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Authors: Giles Blunt
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“Forensics doesn’t have a lot to work with—an arm, an ear, pieces of leg, scalp, bits of pelvis. The guy was killed, then he was hacked up, then he was fed to the bears. The story Matlock gave the owner of Loon Lodge is that he was here to check out the ice fishing. There were no other guests, and so far the only lead we have is a paint scraping taken from where the body was chopped up. We’re looking for a late-model Ford Explorer, walnut brown. We’ve got an ad coming out in tonight’s Lode asking for help from anyone who may have talked to Matlock.”
“Tell me if I’m being rude,” Musgrave said, “but have you examined his car? CSIS here says he rented a red Escort.”
“We’re looking for the car. Are we done here? I’d like to get on with it.”
“What about the American end?” Squier asked. “What’s first on the agenda down there?”
Musgrave stared out the grimy window at the traffic on MacPherson, as if the question had nothing to do with him.
“First thing we have to do with New York,” Cardinal said, “is notify next of kin, if there are any, and interview them. We’ll have to ask the usual questions—any enemies, et cetera, recent altercations …”
“I can do that,” Squier said with childlike eagerness. “Why don’t you let me do that? I have to handle a lot of American stuff anyway, liaising with the FBI and so on.”
Musgrave turned on him. “Do us all a favour, will you? Put one of your former Mounties on it. What the hell do you CSIS infants know about investigating a murder? Or investigating anything for that matter?”
“The top brass at CSIS may still be former Mounties from the old security service days,” Squier said, “but among the rank and file there’s hardly any of them left. And frankly, I don’t think my superior is going to want them on this case.”
“You little dorks with your laptops and your cell-phones—you think you run the universe, don’t you.”
“Sergeant Musgrave, I’m sure you know that the former Mounties on CSIS staff were never criminal investigators; they were security officers, same as I am.”
“Oh, really? And I’m sure you know—or would know, if you took the trouble to look back a little further—that a lot of those security men put in ten or fifteen years in the criminal divisions before moving on to security. Unfortunately, when the media went Mountie-hunting, a little window dressing was in order, so Ottawa passes a new law and abracadabra: you jerks do exactly what the Mounties were doing, only now it’s legal. Oh yes, and dear me, so sorry, I hope you don’t mind—a lot of damned good men were forced out.”
There was a slight tremor in Musgrave’s voice that spoke of emotions more complicated than anger. Cardinal had never seen him so upset, and surprised himself by feeling the beginnings of something like sympathy for the man.
Squier started to speak, then apparently thought better of it and started over. “I can’t change ancient history. And believe it or not, I’m not here to make trouble. But we need your co-operation, and the fact is, I’m not asking. If you want to dispute that, either of you can take it up with my superior in Toronto or with CSIS Ottawa. You have the number. When you’re ready to co-operate, give me a call. I’m at the Hilltop Motel.” He tucked his laptop under his arm and left the room.
When he was gone, Cardinal gave a low whistle.
“My God,” Musgrave said. “Somebody shoot me.”
6
C ARDINAL DROVE TO THE T RIANON H OTEL out on the bypass. If Algonquin Bay could be said to have a scene for power lunches, the Trianon would be it—not that anyone would give the food anything more than two stars—simply because, of the few higher-class places in town, it was by far the most expensive.
And the Trianon possessed, Cardinal had to admit, a certain Old World charm that was hard to find in Algonquin Bay. As he stepped inside, he could see it gleaming in the silver,
“Tell me if I’m being rude,” Musgrave said, “but have you examined his car? CSIS here says he rented a red Escort.”
“We’re looking for the car. Are we done here? I’d like to get on with it.”
“What about the American end?” Squier asked. “What’s first on the agenda down there?”
Musgrave stared out the grimy window at the traffic on MacPherson, as if the question had nothing to do with him.
“First thing we have to do with New York,” Cardinal said, “is notify next of kin, if there are any, and interview them. We’ll have to ask the usual questions—any enemies, et cetera, recent altercations …”
“I can do that,” Squier said with childlike eagerness. “Why don’t you let me do that? I have to handle a lot of American stuff anyway, liaising with the FBI and so on.”
Musgrave turned on him. “Do us all a favour, will you? Put one of your former Mounties on it. What the hell do you CSIS infants know about investigating a murder? Or investigating anything for that matter?”
“The top brass at CSIS may still be former Mounties from the old security service days,” Squier said, “but among the rank and file there’s hardly any of them left. And frankly, I don’t think my superior is going to want them on this case.”
“You little dorks with your laptops and your cell-phones—you think you run the universe, don’t you.”
“Sergeant Musgrave, I’m sure you know that the former Mounties on CSIS staff were never criminal investigators; they were security officers, same as I am.”
“Oh, really? And I’m sure you know—or would know, if you took the trouble to look back a little further—that a lot of those security men put in ten or fifteen years in the criminal divisions before moving on to security. Unfortunately, when the media went Mountie-hunting, a little window dressing was in order, so Ottawa passes a new law and abracadabra: you jerks do exactly what the Mounties were doing, only now it’s legal. Oh yes, and dear me, so sorry, I hope you don’t mind—a lot of damned good men were forced out.”
There was a slight tremor in Musgrave’s voice that spoke of emotions more complicated than anger. Cardinal had never seen him so upset, and surprised himself by feeling the beginnings of something like sympathy for the man.
Squier started to speak, then apparently thought better of it and started over. “I can’t change ancient history. And believe it or not, I’m not here to make trouble. But we need your co-operation, and the fact is, I’m not asking. If you want to dispute that, either of you can take it up with my superior in Toronto or with CSIS Ottawa. You have the number. When you’re ready to co-operate, give me a call. I’m at the Hilltop Motel.” He tucked his laptop under his arm and left the room.
When he was gone, Cardinal gave a low whistle.
“My God,” Musgrave said. “Somebody shoot me.”
6
C ARDINAL DROVE TO THE T RIANON H OTEL out on the bypass. If Algonquin Bay could be said to have a scene for power lunches, the Trianon would be it—not that anyone would give the food anything more than two stars—simply because, of the few higher-class places in town, it was by far the most expensive.
And the Trianon possessed, Cardinal had to admit, a certain Old World charm that was hard to find in Algonquin Bay. As he stepped inside, he could see it gleaming in the silver,
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