mind?”
“Well, anyone you’ve put in jail, of course.”
“Anyone? I’m not so sure. You know, I put Tony Capozzi away for assault a couple of months ago, and sure he’s pissed off, but I don’t see him doing something like this.”
“I meant guys who are doing serious time. Five years or more, maybe. There’s not so many of those.”
“And of those, it’s got to be someone who’s sophisticated enough—and persistent enough—to find out my home address. It’s not like I’m listed in the phone book. I’m thinking maybe someone connected with Rick Bouchard’s gang.”
Rick Bouchard had been one of the world’s natural-born creeps—even by the low standards of drug dealers—until he had been killed in prison a couple of years previously. Cardinal had helped put him there for a fifteen-year stretch and Bouchard, who, unlike most criminals, had many resources and a good deal of natural intelligence, had pursued him until the day he died.
“Possible,” Delorme said. “But how likely is that? With Bouchard dead and all.”
“They know my address, and it’s their style. Kiki B. showed up at my door with a threatening letter a couple of years ago.”
“But Bouchard was still alive then, and Kiki has since retired, you told me.”
“Do guys like Kiki ever really retire?”
“Lots of bad guys are going to know your address. There’s the Internet, for one thing. And remember that idiot reporter a few years ago did a stand-up right outside your house? That was a huge case. Who knows how many people saw that?”
“They didn’t use that clip nationally. I checked. It was just local.”
“Local covers a lot of territory. John …”
Delorme took his hand between her warm palms, one of the few times she had ever touched him. Her face was soft, and even through the blur of pain—perhaps because of his pain—Cardinal thought her at that moment extraordinarily beautiful. He realized she must put on an entirely different face for work, armoured for the daily sarcasm festival of the squad room. Of course, so did he, so did everyone, but he had a sudden sense of Delorme, the only woman of the group, as a dolphin in a tank full of sharks.
“It could just as easily be some sick neighbour,” she said. “Somebody with a grudge against the police. It isn’t necessarily personal.”
Cardinal picked up the plastic folder. “The postmark indicates Mattawa.”
“Yeah, well … Why don’t you let this go. It isn’t going to help you. It’s not going to make you feel any better. And you’d have to go to one hell of a lot of trouble. I’m not even sure you could.”
“I was going to ask you to do it.”
“Me.” She regarded him, her eyes a little less soft.
“I can’t do it, Lise. I’m involved.”
“I can’t investigate this. It’s not a crime to send a nasty card through the mail.”
“‘Just no telling how things will turn out,’” Cardinal read. “You don’t see that as a threat? Given the circumstances?”
“Me, I’d call it a statement. About life in general. It doesn’t contain any threat of future harm.”
“You don’t find it ambiguous, even?”
“No, John, I don’t. The first part is obviously nasty, but it’s not a threat. The whole thing amounts to a sneer. You can’t go investigating people for sneering.”
“Suppose Catherine didn’t kill herself,” Cardinal said. “Suppose she was actually murdered.”
“But she wasn’t murdered. She left a note . She has a history . People who suffer from manic depression kill themselves all the time.”
“I know that …”
“You saw it in her own handwriting. I searched her car afterward. I found the spiral notebook she wrote it in. The pen was there, too. You recognized it right away as her handwriting.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m an expert.”
“No one saw or heard anything suspicious.”
“But the building just opened. How many people live there? Five?”
“Fifteen of the apartments
“Well, anyone you’ve put in jail, of course.”
“Anyone? I’m not so sure. You know, I put Tony Capozzi away for assault a couple of months ago, and sure he’s pissed off, but I don’t see him doing something like this.”
“I meant guys who are doing serious time. Five years or more, maybe. There’s not so many of those.”
“And of those, it’s got to be someone who’s sophisticated enough—and persistent enough—to find out my home address. It’s not like I’m listed in the phone book. I’m thinking maybe someone connected with Rick Bouchard’s gang.”
Rick Bouchard had been one of the world’s natural-born creeps—even by the low standards of drug dealers—until he had been killed in prison a couple of years previously. Cardinal had helped put him there for a fifteen-year stretch and Bouchard, who, unlike most criminals, had many resources and a good deal of natural intelligence, had pursued him until the day he died.
“Possible,” Delorme said. “But how likely is that? With Bouchard dead and all.”
“They know my address, and it’s their style. Kiki B. showed up at my door with a threatening letter a couple of years ago.”
“But Bouchard was still alive then, and Kiki has since retired, you told me.”
“Do guys like Kiki ever really retire?”
“Lots of bad guys are going to know your address. There’s the Internet, for one thing. And remember that idiot reporter a few years ago did a stand-up right outside your house? That was a huge case. Who knows how many people saw that?”
“They didn’t use that clip nationally. I checked. It was just local.”
“Local covers a lot of territory. John …”
Delorme took his hand between her warm palms, one of the few times she had ever touched him. Her face was soft, and even through the blur of pain—perhaps because of his pain—Cardinal thought her at that moment extraordinarily beautiful. He realized she must put on an entirely different face for work, armoured for the daily sarcasm festival of the squad room. Of course, so did he, so did everyone, but he had a sudden sense of Delorme, the only woman of the group, as a dolphin in a tank full of sharks.
“It could just as easily be some sick neighbour,” she said. “Somebody with a grudge against the police. It isn’t necessarily personal.”
Cardinal picked up the plastic folder. “The postmark indicates Mattawa.”
“Yeah, well … Why don’t you let this go. It isn’t going to help you. It’s not going to make you feel any better. And you’d have to go to one hell of a lot of trouble. I’m not even sure you could.”
“I was going to ask you to do it.”
“Me.” She regarded him, her eyes a little less soft.
“I can’t do it, Lise. I’m involved.”
“I can’t investigate this. It’s not a crime to send a nasty card through the mail.”
“‘Just no telling how things will turn out,’” Cardinal read. “You don’t see that as a threat? Given the circumstances?”
“Me, I’d call it a statement. About life in general. It doesn’t contain any threat of future harm.”
“You don’t find it ambiguous, even?”
“No, John, I don’t. The first part is obviously nasty, but it’s not a threat. The whole thing amounts to a sneer. You can’t go investigating people for sneering.”
“Suppose Catherine didn’t kill herself,” Cardinal said. “Suppose she was actually murdered.”
“But she wasn’t murdered. She left a note . She has a history . People who suffer from manic depression kill themselves all the time.”
“I know that …”
“You saw it in her own handwriting. I searched her car afterward. I found the spiral notebook she wrote it in. The pen was there, too. You recognized it right away as her handwriting.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m an expert.”
“No one saw or heard anything suspicious.”
“But the building just opened. How many people live there? Five?”
“Fifteen of the apartments
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