“It’s only the middle of the afternoon,” Cardinal said. “What makes you think they’ll be awake?”
Delorme rapped again. “Me, I don’t care if they’re up yet.”
A voice came from inside. “Who is it?”
“Police. Open up.”
Cardinal glanced at his watch. “How long you want to give them to flush everything?”
“I figure one minute. They’ve got the routine fine-tuned by now.”
The door opened, and they were addressed by a young man whose clothes looked two sizes too big for him. Oily hair hung in a pointy fringe over one eye.
“You should know I already have an attorney,” he said. “So I don’t personally plan to answer any questions.”
Heroin addicts, Cardinal thought. It’s like they’re under ten feet of water. They form their words with great concentration, as if they have to be transmitted in bubbles.
“We’re not here about you, Sami,” Delorme told him. “At least, not at the moment. May we come in?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“We’re not here to search the place,” Cardinal said. “We’re just here to ask some questions about Morris Tilley.”
“Toof? Haven’t seen him for days.”
“When was the last time?”
Sami flicked the fringe of hair. It didn’t move.
“Don’t know, man. Eternity. Mists of time.”
“Try to be more precise,” Cardinal said.
“How come? You guys haul him in again?”
“Somebody shot him twice and bashed his head in with a baseball bat.”
“Oh, man. That’s egregious. That’s, like, seriously traumatic.”
“It’s a crime, Sami. We’re going to put someone away for it—assuming we can get any coherent information.”
“Fuck. Sorry, man, I just woke up. I’m just not sure how to react.”
How lost can you be? Cardinal wondered. And the answer came unbidden: as lost as you want to be.
“Do you know a guy named Kevin Tait?” Delorme said.
Sami shrugged. “He’s a friend of Toof’s. Seen him around.”
“Is he a dealer?”
“Hey. I said I’ve seen him. I didn’t interview him. I never, like, examined his curriculum vitae or nothing.”
Cardinal and Delorme walked by Sami into what had once been a living room. It was now a bedroom with a mattress on the floor, a boom box with a dozen scattered CDs and a Razor scooter. Somewhere upstairs, a toilet flushed.
“Sit down, Sami,” Delorme said. “You look like death.”
“That’s okay. I’d rather stand.”
“Sit down, Sami.” Delorme pressed on his shoulders and he sank toward the mattress. “Now think back. When was the last time you saw Morris Tilley?”
“I think it was about three weeks ago. Yeah, it was three weeks ago. I saw him at the pool hall. Toof’s a pretty sharp pool player.”
“Was,” Cardinal corrected him.
“Was.”
“But he shared the house with you,” Delorme said. “Why is it so long since you saw him?”
Sami tugged at his fringe. “I dunno. Toof kinda took up with a new circle of acquaintance.”
“Oh?”
“Some Indian guy he met. Out-of-town guy. Toof was all secretive about it, but it was obvious he was, like, seriously impressed with this character.”
“This person have a name?” Cardinal said. “An address?”
“No address. Toof didn’t say anything like that. But name—I don’t know. Black Cloud. Something like that. You know, an Indian name.”
“Did you ever meet him? See him?”
Sami shook his head. He was hugging himself even though the room was overheated, and there was a fine sweat on his upper lip.
“You guys wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?”
“Sorry,” Delorme said.
“How many other people live here?” Cardinal said.
“Seven or eight.”
“Which is it?”
“Seven, I guess. If Toof’s not coming back.”
“He isn’t. And we’d like to catch whoever made it that way. Who’s he hang around with, other than you?”
Sami looked shocked. “I don’t hang around with Toof, man. He just lives here. Lived.”
“So who was he hanging around with?”
“I don’t know, man. Give me a break, will you?”
Cardinal rapped on Sami’s forehead with a knuckle. “Hello-o. Sami? I’m not asking you who he bought his dope from. I’m asking you who he hung around with.”
“I don’t know. Some doofus thinks he’s really hot shit.”
“A name,” Delorme said. “We need a name.”
Sami shouted up the stairs. “Hey, Paco! Who’s that jerk Toof hangs around with, man? Guy drives that butch car.”
A small, dark man appeared on the stairs, his face a comic exaggeration of fear. “Shit, man. You talking to the cops?”
“Toof is dead, Paco. Just give me the goddamn name.”
Paco came down the last of the stairs, scratching his head. The smell of marijuana wafted from his clothes.
“Guy with the Batmobile? Leon something. I don’t know his last name.”
“What’s he look like?” Cardinal said.
“I don’t know, man. Average, you know? Brown hair, sorta dirty. Drives some stupid muscle car. Black. Trans Am or something.”
“Oh, hey,” Sami said. “I just remembered. He’s got like a scar on his forehead. Jagged thing. ’Bout that long.” He held thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“Creep probably bashed his head on the toilet,” Paco said, and turned to go back upstairs.
“Whoa, Paco. Hold on there, son.” Cardinal stepped in front of him. “We’ll need to talk to you and everybody else who lives here. Bring ’em all downstairs. Don’t worry—if we were looking for dope, you’d already be in the paddy wagon.”
Cardinal and Delorme interviewed five other young men who lived in the house, each more forlorn than the last. That was the thing about heroin addicts, Cardinal had often noticed: They weren’t nasty people; they just seemed terminally bewildered. One or two of the young men they interviewed might have made something of themselves if they hadn’t fallen in love with the needle. Everybody has their crutch, he figured, but some crutches are more crippling than others.
None of Toof’s former housemates added anything useful to the information they already had. Yes, they’d seen a guy named Kevin Tait. No, they didn’t really know him.
When they got back to the station, Delorme sat down at the computer. Later, she came over to Cardinal’s desk with a printout.
“I ran a search for all the guys named Leon we’ve arrested in the past three years. Guess how many there are?”
“I don’t know. Three?”
“None. Not one. But look what I got from Musgrave.”
“Musgrave? Are you talking about Sergeant Malcolm Musgrave of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police? You called him already? Is there something about your relationship I should know?”
“Me and Musgrave? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Cardinal took the printout and looked it over.
“Okay, one Leon Rutkowski got himself pinched for running smack in Sudbury. Eight years in Millhaven. Also has priors for aggravated assault and bodily harm. Seems Leon has a bit of a temper.”
“The description matches what they told us at Toof’s house,” Delorme said.
“Brown hair, blue eyes, scar on forehead.”
“Look what he was driving when they arrested him.”
“Black Trans Am. Known associates doesn’t mention any Black Cloud, though.”
“I’ll call Musgrave again,” Delorme said.
While he was waiting, Cardinal called Catherine at her hotel. The chances of finding her in, he knew, were slim, and once again he wished she carried a cellphone. He left a message saying he was thinking of her. Worried about her would have been more accurate, and after he disconnected he felt a burgeoning resentment that he was worrying about his wife while he should be focusing on a case. Then he felt guilty for the resentment.