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Authors: Giles Blunt
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think I’m still working Special? You think I’m investigating you? Tell me the truth.”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” he said sweetly, thinking, God, I’m a liar. “It’s just, I’m a married man, Lise, and you’re so all-out attractive, I don’t trust myself with you.”
There was a long pause. Then Delorme hung up.
9
T HEY HAD THE FILES SPREAD OUT over three desks and were getting on the nerves of Ian McLeod, a red-haired, knobby, over-muscled cop with a well-nursed persecution complex. He was trying desperately to catch up on the backlog caused by the Corriveau case—a double murder at a hunting lodge. A good investigator, yes, but even on his best days McLeod was a bad-tempered, foul-mouthed hardass; Corriveau had made him just about unbearable. “Can you guys maybe keep it down a little? Like not shout down the entire fucking building?”
“So sensitive these days,” Cardinal said. “Have you been taking one of those New Male workshops?”
“I’m trying to catch up on anything that isn’t Corriveau, okay? Some normal stuff. Believe it or not I had another fucking life before the Corriveau brothers decided to murder their no-good stinking father-in-law and his no-good stinking partner. I still have another life—I just don’t remember what it is right now, owing to the fact that I wake and sleep in this pathetic little butthole of a police station.”
Cardinal tuned him out. “None of these cases has been cleared,” he said to Delorme. “Let’s divide the stack in two and run them down as fast as we can. Pretend they just landed on our desk. I mean, it doesn’t look like anything was done.”
“I heard that,” McLeod yelled across the room. “I don’t need my so-called brothers—oh, excuse me—my so-called brothers- and sisters -in-arms second-guessing me. You try chasing after runaway teenagers when His Majesty Judge Lucien ‘N-for-Numbnuts’ Thibeault has taken over your life. It’s like he considers himself personally responsible for the legal rights of Corriveau Le Prick Incorporated.”
“Nobody was talking about you, McLeod. You’re getting paranoid in your old age.”
“Detective John ‘The Undead’ Cardinal tells me not to be paranoid. That’s when I really get paranoid. Meanwhile, Judge Lucien ‘A-for-asshole’ Thibeault visits me in my dreams howling about chains of evidence and fruit of the goddam tainted tree. Fucking frogs all stick together.”
“Watch your mouth, McLeod.” Delorme wasn’t that big, but she had a glare that could freeze your blood.
“I’ll say what I want, thank you very much. My mother was as French as you—except unlike you, she wasn’t a closet separatist.”
“Oh, boy.”
“Leave it alone,” Cardinal said to Delorme. “You don’t want to talk politics with him.”
“All I said was the Quebecois have some legitimate grievances. What the hell is he talking about?”
“Can we not get into it, please?”
While McLeod muttered to himself over his sups, Cardinal and Delorme cleared three cases in under an hour—a simple matter of matching initial reports with follow-up faxes announcing that the subject was no longer missing. They organized the remaining cases in descending priority: two of the reports had been posted nationally, meaning there was no particular reason to think the subjects—one from Newfoundland, one from Prince Edward Island—had ever set foot in Algonquin Bay.
“This one looks interesting.” Delorme held up a fax photo. “She’s eighteen but looks thirteen. Only five feet tall and ninety pounds. She was actually seen at the bus station.”
“Hang on to it,” Cardinal said, as he answered the phone. “Criminal Investigations, Cardinal speaking.”
“Len Weisman—yes, I’m in the morgue on a Sunday night—why? Because a certain detective of the female persuasion was making my life a living hell. Does she realize Toronto is an actual city? Does she know how many cases we get? Does she
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” he said sweetly, thinking, God, I’m a liar. “It’s just, I’m a married man, Lise, and you’re so all-out attractive, I don’t trust myself with you.”
There was a long pause. Then Delorme hung up.
9
T HEY HAD THE FILES SPREAD OUT over three desks and were getting on the nerves of Ian McLeod, a red-haired, knobby, over-muscled cop with a well-nursed persecution complex. He was trying desperately to catch up on the backlog caused by the Corriveau case—a double murder at a hunting lodge. A good investigator, yes, but even on his best days McLeod was a bad-tempered, foul-mouthed hardass; Corriveau had made him just about unbearable. “Can you guys maybe keep it down a little? Like not shout down the entire fucking building?”
“So sensitive these days,” Cardinal said. “Have you been taking one of those New Male workshops?”
“I’m trying to catch up on anything that isn’t Corriveau, okay? Some normal stuff. Believe it or not I had another fucking life before the Corriveau brothers decided to murder their no-good stinking father-in-law and his no-good stinking partner. I still have another life—I just don’t remember what it is right now, owing to the fact that I wake and sleep in this pathetic little butthole of a police station.”
Cardinal tuned him out. “None of these cases has been cleared,” he said to Delorme. “Let’s divide the stack in two and run them down as fast as we can. Pretend they just landed on our desk. I mean, it doesn’t look like anything was done.”
“I heard that,” McLeod yelled across the room. “I don’t need my so-called brothers—oh, excuse me—my so-called brothers- and sisters -in-arms second-guessing me. You try chasing after runaway teenagers when His Majesty Judge Lucien ‘N-for-Numbnuts’ Thibeault has taken over your life. It’s like he considers himself personally responsible for the legal rights of Corriveau Le Prick Incorporated.”
“Nobody was talking about you, McLeod. You’re getting paranoid in your old age.”
“Detective John ‘The Undead’ Cardinal tells me not to be paranoid. That’s when I really get paranoid. Meanwhile, Judge Lucien ‘A-for-asshole’ Thibeault visits me in my dreams howling about chains of evidence and fruit of the goddam tainted tree. Fucking frogs all stick together.”
“Watch your mouth, McLeod.” Delorme wasn’t that big, but she had a glare that could freeze your blood.
“I’ll say what I want, thank you very much. My mother was as French as you—except unlike you, she wasn’t a closet separatist.”
“Oh, boy.”
“Leave it alone,” Cardinal said to Delorme. “You don’t want to talk politics with him.”
“All I said was the Quebecois have some legitimate grievances. What the hell is he talking about?”
“Can we not get into it, please?”
While McLeod muttered to himself over his sups, Cardinal and Delorme cleared three cases in under an hour—a simple matter of matching initial reports with follow-up faxes announcing that the subject was no longer missing. They organized the remaining cases in descending priority: two of the reports had been posted nationally, meaning there was no particular reason to think the subjects—one from Newfoundland, one from Prince Edward Island—had ever set foot in Algonquin Bay.
“This one looks interesting.” Delorme held up a fax photo. “She’s eighteen but looks thirteen. Only five feet tall and ninety pounds. She was actually seen at the bus station.”
“Hang on to it,” Cardinal said, as he answered the phone. “Criminal Investigations, Cardinal speaking.”
“Len Weisman—yes, I’m in the morgue on a Sunday night—why? Because a certain detective of the female persuasion was making my life a living hell. Does she realize Toronto is an actual city? Does she know how many cases we get? Does she
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