By the Time You Read This by Giles Blunt Page A

have been bought. Ten of them are occupied so far.”
    “It’s a ghost town, in other words. What were the chances of anyone seeing or hearing anything?”
    “John, there were no signs of struggle. None. I searched that roof myself. No blood, no scrape marks, nothing broken, nothing cracked. The ident guys and the coroner found her position on the ground consistent with a fall.”
    “Consistent with a fall. Meaning she could have been pushed.”
    “The autopsy didn’t show anything either. Everything is consistent with suicide. Nothing points to anything else.”
    “I want to know who sent that note, Lise. Are you going to help me or not?”
    “I can’t. The moment we heard back from the pathologist, Chouinard closed the case. If there’s no case, that means there’s no case number . What do I tell people? We’re talking about my job here.”
    “All right,” Cardinal said. “Forget I asked.” He got up and retrieved his jacket from the chair. He stood in front of the window, doing up the buttons. Outside, the sky was still an otherworldly blue, and the fallen leaves made a duvet of ochre and gold.
    “John, no one wants to believe the person they love killed themselves.”
    “You missed a spot,” Cardinal said, pointing to the window. Two little girls were playing in the leaves next door, wriggling around in them like puppies.
    “You don’t have to do this. There’s no need to find a culprit. It’s not your fault she’s dead.”
    “I know that,” Cardinal said. “But maybe it’s not Catherine’s fault, either.”

7
    A LL THE NEXT MORNING , Delorme couldn’t get Cardinal out of her mind. She had a stack of reports to excavate, various assault and burglary charges to follow up, and a rapist who was coming to trial the next week. Her best witness was getting cold feet, and the whole case was threatening to come apart.
    And then Detective Sergeant Chouinard dropped a new one in her lap.
    “You’re gonna get a call from Toronto Sex Crimes,” he said. “Looks like they’ve got something for us.”
    “Why would Toronto Sex Crimes have something for Algonquin Bay?”
    “They’re envious of our worldwide reputation, obviously. Anyway, don’t thank me. You’re not going to like this one.”
    The call came half an hour later, from a Sergeant Leo Dukovsky who claimed to remember Delorme from a forensics conference in Ottawa a couple of years earlier. He’d been giving a talk on computers; Delorme had been on a panel discussing accounting.
    “Forensic accounting?” Delorme said. “That would make it almost ten years ago. I must’ve done something awful for you to remember me after so long.”
    “Nope. I just remember you as a very attractive French person, with a—”
    “French-Canadian,” Delorme corrected him. She was willing to be charmed, but there were limits.
    Sergeant Dukovsky didn’t waver for a moment. “—with a very French name and no accent whatsoever.”
    “Why? You think we all live in the backwoods? Talk like Jean Chrétien?”
    “That’s another thing I remember about you. Kinda prickly.”
    “Maybe it’s something you bring out in people, Sergeant. Did you ever think of that?”
    “See, that’s just the kind of remark that makes a man remember you,” Dukovsky said, “when he has some really nasty work to be done. Although you may end up actually liking this one. It’s going to be a lot of plodding, but the payoff—assuming there is one—could be pretty good. We’ve been monitoring child pornography on the Web for a long time now. One particular little girl keeps cropping up. She was around seven when we first started seeing her. We think she might be thirteen or fourteen by now.”
    “She’s showing up in different settings? With different abusers?”
    “No, it’s always the same guy. Naturally, he’s pretty careful to keep his face out of the pictures. But it always seems to be the same few locations. We’ve been trying to isolate elements in the