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Authors: Giles Blunt
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twinkling in the chandeliers and candelabra. He could only afford to come here on special occasions; the last had been Kelly’s graduation.
“Which party?” the maître d’ inquired, with a passable imitation of Parisian hauteur.
“I’m meeting R.J. Kendall.”
The maître d’ led him across the crowded dining room. Cardinal recognized an assistant Crown attorney and nodded to a provincial court justice. Police Chief Kendall was ensconced in a plush side room that Cardinal had never seen before.
“It’s the Windigo man himself,” Kendall said as Cardinal entered. The chief’s face was florid, not from embarrassment or drink but from high blood pressure. “Do you know Paul Laroche, here? Of Laroche Real Estate?”
“Of course. I mean, I know who you are,” Cardinal said, shaking hands with the man who stood to greet him. Laroche was no taller than Cardinal, but he gave the impression of size—massive chest, wide shoulders—a man who could take care of himself. His grip was strong without being showy.
“Haven’t I seen you out at the club?” Laroche said.
“Blue Heron Club,” R.J. explained. “Paul owns it.”
“With partners,” Laroche said. “Are you a golfer?”
“Not me,” Cardinal said. “Haven’t got the patience. I want to just carry the ball right over to the pocket.”
“Not a golfer. Are you a hunting man, then? A skier?”
“None of the above. In summer I like to go out in the boat. Watching the hockey game’s about as close to any sport as I get. Unless you consider woodworking a sport.”
Laroche smiled. His dark hair had flecks of grey in it, but it was close-cropped, in a clinging style that flattered his well-shaped head. He was wearing a beautifully cut chalk-stripe that must have cost four times the highest sum Cardinal had ever paid for a suit. He looked like an investment banker.
“You said you’re impatient. But I would have thought patience was a necessary virtue in your line of work, “ he said, sitting down again.
“Actually, Detective Cardinal is one of our stars,” R.J. said. “Remember the Windigo case?”
“Really? That must have been something,” Laroche said. “To take down two serial killers in one case. Quite a victory. And you probably saved a lot of lives.”
“I had help. Lise Delorme was the one who actually—”
Laroche raised his hand. “Lise Delorme,” he said. “I know that name …”
“Well, she was in the papers a lot with the Windigo thing. She—”
“No,” Laroche said. “She’s the one who brought Mayor Wells to grief.”
“Yes, she did. Performed a real service to the city that time.”
“Oh? You think so?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” R.J. said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we’d better get our orders in. What’s good, Paul?”
“The maple-glazed venison is your best bet. But you must let me order the wine.”
The Trianon mostly succeeds in its efforts to ape European elegance, but the one area in which it falls down is the staff. Instead of old professionals, diners are waited on by charming but not necessarily competent young women. Laroche was polite but firm with the knock-kneed, freckled creature who served them.
Real estate was obviously a paying proposition. Laroche’s whole being glowed with money the way an athlete’s body glows with health. It shone in the gold cufflinks, glinting against the snowy perfection of French cuffs. It shone in the just-right shade of tan of Laroche’s face—a skier, Cardinal surmised.
After they had ordered, Kendall said, “You mustn’t get Paul onto politics, Detective Cardinal. He’s one of the key men behind Premier Mantis.”
“Of course. You ran his local campaign,” Cardinal said.
“Which is the reason for this meeting,” Kendall said. “The Conservatives are having a major fundraiser this coming weekend, and Paul is asking for extra police presence.”
“Plain clothes? Shouldn’t you be talking to Chouinard about
“Which party?” the maître d’ inquired, with a passable imitation of Parisian hauteur.
“I’m meeting R.J. Kendall.”
The maître d’ led him across the crowded dining room. Cardinal recognized an assistant Crown attorney and nodded to a provincial court justice. Police Chief Kendall was ensconced in a plush side room that Cardinal had never seen before.
“It’s the Windigo man himself,” Kendall said as Cardinal entered. The chief’s face was florid, not from embarrassment or drink but from high blood pressure. “Do you know Paul Laroche, here? Of Laroche Real Estate?”
“Of course. I mean, I know who you are,” Cardinal said, shaking hands with the man who stood to greet him. Laroche was no taller than Cardinal, but he gave the impression of size—massive chest, wide shoulders—a man who could take care of himself. His grip was strong without being showy.
“Haven’t I seen you out at the club?” Laroche said.
“Blue Heron Club,” R.J. explained. “Paul owns it.”
“With partners,” Laroche said. “Are you a golfer?”
“Not me,” Cardinal said. “Haven’t got the patience. I want to just carry the ball right over to the pocket.”
“Not a golfer. Are you a hunting man, then? A skier?”
“None of the above. In summer I like to go out in the boat. Watching the hockey game’s about as close to any sport as I get. Unless you consider woodworking a sport.”
Laroche smiled. His dark hair had flecks of grey in it, but it was close-cropped, in a clinging style that flattered his well-shaped head. He was wearing a beautifully cut chalk-stripe that must have cost four times the highest sum Cardinal had ever paid for a suit. He looked like an investment banker.
“You said you’re impatient. But I would have thought patience was a necessary virtue in your line of work, “ he said, sitting down again.
“Actually, Detective Cardinal is one of our stars,” R.J. said. “Remember the Windigo case?”
“Really? That must have been something,” Laroche said. “To take down two serial killers in one case. Quite a victory. And you probably saved a lot of lives.”
“I had help. Lise Delorme was the one who actually—”
Laroche raised his hand. “Lise Delorme,” he said. “I know that name …”
“Well, she was in the papers a lot with the Windigo thing. She—”
“No,” Laroche said. “She’s the one who brought Mayor Wells to grief.”
“Yes, she did. Performed a real service to the city that time.”
“Oh? You think so?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” R.J. said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we’d better get our orders in. What’s good, Paul?”
“The maple-glazed venison is your best bet. But you must let me order the wine.”
The Trianon mostly succeeds in its efforts to ape European elegance, but the one area in which it falls down is the staff. Instead of old professionals, diners are waited on by charming but not necessarily competent young women. Laroche was polite but firm with the knock-kneed, freckled creature who served them.
Real estate was obviously a paying proposition. Laroche’s whole being glowed with money the way an athlete’s body glows with health. It shone in the gold cufflinks, glinting against the snowy perfection of French cuffs. It shone in the just-right shade of tan of Laroche’s face—a skier, Cardinal surmised.
After they had ordered, Kendall said, “You mustn’t get Paul onto politics, Detective Cardinal. He’s one of the key men behind Premier Mantis.”
“Of course. You ran his local campaign,” Cardinal said.
“Which is the reason for this meeting,” Kendall said. “The Conservatives are having a major fundraiser this coming weekend, and Paul is asking for extra police presence.”
“Plain clothes? Shouldn’t you be talking to Chouinard about
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