“I need to see him about something else,” Cardinal said, and honked at a Focus that suddenly changed lanes without signalling. “And I need to see him now.”

  “You sound rather ruffled there, John. If Neil has committed some kind of breach, you’d better tell me about it. Can’t go keeping secrets from our brother and sister agencies, now, can we?”

  “I’ll tell you after I talk to him. Are you going to give me an address?”

  “Six-ninety Main Street East. But he won’t be there right now. He’s working two jobs.”

  “Let me guess: he’s a volunteer counsellor at the Crisis Centre.”

  “No, I can’t imagine Neil will be consoling battered women any time soon, but he is working at Wal-Mart three days a week. And he puts in another four at Zappers.”

  “The photocopy place?”

  “The very one. Listen, John, you’re not going to go crashing around and jeopardize his employment, are you? I don’t nurse any more affection for wife beaters than you do, but Neil has paid his debt to society and now he’s making an honest effort to—”

  “Well, what do you know? Here I am at Wal-Mart,” Cardinal said, and disconnected. He swung into a parking lot the size of several football fields.

  Cardinal rarely set foot in Wal-Mart. It was always so difficult to find anything, and the prices didn’t seem to justify the aggravation. Half the time the aisles were jammed with obese couples pushing prams, although today they were relatively empty. In any case, he preferred to support the independent downtown stores—a goal that seemed more quixotic with each passing year.

  The only thing Cardinal liked about Wal-Mart was that it employed older people. Although it had its fair share of teenagers expert in feigned helplessness, it also had a good many retirees supplementing their pensions by helping bewildered shoppers find their elusive consumer items. He asked a tiny lady who looked near seventy where he could find greeting cards.

  “You’re already there,” she said. “They’re in the next aisle over.”

  Cardinal zeroed in on the sympathy area. Yes, there were plenty of Hallmark cards.

  “Here we go,” he said under his breath. “‘With deepest sympathy …’”

  He picked out a card identical to the third one he had received, and then another, identical to the second card. Apparently the first card had sold out.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” the tiny lady asked him as he walked by.

  “I did. Thank you. Can you tell me if Neil Codwallader is working today?”

  “Neil? Is he the tall gentleman who works in the photo place?”

  “Lots of muscles, lots of tattoos,” Cardinal said.

  “Oh, yes. He was here earlier. But I believe he’s gone home.”

  She directed him to the photo booth, several aisles west and one south. You really needed a moped to get around this place.

  “Neil left an hour ago,” the kid in the photo department told him. “He’s got another job somewheres.”

  Ten minutes later Cardinal was on the other side of town, parked illegally on Lakeshore in front of Zappers.

  Zappers was the kind of place you go if you’re from out of town and you need to check your e-mail right this instant, or if you need to send or receive a fax, or if you run a fraudulent business that requires an anonymous mailbox. Mostly it offered the use of obsolete computer equipment at minimal rates. There was only one customer in the place, an Asian woman typing at lightning speed.

  Codwallader was behind the counter, his back to the store, photocopying an enormous stack of paper. When he turned around, he did not appear to recognize Cardinal.

  His long hair and walrus moustache would have been in fashion thirty years ago, assuming he had been a rock star. Prison had not reduced the muscles that threatened to burst the seams of his T-shirt. His forearms were paisley with tattoos.

  “Help you?” he said.

  “You tell me,” Cardinal said.

  Codwallader went still, not looking Cardinal up and down the way a normal person might, but giving him the dead cold prison stare.

  “I know you,” he said. “You’re the cop.”

  “And you’re the wife beater.”

  “So you said. That doesn’t make it true.”

  “Well, the hospital records, the doctors and the social workers all seemed to agree. Not to mention Cora herself.”

  “I got nothing to say to you, pal. I don’t even remember your name.”

  “Cardinal. John Cardinal. I’m the one who told the judge how I found your wife with her nose broken and her arm fractured and patches of her hair torn out. How both her eyes were blackened, and how her clothes had been all cut up.”

  “Like I told the court, I didn’t do any of that shit.”

  “Spoken like a true abuser. Never guilty, never wrong.”

  “The reason I got no wife now is thanks to people like you. People who like to interfere. Right now I’m just doing what I have to do to get by, one day at a time. So if you’re not gonna use a computer or something, why don’t you just get the hell out?”

  “Actually, it was your printers I was interested in.”

  “Printers are over there.” A paisley finger indicated a row of three machines. “Two bucks first page, after that ten cents a page. Knock yourself out.”

  Cardinal opened his briefcase. He took out a computer disc, slid it into one of the computers and selected a letter he had written to his insurance broker. That policy would have to be changed now, since Catherine had been his beneficiary.

  Cardinal selected printer number one, then two, then three, and printed out three copies of the letter. There were various flaws in the characters, but no hairline scar across the capitals. Of course, in a shop like this, the cartridges would be changed often. If all the messages had been printed out at the same time—say, a day or two after Catherine died—that cartridge would no longer be in these machines. For that matter, if Codwallader had done it, he could have used his own cartridge.

