By the Time You Read This Read Free Page B

wondered how that was possible.
    For Catherine Cardinal, at least when she was well, was one of the few women Delorme had ever met who could with any degree of accuracy be described as “radiant.” The words “manic” and “depressive”—not to mention “bipolar” or “psychotic”—evoked images of the frazzled, the wild-eyed. But Catherine had radiated gentleness, intelligence, even wisdom.
    Delorme, single for more years than she cared to count, often found the company of married couples tedious. In general, they lacked the spark of people still on the hunt. And they had an exasperating way of implying that single people were in some way defective. Most upsetting of all, many seemed not even to like each other, treating each other with a rudeness they would never dream of inflicting on a stranger. But Cardinal and his wife, married God knew how long, seemed genuinely to enjoy each other’s company. Cardinal talked about Catherine almost every day, unless she was in hospital, and then his silence had always struck Delorme as an expression not of shame but of loyalty. He was always telling Delorme about Catherine’s latest photograph, or how she had helped some former student get a job, about an award she had won, or something funny she had said.
    But in Delorme’s experience there was something imposing about Catherine, something commanding, even when you knew her psychiatric history. In fact, it may partly have been an effect of that very psychiatric history: the aura of someone who had travelled into the depths of madness and come back to tell the tale. Only this time she hadn’t come back.
    And maybe Cardinal’s better off, Delorme thought. Maybe it’s not the worst thing for him to be free of this beautiful albatross. Delorme had witnessed the toll on Cardinal when his wife had been admitted to hospital, and at such times she found herself surprisingly angry at the woman who could make his life a misery.
    Lise Delorme, she cursed herself as she came to a stop at the crime scene tape, sometimes you can be a hundred percent, unforgivable, unmitigated bitch.
    If Chouinard had been hoping his speedy dispatch of Delorme would prevent suspect number one from messing up a crime scene, he was too late. As she got out of the car, she could see Cardinal holding his wife in his arms, blood all over his suede jacket.
    A young cop—Sanderson was his name—was standing guard by the crime scene tape.
    “You were first on the scene?” Delorme asked him.
    “Got an anonymous call from someone in the building. Said there appeared to be a body out back. I proceeded here, ascertained that she was dead and put in a call to the sarge. She called CID and Cardinal got here first. I had no idea it was his wife.” There was a trill of panic in his voice. “There’s no ID on the body. There’s no way I could’ve known.”
    “That’s all right,” Delorme said. “You did the right thing.”
    “If I’d have known, I’d have kept him away from the body. But he didn’t know either till he got up close. I’m not gonna get in trouble over this, am I?”
    “Calm down, Sanderson, you’re not in trouble. Ident and the coroner will be here any second.”
    Delorme went over to Cardinal. She could tell from the damage to his wife that she had fallen from a high floor. Cardinal had turned her over and was holding her up in his arms as if she were asleep. His face was streaked with blood and tears.
    Delorme squatted beside him. She gently touched Catherine’s wrist and then her neck, establishing two things: there was no pulse, and the body was still warm, though beginning to cool at the extremities. There was a camera bag nearby, some of its contents spilling out onto the asphalt.
    “John,” she said softly.
    When he did not respond, she said his name again, her voice even softer. “John, listen. I’m only going to say this once. What we have here, this is breaking my heart, okay? Right now I feel like curling up in a