than Delorme, who always had a pair of jeans hanging on the back of a chair and a stack of bills on the kitchen table. But this woman’s trade was organizing people’s offices and homes and work systems, and apparently she had a natural bent for it.
Vestibule with its neat double shelves of shoes and boots, living room with a four-square stack of magazines on a gleaming coffee table, cushions on the sofa just so. But then this emotional chaos in her life, a chaos against which she could apparently maintain no resistance.
As if I’m anyone to judge, Delorme thought. She felt again, in memory, the grip of Priest’s hand between her legs. Lise Delorme, incipient slut.
In the kitchen, a platoon of appliances lined up on the counter. A dish-free sink and drainer. Set of cookware neatly suspended above the stove. Not the least sign of trouble in this sparkling little chamber, unless you counted the few drops and smears of blood on the counter, and the bigger smear on the floor. Beside it, a crushed and empty Kleenex box.
There was blood in the bathroom too, and blood on the telephone and desk.
Delorme pulled open the top right drawer and took out a large envelope with her name on it. It was sealed and taped, and she took a letter opener from a desktop canister of pens to open it. Inside there was a smaller envelope, also sealed, and a note written in violet ink on a sheet headed From the Desk of Miranda Heap.
Dear Lise,
If you are reading this, I am in deep shit.
Remember I told you he makes the most beautiful apologies? I’ve actually been saving them for my therapist, but I’d like you to hear them too-if only so you don’t think I’m such an idiot. They’re not all apologies. He does have some redeeming features, you know.
Pick up my phone and dial*98 and when it asks for the PIN press 4252. Then hit 3 for saved messages.
I don’t know if I can bring myself to tell you his name yet. I’ll have to think some more about that.
Miranda
— Oh hell. Listen to the messages and then take a look in the other envelope.
The voice that came on was so soft as to be almost a whisper. The words were close, muffled even, as if the mouthpiece were up against the lips. He was utterly sorry, his moods were getting the better of him lately, she mustn’t ever think he didn’t love her, she was the world to him.
The voice was not one she recognized. In that near whisper, it could have been anyone. He sounded educated, sincere, affectionate. As she listened, she opened the smaller envelope, which appeared to contain a handful of receipts and a photograph.
The next two messages were muffled, whispery, romantic in an overwrought kind of way-but neither of them seemed to Delorme’s ears particularly inspired, particularly wonderful. Such was love. Passion anyway.
She swivelled the chair around and stared out the window as she continued to listen. A thin snow starting to fall, car lights travelling up and down the hill of Algonquin Avenue. And then the next message made her spin round and plant her elbows on the desk and stare at the base of the phone as if the caller might be visible there.
It was the same caller, the same man, but this time he had forsaken the breathy, into-the-pillow sibilants for accents more declamatory, flamboyant even. Honey, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking! Sometimes, I swear, you just get me so excited I go over the top. But I’ve been soooooo bad! Darlene has been a bad girl, honey, and you’re just going to have to punish her. You’re just gonna have to take your little Darlene and put her over your knee!
Then, in his normal voice, Seriously, Miranda, I love you and miss you and I’m sorry if I went a little overboard. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.
Delorme knew who it was.
Cardinal was brushing his teeth when the phone rang. He rinsed his mouth and spat and went to the living room to see if it was Delorme. It was Ronnie Babstock.
“How was Brussels?”
“Promising. Brussels was very promising. I’m tired as hell, though. Shoulda let one of the younger guys do it, but, I don’t know, I’m good at this, you know? I don’t trust anyone else to do as good a job. Not cuz they’re not smart-they’re smarter than me, some of ’em-but I don’t think anybody loves it as much as me, and therefore… you get my drift.”
“Thanks for getting back to me. You must be exhausted.”
“Yeah, but also kinda wired, as I guess you can tell. What can I do you for? You had a question, your message said.”
“You can’t talk to anybody about this, all right?”
“Word of honour.”
“I’m looking at David Flint, Frank Gauthier and Keith Rettig. Do you know any of them?”
“I know who they are — Flint and Gauthier anyway. Flint’s the senator whose wife died and Gauthier is a very big deal in medical tech. Who was the third guy?”
“Keith Rettig. He’s a CPA at Brunswick Geo.”
“Oh, right, right-with the missing wife or ex-wife or whatever.”
“She’s dead, actually. Her body was found while you were away. In circumstances similar to Marjorie Flint’s.”
“God, you’re kidding. That’s horrible.”
“I’m just wondering-you know the high-tech industry probably better than anyone-do you know if these guys have any history? They were all at U of T together.”
“Yeah, Flint was a year or two ahead of me-or maybe behind. Gauthier too, as I recall. I don’t think our paths ever crossed, though.”
“Did they ever work together?”
“You mean, like at the same company? You could look it up easily enough.”
“Well, someone could. I didn’t get very far, other than the school thing. I’m looking at the years 1980 to 1984.”
“Ah, yes, those dark ages pre-Internet. Did you think of asking Gauthier and the others themselves? I’m a big believer in the direct route where possible.”
“It’s not my best course of action just now. Gauthier’s dead, for one.”
“Frank Gauthier’s dead? When did that happen?”
“A few days ago. Suicide.”
“Oh, that’s sad. I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’m sure you’ll find out whatever you need to know. Sorry I can’t be more useful.”
The jet lag alone would have been enough to destroy Ronnie Babstock’s sleep that night, but Cardinal’s questions had cranked his insomnia dial right up to ten. I should have gone to the lake house, he told himself. The lake house was not so full of noises as this ancient place.
When the voice came this time (3:14 by the bedside clock), he was certain he had not been sleeping. It could not be a dream, unless it was a waking dream-and that was just another name for insanity.
So cold. Dear God, I’ve never been so cold.
It was in the room with him. Babstock lay unmoving, sweat beading on his forehead, slick beneath his arms and on the back of his neck.
I’m not going to get through this. Shivers in her voice. Terror. I’m not going to make it.
Babstock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
I’m so frightened.
He put on his bathrobe and slippers and switched on the light and stood listening.
Hold me. Hold me tight. Oh, God.
Babstock got down on his knees and looked under the bed. He reached for the bedside lamp and removed the shade and laid the lamp down on the floor and looked again. Nothing.
He put the lamp back on the table without the shade and went to the foot of the bed and pulled at it. He leaned back with all his weight, but it wouldn’t move. He went to the side of the bed and put his shoulder to one of the posts. The bed shifted away from the wall at an angle. He pushed again.
He went back to the head of the bed and knelt again and placed his hand against the wall and waited. The bare bulb threw hard shadows, his head monstrous against the corner where the wall met the ceiling.
