the driveway entrance. The mailbox that said THE SCHUMACHERS, and the sign that said FOR SALE, CARNWRIGHT REAL ESTATE. “Notice there are no tracks around the For Sale sign or the mailbox. Call me anal retentive, but I decided to take prints off both of ’em anyway. Lifted a good thumb and a couple of partials off the sign. And get this: they match prints we found in the master bedroom-on the headboard of the bed.”
As circles and arrows flew from Collingwood’s marker, Arsenault changed the image to show first the bedside table, then the headboard. “We found a nice thumbprint here.” He pointed to an area near the upper left corner of the headboard. “And it doesn’t match the Schumachers or any other individuals we have so far.”
“Well, the realtor usually puts up the sign,” Chouinard said. “Have we ruled him or her out?”
“Him,” Cardinal said. “Randall Wishart over at Carnwright’s. Did he come in to get printed?”
Arsenault said no.
“I told him to.”
Dunbar sat up and cleared his throat. “I have some information that might help. I took the Schumachers out to the house.”
“Before it was cleaned up?” Chouinard said. “Who told you to do that?”
“We needed to know if anything was stolen-especially now we’ve got a self-confessed thief on the scene.”
“As of five minutes ago,” Cardinal said. “Why didn’t you clear it with me?”
“I didn’t think it would need clearing. I mean, we’re all supposed to be investigators, right?”
“We’re working a coordinated investigation. Do not go off interviewing people without telling me.” Cardinal felt the heat spreading up his neck and into his face. “I should not have to be saying this.”
“Okay, I hear you. Can I tell you what they said?”
“After they’d finished throwing up?”
“They weren’t that bad, considering. They didn’t see anything missing. Nothing. Also, I asked them about their routine for closing up the house in winter. They lock doors and windows, turn the heat down, shut the water off, all that. Main point, Mrs. Schumacher strips all the beds and puts on fresh bedspreads. They don’t have a cleaning lady, so that long black hair could be crucial.”
“Okay, that’s good stuff,” Cardinal said. “I’m still annoyed at you, but let’s move on.”
“What do we know about this Wishart?” Chouinard said. “The realtor.”
“He’s been with Carnwright just a couple of years,” Cardinal said. “He’s married to Carnwright’s daughter.”
“Laura Carnwright?” Delorme said. “She’s a high flyer. She must be on every committee in town.”
“Wishart seems like a real go-getter himself. Hasn’t been out to the Schumacher house for a few weeks. Or so he says.” Cardinal looked at Arsenault. “Do we have anything back on the tires?”
“Tread marks,” Arsenault said. He flashed a picture of the hydro utility road. “Our runner seems to have got into her car here-if it really was a her-and shots were fired, damaging her tail light. Treads on this vehicle are all different, all old and worn, and could belong to any number of subcompacts: Honda, Mazda, you name it. Same with the shards of tail light. The driveway’s more promising.”
The image changed again. “Vehicle One got there first. Or put it another way-Vehicle One was the first car there after the snowfall Thursday morning. Vehicle Two tires aren’t going to get us far. Wheel base gives us a compact, tires are the most common Goodyear snow tires, all four wheels. Vehicle One is a mid-size with Bridgestone Blizzard Grips, again all four wheels. Width and load rating would suit a range of pricier sedans: BMW, Saturn and Acura. The tires were discontinued three years ago, but you know the tire stores keep records of what they sell, and if it’s local we might get lucky.”
Chouinard pointed at Cardinal. “You didn’t happen to get what Wishart is driving, by any chance?”
“Yeah, I did. He drives an Acura TL.”
“I knew there was a reason I hired you,” Chouinard said, getting up.
“You didn’t hire me.”
“Well, somebody must have had a reason.”
15
Cardinal and Delorme pulled up in front of Carnwright Real Estate just as Randall Wishart was getting into his car.
“Mr. Wishart?” Cardinal said. “Could you hold it right there, please?”
Wishart looked annoyed, until he realized who Cardinal was and then he flashed a smile. “Detective-what can I do for you?”
“You can stop bullshitting me for a start.”
The smile vanished. He looked from Cardinal to Delorme and back again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Cardinal opened the rear door of the unmarked. “Or we could do it right here in your office-maybe bring your father-in-law in on it? Or how about your wife’s office? Would you prefer that?”
“Hey. I sell houses for a living. I don’t kill people.”
“Just get in the car.”
On the way, Wishart called a lawyer.
–
Dick Nolan was known around the CID as Dr. No, the reason being that he never agreed to anything if he could avoid it-certainly not to anything that might be construed as disadvantageous to his clients, of whom Randall Wishart was now one. He arrived at the station fresh from court, Burberry overcoat flapping, red polka dot tie flying over one shoulder, thinning grey hair shooting out from his scalp like a seeding dandelion about to blow away. His colour was high, not due to the cold but to a state of outrage that, as far as Cardinal knew, was permanent.
Nolan stormed into the interview room where Wishart was waiting and slammed the door. Moments later his shouts of disbelief could be heard all the way down the hall.
Cardinal gave them fifteen minutes. When he and Delorme finally sat down across from Wishart and his counsel, he asked if they had any objection to the interview being videotaped. He knew what the answer would be.
“No tape,” Nolan said. “Why have you brought my client here against his will?”
“We believe he has knowledge pertinent to the investigation of a double murder,” Cardinal said. “By law we have to interview him and-by all means check with your client, but I believe he would rather speak to us here than in his office or his home.”
“You’re threatening his reputation and his peace of mind without cause, not to mention invading his privacy.”
“All right.” Cardinal closed his notebook and stood up. “If Mr. Wishart doesn’t want to talk to us today, we’ll talk to him another time.”
“Hold it. Hang on a second,” Wishart said. He leaned over to whisper to his lawyer.
“We’re prepared to proceed on a limited basis,” Nolan said.
Cardinal flipped the pages of his notebook. “Mr. Wishart, you told me you hadn’t been out to the Schumacher place for a couple of weeks.”
“The house was broken into. The rear door was jimmied,” Nolan said. “My client, as you very well know, has a key. Why would he need to break in?”
“To make it look like someone who didn’t have a key,” Delorme said.
“You were there on Thursday,” Cardinal said. “The day the Bastovs were murdered.”
“Do you have some evidence that puts my client there? Perhaps a security video? A witness?”
“We have tread marks that match the tires on his car. We have fingerprints on the For Sale sign. And on the bed in the master bedroom.”
“Prints that you matched to my client how? He has no criminal record. He has never been in the armed services. He has never had a security check. How would you have his prints?”
Cardinal folded his hands on the table and studied his thumbs. “Mr. Nolan, how uncooperative do you wish your client to appear? People who have recently been to the Schumachers’ were asked to provide fingerprints. He
