“Called in sick,” Chouinard said.
“You guys do that a lot? Two murders, probably three, on the go-you get a headache, you don’t come in?”
“Last time Detective Delorme called in sick,” Cardinal said, “she had a fractured tibia and had just killed a guy who had the really bad idea of assaulting her.”
Chouinard said, “Let’s move on.”
“SIU musta loved that.”
“SIU had no problem with it. Proceed.”
Loach was standing in front of the whiteboard, tossing a marker up in the air and catching it. “While you guys were vacationing in Ottawa and doing whatever else it is you get up to-”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cardinal said, not loud. He didn’t look at Loach, just kept his pen poised over his notebook. Nobody else moved either.
“What I meant? What I meant was exactly what the words mean. As in, I don’t know what you and Delorme have been doing, because half the time you’re not here. If you want to take it some other particular way-like the D.S. says, that’s not my business.”
“Watch your mouth,” Cardinal said, still not looking at him.
Chouinard picked up a large dictionary and slammed it hard on the table. It occurred to Cardinal that it was the only reason the dictionary was kept in this room.
Chouinard looked at Loach. “Please continue.”
Loach turned to the whiteboard and wrote the words White Van, putting them in quotation marks and adding three underlines. The marker squeaked with every move.
“Okay. Had an idea our hotelier friend at the illustrious Motel 17 was not telling us the entire truth. His register showed only a single room occupied. I ask myself, how does this man make a living?” He twirled the marker and caught it. “Turns out, upon closer questioning, Mr. Motel has a sideline with one or two ladies of the night- actually your standard MILF — next-door, who makes a little extra through the online personals. One Millie Pankowitz.
“I proceed to the domicile of said Millie Pankowitz and interview her about the night in question. Results of that interview are as follows: Millie was in room nine, where she had already entertained two delighted consumers of the male persuasion seriatim. That means one after another as opposed to-”
“Jesus,” Cardinal said quietly.
“-as opposed to not one after another. She was waiting on yet a third prospect, who had an appointment for one a.m. She gives it fifteen minutes. He still doesn’t show and she finally bags it. Goes out, gets in her car and sees the parking lot is about as busy as usual for Motel 17. Two vehicles in addition to her own. Laura Lacroix’s black Nissan parked a couple of rooms over, another car-no doubt Mark Trent’s green Audi-by the office. But get this: She gets in her car and heads out of the lot. She’s rolling down the access road when a white van turns off the highway and comes up the access road. She stops at the highway, and in the rear-view sees the van pull into the motel parking lot.”
“There’s a murder two doors down from her,” Chouinard said, “and she doesn’t see fit to maybe mention this to the police?”
“Didn’t occur to her, far as I can tell. Reason being, hubby works night security and is unaware of her nocturnal activities. She better hope he never answers her online ad.”
“How do we know this white van wasn’t her one a.m. john?”
“Because that guy’s a repeat customer. She doesn’t know his real name-she calls him Tom-but she knows what he looks like and she knows his car. He’s maybe forty, got a beard and a crooked nose, and drives a Mazda3. This she remembers because she happens to drive a Mazda3 also. Now, she didn’t get a good look, but the guy she sees in the van is late fifties, maybe sixty, clean-shaven.”
“Still doesn’t rule out her john,” Chouinard pointed out. “He could have been in the back of the van. Or maybe he sent a friend as a proxy, so to speak. Bought someone a birthday present.”
“Really?” Loach said. “You do that a lot up here? Anyway, at this point, Millie is too pissed off to hang around and find out if Mr. White Van is hoping to meet her. Van goes into the lot, Millie hits the highway, and that’s the end of their brief encounter.”
“Delorme and I came up with a white van too,” Cardinal said. He told them about their interview with the serene Ms. Caffrey and held up his sketch for everyone to see. “She said it was a commercial van, no windows, some kind of logo painted out on the side. And from Toronto.”
“This is getting interesting,” Loach said. “Maybe we should get a police artist to interview these two ladies again.”
“I’m on it.” Paul Arsenault raised his coffee mug that said Arsenault in 20-point Helvetica. “I’ll be doing the Identi-Kit with Millie Pankowitz this morning. I’ll get more on the vehicle too.”
“In the meantime,” Loach said, “I want to look deeper into Mark Trent. I’m leaning toward the notion that he was the intended target and Ms. Lacroix, a.k.a. Ms. Rettig, may just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“We have progress,” Chouinard noted as they wrapped things up. “Definite progress. But it would be nice to have an actual suspect.”
At the visitor check-in, Delorme had to hand over her Beretta, her bag and even her belt to the plump guard on the other side of the counter. He issued her a receipt for the items and said, “Welcome to Kingston Penitentiary Services.”
As she went through the security gate, the alarm went off.
A massive guard with no discernible emotional life raised a hand in a “halt” gesture. “Notebook.”
Delorme handed it to him.
A female guard stepped forward and patted her down with a thoroughness that in any other circumstances would have got her arrested.
“Hey,” Delorme said, and stepped back.
“You got a problem?”
“Who taught you to give a pat-down-Paul Bernardo?”
The woman stepped close and looked into Delorme’s eyes for a full fifteen seconds. Burnt coffee on her breath. “Undo your jacket.”
Delorme unbuttoned her blazer and opened it up. The guard reached for the inside pocket and removed a ballpoint pen.
“Uh-uh.”
“The prisoner will be manacled. They let me keep it at check-in.”
“Do I look like I care?”
“I’m investigating a murder. I need to take notes.”
“The pen stays at check-in or it goes back outside with you. Your choice.”
The male guard handed back the spiral notebook. “This too.”
Delorme returned to the check-in counter. The plump guard shook his head. “Sorry. Tear a few pages out of the notebook, and you can use this.” He handed her a library pencil.
Delorme returned to the security gate and went through.
“You’re lucky that ain’t a underwire bra you’re wearing,” the female guard said, “or I’d a taken that too.”
Yet another guard escorted her from security, unlocking and relocking each door as they went. The prison interior-this part of it, anyway-resembled a high school. Gleaming floor, the smell of cleaning products, and steel doors that almost looked like wood.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Too long.”
Another door, another corridor. Halfway along, he stopped at a door with a small square of thick Plexiglas. It had been spat on and inadequately cleaned.
The guard opened the door and held it. “I know they told you the rules and I know you signed the visitors’ agreement, but I will tell you again. You do not touch the prisoner. You do not give anything to the prisoner. You do not accept anything from the prisoner. Nothing. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
