guy out, gets there first, already into the wine.”
“Pathetic is not the word that comes to mind,” Cardinal said. “You look amazing.”
He hadn’t said anything like that to any woman other than Catherine for nearly thirty years. It was completely true, of course. He wasn’t sure if it was the colour of her sweater, or something she had done to her hair, or the silver earrings.
“I’m really embarrassed now about being so forward,” she said, “and suggesting you bring your wife. I looked you up on the Internet and, boy-brilliant move, Donna.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Cardinal said. He twisted his ring. “I know I should take it off. It’s been more than a year now. But we were married a long time.”
“Yes, you would be. You’re definitely the type. Stable. Steady. Secure.” She took a sip of her wine. “Tell me something. Your last name is Native American, right? Sorry-Native Canadian.”
“In my case it comes from Scotland. My grandparents were from Fife, wherever the hell that is.” Cardinal pointed at the glass of red in her hand. “Should I order a bottle of that?”
“Definitely.”
DeGroot’s was busier than usual. It was a cold night, and diners had been drawn by the lure of comfort food, candles and a roaring fireplace. When the wine came, Donna told Cardinal how she had become a journalist. It had