  Cardinal put the copies into his briefcase and took his disc out of the computer.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Two seventy-five plus tax. Three sixteen.”

  Cardinal paid him.

  “Tell me something, Cardinal. You married?”

  Cardinal held up his left hand, showing the plain gold band. Catherine’s name was engraved on the inside. He had always planned to be buried with it on his finger.

  “You’re so righteous and all,” Codwallader said. “Tell me the truth. You never feel like giving your wife a tap on the head? A little smack? I’m not saying you acted on it. I’m just asking. Be honest. You don’t never sometimes feel like giving her a smack?”

  “No. And now I need you to answer me one question. Where were you on the night of October 7? Last Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday? I woulda been right here. We’re open till ten p.m. weeknights. Listen, if something happened to Cora, I got no idea where she even lives or if she changed her name or nothing. So if she got beat up Tuesday night or whatever, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “So you say.”

  “You can check the security cameras.” He pointed at the tiny camera above the entrance. “They go back at least a month. Ask the manager.”

  “I will. Where is he?”

  “Away. He’ll be back next week. Fucking Cora. I thought I was through with that bitch.”

  21

  DELORME HAD WAITED UNTIL six o’clock, when she was pretty sure Matt Morton would be home, before driving round to Warren Street, a dead end on the east side of town. She doubted if she had set foot there more than twice in her entire life.

  The Morton residence was a low wooden bungalow that looked to be a tight squeeze for a couple, let alone a couple with two children, and it was dwarfed by the vehicles in the driveway. There was a Toyota Land Cruiser and a Chrysler Pacifica, and—the only car of normal size—a Ford Taurus. Beside the garage, two bright red snowmobiles were parked under an overhang.

  The crowning piece was the boat, a gigantic Chris-Craft—not that Delorme would have known a Chris-Craft from a submarine, but the manufacturer’s name was in big chrome script on the side. To her untutored eye the thing was quite ungainly, too much snout, not enough top, but probably it was built for speed, not a handsome profile—and who knew how it might look in the water? Delorme had no idea what kind of horsepower it might have, but the propeller looked serious.

  Why would you have all these oversize vehicles and then live in a dinky little house? Delorme had often wondered about people—you came across a lot of them in police work—who seemed to spend all their money on pursuits other than their home. She had been in near-hovels that contained televisions the size of blackboards.

  Not that the Morton home fell into this category; it looked to be in excellent repair.

  The same could not be said of Matt Morton. If he had indeed ever been a football player, as Frank Rowley had said, there was little evidence of it now. Any muscle had long since subsided into several cubic feet of pudge and blubber. His shape was top-heavy, as if he had been squeezed tightly at the ankles and all the fat had moved up into his neck and shoulders. His hair was the same brown as the perpetrator’s in the pictures, though trimmed into a neat, executive cut.

  Delorme introduced herself, showing her ID.

  “Come on in,” Morton said. “I only have a minute. We’re about to sit down for dinner.”

  “That’s okay. I won’t take up much of your time.” The living room, off to the left, contained nothing that she’d seen in the photographs. At the far end of the hall was the kitchen, too far to see much detail beyond a few wooden cupboards. Delorme heard kids yelling and a woman shushing them. It sounded like a boy and a girl.

  “I was admiring your machines out front,” Delorme said. “Particularly the boat.”

  “My pride and joy, that one. Better be, for what I paid. Still paying.”

  “Mr. Morton, I’m investigating a number of crimes that have been committed out at Lakeside Marina, and I need to take a look at your boat. Would that be all right?”

  “What kind of crimes?”

  “Assault, among others.”

  “Assault. Got nothing to do with me, I can tell you that right now.”

  “We’re just looking for witnesses at this point.”

  “Well, I never saw anything that resembled an assault. Never heard anything either, for that matter. So how would it involve my boat?”

  “It may not. If I could just take a quick look, Mr. Morton, that would be very helpful.”

  “Go ahead. I don’t care.”

  “Thank you.”

  Morton put on a Maple Leafs windbreaker and led her out to the boat, walking with the careful, gliding gait of the very heavy. A man could put on a lot of pounds in a few years, however, and Delorme had not yet ruled Matt Morton out as a suspect.

  “You actually need to see inside?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “There was no assault on this boat. I don’t see what good it’ll do looking inside.”

  “It’ll help us rule a few things out, Mr. Morton. Can I just climb up onto the trailer?”

  “I’d rather you used a ladder.”

  Delorme helped him retrieve an eight-foot aluminum ladder from the garage. The two minutes of exertion had the ex-footballer sweating and wheezing. Nevertheless, he went up first and climbed over the side of the boat. Delorme followed, and stepped down onto the deck.

  “Doesn’t look its best right now,” Morton said. “It’s like looking at a racehorse in the barn. You don’t really get an idea.”

  “Oh, I think I get the idea,” Delorme said, looking around. “It must be a lot of fun to be out on the water in this.”

  “There’s nothing like it, I guarantee you. The air, the sunshine. Not to mention the beer. And everyone’s in a good mood. The kids’re having fun, the wife’s in seventh heaven, and I’m as far away from work as I can be.”

