“Rosebud Diner,” Jerry said. “Reed’s Falls. We’ve been keeping an eye on that place for a few weeks now. We think there’s a lot of dope moving through the people that hang out there. We have theories, but we’re not a hundred-percent sure where they’re getting it from, and we don’t know where they stash it. Take a look at the guy with the long hair.”
Delorme picked up the photo. “But this guy’s an Indian, no?”
“Calls himself Red Bear.”
“Yeah, we had a tip from a junkie there was an Indian hanging around with Leon Rutkowski.”
“Guy’s not from around here, I can tell you that. Rumour is he’s from Red Lake, and I’ve been checking on that.”
“I recognize the other guys,” Delorme said. “Leon Rutkowski, and Toof Tilley, may he rest in peace. And the guy on the right is Kevin Tait.”
“You’re kidding. Related to our former Jane Doe?”
“Her brother. He has a prior for intent to traffic out west. We think he’s the reason Terri came here in the first place.”
“We’ve been wondering who the hell he was,” Jerry said. “I might even think you guys are pretty good, except I got the fax that said Terri Tait is missing again.”
“I’ll get to that.” Delorme was holding the two pictures side by side. “The Indian guy could be Beltran. It’s hard to be sure, though.”
“I think we’ve got a better picture in here somewhere.” Jerry shuffled through the glossy images. “Here we go.”
This one was a two-shot. It showed the long-haired man and Kevin Tait. Tait was laughing, but Beltran—and there was no doubting his identity now—was looking dead serious. The same high cheekbones, the same broad brow. And, most of all, the almost transparent eyes.
“I hope this doesn’t disappoint you, Jerry. But it looks like your Indian is actually a Cuban.”
“That’s interesting …”
Jerry swivelled away from her and stared at the ceiling for a few moments. Delorme waited. Finally, Jerry swivelled to face her once more. “As it happens, I called the chief of the Red Lake band. I didn’t tell him I was a cop. Told him I was a banker checking background for a loan. And the chief vouched for the guy. Called him Raymond Red Bear. Said he was born and brought up right there on the Red Lake reserve.”
“Why would he go to all that trouble? I heard status cards are easy to fake.”
“They are. Which is why you might need someone to vouch for you. Might even pay someone to vouch for you. Sometimes it can be useful to have First Nations status,” Jerry said. “For purposes of employment, for example.”
“Very funny, Jerry. What exactly are you talking about?”
“Up until fairly recently, the Viking Riders used to get their dope from Montreal. Then they made the mistake of disagreeing with the Hells Angels.”
“No more dope.”
“No more dope from Montreal. But being bikers, and dedicated entrepreneurs, they worked out a deal with some Native Americans just across the Michigan border. Started early last summer. They fly the stuff across Lake Huron, then up the French River to Lake Nipissing. If you do it right, you never leave Indian territory.”
“A good way to keep it out of everyone’s jurisdiction.”
“You have a dirty mind, Detective Delorme. That’s what I always liked about you.” Jerry held up the photo. “Nice touch for him to dress up like a Hollywood Indian. Should set us back a couple of hundred years.”
“So Beltran comes on like an Indian, complete with a status card and a chief in his pocket, and he takes over the Viking Riders’ import business.”
“That’s our theory.”
“And now you’re going to tell me where we can find Beltran, right?”
“Sorry. We don’t have surveillance on him yet. We’ve just been watching the Rosebud.”
“Well, I’ll tell you the other reason we’re looking for Beltran. We think he’s got Terri Tait and he’s going to kill her.”
Jerry grabbed the phone and punched the intercom button. “I’m going to get an all-points on him, Lise. Minute we hear anything, you will too.”
53
SOONER OR LATER, WHENEVER a case got unwieldy, Cardinal ended up in the boardroom with the files. He was in there now, sorting through the stacks of material the other detectives had assembled. He’d been going over the forensics and scene photos from Arsenault and Collingwood. And now he was weeding through Delorme’s supplementary reports. Every fragment of information they had was spread out on the table before him.
They had put out the all-points pretty fast, but so far there had been no sighting of Terri Tait. So here he was sequestered with the files, in the hope that they would provide him with a solid idea of where to look for her.
The eye strain was getting to him.
He slouched back in his chair and looked around the room, at the photos lining the walls. There was one of Chief Kendall being sworn in; his uniform would never fit him that well again. And there was one of Cardinal himself, bundled up like an Inuit at the snowy mine shaft on Windigo Island. Then there was the picture of Jerry Commanda in front of the gate at Eagle Park. Eagle Park was a charity camp on the south shore of Lake Nipissing that had once served handicapped kids and wards of Children’s Aid; Jerry had been out there directing a successful search for a missing twelve-year-old. The camp had closed long ago, after a complicated financial scandal—a kerfuffle, as Jerry would call it. On top of the gate, a wrought-iron eagle flexed its iron talons, black wings spread as if about to take off.
Cardinal turned his mind back to the files. His Toronto leads had dried up. Beltran’s last known address proved to be a dead end; he had pulled a midnight flit, leaving the landlord holding the bag for six months’ rent on a huge apartment in the Manulife Centre. Cardinal had even called Beltran’s former neighbours, none of whom had anything useful to add. Beltran had been an unexceptional neighbour—wished you good day in the elevator, kept to himself and didn’t cause trouble.
Cardinal opened another of Delorme’s files. One of the many pleasures of working with Delorme was that her reports were both coherent and detailed. But even with her copious notes from the hospital, and the anthropologist, and the Crisis Centre, there was nothing he could sink his teeth into. Nothing that told him where Raymond Beltran might be—or Terri Tait, for that matter.
Cardinal sifted through Delorme’s reports once more. Even when she came up empty, as she had at the Crisis Centre, she was conscientious about writing it up. She had even filed the drawing she had taken from Terri’s room.
Cardinal wasn’t sure about Terri Tait’s talent as a struggling actress, but she showed considerable aptitude for drawing. The feathers on the bird were all nicely highlighted, and the arch of the wings, just so, gave the image a certain—
Cardinal looked over at the far wall, at the picture of Jerry Commanda at Eagle Park. He snatched up the drawing and held it next to the photograph.
Two seconds later, he was in Chouinard’s office.
The detective sergeant lined up the drawing with the photograph on his desk. Cardinal watched his eyes swing back and forth from one to the other. Chouinard tapped on the desk with his pen as he considered. Finally, he said, “They’re the same. I’d say this means she was there. The question then becomes, what do we do about it?”
“Eagle Park had two camps on the lake. One on the south shore and one up by the French River. They both have those gates with the eagle on top.”