28

DELORME didn't have a lot of close friends on the force. Working in Special Investigations didn't exactly encourage camaraderie, and Delorme had never been the sort to put herself forward, insert herself into a group. For friendship, she relied on old high-school friends, and a lot of the time it was tough going. There were those who had gone away to college and come back changed or married, usually both. There were those who had not gone on to college, whose horizons lay no farther away than their high-school boyfriend and a baby at the age of eighteen.

Most of them had kids now, meaning Delorme did not share the central concern in their lives. Even when she did see old friends, she sensed in their eyes that they saw a change in her. Working around men all the time, around cops, had hardened her, made her more guarded and, in some way she could not quite fathom, made her less patient with women.

It all added up to a lot of time alone, which was why, unlike practically everyone else on the force, she had a quiet dread of the end of shift. So when Cardinal suddenly suggested- in the middle of a sup-writing marathon- that they go out to his place to brainstorm that evening, a flock of confused feelings took wing in Delorme's heart like swallows around a barn. "Don't worry," Cardinal had said before she could reply. "I won't inflict my cooking on you. We can order in a pizza."

Delorme, stalling, had said she didn't know. By the end of the day she'd be pretty tired; she wouldn't bring much brain to the storm.

"Fehrenbach checked out, right? There's nowhere else to go with that."

"I know. It's just…"

Cardinal had looked at her, frowning a little. "If I was going to make a move on you, Lise, I wouldn't do it at home."

SO they had driven their separate cars out to Cardinal's freezing little cottage on Madonna Road, and Cardinal had built a fire in the woodstove. Delorme was touched by how friendly he was. He showed her some carpentry work he'd done in the kitchen. Then he showed her a huge landscape painted by his daughter- a view of Trout Lake with the NORAD base in the background- when she was twelve years old. "She gets the artistic genes from her mother. Catherine's a photographer," he said, pointing to a sepiatinged photograph of a lonely rowboat on an anonymous shore.

"You must miss them," Delorme said, and immediately regretted it. But Cardinal had just shrugged and picked up the phone to order the pizza.

By the time it arrived, they had begun tossing out ideas. The ground rules of brainstorming were that you couldn't laugh at anything the other person suggested, you couldn't say anything inhibiting. Which was why it was a good idea to do it away from headquarters; they could zing out some really wild ideas and not feel too foolish.

They were just getting warmed up when the telephone rang. Cardinal's first words into the receiver: "Oh, shit. I'll be there in ten minutes." He tossed the phone onto the couch and started putting on his coat, patting his pockets for keys.

"What? What's going on?"

"I forgot, we have a press thing at six. R. J. arranged it, so Grace Legault doesn't get her knickers in a knot. Sorry. You know, it's one of those deals where we tell them things we don't really want them to know, so that they don't say things we don't want them to say. That's the idea, anyway."

"Whose idea?"

"Dyson's. I went along with it, though."

"Well, I guess I should go, then."

"No, no. Please. Don't let the pizza get cold. Shouldn't take more than an hour."

Delorme had protested, Cardinal had insisted, and in the end she stayed, nibbling halfheartedly at the pizza in the sudden silence of his departure. It seemed so- what was the word?- orchestrated. Inviting her all the way out here. "Forgetting" his press meeting. The pizza arriving just so. It was as if he wanted her, for the space of an hour at least, to have his house to herself: Go ahead. Look. I've got nothing to hide.

Was this Cardinal's way of saving her (or Dyson, or the department) the embarrassment of a search warrant? Or was it a preemptive strike, designed to take the wind out of her sails? A guilty man would never give her free access to his home. But then again, it was the same as with his desk: A guilty man might well leave it wide open precisely so you would think him not guilty.

Delorme wiped pizza grease from her fingers and telephoned Dyson. This press thing Cardinal was going to, was it for real? It was most certainly real, Dyson assured her; R. J. was very high on it, and Cardinal had better get his ass in there toot sweet (his French sent a shudder down Delorme's spine) or Dyson would personally see him writing traffic tickets before the week was out.

"He's on his way."

"How do you know that? Are you at his place? What are you doing at his place?"

"I'm having his baby. But don't worry, I can still look at things objectively."

"Ha ha. The fact is you have an opportunity here, just like we discussed."

"What I can't figure out is why he's giving it to us- unless he's innocent."

"Wouldn't that be nice."

Delorme stood up, brushing crumbs from her lap. Above the fireplace there was a black-and-white photograph of Cardinal, dressed in an old workshirt and jeans, planing a piece of wood, leaning over it like a pool player. He had a three-day stubble and sawdust in his hair, and he looked kind of sexy for a cop. Well, sexy or not, first he leaves his desk drawer open, and now he was giving her the run of his house. As far as Delorme was concerned, that was asking for it.

The Algonquin Bay police department does not have rules for surreptitious searches for the very good reason that its officers are not supposed to conduct them. Delorme had never relied on clandestine methods to collect evidence, nor would she now. Any clandestine search was of necessity in the nature of a reconnoiter, a preview of what might be available to those (armed with a warrant) who might come after. The only thing the Ontario Police College at Aylmer teaches about such searches is that they are illegal and their fruits inadmissible. What Delorme knew of this unsavory art, she had taught herself.

She had an hour, say forty minutes to be on the safe side. It was essential to be highly selective. She ruled out all the places she'd seen cops search in the movies: the hard-to-get-at places like tops of cupboards, the attic space- anything requiring something to stand on. Also off the list: any spaces that required moving furniture. There was no way she could lift up rugs or check under couch and chairs without Cardinal's seeing the disruption, and in any case she did not believe that if Cardinal had anything to hide he would hide it in such places. She would not be lifting the lid of the cistern, either.

No, within minutes of Cardinal's departure, Lise Delorme had decided she would search only the most obvious place for incriminating material: Cardinal's personal files. These he kept conveniently labeled (and unlocked) in a two-drawer metal cabinet, much dented. In no time at all she learned exactly what he earned from the department (with all the overtime, it came to a lot more than she had expected) and that his charming but subzero lakeside house was not paid off. The monthly payments were high but manageable on Cardinal's income, unless he had other major expenses- such as a daughter attending an Ivy League university.

Delorme was more interested in Catherine Cardinal's income. If she had some private source, Cardinal might be off the hook.

She pulled out tax returns.

Last year's filing, a joint one, was in Cardinal's handwriting and showed that he told Revenue Canada exactly what he earned. It also indicated that Catherine Cardinal made little more than pocket money as a part-time photography instructor up at Algonquin College. But there was a second file that was of considerably more interest, a return for the U.S. Internal Revenue Service. It was for Catherine Cardinal but filled out in Cardinal's messy but intense hand. You'd never hire an accountant, would you? Far too vain about your mental faculties. The form showed that Catherine Cardinal had earned eleven thousand U.S. dollars in rental income from a Miami condominium. Apparently it was vacant for most of the year.