  “What line of work are you in, Mr. Morton?”

  “IT. Computer networks. Used to be a good way to make a living. Not anymore. Not in this town. We were all set to buy a bigger house, but that’s not gonna happen now.”

  “You mind if we lift the plastic sheeting off the seats there?” Delorme was already pretty sure this wasn’t the boat in the photograph. The steering wheel was white, and the one in the picture was wooden. Steering wheels can be replaced, of course, but there was no wooden trim visible on this boat, and she doubted that anyone would have had that changed.

  Morton lifted the plastic off the two seats closest to the stern. They were the swivel kind, smooth white upholstery, with small fixed tables nearby. The photograph had shown back-to-back seats with red upholstery of the tuck-and-roll variety. The entire back of the boat was different.

  “You need to see the galley too? The cabin?”

  “No, thanks, Mr. Morton. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “It’s no trouble. Now that we’re here, I mean.”

  “All right, then. A quick look won’t hurt.”

  She let him show her around, Morton proudly pointing out various features for her to appreciate. A couple of times he said, “The wife would kill me if she knew how much I paid for that.”

  “I guess it’s kind of like having a second home,” Delorme said. “At least in summer.”

  “That’s exactly what it’s like.” Morton emphasized the point with a finger the size of a sausage. “You said a true thing there.”

  Delorme had never been particularly attracted to boats, but the interior had a neatness about it that appealed to her. Lots of tiny cupboards and containers, everything miniaturized and the edges rounded off.

  “Your kids must love it,” she said.

  “Oh, my son would stay on the boat full-time if he could. Brittney couldn’t care less, though. She’s thirteen.”

  Delorme very much wanted to see the girl but couldn’t think of a way right at that moment to manage it.

  “Mr. Morton, how do you get along with the other people out at the marina? Do you see much of them?”

  “Not really. It’s mostly families, you know. Everybody’s so busy with their own kids, they don’t have much time to get to know each other. We talk about the weather, that kind of thing.”

  “It’s pretty close quarters out there. And this is an expensive piece of equipment. You ever have any complaints?”

  “What, about the marina?”

  “Or about the people who park next to you.”

  Morton thought a moment. He ran a hand over his head.

  “Well, there’s some Italian asshole always plays his music too loud. He’s at the other end of the dock, but noise travels when you’re on the water. I’d be happy if you’d arrest him or deport him or something.”

  “Not likely. What about the people near you?”

  “The Ferriers? They’re good people. We’re not close, but we get along fine. André and I have the occasional beer, talk about the game. That’s about it.”

  “They have kids?”

  “Two girls: Alex and Sadie. Sadie’s eight or so. Alex is Brit’s age, thirteen going on thirty, way they are these days.”

  Thirteen years old. Delorme wanted to ask more about the girls, but didn’t want to draw too much attention to that angle just yet. What if Morton was the one diddling the neighbours’ kids? To draw him away from that area, she mentioned Frank Rowley.

  “Frank I know from high school. I got no complaints about Frank.” Morton suddenly snapped his fingers. “I just remembered something. You’re investigating assaults?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Guy named Fred Bell. I saved his ass one time some crazy bastard threw a punch at him.”

  “Frederick Bell?” Delorme had never met Dr. Bell in person, but she knew he was a psychiatrist.

  “That’s it. English fella. But it wasn’t at the marina, exactly. It was outside the seafood joint next door.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  “I don’t know. Guy was yelling about the treatment Bell gave his son. Kid killed himself, I guess. Anyway, he was clearly out of it and swinging like a madman, so I just kinda stepped between ‘em and suggested he move on. Wasn’t much of an assault, when you get down to it. This was about a year, year and a half ago.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “I forget—Whiteside or something like that.”

  “Last question, Mr. Morton. You ever see or hear anything else around the marina that upset you, maybe made you think it wasn’t a good place for your kids to be?”

  “How do you mean? Like safety-wise?”

  “Like any-wise.”

  Morton shook his head. “The marina’s like a neighbourhood. People generally look out for each other. Help out with a cup of sugar, that kind of thing, you know? Even though we don’t know each other well, there’s a kind of camaraderie, a kind of trust, that you don’t find in a lot of places. Perfect little sanctuary—for anybody, especially kids.”

  22

  CARDINAL WAS DEALING WITH bills at the dining-room table. Kelly was watching an ER rerun in the living room. She watched television just like Catherine, with a bowl of popcorn in her lap and making comments at the TV every now and again. “Oh, come on,” she would say. “No doctor in their right mind would do that.”

  Cardinal had written cheques for Catherine’s credit cards, and had scrawled on each payment stub “Deceased, please cancel.”

  His thoughts drifted to the two people he had tracked down so far: one of them dead before Catherine was killed, the other still a possibility. He had yet to confirm Codwallader’s alibi, but his gut was telling him that it would probably hold. Cardinal sensed that he was missing something obvious, that he was on some entirely wrong track. So far he had been focused on motivation and opportunity: Who had reason to hurt him through his wife? Who had recently been released from prison?