“Who knows what else? I’m a bartender, not a detective.”
“Hey, Euclid,” McLeod said, “I thought Greeks were supposed to be smart.”
“Long time ago.” He swung his mournful eyes back to Cardinal. “It’s just my feeling, but the guy looked tough-you know, like a Marine or something. Like if you got him upset, he might dismantle you.”
“Thanks,” Cardinal said. “Listen, can you get someone to cover the bar for you before the evening rush? We need you to go downtown and talk to the police artist.”
“I told you, I don’t remember nothing.”
“Do it anyway. You may be surprised.”
–
When they got back into the car, Cardinal drove out along Island Road rather than back toward town.
“I want to take another look at the scene,” Cardinal said.
“Fine by me. By the way, I talked to Ron Lariviere-the bush pilot Irena Bastov was screwing? He denied it at first, of course, but faced with my priestlike demeanour he admitted that, yes, they had a two-night fling a couple of years ago, and that was the extent of it.”
“And you believe him?”
“I actually do. Besides, on the night in question he was drinking with a bunch of trappers at the Bull and Bear.”
“What about the guy who used to run the trappers’ association?”
“That was more challenging. Donald Rivard left town six years ago and didn’t keep in touch with anybody. I tracked him down to Red River, where apparently he died of cirrhosis in 2008. So glamorous, the fur industry.”
There was a car parked in the hydro turnoff where Sam had parked. Cardinal pulled into the Schumachers’ drive. Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, but other than that the house gave no sign of what had taken place inside. They went in through the back door and into the dining room. The blood-smeared floor, the empty chairs.
“Heat’s back on,” McLeod said. He picked up an unused Baggie from the floor and put it in his pocket. “Makes you wonder who turned it off. And why.”
“Probably the killer. Wanted to be sure we found the bodies exactly the way he left them.”
“You think it’s the guy the Bastovs were with at the Chinook? From Jimmy’s description, it could be the older guy on the airport tape.”
“Could be. But it was Wednesday night they were seen with him. They were killed Thursday night.”
“Well, we know it’s not the ATM mugger. The shoe prints don’t match. And he was not left-handed.” McLeod interrupted himself to point out the back window. “Why, look at that-a suspect.”
Outside, a pudgy man in a long dark coat was contemplating the snowy surface of the lake. He was about ten yards from shore, hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders hunched, even though it was a relatively warm day. On his head, a Russian-style fur hat.
“Looks too harmless,” Cardinal said.
“Looks like a fucking commissar. Do you suppose he realizes that the lake ice is not exactly the safest place to-”
It was as if, by raising the possibility, McLeod caused it to happen. The ice gave way beneath the man and he pitched forward. In an effort to counterbalance, he tipped back. As his weight shifted to his rear foot, that too broke the surface. Now only his shoulders and head were visible.
McLeod pulled out his cellphone and dialed 911.
“Find some rope,” Cardinal said. “And a crowbar or something.”
He grabbed a broom and reached the lake in seconds and ran to the end of the dock. He got onto the ice on all fours and lay down to spread his weight. He dragged himself forward and placed the broomstick across the hole. The man was trying to suck in air, unable to speak. He grabbed hold of the broom handle. Cardinal pounded the near edge of the hole, snapping off chunks of the weakest ice.
McLeod was on the dock now. He tossed a crowbar, and Cardinal used it to break more ice until he reached a thicker patch.
“You’ve got to pull yourself up,” he said to the man. “We’re not going to be able to haul you out of there without your help.”
McLeod had tied some clothesline into a lasso. Cardinal looped it around the man’s shoulders and told him to put his arms through. Together they managed to get the rope under his arms.
Cardinal crawled back to the dock. He and McLeod braced the rope around their backs and heaved. The man got first one leg up out of the water, then the other. He collapsed on the ice, and they dragged him to shore.
As the wail of the ambulance grew louder, Cardinal reached into the man’s coat. He made a token effort to resist, his hand a white claw. The dripping bills inside the wallet were American, and a government card identified him as Special Agent Irv Mendelsohn, FBI.
McLeod, who had been looking over Cardinal’s shoulder, let out a bark of laughter.
28
Mendelsohn was taken to emergency, where he was treated with hot tea and an electric blanket. His first words to Cardinal and McLeod were, “So embarrassing. Thank you both.”
“What are you talking about?” McLeod said. “You made our day.”
“So humiliating.” Mendelsohn’s native tongue seemed to be italics. He blew on his tea to cool it.
“What were you doing trampling all over our crime scene?” Cardinal said.
“I know, I know. So rude. I wanted to go through proper channels. I did call your HQ. They said you were out, and I thought you might be at the scene. Enthusiasm got the better of me, I guess.”
“We found a red Chevy Alero down the road a ways. Would that be yours?”
“It was all Avis had left. I’m just here to help any way I can, fellas. You have a couple of dead Americans. I’m here to observe and assist.”
“Sort of a charity thing,” McLeod said. “Help out the hillbillies up north.”
“No, no, we have our own hillbillies, you may have heard. Say, did I thank you gentlemen? I certainly meant to.”
“We do actually have running water up here,” McLeod went on. “And horseless carriages. Electricity, even. And we have been known to make a case or two.”
“Oh, now you’ve taken offence. The last thing I wanted. I’ve really put my foot in it, haven’t I.”
“Through it,” McLeod said. “You put your feet through it.”
“Wonderful. Now I’m a figure of fun.”
“All right,” Cardinal said. “So you head out to the scene. What were you looking for on the lake?”
“Evidence. Often people will go over the interior of a scene with a fine-tooth comb, and the exterior… who knows? Maybe a perpetrator approached via snow machine. Maybe someone could have tossed a weapon out there, forgetting the lake was frozen.”
“Sort of,” McLeod said.
“Go ahead, amuse yourself, Detective. I deserve it.”
“You’re welcome to observe,” Cardinal said. “But I don’t really see how you can help.”
“Similarities,” Mendelsohn said. “Your case has certain similarities to another case of mine. Do you suppose my clothes would be out of the dryer yet?”
“No,” McLeod said, “our dryers are very inferior up here. What similarities?”
Mendelsohn gave him a mournful look and reached for a Kleenex. He blew into it with surprising force, and then lay back. Eyes closed, he said, “Two cases. I brought copies of the files to show you, but they’re in my hotel room.
“About six months ago in Westchester County-that’s just north of the Bronx. Swanky area. Family of three found murdered. Shot. Weapon was a nine-mil of undetermined make and model. Mutilated post-mortem. Heads turned up a few days later on some church steps like a trio of gargoyles. Sick stuff.”
“Definite similarities,” Cardinal said. “But a church is not a dock. An undetermined make is not the same as a
