years; the mayor was the only one who didn’t know it. And who am I to tear off his blinders? Cardinal asked himself. Who am I to refuse anyone the sweet anaesthetic of denial?
“Oh, she couldn’t be screwing someone else. That would be—if she’s letting another man … that’s it. I’ll dump her. You watch me. Oh, God, if she’s doing those things …” Feckworth groaned and hid his face in his hands.
As if summoned by his anguish, the door to Room 12 opened and a man stepped out. He had the perfectly groomed look of a catalogue model: take advantage of our mid-autumn sale on men’s windbreakers.
“It’s Reg Wilcox,” the mayor said. “Sanitation. What would Reg be doing here?”
Wilcox ambled to his Ford Explorer with the slouchy, smug air of the well laid. Then he backed out of his space and drove off.
“Well, at least Cynthia wasn’t in there. That’s something,” Feckworth said. “Maybe I should just head home now and hope for the best.”
The door to Room 12 opened again and an attractive woman peered out for a moment before closing the door behind her. She buttoned up her coat against the chill night air and headed toward the exit.
The mayor jumped out of the car and ran to block her path. Cardinal rolled up his window, not wanting to hear. His cellphone buzzed.
“Cardinal, why the hell don’t you answer your bloody radio?”
“I’m in my own car, Sergeant Flower. It’s too boring to explain.”
“All right, listen. We got a caller says there’s a dead one behind Gateway condos. You know the new building?”
“The Gateway? Just off the bypass? I didn’t even realize it was finished yet. Are we sure it isn’t a drunk sleeping it off?”
“We’re sure. Patrol on the scene already confirmed.”
“All right. I’m just a few blocks away.”
The mayor and his wife were quarrelling. Cynthia Feckworth had her arms folded across her chest, head bowed. Her husband faced her, hands extended, palms out, in the classic gesture of the pleading mate. An employee was outlined in the doorway of the motel office, watching.
The mayor didn’t even notice as Cardinal drove away.
The Gateway building was in the east end of town, one of the few high-rises in an area that was breaking out in new strip malls every day. In fact the ground floor of the building was a mini-mall with a dry cleaner, a convenience store and a large computer-repair concern called CompuClinic that had moved here from Main Street. The businesses had been open for a while, but many of the building’s apartments were still unsold. Road crews were working on a new cloverleaf to accommodate traffic to and from the burgeoning neighbourhood, if it could be called a neighbourhood. Cardinal had to drive through a gauntlet of orange witches’ hats and then detour by the new Tim Hortons and Home Depot to get there.
He passed a row of newly built “townhomes,” most still unoccupied, although lights were on in a few of them. There was a PT Cruiser parked in front of the last one, and Cardinal thought for a second that it was Catherine’s. Once or twice a year he had such moments: a sudden worry that Catherine was in trouble—manic and somewhere dangerous, or depressed and suicidal—and then relief to find it was not so.
He pulled into the Gateway’s driveway and parked under a sign that said Resident Parking Only; Visitors Park on Street. A uniformed cop was standing beside a ribbon of crime scene tape.
“Oh, hi, Sergeant,” he said as Cardinal approached. He looked about eighteen years old, and Cardinal could not for the life of him remember his name. “Got a dead woman back there. Looks like she took a nasty fall. Thought I’d better secure a perimeter till we know what’s what.”
Cardinal looked beyond him into the area behind the building. All he could see were a Dumpster and a couple of cars.
“Did you touch anything?”
“Um, yeah. I checked the body for a pulse and there wasn’t one. And I searched
“Oh, she couldn’t be screwing someone else. That would be—if she’s letting another man … that’s it. I’ll dump her. You watch me. Oh, God, if she’s doing those things …” Feckworth groaned and hid his face in his hands.
As if summoned by his anguish, the door to Room 12 opened and a man stepped out. He had the perfectly groomed look of a catalogue model: take advantage of our mid-autumn sale on men’s windbreakers.
“It’s Reg Wilcox,” the mayor said. “Sanitation. What would Reg be doing here?”
Wilcox ambled to his Ford Explorer with the slouchy, smug air of the well laid. Then he backed out of his space and drove off.
“Well, at least Cynthia wasn’t in there. That’s something,” Feckworth said. “Maybe I should just head home now and hope for the best.”
The door to Room 12 opened again and an attractive woman peered out for a moment before closing the door behind her. She buttoned up her coat against the chill night air and headed toward the exit.
The mayor jumped out of the car and ran to block her path. Cardinal rolled up his window, not wanting to hear. His cellphone buzzed.
“Cardinal, why the hell don’t you answer your bloody radio?”
“I’m in my own car, Sergeant Flower. It’s too boring to explain.”
“All right, listen. We got a caller says there’s a dead one behind Gateway condos. You know the new building?”
“The Gateway? Just off the bypass? I didn’t even realize it was finished yet. Are we sure it isn’t a drunk sleeping it off?”
“We’re sure. Patrol on the scene already confirmed.”
“All right. I’m just a few blocks away.”
The mayor and his wife were quarrelling. Cynthia Feckworth had her arms folded across her chest, head bowed. Her husband faced her, hands extended, palms out, in the classic gesture of the pleading mate. An employee was outlined in the doorway of the motel office, watching.
The mayor didn’t even notice as Cardinal drove away.
The Gateway building was in the east end of town, one of the few high-rises in an area that was breaking out in new strip malls every day. In fact the ground floor of the building was a mini-mall with a dry cleaner, a convenience store and a large computer-repair concern called CompuClinic that had moved here from Main Street. The businesses had been open for a while, but many of the building’s apartments were still unsold. Road crews were working on a new cloverleaf to accommodate traffic to and from the burgeoning neighbourhood, if it could be called a neighbourhood. Cardinal had to drive through a gauntlet of orange witches’ hats and then detour by the new Tim Hortons and Home Depot to get there.
He passed a row of newly built “townhomes,” most still unoccupied, although lights were on in a few of them. There was a PT Cruiser parked in front of the last one, and Cardinal thought for a second that it was Catherine’s. Once or twice a year he had such moments: a sudden worry that Catherine was in trouble—manic and somewhere dangerous, or depressed and suicidal—and then relief to find it was not so.
He pulled into the Gateway’s driveway and parked under a sign that said Resident Parking Only; Visitors Park on Street. A uniformed cop was standing beside a ribbon of crime scene tape.
“Oh, hi, Sergeant,” he said as Cardinal approached. He looked about eighteen years old, and Cardinal could not for the life of him remember his name. “Got a dead woman back there. Looks like she took a nasty fall. Thought I’d better secure a perimeter till we know what’s what.”
Cardinal looked beyond him into the area behind the building. All he could see were a Dumpster and a couple of cars.
“Did you touch anything?”
“Um, yeah. I checked the body for a pulse and there wasn’t one. And I searched
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