Delorme pointed to the sign. “Would you want to stay in a place called Motel 17? Really, what was the guy thinking?”
“If you like Motel 6, you’ll love Motel 17,” Cardinal said. “Simple math.”
A uniformed policewoman posted in front of the crime scene tape waved them past.
They joined a knot of people in the parking lot. Two were kneeling. The grouping reminded Cardinal of a Christmas creche. Detective Constable Vernon Loach stood up. “Perfect day for it, right?”
“Minus twenty-eight last I heard,” Cardinal said.
“You see the march of the fishing huts?”
“Yeah. Guess there’s a first for everything.”
“I didn’t know what I was seeing. Invasion of the porta-potties. I lead on this one, just so you know.”
“What?” Delorme said. “How do you figure that, Constable?”
“Take it up with Chouinard.”
Delorme whipped out her phone and walked away from the group. When she came back, her face was locked up tight.
Loach spoke to the coroner. “Couple of late arrivals, Doc. You wanna bring ’em up to speed?”
Dr. Barnhouse was wearing a fur-lined pilot’s cap that made him look like a cartoon animal. He was a bad- tempered Scot whose mood was in direct correlation to the temperature. “Perhaps you’d like to schedule a matinee performance as well, Sergeant Loach.”
“Detective Constable,” Delorme said, “not Sergeant.”
“Let’s just get on with it,” Loach said.
“Are we all quite ready, then? Everyone use the toi-toi? Everyone got their pencils sharpened?”
“You could be finished by now.”
Cardinal was trying to keep an open mind about Loach, a recent import from Toronto. So far, the only interesting thing about him seemed to be that he didn’t care whether anybody liked him or not. An attitude that might be useful when you’re working narcotics in a metropolis like Toronto. Working a homicide-anywhere, let alone in a small northern city-it could prove a liability.
“Well-nourished Caucasian male,” Barnhouse said, “early forties, been out in the elements approximately eight hours, possibly as much as ten. Extreme cold precludes even a rough guess at time of death.
“Cursory inspection of lividity shows he died right here, in this position. Mechanism of death is most likely asphyxiation. No ligature marks or sign of finger or thumb marks, but the hyoid is crushed and we’ve got petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. Whoever killed him probably stood on his throat. You can make out a tread mark or two.”
“Nice,” Cardinal said.
“Let’s go inside,” Loach said. “We commandeered one of the rooms. Note the two vehicles on your way in.”
They left Barnhouse filling out his paperwork, and the three of them walked to the room next to the motel office and went inside.
“Did Ident get pictures of his throat?” Cardinal asked. “Might be able to match those marks to a particular boot.”
“Good idea,” Loach said, and Cardinal wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not. He asked about the two civilian cars in the lot.
“Right. Get your pencils out, we got a lotta names. Black Nissan belongs to a local woman named Laura Lacroix, who is not here and not at home. She’s married to but separated from one Keith Rettig, who still dwells in your fair city. Our fair city. The throat is one Mark Trent, administrator at the hospital and owner of the green Audi parked in front of room seven. Evidence in said room indicates the two were having an affair, and the manager confirms he’s seen Trent before, and both the vehicles, although he never saw the woman. I suppose they were being discreet. Textbook tells us suspect number one is the former husband. You know how it goes: you discover the wife’s unfaithful, you’re ticked, there’s really nothing left except to do a tap dance on some poor bastard’s throat.”
“Was he married too, the victim?” Delorme asked.
“To Melinda Trent, also a hospital administrator. According to the dictates of gender equity, Mrs. Trent is also a prime suspect. She called in a missing person report to the detachment this morning, but she hasn’t been informed yet. I’ll be doing that”-Loach pulled up the sleeve of his parka to look at his watch-“imminently.”
Outside, a tow truck driver was slipping a harness under the Audi, wading through clouds of exhaust.
“So Ms. Lacroix is missing,” Cardinal said, “but her car’s still here. There any leads on a third vehicle?”
“None. No snow on the drive, no tracks. Speaking of which, what is it with the wacky weather up here? We get more snow in Toronto than this. I only came here for the skiing, as you know.”
“Head ten kilometres north-they’ve got tons of it.”
“Like I say, wacky. Where was I? Manager. Manager lives in the house behind the motel. Says he was in bed and didn’t hear a thing. No other guests and no witnesses of any kind that we know of. Our theory so far-my theory-is that our two lovers call it a night. Laura Lacroix leaves first, still trying to be discreet-her coat’s gone, but Mr. Trent came out in his shirt sleeves. We found a small bracelet near the body and I figure she forgot it and he rushed out to give it to her.”
“You’re quick,” Cardinal said.
“That’s a good thing, right? Seems likely somebody jumped her as she was getting into her car. Otherwise, what vehicle did she leave in, and why? Trent comes out with the bracelet, perp takes a negative view on potential witnesses and kills him.”
“If it was the angry husband,” Delorme said, “Trent may have been next on his list anyway. May have been first, in fact.”
“Quite possible.”
“You’re talking to Trent’s wife,” Cardinal said. “You want us to take Mr. Rettig?”
“Yeah. And if he doesn’t have a rock-solid alibi, bring him in and we’ll sweat him. Cuz if it ain’t the angry husband, I got a feeling this one could turn into an out-and-out mystery. And I hate mysteries.”
They stood there for a full minute as Cardinal stared into space. Loach glanced at Delorme and said, “Detective Cardinal has a contemplative look. I believe he is being visited by a thought.”
“Not much of one,” Cardinal said. “Just that none of this-an affair, possible jealousy, the fact that the woman’s missing-means she’s actually been killed. It’s possible she hired somebody to do it and staged her disappearance as cover. More likely, she’s been abducted by some third party, though for what reason…”
“Exactly,” Loach said. “Investigation like this, a cop’s best friend is a dirty mind.”
Keith Rettig lived in a white bungalow on one of the small streets off Lakeshore. He was a lot older than Cardinal had expected, maybe early sixties. He answered the door in a paint-spattered sweatshirt and jeans.
Cardinal introduced himself and Delorme and asked if they could come in.
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’m in the middle of painting.”
“Mr. Rettig, do you know where your wife is?”
“Well, she’s not here. She doesn’t live here. Why are you looking for her?”
“Her car was found abandoned at a motel. A man was killed there and we think she may be in danger herself.”
“Killed? Wait-killed who? Is Laura okay?”
“The man is dead. Your wife is missing. She may still show up for work, but she’s not at home and, as I said, her car is still at the motel.”
“This is hard to take in.”
“I know it’s a shock,” Delorme said. “Can we come in and talk?”
“I’m sorry, yes, of course.” He stood back and held the door for them.
They stepped in and slipped their boots off. Strong smell of paint and newsprint. Newspapers and drop cloths spread over the floor.
“Come into the living room,” Rettig said. “It’s the only room that isn’t in chaos. I just moved in a week ago.”
The furniture looked expensive, but it was too big and there was too much of it. Cardinal and Delorme sat on the couch. Rettig sat in a leather club chair, much worn, with a brass reading lamp beside it. “Jesus. This is a
